May 31 2019 Luke 1:39–49 Feast of the Visitation

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.



This day might be one of my favorite feasts to celebrate. The feast of the visitation is a day when we celebrate Mary’s visit to her cousin Elizabeth. Both women were unexpectedly with child. When Elizabeth greeted Mary, the child in Elizabeth’s womb, later known as John the Baptist, leapt for joy, and it says Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. She exclaimed to Mary, Blessed are you, and your baby.



Mary’s response is known as Mary’s Song of Praise, or the Magnificat, and is one of the most moving pieces of scripture to me. Referring back to a song by Hannah, mother of Samuel, Mary explains how blessed she is, that God has looked on her to carry out this part of God’s plan. She professes all of the things God will do through this child. Contrasting two opposite current realities, she explains that God will put things right. The hungry will be fed, the rich will be sent away empty. The powerful will be taken from their thrones, and the lowly lifted up.



I’ve heard these words many times, and it’s easy to become numb to the power of Mary’s words. She was an unwed young teen. Visited by an angel. Pregnant in an incredulous way. Engaged to an older man. That’s some crazy fortitude right there.



And one of the reasons this song is powerful to me has to do with a spiritual exercise I did at a retreat probably 10 years ago. I was at Franciscan retreat house for a 2 day retreat in the midst of my formation to be ordained as a deacon. I spent most of the time in quiet, walking the beautiful grounds, and reading scripture, or a book I’d brought with exercises. I tried a few practices – walking with a piece of scripture and repeating it with every step, reading a piece of scripture and focusing on the words that jumped out. The exercise that knocked my socks off involved the Magnificat.



I read this passage from Luke. Read it again. And again. This was Mary’s response to a seemingly impossible request from God. God called, she responded through this song. After reading her response many times, I was asked to write my own Magnificat. What was my response to God? 



Wow. I remember being humbled when I started. Who me? And as I sat with my response, the words and the doodles started coming out. I ended up with a page of my own response, complete with pictures in colored pencil. By the end of the hours I spent doing that, I felt powerful and my response seemed much clearer. I still have that page. It’s nothing spectacular or poetic, and I’m not sure I could explain all of the pictures I drew, but they all had a meaning at the time. 


But I can say that without a doubt that was one of the best afternoons I’ve spent. I seriously thought about what God was calling me to be, and how I was going to respond. Not in a practical way – take this class, write this paper, but in a very deep and soulful way. When you can find a few hours, bring your Bible, and pens and paper and read the Magnificat. Read it again. And write your own. It’s powerful.



To this day, when people talk about the Magnificat, I smile. I know they’re talking about Mary’s beautiful Song of Praise, in response to God’s question of her. It’s poetic, and humble, and powerful, not to mention set to  some spectacular music. And all of that flashes through my mind when thinking of Mary’s Song. I always return to my one day of scribbling and writing and reflecting on the same question posed to me, to the day when I wrote Carter’s Song of Praise.

May 30 2019 Hebrews 2: 5-15 Feast of the Ascension

We do see Jesus, who for a little while was made lower than the angels, now crowned with glory and honour because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.

Today we celebrate the Ascension of Christ, the least appreciated of the events we celebrate in Christ’s life.  We all know about the birth. Fast forward to his death and resurrection.  But must creeds or Eucharistic Prayers don’t stop there.  Christ’s death, resurrection and ascension.  Or today’s verbiage, “he ascended in to heaven.”  

So what is this about his ascension?  First, it’s not about May 30, lest anyone guffaw at the precise calendar date. But since we believe it happened, we need to celebrate it somewhere between his resurrection and the return of the Holy Spirit which happens about 50 days after Easter, this is as good a date as any.  

So in Jesus’ birth and crucifixion, we see Jesus’ full humanity. Born of a woman. Leader, teacher, healer. He was tried, tortured, and executed. Very human. And from those experiences, this son of God fully experienced what we as humans experience.  But during his life, he was also fully God, so God, while walking on earth as Jesus experienced all of our humanity, the beautiful and the horrible. Jesus, fully divine, showed us on earth what the divine might look like. What perfect love is, and how to love God and our neighbor in our particularly human way. 

In this morning’s reading, we see this said another way. For a little while, Jesus was made lower than the heavenly angels. He was made human. Now, God can experience all of humanity through Jesus ascended. 

 Through Jesus’ birth and life on earth, we see and experience everything truly divine. Now, as Jesus fully human returns heaven, God can see and experience everything truly human. 

This morning, I’m thinking about what the Ascension means to me in my world.  I believe that God is in all people around me. I have a model of how to treat those people, how to love those people, through Christ’s life and teaching.  The Ascension means that the infinite God has experienced good people, mean people.  God has struggled with the illness of loved ones. This isn’t just the fact that God has seen it through me and others. But through Christ, God has lived it.  

So the God to whom I pray, has intimate experience with this messy human experience.  Has had experience with people who are hard to love. With illness that’s hard to cure. God knows I fall short in my desire to seek and serve Christ in all people. And God loves me anyway, maybe in part because God’s experienced how hard it is here on this messy planet.  

Today,  I want to remember that God is present in all those places and all those people through the Spirit. Maybe more poignant, I want to remember that the things I do, the people I experience, God has experienced first hand, when God walked the earth as Jesus Christ.  And with Christ’s Ascension, Christ brought all that messy, beautiful life back to God.

May 29 2019 Luke 12:21-23

Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest?



Jesus is again telling his disciples to not worry. This makes such great sense. Of course we cannot add even an hour to our life. There’s virtually nothing that worrying accomplishes, except to ruin a perfectly good now. So why do we do it? Why is it so easy to go to the worrying place, ruining the contentedness of now?



To listen to Jesus, it sounds as if it’s about faith. The birds of the air don’t plant or harvest, and yet they’re fed. The lilies of the field are robed in beauty, and the lilies don’t look too worried. The lilies and the birds live as intended, and God provides.



In my current world, I worry about my sick family member. Am I to just have faith that the long-term prognosis will be good?  Happiness will come? Housing will get sorted out?



Maybe I’m framing the question wrong. Maybe it’s not about what’s sorted out in ten years, next year, next month. Maybe I’m asked to leave that for God to sort out. Today, I have the option of being content and happy. It’s when I fret about things into the future that I get wrapped around the axle.



At this very moment, I’m sitting in my prayer chair, reading, reflecting and writing on scripture, enjoying my first cup of coffee. I can see birds making their morning migration to wherever they go, and the city waking up. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this moment. My worry about anything is bound to only ruin this moment. And this moment. And this one.



My days are made up of moments, and in each one, I have the option of being content in it, or not. Back to this morning’s scripture. Jesus uses grass as another example, along with the lilies and birds. He says the grass is alive today, and tomorrow thrown in the fire. Grass doesn’t fret about someday being thrown in the fire. Today, the grass is alive, and beautiful.



I don’t know what my tomorrow looks like. But a field of beautiful grass doesn’t either. More than not knowing, it’s maybe about not caring. I do genuinely believe my today is in God’s hands. And my tomorrow is in God’s hands. If that’s true, why would I worry?  Because I think my plans are better than God’s?  My son dropped out of high school. That was not in my plan. I fretted about it. He’s now at a prestigious law school. God’s plans for him are better than anything I could have scripted, anything I could have worried about.



