Lent Day 20: Faith

We walk by faith, and not by sight.  
~ 2 Corinthians 5:7

Sometimes, these feel like the most encouraging words in scripture.

Sometimes, they feel like the least helpful.

We all know people for whom faith looks easy (from the outside). And we all know people who are open about their struggles with faith. I know that wanting to have faith can help, but not always. I have always been grateful for the words of Barbara Brown Taylor who said something like, "When I can't say certain words of the creed on a Sunday morning, I'm glad that I'm surrounded by others who can." Community can lift and amplify faith; but it can also make us feel isolated when we are struggling.

I don't have any magic answers, except I do love the psalms and find that, the more I am immersed in them, the more grounded I feel. (See my favorite Calvin quote.)  Since we can almost always find a psalm that articulates where we are emotionally, even when we are absolutely desolate of any sense of God (see Psalm 88), they can provide a comfort that is not only grounded in millennia of people struggling to live out an authentic faith in God, but is also vividly authentic.

Here, a few somewhat scattered thoughts on that word, faith.

Some other words for faith:

Belief

Assurance

Fidelity

Trust

Conviction


Some things faith is not:

Certainty

Proof

Math


Some things that may encourage faith:

Music

Community

Connection

Friends

Kindness

Scripture

The behavior of other people of faith


Some things that may erode faith:

Isolation

Observing hypocrisy

Experiencing cruelty

Scripture

The behavior of other people of faith


As the verse says, sight is not faith. Bells and whistles screaming "God is here! God is real!" is almost nobody's experience of faith. Rising again, praying again ("O God, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise," Psalm 51:15) and hoping, again, is as good a plan as any.

Bless you. Grace and peace to you today.

Lent Day 20: Heaven

Scripture (2 Corinthians 4:16-5:5) can be found here.

So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.  For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 
                                                                                                                        ~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-5:1

I don't talk about heaven much, and I don't preach about it on a regular basis. I am most likely to speak from the pulpit about heaven during a memorial service or funeral, because I believe at that moment, the loved ones of the deceased need to hear words of hope that include that promise. But I don't preach about it most Sundays because I believe the people, on the whole, need words of hope and encouragement that are about the here and now, which, after all, is what Jesus meant by the "kingdom" or "reign" of heaven. He was talking about God's inbreaking and transforming presence for us, now, in this life. The heaven that is here already, but not entirely, not yet.

But today I read this passage in 2 Corinthians, so let's talk about heaven! Paul is using these words of encouragement, not for a grieving congregation, but for a fighting congregation, in the midst of power struggles, and, particularly, in the midst of rejecting him. And here, in the middle of addressing those concerns, he moves into a long and very beautiful description of the way in which the promise of heaven can encourage those who are suffering-- whether physically or mentally. He does not want his people to lose heart, in the midst of a world that can be so ugly, so harsh, and so devastating. Even in physical decline, even when faced with illness or the challenges that can come with aging, he asks the people to consider it a preparation for that moment when it will all be transformed into a glory he can't even quite describe.

This is not it, he insists. This pain. This sorrow. This is not it. And if you do not see the joy and transformation in this life, he holds up God's promises that we surely will see it in the next.

This image comforts me so. The soldiers have their limbs again, and whole and perfect brains. The children no longer have the wounds of war. The infirm are hale, and walk upright. Everyone has their original knees and hips!

I don't mean to be glib, or silly. Physical suffering in this life is no joke. I read last night about a ten year old boy, named Seven Bridges, who took his own life because he was mercilessly teased by school bullies about having a colostomy bag. The suffering that child endured makes me weep. And my hope is in the Lord who promises he is not only whole, but in the arms of a loving Father-Mother God who has removed all that pain and even the memory of it.

I don't know that that would be a comfort to his parents, though.  Even believing what I do, I don't know that I would be comforted by it, if that were my child.

We have these promises, and they are beautiful and they can be a source of strength under certain conditions.

But I don't want us to give up on this world. Right now a dream of peace among nations; justice and equity/equality for every person; peace among peoples of differing complexions, ways of worshiping God, ways of loving; a world in which there are no hungry or homeless people; a world in which the air is clean and the water is pure and human beings are the priority, and not profits.... right now this dream seems so very far away.

But I don't want us to give up on it. I can't. I won't. I won't give up on this world, no matter how beautiful the promise of what is next may be.

Lent Day 19: Yeast

And again he said, “To what should I compare the kingdom of God? It is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”  ~ Luke 13:20-21

Yeast.

My first experience with it was in college: I bought something called the Tassajara Bread Book, and taught myself how to bake bread. This was in an era when I was buying books about holistic health practices and imagining my life to be taking a kind of hippy-ish turn. Earthy, crunchy granola girl. Goals.

I was a junior in college, in a six-person suite, and my friend Jean was witness to my efforts. I'd grown up in a household in which my mother was self-described as being "NOT a baker." She sent me to her friend, Cecily's house at Christmastime, to learn how to bake cookies. She never made cakes or cupcakes; why should we, when there was Minos bakery in Atlantic City? The one thing I remember my mother baking was an apple pie, that was hot and fresh one day when I got home from school. But bread? Never. Not in a million years. You could buy bread anywhere.

But there I was, 19 years old and learning how yeast "proofs," or gets activated. It needs fluids and food to bring it alive-- like anyone, I guess. So, I provided, as the book instructed, lukewarm water and honey, and mixed in the tablespoonsful of yeast and watched as it spread, and bubbled, and declared: I'm ready.

Same baking book, thirtysomething years later. 

What followed was work, a kind of work I still love. Measuring and stirring, sure. But what makes bread is the kneading, and kneading is a whole-body experience. You do it with your hands, and elbows, and shoulders, and back, and hips. You put your whole self into kneading, and it is an exquisite workout. Kneading is what gives the bread its texture. Kneading helps the bread to rise by ensuring lots of air is also mixed in with what by the end of the 15 minutes (prescribed by the book) must be a thousand layers of dough folded in upon itself, again and again.

The work the yeast does is to help the bread to rise. By the time I was finished with my four fragrant honey-whole-wheat loaves, it was three in the morning and Jean and I were both delirious, me giddy with baking and the prospect of sitting down to cut into a loaf; and Jean, with French reflexive verbs.

"I've had a vision," Jean said. "The verbs are little ferrymen."

And we sat together, laughing, dipping hot bread in honey, and ate.

Jesus tells this tiny parable, only 24 words in the Greek (35 in English), and, as in so much of Luke, a woman features as the main actor in the miniature story. In the original Greek she "hides" the yeast/ leavening in the flour, until it all is leavened. Maybe "hides" because ancient people weren't so comfortable with leavening. It freaked them out. It was alive in an unpredictable way, and so it actually, for most people, symbolized something insidious, something uncontrollable, that could make mischief or even mayhem.

But Jesus doesn't use it that way.

