Third Sunday of Advent

The prayer traditionally read this week begins "Stir up your power, O Lord." It's a real rousing beginning, and one that, for me, conjures up the idea of a coming storm. I think of too-warm weather, a sepia colored world, wind that slowly keeps rising, and a general feeling of tension in everything as creation waits for the clouds to break and the rain to pour down, drenching everything and everyone in its wake.


I must admit my thought of hard rain and the relief that comes when the gathering storm finally gives way provides a window into my own spiritual life. I had hopes that this season of Advent would be a time when my parched soul might find an end to its long drought. Maybe it's just that in these weeks when the message of God's love plays from every store PA system and non-stop-til-Christmas on the radio I thought that the withering and weak spirit within me might at last be stirred up and I could feel, again, the wonder that is a relationship with Christ.


However, with two weeks behind, I have yet to feel even a twinge of life from beneath my breast, much less a sense of being stirred up. And rather than rain that cures the dry, cracked ground, I find myself confronted by night after night of cold, clear stars: stars which, even though they are fire, are too far away to kindle anything within me.


I shouldn't, I suppose, be surprised at this. God really isn't one for getting stirred up. When people begged and hoped for a great champion to throw off the Roman yoke, they got a child who grew up to talk about love and peace. And as I look west for a sign of clouds growing and billowing on the horizon, there are only soft sunsets that give way to clear, cold nights that reveal the universe.


Earlier this year I would have responded to all this with anger, shaking my fist at the sky. Now, I suppose God has worn me down. Now I merely turn and go back inside, sheltering the tiny candle flame of hope that sputters in the gentle, chilly breeze. And this week, I pray for that stirring up, even as I'm coming to believe that God just doesn't work like that. That no matter how much I need a rain that saturates me from head to toe, I will walk out each night to find only dry air. As much as I need some hint that Christ is close to me, is still near, there is just the cold and starry night. While I am ready to welcome the billowing and powerful clouds of the storm, I see only clear skies.


And I wonder, staring at the crystal clear constellations, who could ever find hope in the stars of Christmas night?


Stir up my soul, O Lord.

Second Sunday of Advent

Scrooge, in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, truly finds the spirit of the season while standing over his own grave. Despite the reminder of the past and the reality of the present, he only feels the "comfort and joy" of the Yuletide when he is face to face with mortality. For me, it is mortality that is making this season so darn difficult.


This Advent will mark the first year since my father-in-law passed. Anyone I've ever talked to or any book I've read on the subject tells you that it's the second holiday that is the most difficult. This rings true for me. The relief and rejoicing that the suffering was over along with the shock of his passing made last Christmas easier than this one. And while Scrooge, after getting a healthy dose of mortality, woke the next morning to dance around the room and be very merry indeed, I'm struggling to hold on to a taste of that familiar feeling of Christmas.


I have been attempting for over a week to write about what I suppose is something I am not alone in struggling with during this time of year. But either the emotions are too close or I have been too intent on finding some comfort to share—comfort I struggle to find myself.


Last night, as I sat on the couch in a bad mood because one more draft had gone south, I thought about the line from "I Wonder as I Wander." Specifically, I thought about how Jesus "had come for to die." There was a time when I didn't care for that line. It sounded too much as if all Christ's earthly ministry was just extraneous material.


But then my wife reminded me that being born meant dying. There is no other way out of this side of reality (aside from the Parousia—the Return, which seems so very distant). And God knew that getting involved with mortal flesh meant dying in some form or fashion.


I suppose there was also the other side of that coin—experiencing the death of someone near and dear. It is, I believe, very different to encounter death on the Heaven-side of things than on the Earthly. I have to wonder if God-Enfleshed struggled to find joy or simply ached when those he'd come to love were no longer within reach of an embrace or able to sit across the table at dinner.


Somewhere within this, I must think there is comfort for those who are grieving. Perhaps it is in the knowledge that, in the Incarnation, we have been given the gift of a God that knows how difficult it is to face joyful times with a heart that is missing pieces. Maybe it is just that surely Jesus felt as we do and is forgiving when we must leave the room when the angels begin singing.


Or it could be simply a hope that, like Scrooge, our mourning will, eventually, be turned to dancing.


Comforter, comfort those who are missing someone.

First Sunday of Advent

John 3:30


It's an awful moment when you realize that the hero, the main character in the drama isn't you. I thought that type of moment was going to take center stage in the movie The Matrix. At one point, Neo, who we've been led to believe is the hero, the main character, the chosen one, goes to see the Oracle—a woman who can see who a person truly is, the one who can tell us if Neo is, in fact, the one. Surprisingly, at this moment, she says to the expected-hero, "Nope, sorry, you're not him." And while the movie doesn't play out the way I'd hoped it might, it got me thinking about when that moment came in my own life.


Maybe it was from reading too many comic books and myths, but I always wanted to be the hero. I kept hoping that one day the great quest would fall into my hands or that, in a moment of crisis, I'd know that my moment had come and I could step forward to be who I was born to be. I got used to thinking of myself as someone special.


For me, the awful moment didn't come in one scene. No prophetess looked me in the eye and told me that I wasn't the golden boy anymore. No, I guess, for me, it was more like John's story—one day I looked up, noticed that something had changed, and realized that I was on the decrease. The story was no longer going to follow my adventures.


Reading John's speech, he sounds so content. He sounds like a man who's accepted his role. He sounds almost joyful. How he did that I have no idea; because, I'm not ready to decrease. And when I look around at work and realize that someone else occupies the role of departmental hero—the one who learns so fast, gets things done so quickly, is the "golden boy" who can (as I once seemed to) do no wrong, I cannot look with joy upon their increase.


I suppose there's a lesson in all this about being grateful with whatever role I have to play. The story, after all, is not about me but about Christ. Maybe John got that and that's why he was able to get out of the way and not mope and lament that everyone who used to crowd around him with that look in their eyes were now hanging around someone else. Perhaps I just need to get over my own childhood dreams of being Frodo or Harry Potter or Spider-Man and accept my place in the background as a bit player in the greater story that God is telling.


Or maybe I'm being taught that heroics aren't like the movies portray them. Because, it feels like, saying what John said, accepting that awful moment with such grace, may have taken a hero.


Help me to accept myself, my role whatever it may be in serving you.

Christ the King Sunday

Around this time of year I begin to feel pulled in two different emotional directions. On the one hand, I'm excited that in a few days we'll crank up our collection of Christmas music, put up our decorations, and enjoy the fact that the holly-jolly time of year has come once again. But, at the same time, I'm a little sad. The few CDs that are marked to be played only in November will soon be stowed away, for another year. And as much as I love the fun and activity of December, I have equally grown to love the quiet weeks before Thanksgiving when night falls early and it seems the holiday season will go on and on.


In the midst of this time comes Christ the King Sunday (or, if you want less masculine and medieval language the Reign of Christ Sunday). It's a rather new, liturgically speaking, day in the calendar. One that, it seems to me, most people are still trying to put a finger upon. Not to say that I have. But as it rolls around, it's a day that blends rather well with how I feel both about the season of the year and the season of life I'm currently living through.


Right after Thanksgiving this year we plunge once again into Advent—a season that celebrates not just waiting but anticipation. We look forward not just to Christmas, but to that future advent. Something (someone) is coming, we know. Something new and wonderful and life changing (which means it's probably not something you'll find at a Black Friday sale) is drawing near. It's something that we've long been waiting for and, man-oh-man it's nearly here.


But this Sunday and the week that follows isn't yet in the Advent season. It's still Thanksgiving time which is about what is. It's about the right now including the people (and animals) who are a part of that now. It's about where we are in life, what we're doing. It's a time to look around and be thankful for it all.