I’m not suggesting everything ends like a Hollywood movie. But I do believe I don’t have the full picture, and don’t know God’s plans. Even if I did, I’m not sure I’d agree. Drop out of high school? That’s a stupid plan, and clearly my script at the time was not that. My script and plans for my sick loved one are not playing out. But, as it turns out, I’m not the ultimate script writer. I don’t write the script. I don’t understand the script. I may never understand it. But I do have faith that the one who does write the script has a much better plan than I could ever conceive.



I cannot add a single hour to my life. Or to the lives of those I love. Nothing about the future can my worry affect. All it does is ruin this beautiful and full now. Today, when worry creeps into my view, I’m going to stop and look around and see what I really see at that moment. I’m going to enjoy the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, and try to be content in the beauty of now.

May 28 2019 Romans 9: 18-26 Commemoration of John Calvin and Mechthild of Madgeburg

But who indeed are you, a human being, to argue with God?



One of the fascinating things about my faith is that it leaves room for very differing views and opinions. Not only does it leave room, it was largely founded on navigating a way that skirts both sides of very polar positions. This is very evident in the two people commemorated in different sources for appointed reading for Morning Prayer – John Calvin and Mechthild of Madgeburg.



The Book of Common Prayer, the regular standard source for the appointed readings and special commemorations lists today as a day to remember Mechthild of Madgeburg. She was a 13^th century mystic, who wrote about her visions of God. Interestingly, she was a woman, and she didn’t know Latin, so she wrote in German. Not that German is an inherently holy language, but she was countering the notion that Latin was inherently holy, or at least holier. These are two things that most 13^th century mystics weren’t. 

During morning prayers, we learn a little about the person commemorated, and then offer a prayer, highlighting some aspect of the person’s life or faith to be followed. The prayer for Mechthild reads, “Draw near to the souls of your people, O God, that like your servant Mechthild we may yearn to know you ever more, just as we are known intimately by you”. Very contemplative. Very mystical. The Gospel reading appointed for her commemoration is Jesus coming to the house of Mary and Martha, and Mary sits at Jesus’ feet, being contemplative. Martha is bustling about, testy that Mary isn’t helping. Jesus says Mary’s doing the right thing. Very contemplative and very mystical.



The other place we get a list of people to commemorate is from a supplemental resource, called Holy Women, Holy Men. It’s a newer book that adds a bunch of more modern, more varied names to the calendar for remembrances. It’s routinely used for weekday Eucharist services, but also used in the Daily Office. John Calvin is listed in that source for today’s appointed person. Calvin was a 16^th century Reformation theologian. He focused on the authority of scripture, the nature of Christian life, and predestination. While these are heady concepts, he was basically trying to reel in the excesses of the Church, and get back to basics. The Gospel reading appointed for his commemoration is Jesus talking about being the true vine. Those who don’t abide in Jesus are taken up and burned. Very reformed. Less mystical. He could have taken issue with Mechthild's writings, and yet they're both commemorated today. 

A portion of the prayer written for Calvin’s commemoration is “you brought John Calvin from a study of legal systems to understand the godliness of your divine laws as revealed in Scripture”. Very reformation-like. Very practical.



I love that my tradition can hold both of these people out as worthy of commemoration. There is rarely an either/or, but a both/and. I read somewhere that in describing our tradition, someone said that the truth was not in the middle of polar positions, or in either extreme. Rather, the truth is in both extremes.



I have a particular way of believing the world should be, government should be, God is shown in the world. Other people have other ways. I’m no more exclusively right than they are, and there’s room in the world for both rights. It feels like most people of faith have forgotten that there’s room at God’s table for all perspectives and flavors. For the Mary’s and Martha’s. For the Mechthild’s and Calvin’s. This morning, I’m grateful that my tradition, in theory, believes that there is room for all. Today, I want to remember that my way of thinking, my corner of the US, my liberal denomination may be true. But so are the faithfully held beliefs that differ.

May 27 2019 James 1: 1-15

My brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of any kind, consider it nothing but joy, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance.



When you face trials of any kind, consider it joy. Hmm. If they were truly joy, I wouldn’t be considering them trials, would I? It seems contradictory, until I think about the words used. This is another example of the difference between the thing itself, and our reaction to that thing. James is saying that when a real thing is faced it can be a trial. An illness. A challenging person. A fight. It’s a real thing, and absolutely can be a trial.



But, he continues, your reaction or framing of that thing is entirely different. When that thing happens, you can choose how to consider it. James is arguing that we should frame trials as joys. He’s not saying that the thing itself isn’t hard, or didn’t happen, or isn’t a trial. In fact he’s acknowledging that these events happen, and that they can be trials. Truth.


James is not saying that trials don’t happen. But when I’m faced with trials, I have the option to narrate the story however I want. I have the power to choose to see my situation however I choose.



As Viktor Frankl, Auschwitz survivor said, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.”



We all have trials. I have some home trials, interpersonal trials, work trials. In Frankl’s words, each of those are the stimulus. This morning, I’m thinking about that space between the thing itself – the trial, as James describes, and my response – considering it a joy. While I might not be able to consider all of my trials as joy, there is some space to decide how I respond. Again, quoting Frankl, “Everything can be taken a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances”.



Today, I want to choose joy.

May 26 2019 Matthew 13: 24-34

Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.



Jesus tells another parable about seeds being sown. But this time, the evil one comes at night and sows a bunch of weed seeds in the same place. Having had a garden, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the work of that evil one!  When the good seeds grew and produced grain, the weeds grew too. The workers asked if they should go gather the weeds. No, the sower says, if you gather the weeds, you might also gather up the good plants and their grain. No, leave them all to grow until the harvest. At the time of the harvest, the grain will be separated from the weeds. The grain will go into the barn, and the weeds burned.



This is a parable about the kingdom of heaven. This morning, I’m thinking about how the sower puts out good seed. Bad seed is also introduced, and the sower does not elect to weed before the growing season is over. It’s not until the end of their season, before the culmination of the differing plants’ life cycle, that they either produce grain or don’t. It’s not until that moment that the sower sorts.



I’m intrigued by two aspects of this. First, determinations about the good seed versus bad seed isn’t done by anyone but the sower, and only at the end of the plants’ life. Taken into my world, that says that we are not judged until the end of our lives, until we’ve either produced the life-equivalent of grain, or not. We have a whole life to be judged, and produce our grain. Also comforting is the fact that it’s only the sower that ought to judge. Not media, not others in my world, not the church, not even me. Likewise, it’s not my place to judge anyone else. That job is solely reserved for the sower of our lives.



The other thing I’m thinking about this morning is part of the reason for the no-weeding edict. The parable says that no weeding should occur while the plants are in their growing cycle because in the course of weeding out the bad plants, the roots of the good plants might be disturbed and harm the good plants. There’s something about sorting good from bad too early that can actually harm the good.


