God from God
Light from Light
true God from true God
Image credit: zatletic / 123RF Stock Photo
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Coming and Going
Christmas Eve
Be still, then, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations;
I will be exalted in the earth. Psalm 46:11
The photo arrives as a gift in my inbox with a subject line of Outrageous. I am immediately captivated. In response to something I have written, my friend has sent me his own encounter with the outrageousness of God. I know him to be a traveler, and I surmise that he has taken the photo from an airplane.
I return to the photo again and again, drawn to follow the spears of light that pierce the skyscape.
Only later do I discover the context, the where and when. In the miracle of modern technology, he actually sent the email immediately after taking the photo: from 35,000 feet while in flight. Traveling west he writes, “The dawn is catching up to us from the east.”
We stand at the brink now, where the dawning is about to greet us anew even though that morning is a thousand years behind us. The light of Christ will pierce our hearts. Again. We will meet ourselves coming and going. God will be outrageously there. We only need a moment to be still. And know.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013 Photo credit: Jeffrey Kemmerer
Monday, December 23, 2013
Burst of Speed
Monday of the Fourth Week of Advent
So will I always sing praise of your Name,
and day by day I will fulfill my vows. Psalm 61:8
“Med-i-tate! Med-i-tate! We’re rooting for you!” My oldest daughter cheers me on exuberantly. I cannot help but laugh out loud.
While I treasure the solitude in which I sink into intimate conversation with Jesus, I know better than to relegate the holy to such specificity. On a good day, I am mindful of God’s playfulness woven into the impossible swarm of daily activity. If I can only pray in the quiet moments, I’m in big trouble. After all, I am surrounded. By the detritus of wrapping paper and unsent greeting cards, the enthusiasm of adolescent expectation, the unceasing traffic of commerce in the city in which I live.
God must be in all these places. The manger might be around any corner along any street.
Perhaps we all need to cheer each other on as we head toward Bethlehem, as we put on a last burst of speed, round the final turn, and run full out toward home.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
So will I always sing praise of your Name,
and day by day I will fulfill my vows. Psalm 61:8
“Med-i-tate! Med-i-tate! We’re rooting for you!” My oldest daughter cheers me on exuberantly. I cannot help but laugh out loud.
While I treasure the solitude in which I sink into intimate conversation with Jesus, I know better than to relegate the holy to such specificity. On a good day, I am mindful of God’s playfulness woven into the impossible swarm of daily activity. If I can only pray in the quiet moments, I’m in big trouble. After all, I am surrounded. By the detritus of wrapping paper and unsent greeting cards, the enthusiasm of adolescent expectation, the unceasing traffic of commerce in the city in which I live.
God must be in all these places. The manger might be around any corner along any street.
Perhaps we all need to cheer each other on as we head toward Bethlehem, as we put on a last burst of speed, round the final turn, and run full out toward home.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Small Pleasures
The Feast of St. Thomas
Saturday of the Third Week of Advent
The Lord shall watch over your going and your coming in,
from this time forth for evermore. Psalm 121:8
It is the first day of the winter break and I drop my daughter off at school at 7:00am. The band leadership has been asked to report early; today they pack their instruments and have a final rehearsal before their trip to the Rose Parade in a few days.
No one else in our house is awake; we were out late last night at a show and I am sure my morning quiet time will be extended. As I drive back through town, on a whim I make a detour toward the deli. Fresh bagels sound just like what my household needs. Though I am a tea drinker, I know we are out of coffee at home and I talk the deli owner into selling me some of his own ground coffee. I smile as I anticipate some very grateful people at my house.
These small things give me pleasure; driving my daughters to places they need to be, providing unsought-for indulgences for my family, imagining another’s happiness.
There is so much going and coming in our house; anything I can do to ease the way seems important work. Because my own way has already been eased by the one who loves me like no other. The one whose love is once again about to burst onto the scene with celestial lights and fanfare trumpets. The one whose love makes all love possible.
Saturday of the Third Week of Advent
The Lord shall watch over your going and your coming in,
from this time forth for evermore. Psalm 121:8
No one else in our house is awake; we were out late last night at a show and I am sure my morning quiet time will be extended. As I drive back through town, on a whim I make a detour toward the deli. Fresh bagels sound just like what my household needs. Though I am a tea drinker, I know we are out of coffee at home and I talk the deli owner into selling me some of his own ground coffee. I smile as I anticipate some very grateful people at my house.
These small things give me pleasure; driving my daughters to places they need to be, providing unsought-for indulgences for my family, imagining another’s happiness.
There is so much going and coming in our house; anything I can do to ease the way seems important work. Because my own way has already been eased by the one who loves me like no other. The one whose love is once again about to burst onto the scene with celestial lights and fanfare trumpets. The one whose love makes all love possible.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
Giving in
Friday of the Third Week of Advent
He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God;
many shall see, and stand in awe, and put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:3
I look at the scattered papers on my desk and realize I am not going to finish the tasks they represent before I leave work. It is time to go home.
Suddenly, I am impatient to be on my way. The sky is already beginning to darken, as we are fast approaching the longest night of the year. I yearn for home because family is visiting and for the first time in I can’t remember how long, none of us has to be anywhere this evening. Dinner will not be rushed. No one will have to head out into the cold and dark. We can finish watching the movie we started a few nights ago.
As I begin to clean off my desk, I choose a Christmas playlist and turn up the volume on my computer. Let the carols roll. Although the final days of Advent are yet to be traversed, I acknowledge the gift of joy that God has already begun to unwrap in my heart.
I choose to let the unfinished business be. I give into the delight of looking forward to the evening ahead and to a certain manger even now beginning to fill with promise.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God;
many shall see, and stand in awe, and put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:3
I look at the scattered papers on my desk and realize I am not going to finish the tasks they represent before I leave work. It is time to go home.
Suddenly, I am impatient to be on my way. The sky is already beginning to darken, as we are fast approaching the longest night of the year. I yearn for home because family is visiting and for the first time in I can’t remember how long, none of us has to be anywhere this evening. Dinner will not be rushed. No one will have to head out into the cold and dark. We can finish watching the movie we started a few nights ago.
As I begin to clean off my desk, I choose a Christmas playlist and turn up the volume on my computer. Let the carols roll. Although the final days of Advent are yet to be traversed, I acknowledge the gift of joy that God has already begun to unwrap in my heart.
I choose to let the unfinished business be. I give into the delight of looking forward to the evening ahead and to a certain manger even now beginning to fill with promise.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Minding the Good
Thursday of the Third Week of Advent
Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving
and make good your vows to the Most High. Psalm 50:14
“Shoot,” I say to my daughter, “look at that traffic.”
“Don’t worry, it’s all good,” she replies.
Strategizing over which route will move us along most efficiently, I choose one lane over another. “I chose the wrong lane,” I grumble, as the traffic next to me begins to move quickly.
“Yeah, it’ll probably add three minutes to our trip,” she observes. “More like ten,” I counter impatiently.
“But it’s all good,” my daughter says.
We pull into the parking lot, “This is so frustrating, I thought this was going to be a quick there and back trip.” I feel flustered and annoyed.
“It’s all good, Mom.”
