Lent Day 23: The Boy Who Ran Away! A Monologue Sermon on the Prodigal Son

From time to time I preach a monologue sermon, from the point of view of one of the characters in the story. Yesterday I preached from the point of view of the prodigal son. 

Years ago, even before I was ordained, I wrote a sermon from the point of view of the elder brother--the one who, in the end, is angry at the forgiveness shown his younger brother. If you're interested, you can find that sermon here.

If you prefer, you can watch this sermon on our YouTube video. It begins at 30:15. 

Scripture                   Luke 15: 1-3, 11-32 (NRSVUE)

Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

So he told them this parable:

Then Jesus said, “There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the wealth that will belong to me.’ So he divided his assets between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant region, and there he squandered his wealth in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that region, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that region, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, and no one gave him anything. But when he came to his senses he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.”’ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let eat and celebrate, for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.

“Now his elder son was in the field, and as he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf because he has got him back safe and sound.’ Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command, yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your assets with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’ ” 

Sermon            

I’m standing in the doorway of the house, looking out at my father and my brother. They are standing at the edge of the field—my brother covered in sweat, because he’s just come in from working all day, alongside the paid laborers. I can see that my father is pleading with him, leaning in towards him, reaching out his hands to gently touch him. But my brother pulls away. He is standing, stiff as a cut board. Every so often he glances over at the house. He glances over at me. His face is a map of misery. 

But here I stand, a purple linen robe over my torn and tattered tunic; my father’s own heavy silver ring on my right hand, a red stone shining in the torchlight; soft calfskin slippers on my dirty feet; and a goblet of wine in my hand. It is, as yet, untouched. 

My brother is flashing with anger. I am not surprised. In fact, this is the first thing that has not surprised me in the hour since I trudged up the hill to our house. My brother. I am home, and he is not pleased.

I can hardly blame him. A year ago I did the most shameful thing a son could do. At the age of seventeen I approached my father and told him, I wanted to go. I had to go. And I needed my inheritance, so that I had something to live on.

This is not done. Even as I spoke to my father, his eyes shining with tears that never spilled onto his face, I could feel my own face flush with the shame of it. I knew it was akin to saying to my father, “You are worth more to me dead than alive. But since you’re alive, give me this, please.” 

My father didn’t say a word. He turned and went into the back of the house, where he kept important documents. He brought out a small scroll which he opened, and I could see that it was a rough map of his vineyard. He looked at it for a long while. Finally, he took a reed, dipped it in ink. And drew a line across the map at the far end of the property. I could see that it was slightly larger than one-third of the vineyard. He looked up at me. “This is your portion of the inheritance. I’ve made it larger than a third, since the house will go to your brother. As the law requires, he will inherit a double portion.”

He turned away from me, but I could hear his voice shaking. “Go to town. Take the map. Sell the land that I’ve marked off. You can give the map to the new owner as their deed.”

And so I did. I went to town, and met a neighbor—someone who lived just down the hill from us. He was eager to take the property, and paid me with a heavy bag of denarii. I took it home and began to pack. 

A few days later, the property was his, and I was carrying my heavy pack down the road. My father and brother stood at the entryway of the house, watching me go. I know this, because I looked back, just once. But no more after that.

I don’t know how to explain why I did it. I could talk about how close my father and brother were—and they were. They understood one another perfectly. Agreed on everything. I was always the shrill voice at the table, telling them why they were wrong—about my friends, about the tax-collector up the hill, about the weather. In the evening, they would end their day together talking in front of a fire about the next crop, the workers, the price of wine. I had nothing to add, so I sat there in silence, or retreated to my room, or walked outside to look at the stars. 

I could talk about how hard it was after my mother died. She was the one who listened to me, who nodded at my stories instead of rolling her eyes, who held me close before sending me to bed. After she died, and the baby she had tried to bring into the world died with her, I cried for days. I cried until my brother said, “That’s enough.” And my father said nothing. And I thought, “That’s enough? I will never stop crying. I will never not miss her. Who is for me now?” And my brother and father continued to talk about the crops and the workers and prices, as if a vast abyss had not just opened up and swallowed our family. 

But if I’m really honest, none of those things made me run. My father and brother were ordinary men, who lived an ordinary life where I didn’t quite fit in. But that’s no tragedy. My mother died, but many mothers die in childbirth, and life goes on without them.  

I left because there was a burning anger inside me that I didn’t understand, and I couldn’t put out. I left because I if I stayed, I thought I would go mad or commit murder. I left because, at 17, I didn’t even know who I was, and I certainly didn’t think the grapevines were going to teach me. 

So I ran away. Through my father’s vineyard, out of Galilee and north-west to the sea, the sea town of Sidon in Phoenicia. I went to the harbor and saw the barrier island, and ships curving around it, to come to port. I saw the workers unloading the goods from lands I didn’t even know existed—their spices and silks, barrels of wines and ales. I befriended some sailors by buying them food and wine, and I thought maybe I would go to sea with the next ship that left, bearing fine Lebanon cedar for sale. But then, I was enjoying the wine, which the sailors encouraged me to drink until I was senseless, so that they too could drink until they were senseless. I was enjoying the women, though… I could not tell you one of their names or describe one face or remember one thing they said to me. And I was enjoying the games—rolling dice for money, always seeming to lose more than I won. 

My money ran out just as the city seemed to run out of people. Suddenly, there wasn’t enough food anywhere, and even people who helped beggars—as I had become—couldn’t help us any more, because they had their families to feed. I looked around for work, but the only person who would hire me raised pigs. He sent me out to give them their slop. By then I was so weak from hunger, the slop looked good to me. I dipped my hand into the pail and held it up to my nose—the jumbled remains of day old grains and greens, wilted, souring. My stomach—as hungry as it was—heaved in warning, and I dropped the handful back into the pigsty. 

As night fell, I rested against a stone wall that divided the pig farm from its neighbor’s property. I had finished gnawing on the hard bread that was my dinner. A lone star rose in the sky, and the sight of it pierced my heart. Suddenly the sound of my father’s and brother’s voices wafting out to me as I looked up at the stars came to me. I’d always considered it boring, annoying noise. Now even the memory of it sounded like sweet music.

What am I doing here? I thought. And then, a greater knife to my heart: What have I done? I put my head in my hands and wept. I wept until I had no more tears, and then I slept.  

The sound of a rooster awakened me and I lay there, very still. I have to go, I thought. I jumped to my feet and ran to find the owner, who gave me my pay and some bread for the journey. I thanked him, and I ran. 

The whole way home—a two-day journey—I rehearsed and refined what I would say. I imagined my father’s stony face, and knew the only thing I could do was to admit it. Admit it all. To tell him that I’d done the worst, and I knew there was no forgiveness to be found. But maybe there was work. And maybe, over time, there could even be trust. But that wasn’t up to me. 