Because now, bread is possible-- bread, the staff and stuff of life; bread, the word we use to indicate all sustenance; bread, the very least that every human being has a right to have, because no one in a civilized society should be denied it.

That, Jesus says, is what the reign of God is like.

Something unexpected, done by someone unexpected, makes something good.

Not only good, needed.

Not only needed, loved.

Not only good, needed, loved: but a source of life itself.

Lent Day 18: The Burning Question, and My Answer

I feel like I've never read Psalm 39 before now.  I know I have, but it feels brand new to me.

It's a little drama unfolding.

I said, ‘I will keep watch over my ways, 
   so that I offend not with my tongue.
‘I will guard my mouth with a muzzle, 
   while the wicked are in my sight.’
So I held my tongue and said nothing; 
   I kept silent but to no avail.   ~Ps. 39:1-3

I'll be good.

I'll be quiet.

I'll watch this damned mouth of mine. (Especially in front of those no good so-and-sos.)

I'll put it in a muzzle, like an unruly animal who can't be trusted not to bite.

But I did, and then look what happened.

My distress increased, my heart grew hot within me; 
   while I mused, the fire was kindled
      and I spoke out with my tongue:
‘Lord, let me know my end and the number of my days, 
   that I may know how short my time is.
‘You have made my days but a handsbreadth,
      and my lifetime is as nothing in your sight; 
   truly, even those who stand upright are but a breath.
‘We walk about like a shadow
      and in vain we are in turmoil; 
   we heap up riches and cannot tell who will gather them.  ~Ps. 39:4-7

I take back what I said-- the part about the "little" drama.

This is actually The Big Drama. The Existential Question. The psalmist can't hold it in any longer.

What is this life?

How long have I got?

Just let me know.

I know my life is not forever, and frankly, it's feeling like it's going to be pretty damned short. A handsbreadth. A little puff of... what? Can you (You) even see it?

Your good people, God-- yes, I'll be bold and say, I'm one-- we are but a breath.

We walk around like shadows, and don't know whether anything we do will amount to anything at all.

Who will benefit from my life? Will anyone?

On this morning on which the grief of those around the world and those in this country feels heavy on my heart, I'm going to speak to the psalmist.

I'm going to speak to anyone who is wondering whether their life matters.

Your life matters.

You are precious.

You may be in pain this morning. I am so sorry. I know there are people in your life who want to help and hold you in your pain.

You may be a victim of violence or a victim of your brain's particular neurological makeup.

I am sorry. I know what you are going through is excruciating.

I implore you to seek help from someone you trust.

I beg you to do the hardest thing you can possibly do: reach out through your pain to another.

Let yourself be held through this. Let yourself be loved through this.

You are precious.

You matter. You are irreplaceable. You are loved.

You are loved, and not just by me.

You are held in a web of love that may be invisible or imperceivable to you.

I believe with all my heart it is there.

You are loved.

If you feel hopeless today, if you are sad you woke up this morning, if you are having thoughts or making plans about self-harm, no matter what time it is, no matter how bad you feel, you can call this number.

Call 1-800-273-8255.

You are precious.

Your life matters.

Lent Day 17: March 25: A Woman's Body

Today is March 25: according to the church calendar, it is the feast of the Annunciation of the angel Gabriel to Mary.

The gospel of Luke paints a rosy picture (Luke 1:26-38; you can find it here.)

An angel comes and greets Mary, who must have been a young girl (somewhere between 13 and 16). "Rejoice, favored one! The Lord is with you!" And when Mary doesn't exactly immediately rejoice, because, divine messengers are, apparently, terrifying, the angel adds, "Do not be afraid."

I'll stop there for a moment. I can't imagine she could have been anything but terrified by the news that followed: that God was going to cause a miraculous pregnancy in her, and that the child would be some kind of exalted, divine figure.

"...Son of the Most High."

"... the throne of David."

"...ruler over the house of Jacob forever."

No matter how you look at it, Mary is in a terrible position.

She is engaged to be married, and in this culture that is a contract every bit as serious as the wedding itself.

Given the laws that are on the books at this time, there is a threat, not just of disgrace, but of death by stoning.

There are cultures in our world today where that is still true; death by stoning, or by fire, or simply by your father or brother shooting or strangling you for disgracing the family by having sex where/ when you weren't allowed to.

(Because, what is the likelihood anyone will believe this story?)

My mom's beloved little statue of Mary.

On this feast of the annunciation, color me skeptical-- not of the virgin birth, necessarily. I am confident God could and can achieve whatever outcomes God wants. But of this story, in which the only emotion betrayed by Mary is a gentle wondering, "how is this possible?" followed by a calm "I am the Lord's servant. Let it be with me just as you have said."

Color me skeptical, because men have long policed and claimed ownership over women's bodies, and that's still a thing.

I guess I read this story in this way: It's a memory colored (just like all our memories) by what happened after that.... here, a fiance who, apparently, did believe her, or, at least, still wanted to be married to her... followed by the life of Jesus, her child, followed by his terrible death, which these scriptures tell us she witnessed, followed by the resurrection, during which time she was among his followers.

This is a memory filled in with the bright and shiny hues of life bursting forth from death.

Today, I want to remember that scared girl. I want to honor whatever it took for her to live through whatever kind of day this was, and the day after that, and every day for the next, long nine months. The looks on her parents' faces. The look on Joseph's. The women leaning together at the well, whispering when she came for water.

I want to remember and honor her, not as the calm, self-sacrificing Mother of God, but as a terrified teenager, wondering how in the world she would get through this.
.

Lent Day 16: Hiding in Plain Sight

It's amazing, what's right in front of you, all the time, and yet, you don't see it.

Let me re-phrase that:

It's amazing, what's right in front of me, all the time, and yet, I don't see it.

This is particularly true for me in terms of the objects, decor, and general place-ness of things. Some things strike me powerfully; those I notice. Example: I adore the ceiling of Union Presbyterian Church, the church I serve as pastor. It is the perfect "nave," in that it truly looks as if someone had taken an old sailing ship and inverted it for the purposes of creating a sanctuary ceiling. I noticed it the first time I stood in the sanctuary, fresh out of seminary, as the gathered Presbytery heard my statement of faith and examined me for ordination. That was more than 15 years ago. It still gives me joy each and every time I look at it.

But it took me until two years ago to realize that the reredos in the church I serve forms a cross. I had simply never noticed. (To be fair, I sit and stand with my back to it every Sunday, so I haven't had the opportunity.... oh, never mind. I an not particularly visually observant. I am more tuned in to how things feel, and how they make me feel. I can tell you our sanctuary feels to me exactly like what its name implies: a place that is at once holy and safe. Sanctuary.

