And the greatest of these…

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 2 Comments

On this Thanksgiving, I am grateful that love exists, that there is this invisible connection among the creation that desires bounty and kindness and acceptance, that there is this force that is not easily broken, that withstands attempts at cheapening it.

This is what love looks like for me today: texts from old friends that remind us that when we met forty years ago, we had no idea we just might become friends for life; a scone and a chai delivered by my friend and pet sitter, which I received happily and in joy because the dog was over-the-moon ecstatic to see her. The guy with the pronounced limp walking his sweet Frenchie named Echo, a pet that he obvious adores with every wobbly step he takes.

I am sad not be with my family this Thanksgiving but I’m nursing an impressive cold and no one needs me to bring these germs to the dinner table. I am sad, but not depressed; Thanksgiving is one day, and I know an embarrassing amount of love in my life, and given that, I cannot be more than just a wee bit sad.

Many years ago when my grandparents were still living, they loved to go fishing, not only because back in those days they could easily catch their limit of rainbow trout but also because after standing in the cold creek water for an hour, their toenails softened up and they could give each other a rudimentary pedicure. That’s the kind of love that abides after fifty-plus years of marriage.

My sister has moved into an ADU in our backyard and she graciously – and maybe even happily – welcomes the dog and me to come for a visit so I can pet her cat and so that the dog can lick the trace amounts of food left in the cat’s dish. She also graciously acts surprised when my husband and I come over after dinner, and with all the sincerity of a nun, asks if we would like a bite of chocolate, which was the whole reason for our showing up but she acts as if it weren’t. That is love.

A video of a flash mob performing the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth will always get me crying. In it I see a love of music, a love of performance, a love of giving this utterly unexpected gift that costs not what penny and is only meant to be received as love should be.

There are so many loves – love of a person, love of a pet; love of the creation and of the Creator, love of a country, even love of self, when taken in measure. To be loved is the greatest gift, and that sounds so terribly trite that I should give up writing this very moment, but I’ll still claim it. Though sick, I am loved. Though alone, I am loved. For me, a bad cold and some loneliness are temporary things but love, as the apostle wrote, never ends.

On this Thanksgiving, I hope that you too are grateful for the love that surrounds your living. I hope that when you start to count your blessings you run out of fingers and toes. I hope that you are able to pass along some of that love, because when you do, who knows what might happen?

It’s calendar time!

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 25 Comments

I normally don’t like to think about Christmas until after Thanksgiving, but… I’m very excited that this year I have not one but TWO calendars to offer you! I have reprinted last year’s Matron Saints calendar for 2026, AND, having created six new Matron Saints this year, have also made a Matron Saints and Friends calendar.

How can you order? Just send me a message here, and we will get the ball rolling. The cost is $20/calendar, and shipping is usually around $10.

There are also notecards available for all these saints, so let me know if you’re interested in those too.

Thanks for considering this! And peace be with you.

Dorcas, Matron Saint of Those Who Know That Feeding People and Caring for the Poor Is Holy Work

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 1 Comment

If indeed holy grace has been shed on us,

As we live amid fruited plains and amber grain,

How can we not, in grace,

Share what we have received through no merit

But only through holy grace?

How can we not feed the hungry?

How can we not shelter those with a home?

How can we not care for those who are forgotten?

It is nothing less than holy work of the highest calling.

On killing cockroaches, and other things my dad did for me

/ Beth Merrill Neel / Leave a comment

It’s been seven and a half years since my dad died, and while I don’t really think about him every day, I do think of him often, and occasionally dream something that he’s a part of, and laugh about something I know he would find funny.

So Father’s Day is different now. Mostly I encourage our daughter to remember the day is coming; I also thank my husband and my brothers for being such great dads. If I’m in a mood, I will say to my husband, “Well, I don’t have to do anything for Father’s Day because my dad is dead.” Like I said – when I’m in a mood.

But today, Father’s Day, I’ve been thinking about my dad and a few memories stand out.

The first is when he taught me to ride a bike. It is a visceral memory, full of emotion, which must mean something since it happened 55+ years ago. We went to the parking lot of my elementary school in Morristown, New Jersey, my hot-pink, banana-seat bike in the back of the station wagon, just me and Dad. He did not believe in training wheels (later, when I was an adult, he would say that training wheels were for candy-asses.) He ran along side me as I wobbled along, holding the handlebars, not letting ago until I found my balance, and then he let go, still running beside me. I don’t know why this has stayed with me all these years. Maybe it has something to do with fear and courage and encouragement and protection and love all wrapped around the asphalt pavement of Hillcrest Elementary School.

