My help and my fortress, my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield in whom I trust, who subdues the peoples under me. (Psalm 144:2, Book of Common Prayer)

Just the other day I was in the Psalms to start my day, and the Spirit took me, as Ezekiel or you or any of us know, on a pilgrimage of associations while in Scripture. I landed in my Psalms class at Perkins School of Theology. I was listening and doodling in a notebook. (You may remember notebooks, they were made of cardboard, wire, and paper, and you could write in them.)

I was listening to Rev. Mary Lou Santillan-Baert, who became a member of the faculty at Perkins after earning her master of divinity degree there. She became the managing editor of the Spanish editions of The Upper Room, [https://es.upperroom.org/devotionals ] was an author and a pastor, and wrote the introduction to Romans in the Disciple Bible Study series. [https://www.cokesbury.com/disciple-bible-studies } Although she had already graduated, she simply wanted to take a psalms class from Rev. Dr. W. J. A .Power. I was a baby. She was already a giant.

The verse above (Ps. 144:2) is dripping with associations that describe our relationship with God: help, fortress, stronghold, deliverer, shield, confidant, and advocate. The professor noted the compression of words in Hebrew, and how it takes a string of words to translate this into English because English lacks this compression. There is no one word for this in English, apart from “God.”

Rev. Santillan Baert said, “Spanish has a word.”

The whole class swiveled to hear it.

“Compadre.”

She explained the term compadre—literally, “father with” or “with father.” The word could refer to a lifelong best friend, a godfather by means of baptism, a co-father, a revered friend, or a defender, reflecting a strong, lifelong bond. I thought of my life with God and some of my best friends. And again the psalms took me there a few days ago.

Rev. Dr. Paul Lee of the Northern Illinois Conference did his doctoral work on hospitality as the essence of the church’s transformative life, and, if you get him to talk about it, he makes the case that hospitality is an incarnation of the divine friendship. God is more than a buddy, to be sure, but there is an abundance of the power and love of Christ when we experience the acceptance and solidarity of grace-filled Christian community.

Rev. Dr. Solomon Sudakar, also in Northern Illinois, wrote his doctoral thesis on “the polluted God”—the person of Jesus who identifies with the untouchables, whose relentless solidarity takes on the dregs of shame to make Christ known in it.

The hymn puts it plainly: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

Friends, we inhabit a relational universe, authored by a relational God whose essence is three-in-one. God made us to be in relationship. Everything exists in relationship. Every relationship is a mix of sameness and difference. Only difference teaches. We are changed by the gift of differences. We are changed by living together. We are the body of Christ.

As I think about Hispanic Heritage Month (Sept. 15–Oct. 15), I thank God for our Hispanic/Latino clergy and churches, and also know that our connexion must be more supportive and connective to make Christ known more authentically. We must extend our Hispanic ministry. Please pray about more advocacy with this intersection in your life. Meantime, please pray about how talk of mass deportation and “remigration” is harming this population and all of us—those here legally and those who are not. Sure, there must be fair and comprehensive immigration reform, but I can tell you my granddaughter, who is here legally, who was born here, has grown up with fear enough that she asks me, “Would they really take my tia and tio? What would happen to mis primas and primos? What can you do, Grandpa?”

Shifting to a larger vista, some haiku to think on:

room for more
color
altar flowers

an ally
for her coming out
cherry blossoms

My granddaughter and I share a birthday month, when I was still having birthdays. When she was very little, she saw the dappled sun across me in my lawn chair. She hopped in my lap and out came a poem:

Grandpa, she says,
sometimes the light just
falls in your lap

Peace to you.
Dan Schwerin, Bishop