So here’s how I cobble this all together. God should be the only judge of good and bad. And that only happens at the end of our life. When we try to judge either based on our world view, or our assumption of God’s, we can harm the good. This makes me think of all of the people society has thrown away, whether because of 3-strike prison sentences, death sentence, mental illness, addiction, famine, poverty. We’ve judged them before they’ve had a chance to produce their grain and be judged by the only judge that really matters. What if in our judgment, we’ve disrupted their roots? What if our very act of punishment or imprisonment, or apathetic inaction has caused good grain to die?



Today, I want to be mindful of the judgment I make on people, whether by me directly, done by someone on my behalf, or done due to apathy. I want to see in them the possibility that God’s judgement has not been made, they have not had the chance to produce the grain. I want to own the responsibility of my role in disrupting their roots, and help give everyone the chance to live as God intended, so God alone can judge.

May 25 2019 Luke 9:1-17

Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. 

Jesus is commissioning his 12 apostles to go out, after having giving them the power to heal and cast out demons. Don’t go overly prepared: not a spare change of clothes, extra food or money. What a nerve-wracking way to head out. It feels wholly unprepared to me. I spent enough years serving in ‘emergency management’ that this goes against everything we’re trained to do. But Jesus isn’t preparing them to be self sufficient for 3 days, but rather to be God-reliant, always. That takes a crazy amount of faith, that basic provisions will be available. I suppose that goes back to the prayer Jesus taught, “give us this day, our daily bread”. 

As modern day disciples, we are asked to go out into the world and proclaim God’s good news and love with this same unpreparedness; we are to go out trusting that God will provide, and not feel as self-reliant as we often do. 

After this go-unprepared-commissioning, Jesus tells them to go from house to house, and if they don’t welcome you as you leave, shake the dust off your feet. Shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. Note that Jesus does not say go out and speak badly about them. He does not say argue with them. Or take to social media against them. 

This is interesting advice. It reminds me of being in city management. In the world of professional development, there were always suggestions about what to do when you were fired. Not if, but when. There was no illusion that things would always go well. Newly in the profession, I was startled by this. What to do when you’re fired seemed like a defeated, doomed sentiment. But it was practical. Likewise with Jesus’ comments. Here’s what you do when you’re not welcomed. Not if, but when.
Not being welcomed would happen to the disciples. With this simple sentence, Jesus was preparing them for the inevitable. Despite the current warm glow they were feeling in Jesus’ presence, they were being sent out into cold, sometimes unwelcoming world, and Jesus was preparing them for when that unwelcome happened. 

Shaking the dust off their feet was also a way to leave the remnants of that unwelcoming place behind. Don’t take anything with you from that place. This morning, I’m thinking about that dust. When we travel from place to place, we bring bits of that place, bits of that experience with us. We can’t help it. Whether it’s dust on our shoes, or memories, we are a cumulation of our past. With this advice, Jesus is saying leave the bad dust, the bad memories behind, as you go from place to place. It should not form you moving forward. Leave it behind. 

Today, I’m thinking about my commissioning as a disciple. Go out into the world. Go wholly reliant on God, not feeling self-reliant because of your preparedness. Know that it will not always be easy. When it’s not easy, leave the bad stuff behind - all of it. Then, go out into the world. Repeat as necessary.

May 24 2019 Luke 8: 40-56

When Jesus heard this, he replied, "Do not fear. Only believe, and she will be saved."

Jesus is in the midst of all of his healing. He’s heading to the house of Jairus, a leader of the synagogue, whose daughter is deathly ill. On the way, a woman who’s been hemorrhaging for 12 years touches the fringe of his clothes and is immediately healed. He continues to Jairus’ house, and the daughter appears dead. Jesus claims he’ll heal her and the people laugh, knowing she’s dead. Of course, she is healed and her parents were astounded. 

I must admit that this makes me a little testy. I have a sick family member, who’s likely sick for the rest of their life. And while I fully believe God could miraculously heal them, I don’t believe it’s as simple as ‘your faith has made you well’. There are millions of people, both at the time of Jesus and since then, that have had deep faith, and were not healed of their infirmities, they were not made well. In a second, I would be that father, running to Jesus begging for his healing power. I have. 

As a matter of fact, there aren’t a lot of stories in Scripture that start the same way – a woman touches his hem, a father implores him to heal his daughter – and end with Jesus continuing on, without healing. That wouldn’t be much of a story. There is a reference that after the feeding of the 5000, Jesus continues on to the next town, despite the waiting unwell.

This reminds me of a class I took where we spent 12 Saturdays learning about the types of illness my family member has. At the end of the class, the teachers brought in a few clients who had similar illnesses, and they talked about their nearly-normal life, their hard days, support from their family, and how, although it wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t as bad as in the beginning. In a way, they were made well.

The problem is that all of the clients who talked to the class did not have the same illness as my family member. As a matter of fact, all of the well-intentioned volunteer teachers were there precisely because of this particular illness, and what they portrayed was significantly less-well. The illness was represented in its infliction on wonderful volunteers, but not the ‘made well’ clients. Rather it showed up in the more defeated teachers. It’s an ugly, insidious disease, with few success stories. The clients with that illness aren’t ever the ones who show up at the end of class, to talk about their journey. 

So what do we do with this? Was Jairus better than the rest?  If I pray harder, if my family member had greater faith, if I never sinned.. What?  

I still believe miracles can happen. Healing can happen. And I do not pin my current hopes on that happening in this illness. So where do we, affected by this illness, and the thousands of other dismal physical and mental health problems, find healing and wellness?  If it’s not in the illness itself, what’s made well?  

Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe the healing and wellness come with the acceptance of what is. While God could heal, while miraculous cures are possible, I am here now without outwardly visible wellness. How can I be well and whole, not because of miraculous cures, but despite the lack of them? This morning, I will pray harder and have more faith that I can be made well, and be healed, so I can be whole. So I can rid myself of the fear of what's coming next. Regardless of what happens around me.

May 23 2019 Romans 14: 1-12

Who are you to pass judgment on servants of another?

This is a great section from Paul, who normally rubs me the wrong way. In this little bit, he’s urging believers to welcome those who believe something different, or don’t believe anything at all. Not only welcome them, but don’t just welcome them to quarrel or try to convince them you’re right. He says, “Let all be fully convinced in their own minds”, and further asks why you pass judgment about your brother or sister, or despise your brother or sister. Go Paul!

His reason for this lack-of-judgment is that we all – believers, non-believers, nice, mean, red state, blue state – all stand before God for judgment. An accounting of my life and my worth and my value on this earth will be made, and it’s entirely and solely between me and God. Likewise my enemy. Go Paul!

Yesterday, I was listening to a great podcast from Rob Bell about the book of Ruth. While it was interesting to hear his riff on the opening chapter of Ruth, what was more interesting was what he did with the rest of the episode. He said these ancient stories are interesting to us of two things. First we hear particulars. It’s one thing to hear a platitude about being a stranger in a strange land. It’s another to hear about Naomi’s particular story. It’s one thing to read a platitude about following where God leads, it’s another to hear the back-story behind “where you go, I will go”.