The second memory is from my teen years, which were not the smoothest in terms of our relationship. We’ll leave that there but perhaps you can fill in your own blanks about rough patches with a parent. This story is not about that.

When I was eight we moved from New Jersey to Houston – the flatland of humidity and flying cockroaches. There are good things about Houston, but this story is not about that. Anyway, we had not had flying cockroaches in New Jersey and let’s just say they terrified me. Spiders? Bring ’em on! Flying cockroaches? More correctly, palmetto bugs – I would not enter a room where I could see one. It was my habit, when entering a room where there was a cockroach, to get my dad to come kill it, which he did. One night, after he had gone to bed, I went to the bathroom to wash up for the night. There, on the wall behind the toilet, was a big ol’ shiny cockroach. Dad had gone to bed. He hated being woken up. I knew I would not be able to brush my teeth, much less sleep in my connecting room, knowing that roach was just waiting to crawl all over me. So I went in to my parents’ bedroom, woke up my dad, told him the problem. He got up and told me to get a magazine or newspaper, which I did. He strode into the bathroom, whacked the cockroach which fell straight into the toilet, flushed it away, and wished me a goodnight.

He loved to tell me that story. I’m not sure if it had to do with my trusting him to take care of things or with his amazing aim, but it was one of his favorites.

The last memory is from my young adulthood. My parents had moved back to New Jersey and I was living and working in New York City. I had landed what I thought was my dream job – assistant to the artistic director of an arts organization, the perfect jumping-off spot for someone who wanted to go into arts administration, which I did at the time. After five months, my dream job had become a nightmare. I would wake up at 2am on Saturday nights worrying about it, wondering what I had forgotten to do, wondering what my boss would yell at me about on Monday.

I had gone to my folks’ house for the weekend and we talked about everything. Dad finally said to me, with all the wisdom of someone who had had his own career ups and downs, “No job is worth this, honey.” Not long after that, I quit as my boss was firing me, and while my future became less certain, my heart was much happier.

Seven and a half years ago, as Dad was nearing the end of his life, the time came for me to say goodbye to him. That remains the most excruciating thing I have ever done, and if you’ve had to do that, you understand. I told him I loved him, and I thanked him – for teaching me how to ride a bike, for killing cockroaches, for letting me know it was okay to walk away from something; for encouraging me never to carry a credit card balance and to set aside ten percent of every paycheck for savings (that didn’t happen); for being pleased as punch when I told him I was pregnant, for welcoming my husband and then our daughter into the family; for pointing out, every time we sat on the deck of the cabin, how beautiful the cottonwoods were shimmering in the breeze.

Now when I sit on the deck of the cabin, and look at the cottonwoods shimmering in the breeze, I laugh a little, and look up at the sky, and say thank you once again.

Easter Thoughts, A Little Early

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 4 Comments

This year, I will be leading the Vespers service at a local retirement community on Easter Sunday, and as is my wont, I started looking through old Easter sermons that could be brushed up a little for this upcoming occasion. As I went through them, I kept tearing up. Why? Happily, not because they were terrible, but because they offered a word of hope, and I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear about hope, even from myself a few years back. It was hard to read the ones I offered during the pandemic, from my home or from an empty sanctuary, remembering the uncertainty of that time and the losses upon losses.

And though Easter is still shy of two weeks away, I offer the conclusion to one of them, if you’re a preacher in need of some hope or joy. I don’t claim that any of my words would even win a preaching prize (which is really a silly thing, after all) but sometimes you need a little bump to get you going.

In the meantime, Lent is still with us, and given all that’s happening, it may feel as though Lent is still with us after April 21. Even so, God always gets the last word, and Love always wins. Here you go.

Joy is the jitterbug meeting the waltz, and Rembrandt and Dr. Seuss comparing notes, and hope disguised as a gardener. And you? And I? What is our joy?

Joy is when the rains cease
Joy is when the baby squeals
Joy is the march
Joy is the old friend who shows up
Joy is the peace accord
Joy is the casserole
Joy is the grave cloths neatly folded away
Joy is the mountain decked in so much snow
Joy is the full table with everyone there
Joy is the story told again and again
Joy is the joke with life as the punchline
Joy is the fern unfurling
Joy is the empty tomb
Joy is the daphne and lilac and lavender
Joy is the gift that will not be taken back
Joy is life, and more life, and life after that.

My husband and I on Easter Sunday, 2021, getting ready to celebrate drive-through communion in the church parking lot.

