Sister Abigail Hester

Tag: god

  • The Gospel of Mark (Part 3)

    ✨ Chapter 2: The Miracles and the Margins

    Mark 1:21–45 — “The Healer Who Breaks Rules”

    A Franciscan Clarean Commentary by Sister Abigail Hester, OFC

    📖 Scripture

    “They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.”
    — Mark 1:22

    🕍 1. Authority Without Domination

    From the very start, Jesus’ authority in Mark is different — it’s not about power over, but love within.
    Modern scholars like Elizabeth Malbon point out that Mark’s Jesus is performative theology — he doesn’t argue doctrines; he embodies truth.

    The scribes explain. Jesus liberates.
    His authority doesn’t come from position, pedigree, or permission — it flows from presence.

    Franciscan Clareans recognize this instantly.
    True authority is the radiance of compassion. It doesn’t need titles, it needs integrity.
    Francis had no office, Clare no sanction — yet both carried a gravity born of holiness, not hierarchy.

    Mark’s Jesus shows us: the Kingdom doesn’t require credentials. Just love that moves.

    👹 2. The Exorcism: Liberation, Not Spectacle

    “A man with an unclean spirit cried out… and Jesus rebuked him, saying, ‘Be silent, and come out of him!’” — Mark 1:23–25

    Modern readers can get hung up on demons.
    But Mark’s world saw unclean spirits as the embodiment of everything that enslaves: fear, injustice, despair, systems that crush the human soul.

    The first miracle in Mark isn’t a healing — it’s a liberation.
    Jesus doesn’t perform a show; he restores a person’s wholeness.
    This is liberation theology before it had a name.

    Franciscan Clareans can read this as Jesus confronting empire’s demons: greed, domination, shame.
    He silences those voices still whispering in our age — the ones that say, you’re not enough, you don’t belong, you can’t change.

    The Gospel begins with an exorcism because the Kingdom begins when the lies lose their power.

    🌅 3. The Healing of Simon’s Mother-in-Law: Service as Resurrection

    “He took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.”
    — Mark 1:31

    Notice how gentle this miracle is.
    No thunder, no trumpet, no drama — just touch.
    Mark uses the Greek word egeiren — “he lifted her up,” the same word used later for resurrection.

    Jesus doesn’t just heal her; he raises her up.
    Her response? Not worship, not words — service.

    For Franciscan Clareans, this is holiness distilled: resurrection leads to hospitality.
    Healing isn’t a private gift; it’s a call to love others.

    Every fever that leaves us should free us to serve.
    That’s the Franciscan rhythm — grace received, grace given, endlessly circling like breath.

    🌆 4. The Solitary Prayer: Sacred Recharging

    “In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.” — Mark 1:35

    Even Jesus needed silence.
    In the middle of miracles and crowds, he slips away to reconnect with the Source.

    Modern biblical scholars read this as an intentional rhythm in Mark: action — contemplation — action.
    Francis and Clare lived this too — ora et labora, prayer and work, breath and body, silence and song.

    Franciscan Clareans learn from this: activism without contemplation burns out; contemplation without compassion dries up.
    We need both — the stillness that grounds our service and the service that gives meaning to our stillness.

    💙 5. The Leper and the Touch of God

    “Moved with compassion, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean.’” — Mark 1:41

    This moment is one of the most scandalous in all of Scripture.
    Touching a leper made you unclean under Jewish purity law. Jesus does it deliberately.

    Modern scholars like Amy-Jill Levine remind us: this isn’t Jesus rejecting Judaism — it’s him revealing God’s heart within it. He’s showing that compassion fulfills the Law more perfectly than fear ever could.

    When he touches the untouchable, he doesn’t catch impurity — he transmits holiness.
    That’s divine contagion.
    That’s Francis kissing the leper outside Assisi.
    That’s Clare feeding her sisters with her own hands during famine.

    Franciscan Clareans call this the sacrament of touch — the holiness of human contact, the theology of tenderness.
    In a world terrified of contamination, we bring the healing of presence.

    🌈 6. Reflection: Miracles as Method

    Mark 1 closes with the world buzzing — everyone looking for Jesus, miracles everywhere. But he keeps retreating to prayer, refusing to build a cult of personality.

    Modern biblical scholarship notes this rhythm — Jesus moves from center to margin, from crowd to solitude, from fame to hiddenness.

    That’s our Franciscan Clarean way too.
    We don’t chase spotlight miracles; we practice quiet ones:

    A kind word that saves a life.

    A meal shared with the lonely.

    A prayer whispered for someone who’d forgotten they’re loved.

    Mark’s Gospel teaches that the miracle isn’t in the spectacle.
    It’s in the touch, the silence, the compassion that doesn’t need credit.

    🌿 Closing Prayer

    Christ of the margins,
    who heals with hands and not hierarchies,
    who silences demons and awakens dignity,
    teach us to touch the world with gentleness.
    May we see holiness in the unclean,
    beauty in the broken,
    and your face in every forgotten one.
    Amen.

