I can do all things through him who strengthens me. In any case, it was kind of you to share my distress.
Perfect words for this morning. Another whirlwind few days. Tuesday afternoon, we picked up our loved one from the hospital, where they’d been since January 1. We got home and it was nearly dark, but light enough to see a little of the surroundings. They seemed pleased with the new house, and their new accommodations. To celebrate, we ordered Dominos, their food of choice.
The next day, I didn’t see them at all, returning after they’d retired to their bedroom. My husband reports that they had a great conversation with a lot of insight about their illness, symptoms and their plans to move forward. There was plenty of delusional thinking, so ‘cured’ isn’t the right word. But I think there definitely was some healing that occurred.
Day three home, they remained in their bedroom the entire time, and we didn’t see them. Day four, trouble started.
In the morning, they were awake at our normal 5:00 time, but not theirs. They came out and talked with us, but was reverting back to angry, disorganized speech. I took them out for a 20 minute walk before heading to work. They were agitated. Upon returning, there was another disorganized soliloquy aimed at my husband and me. Then I headed to work. I left early, to join my husband as we arranged to get a new ID for them, and a cell phone, both of which were thrown away or lost during the last crisis.
In the evening, there was an increasing amount of muttering and scowling as we passed each other. Eventually my husband and I retired to our upstairs suite, and were watching a little TV. Meanwhile, they were downstairs, periodically yelling. I went down to see what was happening, and they were sitting on the bed, yelling ‘RAPE’ very loudly, with their windows open. I closed the window, encouraged them to stop yelling, and went back upstairs. The door bell rang, and they went out to meet the pizza guy for more Dominos.
We went to sleep, and this morning awoke to numerous voice mail and calls from a local ER. Apparently, our loved one told the pizza guy she was being raped, and he reported it to 911. Details remain sketchy at this point, but she was transported to the ER, where they continued their story for several hours, until recanting. After breakfast, my husband will pick them up.
This will happen again. And again. Seven times seventy times.
And again, and again, we’ll do our best to parent and love. Not because we are exceptional. But because I genuinely believe I can do all things through him who strengthens me. It’s not fun, or easy. But with a deep breath, a good night’s sleep, and Him, I will love and parent. Not without errors, or anger, or tears. But I will do it. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.
And, as Paul says, there’s something beautiful about sharing the distress. The plan was originally that yesterday afternoon, my husband would take them out for their errands. But given the tumultuous morning, I joined, just to share in the distress – to hopefully lessen the load for him, so we could share in the distress.
This is some of the same dynamic when I write. I greatly appreciate that I am able to share my distress, and you are willing to read, like, share, comment. In a new era, it’s a way you are blessing me, by sharing in my distress.
This morning, I’m thinking about the honor it is to share in someone else’s distress. I was grateful to be able to spend time with my husband yesterday afternoon, running errands for an increasingly more symptomatic loved one. To share in that hard time was good for me, and good for him. Sitting with someone in distress is hard because there’s often nothing we can do. But that thinking is wrong-headed. Just sitting with someone, sharing in their distress is a gift. Today, I want to remember that. I have plenty of people in my house in distress. I want to be present.
Saturday, February 29, 2020
Thursday, February 27, 2020
Feb 27 2020 Habakkuk 3: 1-18
Though the fig tree does not blossom,
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold
and there is no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord
A few years ago, I had the opportunity and honor to sing in a community sacred choir. The community was Christian, but held a wide array of types – Baptists, Lutherans, Episcopalians and many Seventh Day Adventists. We sung two concerts a year, and the music and lyrics were very different than the sacred music I was accustomed to – and lovely. One year, we sung an inspirational rousing piece, drawn from this section of Habakkuk. The verse pined on, in a somewhat sad tone about the fig tree that doesn’t blossom, or the fields have no olives, and there are no herds. But then the music swelled, and we proclaimed Yet I will rejoice in the Lord.
It was a little hard to imagine being so incredibly grateful, despite all the crummy things that had happen to the author. It seemed incongruous to the words said just prior. Everything is rotten, and broken. And yet, I will rejoice.
Today, this sentiment makes a whole lot more sense to me. Just yesterday, I was at work, swamped with things to do, worrying about my sick loved one, and my tumultuous year, and I looked out my window and was overcome with God’s mercy and light and love. It actually brought tears to my eyes.
This morning, I’m thinking about that gift of faith, that lets me be so joyful and happy, in the midst of this storm. While we don’t have olive fields that are failing, or missing cows, we all have plenty of personal challenges, that wax and wane. How is it the author of Habakkuk was able to conclude his lamentations with, ‘yet I will rejoice?” How is it we do that? How do we cultivate that, to do it even more? I think practice helps, whether it’s a gratitude journal, or prayer, or reflection. And it certainly is a gift.
And yet I will rejoice in the Lord.
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold
and there is no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord
A few years ago, I had the opportunity and honor to sing in a community sacred choir. The community was Christian, but held a wide array of types – Baptists, Lutherans, Episcopalians and many Seventh Day Adventists. We sung two concerts a year, and the music and lyrics were very different than the sacred music I was accustomed to – and lovely. One year, we sung an inspirational rousing piece, drawn from this section of Habakkuk. The verse pined on, in a somewhat sad tone about the fig tree that doesn’t blossom, or the fields have no olives, and there are no herds. But then the music swelled, and we proclaimed Yet I will rejoice in the Lord.