I trudged up the hill as night fell, and I walked through the fragrant grapevines. The harvest was starting soon… it looked like a good crop this year. I looked up to see the house, expecting to see the firelight through the window. To my surprise I saw what, at first, looked like a pile of cloth by the door. Then I realized… it was a man… it was my father. And as I drew near, he scrambled to his feet and… began to run. To run toward me, not away. I was… astonished doesn’t cover it. I was amazed. This was not possible. But even as I was thinking how impossible it was, my father was falling on my neck and embracing me, and weeping. We were both weeping. I started to say my piece, but he interrupted me, calling a servant—the robe, the slippers, the ring. Family heirlooms. And then, the party. A party unlike any I’d known. 

I will never forget the look in my father’s eyes. I had not known. I had not understood the depths of his love. I had not understood the size of his beautiful, beating heart. I had not known that such forgiveness—forgiveness for the shameful, the cruel, the unforgiveable—that it could exist. But it does. I learned that just about an hour ago. 

And now I’m standing in the doorway of the house. And my brother is still out there. He’s looking at my father with a face of stone, and my father is still speaking, still whispering words of reassurance, words of encouragement. But he is not having it.  

I know what I must do. I put down the goblet of wine. I take off the ring and the shoes, and place them with the wine. I take off the beautiful robe, and carefully fold it and hand it to a servant. 

I step outside, and begin to walk toward him. 

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Lent Day 21: Go Ahead. Say it Out Loud

 While I kept silent, my body wasted away
    through my groaning all day long.
For day and night your hand was heavy upon me;
    my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer. 
~Psalm 32:3-4

Psalm 32 is one of the penitential psalms. Unlike the others, though, it isn't a present tense, God-forgive-me-for-this-now type of psalm. Instead, it's a narrative about the joys of being forgiven. 

In the lines I've shared above, the psalmist is recounting a memory of a time when they were trying to hide themselves from God--when they were oppressed by the guilt they felt, and felt the pressure of that building up inside.The guilt sapped their strength. It felt like a weight, the heavy hand of God upon them.

Then the psalmist describes how incredible it felt to let it out--to say to God, yes, I acknowledge it: I sinned. I did. And God forgave, which seems to be the very nature of God. 

I don't believe we are able to hide ourselves from God. (There's another psalm, pointing that out. You can find it here.) I tend to assume God knows everything I do, the good, the bad, and the ugly. My experience isn't of trying to build up the courage to confess to God what I've done (or left undone). But I do sometimes have to ask God for help in dealing with the aftermath of what I've done. 

A while back a friend told me we were no longer friends. I was stunned. The ex-friend made the case that I hadn't been available to them; that our friendship seemed only about my needs, and not theirs. I recognize now that I had stopped putting in the effort to connect with this friend by picking up or answering the phone, by texts or emails, or any number of things I could have done to bridge the physical distance between us. (My ex-friend used to be local, but now they live at a distance).They were hurt, and they are not able to forgive me. 

This continues to weigh heavily on me. I pray for this friend, not in the hopes of resuming the friendship, but just because they were such a good friend to me. They were there for me at one of the most fraught, intense times in my life. I want them to have a happy life, abundant life, always. It's between God and me now, to stitch back together the pieces of my torn up heart, and God is good at that. Healing the brokenhearted and binding up their wounds is a specialty. 

But I have learned my lesson. When I love someone, I say it out loud and I do my best to live it. I reach out. I make myself available. I try not to let too much time go by. I try to be the friend I should have been to my ex-friend. I try to be better. And God can help me with that.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Lent Day 20: Check-in: How's your Lent going?

He said therefore, “What is the kingdom of God like? And to what should I compare it? It is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in the garden; it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches.”

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 13:18-21

Homemade bread in my kitchen.

It's the twentieth day of Lent (we don't count the Sundays--they are always the feast of the resurrection), and it seems like a good time to check in. How are you doing? Specifically, how is  your Lent going? 

I confess that I am a little overcommitted right now, but I am still finding this a beautiful and encouraging time of the church year. I love the season, and the ways it focuses us and helps us to remember who we are and whose we are. 

I love that we have Wednesday evening supper and worship at our church (you can watch last night's service--just shy of a half hour--here). In fact, today I was fantasizing about doing it all year long. (Don't worry UPC soup-makers. I know that's too much for our resources. Like I said, fantasy.)

I love the devotional we are using this year, from the marvelous Kate Bowler. It's called "The Hardest Part: Hurt We Carry, Hope We Find," and it's very, very real. Talks about fear, and illness, and frustration, and the WORLD NOT BEING THE WAY IT SHOULD BE (all caps mine). And it is not a downer, simply honest and lovely, and you can get it here. (Hey, half a Lent is better than none. And you could read one devotion in the morning and one at night.)

And I love the people. The people who are traveling together this Lent--my congregation, my family, my colleagues, my friends, in real live and virtual life. Their curiosity, their gratitude, their absolute honesty. It's such a privilege to walk together.

I want to say it's a Lenten world, right now, but I like Lent too much to attribute bad things to it. But every day we read horrifying news--looks like the social security administration is close to collapse, I see. And people are afraid, very understandably. 

I believe it is community that will save us. Church community, retirement community, communities of colleagues, communities of friends, communities of the resistance, all these communities and more. We need one another. 

I read the best thing in our devotional this morning, again, the brilliant Kate Bowler, who is a professor of Church History, her specialty being, the American church. She writes,

The cultural narrative we are told is that we should be able to handle it all on our own or “pull ourselves up by our bootstraps.” But let this historian tell you what this really means. 

*Sounds of a historian rolling up her sleeves.* 

In the early 19th century, bootstrapping originally meant trying to do something ridiculous, like lifting yourself up by your own hair. It’s impossible. So maybe we should simmer down imagining that our individual selves can carry the world on our shoulders. It takes a village to raise a child, and a community of faith to sustain being human.

We can't do it all on our own. Nor should we try to. Asking for help is human, and vulnerable, and absolutely required. Go ahead and ask. Ask your pastor. Ask your church. Ask your friends. Ask the Office on Aging. Ask your congressperson or senator, or state representative or senator. Ask your doctor. Ask.

Asking is like that little seed Jesus talks about. It's a small thing that grows and grows, because it grows community. And I truly believe that in community is where we all need to be, right now.

Tell me about your Lent. Tell me how you are doing. Tell me if you need help finding community, and I'll do everything I can to help.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Lent Day 18: On Time and Wisdom

 Lord, let me know my end
    and what is the measure of my days;
    let me know how fleeting my life is.

