Restoration

Christmas Day

How beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of the messenger who announces peace
Isaiah 52:7

How beautiful upon the mountains

  are the feet of the messenger who announces peace

pure poetry, Isaiah’s words

I wish I could read and translate the Hebrew

in which the prophet’s words are recorded

words that echo across centuries

Isaiah ben Amoz lived and spoke in the 8th c BCE

yet what we know as the Book of Isaiah, which has 66 chapters,

is really the work of more than one prophet

and spans two or three hundred years of history

So, these words handed down to us

spoken in our worship today

are 2500 years old or older

words that have traveled over the rough places and the plain

words that have been reverently spoken in worship

and lifted up by individuals

seeking comfort and consolation

words prayed in so many different languages

How beautiful upon the mountains

  are the feet of the messenger who announces peace,

another translation--

how welcome on the mountain

are the footsteps of the herald

announcing happiness [The Jewish Study Bible, second edition]

it evokes images of those keeping watch at a look-out

keeping alert to warn of danger or attack approaching

and what they see

is one coming who is out in the open

a friend who brings good news in a time of war

one whose message is: it’s over

the bad times are over

Isaiah’s promise of restoration

is much needed solace for our time

God’s restoration comes again and again

and I would dare to say this morning--

this Christmas Day

when we give our all to the birth of Jesus

the prophesied messiah

our Savior

God coming into the world fully human

open to knowing suffering and pain and loss--

I would dare to say this morning

that God’s restoration is available to us even in the midst

of calamity and suffering

it is easy to hold God responsible--

although many would not claim to blame God for their troubles

it is kind of what we do when we say things like

“God doesn’t give you any more than you can handle”

it suggests that God spends every moment of every day

deciding what happens to each person

when we are honest with ourselves

we know much human suffering comes from human action

from human choices

and choices we make affect not only us but others

a more helpful understanding of God’s presence in our lives I think

would be knowing that when we encounter the evil and suffering of the world

  God does not abandon us

even when it feels like that sometimes

God being fully human in Jesus

means that our grief and despair

as well as our joys and comfort

are something God knows

How beautiful upon the mountains

  are the feet of the messenger who announces peace,

keep your eyes and your hearts open

for God’s restoration

be alert for messengers of good news

that you might otherwise overlook

Christmas has come

Christ has been born

The words of Isaiah

God’s word

the Word made flesh

lives among us

full of grace and truth

Image by Hanneke Visschers from Pixabay

Awesome

 Christmas Eve 

Come now and look upon the works of the Lord,
what awesome things he has done on earth.
Psalm 46:9

Once again, the pageant rehearsal ushers Christmas across the threshold. This year the shepherds, angels, wise guys, our seven-week-old baby Jesus, and four different Marys energetically gather on several Zoom screens. The star dances enthusiastically, a family dog adds his voice, and baby Jesus takes a break for a diaper change.

This is embodied faith. And I honestly think this is why the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Who could possibly want to miss out on this awesome joy?

Early this evening the children will share the sacred story once again. Travelers from the East and West and all over will gather in the holy space we create online with community. And once again, in the fullness of time, God will break into the world with the cry of a newborn.

Image by Ulrike W. from Pixabay

Unexpected

Wednesday of the Fourth Week of Advent

From the rising of the sun to its going down
let the name of the Lord be praised
Psalm 113:3

Today has been all sorts of unexpected. The long-awaited pandemic-delayed contractor was able to stop by, three more angels agreed to join tomorrow’s Zoom pageant, and some kind souls dropped off 70 bags of food for our church pantry. My mantra for the day has been “it’s all good.” And indeed it is.

Christmas is coming—nothing can stop it. It is time now for me to let the wave of holy expectation carry me the final miles to the manger.

The sun has set, and I continue to praise God, who is so very good.

Long road

Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Advent

I love the Lord, because he has heard the voice of my supplication,

because he has inclined his ear to me whenever I called upon him.

Psalm 116:1

It has been a long road and I am weary, yet the destination still lies ahead. The Advent road will inevitably usher me to the manger where I will gather with friendly beasts, and shepherds, and angels, and other bystanders to bask in the light of holiness.

At the same time, I know that the way of faith I travel continues on, and that the destination on this path will forever be ahead. 

But as I look back on the way traveled and travailed, I see the presence of love over and over again. So I know that love must be ever before me as well.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Aching for blessing

 Monday of the Fourth Week of Advent

May you be blessed by the Lord
the maker of heaven and earth.
Psalm 115:15

It is suddenly dark. Of course, it is the shortest day of the year, and I knew this was coming, but I forgot. The conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn also escaped my mind, but as it was overcast I’m not sure I could have seen it. I will try again tomorrow. It won’t be as close, but still…

Today my soul is caught in the in-between. Preparing joyful rituals to put out into the world, and aching for those that cannot be celebrated this year. And behind that ache is a deeper knowledge that so much has changed and will not be the same again.