It was a little hard to imagine being so incredibly grateful, despite all the crummy things that had happen to the author. It seemed incongruous to the words said just prior. Everything is rotten, and broken. And yet, I will rejoice.
Today, this sentiment makes a whole lot more sense to me. Just yesterday, I was at work, swamped with things to do, worrying about my sick loved one, and my tumultuous year, and I looked out my window and was overcome with God’s mercy and light and love. It actually brought tears to my eyes.
This morning, I’m thinking about that gift of faith, that lets me be so joyful and happy, in the midst of this storm. While we don’t have olive fields that are failing, or missing cows, we all have plenty of personal challenges, that wax and wane. How is it the author of Habakkuk was able to conclude his lamentations with, ‘yet I will rejoice?” How is it we do that? How do we cultivate that, to do it even more? I think practice helps, whether it’s a gratitude journal, or prayer, or reflection. And it certainly is a gift.
And yet I will rejoice in the Lord.
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Feb 26 2020 Ash Wednesday Luke 18: 9-14
God, be merciful to me, a sinner!
Jesus is telling a parable to his disciples about the two men praying in the temple. The wealthy, righteous man is praying upright, recounting all he’s done. As if that’s not bad enough, he concludes his litany with saying he’s so glad that he’s not like sinners, thieves, adulterers, or even like that tax collector in the corner. The tax collector was not in the ‘appropriate’ praying position, probably extorted money as was routine with his profession, and was hiding in the back, beating his breast, with the simple prayer, God be merciful to me, a sinner. Jesus surprises his listeners by announcing that it’s the simple sinner who will return justified, because those who exalt themselves will be humbled and the humble will be exalted.
That simple prayer from the sinner in the corner has turned in to a deep prayer device, known as the Jesus Prayer. It’s prayed in simple repetition, like a mantra, or chant. There are different versions, and when I pray it, I’ve found that I like a version that works paired up with one inhale and one exhale. Inhale - Jesus Christ have mercy on me, Exhale – a sinner.
The idea of taking comfort from calling myself a sinner is foreign to this shiny happy culture. I’m not suggesting that I run around and feel bad about every sinful and bad thing I’ve done, all day. But if I hold myself up to what Jesus expects us to do – Love God, Love neighbor, there are plenty of times I’ve fallen short in big and small ways. Praying the Jesus Prayer helps me not forget that 1) I need to be humble in the sight of what I’m truly expected to do, rather than proud or having a sense of righteousness, 2) God has infinite mercy and love, and 3) God’s mercy and love strike me as so much more glorious, if I’ve spent any time thinking about where I’ve fallen short. Even then, God loves and there’s mercy.
As the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday is full of this language. But even after long penitential prayers, we receive the Eucharist, which we believe is God’s unbounded love and mercy made real. It’s just that for the next 40 days, we are intentional about the distance between me and my actions and God’s.
Yesterday, we picked up our sick loved one from an extended stay in the hospital. Our home is going to be different, with an extra, fragile person. They want desperately to be independent, as all young adults do. They have very limited awareness of the extent of their illness, so long term medicine compliance is dicey. They have a great fondness for the regular minor substances that young adults love, but are not especially helpful for their illness.
And as opposed to the previous stays in our home, I’m feeling more at peace with this start. Since my husband and I are out of the house all day, and they get some disability money, I cannot possibly eliminate risk, or manage behavior. I’m much more at peace, understanding that my job is to house, love and where allowed, mentor another adult in this house. Their choices would not be my choices, but their story and experience is not mine either, so they are the best captain of their ship. Or at least I know I’m not.
For this first day of Lent, I understand that I’ve made mistakes helping my loved one navigate an adult life. One of my Lenten practices will be to remember daily that they are an adult. We are here to love and support. And to do as much as we can to help them navigate, not to serve as their always-on GPS.
This morning, I’m thinking about the God’s boundless love and mercy, regardless of the big and small dumb things I do. I’m imagining ways to pay that forward to my loved one.
Jesus is telling a parable to his disciples about the two men praying in the temple. The wealthy, righteous man is praying upright, recounting all he’s done. As if that’s not bad enough, he concludes his litany with saying he’s so glad that he’s not like sinners, thieves, adulterers, or even like that tax collector in the corner. The tax collector was not in the ‘appropriate’ praying position, probably extorted money as was routine with his profession, and was hiding in the back, beating his breast, with the simple prayer, God be merciful to me, a sinner. Jesus surprises his listeners by announcing that it’s the simple sinner who will return justified, because those who exalt themselves will be humbled and the humble will be exalted.
That simple prayer from the sinner in the corner has turned in to a deep prayer device, known as the Jesus Prayer. It’s prayed in simple repetition, like a mantra, or chant. There are different versions, and when I pray it, I’ve found that I like a version that works paired up with one inhale and one exhale. Inhale - Jesus Christ have mercy on me, Exhale – a sinner.
The idea of taking comfort from calling myself a sinner is foreign to this shiny happy culture. I’m not suggesting that I run around and feel bad about every sinful and bad thing I’ve done, all day. But if I hold myself up to what Jesus expects us to do – Love God, Love neighbor, there are plenty of times I’ve fallen short in big and small ways. Praying the Jesus Prayer helps me not forget that 1) I need to be humble in the sight of what I’m truly expected to do, rather than proud or having a sense of righteousness, 2) God has infinite mercy and love, and 3) God’s mercy and love strike me as so much more glorious, if I’ve spent any time thinking about where I’ve fallen short. Even then, God loves and there’s mercy.
