Charles Hawkins

  Homily for Proper 15 Year C Luke 12:49-56   If, in the first century, you walked down a dusty road in Galilee you would know who is in charge —not because someone told you,  but because you could feel it. [1] The soldiers at the crossroads.  The eagle of Rome stamped into every coin. [2] The shadow of the Antonia Fortress  [3] leaning over the Temple.  Even the taxes—layer upon layer —remind you who holds the power …Caesar, far away, yet so very near.   And in that same air—  Pharisees debating purity codes in the marketplace. [4] Sadducees in their fine robes,  managing the temple and political alliances.  Essenes disappearing into the wilderness,  withdrawing from it all.  Zealots whispering about revolt.  Everywhere talk of revolt. And, people, without a label,  just keeping Sabbath,  raising children,  and praying for deliverance. [5] A people of faith, rich in hope, but also fractious,  noisy wit...

Imagine. God’s people—once proud, once prosperous— Now captives, war booty,  sitting by the waters of Babylon. Not the Jordan, not the temple steps, but a foreign river in a foreign land. No lyres, no psalms, just the question: “How did I get here?” It’s not a strategic question, not really. It’s a soul question. A lament in disguise. And you remember what the prophets said— what Amos said— Back then Business was booming—at least for the wealthy. The markets were strong, the palaces full, and the priests were keeping worship predictable, comfortable. But, the poor were being crushed, the system was rigged in favor of those in power, and, no one with power cared. Into that smug prosperity came a voice— Amos, a prophet. And his word? Not comfort. Not blessing. But judgment—judgment upon those with power Those who had traded justice for profit. Amos sees a basket of summer fruit. Ripe, sweet, full. And the Lord says, “The end has come.” A pun in Hebrew—qayitz, “fruit”; qētz, “end.” Su...

We all have memories we’d rather forget—wounds that sting when touched, regrets that still echo, mistakes we’d pay dearly to undo. And every so often, a story or film captures that longing perfectly. A character walks into a clinic or signs a consent form or swallows a pill, and just like that, the painful memory is gone. It’s the premise of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, where a couple, desperate to un-love each other, erases the past. It’s in Severance, where workers split their minds in two—one for work, one for life—so the burdens of one world can’t spill into the other. Jennifer Egan’s The Candy House takes it even further: you can upload your entire memory and choose when, or whether, to look back at all. These stories raise a question most of us carry quietly: wouldn’t it be easier if we could forget? Wouldn’t we be freer, lighter, more at peace if we could excise the hard parts—the guilt, the sorrow, the failure? But each of these stories arrives at the same unsettling ...

Mary Louise Porter at the Walter Anderson Museum of Art Was on View: December 21, 2024 – May 18, 2025 There is a sacred hush in the space where sea meets sky—a liminal line both constant and always changing. This exhibition, curated in partnership between the Walter Anderson Museum of Art and painter Mary Louise Porter, honors that threshold, inviting viewers not merely to look, but to pause, to breathe, and to be drawn into wonder. Porter’s work is a meditation on the Gulf Coast’s quiet majesty. A Louisiana native now rooted in Mississippi, she brings with her the eyes of a newcomer and the heart of one who has stayed. Her canvases reflect a reverent attention to the elemental drama unfolding along the coast: water and light, color and movement, impermanence and return. In Where Sea Meets Sky, we encounter not only static images but a dynamic relationship. Porter’s Horizon Blocks—modular painted boxes she will rearrange over the course of the exhibition—are more than aesthetic devices...

https://vimeo.com/1086115750?share=copy  - Video Presentation   It’s strange, what we carry with us.   Not in your pockets. Not in your purse.   The burdens of which I speak are too big, too heavy for pockets and purses. You know the ache I mean. The empty chair at the table. The diagnosis you didn’t expect. The silence from the friend who used to call. The newsfeed that makes your heart sag.   We don’t talk about them all that much. But we know them. We return to them—sometimes in dreams, sometimes in silence.   And maybe you’ve heard people say, “But Easter has come! The tomb is empty! The stone is rolled away!” And you want to say, “Yes. Yes, I believe that. I do.” [1]   But.   There are days it still feels like Holy Saturday. [2] The ache. The in-between. Not Friday’s despair, but not Sunday’s joy. Just that… space.                      Whe...