Sep 30 2019 Revelation 12: 7-12 Feast of St Michael the Archangel

The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.

If you read scripture, never do you get the image of angels as the smiling, pudgy-cheeked children, frequently seen in Christmas cards or ornaments. An angel, translated from the Greek word angelos, is a messenger. And although both the new and old testament mention angels, there are only four mentioned by name. They’re mentioned as if they’re the leaders of other angels, so there aren’t only four, but they’re the leaders. These named four get the title archangel, and Michael is the most mentioned.

In the book of Revelation, that apocalyptical figurative vision, Michael leads an army of angels into battle. They battle the dragon, also known as Satan. But not only do they battle the Satan-dragon, they battle his angels too. The story goes that some good angels decided to follow the bad Satan-dragon, and in the world, there are both good angels and Satan-following angels. We don’t think about there ever being bad angels.

So Michael and his good angel army battle the dragon and his bad angel army. The dragon is defeated, and the dragon and his bad angel army are cast out of heaven. Where to? To here on earth.

This morning, I’m thinking about all the unhelpful misconceptions and liberties we’ve taken with Michael and angels. Michael and his good angel army are not cartoonish childlike beings. Angels are powerful, ready to battle evil again. Angels are not all good. The dragon’s bad-angel army alive and well. Angels are not in heaven. They’re here. Both Michael’s angels and the dragon’s. \

I’m not sure what to believe about angels on earth. But if I believe in a god who sent a human imprint of God’s whole being in Jesus, fully human and fully divine, if I believe that God-incarnate was killed and returned to God, then it’s not too far a stretch to believe that there are purely spiritual beings here on earth, both good and evil. But they don’t look like cartoons. They’re fierce, armed for this battle we’re in. When I read the scriptures about angels, I have a new appreciation for Michael the Archangel. That angel, -that powerful, dragon fighter - that angel I need.

Sep 29 2019 Luke 5: 1-11

Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.

Jesus has come to the lake of Gennesaret, and was watching the fishermen. He asked Simon to take out his boat, and then asked him to go ahead and put down his net. Again. Simon’s first response is one I recognize. I can almost hear a little bit of tired whininess. But Master, we’ve been out all night! You’re a teacher, we’re fishermen. We know our trade. It was a bad night. I’m tired. Really?

Unfortunately, I can imagine this response from me to God’s call, especially if I’m tired, which I can imagine Simon was. I can absolutely see myself saying something along the lines of Simon’s first response. But unlike Simon, I don’t have the benefit of the human Jesus standing in my boat. My sense of God’s work in my life is either more ethereal, like a prompting from the Holy Spirit, or it comes through other people I encounter.

I do firmly believe that I am called to seek and serve Christ in all people, and I do believe Christ is in all people. So Jesus’ call to me can come from those other people. Or maybe those other people are being dumb, and their call or request to me is not God-inspired. That’s the tricky part – is discerning the difference. Maybe it’s like our presiding bishop, Michael Curry said, ‘If it’s not about love, it’s not about God’. Maybe if my neighbor needs something, and to help would be to love, I am to help.

But despite my hesitancy to respond, or my whiny resistance, I want to follow up with a committed YES, like Simon did. I’m glad he voiced his skepticism, and then followed Jesus anyway. And I’m glad that despite Simon’s voiced skepticism and doubt, Jesus provided for him abundantly.
 

This morning, I’m thinking about how to recognize God’s call, how to be ok with a little skepticism, and to proceed anyway. After all, if it is of God, it will work out.

Sep 28 2019 I Corinthians 7:10-24

Let each of you lead the life that the Lord has assigned, to which God called you.

In the midst of Paul’s rant about marriage, circumcision and slavery, comes this gem. He’s going on about how men and women are supposed to handle becoming widowed, or divorced. It’s handled differently for men and women, but that was a sign of the times. He talks about if you’re circumcised or not, it makes no matter, and slave or free, equally it makes no matter.

To be clear, it does matter if one is a slave or not. I’m not sure Paul was defending slavery, and if so, of course I don’t agree. But part of what he was saying is that we are freed in Christ, regardless of our human condition And I think Paul’s message goes further. For every crummy condition we have on this earth, for every immoral and unjust policy and person, God has redeemed and restored us and the situation we’re in, already.

My husband and I had visions and plans of what I was going to do when we moved to Portland. I think they were inspired and focused on my faith. I think they were God’s will. But now, it’s clear that is not what’s happening. We are caretaking for a sick loved one, with a complex, permanent, and ever-changing disease. My future for the foreseeable future is very different.

It is fair to say that I’ve been grieving the future that won’t be. I’ve been holding on to a plan or intentions that no longer make sense. The dissonance between my planned future and my likely future have created no shortage of angst and anxiety, as I continued to try to fashion my tomorrows, based on my plans from my yesterdays. 

This morning, I’m thinking about Paul’s reminder to live the life I have, not pine for the life I intended. Maybe it’s about contentment, figuring out how to find peace in the current situation. I am not suggesting that God made loved one sick so I’d have something to do. But now that we’re all in this situation, I might as well live this life I have with intention and contentment, as much as possible.

On good days, my husband and I marvel that we’ve got this new reality, and we feel very well equipped. On harder days, we wonder why. And while I may never understand the why, Paul is reminding me to live the life I have, not the one I’d planned.

Sep 27 2019 Matthew 6:7-15

If you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.
After Jesus’ lecture about how to have a religious practice that is for God’s will, and not ours, he continues with what we’ve come to know as the Lord’s Prayer. Not only are we expected to fast and serve without tooting our own horn, or pray in public so others can see, Jesus explains precisely what the prayer should contain.

The summary version is that it should include acknowledgement that God is the god of all of us, that we should do everything to keep God’s name good, that we want God’s will, not ours. And God’s Kingdom, not ours. Pray that God will give us what we need today, without us worrying about yesterday or tomorrow. That we pray that God’s will and kingdom can be here on earth. We are to forgive others, as God forgives us, both our debts and sins. And that if trials are too big, we will be spared.

This prayer has it all, a slightly longer version of Jesus’ two commandments – Love God. Love your neighbor. It also includes some specific ways to pray to God to help us do that. In the effort to Love God, we pray that God’s will and kingdom are better than ours, and that we want to see those kingdoms here on earth. That we trust God to give us what we need today. And we are to pray that God will spare us from trials too great. In support of Loving Neighbor, we are to see God’s kingdom on earth – a kingdom of love. And we are to forgive others, both what they owe us, and when they’ve sinned.

Of all that is included in the Lord’s Prayer, I generally gravitate towards the part about giving us today our daily bread. I seemingly always need reminding that God will provide today, and that I shouldn’t worry about tomorrow. It reminds me of the Israelites wandering in the desert, getting manna from heaven and trying to collect it for the next day. When they did, it rotted overnight. Trust that today I’ll get what I need today. Nothing more, and nothing less. If for no other reason, this is one reason I gratefully pray the Lord’s Prayer daily. I need reminding of this daily.  

But this morning, I’m thinking about what’s not included in what we recite what’s been come to be known as the Lord’s Prayer. In this version from Matthew, after the bit about forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, Jesus continues, that if we do not forgive others, neither will God forgive us. Ouch. I can see why this sentence has been omitted from our sanitized version of the Lord’s Prayer. It’s sounds petty and vindictive. God’s forgiveness is contingent upon ours.

I’m thinking this isn’t so much about contingency as it is our own sense of peace and connection with God. It’s hard to feel the full weight and power of God’s love and forgiveness if we are holding grudges. Today, I’m not sure what to do with this little bit of Scripture. It will make me more thoughtful when I pray the Lord’s Prayer that it’s not always sunshine and rainbows. There’s always the potential that by my actions, I will not receive God’s full measure of grace and love.