As the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday is full of this language. But even after long penitential prayers, we receive the Eucharist, which we believe is God’s unbounded love and mercy made real. It’s just that for the next 40 days, we are intentional about the distance between me and my actions and God’s.
Yesterday, we picked up our sick loved one from an extended stay in the hospital. Our home is going to be different, with an extra, fragile person. They want desperately to be independent, as all young adults do. They have very limited awareness of the extent of their illness, so long term medicine compliance is dicey. They have a great fondness for the regular minor substances that young adults love, but are not especially helpful for their illness.
And as opposed to the previous stays in our home, I’m feeling more at peace with this start. Since my husband and I are out of the house all day, and they get some disability money, I cannot possibly eliminate risk, or manage behavior. I’m much more at peace, understanding that my job is to house, love and where allowed, mentor another adult in this house. Their choices would not be my choices, but their story and experience is not mine either, so they are the best captain of their ship. Or at least I know I’m not.
For this first day of Lent, I understand that I’ve made mistakes helping my loved one navigate an adult life. One of my Lenten practices will be to remember daily that they are an adult. We are here to love and support. And to do as much as we can to help them navigate, not to serve as their always-on GPS.
This morning, I’m thinking about the God’s boundless love and mercy, regardless of the big and small dumb things I do. I’m imagining ways to pay that forward to my loved one.
Tuesday, February 25, 2020
Feb 25 2020 Personal reflection
Tomorrow, in my faith tradition is Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday falls roughly 40 days before Easter, and like Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness, is a time of prayer and reflection. We call that time Lent. Ash Wednesday is a solemn service that includes putting ashes in the sign of the cross, as the words “you are dust, and to dust you shall return” are spoken. At the time of baptism, the sign of the cross is made on the forehead with blessed oil, while the words, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever”. As that cross from baptism, or new life, is traced on the forehead, we are reminded that we are sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked as Christ’s own forever, even in death.
There have been years where Lent has been a meaningful time for me; I’ve prayed more, reflected more, ate less, worshipped more. The purpose of giving something up isn’t to look pious, but to use that discipline as reminder throughout the day that we are, in fact sealed as God’s forever. Every time my stomach growled, or the bed beckoned and instead I skipped a meal or got up pray, I’d remember why. Human cues for Godly purpose.
There’ve also been years where I didn’t have a Lenten practice, or I had one that was just for show. In both cases, when Easter came, I wasn’t as grateful, or swept up in the awesomeness of God’s love for us, illustrated by Jesus’ death and resurrection.
Today, the day before Ash Wednesday, we pick up our sick loved one from the hospital. They’ve been there since New Year’s day, dealing with a significant and persistent mental health issue. Now, 53 days later, they’re more stable, and going to make a new start. We hope to provide a safe and peaceful place for that continued healing to occur. And we know given the nature of the disease, that this will likely be the first of many times we pick them up from the hospital, to have a new start. How many times, Lord? Seven times? No, seven times seventy. In other words, as many times as needed.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to integrate my personal world with my Lenten practice for this year. God is not calling me to give up chocolate, but rather to love this person, to do something relevant to my world this year.
Perhaps my practice will be to engage in conversations with other caregivers about faith, caregiving, sacrifice, redemption. Perhaps it will be to pray more for my sick loved one. Or to try to engage them in a faith community. Or perhaps it’s just to use my morning reflection time to continue to reflect on their illness, their life, my life, and our savior. I don’t know.
But tomorrow I will.
There have been years where Lent has been a meaningful time for me; I’ve prayed more, reflected more, ate less, worshipped more. The purpose of giving something up isn’t to look pious, but to use that discipline as reminder throughout the day that we are, in fact sealed as God’s forever. Every time my stomach growled, or the bed beckoned and instead I skipped a meal or got up pray, I’d remember why. Human cues for Godly purpose.
There’ve also been years where I didn’t have a Lenten practice, or I had one that was just for show. In both cases, when Easter came, I wasn’t as grateful, or swept up in the awesomeness of God’s love for us, illustrated by Jesus’ death and resurrection.
Today, the day before Ash Wednesday, we pick up our sick loved one from the hospital. They’ve been there since New Year’s day, dealing with a significant and persistent mental health issue. Now, 53 days later, they’re more stable, and going to make a new start. We hope to provide a safe and peaceful place for that continued healing to occur. And we know given the nature of the disease, that this will likely be the first of many times we pick them up from the hospital, to have a new start. How many times, Lord? Seven times? No, seven times seventy. In other words, as many times as needed.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to integrate my personal world with my Lenten practice for this year. God is not calling me to give up chocolate, but rather to love this person, to do something relevant to my world this year.
Perhaps my practice will be to engage in conversations with other caregivers about faith, caregiving, sacrifice, redemption. Perhaps it will be to pray more for my sick loved one. Or to try to engage them in a faith community. Or perhaps it’s just to use my morning reflection time to continue to reflect on their illness, their life, my life, and our savior. I don’t know.
But tomorrow I will.
Sunday, February 23, 2020
Feb 23 2020 2 Corinthians 3:7-18
And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.
Paul is writing the people of Corinth to explain that it is through Jesus Christ that the veil between us and God is removed, the separation between human and holy. Then, with the veil removed, we are transformed into the image of God. This transformation happens, because we see the glory of Jesus, as reflected in a mirror.