~Psalm 39:4

A Statue of Buddha from Bacalhôa Buddha Eden, Lisbon, Portugal
Courtesy of Atlas Obscura

In my living room there is a small plak with a black sky above and a tentative sunrise or sunset over a black silhouette of mountains at the bottom. On it are the words:

The problem is, you think you have time. ~Buddha

This is not actually a quote from "the awakened one," the wandering sage who lived something like 2500 years ago. It is a quote from one of his contemporary students, Jack Kornfield, who wrote "Buddha's Little Instruction Book" (1994), his distillation of the master's teachings for modern readers. This particular quote does represent a theme that can be found more than once in the Buddha's teachings. It may be a summary of this one: 

Those who have come to be,

those who will be:

All

will go,

leaving the body behind.

The skillful person,

realizing the loss of all,

should live the holy life

ardently.

Time. Time is a central concern of the wise, and of those who are advising others to find wisdom. We find the same theme in the Psalm appointed for the first half of this week. Psalm 39 begins with three verses of the psalmist trying not to speak--they don't want to sin with their tongue! But by the end of the third verse, they are positively burning from the effort of keeping silent, so finally, they come out with it, the prayer that has set their heart on fire: they want to know how long they will live.

Why does the psalmist want to know how long they've got? Maybe it has to do with something they want to do, something specfic--such as becoming a wise person. Maybe they want to know how much time they have left to spend with those they love. Maybe they fear an overly extended life--a long, slow descent into feebleness or dementia. Or, maybe they fear an untimely, early demise, with much left undone.

(True confession. This whole conversation makes me think of my attic. *shudders*)

In any or all of these cases, the Psalmist in search of wisdom feels that knowing the span of their days will help them. 

Perhaps they will not put off until tomorrow what they must do today.

Perhaps they will learn wisdom with a greater urgency, and fill their heart with, not just knowledge, but the ability to use that knowledge for good, for others as well as themselves. 

Perhaps they will spend the hours, days, or years they have before them in doing mercy, living justly, and walking humbly with their God. 

But there is also a risk that knowing the number of their days will bring them to a standstill, a kind of spiritual paralysis, in which they are filled with anxiety or fear of that unknown last journey. 

This prayer of the psalmist is a puzzle. There are, of course, times in our lives when we may know with some degree certainty how short our time will be. But even then, God surprises us. We outlive the prognosis, we beat the medically determined odds. 

I think the psalmist doesn't actually want a text from God with "one week" or "five hundred-twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes" on it. I think the psalmist wants to live their days in wisdom, but also in peace. I think the psalmist wants the tiniest taste of God's wisdom so that their days--however many there may be--are lived in precisely the way God wants them to be lived, whatever that may mean. 

God, let us know, not the measure of our days, but how you want us to live.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Breath prayer:  Living.... with You.

Lent Day 17: Imagine!

Hear, everyone who thirsts;

    come to the waters;

and you who have no money,

    come, buy and eat!

Come, buy wine and milk

    without money and without price.

Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread

    and your earnings for that which does not satisfy?

Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good,

    and delight yourselves in rich food.

Incline your ear, and come to me;

    listen, so that you may live.

I will make with you an everlasting covenant,

   my steadfast, sure love for David.

See, I made him a witness to the peoples,

    a leader and commander for the peoples.

Now you shall call nations that you do not know,

    and nations that do not know you shall run to you,

because of the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel,

    for he has glorified you.

Seek the Lord while he may be found;

    call upon him while he is near;

let the wicked forsake their way

    and the unrighteous their thoughts;

let them return to the Lord, that he may have mercy on them,

    and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

    nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

    so are my ways higher than your ways

    and my thoughts than your thoughts.

~Isaiah 55:1-9 (NRSVUE)

Girl Drinking Water in Rwanda (from Partners in Health Initiative)
Courtesy of Art in the Christian Tradition, Vanderbilt University Divinity Library

Sermon

Yesterday I read this invitation to reflect. As I read it to you now, I invite you to listen and reflect on the questions it asks.

Imagine yourself when you were 6 years old. Do you remember what you were going through when you turned 10? Remember how you felt at 16? Do you remember your dreams at 21? All those versions of who you used to be are still inside of you. Your 7-year-old self still gets excited when you remember the joy of that day. Your 35-year-old self still wants to cry when remembering the pain of that year. Like a nesting doll, every version of you has been a part of you becoming who you are today. Some versions of you went through some terrible and painful experiences and some felt great joy. But all versions of you were held by God. [1]

I did yesterday what I just invited you to do now. Some of my memories were quite vivid. Other years had so many associations with them it was hard to find a single, real connection. For age 6, I remembered a long-forgotten bulky blue cardigan that someone had knitted for me, and also my sudden fierce need for pierced ears. Also Davy Jones. He was part of the picture somehow. 

The most striking thing here, though, is the truth that each of is still all these people—the 6-year-old in the blue sweater, the 10-year-old who has changed schools, the 16-year-old playing Grandma Tzeitel in “Fiddler on the Roof.” They are all the same person who gave birth at ages 26 and 31, who graduated from seminary at 42, and who stands in front of you now at… the age I am now. Each of those moments informed the person I was to become in small ways and large, and each of you can say the same of your 6-year-old and 10-year-old and your every-age selves. 

And so it goes with communities. We are in the portion of the prophet Isaiah when the matter at hand is the Babylonian exile. In chapters 40 through 55, the prophet is comforting the afflicted: speaking to those who have been taken into exile and who have suffered the loss of their leadership and religious practices. Their King Zedekiah, who had tried to resist Babylon by forming an alliance with two other nations, was eventually arrested along with his family. His sons were executed as Zedekiah looked on, after which Zedekiah himself was blinded.

Portions of the Lamentations of Jeremiah describe the horrors of exile vividly: 

The tongue of the infant sticks
  to the roof of its mouth for thirst;
the children beg for food,
    but there is nothing for them.
Those who feasted on delicacies
   perish in the streets;
those who were brought up in purple
   cling to ash heaps.
~ Lamentations 4:4-5

There are much worse verses than these.

At the same time, the Judeans who were carried away and were living lives of deprivation and desperation still had memories of home. They remembered the magnificent Temple built by Solomon with the same kind of love Jesus had for it. They remembered the many festivals they had celebrated there with their own kin. Their lives, too, carried layer upon layer of memory—the joys of home layered with the trauma, grief, and loss of exile. And even when the exile came to an end about seventy years after it began people carried their own, their parents’ and their grandparents’ memories—joy layered with trauma, grief, and loss.

How do we find the people still in exile, but suddenly facing the prospect of returning home? Most likely we find them with a mixture of emotions. Hope? Doubt? Fear? Isaiah calls to them, You who are thirsty—come to the waters! He knows they are thirsty for fresh, clear water. In Babylon they had to purchase all their water and carry it home. And they are spiritually empty. They are thirsty for God. Is their thirst mingled with their own or their parents’ memories of drinking fresh, clear water when they were children? Are they imagining what the water at home in Judea is like now? Isaiah is inviting them to remember and to imagine. 