For the past 16 days I've been reading/ praying the Lenten offerings for Morning Prayer in the Presbyterian Church (USA) Book of Common Worship. And each day I've read the opening sentences of scripture. And this one didn't "strike" me until today... though I've seen it, and, allegedly, read it each day:

Show me your way, O Lord,
that I may follow in your truth.
Teach me to revere your name,
and my whole heart will praise you.    
~Psalm 86:11-12 

(Tr.: Evangelical Lutheran Church in America)

The prayers I'm praying each day are chosen for Lent, a time when Christians are called back, when God asks of us (and Jesus asks of us) to turn back to God. I think the assumption that we've turned away is a reasonable one: That's the nature of the human. While there's a very strong phrase for it, made popular by CalvinISTS, the general gist of it is original sin.

I wasn't always a fan. I really resisted the notion that, because an ancient set of the zillionth great-grandparents of all humanity disobeyed God, that we all inherited the same tendency. (Jews don't read the story that way, by the way.... and scripture supports their interpretation more than it does ours: God is said to visit the sins of the parents on the "third and fourth generation," but the blessings of righteousness on the thousandth generation. See Exodus 20:5-6; Exodus 4:6-7; Deuteronomy 5:9-10; Jeremiah 32:18)

It took one month of becoming a mother to my firstborn to disabuse me of that notion. Not because of my child--he was perfect, in every way. But I was not. My brokenness and selfishness brought me up short, and helped me to reconsider my position, and to understand that there was some wisdom there.

This is the nature of the human.

So, these two verses seem to me the absolutely perfect eye-opener for a Christian, not just in Lent, but every day.

I think we ought to let it, literally, be the thing that opens our eyes, and make it the first thing we see, the first thing we pray, the first thing we read, mark, and inwardly digest for the day ahead.

Show us your way, O God, that we may follow the truth.

Teach us to revere your name, that our whole heart might praise you.

And we will praise you, not only with our heart, but with our lives.

Amen.

Lent Day 14-15: Done

I couldn't do it yesterday. I kept thinking, "Later!" And then, I finished my newsletter articles at 10:45 pm, after a wonderful and challenging meeting that was all about our congregation's financial health... and I was done.

Done!

Not even the energy for an episode of my new TV crush, "This Is Us." (I know. I'm three years behind. This is how I do TV. I never catch up.)

... Let alone the energy to bring myself into the presence of scripture with the intention of writing something intelligible (or even... ok).

But it's ok. It really is.

... for you, God, have been my help,
    and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.
My soul clings to you;
    your right hand holds me fast.   ~ 63:7-8

In those moments when we are done, we can be done. In those moments when the tank is utterly empty, and is running on what is only the wistful memory of fumes, God our Helper steps in...

[Side note: I know I want this to be more spiritual reflection than bible study, but.... I yam what I yam, as Popeye said... The word for "help," or "helper" in Hebrew is ezer. This is the same word that is used in the second Genesis creation story, the one in which God seeks to make a "helper" for the lonely human. That helper is the woman, and then, for the first time, woman and man are differentiated. But the word "helper" is used in scripture, almost exclusively, for God. God is our first, and, of course, greatest, helper. Womankind, behold the royal nature of what it means to be a "helper." It is a God-infused and noble role. There is no sound biblical argument that it implies otherwise.]

I can find it so hard to rest in the care of my Helper. I don't believe I am alone in that. Last night I hung on, on the computer, because my newsletter stuff was already 6 (gulp!) days late, and that's just wrong. And in a fit of-- well, of knowing that next week looks much the same, I got a start on the Wednesday midweek bulletin.

You know how it goes. We get into a mindset that it all depends on us. (I mean, some stuff does. I'm the only one who can write my newsletter article.)

When does that start? When do we get the message that we are responsible for All of It, and buy into it? Even as a pastor of a church, that is a false understanding of what it means to serve in my role. There are always other companions in this work, and I'm at my healthiest when I realize it.

A couple of years ago I caught "Big Little Lies," the HBO series based on the great Liane Moriarty novel. There's a high-powered, but somewhat frustrated-with-her-life character, Madeline Martha McKenzie, and she has a daughter, a 6 or 7-year-old named Chloe. Chloe is obsessed with music-- all kinds, she's a musical omnivore-- and she's also obsessed with finding the right music for every situation. In particular, she seems to be responsible-- she seems to have assumed responsibility-- for curating her mother's moods.

Darby Camp as Chloe McKenzie in "Big Little Lies." 

I recognized myself in Chloe. I was that daughter to my mother. It's a role that inevitably leads to stress, and then a fissure, and then a rupture, if the child is going to develop in healthy way. At some point, she will need to put her own emotional needs before her mother's.

I was responsible, at a fairly young age, for All of It.

No longer.

I am responsible for myself, and to be God's person in a world where God's love is badly needed. I am responsible in particular and intense ways to my beloveds, from my partner and children to my friends and congregants. But I am also responsible for letting God hold it all with me. I am responsible for remembering that I am not God, and for living and acting accordingly.

This means, for one thing, taking Sabbath.

Which, as it happens, I am about to do, right now.

I am responsible for remembering that God is my helper-- the most powerful, the most loving, the most understanding, the most tender knower of my faults and sins-- and for letting God in.

God's powerful right hand holds me, holds me fast.

Even.... especially.... when I am done.

Lent Day 13: What to Do During the Night Watches

My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast,
    and my mouth praises you with joyful lips
when I think of you on my bed,
    and meditate on you in the watches of the night... Psalm 63:5-6

In this little excerpt from Psalm 63, the composer is talking about how very satisfied they are-- the very same  one who was longing, thirsting, fainting for God in the first verse--by the mere act of thinking about God while in bed. "meditating on [God] in the night watches."

I love this psalm, but it rarely takes me more than five minutes to fall asleep. And no matter how very hard I try to "meditate on God" in bed, I just can't seem to stay awake long enough to do it.

The psalmist could, though. And there's an interesting anthropological reason for that.

Years ago I read a story in the New York Times Magazine about sleep patterns and how they have changed over the centuries. The big change came when use of electric lighting became commonplace. Prior to that, the vast majority of people the world over slept and rose according to the natural light available. Shorter sleep periods in the summer months, when sunlight is available for more hours each day, and a longer night of sleep in the winter, when the sun makes a much briefer appearance.

Here's the thing. When researchers tried to replicate this-- when they had subjects work and be wakeful according to the daylight hours available, and sleep when the daylight had ended, they found that the natural sleep cycle had people in bed for 10-12 hours per night, but not asleep that entire time. People would naturally sleep for four hours or so, then have a period of middle-of-the-night wakefulness. This lasted between two and four hours, after which the subjects would sleep again until morning.

Researchers learned that people adapted to this pattern in various ways. Some people used the wakeful hours of the night to work through problems that worried them during the day. Some people used the time to catch up on reading. Some people found the time to be an excellent opportunity for intimacy with their romantic partners.