That should be easy for me. With, as the prayer says, the "loving care" that surrounds me, I should be able to bask in this quiet present rather than want to rush on to the breathless anticipation that comes when the long wait is nearly over. I should be taking in the moment rather than looking toward the eastern horizon for a glimpse of what's on its way. Because, I should be able to see that what is coming is wonderful, yes. But that it is no more wonderful than what has come and what is.


This Sunday, to me, we are called to remember that Jesus has already been placed above every name. It's a day (and a week following) that, in the midst of my beginning to look toward that future redemption of all things, I must also turn my eyes to look around and see that redemption is already happening. It's a day to remember that even in the period of waiting, when things seem like they'll never change; there is a moment that contains its own joys and, I suppose, its own piece of redemption.


And it's a day to remember that even as I wait I cannot forget to be thankful for this moment that not so long ago I was waiting for with anticipation.


Thank you for the moment.

Second Sunday in November

There's a Rush song—"Ghost of a Chance"—that discusses the various twists and turns of life, all the different avenues our choices have taken us. It's a song that makes me think about the strange avenues I've walked down, the many bizarre paths that, somehow, led to a moment a decade ago when I sat across from the love of my life in a Chinese restaurant. And while November always makes me think about that long-ago-but-yesterday time, it's not just the big anniversary year that turns my thoughts back then.


I've hinted here and there in these writings that we're going through one of those transition points in our life. I finished seminary in the spring, we moved, started new jobs, and, ever since, have been unsure what the next ten years of our life together may hold in store.


Lots of people find times like this exciting. I don't. I hate, despise even, these sorts of times. It's as if I've rushed across town, fighting ten kinds of traffic, just to get somewhere on time to find the person behind the desk asking me to sign in and take a seat. Oh, and no, they have no idea how long my wait will be.


It's in these times that all the doors taken and those left closed (or those locked tight) come to mind. I begin to wonder if I did the right thing here. Did I make the right choice? Should I have taken that path instead of this one? Am I lost or, if I've taken some sort of wrong turn, can I find my way back?


These thoughts have plagued me for months. Now, here in November, I find myself trying to be thankful for the people, places, and things in my life. And, you guessed it; I'm having a little trouble being thankful for the waiting room within which we've found ourselves. I'm struggling to say thank you for this blind alley, the one that either leads nowhere or, when we finally make our way back to the road, will turn out to be miles away from where
we want to be. Is there anything to be thankful for? If I'm lost and wandering, doomed to stumble around for another thirty-odd years in the wilderness, is that really something for which to be grateful?


The irony of the moment, of this time of year, is that even as I think about where I am, how I have no idea what's next and struggle with hope that something is coming, I look over and see the girl I had to work up the courage to ask to lunch and then to dinner. And I remember a job—like now—that I wasn't thrilled with, long years of night school ahead, and no real plan for the next year, much less years, of my life.


And I remember that I had no idea that my whole life, my whole world was about to change.


One-who-will-be, thank you that I don't know what tomorrow brings.

First Sunday in November

There's a prayer I like to read each day during November. While reading it aloud a year or two ago, a friend of mine remarked on a line that offers thanks for the "failures and disappointments" we encounter. "I'm not there yet," she said. Yeah, me neither. But I get the nagging feeling I probably ought to work at getting "there.'


Neither disappointment nor failure conjures up feelings of thankfulness within me. And, if it's okay with you, I'd like to take this week to explore them. Why? Well, if you're like me, you're looking at those two words and not seeing a lot of gratefulness. (And if you're not like me…well, you can always get started on Christmas shopping). Plus, if I truly believe that God can redeem anything, I suppose I should even be thankful for the closed doors and the life that hasn't turned out like I planned.


Tied up with the feeling of disappointment are expectations, which always get me in trouble. If I'm really expecting the new Connie Willis book for Christmas but don't see it after every present has been opened, then I'm going to be disappointed. Now I'm not at the point of saying at the close of the day, "Oh thank you God that I did not get that book," but I can see not being all upset about things. There's always next year.


But while expectations play a part, sometimes the expectations are more hope than anticipation. Such as, I had hoped that after finishing my undergraduate and seminary degrees my life would be different. I thought that this awful feeling of wandering around lost would finally dissipate. I believed that my life would have a sense of purpose, and I'd rise up every morning to pursue a calling rather than drag myself into the cold to go to a job. I hoped my life after these experiences would not be like my life before them.


So when I look around in my work day and see the same surroundings I did before or when the past few years of my life seem like an interesting diversion that, like a ride on the midway, has come to an end, I feel disappointed. In fact, my disappointment threatens—more than I'll ever actually admit—to turn into despair. And I've no idea how to say thank you for such a god-awful feeling.


Yet, for some reason, I still feel that maybe I should be thankful for what I feel. I don't mean should because of some obligation, but because of me and, more importantly, my relationship with the Divine. Maybe saying thank you for the times when things didn't turn out as expected or hoped for is just a way of acknowledging that I don't know everything, particularly how my life is supposed to turn out.


Or maybe it's just a way of saying I love you to a friend who's stuck close when the path did not lead where perhaps either of us was expecting to go.


My friend, my companion thank you for not abandoning me even if things did not turn out as we'd planned.

Fifth Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:20-25


My wife and I, driving home the other night, were talking about trick-or-treating. She was sharing her thoughts on the difference between Linus and his well-tended pumpkin patch (which I wrote about last week) and the others in the Peanuts gang who went out in costume, taking joy in the act of receiving. That, after all, is what trick-or-treating is: a celebration of receiving.


This, along with Saul's refusal of hospitality, caused me to consider how little I partake in the joy of receiving something from someone else, how little I actually allow anyone to actually give me anything. And I found myself thinking about Halloween when I was young.


I carried with me, in most of my trick-or-treating, a plastic pumpkin. It was not especially big or deep, but it held its share. And I had a goal each year: I wanted it to be so full that, when we reached my grandparents house, I'd have to dump it out in a grocery bag before continuing on to their neighborhood. It's a goal, I guess, that could seem a little greedy, but greed had nothing to do with it. I didn't want to have more than anyone else. I just wanted to have received so much that I could no longer hold it. I wanted to set out again with a bucket that, while it looked empty, was actually full to overflowing.


These days my goal on Halloween night is to give away all the candy I have in-hand. Part of this is a change in role—from child to adult. But, unfortunately, it's also an indication of a change in me. I can't remember the last time I really felt that Halloween excitement that this day or this night I would receive something from someone else. And I have lost all sense of that desire to find myself so full to overflowing that I have to empty my pail before continuing.


Somewhere I lost the joy of receiving. I lost it with those around me, and I lost it with God. At some point in the years when I took pains to decide what costume to wear and now when I rarely take the time to dress up, I became more concerned with what I could give than with allowing others, and God, to give to me. I began to focus more on the joy I felt standing at the door giving candy rather than the joy found on the porch where, for no reason other than grace, I was given something on my journey through the darkness.


Perhaps this is why I've found myself aching from emptiness now and again this year. Maybe instead of a grocery bag full of candy in the house behind me, my pail is truly empty. Yet I still keep trying to reach deeper into it and find something else to give. In so doing, I move farther and farther from joy.


Maybe it is time to knock and allow other hands to give to me.


God, help me, when I feel empty, to hold out my pail for you to fill it once again.

Fourth Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:15-19


Near the end of It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, Linus is admonishing his friends for their disbelief in the Great Pumpkin. As he speaks, he lets one little word slip. Only after it is shouted into the night does he realize the horror of what was spoken. "I said if," he says, clamping his hands over his mouth. His exclamation of "if" the Great Pumpkin comes—rather than when—is, he knows, an act of unfaithfulness that spells his doom. No matter how good (or sincere) he's been, that one moment is all it takes to lose favor and bring out the wrath of this entity. It is not unlike the reaction of another being in our story from 1 Samuel.


The idea of the wrath of God is not a comfortable one. Heresies have arisen over the centuries that dared to separate the mean, nasty deity we see referenced in today's encounter and the loving Jesus of the Gospels. Smarter folks than I have attempted to reconcile this fickle God of the Old Testament and the One who was willing to die for those who killed him.


