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        Near the end of seminary training, I made a listing of what had been the most important books in my theological education. As one reared in deep-water Baptist tradition, I was shocked to recognize that more than two-thirds of my “most important” guides were Roman Catholic authors.

        I now say that while my ship of faith has many sails, its mainsail is that legacy flowing from the anabaptist outburst of the 16th century (though that movement’s precursors stretch back to 14th century figures like the Czech priest Jan Hus and the Oxford theologian John Wycliffe—and even 13th century figures like St. Francis in Italy and the Beguine communities, a lay, semi-monastic order of single women (later repressed) in the Low Countries of Europe, all of whom dissented from  the church’s wealth and privilege.

        Long story short, my anchorage among the Radicals stems from two reasons: First, because of their thoroughgoing affirmation of what I call the “democratizing of access to the holy” and, correspondingly, their undermining of all notions of political sovereignty. Second, the anabaptist majority’s (there were dissenters on this score) refusal, on theological grounds, to wield the sword in defense of the state. (For more on this, see “Public reasoning and ekklesial reckoning: Commentary on the Vatican conference calling for ‘spirituality and practice of active nonviolence’ to displace church focus on just war” and "Enough of this! Toward a theology of nonviolence: Why I don’t often use the language of ‘pacifism’.”)

In Scripture, water can symbolize either deliverance or death, salvation or destruction, healing or harm, prosperity or peril, blessing or curse, assurance or threat. What follows is a selection of such texts.

§ . . . the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.  —Genesis 1:2 

§ So God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that moves, of every kind, with which the waters swarm, and every winged bird of every kind. And God saw that it was good. —Genesis 1:21

by Ken Sehested
4 May 2011, on the fifth anniversary of my grandson’s birth

        I spent more than an hour pouring over the newspaper Monday morning, whose oversized front page headline boldly proclaimed “A nation united” above its story of Osama bin Laden’s death. Rarely have I felt more disunited, disheartened, discomforted. Literally dispirited, the Holy Spirited-pledge to make all things new now mocked by Sunday crowds awash in frenzied rejoicing over assassination. All this, barely a week after Eastern morning, with its renewal of baptismal vows “to renounce Satan, and all his works, and all his promises.”

        Locally, the newspaper included theological justification in the words of a local pastor, who suggested that the military’s raid “sends a message that their lives [those killed in the 9/11 terrorist attacks] counted and their lives were precious.”

by Ken Sehested

Recently, when Nancy picked up our 3-year-old grandson Jonathan from preschool, out of the blue he said, “Ja-Ja (her grandmotherly nickname), e e cummings wrote poem.”

“Did you learn that at school, Jay?” Nancy asked. “No,” he said from the back seat.

(Leader and reader instructions at bottom.)

When the day of Pentecost had come,    [1]

they were all together in one place.    [1, 2, 3]

by Ken Sehested

We are free to act boldly because we are safe.

We are safe because we are at rest.