When we hear the particulars, we can put ourselves in the story. Maybe I’ve never been a woman who’s lost my two sons and husband, but I can imagine shaking my fist at God as Naomi did. Through these ancient stories, we can put ourselves. We can imagine their sentiments and develop a strong sense of empathy – feeling the same way, or being able to put yourself in their shoes – with the characters we read. 

In a way, that’s what I’ve been doing all these months. I’ve been reading an ancient story, finding what resonates with me this morning, and reflecting on it, empathizing, and giving particulars in my world that give flesh to the bones of what I’m reading. In a way, I’m incarnating the old words, not in any woo-woo way, but by making it real in my world with my particulars.

What this does, according to Rob Bell (and I agree) is that it increases my ability or insight into other people’s particulars. If I can see myself in the 1300 BC Ruth and Naomi story, it’s because our human story hasn’t changed that much despite all that time and space. If that’s true, he argues, maybe I’m increasing my capacity to either put flesh on the bones of someone else’s particulars, or see beyond their particulars into the root “where you go, I will follow” platitude. If I can see myself in Ruth’s story, it’s because I read Ruth’s story, reflected on Ruth’s story, and saw places where my story is similar. What if I did that with that person who irks me? What about that person who disagrees with me, who seems to thwart me at every turn? Who’s making my life miserable? What if I read their story, or asked about their story? If I can see myself in Ruth’s story, why wouldn’t the same be true with them?

It’s in that act of reading stories, praying, and incarnating those dry ancient texts that make them alive for me today, make them relevant to me today, that make me join in solidarity with those ancients. If I took the same time with the Naomi and Ruth’s of today, wouldn’t it take me to the same place?

This morning I’m thinking about how all of our experiences are shared as human. My story, my heartache, is likely similar to the story and heartache of my foe. I want to take time to think about their story and their sentiments. It’s with that sense of solidarity and similarity that it’s much easier to return to Paul’s warning that we shouldn’t judge others. Their actions are based on their story, and while it isn’t my story, I bet I’ve got more in common with their narrative than I know. I want to take the time to hear or learn about their story, and to see my narrative in theirs. Then we can both shake our fists at God together.

May 22 2019 Luke 8: 16-25

Then pay attention to how you listen; for to those who have, more will be given; and from those who do not have, even what they seem to have will be taken away.

I’ve never fully understood this little bit. It follows the “no one lights a lamp and puts it under bushel”, which I do understand. But my daily little practice of sitting with and thinking about morning prayer is delightful in forcing me, or inciting me to focus on the bits I don’t get. To struggle and think about those parts. 

Thanks again to the translation from Eugene Peterson’s The Message, I have a glimpse of understanding. He explains that effectively the light from the lamp is the word of God that shines everywhere; is heard everywhere. Be careful that when you hear it, you don’t try to hide it, like a light stuck under a bushel. Don’t be stingy about the Good News. Rather, share it. 

Sharing it spreads the light, and makes more light, just like one candle’s light spreads to another candle to another, and it doesn’t diminish the light from the first. But if you take that same single candle, and don’t share it, but put it under a basket, eventually it goes out. From those who have some sharing light, more light is created. For those who have hoarded light, the light eventually goes out. 

This morning, I’m thinking about hoarding gifts from God rather than sharing them. When I reserve love, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, mercy, when I do these things, I feel constricted. I feel like I’m cold and prickly inside. Sometimes I do it for what feels like the right reasons. When I’m exhausted. When I don’t feel like I have anything left to give. When I’m angry, or frustrated at the another person or at circumstances we all find ourselves. Sometimes in those moments, I respond more like a turtle, tucking everything in, for what cognitively seems like self-preservation.
But my heart knows this is not true, nor effective. When I love, have compassion, show kindness, forgiveness, mercy, share the Good News, I feel warm and fuzzy inside, even if I’m exhausted, angry or frustrated. 

There’s much in my world right now that’s frustrating, and anger-inducing. Today, I want to share the love, mercy, and kindness I have been given and shown, even when I don’t feel like it.
To those who have, more will be given.

May 21 2019 Mark 4:1-20 Commemoration of John Eliot

But to those who can’t see it yet, everything comes in stories, creating readiness, nudging them toward receptive insight (Translation: The Message)



John Eliot was born in 1604. After having a tussle with his home country church in England, like many others, he headed off to New England to start over. As a pastor of a community near Boston, he became concerned with the welfare of the native Algonquin people. He learned the language, established native settlements, and eventually translated the Bible into Algonquin. Much of his work – both translations and settlements were destroyed during the Indian Wars of 1670.



During the church year, many people like John Eliot are commemorated, and there are alternative readings set up, related to that person. Today’s alternative reading from the Gospel is this passage from Mark, where Jesus is telling his disciples the story of the scattered seed. Some fell on rocky ground, some in weeds, and finally some in fertile ground. The disciples questioned what it meant and why he talked in parables. He doesn’t do it often, but in this reading he explains the parable to them. 


More interesting to me this morning, is the explanation of why he talks in parables. He says that to those who’ve been given insight, they understand the stories – apparently not always, given their incessant questions – but to those who haven’t been given the insight, things come in stories, “creating readiness, and nudging them toward receptive insight”


This morning I’m thinking about how our brains cobble together a complete picture when given glimpses. Generally, I appreciate when things are fully spelled out, leaving little chance of my misunderstanding or misinterpreting. But in reading the Gospel today, I find that I’m more intrigued by Jesus’ parable before he painstakingly explains it. 


There is something about parables or metaphors or poetry or even Ikea picture instructions that engages my head more than a fully complete manual. To be clear, the clearer and complete the written word, the easier it is for me to understand. But there is some engagement that occurs when I almost understand. When I’m forced to infer or wonder at the less-than-precise or less-than-spelled-out story.



We want to have a complete picture. We want to make sense out of fragments. And conscious or not, we cobble together a full narrative or explanation or instruction, even when only given pieces. My challenge is always that when I’m not given the fully precise and complete picture, I’m never sure if my narrative is the right one. I’m not sure if the story I’m telling myself is true or reflective of what’s really happening, if I’ve interpreted the parable or facts as intended or true.



Today, I want to recognize where my head is cobbling together a ‘complete’ story out of incomplete facts, where I’m interpreting my life’s parables. And if there are bits missing or allusions I don’t understand, I want to my interpretation to be grace-infused, rather than self-infused.

May 20 2019 Luke 7: 36-50

If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him-that she is a sinner

This passage comes from one of Jesus’ scandalous meals He’s eating with a Pharisee, which was simply a group of orthodox and devout Jews of Jesus’ time. A woman who is identified as a ‘sinner’, heard he was there, and came to the meal, and washed his feet from her tears, dried them with her hair, and anointed Jesus’ feet with oil from her alabaster jar. 

To our modern ears, it’s an odd story. Washed with tears. Dried with hair. Anointed with oil. None of these are common. We listen, knowing she was doing something wonderful, without the awe that probably occurred at the time. 