I am struck by the notion that it is through Jesus’ humanness that I am made more holy. That I see the glory of God as reflected in a mirror. That image is far more accessible and imminent than the notion that God is veiled away, in a super holy place. Of course, if I believe that God is everywhere, God is in both places; God’s imminent and met in fellow humans, and God is in the sanctified holy temple.
Sometimes I need to access God through the mundane, through friends, smiles, actions of others. As a Christian who believes in the sacraments of Baptism and Eucharist, I am grateful to access God through very normal mundane things, like water, oil, bread and wine. Imminent. Accessible.
Sometimes I need to worship and petition a God who is more grand, revered in big Cathedrals, with plenty of mystery. There is something comforting about praying and sitting in a place that feels like God is just a little removed, definitely not inaccessible, but surrounded by more mystery, and majesty. Sometimes I need to be reminded that God is mysterious, majestic, holy, and maybe not hidden behind a veil, but definitely not mundane.
And then other times, I need to see and encounter God in the mundane. With no veil or pretense, or power or majesty. It is absolutely the same God, but I think the difference is the position I come from. I seek and meet God wherever I am, and in whatever form I need.
This morning, I’m thinking about how grateful that through Jesus, the veil was removed, and that I can access God in the mundane. I’m also very grateful that I can meet God in the majesty and mystery of my modern day temple.
Paul is writing the people of Corinth to explain that it is through Jesus Christ that the veil between us and God is removed, the separation between human and holy. Then, with the veil removed, we are transformed into the image of God. This transformation happens, because we see the glory of Jesus, as reflected in a mirror.
I am struck by the notion that it is through Jesus’ humanness that I am made more holy. That I see the glory of God as reflected in a mirror. That image is far more accessible and imminent than the notion that God is veiled away, in a super holy place. Of course, if I believe that God is everywhere, God is in both places; God’s imminent and met in fellow humans, and God is in the sanctified holy temple.
Sometimes I need to access God through the mundane, through friends, smiles, actions of others. As a Christian who believes in the sacraments of Baptism and Eucharist, I am grateful to access God through very normal mundane things, like water, oil, bread and wine. Imminent. Accessible.
Sometimes I need to worship and petition a God who is more grand, revered in big Cathedrals, with plenty of mystery. There is something comforting about praying and sitting in a place that feels like God is just a little removed, definitely not inaccessible, but surrounded by more mystery, and majesty. Sometimes I need to be reminded that God is mysterious, majestic, holy, and maybe not hidden behind a veil, but definitely not mundane.
And then other times, I need to see and encounter God in the mundane. With no veil or pretense, or power or majesty. It is absolutely the same God, but I think the difference is the position I come from. I seek and meet God wherever I am, and in whatever form I need.
This morning, I’m thinking about how grateful that through Jesus, the veil was removed, and that I can access God in the mundane. I’m also very grateful that I can meet God in the majesty and mystery of my modern day temple.
Saturday, February 22, 2020
Feb 22 2020 Commemoration of Eric Liddell 2 Peter 1: 3-11
You must make every effort to support your faith with goodness, and goodness with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with endurance, and endurance with godliness, and godliness with mutual affection, and mutual affection with love.
Eric Liddell was the child of missionaries in China, born 1902. When young, he was sent to a boarding school in England, where he became a great track athlete. He excelled at the short distances, like the 100 meter. He won a spot on the British Olympic team in 1924 where he won a gold and bronze medal for the 400M, and 200M. He was a natural for the 100M but he refused to run, because the race was on Sunday, and he’d made a personal commitment to observe a weekly sabbath, which he chose not to break, even for the Olympics.
This conviction showed up later in his life, where he returned to China to serve as a missionary. He married the daughter of Canadian missionaries and had a family. After the Invasion of Pearl Harbor, expats were encouraged to leave China, because of ongoing conflict with Japan. Liddell’s wife and children returned to Canada, while Liddell stayed, not wanting to break the commitment he’d made. Eventually he was captured by the Japanese, and died in an internment camp. His life story is the basis of the movie, Chariots of Fire.
Eric Liddell’s faith and commitment can look to some like excessive. Not run the 100M race because it’s a Sunday? Stay in China because of your missionary commitment? But Liddell lived true to his faith, and did not compromise it because of worldly expectations.
The appointed writing from 2 Peter makes a great connection between faith and love. The author basically says that in order to support your faith, be good. In order support being good, you need to have knowledge, presumably in order to know what is good. In order to have knowledge, have self control. In order to exercise self control, you need endurance. Personally, that’s a challenge for me, as I can have self-control, until. . I’m tempted to give it up. In order to support endurance, the author says, have godliness, and in order to support godliness, have affection, and finally, in order to support affection, Love. Basically, he’s saying that loving each other supports having faith.
I hadn’t thought about this, but it makes sense. God is love. Loving each other is sharing God’s love, is sharing God. God is in me and in the other person I’m loving. When we share love, we are sharing God. That same shared God is the god that graces me with faith.
I’m a pretty linear thinker, so I guess I’ve seen love and faith as causal – have faith, therefore I love. But today’s reading turns that around and says that when we share love, we support and grow faith. Share love, therefore I have faith.
This morning, I’m thinking about love and faith. It feels that I’ve grown in both over the past year. I don’t know which comes first, the faith or the love. They are both gifts from God. But what I am noticing is that when I am gifted with more of one, the other grows too. More faith grows more love. More love grows more faith. Today, I want to see the connections between faith and love, and not overthink it, but just enjoy them both.