Sep 26 2019 Matthew 6:1-18

They have received their reward.

This comes from a series of warnings Jesus issues regarding the nature of our acts for God, and whether we do them in public, for others to see, or just for ourselves and God. When you fast, don’t look put out and hungry. Don’t tell everyone you’re fasting. When you give alms, or take care of the poor, don’t toot your own horn. When you pray, don’t do it loud and visibly so others can see you. If you do these things in public to be noticed, Jesus says, we will get what we seek; we will be rewarded by public comments or notoriety. If you do these things in private, God will see all, and you will be rewarded by God.

What I’m taking from this is that when it comes to being ‘religious’, we can get the rewards we seek. But if we aim low, we’ll get just that. This speaks to me of personal motive, or what in the church we sometimes call personal piety. What are the things I do, and more importantly, why do I do them? If I’m doing it to look religious, that’s what I’ll get out of it – I’ll look religious. And perhaps nothing more.

This is the Gospel reading that is read, ironically, at the Ash Wednesday service, a service where we put ashes on our head in the shape of a cross, and go out into the world. When I’ve had the honor of reading it at Ash Wednesday, I always wonder if the ash-bearing people leaving the building are doing so just to get noticed, to show others of their devoutness. If this passage is true, they’ll receive just that as a reward. They will be noticed. Maybe nothing more. Maybe that’s the reading precisely because we’re all heading in to Lent, where many fast and pray more. The Gospel warning is that we should do these things for the right reasons – for our connection to God, not simply to be noticed.

In my own life, there are probably things I do, where my motives warrant Jesus’ warning. If I do things in public for the sake of others seeing, that will happen. Sometimes visibility is intentional, and warranted. I marched in the Portland Pride Parade, along with thousands of my friends. Most everyone sported unique and creative outfits and signs, screaming to be noticed for their individuality. I wore clergy garb and a full length black robe. In some settings, say an English cathedral, I would have fit right in. But at the Pride Parade, I stuck out as incredibly unique, in my traditional religious garb. I did it to be noticed. But not because I wanted notoriety. I did it because I genuinely wanted the other marchers and spectators to know that my branch of the Jesus movement was with them. 

This morning, I’m thinking about the very fine line between doing religious things for God’s will versus doing things for my will. Today, I want to watch what I do, and check my motives. Maybe God can be brought in to my more public expressions. Or maybe God never was in them. But I want to think about my own personal ‘why’s’, and either invite God in, or ditch those things all together.

Sep 25 2019 Matthew 5:38-48

You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy." But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

This is it. This is the foundational shift that Jesus brought to God’s people. This is the basis of all of the rest of the love and grace and service, to which Christians are called. Before we can go out and be grace-filled, and serve, we have love, and we have to love all. If I love my enemy and pray for them, I’m not sure how they even remain enemies. If I can even name my enemies, that’s a great first step. Then pray for them. Then love them.

Not Hallmark, sentimental love, but active, empathetic serving love. Jesus is asking us to empathize and to serve and ultimately to love everyone – even those we’ve deigned to be our enemies. It’s like Abraham Lincoln said, “Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?” Or in Jesus’ language, don’t I destroy my enemies when I actively, empathetically, serve and love them.

Not only are we called to pray for people we’ve deemed the enemy, we’re to pray for people who are actively persecuting us. This is when things get real. If we really are being persecuted or attacked or maligned, or disrespected – if someone is doing something that is actively against us, we are to pray for them.

There’s a lot of rancor in national politics now. There’s rancor in world politics. There’s rancor in families, communities, faith denominations. It seems to me love, or the opposite of love – disrespect, hate, apathy, whatever it looks like – is like the ripple caused by a stone in the water. The ripples of our actions, either love or the alternate, spread wider and wider. And spread wider if they’re stronger or more frequent.

While I cannot personally love or serve the folks at a national level, I can do two things. First we can love locally. We can love where I am. That will make ripples of love outward, and hopefully connect up with other love-ripples. The other thing we can do, is cease the hate-language, apathy-outlook, and rabble-rousing actions, aimed at the political arena. Those actions and words also make ripples that connect with other ripples. Maybe the national rancor is caused by the individual ripples from we, who think we’re not involved or affected or even not affecting the national arena. We are causing ripples in the world, whether it’s the result of our loving actions or other, less charitable actions and thoughts. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how Jesus’ charge to love my enemies causes me to think about the ripples I’m causing in this world, intentionally or unintentionally. Today, I want to see all of my actions and words like the ripples caused by a rock in the water. I want to intentionally create lots of ripples. The kind Jesus calls me to make.

Sep 24 2019 Matthew 5:27-37

If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to go into hell.
This is one of those passages that is, in its entirety, challenging. Don’t commit adultery, but not only that, don’t lust in your heart, or you’ve already committed adultery. Don’t get divorced, or that’s adultery. Pluck out your eye if it causes you to sin. I’d rather not read this passage, or think about it. But alas, that’s the beauty of prescribed readings for Morning Prayer; I don’t get to pick and choose. So this morning, I struggle. Happily.

If your hand causes you to sin. On a personal level, maybe this is acknowledging that there are parts of ourselves that get us in trouble. For me, I can get snippy when I’m right and that’s challenged. I don’t always need to be right, but once I land on that sense of right-ness, I hold fast. The problem is that I’m not 100% right, even in those instances. And even more to the point, who cares if I’m seen as right?

If I keep thinking about it, I could come up with other parts of me that cause me trouble. I get snippy and sarcastic in the evening when I’m tired. Of course it’s hard not to. But it’s only when I think about it, acknowledge it, and come up with strategies to address it. For example, my husband and I are going to try to not bring up or discuss anything hard after that bewitching hour; we’re both not to be trusted with the civility the morning brings.

If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. Reading that sentence, and thinking about it, although I’d rather not, is a great prompt to muse about what parts of me get me in trouble. And how can I get rid of them, or at least mitigate them.. Without the uncomfortable prompt, I’d unlikely think about those sin causing hands, and wayward eyes.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen this Scripture used to defend ostracizing people in the community. It’s better to get rid of one member of the community than for everyone to go to Hell. This, however causes people to jump to judgment and blame. Because that person did something I find sinful, they need ot be ejected from the community, lest we all be painted with that sinful brush. That sounds to me like refusing to sit with sinners and tax collectors. Or walking on the other side of the street to pass by the injured man. Or refusing to help the ritually unclean woman. Jesus spent too much time with the sinners and outcasts for this section to be interpreted communally. To do so, we’d look the maligned Pharisees or the thick disciples. We’d put ourselves in the place where we think we can accurately judge and sentence others based on our assessment of their sin. I’m pretty sure we’d get it wrong. 

This morning, I’m thinking about what troubles me about some passages of Scripture. I think it’s one of two things. Either it’s troubling because people have misinterpreted the Scripture to be about judgment or exclusion or hate. None of those things are of God, so how can that be right? The other problem that arises is when the Scripture asks me to think about me, when I’d rather not. In either case, I’m begrudgingly grateful to have spent some time thinking about this passage.

Sep 23 2019 2 Kings 5:1-19

If the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it?


The two books of Kings include lots of talk of lots of kings, in Israel, Judea, and Samaria. I freely admit that I am not fully keep up on who’s who, and which nation broke off from which, and who conquered what. And historically, that’s all probably important to understand deep seated motives and historical perspective of the early God followers.