And finally I hear her. I have been complaining. She sees that we are getting to where we need to be, and that all is well.
In the beginning, God looked at all of creation and saw that it was good. It is all good.
Gratitude is a choice. I vow to choose again.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving
and make good your vows to the Most High. Psalm 50:14
“Shoot,” I say to my daughter, “look at that traffic.”
“Don’t worry, it’s all good,” she replies.
Strategizing over which route will move us along most efficiently, I choose one lane over another. “I chose the wrong lane,” I grumble, as the traffic next to me begins to move quickly.
“Yeah, it’ll probably add three minutes to our trip,” she observes. “More like ten,” I counter impatiently.
“But it’s all good,” my daughter says.
We pull into the parking lot, “This is so frustrating, I thought this was going to be a quick there and back trip.” I feel flustered and annoyed.
“It’s all good, Mom.”
And finally I hear her. I have been complaining. She sees that we are getting to where we need to be, and that all is well.
In the beginning, God looked at all of creation and saw that it was good. It is all good.
Gratitude is a choice. I vow to choose again.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Legacy of Hope
Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent
Remember your word to your servant,
because you have given me hope.
This is my comfort in my trouble,
that your promise gives me life. Psalm 119:49-50
Fourteen degrees feels colder this morning than it did yesterday, and I make a second cup of tea just to have something warm in my hands. I snuggle into my favorite sweater as I pick up my journal to begin today’s conversation with Jesus.
As I wrap myself in prayer and contemplation, I also wrap myself in a warm afghan, a wedding gift a young girl crocheted for us twenty-five years ago. She was a student of mine, and I remember how honored and humbled I felt to receive such a gift.
She would be a woman now, nearing forty, and I wonder what she is doing this morning. Would it surprise her to know her gift continues to bring me comfort and pleasure? That I think of her from time to time? Would she recognize her work as a legacy of her generosity and skill?
So many spread their blankets of hope upon the ground before me, enabling me to step out into the day looking for life and promise.
I finish my prayer, fold the afghan, and place it on the chair. Where it will be waiting for me tomorrow.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Remember your word to your servant,
because you have given me hope.
This is my comfort in my trouble,
that your promise gives me life. Psalm 119:49-50
As I wrap myself in prayer and contemplation, I also wrap myself in a warm afghan, a wedding gift a young girl crocheted for us twenty-five years ago. She was a student of mine, and I remember how honored and humbled I felt to receive such a gift.
She would be a woman now, nearing forty, and I wonder what she is doing this morning. Would it surprise her to know her gift continues to bring me comfort and pleasure? That I think of her from time to time? Would she recognize her work as a legacy of her generosity and skill?
So many spread their blankets of hope upon the ground before me, enabling me to step out into the day looking for life and promise.
I finish my prayer, fold the afghan, and place it on the chair. Where it will be waiting for me tomorrow.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
What's the Buzz
Tuesday of the Third Week of Advent
We have waited in silence on your loving kindness, O God,
in the midst of your temple. Psalm 48:8
I am startled out of my contemplation by a sudden loud buzz. The dryer. I am surprised as well as disconcerted because the default setting in our house is to run the dryer with the signal turned off, so as not to be bothered by the nagging reminder of clothes that need attending. Folding can always wait.
I turn off the buzzer and return to my comfy chair, closing my eyes and breathing fully as I enter again into the silence I crave. Once again, I give myself permission to attend to the quiet. As many times as I have done this, I have to trust each time that it is the right move.
So much vies for my attention. The emails that keep on coming. The impossible family calendar. The problems others would happily have me solve for them. The anxiety looking for any unwitting patron.
It takes some discipline for me to remember what is important. Prayer. Greeting friends joyfully. Focusing on the good of each day rather than the annoyances.
I choose again to wait in the silence, to trust that laying the groundwork of Advent is enough, to prepare myself for love.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
We have waited in silence on your loving kindness, O God,
in the midst of your temple. Psalm 48:8
I am startled out of my contemplation by a sudden loud buzz. The dryer. I am surprised as well as disconcerted because the default setting in our house is to run the dryer with the signal turned off, so as not to be bothered by the nagging reminder of clothes that need attending. Folding can always wait.
I turn off the buzzer and return to my comfy chair, closing my eyes and breathing fully as I enter again into the silence I crave. Once again, I give myself permission to attend to the quiet. As many times as I have done this, I have to trust each time that it is the right move.
So much vies for my attention. The emails that keep on coming. The impossible family calendar. The problems others would happily have me solve for them. The anxiety looking for any unwitting patron.
It takes some discipline for me to remember what is important. Prayer. Greeting friends joyfully. Focusing on the good of each day rather than the annoyances.
I choose again to wait in the silence, to trust that laying the groundwork of Advent is enough, to prepare myself for love.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
Backing Down
Monday of the Third Week of Advent
Our heart never turned back,
nor did our footsteps stray from your path. Psalm 44:18
I recognize the sound a second before my brain identifies it: an engine revving as tires spin on ice. A school bus has foolishly attempted to maneuver the icy incline of the narrow street across from my house. I watch out my window as the driver stubbornly spins his wheels. It won’t work. He will need to make another choice. He will need to choose another way.
The bus is simply driving its regular route. But the detritus of this past weekend’s storm still makes some streets barely passable. Sometimes conditions require us to choose a path other than what is familiar to us.
The bus finally escapes from its dilemma by carefully backing down the street. And once it does, it is able to move freely. Many other routes are certainly available for it to get to where it is going this morning.
And that is the key. God’s ways are many and diverse. When I spin my tires in my spiritual life, perhaps I need to try a different direction. Rather than stubbornly persisting with the path I have chosen, I can open my heart again to God—and infinite possibility. All backing down does, is to provide me with more options.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Our heart never turned back,
nor did our footsteps stray from your path. Psalm 44:18
I recognize the sound a second before my brain identifies it: an engine revving as tires spin on ice. A school bus has foolishly attempted to maneuver the icy incline of the narrow street across from my house. I watch out my window as the driver stubbornly spins his wheels. It won’t work. He will need to make another choice. He will need to choose another way.
The bus is simply driving its regular route. But the detritus of this past weekend’s storm still makes some streets barely passable. Sometimes conditions require us to choose a path other than what is familiar to us.
The bus finally escapes from its dilemma by carefully backing down the street. And once it does, it is able to move freely. Many other routes are certainly available for it to get to where it is going this morning.
And that is the key. God’s ways are many and diverse. When I spin my tires in my spiritual life, perhaps I need to try a different direction. Rather than stubbornly persisting with the path I have chosen, I can open my heart again to God—and infinite possibility. All backing down does, is to provide me with more options.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Beyond Disappointment
Saturday of the Second Week of Advent
Weeping may spend the night,
but joy comes in the morning. Psalm 30:6
The final performance of my daughter’s high school play was snowed out last week. With grace and considerable effort, the fine arts faculty found a way to reschedule the final show—only for it to be cancelled again by threat of an incoming winter storm.
We are dealing with the disappointment better the second time around. Nevertheless, my daughter comments, “It had better be a monster storm or I am not going to be satisfied.” She doesn’t want the cancellation to be in vain.