I wonder what the faithful thought 800 years ago as they noticed the miraculous in the night sky. Perhaps they thought God was doing a new thing in the heavens. Perhaps they thought it signaled a change. Perhaps they saw it as a blessing.

And I wonder what blessing the Creator of all things—of heaven, of earth, of each one of us, of each squirrel and evergreen and star—is about to pour upon us.

Image copyright ©Wendy Denn

Creative presence

 Saturday of the Third Week of Advent

You trace my journeys and my resting-places
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Psalm 139:2

The day has been accompanied by mandola, piano, and voice as my household prepares for the worship to come. Other hands and voices in other homes are also readying themselves for when we will gather our community in prayer, pageant, and celebration next week for Christmas. The gathering will be different this year, as we will all be in our homes. Nevertheless, we will be present to one another in the sacred space we create together virtually. 

This is one of the gifts that our church community has discovered--while we may not be in the same building, we are in person. We see each other. Talk with each other. Share concerns and gratitudes. Laugh. Listen. Pray. We bring our whole selves. We embody our baptismal faith.

This community is of God’s making, and the Holy One is omnipresent. Our journeys, our resting-places, our rising up and sitting down are all known—traced by a steady hand and accompanied by unrelenting love.

We have placed ourselves in God’s hands, and our community has become the sacrament. 

Image by iwanna from Pixabay

Wholehearted

 Friday of the Third Week of Advent

Make me hear of joy and gladness,
that the body you have broken may rejoice.
Psalm 51:9

The naked tree limbs etched across the pale winter sky remind me of the bareness through which Advent often winds. When the way is hard, gladness seems remote—and I have been on this way much longer than the number of purple-blue days on the calendar. 

I do not seek ungrounded joy, or a happiness that glosses over despair, singing without acknowledging those who weep. I want to sing to the pain in the world, to meet it where it sits, and invite it to lessen its suffocating grip. And I bend my ears toward the songs of others that are honest, soulful, heartfelt.

To be wholehearted is to bring to any moment all that the heart contains: Old loves, fresh sorrows, long-practiced rhythms, well-worn treasures, new delights, curated wisdom, expansiveness.

May I wholeheartedly give in to this season, and remember that in the dead of winter, while spring lies frozen underground, Emmanuel is born, God with us.

Image by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto from Pixabay

Inevitable strength

 Thursday of the Third Week of Advent

My eyes are fixed on you, O my Strength;
for you, O God, are my stronghold.
Psalm 59:10

More often than not these days, I forget what I am doing. Brain fog is my constant companion as I drift in and out—of a room, of my email in-box, of a zoom meeting. I lose hold of the point I was going to make, what I was going to do next, what I was doing just now. It’s pretty much impossible to multitask as even singletasking can be a challenge. My priorities shift and shift again as I navigate this landscape that has become somewhat familiar in a vague and confused sort of way.

This year more than ever, the Advent journey reminds me that God’s path does not disappear but is always before me. In my waking and my sleeping, I move inevitably closer to the unveiling of God’s glorious mystery. Everywhere I look I can see the evidence of the holy: in children showing off their Christmas trees, in early morning pristine snow, in the gift of a generous stranger.

God, my strength, holds true when all else is rocky. God’s love shines clear when the way is dim. God’s light compels my gaze and keeps my footsteps sure.

Image by Jörg Vieli from Pixabay

Seek

 Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent

God looks down from heaven upon us all,
to see if there is any who is wise,
if there is one who seeks after God
Psalm 53:2

After taking up residency sometime in March, uncertainty has now overstayed her welcome in my home and in my soul. There’s not much else to say, nor really anything to do. Is it safe? Is it smart? Is it wise? The questions follow me around, my own personal Greek chorus.

I know I am not in this alone. This is the world we live in now. It is the way it is. And yet, it is not all. The all is holiness. The all is taking off our shoes in the presence of the bush that burns but is not consumed because this is sacred ground. The all is about to shatter the stillness of a long night with a newborn cry. 

God searches out my uncertainty, gently encompasses it with extraordinary wholeness, and tenderly guides my feet and my gaze toward the wisdom found in seeking.

Image by Clem Cou from Pixabay

Hand full of justice

 Tuesday of the Third Week of Advent

Your praise, like your name, O God,
reaches to the world’s end;
your right hand is full of justice.
Psalm 48:8

As we pass the midway point of Advent, the sense of urgency increases. In my church context, I experience this in the kind of calls I am receiving: people wanting to donate to our food pantry, people with clothing and toys for children, people offering to pay a bill for someone in need. What they want from me is a yes. Yes, I can accept their gift and usher it along its way.

Giving is a sacred act—so is honoring the need of the giver to give. Each time I answer such a call, I feel my heart expand with the wonder of God’s reach in the world. And whether they know it or not, these strangers are also aiding justice. They know the world is not fair and reasonable, and they want to do something about that.