  • The Gospel of Mark (Part 2)

    🌿 Chapter 1: The Voice in the Wilderness

    Mark 1:1–20 — “The Beginning of the Good News”

    A Franciscan Clarean Commentary by Sister Abigail Hester, OFC

    📖 Scripture

    “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, as it is written in Isaiah the prophet:
    ‘See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way;
    the voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
    Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight…’”
    — Mark 1:1–3

    🏜️ 1. The Wilderness as the Birthplace of Revolution

    Mark begins not in a temple or throne room but in the wilderness.
    Modern scholars point out that “wilderness” in Scripture is never just geography — it’s the space where old systems collapse and new creation begins.

    It’s where Moses met God. Where Israel learned humility. Where Francis stripped naked and walked out of Assisi reborn.

    The Gospel’s first breath happens where civilization’s noise dies down enough for the Divine to be heard again.
    The wilderness is where prophets and mystics go when polite religion has lost its fire.
    So Mark starts there — not because it’s quiet, but because it’s honest.

    For Franciscan Clareans, this is our home turf: the space between empire and Eden, where simplicity becomes our prayer and love becomes our rebellion.

    🦋 2. John the Baptizer: The First Holy Weirdo

    John isn’t a “religious professional.” He’s wild.
    Camel hair. Locusts. Honey. Sand in his beard.
    Modern biblical scholars like John Dominic Crossan note that John’s ministry is a direct confrontation with the temple system — baptism outside Jerusalem meant God is not locked in the temple; grace is loose in the desert.

    John’s message: Repent — literally, turn around.
    He’s not shouting guilt. He’s inviting transformation.
    He’s saying, “The world doesn’t have to stay like this. There’s another way.”

    Franciscan Clareans would recognize him immediately. He’s a barefoot mystic preaching divine simplicity, living the sermon he speaks. He’s a reminder that the Spirit often chooses the wild and unpolished to announce something new.

    💧 3. The Baptism of Jesus: God in the Mud

    “And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.”
    — Mark 1:10

    Scholars see Mark’s description as violent — “the heavens torn open.”
    It’s not a polite curtain lift; it’s a rupture. God breaks into history, not gently, but decisively.
    The Spirit descends not on a throne but on a soaked, muddy carpenter standing in a river beside sinners.

    Franciscan Clarean insight:
    This is the Incarnation’s full scandal. God chooses solidarity over superiority.
    Jesus doesn’t stand above humanity — he steps into our waters, our wounds, our mess.

    When the heavens tear open, they never close again.
    Every act of compassion since has been an echo of that moment.

    🌬️ 4. The Temptation: The Desert Classroom

    “And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness.” — Mark 1:12

    That word “drove” (Greek ekballō) literally means threw.
    Jesus isn’t politely led — he’s flung into spiritual boot camp.

    For 40 days, he wrestles with hunger, loneliness, and the seductive whispers of comfort and control.
    Franciscan Clareans read this not as punishment but preparation.
    Solitude burns away illusion. Temptation reveals truth.

    Jesus emerges lean, luminous, and ready to upend the world.
    So must we. Our deserts — whether illness, grief, or loss — can become sacred classrooms if we dare to stay long enough to listen.

    🌅 5. The Call to Follow

    “Jesus said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.’ And immediately they left their nets and followed him.”
    — Mark 1:17–18

    Modern scholars note that Mark’s version is stark — no explanation, no debate. They just go.
    It’s the power of presence. Something in Jesus calls out the courage already buried inside them.

    Franciscan Clareans understand this kind of summons.
    When Love speaks, you don’t need a theological degree — you need an open heart.
    The call isn’t to success; it’s to simplicity. To leave behind what binds you — not just nets, but fears, habits, false identities.

    Discipleship begins with holy impulsiveness — the “immediately” of grace.

    🕊️ 6. Reflection

    Mark’s first chapter is an explosion of beginnings:

    A wild prophet in the desert

    The heavens torn open

    The Spirit descending

    The first disciples walking away from everything

    It’s God saying, “Let’s start over — again.”

    The Franciscan Clarean soul hears this and smiles: every day is another beginning.
    Every act of love is another gospel written in flesh.
    Every ‘yes’ to compassion tears heaven open one more time.

  • The Gospel of Mark (Part 1)

    🌿 The Gospel of Mark

    A Franciscan Clarean Commentary — by Sister Abigail Hester, OFC

    💫 The Wild Beginning

    Mark’s Gospel doesn’t start with cozy Christmas nostalgia. There’s no manger, no angels cooing over a baby. It starts in the wilderness — with a wild prophet, wearing camel hair, shouting about repentance.

    That’s classic Franciscan energy right there: God showing up in the margins, barefoot and untamed. The wilderness is where illusions fall away and simplicity becomes holy clarity. Mark’s Jesus bursts onto the scene not from a palace or temple, but from the desert. The message: God begins again on the edge of everything.