Eric Liddell was the child of missionaries in China, born 1902. When young, he was sent to a boarding school in England, where he became a great track athlete. He excelled at the short distances, like the 100 meter. He won a spot on the British Olympic team in 1924 where he won a gold and bronze medal for the 400M, and 200M. He was a natural for the 100M but he refused to run, because the race was on Sunday, and he’d made a personal commitment to observe a weekly sabbath, which he chose not to break, even for the Olympics.
This conviction showed up later in his life, where he returned to China to serve as a missionary. He married the daughter of Canadian missionaries and had a family. After the Invasion of Pearl Harbor, expats were encouraged to leave China, because of ongoing conflict with Japan. Liddell’s wife and children returned to Canada, while Liddell stayed, not wanting to break the commitment he’d made. Eventually he was captured by the Japanese, and died in an internment camp. His life story is the basis of the movie, Chariots of Fire.
Eric Liddell’s faith and commitment can look to some like excessive. Not run the 100M race because it’s a Sunday? Stay in China because of your missionary commitment? But Liddell lived true to his faith, and did not compromise it because of worldly expectations.
The appointed writing from 2 Peter makes a great connection between faith and love. The author basically says that in order to support your faith, be good. In order support being good, you need to have knowledge, presumably in order to know what is good. In order to have knowledge, have self control. In order to exercise self control, you need endurance. Personally, that’s a challenge for me, as I can have self-control, until. . I’m tempted to give it up. In order to support endurance, the author says, have godliness, and in order to support godliness, have affection, and finally, in order to support affection, Love. Basically, he’s saying that loving each other supports having faith.
I hadn’t thought about this, but it makes sense. God is love. Loving each other is sharing God’s love, is sharing God. God is in me and in the other person I’m loving. When we share love, we are sharing God. That same shared God is the god that graces me with faith.
I’m a pretty linear thinker, so I guess I’ve seen love and faith as causal – have faith, therefore I love. But today’s reading turns that around and says that when we share love, we support and grow faith. Share love, therefore I have faith.
This morning, I’m thinking about love and faith. It feels that I’ve grown in both over the past year. I don’t know which comes first, the faith or the love. They are both gifts from God. But what I am noticing is that when I am gifted with more of one, the other grows too. More faith grows more love. More love grows more faith. Today, I want to see the connections between faith and love, and not overthink it, but just enjoy them both.
Friday, February 21, 2020
Feb 21 2020 John 10: 31-42
The Jews took up stones again to stone him.
Every time I reflect on John, I first must remember that John wrote from a persecuted community, and excessively blames ‘the Jews’. Some scholars consider him anti-Semite. So although he seems to be blaming the Jews in particular, I think it’s safe to generalize to a wider population. Or at a least, not use John’s language and examples to bolster any anti-Semite notions I might have.
The people are about to stone Jesus, a horrific way to be killed where a mob surrounds someone and throws stones at them until they’re dead. The mob claims that the reason they’re going to stone Jesus is because he’s blasphemed God, claiming he’s the son of God.
Forget whether Jesus’ claim is true or not, I’m thinking about how selective the people are about which of God’s laws they need to follow. Yes, there is the ‘thou shalt have no other god before me’, but I’m pretty sure there’s also a ‘thou shalt not kill’ law in there too.
This stance of the mob, to kill Jesus because he blasphemed, is inherently hypocritical. They’ve invoked God’s laws as the overarching rule book. Blasphemy would only be a horrible offense in a religious context. Using that same rule book they’ve opened, I do not understand how they can punish with death. Clearly this was something they did to others, so it’s not a novel concept, initially tried with Jesus.
We live in a civil society that does not operate primarily from a God-based rule book. It’s a rule book made by people, trying to keep a civil society. Instead of ‘thou shalt not have any God before me’, we have rules about not desecrating the flag. We have rules and penalties about abuse, assault, harassment, murder. The penalties range from fines to imprisonment to execution. The purpose of our rule book isn’t to further God’s kingdom, but rather to maintain civil order.
But as a person of faith, I cannot shrug off my personal, primary rule book of God’s. Simply put, love God, love your neighbor. And further defined in the 10 commandments and all the Scriptures.
So how do I navigate in a world with two rule books? How can I avoid being hypocritical like the mob was with Jesus, cherry picking rules and punishments to fit and defend my behaviors? It seems to me it’s all about remembering which rules are most core, and most life giving to me. Love God. Love my neighbor. When things I do, or don’t do, conflict with this simple law, I am no better than the mob.
When I remember who I am, and whose I am, I must admit that I oppose the death penalty. Under no circumstance can I imagine sanctioning execution for another child of God. Yes, I think there are people who are too dangerous to live in society. But having lived with a loved one with significant persistent mental illness, I suspect it’s the illness acting out, not the beloved child of God. To be clear, I am not condoning their evil acts. But I am pointing out that as a person of faith, I don’t believe killing a person is ok, either their original crime, or the state’s subsequent punishment.
In the 51 days of 2020, there have been four sanctioned killings: John Gardner, aged 64, Donnie Lance (66), Abel Ochoa (47), Nicholas Sutton (58). There are another 17 people scheduled to be executed in 2020. Love thy neighbor. Thou shalt not kill. People of faith who condone capital punishment are, in my understanding, no different than the Jews. Pick the laws of God’s that are convenient and ignore the others.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to live a consistent, non-hypocritical life, with laws that are as sweeping and all-encompassing as Love thy neighbor, and thou shalt not kill. Because we live in a civil society that uses a different rule book, it’s important to remember which one should come first. And when the two are in conflict, to be aware which one I use and why.