As we await the arrival of the Prince of Peace, this year especially I do not want to lose sight that this is our savior, who comes to establish justice and righteousness. If we fully commit to the journey toward Bethlehem, we are compelled to keep traveling the salvation road. We also are called to become bearers of justice in the world.

Sculpture, "Together for Peace and Justice" Ensemble pour la Paix et la Justice by Xavier de Fraissinette, in the Parc de la Tête-d’Or in Lyon, France

Image by Ben Kerckx from Pixabay

The home way

 Monday of the Third Week of Advent

Our heart never turned back,
nor did our footsteps stray from your path.
Psalm 44:18

Of course, the Advent journey is different this year. The path I walk during this season of expectation is always slightly off from the way of the world around me, and always inviting me to reflect on the juxtaposition of these differing trajectories. 

This time, the paths I walk, and the scope of my travel are vastly different. The Advent journey is not accompanying me to the mall, or into crowds, or along dark roads at night. Now my journeying most often takes me from one room in my house to another. 

Throughout the day, I traverse the different spaces in my home, my travels never a far distance, yet still I am journeying. My movement toward the manger, my progress on this spiritual endeavor, my trek to make straight the way in the wilderness, continue. My walk with Christ in my own home is nevertheless a walk.

Is it possible to stray from God’s path? Do not all ways belong to God? Perhaps when it comes to straying, it is my heart rather than my feet which needs attending.

Image by Klaus Hausmann from Pixabay

Majesty, warning, unseen grace

 Saturday of the Second Week of Advent

As the deer longs for the water-brooks,
so longs my soul for you, O God.
Psalm 42:1

On our late afternoon walk, we watch as a majestic hawk alights near us, and then takes flight again. A few feet further on, we hear the anxious call of a squirrel and then see her, rigid on a tree branch, sounding a warning because of the hawk. And I know that, unseen, the deer are nearby too, their graceful movements hidden within the brown upon brown winter landscape.

Advent is all these creatures: majesty, warning, unseen grace. And I wonder, are they waiting also? Do they share my sense of longing for God to break into creation? Do they yearn to be overcome with joy? Do they thirst for all to be right with the world?

These creatures and I are inextricably tied to one another. They are not only along my path, they are on the journey with me to the manger. With all of God’s creation, we await the cry of a newborn to once again shatter our world and make all things new.

Image credit: anthonysr1955 / 123RF Stock Photo

Evening prayer

 Friday of the Second Week of Advent

For they do not plan for peace,
but invent deceitful schemes
against the quiet in the land.
Psalm 35:20

As dusk gives way to nightfall, I prepare for another quiet evening at home. The darkness is comforting—the familiar attendant ushering me toward the transition to a different kind of time and space.

Lately, I have been lighting candles in the evening, just to have the company of a bravely dancing flame casting a small halo of rich color above the wick. Another miracle of oxygen.

I am also familiar with the forces that cannot abide the quiet, that constantly lure me with the clamor of false promises of security, even whispering that the night must be kept at bay. As if God had not named the darkness and woven it into creation. As if peace was absent from the blackness of midnight.

I settle in. I give thanks for the day that is past. And I remember that we can only see the stars at night.

Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

Give away

 Thursday of the Second Week of Advent

The wicked borrow and do not repay,
but the righteous are generous in giving.
Psalm 37:22

The Advent road is bumpy, marred by jagged patches of deception I honestly think this is true every year as we count the “shopping days” left until Christmas, but this year it seems the not-really-at-all-subtle advertising about what we can purchase to make us happy and make all the pain go away is relentless.

It comes back to scarcity and abundance. When I believe in an economy of scarcity, I become a taker. I know myself. When I feel worried, or fearful, or left on my own, I count how much is available and try my best to hold onto enough of whatever it is so that I won’t come up short.

But God’s economy is one of abundance, where giving away is the key to being full. Give away love, give away joy, give away peace---and what happens? When we are generous, we find ourselves in right relationship with God. And then of course with everyone else.

Image by Zorro4 from Pixabay

Bewildered

 Wednesday of the Second Week of Advent

Turn my eyes from watching what is worthless;
give me life in your ways.
Psalm 119:37

Today I had the word bewildered gifted to me, opened to me in a new way. Bewildered. To be in the wilderness. To be wildernessed (if I can make up my own word, and I think I will). To have the wilderness happen to you. The wilderness is happening to me and all around me. And to everyone I know. And to everyone I don’t know. After all, there is not a single human being in the entire world unaffected by the pandemic.

Advent, too, is a bewildering time, a wild time. After all, the voice of Advent is the voice crying out in the wilderness. This time, this way, can be baffling, disconcerting, incomprehensible. What orients me is the presence of the holy. Knowing it is there. Softening my gaze so that what is harsh is diminished and God’s wonders come astonishingly into focus.

