Lent Day 6: Calling Upon God

I call upon you, for you will answer me, O God
   incline your ear to me; hear my words.
Wondrously show your steadfast love,
  O savior of those who seek refuge
  from their adversaries at your right hand.
Guard me as the apple of your eye;
   hide me in the shadow of your wings.
~Psalm 17:6-8

When have you called out to God for help? Were you suffering? Frightened? Angry? Confused? Feeling under attack? Feeling lost? Feeling as if your world was falling apart?

We have all felt some or all of the emotions above, so it's a good thing there's a Book of Psalms right in the middle of our Bibles. John Calvin described the psalms as "a complete anatomy of the human soul," and said we can find every single human emotion in there. 

Psalm 17, a Psalm of David, was written when the psalmist was, indeed, feeling under attack, or maybe was, literally so--it has the feel of a battle psalm. It's called a "Psalm for Deliverance from Persecutors," so it sounds more like a political battle than a military one. But it could also be a "battle" about reputation, rather than position. 

Whatever its need, whatever its purpose, there are phrases here that apply to almost any situation in which we are crying out to God, "HELP!" (Ann Lamott has a wonderful little book about what she calls the three essential prayers: HELP, THANKS, and WOW! HIghly recommend.)

First, that hope against hope that God will actually hear us, that we are not crying into the void. I call because you will answer me, the psalmist sings, not without reason, because, apparently, they know what it feels like when God does indeed answer.

The plea for an experience of God's wondrously steadfast love, which means--the psalmist has felt that, known that before. A memory of grace. A recollection of blessing. An instance when God's presence felt so amazingly near, we could hardly breathe for the joy of it, and all the world felt like love.

The name given to God: "O Savior of those who take refuge from their adversaries." The psalmist is so confident of this, they use this saving action of God's as a name to describe who God is, essentially. God is savior. God gives us refuge.

And then, the delightful request: Guard me as the apple of your eye. I grew up hearing the phrase, "the apple of my eye," and knowing it meant being truly cherished. I suppose I heard it from my parents, and, like an apple could be, it sounded sweet and delicious. But I didn't honestly know what it was until I was much older. The apple of your eye is your pupil. Of course we have a strong instinct to protect it--imagine when something is hurtling toward your face, even something like an autumn leaf in a gust of wind. But the phrase means: someone you love, dearly, and would protect at all costs. 

We are the apple of God's eye. Scripture tells us that God is love, and there are reminders of that love scattered throughout its books and prophecies and letters. When we are ready to call HELP! it is good to remind ourselves, as the psalmist does here, of God's wondrously steadfast love for us. It is good to ground ourselves in that love, no matter what challenge or loss or attack we are facing. God is love. We are the apple of God's eye.

Lent Day 4: Walking in the Light

 

Jesus said to them, "The light is with you a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going."
~John 12:35

Jesus is speaking to a group of "Greeks," which indicates Gentiles. This takes place just after Jesus has ridden into Jerusalem on what we know as Palm Sunday. Jesus has predicted his death, and is being asked, Who is the Messiah? Who is the Son of Man? Essentially, he is being asked who he is.  When Jesus tells the people around him that "the light" will be with them just a little while longer, he is speaking about himself. Jesus is the light of the world, and he knows that his death is imminent.

Like anyone faced with the immediacy of their own mortality, Jesus' soul is troubled. He asks aloud the question.. should I ask God to save me? But no. Here, as in every gospel, Jesus knows where he is being called, and he will walk that path. But he also wants the people around him to walk the path he believes God has chosen for them--the path of the light, the path that the early church called "the Way."

The Way of Jesus is described in the Acts of the Apostles as a time of great love and care shared by the fledgling faith community:

Awe came upon everyone because many wonders and signs were being done through the apostles. All who believed were together, and had everything in common; they would sell their possessions and goods, and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home, and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.
~Acts 2:43-47

This is what the early church understood as "walking in the light," or in the Way of Jesus. When I read this passage, I think of the forces of light and darkness that are always around us, but which seem to be especially visible to us in these chaotic times. What does it mean to walk in the light in these days? The early church offers us a blueprint of deliberate and generous-hearted care of one another, and of our neighbors (whether or not they are a part of" our" community). A wise woman said this week that, in these days of chaos, we must double down on love. 