But the vast majority of the subjects--nearly all-- reported higher levels of alertness during the day, better concentration, and greater efficiency in accomplishing tasks at home and at work.

Our psalmist used this time during the "watches of the night" for meditating upon God. This gave them immense satisfaction; they compare it to a rich feast (the Hebrew actually reads, "My soul is satisfied as with marrow and fatness"). The most delicious and most satisfying food is what the psalmist uses to describe the ineffable joy of thinking about God in the middle of the night.

Wishing you a time of good rest, sweet dreams, and the company of the one who keeps watch over you.

Lent Day 12: I Need You

O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you;
my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you,
as in a barren and dry land where there is no water.  ~ Psalm 63:1

I can feel this.

This opening verse to Psalm 63 never fails to connect with me at an emotional, almost physical level.

It's piercing, but in a good way.

I can feel the longing of the psalmist.

I can feel the deficit they feel: the parched soul, the body ready to collapse.

And I can feel that this is not idle seeking: They are clamoring, they are questing. This is not a passing-the-time-with-religion kind of thing.

Today, I feel the need.

I wonder whether you do?

What do you do when you feel this need? Soul-thirsting, flesh-fainting need...

Do you try to shake it off? Fight it off? Tell yourself, you're ok. You can do this. You can summon the power from somewhere?

Or do you admit your need? Do you allow yourself to rest in that space?

Do you allow yourself to say to God, "I need you?"

I think it's hard for some of us to admit, even of God, that we have need.

Try it today. Try to let yourself tell God: I need you.

Try to rest in your own limited humanity, to know that you are enough, and that God is more than willing, more than eager, to make up any deficit.

Lent Day 11: They Were On a Break

This morning's passage was a strange, sad one from Exodus.

Moses and the people are at Mount Horeb (another name for Mount Sinai), the very place where God gave Moses the law on two tablets. You may remember that, when Moses descended from the mountain with the tablets, he found that the people had melted down every last gold ring and bracelet and pocket-watch to make themselves an idol, a calf. They were having separation anxiety from Moses, it seems, or maybe they were impatient and had lost faith that he'd be coming back down that mountain.  Or maybe the bible gets it exactly right: they were not so enchanted with a God who went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud or a pillar of fire. They wanted a God they could see.

God catches wind of all this, and says to Moses, Oh boy, you will not believe what's going on down there. Go!

The Lord said to Moses, “I have seen this people, how stiff-necked they are. Now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them; and of you I will make a great nation.” ~Exodus 32:9-10

The Israelites appear to have gotten on God's last nerve, and God's ready to get rid of them and make Moses the new patriarch of a new covenant people. Moses will have none of that, though. He begs. He implores God to relent, to turn from God's fierce wrath, to remember those guys God loved! Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob-- God's favorites from way back when!

This is the very next thing that happens.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay.

The Lord said to Moses, “Go, leave this place, you and the people whom you have brought up out of the land of Egypt, and go to the land of which I swore to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, saying, ‘To your descendants I will give it.’  I will send an angel before you, and I will drive out the Canaanites, the Amorites, the Hittites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites.  Go up to a land flowing with milk and honey; but I will not go up among you, or I would consume you on the way, for you are a stiff-necked people.” ~Exodus 33:1-3

God relents from destroying the people utterly with the divine white-hot wrath. God even says, fine, go. Go into the land I said I'd give you. I'll still give it to you. It's still flowing with milk and honey, and I'll even do you the favor of making sure the last tenants are gone. But I'm out.

This is a wholly unexpected turn of events. Anger, wrath, maybe even fearsome displays of such are to be expected. But this "Let's just go our separate ways" thing is shocking.

When the people heard these harsh words, they mourned, and no one put on ornaments. For the Lord had said to Moses, “Say to the Israelites, ‘You are a stiff-necked people; if for a single moment I should go up among you, I would consume you. So now take off your ornaments, and I will decide what to do to you.’” Therefore the Israelites stripped themselves of their ornaments, from Mount Horeb onward.  ~Exodus 33:4-6

The people grieve. (Of course they do.) This is not how the covenant is supposed to play out. It was supposed to be a happy-ever-after thing. Who could have imagined God reaching a breaking point?

Actually, most of scripture assumes God has a breaking point. But in the next chapter, having been persuaded by Moses to change the divine mind, God allows Moses to (partially) see God, passing by while saying,

“The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, 
slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness..." ~Exodus 34:6

And that, it turns out, is really who God is. God, who had really wanted a break from those stiff-necked people, in the end, wanted to be their God more.

I know I can be stiff-necked. (My mother told me, it started reeeeeeal early.) I can go my own way, digging my own grave until I'm up to my eyeballs in dirt, and still insist I'll be in China in just a minute. How inexpressibly grateful I am to know that God's mercy, God's grace, God's steadfast love, and God's faithfulness, are even bigger and more powerful than my recalcitrance. The moment I am ready to let go of my self-will-run-riot, there is God, ready to hold me up through whatever mess I've created and set me (again) on a better path. (And even before I'm ready, God is there, with me, accompanying me, watching my struggles, wishing I'd stop already, checking the divine watch, hoping I'll be back soon...)

People like to make this claim that the Hebrew scriptures are all about Law and the Christian scriptures are all about Grace. I do not buy that. I see grace-- grace upon grace-- all through the messy family stories of the patriarchs and matriarchs, all through the wild ride of the Exodus, and beyond. God is unchanging. If God is gracious now, God was gracious then, and God will be gracious into futures we can't yet see or imagine. But know this: if you imagine a God who is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, you will be right on the money, every time.

Lent Day 10: Broken-Hearted and Praying into the Past

Like you, I am reeling... again... at the devastating violence in what has been known as a haven for peace-seekers, Christchurch, New Zealand. I am grieving, along with the whole world, that a white supremacist entered not one but two mosques and slaughtered people at prayer. The latest death toll I have seen is 49 souls--who, I am sure, were terrified as they were killed; but also, who, I am equally sure, are now at home with God.

That they are at home in God's infinite love and mercy does not make it all better. Not for us, here. We are left to rage, grieve, wonder, despair, hope... whatever trajectory our hearts have been flung into, they will follow.

This morning, once more, I read Psalm 27, and I read it wondering at its tenderness, at its steadfast hope in the face of real fear-- fear for the psalmist's life. And this verse pierced me:

For on the day of trouble the LORD shall shelter me in safety; 
the LORD shall hide me in the secrecy of the holy place
and set me high upon a rock. ~Psalm 27:5

But for those worshipers, that did not happen. Or maybe, it is my misunderstanding of what constitutes "safety." Maybe to die in the midst of prayer is what a devout Muslim-- or Christian, or Jew-- might hope for most fervently. I don't know.