And I also freely admit, that’s neither my passion or skill. I’ll trust there’s history, and have some vague sense of it, hopefully not tromp all over it, and bring the story to my current day. That, to me, is the beauty of Scripture. There’s something in these ancient stories that’s relevant to me, even if leprosy isn’t my problem, or I haven’t ever thought about tearing my clothes in anguish.

So today’s story involves Naaman, army commander of someone, on some side of some battle. But unfortunately, Naaman has leprosy. A slave girl, from Israel but in captivity serving Naaman’s wife, said that if only Naaman talked to the prophet from Samaria, he could be healed. When Naaman learned of this, he appealed not to the prophet, nor even mentioned the prophet. Instead, he sent lots of riches to the King, asking to be healed. Never mind that the girl had mentioned the prophet.

The King said he couldn’t heal, and apparently with great anguish, tore his clothes. Luckily for both the King and Naaman, Elisha heard about this – Elisha, the very prophet the girl had referenced to start with. So Elisha tells the king to have Naaman come to him.

Naaman comes to Elisha’s house, and sends a message in, asking for healing. Elisha returns a message, telling him to go wash in the Jordan River. Naaman, mighty warrior is slighted. First, Elisha didn’t even come out to see him. Second, aren’t there better rivers in his home land? Why would he need to come all the way to Elisha and wash in a river that was foreign, and inferior?

His servants come, and talk him in to doing what Elisha had suggested, arguing that if Elisha had suggested something much harder, wouldn’t Naaman have done it without grumbling? So Naaman washes in the Jordan, and is healed.

So much in this story – aside from the details relevant to that time – are telling, aren’t they?

The first thing that strikes me is that Naaman doesn’t ask about the prophet, but tries to curry favor with the King. Maybe he was just following protocol, but he doesn’t even mention the prophet. With flourish, he appeals to the King to be healed. I’ve probably done my share of that, overlooking the lower level folks who could truly help, and instead appealed to those more powerful. With any luck the powerful turn me back to the folks who could have helped all along. More stinging, though, is when I’m the one overlooked. Plenty of times, I’ve been the prophet in the story, the person who could genuinely help, and instead others appeal to those around me with more power or prestige. In either case, it’s uncomfortable and not right. Note to self, give credit where it’s due.

The second thing this little story illustrates is that frequently, we look for the hard or complicated solution, when something easy would do. Naaman doesn’t want to just wash in the Jordan. He’s expecting something more in his healing. It’s his servants that remind him that he’d willingly comply with the counsel of Elisha if it had been hard or complicated. Why is it that we try to make things complicated? A 14th logician figured this out, and there’s a theory named for him, Occam’s Razor. The simplest solution is usually the right solution. This story of Naaman tells us something about human nature that causes us to need Occam in the first place. We look for the complicated. We think the bigger and harder our problems, the bigger and harder the solution. Or at least we tend to dismiss the simple. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how human nature hasn’t changed. How I can learn about my nature, by reading about army commanders and slave girls 3000 years ago. And today, what I’ve learned from them is that it remains incredibly easy to overlook the genuine helpers and dismiss the easy solutions. From all the riches of this brief-and- historically-dense-but-current-day-relevant story, today, I want to seek the simple solutions, and strive to not just dismiss them because they’re too easy. Who couldn’t use more simple?

Sep 22 2019 Collect for this Sunday: Pentecost, Proper 20

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly.

This morning, I’m teetering on this balance – anxiety over earthly things on the one hand, and love of things heavenly on the other. Many days, I feel firmly on one side of this versus the other. But today I feel the full imbalance of the teetering.

My sick loved one has lived with us for nearly 10 months. Diagnosed with schizophrenia, they’ve been in the hospital involuntarily three times since December, and been on 6 different medicines to try to stabilize. We went out as a family Friday night, and while they’re moving better, they are as deeply delusional and having auditory hallucinations that affect every interaction. We become numb to it, but going out in public, it’s uncomfortably apparent.

One of their doctors suggested that they are not likely a candidate for another hospitalization, simply because of our assistance and management. Without a stable place to live, regular meals, basic reminders like hygiene and clean clothes, some structure, they’d be like many of people on the street, nonsensical, unkempt, hungry. And then they’d be absolutely a candidate for another involuntary hospitalization. We were actually told that the system is set up so that the only way our loved one could get the inpatient hospitalization they might need would be for us to let them fail, to the point of needing it. This creates anxiety over earthly things.

Meanwhile, home is different than it was a year ago. They spend most of their time in their room, talking with voices in their head, or a new item, legitimately talking with people on social media. Unfortunately, that social media outlet has resulted in a viral video of them with over 5 million views. When they surface from their room, we experience the same confused talk that they do; one minute we’re horrible, the next we’re the best. And the horrible comments are mean, hurtful and inappropriate. But then that voice passes, and our loved one is exhausted, a little appreciative, and returns to their room. Earthly anxiety.

In the midst of this, we try to accommodate our living arrangements, or parenting, and our relationship as an old married couple. Right now, we’re debating moving yet again, into a slightly larger unit, as our current apartment is 950 square feet – something my husband and I could easily do, but there are three of us now. So we’re looking at three bedrooms. The concept of moving again even if it’s in the same neighborhood is anxiety-producing.

It’s hard to imagine what the next 10 years looks like. A time when my husband and I were planning on retiring early and travelling – that’s gone. The possibility of loved one’s stability and supported self-sufficiency is years away, if ever. If we can create a productive sane living arrangement, they may be with us for years. Supportive housing is unlikely an option, as one symptom of the disease is the absolute lack of recognition that they’re sick; if they’re not sick, why would they live with sick people? Or at any point, they could decide what we mean by productive and sane is untenable for them, and they might leave for the streets. Their absolute inability for self care creates tension and increased compromises here, because the alternative to have them leave is frightening..

Some days, I feel I’m fully worrying about all things earthly. And for fleeting moments, I can put that away and love heavenly things. Today, I feel I’m teetering between earthly anxiety and loving things heavenly.

 

This morning I’m thinking about how to actually do that, to put away earthly anxiety, and trade it for a love of heavenly. How can I acknowledge the facts of my current world without allowing the resulting anxiety in? There’s nothing anxious-producing about my situation itself; anxiety is all about my reaction to the situation.

Maybe it has to do with the emotions we attach to facts in our life. Maybe with the anxiety-inducing facts or conditions, I could see the situation absent the reaction. Facts: I have a new long term sick and frequently mean roommate. They’re sick and miserable, and their future is wholly different than intended, much more than mine. I have the resources and support to care for them. I have the love and support to care for me in the midst of that. That is all fact. I need to separate those from the gut-wrenching anxiety they could cause if I stewed.

Because there is another whole set of facts about my world right now that could and should create great joy, and contentment. I have a great job, wonderful coworkers, meaningful work. I have a lovely husband, beautiful apartment, ability to look for other housing options, the luxury to read morning prayer and write every morning, a farmers market 2 blocks away and resulting wonderful cooked meals, a sense of love and wonder and good faith towards others, a loving God. Those are facts about my life, and too frequently, they’re facts to which I don’t ascribe the weighty emotions I could. But it is to those facts in my life that I should be connecting the emotion, the love of things heavenly. Today, I want to observe the facts of my life, absent ascribed emotion. At the end of the day, I want to intentionally chose those to which I’m ascribing emotions.

Sep 21 2019 Matthew 9: 9-13 Commemoration of St. Matthew

As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth.I have a warm spot in my heart for St. Matthew. I was baptized and confirmed at a church named St. Matthew’s, and I had the joy to serve at a church named St. Matthew’s with wonderful people. Spending so much time at churches with Matthew’s name, I’ve thought about Matthew and what he has to teach me now.