    🔥 The Urgency of Love

    Modern scholars call Mark’s writing “immediate.” Everything happens right now.
    From a Franciscan Clarean lens, this isn’t anxiety — it’s holy immediacy.
    The Gospel of Mark is breathless because love is urgent. The world is suffering, and compassion can’t wait until we’ve got our theology perfectly sorted.

    Francis and Clare understood that same pulse: mend what’s broken today. Feed the hungry now. Reconcile before the sun sets. Mark’s “immediately” is a heartbeat of divine action.

    💔 The Suffering Christ

    Mark’s Jesus bleeds early and often. He’s misunderstood, exhausted, betrayed, and finally screams in forsaken agony on the cross. Scholars see this as Mark’s theology of the Suffering Messiah — God revealed in pain, not power.

    We, too, know that mystery.
    The Franciscan Clarean path doesn’t chase prestige; it sits with the broken. It whispers that holiness often looks like vulnerability, like compassion that costs something.
    Mark’s Gospel turns empire’s logic upside down: greatness is service; glory is love poured out.

    🕊️ The Disciples and the Dance of Misunderstanding

    Let’s be honest — the disciples in Mark are a bit of a mess. They misunderstand nearly everything. They argue about greatness right after Jesus predicts his death.

    But Mark isn’t mocking them; he’s revealing us.
    Discipleship isn’t a test of IQ — it’s a willingness to keep walking, keep trying, keep saying yes even when you don’t get it.

    That’s the way of Clare: simple, stubborn faith that keeps loving even in the dark.
    That’s the way of Francis: joyfully failing forward in the company of Christ.

    🪞 The Messianic Secret

    Jesus tells people to keep quiet about his miracles. Why?
    Modern scholars call this the Messianic Secret. Mark’s Jesus refuses to be turned into a political slogan or celebrity. He wants hearts transformed, not crowds manipulated.

    For Franciscan Clareans, that’s spiritual humility in action — the quiet revolution of love without ego.
    Holiness doesn’t need to shout. It just is.

    🌍 The Politics of Compassion

    Mark’s story unfolds under Rome’s shadow. Power, greed, and violence define the world Jesus walks through. When he heals, eats with sinners, or touches lepers, he’s not just being “nice.” He’s resisting empire with compassion.

    Modern liberation and narrative scholars like Ched Myers and Amy-Jill Levine help us see that Mark’s Jesus is confronting systems — unbinding the “strong man” of domination.

    Francis and Clare did the same in their own century: they defied empire and Church wealth by living voluntary poverty and unarmed love. The Gospel of Mark is their manual for holy rebellion — the art of sacred disobedience.

    ✝️ The Silence at the Tomb

    The earliest ending — Mark 16:8 — leaves us hanging:

    “They fled from the tomb, trembling and bewildered… and said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

    That’s the punchline of the Gospel. No resurrection appearances. No tidy closure. Just silence and fear — and an invitation.

    Mark ends with a cliffhanger because the story isn’t finished.
    It’s our turn to proclaim resurrection — through mercy, through courage, through joy.

    Franciscan Clareans pick up that unfinished sentence every day.
    Our life is the continuation of the Gospel.
    Our compassion is its new chapter.

    🌈 Reflection

    Mark’s Gospel is not a book about belief — it’s a summons to transformation.
    It’s wild, fast, apocalyptic, and full of holy surprise.
    In a world obsessed with control and comfort, Mark calls us to holy poverty, fearless love, and radical hope.

  • How to Celebrate the Feast of Saint Francis of Assisi

    Here’s how to celebrate the Feast of Saint Francis of Assisi (October 4th) — no habit, no monastery required, just an open heart and maybe a few furry friends. 🕊️🐾

    🌅 1. Start with Gratitude and Simplicity

    Francis began every day with gratitude for “Brother Sun” and “Sister Moon.”
    You can honor him by doing the same: step outside, breathe the morning air, and say something like:

    “Thank you, Creator, for this day, for breath, for life, for all creatures who share it with me.”

    Unplug for a while. Eat simply. Walk instead of drive. Let the day breathe.

    🕊️ 2. Pray or Reflect in Nature

    Francis didn’t see nature as decoration — he saw it as revelation.
    Go for a walk, sit under a tree, or open a window. Pray, meditate, or just listen.
    Read the Canticle of the Creatures (Francis’s own hymn) or Psalm 104.
    If you’re feeling poetic, write your own “Canticle of Gratitude.”

    🐕 3. Bless the Animals

    If you have pets, bless them with a short prayer or sprinkle water on their heads like a mini-baptism of love.
    If you don’t, donate to a local shelter or feed the birds.
    Francis loved all creatures — even the ones that bite.

    “Blessed are you, Lord, for Brother Dog, who teaches us joy.
    Blessed are you for Sister Cat, who shows us peace.”

    ✋ 4. Serve the Poor or Lonely

    Francis wasn’t just about fuzzy animals — he was fierce about compassion.
    Do something tangible:

    Bring food or socks to someone on the street

    Call a friend who’s struggling

    Volunteer or give anonymously

    Acts of mercy are living prayers.