I was in seminary in New York City on 9-11. Among my classmates, many knew or had connections to individuals who perished that day. There was much grieving, great lamentation-- as a seminary community, as a city, as a nation. There were many who sprang to action, going to Ground Zero to offer water, to staff sanctuary spaces nearby so that first responders would have a place to rest when they could tear themselves away from their task.

To the best of my recollection, classes resumed the following Monday. The first class I attended was taught by Ann Ulanov, a class in Pastoral Counseling. Professor Ulanov is a student of Carl Jung, and brings a perspective steeped in archetypes and symbols as well as science.

We did not dive into our curriculum. The professor talked quietly with us, asking us if we wanted to check in, share anything in particular, after the dreadful events of the previous week. One thing she talked about has stayed with me, and, from time to time, has given me comfort.

Professor Ulanov reminded us that God is a God beyond our understanding and imagining, and that all things, all places, all times, all people, distant past, unknowable future, all of it, are present to God simultaneously. So, we can pray into the past, since the past is ever present with God. Since we can do that, we can pray that God's love surround those who suffered and died, and trust that God hears those prayers and acts on them.

Through the years I've wrestled with this idea. Like most humans, I have a pretty linear notion of time. But I agree with my professor's description of the all-knowingness of God, and so I believe that her words on prayer make sense.

I offer it to you today, as we, as a global community, continue to take in the horrors of the week, and try to hold them together with whatever systems of faith we happen to take part in.

I believe that we have a God to whom we can pray, and that
we can pray into the past. In this way, I can find hope that verse 5 might be or become true for the people of the Al Noor and Linwood mosques. I pray that God has, indeed, sheltered his beloveds in safety, and now, has set them high upon the rock in which they might enjoy God's presence forever.

Lent Day 9: One Thing

Another of the songs based on Psalm 27 I've taken into my heart is "This Alone," by Tim Manion (of St. Louis Jesuits fame). Please, if you don't know the piece, listen to it here.

The refrain is based on verse 4 of the psalm:

One thing I asked of the Lord,
    that will I seek after:
to live in the house of the Lord
    all the days of my life,
to behold the beauty of the Lord,
    and to inquire in [God's] temple.  ~Psalm 27:4

I learned this song as a member of the choir at Saint Ignatius of Loyola Church, on the Boston College campus. As I listen to this recording, one particular line jumps out at me, as if the writer were not only setting the psalm, but also placing it in dialogue with his own life:

"For one day within your temple
    heals every day alone."

I know this song called to me. I usually tell the story of my call to ordained ministry by talking about a particular day in the fall of 1988, an experience that was enhanced (probably, enabled) by an Amy Grant song. If I listen to these lyrics, though, I realize I had many "little calls" along the way. In high school I went on a retreat and felt a shock of recognition that there was a way of living I hadn't fully considered, or even understood yet. In college I was invited on the freshman retreat and found more of that alluring promise of abundant life. I set out to take a graduate degree in pursuit of one profession, but the degree itself-- an MA in Pastoral Ministry-- strongly suggested something else entirely.

While I was in that program I was invited to help lead a retreat for undergraduates. I wrote a paraphrase of Psalm 84 for the retreat. For the verse (10b) that reads,

I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
    than live in the tents of wickedness...

I wrote,

O let me in;
I would polish the doorknobs.

There was always a longing, insistent, and the container that seemed to hold it was my faith or church or retreat experiences.

I always felt the pang of those words, including Manion's addition one day within God's holy place "heals every day alone." There I was, a person with some friends, loving family, married to my college sweetheart, but I still resonated with an aloneness that came from fearing separation from God, alienation from God's holy places.

Augustine of Hippo wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O God, and our hearts are restless, until they can find rest in you.” I believe that is the exact loneliness described in the song:  the soul's restlessness until it finds rest in God. I don't believe being a pastor means that a person has necessarily found that particular rest; heaven knows my days are not fully taken up basking blissfully in God's presence. And no matter your occupation, it's possible (sometimes, even easy) to allow the busy-ness to crowd out that rest. (When did you last take a day off?)

That one thing... abundant life in the presence of God... if it's missing, might just be the thing that underlies all our unease, our sense that things are not quite right. The strange thing is: the more we connect with that longing, the more acute it becomes, even if we do find ourselves basking in the joy of God's presence from time to time. The very first question of the Westminster Catechism (in its non-inclusive language) suggests it is the supreme goal for each human life:

Q. What is the chief end of man?
A. Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.

It's the one thing. I am-- we are-- lonely for God. God welcomes our loneliness, and uses it to draw us closer.

Lent Day 8: Off On the Wrong Foot: A Reboot

I'm looking back on these early days of Lent, and feeling I've gotten off on the wrong foot with this Lenten reading-writing discipline.  I've slipped easily into something that tends to be my default mode with scripture: I'm analyzing, I'm explaining, I'm getting technical, I'm contextualizing. And... it seems to me, that's not what my intention was with this writing. My intention was to use it to spiritual purpose. Don't get me wrong: I think that analysis of scripture can have a spiritual component, but I'm not feeling it here.

So, today, what I'm doing is asking for a reboot. As if it were day 1. From now on, instead of trying to do something like an exegesis paper, I'm going to look for a word or a phrase in which I find God, and I'm going to try to talk about that.

This morning I read three passages, including Psalm 27; the psalm was, by far, the passage that stayed with me most powerfully. (You can find it here.)

Psalms are songs, and I've sung at least four different song-settings of this psalm over the course of my life of faith. The one that has found a home in my heart is the one by David Haas, "The Lord is my Light." You can listen to it here.

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid? ~Psalm 27:1

Even now, as I sit here, gazing at these words and listening to the beautiful music, I'm drawn to this idea: "Of whom should I be afraid?" There are so many things to be afraid of in this world. By virtue of my race, class, wealth, education, I am protected from so many of them. That is not true for the vast majority of people in this country or in this world. Last week I watched a viral video of an Arkansas State Senator pushing back against proposed "Stand Your Ground" legislation  Sen. Stephanie Flowers spoke, angrily, with anguish, about her fear for her son's life. She is African American.

I don't face the same fears Sen. Flowers does, but I share her anguish for her son, and for all men of color. My fears are the fears of someone who, essentially, lives in security. I fear loss of love. I fear loneliness. These fears can be explained by psychological factors, by life experience, and, when I'm most centered, most present to myself and God, I can recognize them as just so much wheel-spinning, and let them go. At one time, I feared the loss of my livelihood and calling as a pastor, because I was planning to come out to my congregation. But even that fear was fleeting... my experience turned out to be one of love and grace.

Lent, this time in which Christians pay special attention to their walk with Jesus, this time when we seek a deeper spiritual connection with one another and with God, seems like a good time to confront our fears, and perhaps put them in conversation with this psalm/ song. We all have some fears, some times, whether there are psychological explanations or perfectly reasonable factors leading to those fears. I don't believe in a religious version of "Don't worry, be happy." I do believe that God's presence with us can help to put our fears to rest. I also believe that presence becomes more and more tangible, the more we open our hearts to God in prayer.