Every time I reflect on John, I first must remember that John wrote from a persecuted community, and excessively blames ‘the Jews’. Some scholars consider him anti-Semite. So although he seems to be blaming the Jews in particular, I think it’s safe to generalize to a wider population. Or at a least, not use John’s language and examples to bolster any anti-Semite notions I might have.
The people are about to stone Jesus, a horrific way to be killed where a mob surrounds someone and throws stones at them until they’re dead. The mob claims that the reason they’re going to stone Jesus is because he’s blasphemed God, claiming he’s the son of God.
Forget whether Jesus’ claim is true or not, I’m thinking about how selective the people are about which of God’s laws they need to follow. Yes, there is the ‘thou shalt have no other god before me’, but I’m pretty sure there’s also a ‘thou shalt not kill’ law in there too.
This stance of the mob, to kill Jesus because he blasphemed, is inherently hypocritical. They’ve invoked God’s laws as the overarching rule book. Blasphemy would only be a horrible offense in a religious context. Using that same rule book they’ve opened, I do not understand how they can punish with death. Clearly this was something they did to others, so it’s not a novel concept, initially tried with Jesus.
We live in a civil society that does not operate primarily from a God-based rule book. It’s a rule book made by people, trying to keep a civil society. Instead of ‘thou shalt not have any God before me’, we have rules about not desecrating the flag. We have rules and penalties about abuse, assault, harassment, murder. The penalties range from fines to imprisonment to execution. The purpose of our rule book isn’t to further God’s kingdom, but rather to maintain civil order.
But as a person of faith, I cannot shrug off my personal, primary rule book of God’s. Simply put, love God, love your neighbor. And further defined in the 10 commandments and all the Scriptures.
So how do I navigate in a world with two rule books? How can I avoid being hypocritical like the mob was with Jesus, cherry picking rules and punishments to fit and defend my behaviors? It seems to me it’s all about remembering which rules are most core, and most life giving to me. Love God. Love my neighbor. When things I do, or don’t do, conflict with this simple law, I am no better than the mob.
When I remember who I am, and whose I am, I must admit that I oppose the death penalty. Under no circumstance can I imagine sanctioning execution for another child of God. Yes, I think there are people who are too dangerous to live in society. But having lived with a loved one with significant persistent mental illness, I suspect it’s the illness acting out, not the beloved child of God. To be clear, I am not condoning their evil acts. But I am pointing out that as a person of faith, I don’t believe killing a person is ok, either their original crime, or the state’s subsequent punishment.
In the 51 days of 2020, there have been four sanctioned killings: John Gardner, aged 64, Donnie Lance (66), Abel Ochoa (47), Nicholas Sutton (58). There are another 17 people scheduled to be executed in 2020. Love thy neighbor. Thou shalt not kill. People of faith who condone capital punishment are, in my understanding, no different than the Jews. Pick the laws of God’s that are convenient and ignore the others.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to live a consistent, non-hypocritical life, with laws that are as sweeping and all-encompassing as Love thy neighbor, and thou shalt not kill. Because we live in a civil society that uses a different rule book, it’s important to remember which one should come first. And when the two are in conflict, to be aware which one I use and why.
Thursday, February 20, 2020
Feb 20 2020 John 8: 30-32 Commemoration of Frederick Douglass
Then Jesus said to the Jews who had believed in him, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.
Frederick Douglass was born a slave, secretly learned to read, and escaped his slave owner. He is known as a great orator, and spoke out against slavery. Eventually he travelled to England, where there was less chance of recapture. He raised enough awareness and money to buy out his master’s legal claim to him. Upon his return, he continued to speak out against slavery, and in particular against churches that didn’t disavow slavery. He was a strong proponent of racial integration, and felt that all should be free and equal.
The reading appointed for Douglass’ commemoration includes that beautiful line about how to be free. It’s not about slavery, or ownership, or wealth. Jesus says that if we follow his word, we will know the truth. And it’s that truth that will make us free.
I have glimpses of this freedom, in the midst of my family’s challenges. Yesterday for example.
We’ve learned that our sick loved one may be being released within a few weeks. Last weekend, we visited them, for the first time since New Year’s, at the hospital where they remain committed. They’ve decided that they’d like to return to our home, in part because the more independent options involve significant waiting lists, and our loved one can’t fathom what that wait would look like.
We’re beginning to discuss how that re-entry will look. What are expectations on both sides of living with this significant persistent mental health issue. Yesterday, in the midst of my day-job, I worked on payee bank accounts, and learned that insurance is possibly the cause of an unexpectedly early release. Meanwhile, our loved one has not provided a release for anyone to connect with us regarding their care, or their release plan, even though it appears we’re the intended host.
Yesterday, I was untangling and wrestling with banks and payee accounts, hospitals and HPPA, discharge plans and insurance, counselors and billing agents. By lunch time, I was exhausted and felt ill-equipped to handle all of that. Then I remembered. I don’t necessarily have to handle it all. If I keep my eyes set on God, time will pass, and at some point we’ll know what’s going to happen with our loved one, with insurance, with their discharge. We’ll know all of that with or without my fretting, and trying to control things.