    💐 5. Reconcile and Forgive

    Francis constantly sought peace.
    Take a moment to forgive someone — or yourself.
    If there’s tension with a friend, family member, or even God, offer a small olive branch.
    It doesn’t need to be dramatic — just real.

    📖 6. Read or Watch Something Franciscan

    Pick a passage from:

    The Little Flowers of St. Francis

    Brother Sun, Sister Moon (the film — gloriously 70s, but heartfelt)

    The Testament of St. Francis

    Then ask: What does “living simply” mean for me, today?

    🕯️ 7. Create a Mini-Ritual at Home

    Light a candle. Place a small cross, stone, or leaf beside it. Say:

    “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
    Where there is hatred, let me sow love.”

    Let the candle burn as a symbol of gentleness, humility, and hope.

    🎉 Bonus: Celebrate with Joy

    Francis loved laughter and song. Sing something, dance barefoot, share a meal with someone, or write a thank-you note to life itself.
    Holiness doesn’t have to be grim — it can sparkle.

  • Standing Against Violence, Standing for Democracy

    On September 10, 2025, Charlie Kirk was assassinated while speaking at Utah Valley University. I need to be clear from the outset: I do not agree with Charlie Kirk’s ideology, his rhetoric, or the policies he so often championed. Many of his views, in my understanding, were harmful and divisive.

    And yet — in a democracy, he had the right to hold and express those views. That right is fundamental. Disagreement is not a license to kill. Violence is not an argument; it is an annihilation. When we choose murder over debate, we abandon democracy itself.

    Murder Silences Us All

    Kirk’s assassination is not just an attack on one man. It is an attack on the fragile fabric of public discourse. Violence sends a single chilling message: that persuasion has failed, and only force remains. That message corrodes democracy and endangers us all, regardless of political affiliation.

    If we normalize responding to speech with bullets, then none of us — left, right, or center — are safe.

    Guns and the Urgency of Reform

    This tragedy again highlights a crisis we have refused to face: America’s epidemic of gun violence. Every shooting, whether political or random, chips away at our collective safety. Every murder makes the world smaller, colder, more afraid.

    I am not calling for the end of responsible gun ownership. But I am calling for common-sense laws that honor both liberty and life:

    Universal background checks to keep weapons out of dangerous hands.

    Red flag laws to intervene when someone poses a clear risk.

    Safe storage requirements to prevent guns from falling into the wrong hands.

    Waiting periods to cool moments of rage before they turn irreversible.

    These are not radical ideas. They are life-preserving ones.

    Choosing Life Over Violence

    As a Franciscan Clarean, my faith teaches me that every human life bears the image of God. That truth applies to our friends and to our enemies, to those we admire and to those we cannot stand. It applied to Charlie Kirk. It applies to those who mourn him. It applies to every life cut short by a trigger pulled too soon.

    So today I stand — not with Charlie Kirk’s politics, but with his right to live, to speak, to be heard without fear of being gunned down. I stand against murder, against gun violence, and against the lie that death is the answer to disagreement.

    A Prayer for Us All

    I pray for Charlie Kirk’s family in their grief.
    I pray for his supporters, shaken and afraid.
    I pray for a nation that seems to be forgetting how to disagree without killing.
    And I pray that we will finally have the courage to enact sensible gun reform, so that fewer lives end in tragedy.

    May we learn to listen, to argue, to resist — but never to murder.
    May we remember that democracy lives only when we choose life over death.

  • Holier Than Honest, Holier Than Hype: A Reply (with receipts)

    In response to the following linked article:

    In Ignorance Concerning the New Testament

    The rebuttal to my article tries to swat away questions of New Testament authorship with some familiar apologetic flourishes: Satan made you doubt, Plato had fewer manuscripts, and Peter could totally spell. Let’s sort through this — with both humor and actual scholarship.

    1. “Satan made you doubt.”

    Apparently the devil isn’t busy enough with wars, greed, and injustice — he’s moonlighting as a textual critic in a dusty library, whispering, “Pssst… Mark 16:9–20 wasn’t original.”

    But Christians noticed textual variants long before Bart Ehrman. Origen (3rd century) admitted, “The differences among the manuscripts have become great” (Commentary on Matthew 15.14). Jerome complained about “various readings” in the Latin Bible. Even Augustine admitted some texts circulated “with additions” (On Christian Doctrine 2.12).

    So if doubt comes from Satan, then apparently Origen, Jerome, and Augustine were on Beelzebub’s payroll too.

    1. “But Plato, Aristotle, Homer!”

    Yes, Plato has 7 manuscripts, Aristotle 49, Homer 643. The New Testament boasts over 5,000 Greek manuscripts. But as NT scholar Craig Blomberg (an evangelical) admits, “The abundance of manuscripts does not mean we have no variants. Quite the contrary — it means we have hundreds of thousands” (The Historical Reliability of the New Testament, 2016).