Let's look at Saul here. In fact, let's look at what Saul's in big trouble for in this episode. Saul is now an enemy of God because he didn't slaughter another human being. Because of this he's lost everything: God's favor, Divine friendship, not to mention his kingdom. The Holy One has even stopped speaking to him.


This is a bit frightening. It gets me thinking of other episodes in the Bible. Moses hit a stone and is barred from entering the Promised Land. And how many ancient kings were going along just fine but didn't answer a prophet's question exactly right? My gosh, how big a trouble am I in for my "if" moments?


Come to think of it, I've been wondering lately if I've been left, like Linus, shivering and alone in my pumpkin patch. I know I don't have to look hard to find my own moments of doubt or insincerity. I'm not sure, but I've probably disobeyed some direct order just like Saul did. Heaven knows there are things I've walked away from. And even though I wasn't supposed to carry out a task as bloody, I fear that in some of them was my one last chance to retain (or regain) favor, and I blew it. And now everything I've worked for, everything I'd hoped for or is, like "tricks or treats," gone forever.


But, then, in the midst of my cold and silent night I feel hands. There's no candy scattered about the ground, but there is someone leading me out of the night. There are no voices, but all is not silence. And, waking up the next morning, I begin to wonder if tomorrow, next week, or next year my faith, my sincerity will not seem in vain.


And, maybe, it doesn't matter so much if I do say "if."


Passionate God, thank you for not abandoning me in the night.

Third Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:11-14


As Halloween approaches, it is said that the veil between this world and the next becomes thin allowing passage and communication between here and there. This is the reason that some years ago they televised a séance that attempted to talk to Harry Houdini. Goes to show that our day is not that different from Saul's and a desire to talk to the dead has not gone out of fashion.


Over the weekend, my wife and I sat in the October night and talked about the dead. Namely, we talked about her dad who we lost a little more than a year ago. Perhaps it's that thinning barrier between what-is and what's-next. But he has been in our minds a lot lately and, with him, are things we wish we had said and done.


For reasons I will never be able to explain, my father-in-law liked and loved me almost instantly. I loved him as well. First, because he was the father of the woman I loved. But, soon, I loved him because of the man he was. And I've felt cheated because I only had a few years to know him before Alzheimer's began eating away that person—strong, independent, intelligent—and replacing him with one who was nearly the exact opposite of those things.


He was also, perhaps because of his personality or perhaps because he was my father-in-law, a little intimidating. I suppose it was this or the excuse of it that kept me from returning a lot of the affection he had for me. And before I could begin to correct this, he was disappearing into the fog of the disease that killed him. I was left, as I am now, wishing I had said and done things that I will never have the chance of saying and doing in this world.


This month, I've been thinking and writing about fear. And, I suppose, that theme plays in with regret since it is fear of experiencing that regret as others I love (hopefully later than sooner) pass on that pushes me to say and do more than I have before. Perhaps not all fear is wrong, as long as it does not overtake our lives.


But, in the dark autumn night, my wife and I talked about another fear: that those who are gone must wait until death or the transformation of all things to hear the words we left unsaid and long, now, to say. In reality, there is no medium in Endor to call up those on the other side. We can never say these things that weigh down our hearts face-to-face.


Yet, I do not believe they need go unsaid. Perhaps once upon a time there was a barrier that kept voices from passing back and forth. But just as I believe that the One who broke through the heavy stone of death hears me, those with him are not deaf to my whispered, regretful words. So like, but unlike, Saul, I do talk to the dead.


Resurrected Christ, comfort us with the knowledge that those who have gone before are, as we too will be, with you and the love that binds us cannot be broken by tombs or crosses.

Second Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:7-10


My wife and I saw, a few weeks ago, a preview for a vampire movie. The film itself appears to be about a boy who befriends a young girl who just happens to be one of the undead and, I'm supposing, eventually deals with the fact that his playmate is a murderous animal. This kind of plotline, according to my love, seems to match my own philosophy of relationships—don't get too close to people because you never know about them. At least, that's how she thought of it.


A little fear and trepidation about another person isn't always a bad thing. The necromancer or medium (despite tradition, the Bible never calls her a witch) in our reading above is wise to be a bit fearful of this stranger who comes cloaked in darkness. I doubt she ever imagines that this man before her is Saul, but she knows enough to think that there are some people in her world—just like in our own—who will gladly befriend you in order to betray you for their own gain.


But, I'll admit, I take this caution to an extreme. Like a medieval hold, I've taken great care in building my walls and fortifications to ensure that no one makes it through to the innermost places without first passing many well-guarded gates. As such, I can, when necessary, provide the appearance of opening up to another while still protecting myself if they turn from friend to foe.


Let's face it, relationships are scary. To allow a complete stranger into your life and your heart involves great risk. There's no word about what happens to this necromancer after she does Saul's bidding. Her reward for her trust in this stranger, for allowing him into her home and to see who she truly is, could have been exile…or worse. Something similar can happen with the people we meet in our lives. Someone who comes as a friend may deliver us to a certain kind of exile—from a group, or a job for instance—and may strike deep in our most vulnerable places and hurt us.


And that's exactly the way it worked out—and continues to play out—for God. Incarnate among us, the One-who-is-love wanted to become part of our story. In Christ, God put away all defenses and barriers between us and the Divine. That vulnerability was met with pain, and death.


But the story didn't end there, nor does the relationship. In my daily life, I know that God is continuously putting the Divine Heart on the line, and I am continuously breaking it and wounding the One who loves me more than any other. And, yet, God never builds a wall. Never does fear separate us.


Despite this, I still set guards upon my wall and bar the gates whenever a stranger approaches. And I can rest in comfort when the Saul's of the world are out walking about by night.


Of course, I suppose, with so many doors between me and the world, I can miss the one who stands at the door and knocks.


Give me courage, Christ, to be as vulnerable as you were, are, and will be.

First Sunday in October

I Samuel 28:3-6


It's frightening to come to a point or place in life and find that you have no idea where to go next. Take Saul, for example. He stands today without counsel and without a clue what to do. It feels, whether true or not, that he has wandered so far from the expected path of his life that he is even beyond God's reach.


I'm reading some of my own life into the text when I say that Saul could be seen as someone to whom things happened, and he was simply swept along with the tide. Did he want to be a leader of this magnitude? We're not told explicitly either way. But that is what came to him, a wind that got beneath him and blew him like a falling autumn leaf. And, it seems, upon reaching this moment in life the wind stopped, leaving him with the decision about what to do next.


Living in the country these past few months, I've become reacquainted with how dark the night truly is. Attempting to maneuver the long driveway down to the mailbox after sunset without a flashlight is a little scary. There are curves in the drive that, if not followed, will lead into the grass and perhaps cause my feet to become tangled in fallen limbs, or, worse, I might run into one of the many trees out here. And this goes without mentioning the fact that in this darkness someone could be ahead of me and I'd never know it until I was face to face with them.


Sadly, this renewed experience of night has coincided with a time in my life much like Saul's—a period where I have no idea what direction to take on the road ahead. Like Saul, I find that all the means at my disposal are no help in showing a way forward. And God who once gave counsel, does not now even whisper. I am afraid.


This month, I'm hoping to offer, in this month of scary movies and spooky things, meditations on fear. However, as I work to write this first week, I find that am lacking on wise counsel. Fear about tomorrow, about the path that seems so dark ahead of me, paralyzes me in the same way that Saul himself stood paralyzed on the hilltop. And while the angels counsel not to fear, I find that I cannot easily escape its grasp.


But I try and hold on to the knowledge gained in better times that fear clouds my mind and tampers with my thoughts in order to feed itself. The country darkness, I must remember, is often only deep until I stand still and allow my eyes to adjust. And that scary silence that Saul, and I, often fear is an absence may be, may just be, a space that is quiet enough for me to hear.