As I listen to her, I find I have to guard myself: not from my own disappointment, but from a temptation to shelter my daughter from hers. As a parent I have had to sit on my hands at times to prevent myself from stepping in and solving my daughters’ problems for them. Sometimes it is hard to watch them struggle.
But to prevent the struggle, to guard them from disappointment, is to deny them something more vital: the capacity to overcome difficulty and the learned awareness that despair is not the end of the story.
Disappointment, failure, and grief are all landscapes that we traverse at times. Even on a journey toward hope. Even on the way to the manger. But in the manger itself—joy that knows no bounds.
Image credit: eve81 / 123RF Stock Photo
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
but joy comes in the morning. Psalm 30:6
The final performance of my daughter’s high school play was snowed out last week. With grace and considerable effort, the fine arts faculty found a way to reschedule the final show—only for it to be cancelled again by threat of an incoming winter storm.
We are dealing with the disappointment better the second time around. Nevertheless, my daughter comments, “It had better be a monster storm or I am not going to be satisfied.” She doesn’t want the cancellation to be in vain.
As I listen to her, I find I have to guard myself: not from my own disappointment, but from a temptation to shelter my daughter from hers. As a parent I have had to sit on my hands at times to prevent myself from stepping in and solving my daughters’ problems for them. Sometimes it is hard to watch them struggle.
But to prevent the struggle, to guard them from disappointment, is to deny them something more vital: the capacity to overcome difficulty and the learned awareness that despair is not the end of the story.
Disappointment, failure, and grief are all landscapes that we traverse at times. Even on a journey toward hope. Even on the way to the manger. But in the manger itself—joy that knows no bounds.
Image credit: eve81 / 123RF Stock Photo
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
Propelling into the Center
Friday of the Second Week of Advent
Make your face to shine upon your servant,
and in your loving-kindness save me. Psalm 31:16
Somehow in the candlelit church the girl’s face is illuminated. I notice her legs first, because she is subtly swinging them into the aisle. The space fills with the ancient stories and hymns of sacred tradition as the Advent liturgy moves through the evening.
Emboldened, the girl increases the arc of her swing, and then, with an artful look toward her parents, she lifts her three-year-old self on her arms and practically propels herself into the center of it all.
The singing of choir and congregation continues all around her, undisturbed by her display. Rather, her playfulness is gathered in, becoming part of the melody of praise as the story of salvation unfolds.
And then I see her face, joy radiating into the night, shining on any who will notice, and though I am far away, the face of Christ looks upon me and smiles.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Make your face to shine upon your servant,
and in your loving-kindness save me. Psalm 31:16
Somehow in the candlelit church the girl’s face is illuminated. I notice her legs first, because she is subtly swinging them into the aisle. The space fills with the ancient stories and hymns of sacred tradition as the Advent liturgy moves through the evening.
Emboldened, the girl increases the arc of her swing, and then, with an artful look toward her parents, she lifts her three-year-old self on her arms and practically propels herself into the center of it all.
The singing of choir and congregation continues all around her, undisturbed by her display. Rather, her playfulness is gathered in, becoming part of the melody of praise as the story of salvation unfolds.
And then I see her face, joy radiating into the night, shining on any who will notice, and though I am far away, the face of Christ looks upon me and smiles.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
What is in the Waiting
Thursday of the Second Week of Advent
Be still before the Lord
and wait patiently for him. Psalm 37:7
I set out my work on my desk and open a folder to see my mother’s poem peeking out at me. I had forgotten that I had tucked it away there, carrying it home from a recent visit.
She wrote it the day we visited the art museum, verses about waiting and praying that captured like a snapshot part of a day we spent together.
Now, as I sit with her poem, an understanding unfolds for me that waiting is not empty time that needs to be filled. It has its own shape, its own rhythm, its own purpose. And I realize I do not always wait well. It is not that I am impatient when waiting—although sometimes that is true. It is that I have undervalued the act of waiting in and of itself. What would waiting well look like?
If a person can wait patiently—or impatiently—then all sorts of waiting must be available. I can wait energetically, gracefully, ironically. I can wait with a sense of humor, or purpose, or style. I can wait in silence. I can wait in laughter. I can wait serenely, hungrily, openly.
So many ways to choose. So many ways to wait for God. So many ways to be expectant.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Be still before the Lord
and wait patiently for him. Psalm 37:7
I set out my work on my desk and open a folder to see my mother’s poem peeking out at me. I had forgotten that I had tucked it away there, carrying it home from a recent visit.
She wrote it the day we visited the art museum, verses about waiting and praying that captured like a snapshot part of a day we spent together.
Now, as I sit with her poem, an understanding unfolds for me that waiting is not empty time that needs to be filled. It has its own shape, its own rhythm, its own purpose. And I realize I do not always wait well. It is not that I am impatient when waiting—although sometimes that is true. It is that I have undervalued the act of waiting in and of itself. What would waiting well look like?
If a person can wait patiently—or impatiently—then all sorts of waiting must be available. I can wait energetically, gracefully, ironically. I can wait with a sense of humor, or purpose, or style. I can wait in silence. I can wait in laughter. I can wait serenely, hungrily, openly.
So many ways to choose. So many ways to wait for God. So many ways to be expectant.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Illuminations
Wednesday of the Second Week of Advent
For in you, O Lord, have I fixed my hope;
you will answer me, O Lord my God. Psalm 38:15
We are two candles into Advent and I crave more light.
Yesterday I bought another strand of lights for the Christmas tree. There were enough lights, but I wanted an abundance. I wanted the lights to sparkle and wink and delight. I wanted the colors to dance on the walls in the evening hours and in the pre-dawn black.
I do not want to hurry the season. I do not want to lose even a single day of waiting in expectation. I do not long for the summer sun or the hot sand of a beach somewhere. Rather, I bask in the warmth of a soft sweater, savor the silence of early night, and relish the illuminations that reach out with encouragement and promise.
I want to see and yearn for the light that shines in the darkness.
Two candles lit. As the darkness lengthens, the hopefulness of the light expands, undaunted.
Image credit: solarseven / 123RF Stock Photo
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
For in you, O Lord, have I fixed my hope;
you will answer me, O Lord my God. Psalm 38:15
We are two candles into Advent and I crave more light.
Yesterday I bought another strand of lights for the Christmas tree. There were enough lights, but I wanted an abundance. I wanted the lights to sparkle and wink and delight. I wanted the colors to dance on the walls in the evening hours and in the pre-dawn black.
I do not want to hurry the season. I do not want to lose even a single day of waiting in expectation. I do not long for the summer sun or the hot sand of a beach somewhere. Rather, I bask in the warmth of a soft sweater, savor the silence of early night, and relish the illuminations that reach out with encouragement and promise.
I want to see and yearn for the light that shines in the darkness.
Two candles lit. As the darkness lengthens, the hopefulness of the light expands, undaunted.
Image credit: solarseven / 123RF Stock Photo
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
God at Home
Tuesday of the Second Week of Advent
Lord, I love the house in which you dwell
and the place where your glory abides. Psalm 26:8
The phone rings just before my alarm goes off. A recorded message informs me the schools are closed—a storm is on its way. I look out my window, but there is no snow yet. I get up, make my tea, and settle in to pray. Already I am more relaxed in my prayer because there will be no morning bustle. Today will be a day at home.