...We’re living in a moment that has a very apocalyptic fragility to it, meaning that we can see the limits and how very delicate our structures are... But I will say one of the weird gifts of feeling apocalyptic fragility is, and we see this all throughout Scripture, is that heightened awareness. We have to... create practices that try to restore our own peace, to try to bring our neurological alert systems down, to remind ourselves of God’s abiding love, and really, the strength of the way that we can love each other back into a web that can reweave our own lives and our culture. I really do believe that. But the other thing is moments where we feel apocalyptic, you know, fragility.. it's the feeling of seeing things. And there’s some things that we should see. We should see injustice. We should see how much we are required to be a part of a world that needs us. We should see our own interdependence. So sometimes that revelation feels pretty awful. But other times I think it can make us really like sane. Like deeply sane. Because we can know what’s true, that our world is fragile. We can give ourselves more grace to restore our own peace, and that we just kind of double down on the stuff that really matters. Like being concretely loving, concretely honest... double down on the stuff that actually makes us good people of faith...*

Walking in the light means doubling down on love--loving the people who are in our circles, our community, and even who are not. Being there for folks as they lose their jobs, or lose their faith in the structures and systems that seems to be crumbling before our eyes. Being there for folks who have gotten a terrible diagnosis, or who face huge, unanticipated life transitions. Being there for those who might be lonely, or feel forgotten, neglected. 

What does it mean to you, for you, today, to walk in the light?

Blessings to you this weekend. Don't forget to set your clocks ahead! Let's walk in the light together.

* Kate Bowler, PhD, “The Hardest Part: Lent for Real Life,” Everything Happens Podcast, Season 14, Episode 3, March 4, 2025.

Lent Day 3: The Names of God

"Burning Bush" by Joe Schumacher, 2011.
Thanks to Art in the Christian Tradition,
Vanderbilt University Divinity Library.

God* also spoke to Moses and said to him, "I am the LORD**. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as the God Almighty***, but by my name "The LORD" I did not make myself known to them."
~Exodus 6:2-3 

When Moses returns to Egypt and begins his work of liberation, things (famously) do not go well. Pharaoh responds to his entreaty to Let God's People Go by making their work harder. The enslaved Hebrews are making bricks (for the pyramids, presumably?), for which they need a base of straw. Before Moses approached Pharaoh, the straw was provided for them. After, they had to find the straw themselves, but maintain the same quotas as before. 

Moses and God converse. Regularly. And Moses takes this frustrating situation to God, as in, "NOW LOOK WHAT'S HAPPENED!" Rather than respond to Moses' complaints, here, God gives Moses something to meditate upon: the names of God.

Gonna get a little technical here, but hang in there.

When we read the word "God" in the Hebrew Scriptures, it is the same Hebrew word that is used for "gods," elohim. In fact, it's in the plural form (which some Christians take as meaning the Trinity is already, in certain ways, recognized in that era, but it's more likely something like the royal "we"). 

But here, God is not talking about the name, "God." Rather, God is talking about the words we translate "God Almighty," which, in the Hebrew can be translated either "God of the Mountains" or "God with Breasts." (Think, Grand Tetons.) It's fascinating that the "translation" of this word has never accurately reflected the actual Hebrew words. Open your Bible and read the footnote for Exodus 6:3. Here's what mine says: "Traditional Rendering of Hebrew El Shaddai." The translators are being coy. One early name for God evokes both the majesty of mountains and a woman's form.  Here, God is offering El Shaddai as the name by which the patriarchs and matriarchs knew him/ her. 

When God and Moses met at the Burning Bush, God revealed The Name, a name so sacred that, traditionally, Jews are not permitted to speak it aloud. Like all other words in the Hebrew Scriptures, it has no vowels, and is rendered the Hebrew equivalent of YHWH. But, you will notice in your Bible (and in the quote up top) it is rendered "The LORD," in all capitals or small caps. This is because the word Lord, in Hebrew, Adonai, is always substituted for the four letters that signify a name that shouldn't be pronounced. 

The Name translates literally, "I Am Who Am," or "I Am Who I Am." or "I Will Be What I Will Be." This is the name that can't be pronounced, because the holiness of it is so profound.

Earlier this week, reading a commentary on another passage in Exodus, I learned that the names "God" and "The LORD" have significance for the Jewish people in how they describe the character of God. Elohim (God, gods) is derived from an ancient word for "Judge;" God, therefore, signifies the God of Justice. YHWH, (The LORD) on the other hand, is associated with the God of Compassion or Mercy. 

When the two names are used together--as in, The LORD our God, a construction often found in Exodus--Jews call it "The Unification of the Name," as it signifies a God of both Justice and Mercy.

The names we use for God has different meanings, origins, and implications. What name or names do you use for God? One thing you might choose to do, would be to try to expand the number of names you use for God. Here are just a few suggestions from the many names found in scripture:

Shepherd, Rock, King, Ruler, Spirit, Breath, Star, Bread, Mother, Wisdom/ Sophia, Counselor, Foundation, Friend, Creator, Redeemer, Savior, Light, Cornerstone, Peace, Mediator, Teacher, Life...

How would it impact your prayer to choose one or more of these names, and add them to your prayer time? How would it expand your understanding of God? I encourage you to ponder the names of God--all of them--and to see which name your heart wants to call God.

Blessings to you this Lenten Friday.