There is life in the wilderness. There is life along this way. Choosing to walk the wild way of Advent is setting one’s face toward the manger, and birth, and new life, and life everlasting.

Note: Thank you to my friend Stuart Hubbard Hoke for the gift of bewildered
Image by mostafa meraji from Pixabay

Anytime

 Tuesday of the Second Week of Advent

You have given me a mere handful of days,
and my lifetime is as nothing in your sight;
truly, even those who stand erect are but a puff of wind.
Psalm 39:6

Some things take the time they take. Maybe all things.

Time has collapsed over these last months, so that many of us are not sure what day it is, or as I heard one of my favorite NPR commentators say, every day is Blursday. I have found it eases my way to give in to the slowness. In the early panic of the pandemic, I aspired to many plans, solutions, adaptations, iterations. Accomplishment finally gave way to gentleness when I remembered—and remembered—who holds us all.

I have risked letting things be, given my energy level permission to rewrite the rhythm of my day, opened myself the unhurried discernment of community. And I find that the Holy One continues to weave wonders. 

It is no illusion that the hours of the day move differently now. I think perhaps time has never been as domesticated as we thought. And as my lifetime is a mere handful of days to the author of time, why rush as if I could be anytime but now?

Image by Harald Lepisk from Pixabay

Web of generosity

 Monday of the Second Week of Advent

I will give thanks to you, O Lord, with my whole heart;
I will tell of your marvelous works.
Psalm 9:1

The day has been full. With the scheduled and the unscheduled. And then I wonder, why do I place occurrences into this binary? The words are themselves a trap, limiting the way of life and the way of faith to what can be arranged, planned, programmed, booked, listed. God’s abundance defies lists. It encompasses all and more and the in-between.

It is the fabric of the day for which I am grateful. All the connections, the inter-weavings, the way so many people and places and events are intertwined. In the same day I receive a call from someone needing to know how to access our food pantry and another from someone wanting to donate food. This is more than a simple balanced exchange. It speaks of the movement of the universe, of people connected by an entire web of generosity, of our human need and ability to reach out, across, toward, beyond in order to be community.

We yearn for one another with our whole hearts. God has given us these hearts and this yearning. And the same God fills each day with marvel and has still more to give.

Image by Adina Voicu from Pixabay

Tranquility

 Saturday of the First Week of Advent 

Turn again to your rest, O my soul
for the Lord has treated you well.
Psalm 116:6

The sun sets and the quiet of the evening settles over me. In the stillness, I feel something within me that I finally identify as contentment. It has been a long time.

Contentment has been hard to come by in the past ten months. Yet it is one of God’s gifts. God who created the depths of the oceans out of a word, and flung stars and planets into the patterns of the universe, also created rest. Serenity, satisfaction, ease. All belong to the rhythm of human life.

With the end of this day comes the end of the first week of Advent. Tomorrow we will light two candles on our wreath, increasing the light which illumines our way forward. The way of waiting continues toward the promised brightness ahead. And because I can, and because I hear an invitation to bear this gift, I will pack up this evening’s tranquility and carry it with me.

Image by Evgeni Tcherkasski from Pixabay

A Better Way

 Friday of the First Week of Advent

I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel;
my heart teaches me night after night.
Psalm 16:7

Some days seem to provide gift after gift. I hunger for these this season. Even in good times, I can allow the frustrations of any day overshadow God’s obvious presence. This Advent it seems to take more intentional energy to focus on moments of delight. Yet each time I do, I am reminded that acknowledging one small goodness brings other good news to light.

Today’s uplifting encounter arrives via text message. My friend Francie and I check in with each other. How are we. Is everyone in our homes safe. She recommends a book she thinks I will like, and then the excellent news of a project she has completed. And then she shares a gift she has discovered in this COVID-season. “God can use anything to try to teach us a better way,” she tells me. I savor this invitation and it becomes my mantra for the day.

This evening, my spouse and I will light the Advent wreath on our table, and that one flame will remind us of God’s promise. And before I sleep, I will recount the blessings of this day. And with Francie’s gift, I will also look for the insight, counsel, and wisdom with which the Holy One paves our way.

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Stalwart haven

Thursday of the First Week of Advent

I love you, O Lord my strength
O Lord my stronghold,
my crag, and my haven.
Psalm 18:1

Some days my faith feels fuzzy or ephemeral; I know it is there, but I cannot grab hold of it. It does not seem solid enough to hold me, much less carry me through the challenges awaiting me and everyone else. And that is what makes this time so difficult. All of us are living with the plague. No one is immune from the stress that constantly consumes a certain amount of our physical, psychological, and emotional well-being.

We are in this together. And I realize today that “this” includes our faith. My faith is not a solitary thing; it lives in the context of my community, is fed by the faithfulness of others. My faith exists in response to the faithfulness of the One who is ever-faithful. Who never stops loving me, caring for me, forgiving me, calling me, holding me. My rock, my strength, my crag, my stronghold. My haven.