Here’s a woman identified as a sinner. I’m not sure what she’d done to achieve that title. It’s likely more than a simple sin or two; everyone did that. No, she had accumulated enough little one-off sins that she’d achieved the status of ‘sinner’, likely branded for life. As a woman, as a sinner, she’s not got much positional power, if any at all. Against all social norms and perceived religious appropriateness, she enters this supper, goes right to Jesus and cries, dries and anoints. 

As the Pharisees express their shock and indignation, Jesus tells the story about two debtors, one who owed 500 denarii, the other 50. For comparison, it’s estimated that one denarius is about one day’s wage, so the difference is between $1,000 and $10,000. If the creditor cancelled the debts of both, who would love the creditor more?  His point is that those who have more forgiven debts are likely to be more grateful. After this parable lesson, he turns to the woman forgives her sins. The Pharisees responded with shock. Who does he think he is??

I’d love to think that we’ve gotten past this. We church folk wouldn’t scoff at the modern day sinner-woman and her offering of tears and oil. I’d like to think we’d welcome her in to Jesus’ table, to Jesus’ grace. But I’m not sure. 

Some years ago, I was serving a wealthy parish. A single mom, rough around the edges, started coming to church with her three small kids in ill-fitting cheap clothes. They’d up close enough for the kids to see, while folks tried to be welcoming, all the while stealing glances at this modern-day sinner. Single mom. Poor. Imperfect children. Sitting too close. The kids weren’t any more well behaved than mine would have been. She’d bring the gaggle up to the communion rail, and she took communion, while indicating that they shouldn’t as they hadn’t been baptized. Clearly she had been an insider at some point. 

One Sunday, they came in late, as I was in the midst of proclaiming the Gospel from the middle of the gathered people, in the center aisle. She walked up the aisle towards me as I’m reading, and took her regular seat, just a few rows from where I’m reading. It was a genuine challenge for me to continue reading, and not 1) try to help them in to their seat or 2) stop impatiently wait for them to finish interrupting ME. I’d like to believe I would have tried to help them.
After several weeks of trying to connect with Jesus, to seek his love and grace at our table, they stopped coming. The Pharisees in the room knew she did not belong at their table. I can only imagine that the Pharisees’ judgment  in the room was louder than Jesus’ grace. 

This morning I’m thinking about all the ways I walk around like the Pharisees, deciding who’s worthy of God’s love. Legislators who enact laws I feel are barbaric. Mean people. Lying people. Mentally Ill. Drug dependent. Violent criminals. Why would I ever want to be echoing the Pharisees? Why would I want to sound as stupid as the Pharisees?  Why should I care how far or broad God’s love reaches?   If God’s love, mercy, and forgiveness is so life altering to me, how much greater to those who owe 500 denarii. Today, I pray that I recognize when I’m sounding like those Pharisees and just stop.

May 19 2019 Wisdom 7:22 – 8:1

For wisdom is more mobile than any motion;  because of her pureness she pervades and penetrates all things. . . . For she is a reflection of eternal light, a spotless mirror of the working of God, and an image of his goodness.



For the past few days, the first reading in Morning Prayer has been from the book of Wisdom, or the longer title, the Wisdom of Solomon. I’ve enjoyed my stroll through this book that is omitted from many bibles. The book of Wisdom is contained in the Apocrypha, a collection of writings that come from the era of the second temple in Jerusalem. And who knew this collection of writings, including the book of Wisdom would be the source of continued disagreement?

The Apocrypha is included in “Catholic” bibles, and omitted from “Protestant” bibles. If you look it up, there are strong, impassioned arguments why the Apocrypha should or should not be read, should or not be included in THE BIBLE, should or should not be seen as holy.

With Anglicans historically supporting the via media, or middle way, it’s not surprising to me that we’ve sidestepped this argument with a position that is probably not satisfactory to either polar side, but allows both sides peacefully co-exist. While the Apocrypha is included in the Bible most frequently read in the Episcopal Church (New Revised Standard Version), the teachings of the church say that Holy Scriptures explicitly include only the Old and New Testament which omits the Apocrypha. But it adds that the Apocrypha is often included in the Bible, and it is a collection of writings by the people of the Old Covenant, used by the Christian Church. So it’s a thing, can be in the Bible, can be used by Christian Church, but isn’t technically included in what we refer to as Holy Scripture. Having said all of that, readings from the Apocrypha are included in Morning Prayer. And for that, I’m glad.



I like this book of Wisdom for a couple reasons. First, Wisdom is referred to as feminine. I’m not one who regularly replaces “he” for “she” in prayers referring to God, or bristles at God the Father. I do, however believe God transcends gender, and have no problem with folks who want to talk about God the creator, or substitute “she” when “he” is written in prayers referring to God the creator. But I do find comfort in reading about spirit that is referred to as feminine. Without even recognizing it as gender-based, I find the feminine attribution comforting.



I also have always enjoyed the concept of wisdom. And the feminine wisdom is referenced throughout the Old and New Testaments, so it’s not just a Catholic Apocrypha thing. But in the Apocrypha, she gets a whole book devoted to her. I like Wisdom because it is something I’ve strived to have, and to be able to discern the difference between wisdom and intelligence. In a meme-worthy quip, intelligence is knowing that a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is knowing that it doesn’t belong in a fruit salad.



Wisdom, for me, is when I see the facts, or the truth, I can recognize that while the fact may be factually true, there’s something missing. Tomatoes don’t belong in fruit salad. Or just because I’m factually right in a disagreement, it’s better for the world if I don’t proclaim my rightness.



The other thing Wisdom teaches me is that while there may be things that are not or cannot be proven as factually true, there is great Truth in them. Whether it’s statements in our Creed, Noah’s incredulous 800 year old life span, or whether the Red Sea looked like a mountainous sheet of water as Charlton Heston passed through, it doesn’t matter to me. There’s more to the Truth than the facts. And that distinction, I believe is Wisdom.



This morning I’m grateful for Wisdom, “for she passes into Holy Souls, and makes them friends of God”. And I’m grateful for a tradition that walks that via media so it’s part of my Morning Prayer practice.

May 18 2019 Psalm 55

I have no peace, because of my cares.



Psalm 55 is one of those that when I get partway through I recognize. It’s about this betrayal, and grief. One poignant section refers to betrayal, “if it had been an adversary who taunted me, I could have borne it… but it was you .. my companion, my own familiar friend”. Anyone who’s ever felt betrayed by a close companion feels the pain in these words, and when I reach that point in the psalm where I recognize that this is the betrayal psalm, my heart is musing the “but it was you…”.



I like that about psalms; there’s a phrase or sentiment that catches your breath, and because the words were written thousands of years ago, that distance and anonymity allow me to feel those feels all over again. I can laugh and cry and shake my fist at God, because the psalmist is speaking the words on my behalf. And as I become more familiar with the psalms, my ability to adopt that sentiment is quicker and more personal.


This morning, I read this psalm, saw the lines about betrayal, and lamented over past betrayals. But something else happened. I tripped over another line I’ve missed in the past, as my brain focused in on the betrayal theme. I have no peace, because of my cares.