Just outside my consciousness, I hear it. A subtle change in the sound of the traffic moving by my house. And sure enough, right on cue, the snow has begun.
I offer thanks for the sanctuary of my house, a place to pray, to write, to work, to praise God. And I am mindful of other homes that have recently ministered to me with occasions of hospitality. Lunch with a friend, as we lingered at her table drinking tea and savoring a friendship that has carried us through years and cares and joys. Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, though not the one in which I grew up, nevertheless containing the balm of familiar books and practices. Conversation with a mentor, as I sat on her couch absorbing words of challenge, comfort, and gentle wisdom. God dwells in the tent of all these encounters.
The sun rises, the snow continues to fall, and in my house God’s glory wraps me in the sureness of love.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Lord, I love the house in which you dwell
and the place where your glory abides. Psalm 26:8
The phone rings just before my alarm goes off. A recorded message informs me the schools are closed—a storm is on its way. I look out my window, but there is no snow yet. I get up, make my tea, and settle in to pray. Already I am more relaxed in my prayer because there will be no morning bustle. Today will be a day at home.
Just outside my consciousness, I hear it. A subtle change in the sound of the traffic moving by my house. And sure enough, right on cue, the snow has begun.
I offer thanks for the sanctuary of my house, a place to pray, to write, to work, to praise God. And I am mindful of other homes that have recently ministered to me with occasions of hospitality. Lunch with a friend, as we lingered at her table drinking tea and savoring a friendship that has carried us through years and cares and joys. Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, though not the one in which I grew up, nevertheless containing the balm of familiar books and practices. Conversation with a mentor, as I sat on her couch absorbing words of challenge, comfort, and gentle wisdom. God dwells in the tent of all these encounters.
The sun rises, the snow continues to fall, and in my house God’s glory wraps me in the sureness of love.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Monday, December 9, 2013
Branches Along the Path
Monday of the Second Week of Advent
All the paths of the Lord are love and faithfulness
to those who keep his covenant and his testimonies. Psalm 25:9
The glow of the streetlight illumines the snow-crusted branches highlighting the intricate lines and curves of the leafless tree outside my window.
The snow came faster and sooner and more abundantly than expected, and I know the beauty I contemplate is seasoned with delight and disappointment and danger. Nevertheless, I am captivated by this single tree.
I am drawn in by the patterns among, between and amidst the braches, negative space now come to the fore. With my eyes I try to follow one path, tracing a twisting way as branch forks into smaller branch dividing again and again into final twig. The ways diverge with delightful intricacy, one starting point resulting in more combinations than I care to follow. All the paths are new to me. All belong to one tree. All their possibilities have been there all along, simply hidden by the foliage of another season.
And in the dance of the bare branches I see the way of God as well. The paths of the Lord diverge into more possibility than we can imagine. The paths of the Lord reach out in hope in any season. The paths of the Lord may lie hidden beyond our notice, but they are paths nonetheless. The paths of the Lord are many, and all are love and faithfulness.
God has invited me into this contemplation; I can’t wait to see where the next step will lead me.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
All the paths of the Lord are love and faithfulness
to those who keep his covenant and his testimonies. Psalm 25:9
The glow of the streetlight illumines the snow-crusted branches highlighting the intricate lines and curves of the leafless tree outside my window.
The snow came faster and sooner and more abundantly than expected, and I know the beauty I contemplate is seasoned with delight and disappointment and danger. Nevertheless, I am captivated by this single tree.
I am drawn in by the patterns among, between and amidst the braches, negative space now come to the fore. With my eyes I try to follow one path, tracing a twisting way as branch forks into smaller branch dividing again and again into final twig. The ways diverge with delightful intricacy, one starting point resulting in more combinations than I care to follow. All the paths are new to me. All belong to one tree. All their possibilities have been there all along, simply hidden by the foliage of another season.
And in the dance of the bare branches I see the way of God as well. The paths of the Lord diverge into more possibility than we can imagine. The paths of the Lord reach out in hope in any season. The paths of the Lord may lie hidden beyond our notice, but they are paths nonetheless. The paths of the Lord are many, and all are love and faithfulness.
God has invited me into this contemplation; I can’t wait to see where the next step will lead me.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Advent Cartwheels
Saturday of the First Week of Advent
For you will give him everlasting felicity
and will make him glad with the joy of your presence. Psalm 21:6
The moment I see the school bus ahead of me, I know I have made a grave miscalculation. School has just dismissed; I should have chosen a different route at this time of day.
I brake as the lights of the bus flash signaling that it is about to make a stop to let off passengers. I wonder how many stops it will make before I am able to turn onto another street. But thankfully, I am able to turn at the next block--only I had forgotten that this is the very street of the middle school itself. Now I am stuck. The light is green but traffic is at a standstill as young teens pour from the school and swarm across the streets ushered by crossing guards in bright green vests.
There is nothing for it. For a moment I contemplate making some kind of drastic U-turn to get out of the mess, but then I resign myself to patience. And just as I approach the intersection, I see him--the boy steps into the crosswalk and executes an outrageous cartwheel, backpack and all.
What a gift. What would possess a middle-school boy to demonstrate such abandon, such non-conformity, such bliss? Having completed his gymnastic move, he continues nonchalantly on his way. No crowd around him, no fans egging him on, simply a boy enjoying himself.
He unknowingly brightens my heart. Christ as a twelve-year-old, doing cartwheels in the temple and astonishing the adults.
The traffic eases and I continue on my way, giving thanks for obstacles that slow me down and remind me to notice joy.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
For you will give him everlasting felicity
and will make him glad with the joy of your presence. Psalm 21:6
The moment I see the school bus ahead of me, I know I have made a grave miscalculation. School has just dismissed; I should have chosen a different route at this time of day.
I brake as the lights of the bus flash signaling that it is about to make a stop to let off passengers. I wonder how many stops it will make before I am able to turn onto another street. But thankfully, I am able to turn at the next block--only I had forgotten that this is the very street of the middle school itself. Now I am stuck. The light is green but traffic is at a standstill as young teens pour from the school and swarm across the streets ushered by crossing guards in bright green vests.
There is nothing for it. For a moment I contemplate making some kind of drastic U-turn to get out of the mess, but then I resign myself to patience. And just as I approach the intersection, I see him--the boy steps into the crosswalk and executes an outrageous cartwheel, backpack and all.
What a gift. What would possess a middle-school boy to demonstrate such abandon, such non-conformity, such bliss? Having completed his gymnastic move, he continues nonchalantly on his way. No crowd around him, no fans egging him on, simply a boy enjoying himself.
He unknowingly brightens my heart. Christ as a twelve-year-old, doing cartwheels in the temple and astonishing the adults.
The traffic eases and I continue on my way, giving thanks for obstacles that slow me down and remind me to notice joy.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
A Visit from Saint Nicholas
Friday of the First Week of Advent
You will show me the path of life
in your presence there is fullness of joy,
and in your right hand are pleasures for evermore. Psalm 16:11
“So, St. Nicholas made a visit,” announces my daughter with just a hint of irony.
“Really.”
“He left chocolate and everything.”