Today I am grateful that God is not ephemeral or hazy or nebulous. I grateful that God is a rock. Stalwart. A tower of strength. I am grateful that I can depend on this, that I can know that when I am shaky, God is not.

Image by Beverly Lussier from Pixabay

Wellspring of solace

 Wednesday of the First Week of Advent

How long shall I have perplexity in my mind,
and grief in my heart, day after day?
how long shall my enemy triumph over me?
Psalm 13:2

The grief of this time often catches me unawares. Sometimes it creeps up on me, slowly invading the pocket of balance I think I have discovered within this world of pain. Sometimes it hits me in the gut, and my insides physically contract. Sometimes it is like a long wail that accompanies me throughout the day, always in the background as I try to answer to the mundane.

Often it takes me COVID-length moments to identify the loss. Loss of certainty, loss of proficiency, loss of understanding, loss of a path to follow that makes any sense at all. Loss of the ability to simply keep track of days, times, dates, tasks. Did I do that? Did I send that? Did I answer that? Did I miss that?

This is enemy territory, and I am not alone. Not alone in the suffering. And not alone in the solace. Everywhere I turn, in the expected as well as unanticipated places, I discover salve for my bruised soul. The gift of balm bubbles up, perpetually replenished, recalling me to sacred ground, sustaining my next step, and the next.

Image by Florian Kurz from Pixabay

Measureless

Tuesday of the First Week of Advent

Give ears to my words, O Lord;
consider my meditation.
Psalm 5:1

I step into the stillness as if it were a pool of afternoon light. It has been there, waiting for me, anticipating my captured attention. At times, I have disciplined myself into the quiet moment, used well-worn ritual to navigate my way across the threshold onto sacred ground. As if all ground were not sacred. As if all moments did not offer holy encounter.

Over the past ten months, I have stumbled across openings for meditation scattered across my path, have heard the invitation for contemplation in the gentle call of windchimes. I have encountered the fluidity of prayer that at first seemed like scattered gasps until I dismantled barriers of correctness I had constructed between me and my creator. 

I yield to the stillness as God takes my measure, hears words I utter and those I have not yet formed, and gathers me into the measureless grace tendered across ordinary time.

Image by dre2uomaha0 from Pixabay

Unraveling

Monday of the First Week of Advent

I lie down and go to sleep;
I wake again, because the Lord sustains me.
Psalm 3:5

Like every other pattern in my life, my sleep is disrupted. I find myself awake at odd hours, and I have learned to give in to it. If I am able to drift off again, I am grateful. If not, I engage my wakefulness with contentment. It is what it is.

The rhythms of my work, my play, my prayer are undergoing an unraveling. The familiar has become un, the tried and true have been left by the side of the road some miles behind me.

And here I am, as a rainy afternoon slips into an Advent evening, knowing I am ready. Ready to ease into this new season, or rather, ready to allow this season to envelope me. It is God who sustains me. God who is my unraveling, and God who tenderly holds each strand of my life weaving a new pattern that has yet to be revealed.

The Gravity of Grace

Focus on Wisdom and do not be distracted. Watch the patterns of creation,
and you will awaken to grace and tranquility.
Proverbs 3:19-22

Earlier this week as I walked to work, my attention was caught by a shaft of fall sunlight illuminating a late optimistic bloom of lavender juxtaposed against a fallen orange-red maple leaf. I was captured by the moment and called into stillness, my heart drenched by the audacity of creation that made this possible. I tried, unsuccessfully, to capture the exquisite experience with my camera.

Focus on wisdom and do not be distracted. If only it were that easy. Distraction means to draw apart, coming from the Latin trahere, to draw or drag. There is much that draws us away from wisdom. Powers that seem at times to forcefully drag us off the path of the way of love. Voices that call us to be untrue to who God created us to be. In other words, lies of the enemy. Our adversary. The devil. Who we are reminded in the First Letter of Peter, prowls around like a lion seeking someone to devour (1 Peter 5:8). One of the lies that distracts me at this time, that whispers to me as I encounter the grief and brokenness and promise and grace of each day, is that things are back to normal. That we have figured this out. That I should be able to fix…all of it, any of it.

Focus on Wisdom and do not be distracted. Watch the patterns of creation, and you will awaken to grace and tranquility. My encounter with the lavender bloom and the leaf might be seen as a distraction…or as a call into the patterns of creation, an awakening to grace. How do we recognize the difference? Do we always know when we are being drawn into deeper relationship with Christ? Do we recognize the holiness when are we being dragged into acknowledgement of our sinfulness, our complicity, our need for lament, remorse and contrition, repentance, and change?