Lent Day 2: The Burning Bush

Burning Bush/ Tree of Life quilt made by Janet Rutkowski, 2009. 

 "Now, when forty years had passed, an angel appeared to Moses in the wilderness of Mount Sinai, in the flame of a burning bush. When Moses saw it, he was amazed at the sight, and as he approached to look, there came the voice of the Lord. 'I am the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.' Moses began to tremble, and did not dare to look."
~Acts of the Apostles 7:30-32

Throughout Lent I will be blogging passages from the Daily Lectionary, which seeks to take us from Sunday to Sunday with passages from scripture that will resonate with the themes of the season. Today offers an interesting passage. Though the words above are about Moses, they are found in the Acts of the Apostles. 

What's going on? 

We are dropping in on the passionate sermon of Stephen, one of the first deacons of the church, and, here, about to be the first martyr. Stephen is preaching, recounting the story of scripture as the story of salvation--God being present, seeking to save God's people from bondage. 

Stephen reminds us that it has been forty years since Moses fled Egypt and found a quiet life tending flocks with his wife Zipporah and her father, the Midianite priest Jethro. When Moses fled, he was forty years old. So here we have God calling an eighty-year-old into service, someone who, by our contemporary judgement, ought to be permitted to live out his life in peace. 

God, as is so often the case, has other ideas.

When Moses saw the bush that burned but wasn't consumed, he was amazed, and turned aside from his flock to see it more closely. 

When God's voice came pouring forth from the bush, Moses trembled with fear, and no longer wanted to look. 

How human! To be drawn to what is beautiful and marvelous, and to be afraid, and want to step away from what is beyond our understanding. 

God is both, always. Which leaves us in a conundrum. We want to draw close to the God whose beauty we can sense or see. We want to warm ourselves in that glow. But the God whose ways confound us--the one who says, "My thoughts are not your thoughts"--repels us, maybe even causes us to flee. 

How do we cling to both of these, the God who draws us in and the God who, perhaps, infuriates us? I am hearing a lot about that latter God, in light of the chaos we witness all around us in these very trying times. We can be furious with God for letting it all happen.

Prayer can be a part navigating this puzzle. The psalms are an entire prayer book, right in the middle of our Bibles, and there are plenty--and I mean, plenty--psalms of lament. One of my favorites, one you can memorize it is so short, is Psalm 13.

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I bear pain in my soul
    and have sorrow in my heart all day long?

And that's just the first verse. Tell God you're mad. Tell God you're disappointed. Tell God how you feel about having this illness, or lack or mobility, or the things you read or see in the news. God can take it. Pray angry prayers. Pray frightened prayers. Pray confused prayers. God can take all of them and more. Let the words of your mouth and the meditations of your heart be real, and honest, and true. 

And then, remember the beauty that drew you in the first place. Remember the warmth of the God who, scripture tells us, is love. Both/and. God's arms are open to all of you, all of your humanness, and God will be there to hold you through it all.

Lent Day 1: Ash Wednesday

You desire truth in the inward being;
therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
~Psalm 51:6

David's Psalm 51--which our Bibles tell us was written after the Bathsheba/ Uriah fiasco, and God had caught David out--is the psalm appointed for Ash Wednesday. It is passionate, self-recriminating (appropriately), and also filled with gorgeous nuggets of wisdom. 

This verse is a little tricky for the translators, but contains a deep truth about being human. I think "hidden places" might be a good way to think about "secret heart"... as in teach me wisdom in my secret places. The places I hide, even from myself. 

I think David is in shock because he now knows he is a person who could do that--take a woman, without her consent, rape her, and then kill her husband to cover up her pregnancy (by marrying her real quick). A sin against Bathsheba, against Uriah, and against his people, because he is the king, and he bas broken faith with them in a devastating way. And, because each person is made in the image of God, a sin against God.

David knows, now, the only way out is through--he has to change from the inside out. Trying to hide didn't do it. Sacrifices won't do it. A thorough change of heart, his essence, is the only way.

We often come to Lent as though it were a massive self-improvement project, and I am sure I am at least partially culpable for that as a preacher. But this year I am embracing a simple plan (with the help of the exquisitely wise and funny Kate Bowler*). Lent is a time to acknowledge that we are human. That's certainly what the ashes are all about: our mortality, our finitude. But humanity is larger than simply the boundaries God has placed on our lives. Our humanity endows us with the ultimate dignity: we are made in God's image. We are God's beloved children. 

So let's start there. We are human. We are beloved. These forty days are not about the pounds lost or the mileage covered in our Bibles, but about what it means to be human. By all means--embrace a Lenten discipline if that is helpful to you. But never forget the first, essential sign of the ashes: We are dust. But what beautiful things God can do with that dust. 

*Go find Kate Bowler's Lenten Devotional ("Daily Guide") here. You won't regret it!