The words of Jesus I remembered yesterday were along the lines of, do not be afraid. I had been increasingly fearful of all of the possible bad outcomes, and all of the things I should be managing. But when I remembered that my loved one actually has a savior, and it’s not me, when I remembered that I’m not asked or expected to control everything, when I remembered that God’s got this, I could relax a little.
I’m not suggesting I can stop my work as payee, and parent. But if it’s not done perfectly, or if I don’t know everything, or haven’t planned for every possible scenario, days will continue to pass, and I’ll manage whatever is thrown my way. I was surprisingly more peaceful in the afternoon, after realizing I couldn’t and shouldn’t fear, fret or control. I was actually free from that worry and pain. Nothing had changed in the external world, but inside, I was made free.
This morning I’m thinking about how to hold that lesson close. God’s truth will make me free, any time, any where.
The reading appointed for Douglass’ commemoration includes that beautiful line about how to be free. It’s not about slavery, or ownership, or wealth. Jesus says that if we follow his word, we will know the truth. And it’s that truth that will make us free.
I have glimpses of this freedom, in the midst of my family’s challenges. Yesterday for example.
We’ve learned that our sick loved one may be being released within a few weeks. Last weekend, we visited them, for the first time since New Year’s, at the hospital where they remain committed. They’ve decided that they’d like to return to our home, in part because the more independent options involve significant waiting lists, and our loved one can’t fathom what that wait would look like.
We’re beginning to discuss how that re-entry will look. What are expectations on both sides of living with this significant persistent mental health issue. Yesterday, in the midst of my day-job, I worked on payee bank accounts, and learned that insurance is possibly the cause of an unexpectedly early release. Meanwhile, our loved one has not provided a release for anyone to connect with us regarding their care, or their release plan, even though it appears we’re the intended host.
Yesterday, I was untangling and wrestling with banks and payee accounts, hospitals and HPPA, discharge plans and insurance, counselors and billing agents. By lunch time, I was exhausted and felt ill-equipped to handle all of that. Then I remembered. I don’t necessarily have to handle it all. If I keep my eyes set on God, time will pass, and at some point we’ll know what’s going to happen with our loved one, with insurance, with their discharge. We’ll know all of that with or without my fretting, and trying to control things.
The words of Jesus I remembered yesterday were along the lines of, do not be afraid. I had been increasingly fearful of all of the possible bad outcomes, and all of the things I should be managing. But when I remembered that my loved one actually has a savior, and it’s not me, when I remembered that I’m not asked or expected to control everything, when I remembered that God’s got this, I could relax a little.
I’m not suggesting I can stop my work as payee, and parent. But if it’s not done perfectly, or if I don’t know everything, or haven’t planned for every possible scenario, days will continue to pass, and I’ll manage whatever is thrown my way. I was surprisingly more peaceful in the afternoon, after realizing I couldn’t and shouldn’t fear, fret or control. I was actually free from that worry and pain. Nothing had changed in the external world, but inside, I was made free.
This morning I’m thinking about how to hold that lesson close. God’s truth will make me free, any time, any where.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Feb 18 2020 Romans 3:21-28 Commemoration of Martin Luther
For we hold that a person is justified by faith apart from works prescribed by the law.
It’s interesting, and comforting to me that our daily celebrations include people on opposite sides of things. Martin Luther is one example. During his day, we fought vehemently against things he saw as wrong in the church. The pureness of his convictions, and his prophetic voice – pointing out things that were not right – is admirable and worthy of remembering. As a faith tradition that celebrates the middle way, we also commemorate some of the people he was fighting against, both within the continental church, frequently referred to as papists, and in commemorating the people in England, who saw a space for God’s people between the papists and the Luther followers. It’s in that crucible of conflicting beliefs that Anglicanism was forged.
One of Luther’s greatest battles was that of ‘indulgences’, where church leaders were extracting payment from people, so that they might be right with God. Luther rightly pointed out that it’s not what people do – not following the Law – that makes them right with God. It’s faith.
As a deacon, as someone who spends a lot of time ‘doing’, I’ve always struggled with this concept. Of course it’s about what we do. It’s about loving our neighbor. But I think I’m beginning to see that it’s not. We cannot ‘do’ or perform enough acts to be deemed worthy. That’s not what makes us right with God. It’s faith.
To be clear, I’m not saying that someone can, at the end of a violent and vile life, simply and perhaps disingenuously claim a new found belief in God, and magically all is right with the world. But neither can someone do all the right things their whole life, without faith, and be good with the world.
Here’s the part I’m beginning to realize. The faith isn’t my action. It’s not a belief I can forge. If my current home drama has taught me anything, it’s that my faith does not come from within me. I can say this with conviction because there have been times when I had nothing. No love, no emotions, no rest, no empathy, no understanding. And yet, I had faith that all of that would return. I had faith that everything would, in fact, end up as it’s supposed to. My faith carries me through some of those darker times. And it absolutely feels like a gift from somewhere else; it’s not something I can dig deep and find.
So when I read the idea that we are justified by faith, and not works, it’s not so much about the difference between my thoughts and my actions. It’s not that my actions or my works are discounted, in exchange for my thoughts or beliefs or faith. Rather, I’m understanding this section as a different kind of shift. Not a shift from my actions to my thoughts, but from me to God.