Come, the prophet says. Buy milk and wine and bread without money. Your God will supply your needs. Why buy the things that don’t satisfy? Remember the land of milk and honey? It awaits you.

As their time in exile comes to an end, the prophet asks the weary, disheartened people to imagine this wonderful homecoming. A homecoming that restores them to the abundance they’ve longed for—both materially and spiritually. It’s not just water: it’s the living water God promises, which will quench their thirst forever. It’s not just groceries, it’s an abundance of the heart, the steadfast love of God. Eat and drink what is good; delight in it. It is free! It will satisfy for the long term. Imagine!

God offers to remake God’s covenant with David; now the covenant will be with the people. They can trust God to be their protector, the one who will supply them with all they need. No intermediary is necessary—not even a king. But there’s one catch: it has to do with the people’s relationship with God. Seek the Lord, Isaiah urges them, who is still to be found. Call upon God, who is yet at hand. Isaiah is talking about repentance. 

For the exiles returning home, a huge issue is the question of why they are there to begin with. You could point to different mistakes different kings made along the way, or their leaders’ unfaithfulness. You could point to the people losing their connection with God even before they were carried away physically. Do the people need to repent these things? Sure. But repentance here might not mean what we tend to think it means.

Repentance is not about: You were evil, now you’re planning to be good. It’s not about God throwing you into the “lost” or “broken” bin, and you needing to figure out how to climb out of the thing. That’s not it. Repentance is not a bootstraps project. 

The word we translate “repentance” simply means turning around. It’s about changing your view, your point of view. Looking at things in a new way. 

Father Gregory Boyle is a Jesuit priest in Los Angeles who founded “Homeboy Industries,” the largest gang member rehabilitation and re-entry program in the world. Father Greg describes it this way: “We imagine a world without prisons, and then we try to create that world.”  In a Lenten reflection a couple of years ago, Father Greg shared a story about a young man he worked with. He wrote, 

A gang member, Louie, sat in my office at Homeboy Industries and was sobbing. “How come everyone here loves me?” The crying intensifies. “I mean…everyday…I take myself to court…and everyday…I find myself guilty.” He thinks a bit. “I signed on the dotted line…to everything I’ve done. If you knew who I really am…it would dissuade you…from loving me.”

Repent. 

It means “to move beyond the mind you have.” It doesn’t mean “do good and avoid evil.” It is about seeing things differently. There is an invitation in it to embrace the mystical view; to see as God does. Louie needs to recognize his own unshakeable goodness. No need to become someone he is not. The gentle urging of our tender God is for Louie to recognize what has been there all along. He needs to move beyond the mind he has, so he can see it. [2]

Repentance is simply seeing yourself the way God sees you. For the exiles, that meant seeing their own unshakeable goodness, seeing themselves as beloved children of God, despite what had happened to them, despite their sense of responsibility or guilt. It meant their understanding that through all they had experienced—the memories of long ago as well as the trauma of exile—God was holding them. God never let them go.

Repentance for us is the same. You, too, are unshakably good. You are God’s beloved. God loves you with an everlasting love. God has called you by name, and you belong to God. No need to take yourself to court everyday and find yourself guilty. That’s not the mindset God wants for you. That’s not the life God wants for you. 

Do you have a hard time seeing yourself this way? I think most of us do. How about this: Imagine it. Imagine yourself—that 6-year-old you, that 21-year-old you, that your-age-today you, and imagine that you are God’s beloved, and you always have been. Imagine your own unshakeable goodness. Imagine that, just as God is offering the exiles a warm welcome home, God has that welcome ready for you, every minute, every day. You have been at home with God all along. God has always been holding you. God never let you go.

In a chaotic world, this love of God can be our still point, our north star, the rock on which we stand.  When we wake up and the news that blinks up at us from our phone horrifies us, God is there. When we wonder when the fighting will cease, whether in Eastern Europe or the Middle East, God is there. When we wonder what our role might be in this strange and unsettling time, God is there. God is holding us. God never let us go. 

Imagine that.

Thanks be to God. Amen. [3]

[1] Brenda Thompson, MDiv, Angela Taylor, MDiv, Hailie Durrett, and Karen Bowler, PhD, “The Hardest Part: Pain We Carry, Joy We Find,” Sermon Guide, The Everything Happens Project, KateBowler.com, 2025.

[2] Fr. Gregory Boyle, S. J., “First Sunday of Lent: Seeing Things Differently,” February 21, 2021, Ignatian Solidarity Blog, https://ignatiansolidarity.net/blog/2021/02/21/seeing-things-differently/. 

[3] "Imagine!" Concept and resources thanks to [1]

Lent Day 15: God Our Helper

 Because your steadfast love is better than life,
    my lips will praise you.
So I will bless you as long as I live;
    I will lift up my hands and call on your name.
My soul is satisfied as with the richest of foods,
    and my mouth praises you with joyful lips
when I remember you upon my bed
    and think of you in the night watches,
for you have been my helper,
   and under the shadow of your wings I will rejoice.
My whole being clings to you;
    your right hand holds me fast.
~Psalm 63:5-8

Today's portion of Psalm 63 begins with David--still, on the run in the Judean wilderness--declaring that God's steadfast love is better than living, better than life itself. This is a remarkable sentiment coming from someone who is running for his life, and running from one to whom he gave life. We have to imagine that David is having a reckoning with himself, and with God, as to the reason(s) he is where he is in the first place. (See yesterday's post, here.) In such a hostile natural environment, at such a dire hour, David is starting to assemble a sense of what is good, a hierarchy of spiritual needs, let's say. I don't think it's going too far to say, he seems to have concluded that living is not at the top of that hierarchy. That, on some level, he accepts that he may die, and only wants to affirm--or have God affirm--that, in the end, he has God's steadfast love, which is all that matters.

David compares this knowledge to a feast, a feast for the soul, akin to a feast for the body filled with rich foods. The Hebrew words (as found in the King James/ Authorized Version) translate to "marrow and fatness," certainly useful foods on the run, with protein that would provide lasting satiation and energy. (I've never consumed marrow, but had a father who was a butcher from a family of butchers, and he appreciated marrow very much. Likewise, some in our congregation's Bible Study!)

David will praise God, therefore, lifting up his hands, singing out his praises with that mouth that is remembering such deliciousness... even on his bed. Remember, he is roughing it, so the is certainly not sleeping in a royal bed.  Still, his memories of meditating on God there flood him. David speaks of remembering God, meditating on God in the watches of the night. The very image the psalm conjures is one of safety, repose, and delight at contemplating God in all her wonders.