    Quantity of manuscripts is evidence of popularity, not necessarily authorship. Nobody’s eternal destiny hangs on whether Homer actually wrote the Iliad.

    1. “We know who wrote the Gospels — their names are in Acts!”

    That’s like saying, “Of course J.K. Rowling wrote Shakespeare; her name shows up in a library record.” The Gospels are anonymous. The earliest copies don’t say “The Gospel According to Matthew.” The titles appear in the late 2nd century.

    As Raymond Brown (a Catholic scholar) put it bluntly: “The present titles, which ascribe the Gospel to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, are not part of the original works but were added later” (Introduction to the New Testament, 1997).

    Acts mentioning “Matthew the tax collector” proves only that someone named Matthew was a tax collector — not that he wrote a 28-chapter Greek Gospel.

    1. “Paul wrote them all. Different style? Just handwriting mood swings.”

    The “multi-individuality of handwriting” defense is creative, but irrelevant. Scholars don’t base authorship on penmanship alone. They examine vocabulary, theology, and historical setting.

    For instance, Romans and Galatians pulse with Paul’s urgency. Ephesians and Colossians present a cosmic Christology and more structured Greek. That’s why most critical scholars (and even some evangelicals) classify them as “Deutero-Pauline.” Luke Timothy Johnson notes: “The differences in vocabulary, style, and theology are too great to ignore” (The Writings of the New Testament, 2010).

    That doesn’t make them fraudulent; pseudonymous writing was common in antiquity. It simply means the Pauline “school” carried forward his theology.

    1. “The Fathers quoted Paul, so that settles it.”

    Yes, Clement, Ignatius, and Polycarp cite letters attributed to Paul. But citing a text shows its authority, not its authorship. Eusebius himself (4th century) admitted debates about certain letters (Ecclesiastical History 3.25).

    Patristic testimony proves that by 100–150 CE, churches revered certain letters. It doesn’t prove Paul’s hand wrote each one.

    1. “Peter could spell. Show me a verse that says he couldn’t!”

    This is theological Uno: reverse card. The burden of proof isn’t on me to show Peter couldn’t spell. Acts 4:13 literally calls Peter and John agrammatoi (“uneducated”). That raises a fair question: how likely is it they wrote polished Greek treatises?

    Even conservative scholar Ben Witherington admits: “1 Peter’s Greek is too sophisticated for a Galilean fisherman… The hand of a secretary is almost certainly involved” (Letters and Homilies for Hellenized Christians, 2006).

    So sure, Peter could “spell” — with help. Inspiration doesn’t mean every apostle suddenly got Rosetta Stone.

    1. “But John’s Gospel and Revelation sound alike!”

    Actually, they don’t. The Gospel of John has elegant Greek; Revelation reads like someone who struggled with grammar. That’s why Dionysius of Alexandria (3rd century) argued they had different authors (Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 7.25).

    Modern scholarship agrees. Craig Koester notes: “The differences in style and vocabulary are stark” (Revelation, Anchor Bible, 2014).

    If they’re the same author, then he went from writing like a philosopher to writing like Yoda.

    1. “You’re transgender, so you can’t be Christian.”

    This isn’t scholarship; it’s a playground taunt. My gender identity has nothing to do with whether Mark 16’s “long ending” was original. Attacking the critic instead of engaging the evidence is the definition of ad hominem.

    Conclusion: Faith, Facts, and Fear

    The New Testament is sacred, beloved, and central to Christian life. But pretending it dropped from heaven leather-bound in King James English doesn’t honor it — it cheapens it.

    Admitting that the Gospels are anonymous, that some Pauline letters are disputed, and that later scribes added a few passages doesn’t mean Christianity is false. It means the Bible has a history, just like every other ancient text.

    God’s Word isn’t fragile. If faith shatters the moment we admit Mark’s long ending was tacked on later, maybe the problem isn’t the manuscript tradition — maybe it’s our fear of facing the very human story of how God’s Word came to us.

  • When Apostles Get Ghostwriters: Evidence of Forgery in the New Testament

    Introduction: Holier Than Thou or Holier Than Honest?

    The New Testament is hailed as “God’s Word,” but let’s be real: much of it is anonymous, pseudonymous, or forged. Early Christians lived in a world where writing under someone else’s name was a power move—meant to claim authority, shut down rivals, and win theological battles. Think of it as the original form of identity theft, with a halo.