“Wow. How about that?”
My daughter and I are playacting. She knows I am the one who put the chocolate coins in her shoes for her to discover this morning. I know she knows, and she knows that I know she knows. But it is tradition. In our house, St. Nicholas always leaves chocolate coins in the shoes on his feast day.
When my daughters were very young, I wanted them to know St. Nicholas, the Bishop of Myra, and the precursor to Santa Claus. I wanted them to know of his love for children and the poor, how he devoted himself to Christ by choosing to care for those who were sick and suffering, how he lived his life by loving others with courage and grace.
I wanted to introduce them to many saints, whose lives inspire us. Not because the saints were perfect; but because they were men and women, boys and girls who loved God and through that love were able to touch the lives of those around them in extraordinary ways.
Having giving St. Nicholas his due, my daughter gives me a hug, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I respond, grateful beyond words that my teenager offers me this gift of herself and knowing that St. Nicholas has truly visited us this morning.
Read more about St. Nicholas
Image credit: Baloncici / 123RF Stock Photo
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
All Times and Places
Thursday of the First Week of Advent
You, O Lord, are my lamp;
my God, you make my darkness bright. Psalm 18:29
It is full night outside as I being to wash the dinner dishes. I pour a small amount of dish soap into the pan and then place it under the hot water faucet to fill. As I dip the sponge into the soap bubbles and begin to scrub, the pleasant lemony smell tickles my nostrils, and I am suddenly transported to a childhood visit to my grandmother’s house. I must have been ten or eleven. It was Christmas, and as a gift I had received a fancy glass bottle of bath oil.
As I stand at my kitchen sink looking out into the darkness, I smell again that lemony bath oil and see instead my grandmother’s handsomely appointed bathroom with the tub filling. I experience the anticipation of one about to embark on a sophisticated venture. For a fleeting moment, I recapture the sensation of being a young girl on the verge of adolescence and am conscious of pride and reverence at having received an elegant gift.
One whiff of lemon evokes all this. I am humbled by the strength of memory that connects the haven of my kitchen with the sanctuary of my grandmother’s house and the gift of God that makes both moments accessible simultaneously.
The darkness of the evening is dispelled by reminiscence and something more; the strength of God who makes all times and places one. The light shines on a young girl who smiles at her middle-aged self. And the stars in the crown of the King of kings light the way to a babe about to be born.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
You, O Lord, are my lamp;
my God, you make my darkness bright. Psalm 18:29
It is full night outside as I being to wash the dinner dishes. I pour a small amount of dish soap into the pan and then place it under the hot water faucet to fill. As I dip the sponge into the soap bubbles and begin to scrub, the pleasant lemony smell tickles my nostrils, and I am suddenly transported to a childhood visit to my grandmother’s house. I must have been ten or eleven. It was Christmas, and as a gift I had received a fancy glass bottle of bath oil.
As I stand at my kitchen sink looking out into the darkness, I smell again that lemony bath oil and see instead my grandmother’s handsomely appointed bathroom with the tub filling. I experience the anticipation of one about to embark on a sophisticated venture. For a fleeting moment, I recapture the sensation of being a young girl on the verge of adolescence and am conscious of pride and reverence at having received an elegant gift.
One whiff of lemon evokes all this. I am humbled by the strength of memory that connects the haven of my kitchen with the sanctuary of my grandmother’s house and the gift of God that makes both moments accessible simultaneously.
The darkness of the evening is dispelled by reminiscence and something more; the strength of God who makes all times and places one. The light shines on a young girl who smiles at her middle-aged self. And the stars in the crown of the King of kings light the way to a babe about to be born.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Under Construction
Wednesday in the First Week of Advent
Oh, that my ways were made so direct
that I might keep your statutes! Psalm 119:5
I merge into the heavy traffic on the interstate and am pleased that it is moving at a good pace. However, the car in front of me slows, almost imperceptibly at first, but then significantly as we drop well below the speed limit. I am flummoxed. I don’t have time for this. There are groceries to buy, kids to pick up at two different locations, an errand to run. I have it all mapped out efficiently. I can get it all done. If only the traffic will pick up.
The car in front of me adroitly maneuvers into the passing lane revealing the obstacle to my speedy progress. A construction vehicle. Moving very slowly. I pull up close behind it and then realize this is not wise; I should probably give it more space. That’s when I notice the caution sign plastered in large bold letters across the back of the truck, “Construction Vehicle: Keep Alert for Sudden Stops and Turns.”
Keep alert. Of course, that is the Advent decree. And there are sudden stops and turns as we navigate our way simultaneously to the crèche and the second coming. Prophecies that draw us up short followed by words of comfort. Frantic preparations interrupted by moments of bliss and beauty. At times I think it would be lovely if someone would take over, direct my ways, so that I might follow Christ unswervingly. But I am a work in progress; my spiritual life is forever under construction.
Perhaps we are our own construction vehicles, always on our way to make repairs and improvements in our lives as we wend our way toward Christ. It would behoove us to be mindful of each other, to treat one another – and ourselves - gently, because on this Advent journey anyone of us may need to stop, readjust, look again for the star of Bethlehem, the light with which God beckons us to love.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Oh, that my ways were made so direct
that I might keep your statutes! Psalm 119:5
I merge into the heavy traffic on the interstate and am pleased that it is moving at a good pace. However, the car in front of me slows, almost imperceptibly at first, but then significantly as we drop well below the speed limit. I am flummoxed. I don’t have time for this. There are groceries to buy, kids to pick up at two different locations, an errand to run. I have it all mapped out efficiently. I can get it all done. If only the traffic will pick up.
The car in front of me adroitly maneuvers into the passing lane revealing the obstacle to my speedy progress. A construction vehicle. Moving very slowly. I pull up close behind it and then realize this is not wise; I should probably give it more space. That’s when I notice the caution sign plastered in large bold letters across the back of the truck, “Construction Vehicle: Keep Alert for Sudden Stops and Turns.”
Keep alert. Of course, that is the Advent decree. And there are sudden stops and turns as we navigate our way simultaneously to the crèche and the second coming. Prophecies that draw us up short followed by words of comfort. Frantic preparations interrupted by moments of bliss and beauty. At times I think it would be lovely if someone would take over, direct my ways, so that I might follow Christ unswervingly. But I am a work in progress; my spiritual life is forever under construction.
Perhaps we are our own construction vehicles, always on our way to make repairs and improvements in our lives as we wend our way toward Christ. It would behoove us to be mindful of each other, to treat one another – and ourselves - gently, because on this Advent journey anyone of us may need to stop, readjust, look again for the star of Bethlehem, the light with which God beckons us to love.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Joyful Expectancy
Tuesday of the First Week of Advent
In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice;
early in the morning I make my appeal and watch for you. Psalm 5:3
It is dark when I awake, but not as cold as it has been. I find it easier to arise, knowing that I won’t be chilled to the very bone before I make it to the bathroom. Even so, it is the morning discipline of prayer tugging at me that compels me to place my feet on the floor.