For myself, at times I am dragged kicking and screaming to my need to forgive. I am often stubborn or just plain afraid of my need to change. And I can deny like a champion my need to repent. Sometimes, grace is the distraction, pulling us away from a dangerous path.

You and I know the call of Jesus, the way of love, is nothing less than transformation. And the peace we seek, the tranquility offered by Wisdom, by Christ Sophia, is not tame. This is the peace of God which surpasses our understanding (Philippians 4:7), transcends our ability to grasp or explain it. This is the peace that shatters contentment.

As poet William Alexander Percy wrote in 1924, which has become a beloved hymn, the disciples of Jesus were contented…

before they ever knew  

the Peace of God that filled their hearts

Brimful and broke them too…

The peace of God, it is no peace,

But strife closed in the sod.

Yet let us pray for but one thing --

The marvelous peace of God!

Can we allow the gravity of grace to pull us toward the core of creation? To slow us down? Distract us with awe? Awaken us to tranquility? Will we surrender to a wisdom that exposes and hallows vulnerability?

The peace brought by a moment of being captivated by a lavender bloom and a fallen leaf is honestly a weak reflection of the grace gifted us by God. But the invitation is there. God’s distracting invitation is all around us---in all times.

Hymnal 1982, hymn 661

This reflection was given at Morning Worship for the Executive Council of the Episcopal Church on October 9, 2020

Tenacious

Thursday in Easter Week

Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, O my soul!
I will praise the Lord as long as I live;
I will sing praises to my God while I have my being.
Psalm 146:1

“What is at the top of your gratitude list?” my friend posts on social media. I sift through the past day and all my encounters. Phone calls, emails, zoom meetings. Facebook comments and replies. Text messages. Face time. All the ways communities persist in reaching out and gathering in. Each day calls for new abilities and offers outlets for creativity. And requires reconstructed responses for the aching need of so many.

And somewhere in the open space between need and purpose, grace keeps a tenacious hold. On this side of Easter, I grasp for joy as the women outside the empty tomb grasped the feet of the risen Christ.

At the top of my list today—my encounters with the enduring capacity to see and respond to goodness. Which can be nothing other than a sacred gift from the author of life.



Image by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto from Pixabay

Undaunted

Easter Day

Let everything that has breath
praise the Lord.
Hallelujah!
Psalm 150:6

Earth shattering
the removal of the stone
to expose the empty tomb
emptied of sorrow
emptied of hate
emptied of death

emptied of that which it could not contain
joy which persists undaunted
life that cannot be quenched
love that fills every breath of creation
and calls to us, “Greetings!”

Alleluia, Christ is risen!

Morning

Holy Saturday

You speak in my heart and say, “Seek my face.”
You face, Lord, will I seek.
Psalm 27:11

morning comes for the broken hearted
for the hopeful
for the grief-laden

morning comes for the trepidatious
the stretched thin
the determined

morning comes for the expectant
the heroic
the vulnerable

morning comes
to usher them
a step closer
to the face of love





Image by Raheel Shakeel from Pixabay

The brink

Good Friday

Our forebears put their trust in you
they trusted, and you delivered them.
Psalm 22:4

the cry in the garden

the howl in the night

the voice of denial

windswept

the fierce landscape awaits

the gift of love

Image by 3321704 from Pixabay

Accompanied

Maundy Thursday

Teach me to do what pleases you, for you are my God;
let your good Spirit lead me on level ground.
Psalm 143:10

feet worn and weary

hardened from travel
through uncharted territory
with yet weight to bear

lifted into gentle hands
enfolded by compassion
cleansed of dust and heaviness

and set once again
on the path that saves
accompanied

Image by JLB1988 from Pixabay

Persistent

Wednesday in Holy Week

I am shaken by the noise of the enemy
and by the pressure of the wicked
Psalm 55:3

The wilderness is not empty
of threats
or of life

as salvation draws near
the enemy deploys a din, an uproar
anything to drown out
to cut off persistent hope

as if love could be overcome
by a taunt

Image by Michael Pollack from Pixabay

Compassion

Tuesday in Holy Week

Depart from me, all evildoers,
for the Lord has heard the sound of my weeping.
Psalm 6:8

it is no small thing
to give in
to give over

to give myself over
to the one who saves

the clamor of those who would distract me from the way
is silenced by the compassion
of the one who walks before me

the one who walks in sorrow
in order to meet me even there

the one who is
where true love is found

Deeper in

Monday in Holy Week

Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me.
Psalm 51:11

Once again the path
makes a familiar turn
this pilgrimage will lead me deeper in before I am through

I take my weary heart into my hands
and set it on the path before me
an offering and a plea

“What do you seek?”
asks the keeper of this path

I seek renewal

“Follow me, I am the Way….”

Image by Lorraine Cormier from Pixabay

Gathered breath

Saturday in the Fifth Week of Lent

How shall we sing the Lord’s song
upon an alien soil?
Psalm 137:4

Outside all is grey and quiet. No traffic or hustle. Even my usual squirrel companion, who most mornings is busily visible outside my window, is absent. The landscape seems almost alien. As if the world is holding its breath.