    Paul: The Real vs. the Fake

    Authentic Paul (7 letters): Romans, 1–2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians, Philemon. These bear Paul’s raw, fiery voice—half-mystic, half-activist.[1]

    Imposter Paul (the rest):

    Deutero-Pauline: Ephesians, Colossians, 2 Thessalonians. These smooth-talking letters sound like Paul on decaf.[2]

    Pastorals (1 & 2 Timothy, Titus): Widely regarded as forgeries. Vocabulary and style don’t fit, the church hierarchy looks too developed, and Paul suddenly obsesses over bishops and “sound doctrine.”[3]

    Peter: The Fisherman Who Couldn’t Spell Greek

    1 Peter: Its sophisticated Greek and rhetorical polish make it unlikely that an uneducated Galilean fisherman wrote it.[4]

    2 Peter: Almost universally labeled a forgery, composed in the 2nd century, and heavily plagiarizing Jude.[5]

    The Johannine Mix-Up

    Gospel vs. Revelation: The Gospel of John is smooth, mystical Greek; Revelation is rough, broken Greek. Not the same author.[6]

    1–3 John: Anonymous letters later attributed to “John” for borrowed authority.[7]

    The Interpolations: Cutting Room Floor Additions

    Some passages look like late insertions—pious frauds with staying power:

    Mark 16:9–20: The “long ending” with snake-handling and poison-drinking is absent in earliest manuscripts.[8]

    John 7:53–8:11: The woman caught in adultery. A moving story, but added later.[9]

    1 John 5:7 (Comma Johanneum): Explicit Trinitarian formula—medieval addition, not found in Greek manuscripts.[10]

    Luke 22:43–44: Jesus sweating blood in Gethsemane—missing from earliest copies.[11]

    The Gospel Truth: They’re Anonymous

    The gospels never name their authors. “Matthew,” “Mark,” “Luke,” and “John” were attached in the 2nd century as authority branding.[12] In the ancient world, name-dropping was marketing: “Buy this scroll! Endorsed by an apostle!”

    Why It Matters

    Here’s the punchline: the church has been preaching against “bearing false witness” while canonizing forged documents. Hypocrisy much? But here’s the Franciscan Clarean twist: truth doesn’t need forgery to shine. The Spirit works even through messy, forged, and human documents. God’s love doesn’t require a flawless manuscript.

    Conclusion: Holiness Over Forgery

    If anything, forged and interpolated texts remind us that Christianity was always messy, political, and human. Faith isn’t about pretending our Scriptures dropped from heaven shrink-wrapped. It’s about hearing God’s call in the cracks, the edits, and yes—even the forgeries.

    Because if God can work through forged letters, then God can work through us—hot messes, imposters, and all.

    References

    [1]: Bart D. Ehrman, Forged: Writing in the Name of God—Why the Bible’s Authors Are Not Who We Think They Are (New York: HarperOne, 2011), pp. 95–118.
    [2]: Marcus J. Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church’s Conservative Icon (New York: HarperOne, 2009).
    [3]: Raymond E. Brown, An Introduction to the New Testament (New York: Doubleday, 1997), pp. 668–681.
    [4]: Ehrman, Forged, pp. 122–124.
    [5]: Werner Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament (London: SCM Press, 1975), pp. 430–433.
    [6]: Elaine Pagels, Revelations: Visions, Prophecy, and Politics in the Book of Revelation (New York: Viking, 2012).
    [7]: Brown, Introduction to the New Testament, pp. 387–393.
    [8]: Bruce Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (Stuttgart: United Bible Societies, 1994), pp. 102–106.
    [9]: Ibid., pp. 187–189.
    [10]: Metzger, Textual Commentary, pp. 647–649.
    [11]: Ehrman, Misquoting Jesus: The Story Behind Who Changed the Bible and Why (New York: HarperOne, 2005), pp. 187–189.
    [12]: Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), though defending authenticity, still acknowledges anonymous origins.

  • Clare’s Radical Poverty: Reclaiming Holy Dependence

    By Sister Abigail Hester, OFC

    “Go forth in peace, for you have followed the good road. Go forth without fear, for He who created you has made you holy, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother.” — Saint Clare of Assisi

    A Scandalous Simplicity

    Clare of Assisi didn’t just embrace poverty—she dared to love it. Not out of ascetic thrill-seeking, but because she saw in it a deeper truth: we were never meant to survive on our own. In a world addicted to autonomy, she chose holy dependence. And that is scandalous.

    She defied not just her wealthy family, but the entire ecclesial structure that wanted her to “tone it down.” Bishops begged her to accept endowments. Popes tried to gently nudge her into more “reasonable” poverty. Clare? She dug in her heels. She insisted that her community have no possessions whatsoever—not even collectively. For Clare, poverty wasn’t a punishment. It was a path to freedom. A radical freedom that refused to be owned, owed, or beholden to anyone but Christ.

    Dependence as Resistance

    In our modern world, “dependence” is a dirty word. We’re taught to be self-sufficient, self-made, and preferably stylish while doing it. Neediness is weakness. But Clare flips the script: dependence isn’t disgraceful—it’s divine.

    To live in holy dependence is to confess:

    I don’t have all the answers.

    I can’t save myself.

    I need others, and I need God.

    Clare’s vision rips the mask off toxic individualism. She shows us that community—real, messy, interdependent community—isn’t a backup plan. It’s the Gospel lived out. Her sisters didn’t just pray together. They begged together, fasted together, wept together. They trusted that God would provide through the hands of the poor and the generosity of others. And often, He did.