I am really not a morning person. But in a home shared with spouse and daughters, I find my solitude by being the first one up. When my daughters were young, I needed the quiet time to bolster myself for the onslaught of diapers and dressing and the gathering whirlwind that would inevitably push us all out the door into our day ahead, ready or not. Now, as the members of our household fend for themselves, I discover that Morning Prayer is not a survival tool, but something richer. Grounding in the daily course of scripture, prayer, and stillness before God prepares me to be watchful.
The watchfulness of Advent is a practice. It is not about exhaustive wakefulness or restless anxiety, but rather the exercise of joyful expectancy. And as I head into my day, the joy begins to unfold: an early morning email of encouragement from a far away friend, a hug and an “I love you” from my teenage daughter, a gorgeous fall leaf pressed into a letter.
God is with us. God does accompany me on my day. Or rather I accompany God. Or it’s both and. The more I practice watchfulness, the more I see God in the daily.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice;
early in the morning I make my appeal and watch for you. Psalm 5:3
It is dark when I awake, but not as cold as it has been. I find it easier to arise, knowing that I won’t be chilled to the very bone before I make it to the bathroom. Even so, it is the morning discipline of prayer tugging at me that compels me to place my feet on the floor.
I am really not a morning person. But in a home shared with spouse and daughters, I find my solitude by being the first one up. When my daughters were young, I needed the quiet time to bolster myself for the onslaught of diapers and dressing and the gathering whirlwind that would inevitably push us all out the door into our day ahead, ready or not. Now, as the members of our household fend for themselves, I discover that Morning Prayer is not a survival tool, but something richer. Grounding in the daily course of scripture, prayer, and stillness before God prepares me to be watchful.
The watchfulness of Advent is a practice. It is not about exhaustive wakefulness or restless anxiety, but rather the exercise of joyful expectancy. And as I head into my day, the joy begins to unfold: an early morning email of encouragement from a far away friend, a hug and an “I love you” from my teenage daughter, a gorgeous fall leaf pressed into a letter.
God is with us. God does accompany me on my day. Or rather I accompany God. Or it’s both and. The more I practice watchfulness, the more I see God in the daily.
Copyright Anne E. Kitch 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
An Extraordinary Sign
Monday of the First Week of Advent
But you, O Lord, are a shield about me;
you are my glory, the one who lifts up my head. Psalm 3:3
“Mom, did you see that sign?” my daughter pipes up as we are several hours into a long drive home after spending Thanksgiving with my parents. “No, I missed it,” I reply, curious as to what caught her attention.
“It said, ‘God is not boring!’ ”
“Well, you certainly can’t argue with that.”
For the past couple of days, I have been awakened by a sense of urgency. Advent is upon us and I don’t feel ready. I have braced myself, anticipating being slammed into the season unprepared.
In many ways, I am prepared. The Advent wreath at home is ready, waiting to be lit. Advent calendars have been purchased and sent to our Godchildren. I have a plan to place the candles in our windows that we light during this season. But it is the hopefulness for which I feel ill-equipped. Hope seems to elude me in the early morning hours, how can I enter this season of expectation?
Hey Mom, did you see the sign?
I wish for more signs. I wish for signs of joy for those suffering loss. I wish for signs of rest for the beleaguered, of abundance for the careworn, of kindness for the brokenhearted. I wish for signs of hope.
But the sign is there. God is certainly not boring. God is outrageous. God is inexhaustible. God not only shields me, but lifts up my head when I am unable to muster the energy or will or strength. How extraordinary.
Perhaps it is as simple as that. Perhaps it is as profound as that. It is Advent. A time of waiting for the coming. And Christ is coming. Again. And there is good news to share. Again.
And I choose hope. Again.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
But you, O Lord, are a shield about me;
you are my glory, the one who lifts up my head. Psalm 3:3
“Mom, did you see that sign?” my daughter pipes up as we are several hours into a long drive home after spending Thanksgiving with my parents. “No, I missed it,” I reply, curious as to what caught her attention.
“It said, ‘God is not boring!’ ”
“Well, you certainly can’t argue with that.”
For the past couple of days, I have been awakened by a sense of urgency. Advent is upon us and I don’t feel ready. I have braced myself, anticipating being slammed into the season unprepared.
In many ways, I am prepared. The Advent wreath at home is ready, waiting to be lit. Advent calendars have been purchased and sent to our Godchildren. I have a plan to place the candles in our windows that we light during this season. But it is the hopefulness for which I feel ill-equipped. Hope seems to elude me in the early morning hours, how can I enter this season of expectation?
Hey Mom, did you see the sign?
I wish for more signs. I wish for signs of joy for those suffering loss. I wish for signs of rest for the beleaguered, of abundance for the careworn, of kindness for the brokenhearted. I wish for signs of hope.
But the sign is there. God is certainly not boring. God is outrageous. God is inexhaustible. God not only shields me, but lifts up my head when I am unable to muster the energy or will or strength. How extraordinary.
Perhaps it is as simple as that. Perhaps it is as profound as that. It is Advent. A time of waiting for the coming. And Christ is coming. Again. And there is good news to share. Again.
And I choose hope. Again.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
The Extravagance of a Fall Leaf
I love the fall in the northeast. The riotous colors of autumn
leaves never cease to delight me. What an outrageous gift, that God would endow
the trees with the ability to surrender their summer growth with such
magnificence. “Just look at those trees!” I exclaimed to my daughter as we left
the house this morning. “You smile every time you walk out the door these
days,” she commented. I hadn’t realized. Now, as I contemplate this single leaf
and its place in the divine economy, I think of my own life held in God’s
hands. Are not the transitions in human life also evidence of God’s
extravagance? “If God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today
and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of
little faith?” (Matthew 6:30) As we cycle through the seasons, as we age,
surrender, make new beginnings, we also show forth the beauty of God’s
creation. We embody loveliness. The glory of God that shines forth in a fall
leaf also emanates from each human being, each of us created in God’s image.
The wind and rain of the day will hurry the leaves off the
branches and soon bare twigs will cut patterns across a pale winter sky. I hope
I notice that moment too. I pray I will stop then, and give thanks to God. For
the beauty of creation, for the rhythm of the seasons, for the gift of time and
the experience that comes with aging. For the ability to delight in a single
fall leaf, again, and again, and again.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
Spirituality of Children, Spirituality of All
Young children have a spiritual self, just as they have physical and emotional selves. They are already known and loved by God, and research tells us that they in turn have an awareness of God. Children are not empty vessels waiting for adults to tell them about God and fill them with theological knowledge. They are already relating to God. Thus, an important role of caring adults is to guide children to explore their relationship with God.
What is true about children is true about human beings. Whether adults or teens or wise elders or infants, we are known and loved by God. Each of us is a complete and complex human being. None of us is passively waiting for someone to fill our heads with theological understanding. Rather, I suspect most of us are hungry for guidance as we try to understand our relationship with God and how that relationship informs our everyday lives. Regardless of age or experience, we all can use encouragement and guidance to expand our relationship with God.