Most years, somewhere along the way, I also find the Lenten landscape to be alien. This year the journey has taken so many twists and turns that I am often at a loss how to describe where I am. And now the way is about to spiral again, as we intentionally enter into the sacred space of loss. How can we sing the Lord’s song in this time?

There is a song to sing. More than one. A song of lament. A song of hope. A song of longing. And, yes, a song of joy. We hold our breath in preparation. We gather within us the spiritual gifts that God has given us in order to be able to sing love into the world.



 Image by Constanze Riechert-Kurtze from Pixabay

Resonance

Friday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Let me hear of your loving-kindness in the morning,
for I put my trust in you;
show me the road that I must walk,
for I lift up my soul to you.
Psalm 143:8

I wake to the sound of the wind chimes and let the lovely resonance become my focus. It is not really a melody that they play, but rather harmonious tones cast into the air, brought into being by strong gusts and gentle breezes and an artist’s craft. They accompany my morning routine and my prayer, and I know they will be with me throughout the day, a gracious song in the background of my doing and being.

And running in the background too is the sweetest song of all, the song of creation, of the light which God spoke into being, and the Word which was there at that speaking and continually voices redemption and will always call me by name.

As the richness of the chimes floats across the sunrise, my soul is lifted. This holy loving-kindness illumines my way now.

God-with-us

Thursday in the Fifth Week of Lent

O Lord, I am not proud;
I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself with great matters,
or with things that are too hard for me.
But I still my soul and make it quiet,
like a child upon its mother’s breast;
my soul is quieted within me.
Psalm 131:1-3

In this geography, it seems even simple things are complicated. And with each new challenge come new obstacles. The enemy who lurks alongside me in this desert tempts me with my own abilities. I can do this. And this. And this.

But the truth is I cannot. It is pride that leads me into a culvert where I am in trouble and alone. All of this is too hard for me; it is too hard for any of us. And it is impossibly hard if I go it alone.

“Why are you trying to do that on your own,” my friend gently chides me, “you could have called me.” And she is right. My call first and foremost is to walk with God. With. And when I remember this, I am able to see who else is with me. A young girl who sent a homemade card of encouragement. A friend who texts me unprompted with a solution to a problem I had been carrying. A colleague who offers expertise. And always Emmanuel, God-with-us, holy infant, vulnerable and nevertheless the savior of the world.

Indelible love

Wednesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Let my cry come before you, O Lord;
give me understanding, according to your word.
Psalm 119:169

Everything takes longer. And I continue to be surprised by this, as if I could somehow get this situation under control, as if the landscape wasn’t changing on a daily basis. I hear the same thing from friends and colleagues, in which I find comfort. It is not just me.

And then I am called up short. Of course it is not just me. And I am reminded again that I am not in this alone. I am surrounded by more than one community that is casting hope along the way. I am connected to people who are creating art, sewing masks, weaving prayers, inventing new ways to distribute sustenance of all kinds.

And then there is the truth that I belong to the Author of hope.

I become still, and open my heart, and become aware of God continuing to write upon it in indelible words of love.

Nesting

Tuesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Then was our mouth filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy.
Psalm 126:3

I scroll through the pictures of our daughters as toddlers, remembering significant life-moments of growth and discovery. And recalling too what I loved about parenting--how they changed me, called me to confront my limitations, helped me lean into my gifts, and taught me more about love that I ever knew was possible.

And now, life circumstances have sent our young adults back home to us. Our empty nest no longer empty. And it is still a nest. A place of food and warmth and comfort. A place of limits tried and gifts called forth. A place of challenge that inspires growth—for all of us.

As we reconfigure ourselves into this particular present, the laughter and joy of past moments becomes available all over again. Yes, in recollection and shared stories of do-you-remember-when, but also in new ways to celebrate one another, encourage one another, to call out the best in one another. Together we lean into the Love that surrounds us and is deeper and truer than we can ever comprehend.

Close

Monday in the Fifth Week of Lent

You have not shut me up in the power of the enemy;
you have set my feet in an open place.
Psalm 31:8

Somehow, it all works. Even with the technical missteps. Even with sometimes halting worship. We gather.

I see faces and names across my screen and I am grateful. Not only because I am connected with my usual Sunday companions, but also because our community has already expanded. Others join us from states and time zones far away.

We share prayer and songs and storytelling and afterward my heart is full. Our very willingness to be there for one another defies that which would try to use disruption and distance to separate us not only from those we love, but from Love itself.

Because, of course, Love itself traverses the Lenten wilderness and the wilderness of a world in trouble and forever holds us close.