You who is without fear, help me as I stare into the darkness that is the future and help me, in the silence, to hear you saying "fear not it is I."

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

I've had house to myself this week since my wife had to travel because of work And while there's a bit of pleasure in being at home alone, mostly I spent the time counting the hours until her plane landed.


Like many married people, we've had our fair share of time apart. Between work trips and the in-between times moving between states, there have been quite a few nights when we each dined alone and spoke only through emails and phone calls.


I'm not a big fan of the phone as my beloved will tell you. I miss something, particularly with my wife, when I can't see the person with whom I'm talking. And I tend not to talk as much or for as long. So what would usually be an evening spent catching up on our lives and our day becomes a half-hour or so of hitting the high points before we say goodnight.


It's difficult to really tend a relationship when you can't see the other person. At least, it is for me. My feelings don't change. The moments spent talking with the one I love are no less precious on the phone than in person. But it's much less rare that I feel that connection that I often feel when the two of us are together. In fact, in all honesty, I sometimes find my mind wandering much easier when I don't have someone upon which to focus my attention.


This is perhaps the problem I've had with God for years. As much as I want to sit and talk with Christ, as much as I want to share my thoughts, my day, my fears, and my dreams I far too often find my mind wandering. Too easily I drift from my focus to thinking about the leaky sink or simply becoming absorbed in my own thoughts. And when I do talk, those conversations are often far too brief in comparison with the rest of my day. Especially considering this is someone I dearly love and that for whom my heart longs.


My wife observed, a week or two ago, that God is the only person she is in relationship with whom she's never seen. There is good spirituality in the reminder that we see the Presence all around us—in nature, in the animals who share our lives, and in one another. However, this thinking does not make for great relationships. While I may look about the house and see many reminders and perhaps even catch glimpses of my love, it's nowhere near the same as actually seeing her.


So each night, as I hung up the phone, I looked forward to the day when our time apart was over and I was again truly with the one I love. Each night drew me closer to the moment I could see her again. And until the time apart ended, I was filled with longing.


Perhaps it is a feeling similar to that described by the Psalmist: "like a deer longs for streams of water." Yes, I long to see the One I love.


My dear One whom I long for, help me to see glimpses and reminders of you and draw closer to you until we are together.

Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Jeremiah 8:20


Jeremiah's words "Harvest is past, summer ended" have me thinking less about what is said in that book and more about the world around me this week. For us, summer is not quite ended, but autumn draws near with nights longer than days and turning leaves, which signal that the time for reaping will soon end.


There is, the author of Ecclesiastes tells us, a time for everything. In my own life, it is a time for harvest. Like the farmers that are our neighbors, I feel like I've done my own work of preparation, planting, and tending during the long growing season. And while I am in no way close to the autumn of life, I am at a point where I'm looking for something on the stalks out in the yard.


However, while the summer has nearly ended and the time of harvest is upon us, I can find no evidence of my hard work. There are pieces scattered about that testify to my toil, but the field I've sweated and worked in these many long months (truly, years) looks like it has never been tilled.


Was all that hard work for nothing? Were all those hours, all the sweat spilled useless?


If I continue with the agricultural metaphor, I suppose I could say that I'm wondering if I planted in the right ground. I wonder if I chose the right crop for the soil. I wonder, even, if I had any business attempting any type of growth.


Are you, like me, looking for harvest? Has summer ended and you find that there is nothing in this season of your life to show for your long days of work? Perhaps you've networked, and interviewed at dozens of places but are still out of work. Maybe you have a job, but have worked long hours for a promotion that was given to someone else. Perhaps you've finished a degree, but you find yourself, day after day, at a job that bears no relation to what you studied. Or maybe you've done your best and given all you had only to find yourself impacted in the latest round of layoffs.


How do we hold on to hope of harvest when the wind is beginning to strip leaves from the trees and there seems to be nothing out in the garden that hasn't been burned up by summer's heat? I don't know if there is any easy answer to that. It can feel in these times that the darkness of despair has won, and we are alone in an empty field.


But I try and remember that I am not alone. There are others who have found that summer is past. And even if there were not, the Presence of Love does not abandon us. Even if Christ seems to have no answers for my "whys" uttered in the chilling breeze, I must remember that I am not left to stand alone in it.


And, I suppose, just as Light came in the darkness of the year, there can be hope for harvest, even when it has passed.


God of every season, give us hope that what is sowed in love is never in vain.

Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Psalm 14


"There's no God." According to our Psalmist, only a fool would say such a thing. I suppose, then, I would be among the fools of this world. And, to be honest, I don't know if that's the most foolish answer to the evil that runs rampant in this world.


That's not a typical devotion-style statement, I suppose. I should probably be writing that I agree with the Psalmist and those nonbelievers out there are ignorant. How could anyone (anyone!) ever say that there is no loving God with, as the old song says, the whole world in hand? Well, honestly, it's not that hard.


The ten-dollar word for trying to reconcile an evil world with a good God is theodicy. It's a fancy way of saying that we have no idea why people fly planes into towers, why politicians start wars, or why the forces of nature can shatter dreams in the course of a few hours. But this doesn't mean people don't keep trying to explain it. And one very real explanation for it, according to many (and at one time myself) is, as the Hebrew literally says, "No God."


You can imagine that I don't take too kindly to being called a fool. Personally, I put a great deal of thought into my beliefs even during my atheist days when I determined that I didn't believe in anything. Saying that my conclusions were foolish is a bit condescending. In fact, I'm tempted to tell the Psalmist what lake into which he should take a plunge.


But then I began to look at the word we so often render as "fool."


For us, a foolish person is one who is someone who doesn't put a lot of thought into what they're doing. Perhaps they're ignorant. Perhaps they're running off half-cocked. Whatever, they're someone whose word shouldn't carry a whole lot of weight.


But the word we have here is not about ignorance or bad conclusions, but about worth. Particularly, it's a word that relates to a person's worth to those around them. It would, for us, be closer to the meaning if we were to say that the one who has nothing to offer others says, "No God."


This, of course, has an entirely different meaning for me. No longer is the Psalmist questioning my reasoning, but is instead letting me know that my well-formed thesis isn't doing anyone any good at all. In fact, while I think it's an explanation for the pain and suffering in this world, it's as worthless to the hurting as…well as water to those who are drowning.


What does this have to do with our daily life? Maybe you've never questioned God's existence. Or maybe you've never worried about why bad things happen in the world. But many of us have been tempted to explain those moments when the idea of a world "God so loved" seems at odds with the surrounding reality. And in those times the Psalmist comes to us again, reminding us how worthless such explanations are to those in pain.


God of every moment, help me when confronted by suffering in life to look for where you are rather than where you weren't.

Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Psalm 139


Psalm 139, like many within that ancient songbook, has an introduction. The Hebrew version of this introduction says something to the effect that this song is "to the leader, of David." However, in the Greek version (called the Septuagint), the introduction tells us that this Psalm is "for the end."


For the end? What does that mean? The end of what? Most likely, since these songs were meant for the worshipping community, it was meant for the end of worship. But I think it would work just as well at the end of a day. It's just the kind of prayer you could say before going to bed. Though, for me, it doesn't seem, at first glance, to be the most peaceful thing to meditate upon right before falling asleep.


"You searched me and you will know me." Yes, Lord, you knew when I sit and stood today. Why, you even knew not only every word on my tongue this day, but everything I didn't tell a soul. Ah, yes, how wonderful, too wonderful indeed.


Are you kidding? There's nothing wonderful about that. In fact, it's downright terrifying. God knows. God knows not just all the bad things I said about other drivers in the privacy of my car but also the petty jealousies that have gripped my heart throughout the day. No I don't think "wonderful" is the word I'd use here. And despite the way this Psalm is often read aloud, I don't think the Psalmist initially thought this was something to get excited about.