Church congregations are one of the few places in our culture where multiple generations interact with each other with mutual purpose; congregations have a unique opportunity to actively support the spiritual formation of all ages. When we respect and nurture the spiritual lives of children in our parishes, we strengthen the entire community. When we worship together, learn and play together, reach out to those in need together, we can guide each other as we spread the love of Christ.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Wilderness Yearning: Holy Saturday
O tarry and await the Lord’s pleasure;
be strong, and he shall comfort your heart;
wait patiently for the Lord. Psalm 27:18
be strong, and he shall comfort your heart;
wait patiently for the Lord. Psalm 27:18
Spent.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Wilderness Yearning: Good Friday
In his hands are the caverns of the earth
and the heights of the hills are his also. Psalm 95:4
I crave the silence this morning. If I could, I would step out of my house and walk into the desert. Walk until I have left all behind. Walk until I am enveloped in complete solitude. Walk until I am so weary I have no choice but to let go of all the anger and fear and doubt and shame that shadow my days.
I want to enter the raging storm, the whirlwind, the turmoil. I yearn to submit to the fiercely blown sand of the desert that obscures the sun and rips flesh to shreds. To follow the vortex to the depths of human anguish. And there to meet my savior. To discover and hold fast to the truth that nowhere is beyond God. And then to ask for the wild sands to cleanse me.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
and the heights of the hills are his also. Psalm 95:4
I crave the silence this morning. If I could, I would step out of my house and walk into the desert. Walk until I have left all behind. Walk until I am enveloped in complete solitude. Walk until I am so weary I have no choice but to let go of all the anger and fear and doubt and shame that shadow my days.
I want to enter the raging storm, the whirlwind, the turmoil. I yearn to submit to the fiercely blown sand of the desert that obscures the sun and rips flesh to shreds. To follow the vortex to the depths of human anguish. And there to meet my savior. To discover and hold fast to the truth that nowhere is beyond God. And then to ask for the wild sands to cleanse me.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Recieve and Hand On
A Sermon Preached at Diocesan House, Bethlehem PA
Maundy Thursday
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
Psalm 116: 1, 10-17
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
At the very juncture where Jesus turns to face into the storm to come—knowing full well what awaits him—he pauses to have supper with his friends. His thirty-some years of life, and three years of public ministry, are about to culminate in three catastrophic and literally earth-shattering days.
Everything has led to this moment.
In John’s gospel, Jesus is fully aware of what is about to come: the betrayal and suffering, and also the glory. Knowing that God has given all things into his hands, knowing that he has come from God, and will be going to God, chooses humility. At this moment of knowledge and power, when all things are in his hands, he takes those hands and serves.
Jesus kneels down, and in the hands in which he holds the whole world, he gently cups feet of his friends, washing , drying, loving.
In a time such as this, at a moment like this, Jesus simply serves.
Peter has difficulty receiving this gift. He retreats from the moment of intimacy, connection, and service, first by withdrawing, “no, no I won’t let you,” then by asking for something other than what Jesus is offering, “not just my feet, but all of me.” But Jesus is firm. He is offering one gift at this moment: the gift of simple, loving service.
How difficult it can be for us to receive.
How difficult it can be for us to receive compliments, acts of kindness, a gift of service. Like Peter, we defend ourselves. From compassion, sympathy, gentleness, benevolence, thoughtfulness, and even humility.
Service to others, even service as simple as an act of kindness, is at the center of the passion story. It is Jesus’ last lesson for his friends before he dies. This teaching is so important, he even makes a commandment about it. A new commandment, mandatum novem: love one another, as I have loved you.
The symbol of this love is not a miracle, or a dramatic act, or a display of power. It is the simple act of washing someone’s feet.
Service to others marks us as Christians. In fact, the third of The Five Marks of Mission adopted by the Episcopal Church is “to respond to human need by loving service.” And to respond to others, to give to others, we must first be open to receive. We cannot give what we do not hold.
A few moments from now we will open our hands to receive the sacrament. We do this because it was handed down to us. From Jesus to his followers, from St. Paul to new believers, from one generation to another, across time and tradition.
How will we pass it on?
The psalmist asks, “How shall I repay the Lord, for all the good things he has done for me?” (Psalm 116:10) Our answer might be, by spending our lives in discovering how we are loved. By opening our hands to receive the good God gives us. By using our hands to reach out to others in loving service.
Receive and hand on. Just as we do around the altar. Receive and hand on. Just as we do with the important things we learn. Receive and hand on. Just…receive and hand on.
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
Psalm 116: 1, 10-17
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
At the very juncture where Jesus turns to face into the storm to come—knowing full well what awaits him—he pauses to have supper with his friends. His thirty-some years of life, and three years of public ministry, are about to culminate in three catastrophic and literally earth-shattering days.
Everything has led to this moment.
In John’s gospel, Jesus is fully aware of what is about to come: the betrayal and suffering, and also the glory. Knowing that God has given all things into his hands, knowing that he has come from God, and will be going to God, chooses humility. At this moment of knowledge and power, when all things are in his hands, he takes those hands and serves.
Jesus kneels down, and in the hands in which he holds the whole world, he gently cups feet of his friends, washing , drying, loving.
In a time such as this, at a moment like this, Jesus simply serves.
Peter has difficulty receiving this gift. He retreats from the moment of intimacy, connection, and service, first by withdrawing, “no, no I won’t let you,” then by asking for something other than what Jesus is offering, “not just my feet, but all of me.” But Jesus is firm. He is offering one gift at this moment: the gift of simple, loving service.
How difficult it can be for us to receive.
How difficult it can be for us to receive compliments, acts of kindness, a gift of service. Like Peter, we defend ourselves. From compassion, sympathy, gentleness, benevolence, thoughtfulness, and even humility.
Service to others, even service as simple as an act of kindness, is at the center of the passion story. It is Jesus’ last lesson for his friends before he dies. This teaching is so important, he even makes a commandment about it. A new commandment, mandatum novem: love one another, as I have loved you.
The symbol of this love is not a miracle, or a dramatic act, or a display of power. It is the simple act of washing someone’s feet.
Service to others marks us as Christians. In fact, the third of The Five Marks of Mission adopted by the Episcopal Church is “to respond to human need by loving service.” And to respond to others, to give to others, we must first be open to receive. We cannot give what we do not hold.
A few moments from now we will open our hands to receive the sacrament. We do this because it was handed down to us. From Jesus to his followers, from St. Paul to new believers, from one generation to another, across time and tradition.
How will we pass it on?
The psalmist asks, “How shall I repay the Lord, for all the good things he has done for me?” (Psalm 116:10) Our answer might be, by spending our lives in discovering how we are loved. By opening our hands to receive the good God gives us. By using our hands to reach out to others in loving service.
Receive and hand on. Just as we do around the altar. Receive and hand on. Just as we do with the important things we learn. Receive and hand on. Just…receive and hand on.
Wilderness Yearning: Maundy Thursday
Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come before you;
hide not your face from me in the day of my trouble. Psalm 102:1
The sky brightens, the morning birdsong gives way to the regular thrum of traffic, signaling the beginning of another day, a typical day. The world around me is moving on, but I hesitate.
Am I ready to enter the present moment? Am I prepared to step into the otherness of the three days ahead? Do I have the courage?
Despite the normalcy around me, I know this time as something apart, and I am unsure of my next step. The way of the wilderness, the way of the cross, the way of life, is not straight. Rather, it curves and twists and obscures the landscape ahead.