Ultimately, David connects all this--the satisfaction of a great feast for the soul, the place of repose and delight--to a God who has been his helper. Under the shadow of your wings--another image that fits in with the time of rest and meditation--I sing for joy. 

Let's look more closely at this image of God as "helper." The root Hebrew word for helper is EZER, and we find a version of it used here. The word appears 21 times in the Hebrew Scriptures (Old Testament). Seventeen of those times (including the usage here), the "helper" is God. In her article on "Helper," indigenous scholar Kat Armas points out that the Hebrew usage of "helper" is very different from our contemporary assumptions about it. We tend to think of a helper is someone who is subservient, under the supervision of a more important person. But in Hebrew usage, a helper is one with power to help. In the Hebrew Scriptures there are only four other appearances of the word: three refer to military aides, and one occurrence refers to the woman whom God creates in Genesis 2, to be a companion to the man in the Garden of Eden.*

This means that the word "helper" when applied to the woman in scripture does not and cannot mean that she is inferior to the man. Cultural and conservative assumptions about that word have driven an entire theology of the relations between men and women, and they are in error. Women and men have equal dignity in the sight of God, and neither is inferior to the other. Only the woman is given the descriptor that is primarily used for God. God is helper. So is the woman.

Our portion of the psalm--again, harkening back to the earlier metaphors around sleep and lying down--closes with a statement of David acknowledging that he turns to  God, completely. "My whole being clings to you; your right hand holds me fast." The "right hand" of God refers to God's power. David believes himself--awake and asleep--held in the powerful love of God, who, even in this terrible moment of fear and uncertainty, will never leave him.

I  mentioned yesterday that this psalm is one I often sing to myself in bed, and now you probably have a clearer understanding of why that is. I find the psalm incredibly comforting, and something that reminds me, as well, of the steadfast love of God, that helps me, too, to notice that deep satisfaction in my soul. God has been my helper, countless times throughout my life, and this week alone, because there is no way I could do, well, anything without God's help. 

My whole being clings to God; her right hand holds me fast.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

* Kat Armas, What Does "Helper" Really Mean? July 25, 2018,  https://katarmas.com/blog/2018/8/3/what-does-helper-really-mean#:~:text=So%20if%20woman%20has%20been,to%20describe%20a%20military%20aide. katarmas.com.

Lent Day 14: Longing for God

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

Image courtesy of Todd Bolen

Here's the God's honest truth (which, I hope I am sharing on a regular basis, and not only when I make an announcement about it): I didn't post yesterday for a number of reasons. In no particular order: I had an unexpectedly extra busy day; I was experiencing a lot of physical fatigue (new work-out-swimming routine, which, along with Daylight Savings Time, is kicking my butt); and--probably the biggest reason: I couldn't connect with any of the lectionary passages for yesterday. Well, not until late enough that I knew my brain would be useless if I tried to write something coherent. 

And then, today, voila, God and the daily lectionary present me with my favorite psalm, one that I have mostly memorized because I pray it so often. Actually, I sing it. I sing it when I am using my PCUSA Daily Prayer Book for morning prayers, and I sing ig in my head when I am lying in bed at night, especially when I am struggling with sleep. 

The psalm has a title: A psalm of David, when he was in the wilderness in Judah. 

I love the stories of David, a flawed human who nevertheless captures our imaginations at every turn. I know a bit about David, but I had to Google "when was David in the wilderness of Judah"? And the answer was: He was in the wilderness of Judah twice; once when he was fleeing from King Saul, and once when he was fleeing from his son, Absalom. 

Reading that was a like a punch in the gut. 

Scholars believe the more likely context was the latter. David was fleeing his son.

David was fleeing Absalom because... the sins of the father are visited on the children, as scripture reminds us. In other words, the family system was broken, and it went all the way back to David's taking and raping the married woman Bathsheba, followed by David's arranging for Bathsheba's husband, Uriah, to be killed, in order to cover up her pregnancy by David. The prophet Nathan told David God's response to all this: "Now, therefore, the sword shall never depart from your house, for you have despised me and have taken the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be your wife."  Or, as Eugene Peterson elaborated on it in The Message,

"And now, because you treated God with such contempt and took Uriah the Hittite’s wife as your wife, killing and murder will continually plague your family." ~2 Samuel 22:10

The enmity between David and Absolom emerged because David never punished his other son, Amnon, who had raped his half-sister, Tamar. Absolom was avenging his sister and trying to take the throne from his father, who he deemed unworthy of it.

Knowing the background of this psalm--that it wasn't simply written in the context of one of his many wars or battles, but most likely in the context of his flight from his own son, which he had brought about by many actions and inactions over many years--has shaken me. But also it makes me love the psalm even more.

David is in more than one kind of wilderness. He is in the wilderness of Judah which, truly, is an inhospitable environment for life. But he is also in the wilderness of his soul. He is using his physical hunger and thirst to connect to that deeper and more devastating wilderness, where he isn't sure God is still listening. He is longing for the old, familiar connection, in which God and he were on easy terms, David freely speaking and singing his praise and devotion to God, and God, in turn, continually inspiring him to more and more beautiful songs of praise.

For me, this psalm is a psalm of deep comfort. I call out and I trust that God hears. I understand that this may not be everyone's experience, and I remember times when it might not have been mine. But today, I am grateful for the beauty of this psalm, and for the reminder that God is listening. And today, I grieve once again the texts of terror* that are about both Bathsheba and Tamar, and remember: one of the things that makes scripture so important, and so holy, is its willingness to tell us the truth, even about our heroes. 

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

* Coined by scripture Scholar, Phyllis Trible, author of Texts of Terror: Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives.

Lent Day 12: What Are You Longing For?

 As a deer longs for flowing streams,
   so my soul longs for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God,
   for the living God.
~Psalm 42:1-2a

I abandon my promised practice of blogging daily lectionary passages, because I found Kate Bowler's question in our devotional so provocative this morning: 

What is your heart longing for today? Are you longing for something in the future, in the past, or for what might have been?*

So, I'm going to answer, from the heart, what I am longing for today. And I am going to ask you this same question: What is your heart longing for today? Please respond in the comments.

I long to live in a country where brilliant, green-card holding physicians are not barred entry because they hold Lebanese passports. 

I long to live in a country where people--the most vulnerable among us--are not deported to countries where their lives may be in danger, or where they have never lived, or where they have no friends or relations. 

I long to live in a country where women are equal citizens under the law with absolute bodily autonomy.

I long to live in a country which is not destroying the social safety net.

I long to live in a country where unelected sociopaths are not in charge of destroying government agencies and redistributing huge amounts of resources so that he, personally will benefit financially.

I long to live in a country where empathy is not described as a bug or failure in human character.