It is true, we read the psalms from where we are, and the Spirit speaks through the words to that place where we are. And it is true, I have many cares. My sick loved one is returning from the hospital after over 2 weeks. They are not all better, and my home life will be appreciably less care-free. And yet…



Thinking about care or care-free, I’m struck by how internal those are. Being care-free does not mean that in the outside world, everything is perfect, there are no problems. Rather, it seems it’s more a state of mind. Regardless of what’s going on, people can be care-free. In a similar way, having cares doesn’t necessarily equate to the reality of what’s going objectively in the world. There are some people who seem to have heavy burdens, but I wouldn’t ascribe much value to what their worrying about. 


That’s not to say that I should be judging the validity of their perceived burdens. Rather, I say this to make a distinction between the reality of what’s going on in the world, versus our perception of those things, and the burdensome weight we ascribe. They are different things. There are events and circumstances in our lives. And there is the impact we allow them to have on our soul. These are different.



This morning, I’m thinking about my changing world, and the objective factual things that change in it, and how that is not the same as ‘my cares’, which has more to do with how I internalize those things, or how much I allow them to weigh me down. I want to recognize that events are events. Circumstances are circumstances. And neither of those need to become cares. I don’t want to have to say, I have no peace because of my cares. Rather, I want to say, I have peace, despite my circumstances.

May 17 2019 Amos 5:10-15,21-24 Commemoration of Thurgood Marshall

Let justice roll down like waters,  and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.



From a young age, Thurgood Marshall wanted to be a lawyer. He wanted to study law in his hometown law school in Baltimore, but in the 1930’s the University of Maryland was racially segregated, something Marshall couldn’t support. He graduated from Howard University, practiced law, founded and served as chief counsel for the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, and went on to serve as the first African American Supreme Court Justice. He successfully argued that ‘separate but equal’ was not a thing, ending the intentional practice of segregation.



The readings appointed for the day commemorating Thurgood Marshall are evocative. Whether it’s fiery speeches, or old hymns, there’s something very poetic and powerful about “let justice roll down like waters”. This is not an image of still waters, of a peaceful lake. No, I can almost hear the roar of the waters, and see the swift current. There’s an urgency to ever-flowing streams, to rolling waters. There’s movement.



I admire those who call for justice like an ever-flowing stream. To be clear, I strive for and seek justice. My work for justice, however, doesn’t have the urgency that I sense from Amos or Marshall. Perhaps that’s because of my constitution, or because I’ve not experienced injustice as they have.



This morning, I’m thinking about my cry for justice. Should it be more like a cry for justice to roll down like waters? I want to think that I can, and I think I should. And while I can occasionally serve as that prophetic voice, pointing out how things should be in God’s kingdom, I am unlikely to be the street-corner prophet, crying out for justice. Rather, I find opportunities to be quietly but effectively prophetic, seeking justice and affecting change behind the scenes, in meetings, and conversations. 


And I admire the power and poetry of the prophetic voices like Amos and Marshall. Today, I want to be aware of the different ways to strive for justice, to be prophetic, and to see justice to roll down like waters.

May 16 2019 Matthew 24: 9-14 – Martyrs of Sudan and South Sudan

Then they will hand you over to be tortured and will put you to death, and you will be hated by all nations because of my name. Then many will fall away,  and they will betray one another and hate one another. And many false prophets will arise and lead many astray.

This reading from Matthew comes in one of Jesus’ jarring descriptions of what will happen to his disciples during their persecution for following him. It seems like a rational person hearing that this is what discipleship costs would run the other way. And yet people throughout the ages have continued to spread the good news of God’s love, despite the cost. 

Sometimes reading what we humans do to each other breaks my heart. I knew there was a war in Sudan. I knew people were killed. Until this morning’s prayer time, I didn’t have an idea of the scale. In the civil war since the 1980s, an estimated 2,000,000 Sudanese, mostly Christian, have been killed by Sudanese, mostly not Christian, and another 5,000,000 Sudanese, mostly Christians, have been forced into exile. That’s up to 7 million people affected by this raging civil war, all waged by children of Abraham against children of Abraham. I read that the civilian death toll of that war one of the greatest, second only to World War II. 

How is it that we aren’t all outraged by this? That I didn’t even really know the scale? Is it because we’ve grown numb to the pain and suffering in the world? Conservative estimates of death tolls from the largest armed conflicts since 1980 include: 600,000 dead-Soviet Afghan war; 300,0¬00 dead-Iran Iraq; 300,000 dead-Somali civil war;  300,000 dead-Burundian civil war; 2,750,000 dead-Congo wars; 480,000 dead-war on terror; 268,000 dead-Iraq war; 178,000 dead-Darfur; 2,000,000 dead-Sudan civil war; 478,000 dead-Syrian civil war. How could we not be numb to these numbers? 
And while the causes of these wars are not all religious conviction, I wonder how many of the deaths were carried out by people of faith against people of faith?

So maybe we’re numb to this. Or maybe the stories aren’t being told. Where our country doesn’t have political or economic assets at stake, we don’t hear as much about the conflicts. Or maybe we hear about the conflicts and deaths, but don’t pay attention. People killed in Sudan for their Christian faith is irrelevant to my daily life. 

Today, I’m thinking about the number of children of God killed by other children of God in war. In just these conflicts since 1980 with more than 100,000 killed, that’s 7,654,000 lives extinguished and families shattered. 

It’s easy to lose hope, or feel defeated. This morning’s reading from Wisdom 3, offers the antidote: The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and while they may have died and there may be disaster, they are at peace. 

Today, I want to mourn for those who have died in wars, marvel at their indomitable faith, and strive to be half as faithful as the martyrs of Sudan.

May 15 2019 Luke 6: 27-38

But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.

I read a fascinating definition of sin, attributed to Cornelius Plantinga Jr, “sin is culpable disturbance of shalom”. Shalom is peace, goodness, health and wholeness from God, so this definition reads that sin is intentionally disturbing or interrupting God’s plan in the world for goodness, and peace, and wholeness. Specific acts are also sin, but they are sin because of their effect of disturbance of shalom.

This definition gives new weight and understanding to me about this section from Luke that proceeds Jesus’ laying down the golden rule; do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

I cannot control the actions, hatred, curses or abuse of others. I can only control mine. I believe that using this definition of sin, the other person’s actions, thoughts, curses, abuses disturb God’s shalom, and would be sin. But if that’s the case, why would I possibly want to join them in that sin. Why would I let someone else’s sin incite me to sin? Their disturbing God’s Shalom should not result in my culpable disturbing it. In what world would I want to give them that power? 

Rather, I can short circuit the ugliness that perpetuates sin, of revenge and love withheld, curses continued. I can do my part to keep God’s Shalom alive and well, despite others who don’t.

I remember in grade school Sunday School hearing about the Golden Rule, and honestly thinking that it gave me free reign to hold grudges. I’d omitted the “would have”, so it read in my head, “Do unto others as they have done to you”. It definitely didn’t feel fair to have to treat someone better than they treated me. But rather than thinking about their action – whether it’s slight or abuse, or stalking or mean words, it’s helpful for me to think about the effect of their actions – of their disrupting God’s Shalom. Regardless of what others do, I’ve no reason to intentionally disrupt it further. In this way, I wholly understand do unto others differently. And love your enemies. And praying for those who abuse you. 