Matthew was one of the original disciples. But he wasn’t a poor fisherman. He wasn’t a political zealot, fighting against the horrible Roman occupying force. Rather, he was a tax collector. If that meant what it means now, it might not be as startling, but it was a different job back then.

In this occupied country, tax collectors were frequently Jews, who took money from fellow Jews to hand over to the Romans. In this respect, they were seen as traitors or sell-outs. I can imagine they were seen somewhat like modern day strike-busting scabs, who cross picket lines to work for the company, against which their companions were striking and not getting paid.

Not only were they sell-outs, I’ve read that tax collectors were not given a salary by the Romans for whom they collected the money. Any money they made came directly from overcharging their fellow countrymen – effectively extortion. And everyone knew it. So they were making money off the backs of their own people, to hand it over to the occupying forces. All of this was perfectly fine for the Romans, who didn’t want to be in the mucky business of tax collector, and all of this was perfectly horrid for the community members with whom the collectors lived.

Matthew was called, and immediately he got up and followed Jesus. After this brief and powerful call story, Jesus is eating dinner with ‘many tax-collectors and sinners’. Clearly, tax collectors were seen as another kind of sinner, along with the ritually unclean, and whoever else Jesus companioned. And as he was eating with this motley crew, the Pharisees predictably show up and critically question why he’s eating with them, implying he clearly should not be.

From my corner of the US, it seems that if Jesus came today to call a Matthew-type, he might be calling someone from the dreaded 1%, of the Occupy Movement, the bankers or business men who make money off of the rest of us.

How intriguing that we have a model of a disciple who’s part of the ancient day establishment, the corrupt money makers. What this says to me is that disciples can be found anywhere, in the 99% and in the 1%.
  

This morning, I’m thinking about when Jesus calls us, no one is outside the realm of discipleship – not the leper, not the extortionist. I get the sense that we, like the Pharisees imagine that the 1% are beyond grace, they should be counted among the worst sinners. To be clear, I’m not condoning extortion, or making money off the poor, or betraying common decency for personal gain. But that’s what Matthew did. And Jesus called him.

Who are we to decide that the modern-day extortionists and money makers are beyond that call? Do I really want to be like a Pharisee, and look down on the sinners that Jesus calls? Whether they’re addicts, criminals, or the 1%? It is definitely true that Matthew responded to Jesus’ call, and followed him, presumably giving up all is previous shenanigans. There is some expectation of a response and repenting for all of these sinners. But today, I want to strive to see that all people can be called and loved by God. Even Matthew and the 1%.

Sep 20 2019 Matthew 5:11-16

No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.

I must admit that reading this passage, my brain started humming. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine”. Yes, I want to let my light shine. I don’t want to put it under a basket. I’d much rather make my little light useful, lighting the household. I want to be someone else’s light.

In me, there is a deep desire to help. I want to make someone else’s world a little better. And that’s largely a good thing. But there’s a danger that I read in this morning’s Scripture reading. Yes, the reading starts with being a light, not being under a basket, lighting up the house. And if that’s where it stopped, I’d be happy. But it doesn’t stop there.

It continues, “In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” So what Jesus is saying is that we are to do the good works, to be the light, so that others might give glory to God.

How often and how easy is it to stop just short of that last clause? How often do we do good works so others might see our good works? To see us? I’m not suggesting that the works are inherently bad, or that shining a light so others don’t trip in the dark is bad. On the contrary. Good works are good. But the danger for do-gooders, I think, is that we grow accustomed to that role, and we like being that person – the person who helps. If we’re not careful, it can become about us. We do good deeds so people see us.

Today’s reading boldly reminds me that I am to do good works so that people are pointed to God. People see God’s love and care in the world, not mine. I firmly believe that God’s love and light in us should be used to lighten the load, feed the hungry, house the unhoused, welcome the stranger. I move towards those goals, because I believe them to be what I’m supposed to do. 

This morning I’m thinking about how my actions might increasingly point others to God’s love and mercy and light. How can I be more sure that people see God’s love through my actions? How can I continue to do good, let my light shine, and remain clear that it’s God – not me – that people should see?

Perhaps one way is to pray. Before I step into a helping role, offer up a prayer to God. That I’m thankful that God’s given me light and love and mercy to share. That I’m eager to share that light and love and mercy. That I’m doing it solely because of God’s light and love and mercy. And that I hope others see God’s light, shining through me.

There’s a song by a modern-day Christian contemporary musician TobyMac, entitled “Steal my Show”. In the song, he basically prays that God will steal his performance. The chorus goes, “If you want to steal my show, I'll sit back and watch you go. If you got something to say, go on and take it away.” Today, I want to think about my own chorus.

Sep 19 2019 Matthew 5: 1-10

Blessed are. . .

Here we get the series of ‘blessed are.. ‘s, known as the beatitudes. are the poor, the meek, the merciful, pure in heart, peacemakers. Blessed are those who mourn, who hunger and thirst. Blessed are those who are persecuted.

When he uttered these blessings, I’m sure they sounded crazy. People who are poor or hungry would not be seen as blessed. Those who are persecuted would not feel blessed. When people are now professing a gospel of prosperity – just believe in Jesus and good things will happen – how can blessings be seen as something that are associated with hunger, poverty, mourning?

Obviously, Jesus is talking about something different than the common understanding of blessing. Blessing isn’t about happiness, or good feelings, or prosperity, or wealth or health. This seems to me to singularly refute the idea of prosperity gospels, where followers are told that if they just believe, and believe hard enough, good things will happen. Conversely, if bad things happen – to their own financial, health, and happiness, or to their loved ones – clearly they didn’t believe or they sinned somewhere along the way.

Jesus is saying that if these bad things happen, we can still be blessed. We can be loved, and feel that sense of God’s closeness as a blessing. Those who mourn will be comforted, those who hunger will be filled, those who are persecuted for Jesus’ sake will inherit the kingdom of God.

Thinking of my own world now, and looking at my very sick loved one, I mourn. They are sick. They are persecuted. It seems that my sense of faith and of God’s grace does provide comfort. I am comforted when I’m sad, not because immediately things are better, but because I have a sense of God’s grace, regardless of current trials.

My loved one is scattered enough, I’m not sure they see or feel God’s love at this point; just yesterday, they asked my husband to help put together the reception for their imminent wedding to a musician, asking about how to get a caterer and where the event should be. But even in their confusion, they’ve occasionally asked for God, asking about maybe going to church. When they were in the hospital, they demanded a Bible. I doubt they’d cracked open their Bible much before that.

So maybe there is comfort and healing, although I cannot see it. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how much my life is enriched by an expansive and longer-term understanding of God’s blessings in my life and the life of my loved ones. I feel a little sorry for people who think of God’s blessing as a transactional commodity, bought and sold with my good deeds of the day. Today, I want to see and feel God’s blessing in midst of my good deeds, as well as the rest of my day.

Sep 18 2019 Matthew 4: 18-25

Immediately they left their nets and followed him.

Jesus is walking by the sea of Galilee, and starts calling people to join him, Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John. The story we read say he called them, and immediately they left their nets and followed him. So many questions.

First, are there parts of this narrative that have been omitted? Did Simon Peter and Andrew respond by arguing amongst themselves, incredulous at this request? Did they have to think about it? Peter is known as a bit of an impetuous guy, so maybe they impetuously dropped their nets.