I long to live in a country where the hungry are fed, the thirsty are given clean, potable water to drink, where the naked are clothed, where the sick are cared for, where the imprisoned are treated like human beings with minds and futures, and where the strangers, aliens, immigrants, are not demonized and hunted like animals.

I long to live in a country where xenophobia is a quaint relic of the past and not the guiding principle of a government and political party.

I long to live in a country where the actual words of Jesus guide Christians, and not the trippy fantasy that almost didn't make it into the biblical canon.

I long to live in a country where disagreeing with the leader doesn't get you death threats.

I long to live in a country that isn't hell-bent on dragging us all into a dystopian future on a planet that cannot any longer sustain human life. 

I long to live in a country that isn't perfect, but is well-intentioned--where elected officials have the well-being of their constituents as their utmost priority, and not lining their pockets with money from big oil and big pharma.

I long to live in a country where the leader isn't using his power to take revenge on everyone who ever slighted him.

I long to live in a country that is trying to be better. That's all.

How about you?

*Question from Daily Guide, The Hardest Part, Everything Happens, co-authored by Brenda Thompson, MDiv, Angela Taylor, MDiv, Hailie Durrett, and Karen Bowler, PhD, copyright 2025.

Lent Day 11: Lament!

"As a Hen Gathers"  Cara B. Hochhalter, 
 http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=58926

The following is (more or less) the sermon preached on Sunday March 16 at Union Presbyterian Church, Endicott, NY. upcendicott.org 

Scripture           

At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.” He said to them, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’ Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’”
~Luke 13:31-35  

Sermon           

When have you engaged in lament? By which I mean, when have you sat down with God for a conversation in which you told God exactly what you think of some terrible thing that has happened?

Notice I didn’t ask, “Have you?” I asked, “When have you?” because, I think we do this, knowingly or not. We read the news and say, “How can this be?” and whether we’re aware of it or not, we are asking God that question. Or we collapse on the couch and ask, “Why is this happening to me?” after we have been fired, or transferred hundreds of miles away, or left by someone we loved. Or we weep on the pillow after we turn the lights out and ask, “How am I going to get through this?” after we’ve heard a diagnosis we did not want to hear.

When have you engaged in lament? In today’s passage from Luke’s gospel, we hear Jesus lament, but it is tucked into a conversation with some witty one-liners. But it’s in there. And of course, Jesus laments—he grew up in a tradition in which psalms were everyone’s prayerbook. Guess what proportion of the psalms are laments? The answer is about one third. Approximately one third of the time the singers and harp and lyre players were making music in the temple in Jerusalem, they were singing songs of lament.

Jesus is in Jerusalem; he has made his way there, teaching and healing in towns and villages along the way. But this is not yet Passover, and Jesus is not here for the last week of his life. Almost as soon as he gets there, Pharisees come to find him, to give him a warning: Herod is planning to kill him. 

It’s good to remember that Jesus and the Pharisees had more in common than they had disagreements. The fact that the Pharisees seek him out to save his life isn’t highlighted enough in our study of the gospels, so I’m highlighting it now. As it happens, Herod believes that Jesus may be John the Baptist reincarnated—his killing of John in the middle of his birthday party is weighing on him. What if the prophet is back?

Jesus’ response to the Pharisees is somewhat hilarious. Listen, he says: You tell that fox that I am busy. Look at me. I’m casting out demons. I’m healing people. I’m teaching people about the kingdom of God here, and my calendar is quite full, thank you, for at least two more days. But then… I guess I have to go, because Jerusalem is definitely the place where prophets get killed, and I’d like to avoid that this week, anyway. 

Then Jesus stops being flippant, and a true lament comes forth from his mouth. 

Jerusalem, Jerusalem. City that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings for safety. But you would not have me as your mother hen… 

Jesus does not envision himself as a mighty lion or as a soldier on a warhorse in opposition to Herod. Instead, he identifies with a vulnerable mother, desperate to save her babies. He identifies with the prey of foxes. He does not make any moves to retaliate, or to threaten. He simply names the truth: He will not fight back. He will die a prophet in Jerusalem, if that is what God is calling him to do. 

Jesus names Jerusalem as a city that kills the prophets, and scripture confirms that both Isaiah and Zechariah ben Jehoiada were killed there, both at the orders of kings. And Jesus names this piece of Jerusalem’s history, not because he is angry, but because he is heartbroken; not because he hates the city, but because he loves it.

For Jesus, as for his fellow Jews, Jerusalem is the center of the world, and the temple is at the center of Jerusalem. At the center of the temple is the holy of holies, where the Ark holding the Covenant resides, and therefore, where the true presence of God resides in this world. Jesus has spent his life traveling to Jerusalem with his family and the other families of his community for the great festivals of their faith. He has gone there for Yom Kippur each year, the day of atonement for sins. He has gone there for Passover each year, the joyful celebration of liberation from enslavement in Egypt. He has said prayers and sung psalms there. In fact, I wonder whether Psalm 27, didn’t come into his recollection at this very moment: As he, the hen, is under threat from Herod, the fox, isn’t it possible that Jesus would sing, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” Isn’t it possible that Jesus would have the same kind of longing as the psalmist, singing 

One thing I asked of the Lord; this I seek:
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 his temple.
~Psalm 27:4

Even the singing of this psalm could be a lament.

Have you lamented someone or some place you love? Have you told God how very unhappy you are with the way things worked in for a particular situation? Have you been angry with God and gotten it off your chest?

Theologian N. T. Wright said in an interview that engaging in lament is actually an experience of the glory that is revealed in humanity.[i] In Romans 8, Paul writes,

I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us…We know that the whole creation has been groaning together as it suffers together the pains of labor, and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies… Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with groanings too deep for words… ~Romans 8:18, 22, 26

The prayers of lament we pray, the songs of lament we sing, we never sing or pray alone. The Holy Spirit is with us, muttering incoherently, just as we are—the Spirit, groaning with us. And all of it is witnessed and held in love by the one who has lived and died all the suffering right along with us, and before us, and for us. Lament is glorious, because in it, we are so intimately held and accompanied by Jesus Christ, and by the very Spirit of God. 

Jesus goes on with his lament: “See, your house is left to you.” Jesus is talking about the temple. This is one of those moments when the timelines of both when Jesus was being warned to flee and when the writer of this gospel was recording the story are important. The temple has changed. The leadership of the country—all puppet leaders, beholden to Rome—have changed. The temple may no longer be able to fulfill its central role in the people’s lives, and Jesus connects its corruption with Herod. For the writer of the gospel, writing somewhere between the years 80 and 90 CE, the temple is already gone. It was destroyed during the Roman crackdown that leveled Jerusalem in the year 70 CE. Jesus’ worry for the city he loves is prescient: Jerusalem will be completely destroyed in fewer forty years after he speaks these words. 