That's where the psalms come in. Thousands of years old, prayed by, easily, millions and millions of people over the millennia, they are God-soaked and bring us, I believe, into the presence of what scripture calls "that great cloud of witnesses." The more we allow these prayer-songs of ancient peoples to be part of the landscape of our hearts, the more our fears recede, or, at least, become "right-sized." The more steadily we pray the psalms, the more we can say (or sing), with the psalmist, "Of whom/ what should I be afraid?"

Lent Day 7: The Sin of Sodom

Scripture (2 Peter 2:4-21) can be found here.

"The Fall of Rebellious Angels"
Fran Floris (1544)
Cathedral of Antwerp.
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Here's how it goes;

God sent the sinful angels to hell.

God saved Noah & family, but drowned the world.

God turned Sodom and Gomorrah to ashes, because of.....

Here's where we have a problem. It's a big one. The writer of this (most scholars don't think it's Peter) has a thoroughly un-Jewish interpretation of the Sodom and Gomorrah story. This writer believes the cities were destroyed by God because of illicit sex. Looking at the Greek original, this passage uses words such as "dissolute ones," "wantonness," "flesh-following," "lust," and "defiling."

The words I don't see, and which I would expect to see, are more like "violent," "brutal," "marauding."

The writer of this passage apparently believes that the sin of Sodom is same-sex sexual activity. This is an incorrect interpretation: the sin of Sodom is inhospitality.

Hospitality is a primary moral and cultural absolute in the Biblical world. Hospitality is to be offered to all, including enemies. To violate the laws of hospitality is to upend a tradition so powerful, it rocks the foundations of society.

In the passage in question (Genesis 19), two messengers/ angels are traveling from a meeting with Sarah and Abraham to Sodom. In Sodom, Lot offers them hospitality, but the men of the city come to the door, demanding that Lot serve up the strangers so that they may "know" them. (Lot offers his two unmarried daughters to the mob. The story offers this as an example of hospitality to the strangers, an extraordinary attempt to protect his quests. Obviously, to you and me, it's abhorrent and shocking.) Ezekiel attributes the attempted rape by the mob to serious local character flaws, including the refusal of Sodom to help those in need. Travelers/ strangers/ aliens fall into this category of the needy.

This was the guilt of your sister Sodom: she and her daughters had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease, but did not aid the poor and needy. ~ Ezekiel 16:49

In the ancient world, rape was a tool of warfare, and it was an act of violence; if men raped other men, it was a particular form of humiliation (due to cultural judgements of active,"male" versus passive "female" roles in sexual intercourse). In other words, it was much as it is today. Rape--whether of a man or a woman-- is not a sexual crime. Rape is not an expression of sexuality. It's an expression of brutality. God condemned Sodom because of an attempted gang rape of God's messengers/ angels.

On its way to make a point about God's execution of justice, the writer of 2 Peter goes in the same direction as other New Testament writers, using Sodom as an example of aberrant sexual behavior.  Rape is aberrant behavior, alright-- but to make it about sexuality is to fully misunderstand the crime. In this case, it is to misunderstand exactly what God's judgement means. God judges those who do not help those in need, and travelers/ aliens/ refugees are mentioned over and over again in the bible, in exactly this context.

Lent Day 6: Nervous Laughter, Part I

Scripture passages can be found here (Zechariah 3:1-10, for today) and here (2 Peter 2:4-21, for tomorrow). Hold on to your hats!

When I finished the last verse of this morning's passages, I mumbled, "Wow, talk about deep cuts." I mumbled this aloud, to myself, as there was no one else there (though there may be a squirrel lurking in the attic just above where I read in the morning...). Deep cuts, as in, less frequently heard tracks from albums. As in, I bet myself a nickel that neither of these texts was in the lectionary, because, boy howdy, I'da remembered them. I won. They're not there.

The prophet Zechariah is a post-exilic truth-teller, whose great concern is the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem and the re-establishment there of prayer and worship, under the authority of the priesthood. This is a bittersweet time in the history of God's covenant people. The exile is over, and the people-- those who have survived, and the new generations that have arisen-- are returning to Jerusalem. And there is joy about the rebuilding of the Temple, though it is not and will never be the Temple of Solomon. That loss remains a permanent scar on the communal psyche.

This passage from Zechariah (which is attributed to the prophet, but...???) involves the high priest Joshua and an angel and Satan. Now, because this is the Hebrew Scriptures, Satan isn't The Devil, as Christians have learned to think of him; here, he's a member of the heavenly court whose job it is to make sure mortals are as moral as they try to appear. In Hebrew, it's Ha Satan, which means, literally, The Tempter, or The Tester, or The Accuser. (A little like that guy Jesus ran into in the wilderness.)

And now that it's afternoon and I've refreshed my memory about all this (ahem), the scene as it unfolds makes a little more sense. But at 6:45 this morning, it was kind of like...

Joshua, the High Priest.* Note the turban.

OK, there's a priest named Joshua (vaguely familiar). But his clothes are dirty? And we're gonna take them off.. ok, I guess. They're stand-ins for guilt. IT'S A METAPHOR.

But then, even in my early morning stupor, there was something oddly moving about "Let them put a clean turban on his head." And suddenly, to me, Joshua was every homeless man I've seen on the streets of the city, filthy clothes, rotting teeth, who had a mother who loved him and a job after the army for which he wore a jacket and tie. And even in my semi-conscious state, I could envision this man, realizing he had another chance after it had seemed as if that was someone else's life, an existence he could only dimly remember. And the gravity of his office is engraved on some kind of stone (jewel?), and it represents his promise that, yes, yes, we can make this our home again, yes, I promise to walk in God's ways and keep these requirements, and is it true? That all of us are welcome here, and we will, truly, live, each one, under their vine and fig tree (or, in their little apartment), in peace, unafraid?



* Image: From "Promptuarii Iconum Insigniorum," published by Guillaume Rouille (1518?-1589). Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Lent Day 5: The Fierce Protection of a Motherly God

Scripture, Psalm 17, can be found here...

I'll begin with my favorite quote from John Calvin-- in fact, probably the only thing I can even reasonably paraphrase from his prodigious body of work. But I don't have to paraphrase it here; I can quote directly. About the book of Psalms, he wrote:

I have been accustomed to call this book, I think not inappropriately, “An Anatomy of all the Parts of the Soul;” for there is not an emotion of which any one can be conscious that is not here represented as in a mirror.*

The more I allow the psalms to soak into my heart, my psyche, the more I agree with Calvin.

Psalm 17 is an exquisite expression of fear combined with, and finally conquered by, trust. The NRSV titles it "A Prayer for Deliverance from Persecutors," and as the psalm unfolds, we take in images of pursuit, tracking down, surrounding. These are combined with descriptions of assaults on character, lies spread by pitiless hearts and arrogant speech.