James and John in the boat with their dad, apparently left everything at that moment too. Did their dad just wave goodbye, happily agreeing to wrap up with the three of them had started? Did the sons have to explain anything to their father? Did their father, wondering what this was about, beg them to stay? And was the father called too? Did he gracefully decline? If he wasn’t asked, why not? So many questions, obviously with no answers.

There’s a part of me that wants to take this at face value. In this narrative, these four young men dropped what they were doing, and joined Jesus. Wanting to believe that, I wonder if I’d have done the same thing, or if I could do it with what I’m asked today and tomorrow. Drop what I’m doing and follow Jesus.

And there’s a part of me that is skeptical that it went down precisely like this. To be clear, they did follow Jesus, and that’s the critical conclusion of this narrative. And for me, to imagine they struggled, or argued, or debated, or questioned, or doubted – all of that makes their following even more wonderful and accessible to me.

I don’t live in a world where I can drop everything and follow Jesus. Yes, metaphorically, I suppose I can and try to. But I don’t think I could leave my livelihood, or my family – immediately.

When I read Scripture, I imagine being in the story. How would I have responded, as this character, or that one. And once I do that, I begin to ascribe backstories to the narratives that otherwise are almost inaccessible to me.

To be clear, I’d love to be the one who would immediately follow. And I’d likely be the one who’d question, and mull things over a lot – especially if it involved anything immediate!

This morning, I’m thinking about how we each read Scripture with our own stories and histories, ascribing to the people Jesus encounters responses and motives we’d have. And since we occupy a world full of people who are different, with differing experiences and values and cultures, it’s no wonder that we end up with disagreements about Scripture.

But here’s where it seems we should all be able to agree. Jesus was fully human and fully divine. From his divinity, his motives and responses and values seem to transcend our human muck. Follow what Jesus said to do, and it’s pretty simple. Love God. Love your neighbor. Human differences aside, I can strive to do that, even if I question it along the way.

Sep 17 2019 Colossians 3: 14-17 Hildegard of Bingen

With gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God.

Hildegard was a 12th century mystic, poet, composer, and doctor. She was raised in a monastery, and eventually came to lead a convent, and preached her way throughout Europe. She wrote plays, music and poetry, describing her visions. She was a staunch advocate of social justice, believing the downtrodden deserved to be freed, that every human should have the opportunity to develop and use their God-given gifts, and to realize their potential. She has been considered one of the most important female characters of her time.

One of her plays, “The Play of Virtues”, is set to music, or at least most of it. It is story where human virtues sing their parts, but human vices cannot sing and are relegated to speaking only. Music has always had a large role in my faith, so this setting – goodness sings and evil cannot – strikes me as brilliant.

In my years of choir, I’ve sung many pieces of Hildegard’s music. The melodies are very distinct, and didn’t seem musical, to my western ears. But they definitely grew me. The lyrics struck me as either very rooted in this world and its beauty, or other-worldly, visionary, poetic, and much harder for me to understand. But there was something about the music and lyrics that stuck with me. They were haunting, not in a scary sense, but more I found myself thinking about the words, or humming the tunes throughout the week. Hildegard believed music had the power to heal the human body, a concept that the modern-day neuroscientist Oliver Sacks studied. 

This morning, I’m thinking about music, about singing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude to God. There is something deeply moving about music. My bound-up logical overthinking brain is let loose in song. I don’t over-think, sometimes I don’t think at all. Things come out when I sing that needed release, things I couldn’t verbalize if I had to, but I can sing them. 

I’m also thinking about how I can be transported by song. It’s similar to the lightbulb phenomenon, where we can remember where we were during times of trial – remember where we were when we heard about 9/11. On a happier note, with a particular song, I am seemingly transported back to a meaningful time that song was played, or sung. Not just a memory, but I’m lost in that previous time, and it can take a moment to resituate myself here and now. Songs my dad played on the organ at home, music I’ve sung at meaningful funerals, hymns sung at my ordination. Music memories are different than words or images or events, in my brain. They transport, heal, connect. When I worship, music is an integral part.

I was told once by a musician that they thought I could write music. Today, I wonder why they said that, if they were right, and what song is trying to come out.

Sep 16 2019 Matthew 4:1-11

He fasted forty days and forty nights

Jesus has gone off into the wilderness, and fasted for 40 days and nights. At the end of his fast, the devil comes and tempts him. Turn these stones into bread. No – man does not live on bread alone. Jump down from this high spot, because angels will save you. No – I won’t put God to the test. I’ll give you all you can see if you just bow down to me. No – Worship the Lord only. After this, the devil left Jesus.

There are parts of this story I’ve always struggled with, starting with the 40 days. Haven’t we been taught that you can’t live without food for far fewer days than this? I know that sounds petty, and he is God-incarnate after all.

If this section is spotlighting Jesus’ fully human nature, is this 40 days an exaggeration? Or maybe it was a fast from only some kinds of food – meat, solid food? I know this sounds petty, but if it’s a full-on fast from all food, humans can’t live for 40 days.

Or maybe this section is spotlighting his fully human and fully divine nature. Maybe he was fasting from all food, but God interceded and provided some interim sustenance.

Or maybe they didn’t count days the same way we do. I spent some time in Burma, where a week was as long as our week, but it contained 8 days, with six days that looked just like our calendar, but one day was split in two at noon.

Moving past the 40 day dilemma, this story tells us something about temptation and resistance. All of the things that the evil one tempted Jesus with were things he could do, things he had done. Made food. Physically moved his body in ways mortals couldn’t. The devil was tempting him to show off his God-given skills, but to do so for show. Jesus the man could do all of that. Jesus the man might have been tempted to prove he could. I have been goaded into performing, when my capacities are challenged. But Jesus didn’t. He didn’t succumb to petty performing.

And the first challenge the devil offered up was for food. A famished Jesus could have turned stones in to bread, and if ever there was a time, wouldn’t that have been it? But the tempted Jesus did not. I’m reminded of a sermon I heard where it was suggested that this devil that comes up to Jesus might not have looked like the red, horned caricature. Maybe it wasn’t an external character at all. Maybe it was a voice in his head. Psst. You know you could turn those stones into bread. You know how to do this. You’re hungry. To me, that’s a more frightening and insidious devil anyway.

But Jesus resisted. He had his plan to fast, and worship God. And so eventually, the devil departed.

Even though there are some wonderful pithy lessons in this story about temptation, who we worship, and easily we’re goaded into performing for the wrong purpose, I’m stuck. I’m stuck on the 40 day fast, trying to understand if it’s a literal fast from everything, a partial fast, a God-supported-and-not-really-a-40-day-fast, or what. Each possibility has different implications to how I’d read and understand the story. 

This morning I’m thinking about the little details about Scripture, and how it’s easy to gloss over the bits I don’t understand. I may never know what a 40 day fast meant to the writer. But I can refrain from speed-reading over the confusing bits, I can wrestle with how I understand it. I find when I do that, when I really think about what the throw-away lines or unknown places mean to the story, they take on a greater depth. If nothing else, I’ve spent more time thinking about these ancient stories, and what they might be telling me, in such a different place and time.

Sep 15 2019 Acts 5:34-42

If this plan or this undertaking is of human origin, it will fail; but if it is of God, you will not be able to overthrow them

A Pharisee is talking to the other Pharisees about Paul and his companions who’ve been captured. He’s arguing that they should leave Paul alone, because many prophets have come, professed to be speaking of God, and then disappeared. He’s arguing that if these men, Paul and his companions, are truly of God, they cannot be overthrown.