The lectionary cuts out a large part of the psalm that, I think, is informative about what the writer was thinking. Right after verse six there are questions about where one can hide from the presence of God. Can I hide in heaven? No, you're there. If I could fly to the morning I would find you there as well. For our Psalmist, like me, this reality makes him want to run and hide.


It is not the most relaxing of activities to sit down at the end of the day and admit that all those things that I hold secret from the world and, to be honest, that I try to keep secret from myself are not unknown and unnoticed. Yet, as uncomfortable as that knowledge is, I find that there is some strange comfort in it. Perhaps it's a comfort that the Psalmist found—that this God who knows us is also the One who made even the most invisible parts of our being. In this sense, there's a peace in the knowledge that God knows how I'm put together and, somehow, understands a little of why I am the way I am, even when I don't.


Or, maybe, it's the knowledge that God already knows how awful I am. Unlike the rest of the world, I never have to wonder what God will think if ever all those ugly thoughts, those inconsistencies, the selfishness was uncovered. It already has been uncovered. And, somehow, I'm still loved.


Gracious Creator, thank you for loving me because of who I am and not in spite of it.

Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 14:1, 7-14


As far back as I can remember I've taken Jesus' statements about how to pick a seat at the banquet literally. Early on, I suppose, it made sense from a standpoint of humility. Don't try and be more important than you are. Don't sit next to the birthday boy or girl unless you were invited to do so. Yet even as I got older I held onto this nugget of wisdom because it seemed pragmatic, which fit my nature. It hurts to be told you're sitting in the wrong seat, at least when you're being bumped back a row or two. Therefore, don't do it. Wait to be invited to sit in the front row.


But I've always known that Jesus' words have a loophole, an open door to false humility. This bit of advice provided me with a way to feel good about myself while seeming so quiet and uninterested in status. Because, while being demoted from the high seat is humiliating, getting promoted from the cheap seats is cause for awe. And to do so when it seems everyone except you knows that you belong in those seats up front…well, that makes you seem even more humble.


I've thought about these verses in this way for years. In all this time I've never once looked beyond the simple meaning of this teaching. For all these years, I've always thought that it was about me. At least, I did until this week.


Following this teaching about choosing a chair, Jesus offers up a suggestion on the guest list. Instead of inviting people who will (and can) do something for you in return, why not invite people who won't be able to repay you. Why not send an invitation to people who, no matter how many times you put them at the head of the table, will never be able to do the same for you, at least not at any table worth talking about.


This statement about who to include on the guest list, I believe, points beyond what I've often taken as the meaning of the preceding verses. It shows that this secret means of making myself look good and Christian that I've winked at is not just slimy but completely misses the point. It means that what Jesus is talking about has absolutely nothing to do with me.


They do not have any way to repay you, Jesus says. Luke defines they as the lame, poor, blind and so on, which are a part of they. But we cannot get bogged down there. They are anyone who can't do a thing for us. They are anyone whom we will garner no fanfare or favors or prestige for exalting if we lift them up. They are the subject of this speech, not me.


Jesus, I've come to realize, isn't at all interested in what seat I sit in when I'm the guest. His concern is where I seat others, especially when no one on earth cares where they sit.


God, help me to remember that it isn't about me.

Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Jeremiah 1:4-10, Luke 13:10-17


This week, we encounter the call story of the prophet Jeremiah. In one of those long, detailed conversations with the Divine that only the prophets of old seemed to have. God tells our young prophet-to-be that "Before I formed you in the belly, I knew you. Before you came forth from a womb, I consecrated you…." It's beautiful imagery and a powerful statement. And, if you're like me, someone has quoted a phrase like this to you in the difficult times of life.


"How's that," someone will say, "life seems to be a collection of missteps and mistakes? Why it's like God told Jeremiah, I knew you in the womb and had a plan for you even then."


"You say that you don't understand why bad luck seems to befall you at every turn?" someone else will respond. "All things work together for good, that's what Paul said."


Most of the time, I hope, those delivering this quoted comfort really are trying to help. They're trying to offer up some measure of understanding in a world that often doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But sometimes words like these are thrown up before suffering as a sort of defense of our own understanding of God and how God works in the world. Just think of the Pharisees and their scripture quoting in today's Gospel. "Hey," they said, "you're not supposed to do that. We, of course, saw that woman….but…but…but we couldn't help her. Not today. It's the Sabbath. God doesn't like us doing things like that today."


As easy as it can be to pick on the Pharisees for offering this woman dogma instead of comfort, I know that I often do the same. Sometimes it's easier to tell someone how the universe works—at least according to my theological understanding—than to struggle with the reality of their situation and the conflict it brings. In such times, at best, I leave another alone in their suffering. At worst, I make an already distant God seem farther away.


Even though the words we read in Jeremiah were meant for him, this doesn't mean we cannot take comfort in them. The God who knew the prophet when he was still in the womb also knew us before we were born. And we can find hope in the idea that our Redeemer is working behind the scenes in this hurting world.


But we must always be careful not to throw scripture up as a shield and attempt to hide ourselves from the difficulties raised by the world around us. Just as the Pharisees seemed to put words above people when their understanding of the Divine and how God works in the world was challenged, we too have to be careful to never offer the Jeremiah 1:2 band-aid to cover over someone's disturbing wound when all they really need is for us to allow our own hurts to show. And for us to bleed with them.


Comforter, help me to know when to bandage the wounds of those around me and when to bleed with them until healing comes.

Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

Psalm 80, Luke 12:49-56


My wife and I love the movie Moonstruck. Just the other night we sat outside as the sun was setting and a red sky gave way to darkness trading lines from the movie (not an uncommon occurrence for us). One of my favorites comes after two of the characters attend the opera, and Ronny tells Loretta that "Love don't make things nice."


That quote (from a movie that is older than I realize) sums up what makes today's Gospel reading disturbing, at least, to me. It sums up my own misconceptions about not just love but the One-who-is-love and what happens when that Presence heeds the prayer like that of today's Psalm.


"Did you believe," Jesus says, "that I came to give peace on the earth?" No, not even close. "I came to cast fire upon the earth." He then goes on to say that instead of unity he has come bearing division. Not exactly one of Jesus' happier sayings. But it is a very real one.


Think about the old romantic comedies. From Cary Grant's mild-mannered paleontologist in Bringing Up Baby to Howard Bannister and his rocks in What's Up Doc, love never brought peace. Same goes for Loretta in Moonstruck, love did not usher in a pastoral period of life where all was flowers and trees. In fact, time and again, it seemed that the world had caught flame and was slowly consuming that idyllic scene.


Love, as I quoted at the outset, does not make things nice. So if God is love and Jesus is the embodiment of that love, why would we ever think that Presence would bring anything else than fire and division? Love can have that effect on our world.


It is in light of this that I've begun to rethink Psalm 80. For a long time, I cheered at the words from this Psalm. Yes, indeed, listen Holy One. Awaken your power and draw near. That's what we need. Come down here and shake things up for all those bad people.


As I said, I used to get all excited reciting these words. But now…I'm wondering if that's what I really want. Do I really want the power of the love-that-created-the-stars to awaken? Do I really want the "impression of the reality of God" (as the author of Hebrew's calls Jesus) to draw near again? The world was turned upside down then. What might happen this time? What comfortable convictions will be shattered? What, if anything, will ever be the same again?


What, dare I ask, will be changed in me?


I come not to bring peace but to cast fire, Jesus says. I come with the fire that consumes and clears away the unnecessary brush. I come with the fire that burns, marking you forever in the encounter.


I come with love, and it will not make things nice. But it just may make you more like me.


God of love, come again into my world, upset the tables, and drive out what keeps me from expressing the fierce love you give me.

Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Genesis 15:1-6; Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16


It wasn't my idea to leave, you remember that don't you? Dad's business wasn't booming, but we were doing well. I didn't love the work, but it was a good job. Heck, in those times, it was a job. And, if things had continued on as they were, we would have stayed there.