Nevertheless, I set me feet upon the path. I choose this way. Because I have been walking it a long time, because I have been this way before even as nothing looks familiar, because when I give myself to the tumult I know that I am not alone.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
hide not your face from me in the day of my trouble. Psalm 102:1
The sky brightens, the morning birdsong gives way to the regular thrum of traffic, signaling the beginning of another day, a typical day. The world around me is moving on, but I hesitate.
Am I ready to enter the present moment? Am I prepared to step into the otherness of the three days ahead? Do I have the courage?
Despite the normalcy around me, I know this time as something apart, and I am unsure of my next step. The way of the wilderness, the way of the cross, the way of life, is not straight. Rather, it curves and twists and obscures the landscape ahead.
Nevertheless, I set me feet upon the path. I choose this way. Because I have been walking it a long time, because I have been this way before even as nothing looks familiar, because when I give myself to the tumult I know that I am not alone.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Wilderness Yearning: Wednesday in Holy Week
Yours is the day, yours also the night;
you established the moon and the sun.
You fixed all the boundaries of the earth;
you made both summer and winter. Psalm 74:15-16
“Maybe we’ll see some blue sky today,” the man says as I nod to him in the parking lot.
“I wish spring would finally come,” my friend comments as I enter the office.
We are all yearning for it—blue skies, warm breezy days, early flowers in bloom, gentle nights. Like many I am weary of snow showers and grey days and biting wind. This morning there was frost on the car windows.
But then, this is spring, I acknowledge to myself. This is always the way of spring. The stormy weather. The promise rather than the reality of warmth. The sparse color. A season of not quite. Not quite warm enough for the spring dresses on display, not quite dry enough for softball practice, not quite beyond winter’s imperative to hunker down and huddle up.
We stand in a not quite time as well, preparing for celebration even as we face into the passion, desolation, and emptiness of the next three days.
We do walk this road alone. Like all that has come before, and all that is about to come, the not quite place belongs to God. There is no landscape that God does not inhabit.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
you established the moon and the sun.
You fixed all the boundaries of the earth;
you made both summer and winter. Psalm 74:15-16
“Maybe we’ll see some blue sky today,” the man says as I nod to him in the parking lot.
“I wish spring would finally come,” my friend comments as I enter the office.
We are all yearning for it—blue skies, warm breezy days, early flowers in bloom, gentle nights. Like many I am weary of snow showers and grey days and biting wind. This morning there was frost on the car windows.
But then, this is spring, I acknowledge to myself. This is always the way of spring. The stormy weather. The promise rather than the reality of warmth. The sparse color. A season of not quite. Not quite warm enough for the spring dresses on display, not quite dry enough for softball practice, not quite beyond winter’s imperative to hunker down and huddle up.
We stand in a not quite time as well, preparing for celebration even as we face into the passion, desolation, and emptiness of the next three days.
We do walk this road alone. Like all that has come before, and all that is about to come, the not quite place belongs to God. There is no landscape that God does not inhabit.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Wilderness Yearning: Tuesday in Holy Week
As often as I have said, “My foot has slipped,”
your love, O
Lord, upheld me.
When many cares fill my mind,
your consolations
cheer my soul. Psalm 94:18-19
I look at my “To Do” list, then wish I hadn’t. Daunting.
Complicated. Maybe even treacherous.
Of course, I remind myself, it is just a piece of paper. I
have yet to be undone by a catalog. And I know something more. Beneath every
unraveled moment, I have discovered God’s love. Even when I could not see it at
the time.
I pick up my list and add to the top: breathe, pray, listen
to music, drink plenty of water, trust. I begin with item number one. Then,
almost as an afterthought, I add: find my sense of humor. I am fortified for
the day ahead.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Monday, March 25, 2013
Wilderness Yearning: Monday in Holy Week
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me. Psalm 51:11
The clutter has me cornered. If it doesn’t relent soon, I will lash out in fury, in a desperate attempt to save myself from drowning in it. Its gradual accumulation is the fault of no one person or circumstance. Band concerts, theatre productions, auditions, fundraisers, and the start of spring sports have all lent a hand.
I need space. I need space to think. To breathe. To feel at ease. I walk through the house and begin to make things right, somehow resisting the temptation to straighten the piles and simply move them from one surface to another. I focus on one task at a time. I find the wire needed to hang a picture that has been leaning against the wall for weeks. I recycle the catalogues that have claimed squatters’ rights on the front hall table. I gather scattered shoes, hats, scarves, papers, and intentions and send them to their proper homes.
As I follow each task to its end, I become aware of a kind of prayerful rhythm. I clear the spaces around me, and sense the spaces within me lighten as well. And hidden behind the clutter, I discover an almost desperate yearning.I open my heart, entreating God to create within me space enough for the holiness of this week.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
and renew a right spirit within me. Psalm 51:11
The clutter has me cornered. If it doesn’t relent soon, I will lash out in fury, in a desperate attempt to save myself from drowning in it. Its gradual accumulation is the fault of no one person or circumstance. Band concerts, theatre productions, auditions, fundraisers, and the start of spring sports have all lent a hand.
I need space. I need space to think. To breathe. To feel at ease. I walk through the house and begin to make things right, somehow resisting the temptation to straighten the piles and simply move them from one surface to another. I focus on one task at a time. I find the wire needed to hang a picture that has been leaning against the wall for weeks. I recycle the catalogues that have claimed squatters’ rights on the front hall table. I gather scattered shoes, hats, scarves, papers, and intentions and send them to their proper homes.
As I follow each task to its end, I become aware of a kind of prayerful rhythm. I clear the spaces around me, and sense the spaces within me lighten as well. And hidden behind the clutter, I discover an almost desperate yearning.I open my heart, entreating God to create within me space enough for the holiness of this week.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Wilderness Yearning: Saturday in the Fifth Week of Lent
Send out your light and your truth, that they may lead me,
and bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling. Psalm 43:3
I wake before the dawn, pulling on warm socks, wrapping a sweater around me, seeking the comfort of familiar patterns and ritual. Giving thanks for the day before, asking guidance for the day that is emerging.
Today I will spend the morning with young people, who will begin to prepare a service for Good Friday, offering their gifts to lead others into the mystery of the passion. Taking their place in leadership within the congregation. Lifting their hearts and voices.
These children and tweens and teens will be my light today. They will grace me with their stories. They will be my companions as together we wend our way along the final twists and turns of our Lenten pilgrimage. I might be lost without them.
And with the hope their presence lends my heart, I move from the safety of my comfortable sweater into the brightening of the day.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
and bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling. Psalm 43:3
I wake before the dawn, pulling on warm socks, wrapping a sweater around me, seeking the comfort of familiar patterns and ritual. Giving thanks for the day before, asking guidance for the day that is emerging.
Today I will spend the morning with young people, who will begin to prepare a service for Good Friday, offering their gifts to lead others into the mystery of the passion. Taking their place in leadership within the congregation. Lifting their hearts and voices.
These children and tweens and teens will be my light today. They will grace me with their stories. They will be my companions as together we wend our way along the final twists and turns of our Lenten pilgrimage. I might be lost without them.
And with the hope their presence lends my heart, I move from the safety of my comfortable sweater into the brightening of the day.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2013
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