    The Poor Christ

    What made Clare’s poverty radical wasn’t the lack of stuff. It was her refusal to turn away from the Crucified Christ. She saw in Him—naked, abandoned, pierced—her Beloved. She wanted to mirror Him in everything. His poverty, His vulnerability, His absolute surrender to the Father’s will.

    To be poor like Clare is to stare into the wound of the world and not flinch. It is to say, I will not climb the ladder. I will descend into the dust, where Christ dwells among the broken. This is not performative poverty. This is mystical union.

    A Word to the Church

    Let’s be honest: much of the Church today has made peace with wealth. We’ve baptized greed, canonized comfort, and turned boardrooms into upper rooms. Clare’s life asks us: Who do we actually trust? Mammon or Mercy?

    If our ministries, communities, and spiritual lives can’t survive without financial insulation or institutional power, then we are not poor enough to know Clare. Or Christ.

    Reclaiming Holy Dependence

    For the Order of Franciscan Clareans—and for all who dare to follow the poor, queer, and crucified Christ—this is our inheritance. Holy dependence isn’t about helplessness. It’s about wholeness. It’s about reclaiming the sacred gift of needing one another.

    What might it look like to:

    Share your income with your neighbor without tracking the “ROI”?

    Let go of owning more and opt into mutual care?

    Refuse the illusion of control and embrace the vulnerability of trust?

    Clare doesn’t give us a blueprint. She gives us a burning love—a love that says: Let go. Fall into God. And if you’re lucky, into the arms of the poor.

    Benediction

    May we be ruined for comfort.
    May we be allergic to power.
    May we live unclenched, unarmed, and unashamed to need.
    Like Clare. Like Christ.

  • When Mammon Wears a Collar: Calling Out the Prosperity Gospel

    By Sister Abigail Hester, OFC

    “You cannot serve both God and mammon.” — Jesus (Matthew 6:24)

    Introduction: The Gospel According to Greed

    There’s a poison infecting the Body of Christ. It’s slick, it’s shiny, and it’s tax-exempt. It dresses in designer suits, flies in private jets, and justifies it all with cherry-picked Scripture. It calls itself “blessed,” but it’s better described as bloated. It claims to preach the good news, but it’s selling snake oil soaked in gold.

    We’re talking about the Prosperity Gospel — that glitzy theology which proclaims that Jesus wants you rich, powerful, and problem-free… so long as you sow your “seed offering” into the preacher’s bank account.

    At the Order of Franciscan Clareans, we stand firmly and prophetically against this distortion of the Gospel. We follow a poor Christ — the one who was born in a barn, died naked on a Roman cross, and taught that the last shall be first. We believe the Prosperity Gospel is not just bad theology — it’s spiritual violence wrapped in tinsel.

    1. Mammon in the Pulpit

    When Jesus said, “You cannot serve both God and mammon,” He meant it literally. Mammon — the idol of wealth, of accumulation, of status — has found its way into the pulpit. Some preachers now sound more like motivational speakers for hedge fund managers than like prophets of the Kingdom.

    They claim:

    “If you’re struggling, it’s because you don’t have enough faith.”

    “If you give to God (meaning them), He’ll multiply your money!”

    “Jesus was wealthy — he had a treasurer!”

    This is not the Gospel. It’s a pyramid scheme with a Bible verse duct-taped to it. It turns faith into a transaction, prayer into a business plan, and the poor into expendable footnotes.

    1. The True Gospel Is Not for Sale

    The Prosperity Gospel peddles a lie: that God’s favor looks like financial success, physical health, and unending comfort. But the cross tells a different story. Jesus — God Incarnate — was poor, persecuted, misunderstood, and ultimately executed by the powers of wealth and empire.

    His apostles fared no better. Not one of them got rich from following Jesus. Most were martyred. Paul wrote half the New Testament from prison. And yet the Prosperity Gospel dares to say suffering is a sign of weak faith?

    No, beloved. The true Gospel costs us something. It calls us to deny ourselves, to carry our cross, to side with the poor, the sick, the imprisoned — not to trample over them on the way to a bigger house.

    1. A Franciscan Clarean Response

    As Franciscan Clareans, we proclaim with clarity and courage:

    Jesus is not a vending machine. Prayer is not a product return.

    Wealth is not inherently evil, but it is inherently dangerous. It numbs compassion, warps our sense of enough, and tempts us to justify injustice.

    Poverty is not a curse, and riches are not a sign of divine approval. The Beatitudes say otherwise.

    The Church is not for sale. If your pastor drives a Rolls-Royce while congregants can’t pay rent, something is spiritually rotten.

    We embrace Lady Poverty — not out of masochism, but because poverty frees us. It reminds us that love, community, and justice are the real treasures. We follow the barefoot Christ, not the bedazzled counterfeit.

    1. Preaching Jubilee, Not Jackpots

    Where the Prosperity Gospel preaches scarcity and hoarding, we preach Jubilee — the radical release of debt, redistribution of wealth, and restoration of the land and its people.