This isn't to say that you were wrong or to lay any kind of blame at your feet, you understand. I know that this was my choice. I had every opportunity to say no. You certainly didn't make me leave, and I doubt that you would have even if I'd refused. The choice to pack up and travel so far away was mine (well ours since this affected her as much as me).


But it hasn't been easy. It hasn't been easy waiting, I mean. This experience has been beyond my imagination. I've seen parts of the world I'd never dreamt of seeing. I've even led battles. Not bad for an old man, I must say. Yet, the waiting….


I realize that I don't have to stay. You won't keep me here. And over the past few nights, you should know, we've been talking about packing up and going back home. I have enough, I think, to buy back the business. If not, I'm still known back there. I can get a job, at least until I'm too old to work. And we can have a house again. I'm growing tired of living like a nomad.


What I need to know is that you haven't forgotten about us. I don't think you have, but, I don't know, some days I have doubts. I wonder if I made some mistake along the way and you got angry enough that you didn't want to talk to me anymore. Maybe I took a wrong turn and you're waiting for me to correct that so I can get back on track and things can happen again.


You see, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I did all this for nothing. I'm afraid that the voice I heard wasn't actually yours but my own desire for something more in life. This fear inside me has been growing for some time and there are days—too many days—when I've begun to think that I've made the biggest mistake of my life.


And…what's that? Yes I see them. There are so many of them out here, far away from the cities. I can barely pick out the familiar patterns among the usually invisible ones. The sky seems filled with them tonight. Look….there, a falling star.


Was that you? If I hadn't been looking I would never have seen it. It was so faint, even in the darkness. But I couldn't help feeling, as it burned for that split second, that it was you saying hello.


Maybe it is only me reading too much into it. But, I don't know, I've begun to think…we may stay. What's waiting just a little longer?


God of the real—seen or not-seen—remind us, from time-to-time, as we wait upon you that you cannot forget us and will not abandon us.

Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

Hosea 11:1-11


Last week, in the Gospel reading, Jesus told a story about the friend at midnight. You remember this one, it's the story where, when his neighbor came knocking, the friend finally got out of bed not out of love but because the other, basically, annoyed him into doing so. Despite the fact that it sometimes feels like this is the most effective means of prayer, this story was never meant as an allegory for how God relates to us.


Today's reading from Hosea could be said to set us straight in that kind of thinking. Amidst the prophecy, there is something important revealed about the Divine character. You see, says the Holy One, it is God I am and not a human being. I don't act the way you act. I don't react the way you react. I know you think that I do, but that's because you're limited by your experience as human beings. And, naturally, that's how you think I am—just like one of you. So, since you're sometimes so drained by the needs of others, since, at times, you don't want to get out of bed to answer the door, since there are moments when you are grumpy and irritable, naturally, you think that I am as well.


But, God says, I'm not like that. You don't drain me. You don't have to convince me to get out of bed and give you what you need. I'm not going to give you scorpions when you ask for eggs or stones for bread. Though, because I can't always explain what's going on, it can seem like that's exactly what I'm doing. Remember, though, that I'm not like that. I'm not like mortals.


And yet, by the mystery of the Incarnation, the One-who-made-all-things does know intimately what it is like to be mortal. In Christ, the immortal knew what it was to be few of days. During those thirty-odd years on earth, the one who is not bound by the limits of time and space knew the past as memory, the moment as fleeting, and tomorrow as uncertain. In that brief miracle when the Divine walked among us, the self-sustaining-one knew what it was to be drained, exhausted, and irritable.


This, in itself, is a miracle. But the even greater miracle is that the experience of humanity was not just a brief, fleeing moment—an experiment that met its close. No in that mystery called the Ascension, humanity became a part of God's continuing existence. And we are given the assurance that the Immortal did not just know what it means to be mortal, but remembers and continues that experience.


"God I am," Hosea's prophecy declares, "and not a human being." But, this doesn't mean that I don't understand what it means to be human.


Immortal Love, your ways are not our ways nor your thought ours. But I thank you that you understand my thoughts, moods, struggles and mortality.

Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 11:1-13


The "friend" in today's Gospel finally gets out of bed because of the impudence, the ignoring of convention, the shamelessness of the man at the door. This bit about impudence or shamelessness strikes me; perhaps because I'm engaged in a bit of it myself. Like a lot of people these days, I'm in the midst of looking for a job. This means that I'm contacting a lot of people I've known over the years and shamelessly asking if they know of any openings where they work. It's not my strong suit. Asking people via conversation and email, looking through my list of contacts over the years, and, of course, knocking and knocking on any door I can find feels as though I'm making a nuisance of myself. But that's the way to find a job. Sort of the same way that Jesus seems to be saying this is a means of prayer.


But sometimes, in both cases, it doesn't work, does it? Sometimes it feels like we ask and look and knock over and over again and no one ever comes to the door. No matter how many people mention your name to another, you still find yourself sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring. And no matter how persistent I may be in certain prayers, there are things to which God has yet to respond.


I have no idea why God sometimes seems to act like the friend who will not get out of bed. But I do know that Jesus was never trying to say that God responds only to repeated requests or formulaic prayers. This is, after all, what the disciples (and I) want—prayer that is effective and causes the Heavens to open up and rain down our heart's desire.


That isn't, however, what Jesus provides. In fact, he is less concerned with the how of prayer than the why behind it. We can see this evidenced in the images Jesus uses throughout this week's passage—friends, fathers and sons. Both point to relationships. And this, for me, is what today's reading is all about.


The people I've emailed and called over the past several weeks haven't been strangers, they were people I knew who, because of their relationship with me, are willing to help me, just as I would them. And over the years, I've maintained contact with them not because of what they can do for me but because I cared for them and wanted their life to remain in close contact with mine.


Prayer is not about saying the right things or keeping in touch with God in case you need something, it's a means of maintaining and growing our relationship with the Divine. It doesn't mean that we can't ask for things that we need, but we always must remember that this isn't the reason we have entered into conversation with the one who loves us more than any other.


My friend, I do not understand why no matter how long I ask, seek, and knock no answer seems to come. Help me to remember that prayer is more than request and receipt and give to all the desires of their heart.

Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 10:38-42


Martha usually gets a bad rap. Some people like to use her as an example of the modern busyness—rather than sit and hear the words of Jesus, she (like so many of us) is consumed with her work. Other, more spiritual times, you'll hear a preacher expound on the contemplative life of Mary as opposed to those Christians who think God can be heard just as well while we're washing the dishes, working outside, or, even, writing.


These interpretations have their place, I suppose. It's good to be reminded that we can be too busy. And it's good to recall the need to "be still." But to expound only on these two interpretations and to constantly malign poor, hard-working Martha causes us to miss something in Jesus' words.


But before getting to those words, let's note that Martha has a point. Having Jesus show up at the door meant there were probably more than a few extra mouths to feed. This probably threw the dinner plans all out of whack and Martha was rushing around trying to get it all together. And there's Mary: sitting around like one of the guys, oblivious to the fact that unless she plans to take a little trip into Jerusalem for some take-out, everyone's about to be real hungry.


Now, the way Martha went about dealing with this issue probably wasn't the best. "Oh Mary, dear, would you mind giving me a hand in the kitchen," probably would have gone a long way toward getting what she wanted. But instead of doing that she tells Jesus (dragging him into this domestic dispute) that perhaps while he's talking about that love-thy-neighbor stuff he ought to remind little sister there that her neighbor needs the carrots cut and ice put in the glasses.


Jesus, smart guy that he is, doesn't get caught up in this squabble. Instead, he says something completely off-topic and mysterious. In other words, he does what Jesus always does—comes from a completely different direction.


"Martha," he says, "you are anxious and you have many troubles. But one thing is necessary."