Conduit

Saturday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Whoever is wise will ponder these things,
and consider well the mercies of the Lord.
Psalm 107:43

The cyclist who passes us twice on our walk, each time with a friendly greeting. The driver who stops at an intersection to allow us to cross safely. The expert who kindly and deftly coaches novices during online office hours. The colleague who affirms my efforts.

Each kindness a small thing, which could be easily overlooked. Yet when I focus on them, ponder them, their impact expands within me and I am more able to notice and soak up the goodness they offer. And then to offer graciousness in return.

We need to keep adding good into the world. And we need to keep noticing the goodness of others. God’s mercy abounds and we can be conduits of it, receiving it with open hearts wherever we encounter it, dwelling in it, allowing it to wash through and refresh us, and then sending it forth, adding a drop of our own giftedness to the life-giving stream.


Image by Peter H from Pixabay

Art walk

Friday in the Fourth Week of Lent

The children of your servants shall continue,
and their offspring shall stand fast in your sight.
Psalm 102:28

Our walking route through the neighborhood has become familiar. We wave and smile at neighbors we do not know and share a quick check-in with those we do, all from a safe distance. We know we are all in this together.

And today again we come across the sidewalk art, colorfully chalked and reminding me of a stained-glass window. It is somewhat faded by the recent rain, but its testimony to the creative capacity of someone remains vibrant.

I imagine the someone is a child, although I do not know this to be true. But the sidewalk chalk reminds me of my childhood and of my daughters’, of summer days and laughter and bright spirits and art that is meant to be shared with the community. And it reminds me such things not only endure but continue. God’s promise reaches across generations into the now and extends to an infinite number of tomorrows. Our Creator calls forth creativity, which, of course, is life itself.

Held

Thursday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Answer me, O Lord, for your love is kind;
in your great compassion, turn to me.
Psalm 69:18

For no particular reason and for every reason the tears come. This desert transverse takes turn after turn into unknowable territory as plans that are made on one day are reluctantly and necessarily set aside the next. It all seems impossible to navigate. At the same time, at each curve in the road I encounter acts of generosity and mercy and loving-kindness that reach across any kind of distancing.

So, I let the tears fall, entering into a sacred time of release. This moment is beyond my capacity to hold and so I let it go. And, along with my tears, all the anguish and hopeful expectancy are gathered up and held in the holy compassion that is beyond all measure.

Once again, I turn to the God who saves, and discover that God has already turned to me.



Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Fruition

Wednesday in the Fourth Week of Lent
The Feast of the Annunciation

Will you not give us life again,
that your people may rejoice in you?
Show us your mercy, O Lord,
and grant us your salvation.
Psalm 85:6-7

Photo credit Anne E. Kitch

It is only after I begin my morning prayer that I remember what day it is, the Feast of the Annunciation, when we remember the angel Gabriel visiting Mary to tell her the astonishing news that she will be the Godbearer. It is so hard to keep track of the days right now with all the uncertainly and lack of routine. 

Each day I seek to center myself in the now. I try to focus on one step at a time, one piece of work, one act of mercy, telling myself if I can do that it will be enough.

And today, into this now, I am reminded of God’s holy blessing that will take nine months to come to its fulness. Where will we be in nine months? I do not know. But even now God is acting to bring about new life. I do not know what that looks like, but I do know that I am called to participate in it. To help bring it forth. To continue to plant mercy and hope in the soil around me, and to give the growth over to God.

Rooted

Tuesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Be joyful in the Lord, all you lands;
serve the Lord with gladness
and come before his presence with a song.
Psalm 100:1

“What are the blessings you are finding,” my friend asks on a Zoom call in the early evening. I look back over my day, and discover one thing I am grateful for, and then another, and another. Recalling these brings a sense of respite to my weary soul. Without naming them, I might have been left only with the fatigue of a day filled with trying to make things work.

In order to replenish my soul, I need to make room for joy as well as rest. I need to continue to cultivate a grateful heart. To utter joy into this mess is an act of bravery. Not because it is foolhardy, but because it proclaims love in the midst of fear and that very act is one of strength and resilience. I remember that courage comes from the heart, that the very word itself has its roots in the Latin cor, the word for heart.  I want to remain rooted in Love.

Compass

Monday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Your love, O Lord, for ever will I sing;
form age to age my mouth will proclaim your faithfulness
Psalm 89:1

After a week of…how to describe it?..it is clear to me that I am now in a very different place. The learning curve has been more like a roller coaster with steep ascents and stomach-clenching falls. Already I walk the way differently. I have adopted new trail skills; I have adjusted my stance; I have redefined how I measure progress through this time.

This Lenten landscape is unlike anything I have ever encountered. The tumult, uncertainty, and stress of previous journeys cannot compare. And equally, the generosity, compassion, and resources for resilience abound in greater measure.

As I stumble along, the place I wander remains within the compass of God’s love, whose faithfulness stands firm—regardless.




Image by StockSnap from Pixabay