It’s about God’s overall plan for love and peace and wholeness in the world. I’m not asked to love others because they’ve sinned, I’m asked to love my enemies because Jesus loves me and Jesus loves them. I’m asked to do my little piece to uphold God’s Shalom.

May 14 2019 Wisdom 3: 1-9

Love righteousness, you rulers of the earth, think of the Lord in goodness and seek him with sincerity of heart. . . Perverse thoughts separate people from God

This section of Wisdom focuses largely on thoughts, feelings, and words as opposed to actions. Love righteousness. Think of the Lord in goodness. God is a witness to people’s innermost feelings, and observer of hearts. 

It contrasts good thoughts and feelings and words with what happens with bad thoughts, feelings and words.  Perverse thoughts separate people from God. Wisdom will not enter a deceitful soul. Those who utter unrighteous things will not escape notice. Report of the words of the ungodly will come to the Lord. 

Today, I’m thinking about that adage, ‘it’s the thought that counts’. Reading Wisdom, I think it’s largely true. From a place of good thoughts, a good heart and good intentions come good words and ultimately good actions. Likewise, from a place of bad or angry thoughts and intentions come bad words and bad actions. And while this seems obvious, it’s not easy to actually live like this. It’s sometimes hard to have good intentions, and a loving heart.

There are two problems with those times. First, God’s a witness of those feelings, and of my heart. How much more convenient if I could curate when and where God can witness my life, and it’s embarrassing to think of God observing my crappy moods or less than kind thoughts.

The bigger problem is that chain of events that happens when something crosses your mind or your heart. When a loving or kind thought crosses my mind, I smile, take positive action, throw up a little thanksgiving. However, when a less-than good thought crosses my mind, I’m not really aware of what happens next, but it’s naïve to think the thoughts are entirely harmless and internal. Do I scowl? Curse someone? Withhold love? Use ugly words? 

Today, I want to observe what thoughts cross my mind, what intentions come in my heart. When they are less than beautiful, I want to observe the resulting action, or words or intentions. I don’t think anyone can live in a state of perpetual bliss. But I want to be more intentional and aware of what happens inside me, in the less than blissful times.

May 13 2019 Colossians 1:1-14

May you be prepared to endure everything with patience.

In my head I understand this. Being impatient doesn’t make traffic any less bad, or frustrating people any less irksome. The less something is in my heart, the easier it is for my head to rationalize this as true. For example, traffic doesn’t ever bother me. I can, in fact endure with patience. But the closer something is to my heart, the harder it is for my head to interject endurance. The easier it is to be impatient, or hurt, even if my head knows better. 

Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and while I understand it’s largely a contrived ‘holiday’, it has always been a nice weekend of nuclear family, first with my parents and brother, and now with my husband and kids. It’s always felt like a bonus weekend, because my birthday falls within a week of Mother’s Day, so some times I get two weekends of celebration, and some years I get one really great celebration.

I ended my yesterday with a trip to the hospital to see my sick family member. It was not a pleasant time. They were distant, largely incoherent, and angry. They talked about voices, about lying to doctors so they could return to our home, about why they couldn’t just smoke legalized marijuana (not helpful, Oregon). After about 45 minutes, they asked us to leave, because it was more interesting in their head, than talking to us. As I rode my bike home, I cried frustrated, impatient, angry tears. 

I was definitely not enduring things with patience, joyfully giving thanks to the Father. 

But before our challenging 'conversation',  we’d brought dinner. Burgers, fries and fresh strawberry shakes. There was genuine gratitude and joy as we all had our fast-food dinner in the hospital. Maybe this patience thing is to hold on to the good bits. If I think about that dinner, and the highlights of the night, it wasn’t all hard. Maybe one way to endure is to focus on the whole arc of the story or event, rather than just the hard bits.

This morning I’m thinking about biking in Portland. There are trolley and train tracks throughout down town. When you are going the right direction and cross the tracks perpendicularly, they make a rhythmic ‘thump thump’ sound as your tires glide across the breach. But if you spend too much time in the tracks, hitting them too close to parallel, they throw you off your bike. There are silly looking warning signs all over town. Silly, but accurate. Twice, my extremely fit husband has taken a tumble for precisely this reason. 

Maybe enduring the hard parts are like the trolley tracks. In the grand scheme of life, they’re pretty small and easily endured. It’s when we ride along those low places that we can get thrown. Today, I want to see all the joy and good and flat ground surrounding the trolley tracks in my life. I want to endure with patience, and joyfully give thanks, rather than looking like the guy in the street sign.

May 12 2019 Matthew 7: 1-15

Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock.



We join Jesus again teaching the crowds. He starts by talking about false prophets who come dressed in sheep’s clothing but are actually ravenous wolves. He moves quickly to good trees bearing good fruit, versus bad trees that won’t ever produce good fruit. So you’ll be able to tell the bad ones by the fruit they bear. Finally in this brief but packed section, he says that everyone who calls his name will not enter the kingdom. To some, Jesus will respond, “I never knew you, go away from me.”



This sounds rather harsh. I thought it was all about people calling out to Jesus. That simple act redeemed them. According to Jesus, not always.



He continues that those who hear his words and act on them is like a wise man while builds on rock. The person who hears his words and doesn’t act is like someone who builds on sand. The storm comes and the house on rock is solid, while the house on sand falls, and to emphasize the point, Jesus exclaims not only does it fall, “but great was its fall”.



What does this mean in my world?



I know plenty of God loving folk, including Christian folk, who talk a big game, but do nothing. They don’t love their neighbor. They don’t act in any way as if they’re Christian. They don’t care for the widow, orphan, poor. They show up in church, some even go to the prestigious church to be seen. Some wave the Christian banner in a way to show others they are Christian, and yet aren’t loving. Some politicians pull out their Christianity, as if it’s an indemnifying ID card,  and at best, don’t act in loving way, and at worst, act in ways that actively harm and hate – all the while waiving their ID. I think these are the folks who Jesus is referring to when he says they hear God’s word, and don’t act on it. Their house on sand will fall, and great will be its fall.


To be clear, this is not my judgment to make. I don’t get to look at them now and condemn them to a fallen house or as a ravenous wolf. I believe that judgment is God’s alone. But I can take some slight solace that Jesus discerns the distinction of people who profess the words but to their core, don’t act.



Alternatively, Jesus talks about those who hear his words and act, build their house on solid rock.



This morning, I’m thinking about all of the things this sentence didn’t say. It doesn’t say that those who hear his words and go to church, or those who hear his words and wear Christian jewelry, those who hear his words and get ordained, those who ear his words and pray visibly on TV. What he says is that those who hear his words and act.



This describes so many wonderful people I know who’d never describe themselves as Christian or even spiritual. But they have heard of God’s love and they act. They love and serve their neighbors. They care for the widows, orphans and poor. They strive for justice and peace. All without being a card carrying member. This little section provides much good news to this world, and particularly this little corner of the US, that is so ‘unchurched’. Today, I want to notice all those whose houses are built on rock, regardless of their faith tradition or practice.