Love and Dust

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 1 Comment

Our daughter was born on Fat Tuesday, which meant I spent Ash Wednesday 2006 in a hospital room, recovering from a C-section and trying to figure out how to breastfeed. After experiencing the joy and fear of giving birth, I really did not need to remember that I was dust and to dust I would return. At the time, I felt more like I was made of blood and colostrum and placenta, which are very much things of birth.

That was the last time I was not marked with ashes on Ash Wednesday. This year I repeat that, for reasons that seem a bit inconsequential and maybe a little lazy. Last September I left the congregation I happily served for thirteen years, and I have not yet found a new worship home. To be honest, I haven’t looked for one yet. After serving congregations for thirty-one years, I need a break. I need to let go of all my expectations of how worship should happen, what fills me in worship. I need to empty myself of all of that, and then start fresh.

I imagine for many folks there is no need to be reminded that they are dust and to dust they will return. The world tells them that all the time. The White House tells them that in cruel tweets. Rude customers, impatient drivers, racists, misogynists – there is a message of death and hate that pervades so much of every day life. Why add ashes as another reminder?

I dare not speak for anyone , but I will say that there was something honorable and profound and horrific about making the sign of the cross on people’s foreheads. Honorable because they trusted me, their pastor, to say these true words with love. Profound, because death is so wrapped up in the mysteries of creation and incarnation and resurrection that mere words cannot begin to convey all that is meant by the ashy cross. And horrific, because the woman who has lost all her hair from her chemo treatments doesn’t need to be reminded that she will die, because the precious child, conceived by IVF after years of miscarriages, needs to live a full, long life, and not think about death for a long, long time.

Receiving the ashes is another thing. Sometimes a fellow pastor would mark me, and sometimes my fellow pastor/husband made the sign of the cross on my forehead. Sometimes a parishioner would make the sign. It didn’t matter who did it, though I always knew the person. Someone who loved me, or who worked to love me in that Christ-way, was telling me the truth that I would die some day, that all of us will die some day. On Ash Wednesday, that’s as far as we get in the story.

And so Lent has begun, and for me, without ashes. My daughter sent me a picture today of her and her friend who made it a point to go to chapel and get marked today. I’m a bit filled by that. A stranger told her that she is dust. While I clung to her in that hospital bed at the beginning of Lent nineteen years ago, now I let her go into the world, full of dust and life, to make her own way. For a long, long time, I hope.

So given the state of the world, perhaps this year I would offer these words:
“Remember you are made of love, and to Love you will return.”

The Passive Voice

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 1 Comment

The other night my husband and I went to an art show opening at the church I used to serve and left in September. It was quite fun, with beautiful art and old friends. Several people made it a point to say to me, “You are missed” which was lovely, and which got me to thinking.

Of late I’ve also noticed several social media posts which say something along the lines of “remember you are loved.” I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment. I think it can be the difference between life and death for some people. I think it can melt the heart of grinches and open the eyes of Scrooges. And yet….

And yet I’m curious about the choice to use the passive voice. I enjoy writing and I hope to be a decent writer, and something my high school English teachers and preaching professors drummed into me floats up to the top of my brain and into my fingers on the keyboard: avoid using the passive voice. It’s less powerful. It’s murkier. And more than that, I think using the passive voice lets us off the hook.

Granted, to say “I love you” or “I miss you” is an act of vulnerability. It risks our not being loved back, or not being missed in return. “You are loved” or “you are missed” becomes this general statement, but I wonder who loves me and who misses me. Do you, the say-er or writer of these words? Or are you speaking on behalf of someone else? Or are you speaking for that anonymous ‘they’ that pervades the social world?

I don’t know, and I certainly do not mean to discount the kindness and grace of saying to another “you are loved”, “you are missed.” But maybe we can take an extra step, because I know for a fact that there are people out there in the world who, if told they are loved, would wonder who exactly loves them. It might mean so much more to have a real human being say to them, “I love you. I value you. I see you. I miss you.”

In these days of meanness and cruelty, of greed and power grabs, maybe one of the great acts of resistance we can do is to say clearly and actively to people that we love them. To do that is an act of kindness, and act of truth (hopefully!), and an act of resistance against the powers that say that some people are worthless, wrong, or forgettable.

I will not tell you I love you, the person reading this, because I do not know all of you. But I do appreciate your taking the time to read this Sunday morning’s musings. Be strong, and be courageous, and be well.

(One of three paper collages I made out of the sympathy cards I received after my father died. The love expressed in them continues to carry me through my grief. Today would be my dad’s 94th birthday; he told me he loved me, which is the world.)