After this, it says the people were convinced, so they brought them in, and had them flogged. Hmm. While the details aren’t provided in Scripture, it’s well-believed that he was martyred for his faith, possibly beheaded at the order of Nero. Before that, he was arrested, imprisoned, and spent the last two years of his life in house arrest. So a cursory look at Paul’s life and death would indicate that he was, in fact, overthrown – at least as we understand the worst humans can do to each other. He along with thousands other Christians were killed.

On the surface, this looks like they were overthrown. But were they? Yes, their bodies were destroyed, but here we are, thousands of years later, reading their stories. If it was all bunk, wouldn’t it have perished like all of the other theories and beliefs that have proven untrue?

I’m not suggesting that just because something persists, it must be true. But I do think there is some truth and comfort in the idea that the true and right things remain. And that the things of God happen and remain.

In my life, I’ve had many quirks and turns. Some were clearly human-driven. But many, I believe were of God. I’ve taken jobs that are both smaller in scope and pay, for all of the absolutely right reasons. People have crossed my path, and I firmly believe it’s a God-thing. In hindsight, it’s easy to ascribe to God the things in my life that have occurred, and have worked. It’s easy to say that the things that worked out were of God, even the hard things. 

This morning, I’m thinking about my current situation. About how I’ve relocated to a new town, sold most of our belongings, live in an apartment, and now have a very sick loved one in my home. Deep down, I believe it’s a God thing. But day-to-day, it’s stinky.

If I believe it is of God, that my world and my circumstances are as they’re supposed to be, the tricky part is having any comfort in knowing what’s coming next. If this is all of God, I guess I need to presume tomorrow is of God too. And next month, or next year. Things I do of human origin will fail. Things of God will not. I believe that. All I can do now is to continually remember that, trust in that, and await what God’s got planned next. And stay out of the way.

Sep 14 2019 Galatians 6: 14-18 Feast of the Holy Cross

I carry the marks of Jesus branded on my body.

The feast of Holy Cross. This is one of those feast days that I’ve always marked with some ambivalence. At my home parish outside Seattle, it was the feast day of the church, and there were predictably churchy gatherings throughout the weekend before Holy Cross Day. But that was also the weekend before my son’s birthday and my wedding anniversary, so the churchy events always got in the way of my secular familial celebrations. Like Easter or Christmas, Holy Cross became one of the annual church feast days in my adult world, and marked the beginning of the fall season.

Spending time now, in morning prayer, I can stop and reflect on what Holy Cross is. Constantine was the first Roman Emperor to profess the Christian Faith. His mother, Helena was a devout Christian too. She went to Israel to find places significant to Christians. She found two places, believed to be the location of Jesus’ burial and resurrection, and dedicated a church on top of those locations, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in 335. Since then, many modern archeologists confirm the location as correct. Regardless of whatever else is believed about Jesus, it is a proven fact that he existed, was killed, and buried, so this church marks something real, from 2000 years ago. The church was dedicated on September 14, hence today’s feast day.

In the church year, we get a lot of talk about the cross during the week before Easter, especially on Good Friday, the day we commemorate Jesus’ death on the cross. But that’s not a day to celebrate much of anything, as it’s the most mournful day at church. So the church year gives the Holy Cross its own day, far away from the black-shrouded day of Good Friday.

And still, it’s hard for me to think about Holy Cross as a festal day. The cross, after all was an instrument of execution. And yet we wear them around our necks, we make the sign of the cross on our heads, or bodies at church. In modern day comparables, that would be like wearing small semi-automatic rifles around our necks. Or hypodermic needles used for lethal injection. Gross.

So why the cross? How has it become something we joyfully wear, and buy for children to mark religious celebrations? I’m not entirely sure of all of the theological official reasons, but I enjoy thinking about the reasons for me.

One of the things that the cross brings to my mind is the sacrifice Jesus made, in the face of all that was happening. Regardless of anyone’s belief in resurrection or Jesus’ fully-divine nature, he was a man who spoke about love, and forgiveness, and mercy and justice to and for all. He repeatedly argued that love should be the primal force and factor. And yet, the political and religious leaders were after him. Time and again, he could have changed his tune, bowed to Caesar, played the power game, and got out of his trials. But he did not. He did not profess anything other than love. He was not going to play the power game, get into a battle and win, beating other humans in a human struggle. To be clear, he had human power, with many followers who he could have organized and caused all sorts of political and religious upheaval. But he didn’t play. Instead, he let the human power machine operate to its ultimate ugly conclusion – execution.

Jesus’ death on the tortuous cross was a wonderful example of peaceful non-violent protest. He didn’t stoop to the power plays that could have changed the end of his story. He sacrificed for the people he loved, not unlike what good parents do all the time.

Of course, the kicker for Christians is that despite being ‘beat’ by the human powerful machine to the point of being killed on the cross, his message of love and justice and forgiveness continues. And it continues untarnished, without a trace of hypocrisy in how his earthy ministry ended. If he’d made a last-minute power play to bow to Caesar to avoid the cross, we’d have a conflicted story. Love all. Respect all. Forgive all. Except . . . . 

But his death on the cross leaves those commandments untarnished. Love all. Respect all. Forgive all. Period. This morning, I’m thinking about how the story of the cross leaves me with an unadulterated, uncompromised image of radical and incomprehensible love, respect and forgiveness.

Sep 13 2019 1 Kings 18: 20-40

They limped about the altar that they had made.

This morning’s Hebrew Scripture reading is all about Elijah talking to the people whose loyalties and faith are split between Elijah’s God, and Baal. He throws down a dare, that his God can perform more acts of disbelief than Baal. He suggests that two altars be built, one to God and the other to Baal. If Baal is the powerful God, follow Baal, otherwise, follow the God of Abraham. The two altars are built, and when the people cry out to Baal, nothing happens to them or the altar. When they cry out to God, the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the offering and the altar itself. The people were amazed and abandoned their silent Baal and followed God.

But before the pyrotechnic show, we read that they ‘limped about the altar they had made’. This conjured for me a funny image, and made me think about how we do the same thing.

We split our loyalties too, putting our trust partially in God and partially elsewhere. Sunday morning, we’re all in. We talk about God, and respect, and love, and mercy. As soon as we leave church, we turn and trust something else. Most often, it seems, it’s our own capabilities or power. Or maybe it’s the societal norms – fame, money, winning. Whatever it is, we limp around that altar, crying out to the nonresponsive silent god. Meanwhile, our true God and savior waits. God waits to be invited into our non-Sunday-morning lives to alight the fires of our otherwise unburnt altars.

In my world now, I find myself putting my trust in my ability to make order of my home, work and world. But with this really sick loved one living in my small apartment, I’m virtually ineffective at doing that. I find myself limping around the altar I’ve built – one that values self-sufficiency, logic, order, mutual respect and love. But I cannot make order or manage barely anything in my home, work or world, at least not on my own. Instead of calling out ant waiting for that other god to show up, perhaps I should cry out to the God who always has, and is present still. 

This morning, I’m thinking about the altars I build, that I limp around, and await a response from a silent and ineffective god. When things are not going as I planned, perhaps I’ve been crying out to that other god, the one I’ve constructed about the way I think things should happen. Whenever, or at least for today, I find myself grousing about how things aren’t as I think they should be, I’m going to imagine me limping around the altar, while the true God is right over there, ready to consume the offering and the altar.

Sep 12 2019 Philippians 2:12-30

It is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure.

Paul is writing to the people of Philippi, and in a section that’s largely about who he’s hoping to send in his absence, I find this pithy little sentence. It is God’s work in us that enables us. Enables us to want God’s good pleasure, and to work for God’s good pleasure.

Paul is saying that God’s presence provides two critical components to any good we do. Both must be present for the good to be accomplished – the desire to want to, and the ability to work to accomplish that good. I want to volunteer at a nearby non-profit. If it is God’s will, I’ll have everything I need to do so. And that good work will be accomplished.