    We call for a Church that:

    Tithes not to pad bank accounts, but to feed the hungry.

    Builds not megachurches, but tiny homes for the unhoused.

    Preaches not prosperity, but solidarity with the oppressed.

    We don’t need a God who rewards the already-powerful. We need a liberating Christ who overturns the tables, kicks out the money-changers, and sets the captives free.

    1. Final Benediction: Fire in the Bones

    If you’ve been wounded by the Prosperity Gospel, we see you. We affirm that your suffering is not proof of God’s absence. Your bank account does not determine your worth. Your illness is not a sin.

    Let the false gospel collapse under its own weight. Let the Church rise up again — poor, prophetic, and full of fire.

    And if Mammon shows up wearing a clerical collar? We call it out. We cast it out.

    Because Jesus didn’t die to make us rich — He rose to make us free.

  • Being a Hindu Christian: Walking the Sacred Path Between Two Worlds

    By Sister Abigail Hester, OFC
    Franciscan Clarean Reflections on Faith Beyond Boundaries

    Introduction: Two Altars, One Heart

    To be a Hindu Christian is to live with your feet in two rivers and your heart rooted in the ocean of the Divine. It’s not a contradiction—it’s a calling. It’s not confusion—it’s communion. In a world that demands religious purity and neat theological boxes, the Hindu Christian shows up like sacred disruption, like incense and incense together, like Ganesh dancing to the Beatitudes.

    Some people say it can’t be done. That Christ and Krishna don’t share space. That the Ganges and the Jordan can’t flow into the same soul. But for some of us, they already do.

    What Is a Hindu Christian?

    A Hindu Christian is someone who sees Christ and the Divine through the lens of both Hindu and Christian traditions. It’s not about cherry-picking. It’s about cultivating a full orchard. We don’t reject either path—we revere them both.

    • We may pray the Our Father in the morning and chant the Gayatri Mantra at night.
    • We might see Jesus as an avatar of divine compassion, a bodhisattva of self-emptying love.
    • We understand reincarnation not as heresy, but as soul-growth, sanctified by grace.
    • We light candles before the Virgin Mary and offer flowers to Lakshmi, without flinching.

    Being a Hindu Christian doesn’t dilute our faith—it deepens it. It invites awe instead of anxiety. It births a God bigger than dogma.

    But Isn’t That Heresy?

    Let’s be blunt: the Church has always feared what it can’t control.

    To be a Hindu Christian is to know you’ll be called names. Syncretist. Idolater. Lost. Confused. Or worse—inauthentic. But here’s the truth: if God is real, then God is not threatened by the beauty of Hinduism. And Jesus? Jesus is not a bouncer guarding heaven’s gates. He’s a door. An open one.

    Besides, Christianity has always evolved in dialogue with culture. Early Christians blended Roman, Jewish, and Greek ideas. Celtic Christians braided Jesus with the sacred land. Why not Hindu and Christian wisdom now?

    What Does It Look Like in Practice?

    It looks like:

    • Reading the Bhagavad Gita and the Sermon on the Mount side by side.
    • Seeing karma and grace not as opposites, but as dance partners.
    • Meditating with mala beads while whispering the name of Jesus.
    • Learning from Sri Ramakrishna, Meister Eckhart, Kabir, and Julian of Norwich—all of whom found God beyond borders.

    It’s a life of inner spaciousness. Of reverence. Of belonging to the whole world while anchored in a personal relationship with the Holy.

    The Gifts of Being a Hindu Christian

    1. Mystical Depth – Hinduism teaches us union with the Divine Self; Christianity gives us Jesus, who shows us God with skin on. Together, we get both the transcendent and the tender.
    2. Embodied Faith – In Hinduism, the divine dances in matter—in food, art, sound, and sexuality. Christianity sometimes forgets this, but the Incarnation is the ultimate reminder that flesh is holy.
    3. Radical Compassion – Both paths invite us to serve. Whether through ahimsa (nonviolence) or agape (self-giving love), we are called to love deeply, fiercely, and practically.

    The Pain of Being a Hindu Christian

    Let’s not sugarcoat it. The path is hard.

    • Churches may reject you.
    • Hindu temples may not understand you.
    • Family may question your loyalty.
    • Religious leaders may call you a contradiction.

    But here’s the thing: God never will.

    Conclusion: The Fire and the River

    To be a Hindu Christian is to sit at the feet of both Jesus and Shiva, to sing praises in Sanskrit and in Aramaic, to walk through the fire with love in your hands and a river in your soul.

    It is to be a bridge. A mystery. A wildflower growing in the cracks of dogma.

    And if you are one—know this: You are not alone. You are walking a sacred path walked by others before you—Saints, mystics, rebels, and lovers of God who knew that truth is never afraid of more truth.

    So light your lamp. Burn your incense. Say your mantras. Follow Jesus. Touch the hem of the Infinite.

    And don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t.

    You already are.