I can only guess that Martha had the same reaction as I did to this, which is to scratch my head and say "huh?" But as I've thought about it, I've come back again and again to those words. I too can be anxious and have many troubles. And, like Martha, I sometimes complain about something or someone but that's not the real issue. Half the time, I don't know what the real issue is. But, usually once someone has pointed out that I really shouldn't be fussing at them, I realize that this is not the thing I need. It's not help in the kitchen, someone to make up the bed, or anything that I'm complaining about that is necessary.


And that's when I start looking for what—which one thing—I do need.


God of peace, you search us and know us. Help us as we try and find the true need buried beneath the anxiety and trouble that fill us each day.

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

Amos 7:7-17


Being a graduate of seminary but not working in a church makes for a lot of stalled conversations. People ask where I was before moving back to my home town and, when I tell them, inquire about what congregation I'm working with or where I am in a particular denomination's discernment process. Each time I bring things to a halt by saying that I'm not a pastor. At least, ministry is not my day job.


Amos had a similar conversation stopper in today's reading. This priest of Bethel who had authority over religious matters in that area told Amos to go and apply his trade elsewhere. "Go home and make a living as a prophet" is basically what Amaziah tells him. Amos, however, replies, "I'm not a prophet." By this he means he's not a professional one—a full-time, supported by the king, member of a guild of prophets. He's actually just a herdsman and a tender of trees down south. "That's", he tells Amaziah, "my day job."


Personally, I think Amos is an underused example of ministry. Too often we look to the people who gave up everything as paragons of what it means to follow God. The Disciples, for example, left their (somewhat) steady jobs and began to follow Jesus—a path that would take them into being full-time ministers. King David left shepherding of sheep far behind and, instead, shepherded an entire nation. Don't misunderstand me; there is nothing wrong with those who are called to give up their daily life and work to follow Christ. Those to whom the call comes to "go to a land I will show you" and respond by saying "Here I am" are brave indeed.


But equally brave are those like Amos. No, it doesn't appear he gave up the safety and security of his income to do what God called him to do. But we also don't get any inkling that he was in any way disobedient or somehow less of a prophet for doing so. In fact, if you read through the brief book of this prophet's words, you'll find that he's had a lot of impact on how we as Christians think and try to live.


All this is said to point out that serving God and ministering to the world doesn't always involve vows of poverty, long journeys into the unknown, or even the lack of steady income. Sometimes it means keeping your day job while evenings or weekends are given over to the work God is calling you to do. The ministry of those who are not ordained, who do not work directly for the local congregations or denominational offices are no less important than that of those who do.


In fact, sometimes those people can make an even greater impact in the daily lives of those beyond the walls of the church. Just think how many have read the words of Amos.


Loving God, help us to hear your call and be brave enough to give up and brave enough to keep the herds and trees we tend.

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Kings 5:1-14


If you travel long enough and drive far enough you'll see them—what I've always heard called tourist traps. Maybe it's a giant ball of yarn, a shoe house, or life-sized dinosaurs. And no matter what it is, the signs raise a certain level of expectation about what's to come And if we are lured by their promise to leave the familiar road and wander some longer-than-expected way, we will find…well, probably a bit of disappointment. That's probably similar to what Naaman must have felt when he came to Israel for healing.


Now Elisha was no roadside attraction. But the young Israelite girl's advertising was what sent this war hero off on a long journey away from his familiar surroundings. And, based on his experience and the girl's words, he had some expectations. "Look, I said to myself, he will come out. And he will stand and call on the name of the Holy One his God. And wave his hand toward the place. And take away the leprosy." Naaman thought for sure he'd get to see a little magic act out of this prophet and healer.


But what he gets is not what he expected. Elisha tells him to simply go wash in the Jordan. "What," Naaman thinks. The rivers at home are just as good as the rivers here. In fact, they're better. I could have stayed at home if all I wanted to do was bathe in a river to get well. Why'd I come all this way anyhow?


Occasionally (okay, a lot), I've felt like Naaman. I feel God has led me to some particular place—a new city, a new job, even just a change in my routine—that I believe will allow me to serve God and grow as a person. But when I get there I find things aren't as I expected. And I wonder why I couldn't have stayed where I was. Wasn't that city or job just as good as this one if not better? Maybe I should just go back home.


When travelling, it is often scary to go off the familiar road. To turn off and follow the direction to some roadside attraction is to trust that we can find our way to them without getting lost. And, to truly appreciate them, we have to give up on the expectations we've built up in our minds. Otherwise, as Naaman nearly did, we risk missing out on the wonder and surprise that awaits us.


I've lost count of the many times I've wanted to pack up and go home because the off-road God has led me upon doesn't lead to where I expected it to lead. And I've begun to wonder, if, like Naaman, I could put my expectations aside I might find some miracle in that giant ball of yarn.


God of the unexpected, help me to put my expectations aside and, instead, look for what you are doing in my life.

Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Kings 2:1-14; Luke 9:51-62

 This week the stories are all about leaving. And with any story about that subject—about the parting of friends and loved ones—there are those who realize what's happening (Elisha) and those who don't have the slightest clue (the disciples). Reading both of these I have to chuckle when people comment that Scripture does not speak to our lives today. Today, more than most days, it speaks directly to mine.


We get a sense that Elisha knows something is about to happen. He knows something is coming. When the descendents of the prophets of Beth-El come out with the tragic news, Elisha does not seem surprised by it. Perhaps there were hints, things unsaid, a distant look in Elijah's eyes, or, maybe, he had told his student that he would soon be saying goodbye. And suddenly every moment was precious. Elisha was determined to drag that goodbye out to its last second.


But the disciples, no matter how many times—cryptically and outright—they were told what was coming, were oblivious to the news. They didn't notice the signs. They didn't see that something was wrong. And, perhaps, when the hammer fell on the nails, they realized that they had not made the most of the time. I often wonder how many of them, if they were tempted, would have chosen to go back in time and savor every moment and try to change the way things turned out.


There are the goodbyes we know are coming. When a friend gets a job in a new state, we are faced with the reality that this person who has become such an important part of our life may never be in the same room with us again. In those times, we drag out the conversations, lengthen the evenings. We do all we can to put off the little goodbyes that are taking us closer and closer to the last goodbye. Moments become precious.


Some partings, however, come without warning. Maybe we, like the disciples, were given hints that things would not always be as they are now. Or, maybe, we have no warning that the person who was here yesterday will not be here tomorrow. And, unlike Elisha, we do not get to follow them to the Jordan for one last conversation, one last look, one last moment.


There is no balm for these partings. When two of us are separated on this earth, there is certainly hope of seeing one another again. But we all know that lives have a way of filling up and dear faces soon find themselves relegated to memory and Christmas cards as new ones are met. And when the whirlwind comes, we are faced with a world without someone we love.


Even Jesus went away, leaving his friends behind. But he left with a promise that he would see them again. And we must trust that neither chariots or horses or crosses or goodbyes will be the last word in our conversation.


Be with us in our goodbyes, expected and unexpected.


(This week's post is dedicated to my friend Joanna. May light perpetual shine upon her.)

Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 8:26-39


It gets overshadowed by the more impressive points of the story. To be honest, it's hard not to pay attention when you're told your antagonist is a wild, naked man roaming among the tombs like a character out of a horror movie. In fact, I'm quite surprised some studio—desperate for a Halloween box-office win—hasn't put our man on film. He'd be heavily made up, probably modestly clothed, and at the climax we'd see the CGI demons come rushing out of him like lava from a volcano.


But the story here is about more than demons and wild men (and pigs). The story is about home.


At the outset of the story we're told that this man—whose name we never know—did not remain in a house. The word for house doesn't just mean that he didn't have a roof over his head. It implies living with a family—those who loved him. This isn't just a case of living on the outskirts of civilization; this man was alone.