I have heard the words, “If it is God’s will”, when speculating about possible good things or possibilities. New jobs, new ministry, new homes. For a long time in my life, I felt like that was a cop out. There were too many humans and decisions that would more immediately affect the outcome. The new job will come if the hiring panel picks me. The new ministry will come if I work hard enough. But I increasingly understand that it’s God’s action that creates the will in me or others to accomplish something. And it’s God’s actions that make all the pieces fall in place, with my efforts and those of the people around me. If it is God’s will, it will work out.

If something doesn’t happen that I think should, I’m coming to understand that there are two plausible causes. The first of these is that my desires are not, in fact, aligned with God. What I want is not inspired or willed by God. This feels like an effort of discernment. Am I really hearing what God wants?

But let’s say that my intentions are fully aligned and enabled by God, who dwells within. If after my will is consistent, and still things aren’t going my way, then I think the problems come from the work, or the method to accomplish the thing.

I have long wanted to work with people on the edge; I’ve been drawn to those with no voice, and the discarded. I have the will, that I believe is God-inspired. I’ve pursued volunteer opportunities or jobs that would accomplish that. They haven’t worked out. Does that mean the intent is bad? I don’t think so. I think it means I’m still in conversation with God regarding exactly how that is to be accomplished. 

This morning, I’m thinking about those places where I believe my will or interest to do God’s work seems to be thwarted by my inability to actually accomplish the work, as I think it needs to be done. Perhaps that says more about me being mis-aligned with God’s plan for my work, than for God’s silence in helping me get my way. Maybe the volunteer opportunities or jobs to help the marginalized aren’t readily apparent because God has handed me a marginalized sick person who needs care – in my house. The intention is the same. 

The way God’s will is done ultimately is God’s to inspire and accomplish. If it is God’s will, I will be able to both desire the work -what God wants, and be able to accomplish it – how it gets done. If I’m not seeing the results I think I should, I’m either not aligned with God’s what, or God’s how

Sep 11 2019 Psalm 119: 49-72

Your statutes have been like songs to me wherever I have lived as a stranger.

The summer after college graduation, I worked in Germany at a youth hostel/outward bound camp. It was a fantastic summer, and when I went, I wasn’t sure whether I was going to get a job there, or return to whatever was next. But there were times during the summer, when I felt acutely homesick, but not as I recall like kids do at aborted sleepovers. I wasn’t crying for my parents, or friends. But I had a deep sense that the place I found myself was not home. The language, food, and customs were all different.

I’d brought music with me, including a Dan Fogelberg song, Illinois. “I need a breath of that sweet country air”. And while that sweet country air was not something that suburban Chicago offered, my college days in rural Illinois definitely did. I’d play that song, again and again and could be momentarily transported back to places and ways that were more familiar, more innate.

I can imagine that’s what the Psalms felt like to people in exile, thousands of years ago, and even now. To be in a foreign land, either because we’re forced, or by choice, is unsettling. The poetic lyrics of the psalms can be as familiar and grounding as the lyrics of a song in Germany in the 1980’s.

That’s what I think it means when the psalmist writes about the statutes being song. The familiarity of the place and time when they were first heard can bring comfort to strangers in a strange land.

Some monasteries have a discipline where they recite their way through the 150 psalms in one week, every week, week after week. I can imagine that ingrains the psalms in your soul, so that when they’re heard again, the psalms serve as that immediate rooting. I have a small sense of that, from a time when I had the luxury of participating in noonday prayer, nearly 5 days a week when my office was very near my church. It’s a very brief prayer service, less than 10 minutes, and the psalms that are read don’t vary much. So week after week, we read the same snippets of prayers. To this day, when those psalms come up in other contexts, I’m transported to those sweet times of prayer and the others with whom I shared that time.  

This morning I’m thinking about how familiarity of these sacred texts creates that immediate recentering. I’m really enjoying the luxury of this morning time to work my way through Scripture appointed for Morning Prayer, and I’m wondering if there’s room in my world to look at adding Evening Prayer. Not so much for the writing, but for the continued steeping and centering in Scripture, which like the exiles, are becoming like songs to me.

Sep 10 2019 Philippians 1: 12-30

Some proclaim Christ from envy and rivalry, but others from goodwill.

Paul is writing a letter to the Philippians. He’s explaining that through his imprisonment, God’s good message has been brought throughout the known world through the whole imperial guard. By virtue of his captivity, his captors are being exposed to God’s love. This, it seems, is good news to Paul, as that is a population that would otherwise not likely hear or see God’s love in action.

He continues on, explaining that people proclaim of Jesus’ love for a variety of reasons both good and bad. While some proclaim out of love or goodwill, others proclaim from envy or rivalry, or selfish ambition. Some even talk about Christ, in Paul’s estimation, simply to increase his suffering.

What’s intriguing to me about this rant of Paul’s, is his conclusion. After explaining that people have lots of different motives for sharing God’s good news, Paul says it doesn’t matter. He says that regardless of motive, Christ is proclaimed in every way. And, he says, in that he rejoices.

Wow. That seems so distant from our current climate. Christians on both sides of the political and socio-economic aisle, from varying countries and denominations, and beliefs are certain that their message is the true message, and the other guys? They’re wrong, and damaging. There’s this sense of superiority and exclusiveness in many Christians’ outlook, with well-intentioned Christians discounting the spread of the Gospel from Christians who don’t agree with their world view.

I’m struck by a few poignant examples. I just concluded watching the Netflix show, The Family, about the Christian political organization, that founded and runs the national prayer breakfast. The show is troubling, in its uncovering of a political and religious network with motives that veer between God’s love, and the world’s power. Or there’s the huge influence fundamental Christians on soldiers and police, through the predominance of fundamental Christians filling many of the chaplain positions.

So what about Paul’s conclusion, that it doesn’t matter the motive? That it’s good news and we should rejoice if Jesus’ message of love is shared? To me the challenge is when some Christians truncate Christ’s message of love, explaining that God loves some, but not all. Or that Jesus’ way of love should be used to oppose or discount other ways to God – through Mohammed or any other prophet. 

But people in Paul’s time were using Christ’s message for the purpose of increasing Paul’s suffering in prison, and with even that distorted motive, he rejoiced because Christ’s message was being spread – regardless of motive. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how we mortals think we have to be the curators of God’s good news, that it has to be spread precisely as we see fit, otherwise it’s dangerous and shouldn’t be spread at all. That says a lot about our lack of faith in God’s impact. If someone hears the message of the unbounded love of God, even if it’s cloaked in discrimination, can’t God take that spark of good news and turn it in to a flame of holy love? Maybe God doesn’t need us to decide exactly how the message is spread. Like Paul, we should rejoice when God’s message of love is shared, regardless of the motive. God can work with that. After all, if we presume to know the right message, aren’t we making the same mistake as those we discount?

Sep 9 2019 2 Corinthians: 1-5 Constance and her Companions

He comforts us when we are in trouble, so that we can share that same comfort with others in trouble.

In 1878, a plague of Yellow Fever swept Memphis, TN. That alone is enough to make me pause. That’s not that long ago, and we had plagues! Yellow Fever is transmitted by mosquito, but people didn’t know it then. Memphis had plenty of mosquitos, and at its worst, the plague claimed 200 people a day in the City, or an estimated 5,000 people in total. Considering the population of Memphis was approximately 40,000, Yellow Fever claimed almost 13% of the population. That’s a plague!