Women, Ancient and Present

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 1 Comment

The Daughters of Zelophehad: Numbers 27
“Then the daughters of Zelophehad came forward. Zelophehad was son of Hepher son of Gilead son of Machir son of Manasseh, of the clans of Manasseh, son of Joseph. The names of his daughters were Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah. They stood before Moses, Eleazar the priest, the leaders, and all the congregation, at the entrance of the tent of meeting, saying, ‘Our father died in the wilderness; he was not among the congregation of those who gathered themselves together against the Lord in the congregation of Korah but died for his own sin, and he had no sons. Why should the name of our father be taken away from his clan because he had no son? Give to us a possession among our father’s brothers.’

Moses brought their case before the Lord. And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘The daughters of Zelophehad are right in what they are saying; you shall indeed let them possess an inheritance among their father’s brothers and pass the inheritance of their father on to them. You shall also speak to the Israelites, saying: If a man dies and has no son, then you shall pass his inheritance on to his daughter. If he has no daughter, then you shall give his inheritance to his brothers. 1 If he has no brothers, then you shall give his inheritance to his father’s brothers. And if his father has no brothers, then you shall give his inheritance to the nearest kinsman of his clan, and he shall possess it. It shall be for the Israelites a statute and ordinance, as the Lord commanded Moses.'”

Years ago, when I was in seminary, we were studying the Hebrew Scriptures. At some point in the semester the professors assigned us an article by Dr. Katharine Doob Sakenfeld, Professor of Old Testament Literature and Exegesis Emerita at Princeton Theological Seminary, having previously been William Albright Eisenberger Professor of Old Testament Literature and Exegesis. This story – unknown to me – took place during the Exodus, as the people who have been wandering the wilderness are about to enter the promised land. Well, the article opened my eyes, not only to this story of five sisters who plead their case before Moses and Eleazer, but also to the possibility of feminist biblical interpretation. Whether this story is historically true, which it is likely not, it is a curious thing that in all of the Torah, the story of these sisters – Malah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah – is included.


Is it a dangerous passage, this story of women challenging the patriarchal rule that only sons can inherit land? Does granting women access to things that historically belonged to men and men only open the floodgates to women doing all sorts of things that might give them power? What does this story tell us about the lives of women in ancient scripture? And how does this ancient story speak to the lives of women today?


I wish this story ended beautifully, all tied up with a neat bow, but it doesn’t. At first, Moses consults God who says yes, these women may inherit their father’s land. That’s Numbers 27. But jump ahead to Numbers 36 and we learn the inheritance comes with a condition: that the five sisters marry only within their own tribe, so that the land does not end up with someone outside the family. Of course.


A few years ago I discovered the work of Dr. Wilda C. Gafney, (The Right Rev. Sam B. Hulsey Professor of Hebrew Bible at Brite Divinity School of Texas Christian University), a biblical scholar who writes from the Womanist tradition. She, too, is interested in the stories of women in scripture, but from the perspective of Black women. Her writing has inspired me to consider even more women in the biblical stories, to look deeply at their lives, and to consider what they might say to us today. If you’re willing to face some Hebrew and academic terms that might be unfamiliar, I heartily recommend her book Womanist Midrash: A Reintroduction to the Women of the Torah and the Throne.


Anyway, I will get to the point. Since that Old Testament class in 1989, the daughters of Zelophehad have stuck with me. A few years ago I was working on an art series, “Unknown and Unnamed: Women of the Bible” and made this picture, “The Five Sisters Who Inherited Their Father’s Land.” It’s been a fan-favorite of my ten fans, and I have promised my own daughter I will not sell it.


More recently I’ve been motivated to create some new Matron Saints, and the first of this new batch is “Malah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah (the daughters of Zelophehad), Matron Saints of Those Who Challenge the Patriarchy.”


Why has this story stuck with me? In part because I get so very frustrated and enraged by the power games of the patriarchy which still exists today. I am cautious about criticizing cultures that are not my own, so I’ll stick with the U.S. I see patriarchal power plays in the culture, in politics, and I see them far too often in the church, even in my own beloved denomination of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)


So if there’s a chance that women might receive something previously withheld from them, or better, receive it without condition, I want to celebrate that. I want to celebrate women being acknowledged as being gifted, compassionate, strong, emotionally intelligent, intellectual, wise, brave, capable of making decisions about their own bodies, and willing to make good trouble. I want to hear the stories of women who have been denied, of women who’ve given up because that wall of patriarchy is twenty feet thick and make of diamonds and steel. I want to know men who are willing to step away, step down, so that a woman might have an opportunity otherwise denied them.