As his lament ends, Jesus throws in a “be back soon.” “And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’” That will be the day we call Palm Sunday, and it will be the beginning of the week we call Holy Week.

Jesus sees so much wrong with the world he is living in. He sees that he is heading toward the ultimate confrontation with the evil human beings can do. And yet, he still holds dear the roots of all he loves: The temple. The holy of holies. The covenant of God with God’s people. And most of all, the people, whom he longs to gather in his arms—or under his motherly wings. And he is gathering them together—every time he heads out to teach, or heal, or cast out demons. He is offering people the very same love of God that we are called to offer one another, through good times and through bad. And one of the ways Jesus offers this love is through his lament.

There is power in lament. In naming the things that are wrong, we speak with God with great honesty and clarity. In creating spaces where we can lament together, we strengthen the body of Christ by our openness and our shared love and support. 

When was the last time you engaged in lament? When was the last time you participated in the glorious and utterly human act of groaning together with the Spirit, held in the love of Christ, our Savior?

Thanks be to God. Amen.

[i] N. T. Wright in “The Mystery of God,” October 10, 2023 in Everything Happens, presented and produced by Kate Bowler, podcast, 48:03, https://katebowler.com/podcasts/the-mystery-of-god/.

Lent Day 10: One Thing I Ask

Grapevine window, Union Presbyterian Church, Endicott, NY, ca. 1907

One thing I ask of the LORD; 
   this I seek:
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 his temple.
~Psalm 27:4

From the first time I heard this psalm (sung, as I mentioned yesterday), this was the portion that grabbed my heart and gave it a squeeze. I don't know whether that was before or after I experienced my very memorable call to ordained ministry (it involved an Amy Grant song, a drive on Route 128 outside Boston, and an interview with the first Protestant woman minister I would ever meet). I believe that, for most of my life, I've felt this call, but there were many roadblocks. The chief of these was that it seemed to be a call outside the church I loved, in which I was nurtured, where I learned my faith, and where, for years, I served.  Fourteen years passed between that call and the day of my ordination.

So, what is the psalmist referring to? Specifically? They are singing of the temple in Jerusalem-- the first temple, which scripture and tradition tell us was built by Solomon, the son who succeeded David on the throne. David had wanted to build the temple, but God had sent David an urgent message via the prophet Nathan: this was not David's work to do. It would go to his successor. 

The temple was considered the literal home of God on earth. The holy of holies--the space which contained the Ark of the Covenant--resided in the temple. The presence of the Covenant was connected with  the presence of God in the wilderness sojourn when Moses conferred with God on a regular basis. Now, it was in the most sacred space--accessible to humans only one day each year, when the high priest would enter to make offerings on behalf of all the people, for the forgiveness of their sins.

To be in the temple was to be near God. Elsewhere, the psalmist sings, 

For a day in your courts is better
   than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
   than live in the tents of wickedness.
~Psalm 84:10

All God's covenant people were called upon to travel to the temple as frequently as possible, to make offerings and to experience the great festivals there, the greatest of which was Passover. To this day the traditional ending of the Passover seder is, "Next year, in Jerusalem,"in every home where it is celebrated. Love of the temple wasn't reserved for the anointed priests; all God's people loved the temple. All God's people desired to be near God.

It's hard for those of us in mainline Christianity to relate to this deep love of a single place of worship. Muslims understand it, they who are called to Mecca each year. Latter Day Saints have a greater understanding of it, as they have a their most beloved temple in Salt Lake City, Utah. Roman Catholics probably have a closer understanding, with Vatican City as the home to the Pope, their great spiritual leader. 

We love our churches, but we don't consider any of them the sole locus of God on earth (nor do Muslims or the LDS or Catholics).  We do, however, understand that when we gather, the body of Christ is present, because we are that body. In our churches we can and do experience the presence of God. We experience it in one another. 

But God has been set loose on the earth. God is everywhere, and we can also experience God's presence in a blazing sunset, in the deep darkness of a forest, on the summit of a mountain, or gazing upon the first crocuses in our garden or savoring our first cup of tea or coffee. We can experience the presence of God in soul-stirring music, in the hand of someone offering us comfort, in the bonds of love with other human beings. God is everywhere--thank God! 

God is Love.

 

Lent Day 9: A Lent Memory

 

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

This psalm is rich with memories for me. The first and most present memory is of singing a number of different versions of this psalm when I was in the choir at Saint Ignatius, the parish church at Boston College. I remained a member there after graduation, and sang in the choir until my family relocated to the Binghamton area in 1990. One setting, by Tim Manion, stays with me to this day. You can find it here.

The other memory I associate with this psalm is a much earlier one. When I was in fifth grade I came down with a fever and a virus (I didn't eat potato chips again until college, and that's all I'll say about that). My mother kept me home from school for three weeks. 

Here is how my mother took care of us when we were sick: She set us up in the living room, which was right next to the kitchen, where I imagine she spent some time during the day. WE lived in an apartment over the family business, a liquor store, and occasionally she went down to help my dad as well; we had an intercom in the kitchen to communicate with one another, so I had quick access to both my parents, just in case. 

My mom made the couch up like a bed, with sheets, pillows, and blanket. She brought my food in there, a lot of jello at first, but eventually toast and the like. (BRAT diet! Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast). I remember watching a lot of television, including reruns of "That Girl," and I saw the first weeks of "All My Children" ever broadcast. 

I don't know why I was kept home so long. I do remember being content to lie down all day long, which probably means I was sick. I know the fever lingered. But I honestly don't know what was going on, except my mom was worried about me. 

I think she was a little scared. Here's how I know this: As Ash Wednesday drew near, I complained to my mom about the fact that I couldn't got to church and receive ashes. (I asked. She refused. I cried. I was that kid.) She didn't say much about it, but when Ash Wednesday came, she went out for a little while. She returned home with a small envelope that had some ashes in it, and she placed them on my forehead.

I was thrilled. I remember thinking how wonderful this was, and how cared-for I felt. I know I slept afterward. 

When my mom took me to the doctor to get the all-clear for me to go back to school, she surprised me by having him pierce my ears, which I had been begging for since I was about six. 

As for the fear, the psalm says it all, I guess. The Lord is my light and my salvation. Of whom shall I be afraid? 

Lent Day 8: Circles of Influence

Abram's Counsel to Sarai, by James Tissot, circa 1899

"Rise up, walk through the length and breadth of the land, for I will give it to you."
~Genesis 13:17

Today's lectionary offers a passage from Genesis that is about territory--whose is whose, and what is what. Abram and Sarai (not yet Abraham and Sarah) have only recently heard and followed God's call, at the ages of 75 and 65 respectively, to get up and go from the land where they had been settled for many years, to a new land that God would show them. Here, they have entered that land.