May 11 2019 Daniel 6: 16-28

Then the king was exceedingly glad and commanded that Daniel be taken up out of the den.

King Darius had been enjoying Daniel, his leadership and his spirit, and was planning to effectively promote him. Daniel’s peers became jealous and tried to find a way to fault Daniel, but they could find none. They went to the king with a proposal, knowing that Daniel was faithful to God, that the king should impose a law that anyone who prays to anyone, human or divine, other than King Darius, should be thrown in a den of lions. King Darius apparently thought this was a great idea, and signed it into law.

Even though Daniel knew about this law, he continued to pray to God. His jealous peers found him in prayer, and tattled to the king. And his signed law meant that the king HAD to throw Daniel into the lions’ den. And so he did. They put a stone over the mouth of the den, and the king sealed it with his own signet. Apparently, the king fasted and didn’t sleep so well, and in the morning rushed over to see if Daniel was alive.

Yes, in fact, Daniel’s God had protected him throughout the night in the lions’ den. The king was happy, and proceeded to throw his accusers and their wives and children all in the den, where the lions “broke all their bones in pieces”.

Really? The conspirators were the problem and deserved to be thrown to the lions? What about the king who was duped into signing a law that only he could be the recipient of prayers?  And then after enacting that law, used it to throw Daniel in. And then, after that worked ok for Daniel, turned his anger to the conspirators and threw them in the den.

I’m feeling a little convicted by this story. Of all the characters in the story – Daniel praying to God, despite the new law prohibiting it, the jealous peers, and the king, I’m feeling like I’d be more like the king. 


I’m more apt to legislate and enforce than many. I’m more apt to follow laws, even when they might not make sense. My husband and I have had many conversations about stop lights or cross walks in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. I’d likely wait. I hope I’d have enough sense to not throw a good man into the lions’ den, or not create a law where everyone worships only me. 


This morning, I’m thinking about rules. I’m extremely good and consistent at understanding and enforcing rules or laws. This trait has served me mostly well, as I can legitimately say I’m fair and objective, not bending rules for favorite people, or in difficult circumstances. And that feels important and defensible. 


I’m thinking about King Darius, and what would drive him to create and enforce that law, throwing someone he respected in the lions’ den. I’m also thinking about Daniel, who despite the law, broke it and continued to pray to God. Breaking that dumb rule was what his faith demanded. And that very faith kept him safe through the night. Today, I want to survey my world and be on the look out for rules or principles I’ve established and whether they continue to make sense. And I want to make sure I’m not obeying someone else’s dumb rule, just because.

May 10 2019 Luke 5: 12-26

We have seen strange things today.

This is what the scribes and pharisees said, after they saw Jesus forgiving the sins of some, and healing others. It also says the crowds were filled with awe and they glorified God. And yet, their concluding sentence was that they had seen strange things that day. 

Thinking that the scribes and pharisees were always very devout and wary of Jesus, there’s something about this response that grabs me. After seeing Jesus forgive the sins of some, the scribes and pharisees were aghast, since only God can forgive sins. That is the response I would have expected. 

Jesus responds that since they didn’t think he had authority from God for the forgiveness bit, he followed up by causing a lame man to walk. After seeing this healing, amazement seized all of them, they glorified God, and commented that they’d seen strange things.

So despite my impression that they're portrayed as the perennial opponents of Christ, the scribes and pharisees saw this healing, and glorified God. From this, I’m reminded that no one is as one-dimensional as our simplistic brains ascribe. Heroes have short-comings and bad guys aren’t exclusively bad. 

More than that, I’m thinking about their sentence, “we’ve seen strange things today”. Strange things is such a great way to describe things we see that we can’t categorize, or that don’t fit in our previously conceived boxes.

I’m seeing a lot of that these days. My sick family member frequently does or says ‘strange things’, telling us about phone conversations they’re having at the moment, but absent any phone. Or conversations with famous people. Or the multitude of conversations going on in their head all the time. In my understanding of ‘normal’, these are all strange. Every day, I’m amazed by the strange things I’ve seen. And yet, strange isn’t bad.

Strange is how we describe something that’s not our norm. A strange hair cut in Ohio might be normal in Oregon. This morning, I’m thinking about how referring to something as strange says more about the observer than the observation. Strange means the observer hasn’t observed this. Or it doesn’t fit. Or it’s not what they’d describe as normal. For the scribes and pharisees to describe Jesus’ actions as strange says more about the scribes and pharisees and their limited world, than it does about what Jesus was doing. Today, I want to observe things I experience without that judgment of strange or normal, of just experiencing what is.

May 9 2019 Luke 5: 1-11

Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.



Jesus comes to a lake and sees a couple of fishing boats. He got in Simon’s boat and asked him to out from the shore, where he proceeded to teach from the boat those on the shore. When he’d finished speaking, he told Simon to put out their nets for fish. Simon’s first response rings so true for me. Simon says that they’d fished all night and hadn’t caught anything. His second response is one of pure faith. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.



Many years ago, I was serving as an independent consultant for communities that were making governance decisions. Should we become a city? Should our city merge with the county? My role was to look at data of service demands on police, land use, roads and figure out what the financial impact would be to collect taxes on a newly imagined boundary, and provide services for that area from those funds. This, coupled with surveys about the interest of the residents could give a pretty good indication whether the new governance proposal made sense.



I was a sub consultant, and the lead had a long-planned trip overseas, right when there were some deadlines. During that 2 week period, I’d come home from my day-job, play with my small kids, and head start to work on my consultant work. I remember one evening, when I’d put in a loooong day, and the consultant had called from overseas, with urgency that something had to happen and be turned in the next morning. I was exhausted. And was angry that I was stuck pulling this together, and he was asking me to do something more. I had nothing left.



I’m definitely not likening him to Jesus or that this was a holy moment, but I can’t help but ascribe that feeling of utter exhaustion and frustration to Simon at that moment. How dare Jesus ask him to do something else? They’d spent the evening at their trade, to no avail. That alone would make one testy. But to have this Rabbi commandeer the boat, make them go out so he could teach from it?  And then suggest that they should put their nets out once again?  I can start to feel indignant just writing this.



But Simon does. Either out of exhaustion, resignation or sheer love, he puts his boat out and they catch so many fish that their boat is at risk of sinking. Jesus’ response to their fear is one of his oft-said, “do no be afraid”. After this, it says they left everything and followed Jesus.



This morning, I’m thinking about that moment when I can do no more. I’ve got nothing left, and I’m asked to go a little further. When my son was in Army Ranger school, he learned that when we think we have nothing left, when we’ve given 100%, we’re probably actually at about 60%. When I’m pushed beyond my perceived limit, I suspect it’s either God that helps carry me beyond my brain’s self-preserving 60% limit, or self-fulfilling aggrandizement and stubbornness. Today, I want to pause when I think I’ve done all I can, and invite God into the equation. If the issue is of God, if my response is of God, then God will help pull me on. If it is not of God but rather a self-focused drive, even invoking God in that moment may feel awkward, or wrong, or ill-conceived. Today, I want to leave that final 40% to God’s discretion, not mine.