I want the descendants of Malah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah to be emboldened to speak up not only for themselves but for other women as well. I want us to make as happy an ending as possible for the story of women. I echo what Marie Shear once said: Feminism is the radical notion that women are people. May it be so.

My thanks to Drs. Robert Coote and Marvin Chaney, my Old Testament professors at San Francisco Theological Seminary, to Dr. Sakenfeld and Dr. Gafney for their rich and inspiring work, and to all the women out there who keep on going.

Revisiting the Matron Saints

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 26 Comments

Eight years ago I made a paper collage icon of the biblical Martha, using cut-up pieces of old Sunday School lithographs. I modernized her, imagined her as a clergywoman (or my experience as a clergywoman) and so, in addition to wearing her very proper clerical collar, she was also holding a baby in one hand and a toilet plunger in the other. She was surrounded by all the women who encouraged her over the years – and one who was very grumpy about the whole thing and really thought that only men should be pastors. Ask any clergywoman you know, and she will concur with the experience.

And so the Matron Saints (h/t to my friend Michelle Bartel, who came up with the title) were born. I made twelve, and each was a woman in a Bible story whom I admired or thought a lot about and who represented an issue in the world, the nation, or my life. Creating them helped me get through the first Trump administration.

I made notecards and sold some and then let them be. But the time has come for them to be dusted off. So this post is really a bit of a shameless plug, because not only am I selling cards again ($30 for a pack of 12 Matron Saints, or $3 per card, plus shipping if you’re not local) but I also made calendars and they are, much to my surprise, selling like hotcakes ($25, plus shipping.)

If you want to know more about this project, click on the “matron saints” tab above, and on its drop-down menu. If you’d like to order some, reply to this and then I’ll follow up.

In the meantime, be well, and be blessed, and don’t give up hope.

Trees and other things

/ Beth Merrill Neel / 7 Comments

I’ve been on a tree kick lately, art-wise. I think they’re birches, but they may be aspens. They’re not exactly accurate.

I was inspired to make my own trees (paper collage) after seeing the beautiful liturgical banners my friend Nanette created of birches – or aspen – after our clergy group met at Rocky Mountain National Park, where the dining room is decorated with images of aspen (probably not birches.)

To be honest, usually my art reflects something that’s going on inside, so as I’m currently working on my fourth tree picture, I’ve wondered why trees are speaking to me right now, beyond the inspiration from my friend.

A few years ago I had the pleasure of reading The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate by Peter Wohlleben. He opened my eyes to a world I had never known and I was struck by the way trees not only live in community, but thrive in community. As Tim Flannery writes in the foreward, “…the most astonishing thing about trees is how social they are. The trees in a forest care for each other, sometimes even going so far as to nourish the stump of a felled tree for centuries after it was cut down by feeding it sugars and other nutrients, and so keeping it alive. Only some stumps are thus nourished. Perhaps they are the parents of the trees that make up the forest of today…. The reason trees share food and communicate is that they need each other. It takes a forest to create a microclimate suitable for tree growth and sustenance. So it’s not surprising that isolated trees have far shorter lives than those living connected together in forests.”

Then I understood my current fascination with trees. Community is not only fun, and wanted, it is utterly essential for our thriving. I write this three days after the presidential election, at a time when my communities, my circles, are feeling as though they have been clear cut. Devastation. Death. Disregard. All in the name of profit or greed or power. A tree cares about none of those things. I would say a tree is amoral, except that we assign moral value to community and trees are communal beings.

The other thing that struck me about trees is that they have muscle memory of a sorts, wood memory. We see it in the rings they make after they have died or we have chopped them down. We can tell what sort of year it was by the width of the ring – a year of growth, maybe, or a year of drought or some other calamity.

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If you cut us in half, right above the belly-button, you won’t see rings. But we carry muscle memory, and gray hairs, and wrinkles in our brow that won’t go away. We carry bags under our eyes, and extra flesh around our middle after indulging in necessary comfort food and drink. We carry stressed-out hearts, and headaches that won’t go away, and are not all that surprised when our blood pressure, like our weight or our bad cholesterol, goes up and up.

Well, then, what are we to do. A sentence, not a question, because I’m not sure anyone is really in a place to answer that yet, and I have a sinking suspicion that any answer would be premature. So for now, I will be like a tree. I will give thanks for my many communities, and however I can, be a resource, a friend, a helpmeet to all those. I hope that my community grows larger, like a forest that is untamed.

If you can, in the next few days, go wander among the trees for a bit. Breathe deeply. Listen to them. Smell their mid-autumn scent. Kick up their leaves. Be inspired. Be like a tree, and take care of your forest.

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