God is helping Abram to absorb the fact of what territory, according to Genesis, belongs to him. He wants Abram to walk it--the whole length and breadth of it (which would take some steps, I'm sure). 

Since November 5, 2024, I've had quite a few conversations with folks about "what is my territory," but not in a geographical sense; in a spiritual and moral sense. By which I mean, what is mine to do, in these days of chaos and the purposeful destruction of the US government? There was significant grief and distress all around me in those first weeks--and any catching up conversations inevitably lead back to our disbelief and horror. 

Here's the context for the "what is my territory?" conversation. Unless we are in public service, in the halls of power, or have some other extraordinary way in, 99.99% of us can do nothing directly to stop what is happening. We can call our representatives in congress. We can call and write letters to the top echelon. But we, personally, can't make change at the level where we're seeing the destruction. 

But we can do what we can do. Here's what I share when asked. First, we must take care of ourselves. We must put boundaries around information that work for us--everything from a total media blackout to "I'll look at the headlines," to "I want to know everything." We must figure out what information we need, and what information will trouble our souls and distract us from the actual beauty and love that surround us every day. We must get enough sleep. We must do our best to eat nutritious foods.

Second, we must intentionally make space for the actual beauty and love that surround us every day. We must seek out and abide in the joy we can find--in our hearts, in our relationships, in the simple pleasures. A cup of coffee with a friend. A walk on a sunny day. A really great book. A song. Words of love to those we love--say them now. 

Third, as followers of Christ, we must love our neighbor. In these days, that means being especially mindful of those who are at greatest risk: immigrants, trans people, those living on the margins economically, those whom cuts in Medicaid and Medicare will hit hardest. 

Fourth--and finally--we must find our territory, our circle (or circles) of influence. We must find ways to foster community, to bring people together for a simple potluck supper or an afternoon of knitting or a conversation. (I've heard it said that community will save us, and I believe it.) Crucial to this piece is knowing what our gifts are--the attributes that, when we use them, light us up and bring us to life. How can we help right where we are? There are always ways, always places, always opportunities to make a difference in other people's lives. Have you ever volunteered to tutor someone in your favorite subject? Or to deliver Meals on Wheels? Or to drive someone to doctor's appointments or the grocery store? Or to sit with them while they are having their chemo? What's your territory? Where do your gifts and the needs of the world-around-you intersect? 

The story of Abram and Sarai is a remarkable one in so many ways, and here's the one that still sparks wonder in me: They heed God's call at the time most of us are thinking about retirement. They know that they will be useful to God in some way, that they absolutely still have something to offer. They disrupt their lives, get up, and go. 

Not all of us can do that, but we can do more than we think, and more than we know. Find your territory. Take care of yourself, and of one another. Find/ foster your community. Find your joy.

And blessed be the name of the LORD.

Lent Day 7: Suffering with Job

"The Despair of Job," by William Blake (1757-1827)
Thanks to Art in the Christian Tradition, Vanderbilt University

Job said, "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there; the LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD."
~Job 1:21

We meet Job after a series of losses that come at him quick and hard. All his herds and flocks, all but four of his many servants, and, most devastating, all ten of his children. The reason for all the losses is strange and disconcerting, and I don't want to muddy up this reflection by dwelling on it. I want to talk about what happens when we are suffering--whether due to losses, physical pain, or mental anguish of any kind. 

You can read Job's first response, the words that tumble out of his mouth after having torn and discarded his clothes, shaved his hair, and fallen on the ground to worship God.

On the page, Job sounds calm, almost philosophical. But we don't know how this character is supposed to have uttered these words. Was he screaming? Was he sobbing? Was he barely audible, so gutted he was to have lost all his wealth (and his children would have counted in that category, even aside from the love we can assume he had for them). 

(I would probably be screaming.)  

The text is interested in the fact that Job doesn't sin against God in his grief. I think the text has a pretty fragile/ shallow conception of the almighty. To rage against God would be understandable, even in God's eyes. (Don't ask me how I know this. I just do.) To hurl accusations at God would be understandable, too. 

Have you ever had the, let's say, opportunity to tell God how furious you were with them? I can think of times when we weren't on the best terms, based on unexpected, devastating events in my life. Have you been there? Did you tell God off? You could, you know. The Psalms are filled with accusations of God's absence, lack of care, falling down on their basic savior job. Do you think those writers sinned? I don't. I think they used their own experiences to name something pretty universal: the challenge of faith in a God whom scripture claims is Love, when that God falls silent, or seems to have dropped the ball in terms of our life, our hopes, our stability, our actual needs. What do we do when God is (or seems) silent?

Job doesn't break up with God. Job doesn't say, because this happened, either you're not there, or you're a real jerk and I don't want to know you. I don't believe in you any more.

How does he manage this?

One clue comes before the verse I quoted. Job is a pray-er. He's always praying for his children (in the manner of his era). He's always trying to make sure they stay right with God, which means (to me, anyway) that he feels he is in good and right relationship with God. (God agrees.) 

Another clue is this: Job is taking the time to grieve. When we experience loss, shock, when our world is turned upside down, we need to do this--maybe not in the same way Job does, but we need to stop for a moment (or a day or a week or more) and realize: This is grief. I am mourning. And, even if God seems to you to have been a player in your loss, invite them into your grieving process. Tell God your sorry. Know that God is weeping with you, that God doesn't want this for you any more than you do.

And we don't really see Job doing this, but I believe telling God how angry we are is essential. You would do it with a friend who'd hurt you, wouldn't you? You'd tell your spouse or parent or child or co-worker, right? Why wouldn't you tell God? I would try not to let my first move be, God is dead to me. If we don't do that with a friend or partner, why would we do it with God?

And... here comes the weird part. One question I would ask myself is, "Do I still want to believe in God?" 

I know that sounds weird, but I believe the answer to that question plays a role. I've known since I was very young that faith in God was something I wanted, badly. I remember a friend in high school teasing me about my early religiosity (think, 2nd grade, wearing a rosary on the belt to my school uniform). I remember my response as clear as day: Don't you want to have faith? I don't have a clear recollection of his response, but I sure remember mine.

If the answer is yes, then this is a relationship worth working on. If the answer is no, I wish you well, and I give you this reminder: you can always change your mind.

Job was a man of faith who suffered a series of grievous losses, and then had to endure his friends saying "but you must have done SOMETHING to deserve it." 

No. That's not how God works. (Don't ask me how I know. I just do.) When you are suffering, know that this isn't what God wants for you, any more than you want it. Know that God is in it with you, that God weeps when you are weeping just as God laughs with you when you are merry.

Blessed be the name of the LORD.

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.