It isn't just iron age kings who have to go through these things. I have friends...

One image from this psalm calls to me, and it's an image I first learned, not by hearing or reading scripture, but from my mother's mouth.

"You are the apple of my eye," she said.

As a child I understood this to mean something like, "You are sweet," or "You are sweet to look at." I knew it was said in love and tenderness. But it was a confusing thing to hear; it didn't really make sense (especially to a kid who probably hadn't yet taken to apples).

Here, we read it in the context of pursuit, and paired with another (illuminating) image:

Guard me as the apple of your eye; 
hide me in the shadow of your wings. ~ Ps. 17:8 

The Hebrew of the first part of the verse reads, literally, "Keep/ guard me as the apple/pupil, daughter of the eye."

In his commentary (17:7-9), Calvin notes that the eye is the tenderest part of the body. To guard someone in this way, then, is to protect them as you would protect your own most vulnerable parts.
And, it's fascinating to me (since I first heard this phrase as a mother's expression of love) that "daughter" is used here, hidden in the Hebrew-- does that mean the daughter is one's greatest vulnerability, and therefore most fervently to be protected? The image is paired with an explicitly motherly image--the mother bird's instinctive use of her wings to cover, hide, and protect her young.

For me, this psalm of David, most likely associated with one of the many battles in which he found himself, before and after becoming king, also speaks of mothers and daughters, and, in the best cases, the deep trust the daughter has that her mother will protect her in every possible way.

Because it is a psalm, it is a promise, even to those of us whose parents failed to live up to our needs or hopes, that God is steadfast and present, loving and protecting.

The love of God will not disappoint us.


*John Calvin, "The Author's Preface," Commentary on the Psalms, Vol. 1.

Lent Day 4: Broken Spirits

Continuing with Exodus 6:1-13, which can be found here...

The second thing I discovered--or rediscovered-- in this passage is a description of Moses conveying God's promise of release to the Israelites, but their inability to believe or trust in that promise.

"Moses told this [i.e., God's plan and promise for rescue] to the Israelites; but they would not listen to Moses, because of their broken spirit and their cruel slavery." ~Exodus 6:9

Following Stephen's shrill denunciation of Israel's unfaithfulness in Thursday's Acts passage, this came as balm to my soul.

Of course, they didn't / couldn't believe. Their spirits were broken. Their hearts were broken. All they knew was the cruelty of slavery.

In this year that marks the four hundredth anniversary of slaves arriving in what was then called "the new world," the territory that would become the United States, Americans have a vivid picture of how long it takes communities to recover from the brokenness of spirit slavery creates-- especially if the slavers never, truly, let go their view of the slaves as irredeemably "other." Especially if the forces of racial supremacy cling to the notion that, in being made to end the practice of slavery, their
"rights" were denied. Especially if, in addition to clinging to the notion that the enslaved peoples were innately inferior, those who claim racial supremacy continue to be a force to create systems of oppression and inequality, and then blame the peoples they continue to oppress for the brokenness of their communities.

The brokenness flows from generation to generation, though the resilience of peoples who have been oppressed cannot be underestimated. Despite the continuing systems of oppression, those who have been oppressed continue to flourish and to distinguish themselves in every scholarly field, in every technological enterprise, in every art and science, in every kind of political endeavor, and as leaders who inspire both greatness and goodness. The scriptural narrative recognizes this, and gives it voice. It also promises the accompaniment of God along the stony path from broken spirit to freedom and abundant life.

Lent Day 3: The Genderqueer Names of God

Scripture (Exodus 6:1-13) can be found here.

Yesterday, we read a New Testament deacon's account of the call of Moses; today we go to the source, the book of Exodus, and read as God lays out more detail for the ways in which God will rescue the Israelites from slavery.

God begins by establishing relationship:

“I am the LORD. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as "God Almighty," but by my name ‘The LORD’ I did not make myself known to them. I also established my covenant with them, to give them the land of Canaan, the land in which they resided as aliens." ~Exodus 6:2b-5

The "Tetragrammaton"-- Four letters, the Unspeakable Name

God reminds Moses of God's name: the LORD. When we read LORD in the Hebrew Scriptures (in small caps, which is not a feature available here, but you can see it at the link at Bible Gateway), we are reading four letters revealed to Moses as God's name: they translate, roughly, to YHWH. They are a Hebrew word, which means "I am who am," or "I am who I am," or "I will be who I will be." This is the name God revealed at that burning bush, and in Jewish tradition it is so holy as to be unpronounceable. It is so holy, that a Hebrew word meaning "Lord" (in the medieval, lord of the manor sense, or the sense of someone of higher social status than most everyone else) is substituted when passages containing the four letters are read aloud.

It is so holy, that Jewish Theological Seminary (Conservative), the seminary located across the street from the seminary I attended, had a room into which were placed all written versions of the name when the papers or books that contained them were being discarded. It is so holy, you cannot even throw away or recycle a piece of paper on which it is written in the usual way.

But God also reminds Moses of the name "God Almighty," which, footnotes will tell you, "is the traditional rendering of the Hebrew El Shaddai." El Shaddai literally means either "God of the Mountains" or "God with Breasts/ Breasted God." *

El Shaddai is a name that insinuates female function, if not gender; while YHWH is a name that is traditionally understood (and certainly pronouned) to have male gender.

It would seem that God takes on genderqueer naming in scripture. This is hidden to anyone who doesn't hear or read the original Hebrew and understand it. This, we might infer, has been carefully hidden.

I'll address the second discover in tomorrow's post.
~ ~ ~

* Though I had learned the meaning of El Shaddai while studying Hebrew in seminary, I was grateful to the Rev. Dr. Wil Gafney for affirming this reading of the name during my study leave this winter.

Lent Day 2: Words of a Witness

Scripture (Acts 7:30-34) can be found here...

* A word about the selection of passages I'm writing about through Lent, below.

This morning we are plunked down in the middle of the famous "speech" of Stephen before the council of High Priests. First, some background.

Stephen was one of the first deacons chosen by the early church; he was one of the "Hellenists" (aka, Greeks/ Gentiles) chosen to remedy unfair food distribution to widows, based, alas, on ethnic/ religious background. (After a utopian beginning to the Acts of the Apostles, the people of the church start to settle into old, socially determined patterns of prejudice.) Stephen is immediately heaped with praise ("a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit"), and seen to perform "wonders. and signs among the people." Before long, he is arrested and brought before the council. In his defense, he makes a long and detailed speech, recounting the history of God's covenant people, beginning with Abraham.