The wealthy fled Memphis, and those who could not leave were swept up in its destruction. A group of Roman Catholic and Anglican nuns chose to stay, despite seeing the carnage. They remained, and organized relief work, to care for the sick, the dying and the orphans. While she was caring for others, the plague took the life of Constance and several others who chose to stay.

We don’t have plagues in this country like that anymore. I want to believe that I’d be one who’d go to help. And yet, I’ve got plenty of care to offer in my world now, without running headlong into a plague-ridden city.

It sounds to me like an easier choice right now, to care for those who are sick and dying and orphaned – somewhere else. But in my home now, I have someone who is sick and was orphaned, and it’s not at all easy, and it doesn’t feel inspired. Of course I know better. To care for the sick or dying or vulnerable or orphaned is God’s work, regardless the field.

Most all of us do that – care for others in need. Whether it’s children, parents, people on a mission trip, students, we care and we act and we love. 

This morning, I’m thinking about Constance and her Companions, and about how their selfless love seems so beyond me, and yet upon reflection, isn’t. Yes, I don’t have a plague-ridden city. But we all have opportunities to show that same steadfast love and commitment to those in need.

I am grateful that we have models like Constance and her Companions. When I started this morning, I was grateful because they held out a model of seemingly unattainable selflessness and sacrifice. But after reflection, I’m more grateful because they make me realize that all of our selflessness and sacrifice for the needs of others is the holy work of God we are all called to do.

Sep 8 2019 Collect for Sunday, Proper 18

Grant us, O Lord, to trust in you with all our hearts; 

In addition to the readings from Hebrew Scriptures, Psalms, the times of Jesus and times after Jesus, Morning Prayer includes reading the ‘collect’ for Sunday. That prayer is read every morning until next Sunday’s prayer. The collects for the day are designed or intended, however loosely, to collect all the people and the readings, and to set the day’s intention. 

The Collect for today, opens, Grant us, O Lord to trust in you with our whole hearts. Oh, how I needed to read that this morning. It’s such a brief, simple statement, but it contains nearly everything I need for today.

Throughout my life, I’ve come to believe many wonderful and positive things about God. Things about love, and mercy and forgiveness. About service, and feeding, respect, dignity, humility. When I think about my faith – about God, or Jesus or the Holy Spirit, or even about the institution of church, some parts of all of that goodness are conjured. It’s always some mix of certainties, and doubts, and convictions, and faith. And at its root, when I think of God, my faith, my church, it’s rooted in love.

Everything good, and kind and loving is wrapped up and returned to me in my faith. It’s a little bit like a tool box or instruction manual. It contains everything I need. Some days, I need to read up on kindness. Other times, I’m serving others with abandon. That box is complete with everything I need.

But sometimes, my life gets fast or complicated or hard enough that I forget. I forget that I already have the instructions on how to get out of whatever pickle I’m in. I have the guidance, and the strength to handle today’s drama, as well as tomorrow’s. It’s when I forget that life gets overwhelming. It’s when I think that I’m supposed to navigate this on my own, with my own strength and wisdom. With the best of intentions, but clearly half-cocked, I make a mess of situations because I’ve forgotten to read the instruction manuals I know I have. I’ve momentarily lost my trust in God’s providence, and replaced it with my sheer will. 

Unfortunately, my toolbox – separate from God’s – is full of all sorts of petty and short-tempered tools. My toolbox – separate from God’s – should not be where I place my trust. As it turns out, my toolbox, cannot be trusted to be all the things I know God’s is – merciful, loving, kind, serving, respectful, patient.

This morning, I’m thinking about how easy it is to put my trust in me, and how the results of that are never ever as good, never as I strive to be. Today, I want to remember that I really do put my whole trust in God, with my whole heart. And I’m grateful that I will be repeating this prayer every morning.

Grant us, O Lord, to trust in you with all our hearts; for, as you always resist the proud who confide in their own strength, so you never forsake those who make their boast of your mercy; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Sep 7 2019 Psalm 30

Then you hid your face, and I was filled with fear.

This psalm begins with the psalmist exalting, and praising and worshipping God. You restored me to health, you have not let my enemies triumph over me! Woo hoo! Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the psalmist claims, ‘then you hid your face, and I was filled with fear.' 

This reminds me of the quick turn that happens when playing with babies. They giggle, and smile, and are very happy. Then the adult has to introduce the peek-a-boo horror. I remember the first time I did that with my son, and despite being perfectly happy one minute, he was clearly petrified when I disappeared, aka hid my face under a blanket.

Are we like that with God? Perfectly happy, gurgling, and smiling like a baby? God plays God’s version of peek-a-boo, and we’re momentarily petrified as if God has gone somewhere far away?

Like the parent in a game of peek-a-boo, God hasn’t disappeared. I’m pretty sure God does not actively hides God’s face, like parents do in those innocent games. Maybe our sense that God hides God’s face is more like the 4 year old in a big store that gets distracted by the colors and lights, and when we look up, we don’t see our parents.

God doesn’t play peek-a-boo; rather, we the distractible children wander away momentarily, and then look up and are shocked and terrified that our loving parent is not right behind us.  

This morning, I’m thinking about that sense that we have of God’s absence, and how it seems like that absence is because we walked away, not because God is playing any cosmic game of hide and seek. And like a lost child, the answer is not to run around hunting and searching, in panic. 

In those moments when I cannot feel God’s calm and immediate presence, I need to stand still, breath, trust and wait. God never left. Maybe I walked away, but God is always present. I need to trust that, and wait for God to resurface, amidst my fear of being lost. God was there, the whole time.

Sep 6 2019 Psalm 31

Be my strong rock, a castle to keep me safe, for you are my crag and my stronghold

In early high school I attended a youth retreat with a neighboring thriving youth program. We drove somewhere I’d never been and ended up at something that my memory sees as a big old drafty stone castle. As I recall, there were probably 20 of us, and the first night we talked about faith, and what we needed in God. And high school, and all of its associated drama. The conversation turned to needing protection from all of that. And from my naïve brain, magically came the suggestion from one of kids that we needed a stronghold or castle in which to hide. Then we read Psalm 31. To my amazement, I realized the name of the retreat center was Stronghold. We were in the Stronghold, the castle to keep us safe.

I was utterly amazed, although that probably said more about my biblical illiteracy than it did God’s divine revealing. In any event, every time I read about the stronghold, I smile, because in high school I was there.  

This morning, I’m thinking about my continued need for a castle to keep me safe. I understand that it’s a metaphor for God, and there’s something about a physical space that feels safe, and holy. I have a morning practice of reading, reflecting and writing about the Morning Prayer readings, and I always do that in a specific chair, affectionately named my prayer chair. When I’m writing, that chair is my castle and it keeps me safe.

But it’s in the midst of my 950sf, 2 bedroom apartment, occupied by three of us, including my loved one with serious and disruptive illness. Other than the quiet still moments in the morning, there’s no way to hold the sense of safe castle space in the apartment.

And so I continue to seek my physical castle. I have another space in my city that we’ve rented, that is that space, mostly. It’s a few blocks away, and provides a quiet, unoccupied, peaceful place. I can write, or think, or sit, or nap. Or have a glass of wine. All of the things I cannot always do in my apartment. Sometimes it feels excessive to preserve that space, but when it’s needed by either my husband or me, it’s definitely needed!

I don’t know if it’s because I have such a concrete brain, or because all the way back in high school, I was at Stronghold, but I have a deep need to have a physical place that is my stronghold and castle. And when I don’t have a place that feels like that, I’m antsy, and anxious, and untethered. I’m grateful that I have the ability to create one, in the midst of this tumultuous time.