This is why the end of the story is not to be missed. The temptation is to think that the conversation with Jesus is just coda. But it isn't. The ending of the story takes us back to the beginning and that statement about this man and his lack of a home. Jesus, out of love, sends this man to a place he had not been in a long time. He sent him home—a place of friends, family, community.


Talking about this story with a friend, the question came up "What if home isn't home?" What if the place that is "home" is just as lonely as the tombs, as life among the dead?


I, of course, did not have nor do I have any answer for that question. Sometimes it feels that the place we came from—be it the place we grew up, where we spent our formative years, or even a place that once was home but has since been taken from us by tragic events or bad memories—is not a place we want to which we want to return. Maybe the man who had been possessed feared returning to the village because he knew no one there would welcome him.


But what I did say, and what I do believe, is that home is more than a place. Home, in the end, is wherever we are allowed to be who we were created to be. It is with people who know our past—no matter how wild and naked it was—and love us anyway. No, they love us because that is who we were and part of who we are.


Finding our home can be difficult. It can feel like years before we are reminded who we are. It can seem that we belong among the dead.


But the day does come when a boat appears and someone, fearlessly, approaches when all others run away. And they ask "What is your name?"


God you know us and call us by name. Remind us who we are so we might live into whom you created us to be and find those who will love us for all we are and all we've been.

(Edit to Add: I posted a different devotion earlier today.  In the end, I liked this one better.)

Third Sunday after Pentecost

I Kings 21:1-21a


"I found you," Elijah tells Ahab, "because you sold yourself to do the evil in the eyes of the Holy One."


"Because you sold yourself." Those are strong words. They remind me of the stories of bluesmen in the Mississippi Delta who went to the crossroads to sell their souls to the Devil. It implies an exchange of promises, a contract, a deal struck by moonlight. They're words that are quite dramatic.


And, as such, they tempt me to ignore them as hyperbole. Isn't Elijah exaggerating just a bit? Yes, Ahab benefitted from the schemes of his wife. He probably didn't need Naboth's land, but he certainly didn't turn it away when it became available. Yet, despite this, he didn't ask for Naboth's death. He didn't kill him. Ahab, in the end, just benefitted from circumstance. Really, if he didn't take hold of the land someone else probably would.


Besides, what does it mean to sell yourself anyhow? Was Elijah implying that Ahab had sacrificed a part of his character or, else, himself for that land? Did he mean that by taking hold of that vineyard that Ahab had given part or all of himself to someone else? Really? Did Elijah feel that by benefitting from what had happened Ahab had somehow given up a part of himself that he could never get back? What exactly does he mean by selling yourself?


In the wilderness, after his baptism in the Jordan, Jesus is tempted three times. Here make stones into bread. Throw yourself from the top of the temple. Just worship me and all the riches of the world are yours. Each time, Jesus said no. While each temptation carried within in something about trust in God and humble living, they also offered a price for who Jesus was. A price, I suppose, that would have been paid in exchange for who he was.


While I've never been handed a dead man's property, I know that every day I'm are confronted with prices for who I am. There's the moment when I see a corner that could be cut, something that I can just let slide by because no one will notice and, hey, it won't make a big difference anyway. Or, perhaps, there's a hint in someone's conversation that they really need to talk and I am tempted to pretend I didn't hear that soft plea. And then there's when I could overlook my wife's exhausted tone or just listen even though (I feel) there's no need to talk out the details.


In those moments, I've sold just a little of myself. Something of who I am is handed over for some small gain. Perhaps it isn't noticeable at first. But the sales are final. And, slowly, as the small purchases add up, I one day might look up and find that, like Ahab, there's nothing left of me anymore.


God of wholeness, we are tempted to pay too dear a price for too small a thing. Send Elijahs into our life to remind us that who we are is far too great a cost.

Second Sunday after Pentecost

Psalm 30


Over the past two weeks I've been to two graduations. Long commencement speakers aside, I really do enjoy the pomp and ceremony of these rituals. Like any rite, they are moments of transformation. Those receiving their bachelor's degree enter with tassels on the right and leave with them on the left. Robed men and women reemerge with colorful hoods draping down their backs. A chapter is closed and a new one begun in the space of a sunny afternoon.


Graduations mean something to friends and family just as they do to the person receiving their diploma, since they are the ones who know the story behind the day. In a way, it's a shame that there isn't enough space to give a brief history of the person walking across the stage. Perhaps they excelled in their studies and have finished in three-and-a-half years. Maybe they've been working hard through a decade of nights and weekends, balancing work and children and personal tragedies, all to reach this momentous day.


Watching the students receive their diplomas this morning, I couldn't help thinking about the oft-quoted line from one of the Psalms for today. "In the evening, weeping will spend the night and in the morning: a cry of jubilation." Too often, I think, we can be too glib with these powerful words. We say them as if to promise some sort of brevity to our own or, worse, another's suffering. But that isn't how the Psalmist uses them at all. Though it seemed in the good times that he would not be shaken for a long, long time, this didn't mean that the times of dis-ease felt any less endless. The time when sorrow would finally pass must have seemed as distant as morning during a restless night.


As spouses and parents and loved ones let out joyful cries this morning, I wondered how many of the graduates had once thought their long night of sadness would never end. The student who lost a father in her first year of studies, who saw her grades plummet and her life fall apart, had she ever wondered if day would come? The young man who had, halfway through his studies, realized that what he'd always dreamed of being was not what he was meant to be, had he ever questioned if the sun would rise? And did any, in the midst of papers or exams, ever doubt that they would wake up at this dawning?


We who are resting in the seemingly eternal untroubled period cannot promise when the new day will begin. Those who are awake while everyone else rests cannot be certain that this night is without a dawn. All we can do is sit and wait. And, if we listen together, we may be surprised to hear a stone beginning to sing as it moves to let something completely new come forth.


God of new beginnings, help us to weep with those in the night and rejoice with all who have seen the first light of morning.

Trinity Sunday

John 16:12-15


"There's so much left I want to tell you," Jesus says, "but you can't handle it right now." You see, Jesus is going away. And before he goes, there are things he wants to tell his friends. But looking into their faces, seeing their eyes, he knows that to say all the things that he wants to say would crush them beneath the weight of the words.


Originally, when reading this week's selection from John's Gospel, I thought that these words were very appropriate for Trinity Sunday. Most of us cannot bear the difficult concept of this mysterious God who is one but at the same time is three. That Jesus was this one but was also in relationship with the one. Indeed, we say, we can't bear that right now especially during a holiday weekend.


But as I thought about it, I began to think about this statement in the context of Jesus' goodbye. I've so often thought of these words as implying some teaching or point of faith or revelation of the mystery of the Divine that Jesus knew would blow the disciples' (and probably our) minds. However, listening to those words while I am in the midst of saying my own goodbyes to the people and places that have made up this chapter in my life, I hear them differently.


I think about the moments of late when I have stood face to face with a friend who, for reasons of geography, I may never see again. Standing there, usually with some chaos going on around, I find myself wanting to cram in months and years worth of words. I want to say how much they've meant to my journey, to my life. I want to tell them that they've been important to me and been a part of the changes I've undertaken during my time here. I want to say how hard it is to imagine that between here and the next world I may not see them again. I want to tell them that they are loved.


Yet, as I begin to say some of these things I can see in their eyes and written upon their face perhaps the same thing that Jesus saw in his friends. I see shoulders that cannot bear the weight. I see tears on the edge of falling. I see a heart fragile enough to break. And, out of caution, I know that though there are things that I want to say they cannot handle them right now.


Perhaps Jesus still holds back the words sometimes. Maybe those moments when it seems the Heavens respond only with silence are like those moments I've experienced of late. Rather than there being nothing to say, Christ has too much to tell us. And no matter how much Our Beloved longs to tell us, Jesus knows that we are not ready, at that moment, to hear how wonderfully we are loved.


One God who is also three, teach us to live in communion as you live amongst yourself. And help us to love as we are loved.