So, picture this: This gentile guy is trying to school the descendants of Aaron on Jewish history. And his focus, I'm sorry to say, is one of those things that raises concerns about anti-Semitism in the New Testament. According to the Jewish Annotated New Testament, Stephen's speech highlights the disobedience of the Israelites. The Hebrew Scriptures do this too, of course (see: pretty much all the prophets), but they do so in the context of God's steadfast love and continued faithfulness to God's covenant people. Stephen's overall narrative seems to highlight the ways in which people can be called by God, but disbelieved/ persecuted by God's people. Like Jesus. Like Stephen.

When we catch up with him today, Stephen has gotten as far as the call of Moses, which he summarizes succinctly. Forty years after Moses had to vamoose out of Egypt because he killed a guy (a harsh taskmaster who was abusing Hebrew slaves), God's messenger appears to him in the wilderness, in the flame of a burning bush.

"Burning Bush/ Tree of Life" quilt; made by Janet Rutkowski

Moses is amazed. He stops. He turns aside to look at it.

God identifies Godself as the God of Moses' ancestors.

God tells Moses to remove his sandals, as he is standing on holy ground.

God tells Moses: God has heard the cries of the oppressed Israelites, and has come to bring rescue.

God tells Moses: "Come, now, I will send you to Egypt."

I want to say this about Stephen: He paid attention when learning his catechism. Yes, he has heard and interprets some things through his own outsider (non-Jewish) lens, which sometimes means he leans heavily on what sounds like anti-Jewish bias, which is a problem to be examined by Jesus-followers of any age.

But he has made the story his own. He tells the story of Moses' call simply, reverently, and with awe of his own, because he understands that ours is a God who sometimes appears in unexpected places and at unexpected times. Ours is a God who both calls us to follow today, where we are and as we are, but who also roots us in story. This story. Our story. Our is a God who yet may appear to us in burning shrubbery, and that is both fantastical and, actually, true. Stephen has made God's story his story, and he tells it with gusto. In the end, it gets him killed.

Stephen gives witness to all God has done-- before him, and through him, and into a future he will participate in as the first named martyr in the New Testament. "Martyr" is a Greek word that simply means, witness. Today, Stephen's witness reminds us that God called Moses, and God called him, and God calls you and  God calls me-- every day, in new and unexpected ways.


* About those scripture passages:  A new Presbyterian Church (USA) Book of Common Worship was released in 2018, and it is a fantastic resource for so many reasons (including a new, inclusive marriage liturgy). One of the big surprises for me was the option of a new (to me) Daily Lectionary that is tied to the Sunday readings. In the previous edition, the Daily Lectionary was a two-year cycle and was not connected in any way to the Sunday Revised Common Lectionary, a three-year cycle. 

This year I am reading (and using for these reflections) the new three-year, RCL Daily Lectionary option, which is designed to bridge the Sunday readings-- to keep us in themes that are connected to where the RCL takes us, Sunday to Sunday. 

Ash Wednesday

Full scripture text can be found here.

For those of us reading from the Revised Common Lectionary, this passage from Joel is on offer every single Ash Wednesday. It begins with an alarming note:

Blow the trumpet in Zion; sound the alarm on my holy mountain! 
      Let all the inhabitants of the land tremble, 
for the day of the Lord is coming, 
      it is near— a day of darkness and gloom, 
      a day of clouds and thick darkness! ~ Joel 2:1-2a

If it sounds frightening, that's because it is supposed to frighten. The part we skip-- verses 3 through 11-- describe the onslaught of an army... of locusts. Their work is described in the kind of detail that makes first world readers squirm. Think back to that time you discovered black ants marching through your kitchen and multiply it by a quadrillion, and you get the picture. Add to this that the context tells us this is an intentional assault, at the very least allowed by God, and you begin to understand the dismay and horror facing the original audience for the prophet.

But, as is so often the case in scripture-- yes, in the Hebrew scriptures, as well as in the Christian testament-- there is an escape clause.

Yet even now, says the Lord,
    return to me with all your heart,
with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;
    rend your hearts and not your clothing.
Return to the Lord, your God,
    for he is gracious and merciful,
slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love,
    and relents from punishing.  ~Joel 2:12-13

God suddenly appears like Felicity Huffman's character, Lynette Scavo, in "Desperate Housewives," trying to discipline her twin sons (for whom the word "hellion" seems to have been coined). (For those of you who never basked in the joys of watching this particular show, the early years of "DH" depict Lynette, who really was made to be a CEO, in a role in which she is uneasy: at home with four children). In one episode we see the boys, who have just done some new dreadful thing, sitting at a table, and Lynette is scowling down at them. She has laid out before them implements of "torture"-- a hairbrush, a spatula, even a good, old-fashioned, "hickory switch." Lynette begins to tell the boys what is going to happen to them, in frightening detail. They begin to cry and beg for mercy. The mother responds:

Too late. You STOLE. And then you LIED. Even worse, you made me look bad in front of Mrs. McCluskey, who you know is Mommy's sworn enemy." So, she says, “Pick your poison.” gesturing to the aforementioned instruments of torture: "How about a belt? It's a classic." She runs through the rest of the choices, as the boys continue to wail that they don't want to be spanked. Lynnette reminds them that "thieves get spanked, that's just the way it works." 

Unless! Unless they swear never to steal again and write Mrs. McCluskey a nice letter of apology. And the scene plays out exactly as the viewer expects. No spanking. No punishment (unless you count a letter of apology as punishment...which...maybe.)

The Scavo twins have already done exactly what God has asked the people to do: to return with all their hearts... or, at least, with weeping and mourning. Here is the unvarnished truth: Lynette doesn't want to spank her sons. God doesn't want to send a plague of crop-killers. What Lynette wants, I am guessing, is pretty much what God wants: Relationship. Respect. Acknowledgement of who has the power and the authority.

But above all that? And more crucially important than all that? Love.

In this Ash Wednesday text, we are asked... really, we are begged... to return to the Lord, who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. For those convinced there is a difference between the God of the Hebrew Scriptures and the God shown in Jesus-- this description of God shows up again and again in the Old Testament. This is who God IS. Someone who wants us to rend our hearts sufficiently to create an opening for God-- what Teresa of Avila called, an "interior castle" (el castillo interior), a place where, not only might the Holy One dwell, but where we might actually encounter God.

Lent asks us to create that space by certain practices. First, we take on the sign of the ashes, a mark of the "frailty and uncertainty of human life," and a sign of the penitence of a particular community. This part is important: Lent is a practice taken up in community. We have one another for support. This is never, ever a solo flight.

Then, we are invited to

"observe a holy Lent
by self-examination and penitence,
by prayer and fasting,
by works of love,
and by reading and meditating on the Word of God."

For most of us, taking on one or two of these will make a significant, God-shaped "dent" in our lives. Getting up a little earlier to do that reading and meditation, or carving out time in the evening for prayer. To take on all of them would require a fairly radical re-ordering of most of our lives.

It is possible that is exactly what we need to do.

Praying, for all of us, a holy Lent, and an encounter with God in our own interior castles.