God’s actions and God’s gift of grace to me is immensely better than any measly actions or works I can do. In fact, my actions are discounted – rendered insignificant, compared to God’s gift of my faith. If that gifted faith results in actions on my part, all the better. But it’s the faith that matters. Not the acts.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to increasingly see and appreciate God’s gift of faith in me. That I remain faithful to God in the midst of my personal drama is nothing less than miraculous, and nothing of my doing. And with this amazing gift of faith, I can in turn act. I can love and care for my sick loved one. I can love and care for people in the world who are hurting.
It’s interesting, and comforting to me that our daily celebrations include people on opposite sides of things. Martin Luther is one example. During his day, we fought vehemently against things he saw as wrong in the church. The pureness of his convictions, and his prophetic voice – pointing out things that were not right – is admirable and worthy of remembering. As a faith tradition that celebrates the middle way, we also commemorate some of the people he was fighting against, both within the continental church, frequently referred to as papists, and in commemorating the people in England, who saw a space for God’s people between the papists and the Luther followers. It’s in that crucible of conflicting beliefs that Anglicanism was forged.
One of Luther’s greatest battles was that of ‘indulgences’, where church leaders were extracting payment from people, so that they might be right with God. Luther rightly pointed out that it’s not what people do – not following the Law – that makes them right with God. It’s faith.
As a deacon, as someone who spends a lot of time ‘doing’, I’ve always struggled with this concept. Of course it’s about what we do. It’s about loving our neighbor. But I think I’m beginning to see that it’s not. We cannot ‘do’ or perform enough acts to be deemed worthy. That’s not what makes us right with God. It’s faith.
To be clear, I’m not saying that someone can, at the end of a violent and vile life, simply and perhaps disingenuously claim a new found belief in God, and magically all is right with the world. But neither can someone do all the right things their whole life, without faith, and be good with the world.
Here’s the part I’m beginning to realize. The faith isn’t my action. It’s not a belief I can forge. If my current home drama has taught me anything, it’s that my faith does not come from within me. I can say this with conviction because there have been times when I had nothing. No love, no emotions, no rest, no empathy, no understanding. And yet, I had faith that all of that would return. I had faith that everything would, in fact, end up as it’s supposed to. My faith carries me through some of those darker times. And it absolutely feels like a gift from somewhere else; it’s not something I can dig deep and find.
So when I read the idea that we are justified by faith, and not works, it’s not so much about the difference between my thoughts and my actions. It’s not that my actions or my works are discounted, in exchange for my thoughts or beliefs or faith. Rather, I’m understanding this section as a different kind of shift. Not a shift from my actions to my thoughts, but from me to God.
God’s actions and God’s gift of grace to me is immensely better than any measly actions or works I can do. In fact, my actions are discounted – rendered insignificant, compared to God’s gift of my faith. If that gifted faith results in actions on my part, all the better. But it’s the faith that matters. Not the acts.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to increasingly see and appreciate God’s gift of faith in me. That I remain faithful to God in the midst of my personal drama is nothing less than miraculous, and nothing of my doing. And with this amazing gift of faith, I can in turn act. I can love and care for my sick loved one. I can love and care for people in the world who are hurting.
Saturday, February 15, 2020
Feb 15 2020 Romans 14: 1-23
Each of us will be accountable to God. Let us therefore no longer pass judgement on one another, but resolve instead never to put a stumbling-block or hindrance in the way of another.
This passage speaks to me because I think judgment is one of the biggest problems we have in our society. Everyone thinks that their way is right, their political views, their religious views, even their particular practices within commonly held beliefs – Episcopalian compared to Free Methodists compared to Presbyterians compared to Pentecostals. That sense of judgement seems to come from a sense of empirical superiority. I can judge you and your beliefs or actions because mine are clearly more right, empirically true.
That has never made sense to me, because loving, smart people disagree on things I feel they’re wrong about. But, as it turns out, they feel the same. They feel I’m wrong. This was so apparent working in local government, where for every requested speed bump, there was someone requesting it be not installed. For every lakefront someone wanted to clear for views or recreation, there was someone advocating for the habitat living in the overgrown but protective banks. It became very clear that there was no single right answer. The perception of right had nothing to do with empirical truths, but rather from the values of the judge. And there’s nothing wrong with people having values, and holding opinions about what’s right based on their values. It just does not make the opinion empirically true.
So if opinions about right and true are so influenced by the values of the person holding the opinions, how can we accurately determine what’s empirically true? From a position of deep faith, I can look at someone else’s political position and feel they’re wrong, while at the same time, another person from a position of deep faith can look at my political positions and feel they’re wrong. Me and my sister in faith cannot resolve what’s true, since we both think we’re right, from a position of deep faith. At some point it’s dumb to keep arguing about it, since there is no human arbiter who can help resolve our conflicted sense of righteousness.
Paul realized this, and encouraged people to not judge each other. What I really appreciate about this passage is that he resolves the issue about there not being someone who can adjudicate my argument about my rightness. God, it turns out, is the ultimate arbitrator. God ultimately decides about right and wrong. I will stand before God, so will my loving sister.
And if I believe in a loving God, which I do, God is not a harsh judge. I will stand before God, and all of my strengths and weaknesses will clear. And at the end of the day, I will be loved by God, regardless of that accounting. So will my sister. She will stand before God, and all of their strengths and weaknesses will be clear. But at the end of the day, they will be loved by God, regardless of that accounting. If that is the case, why would I put a stumbling block in her way now?
This passage speaks to me because I think judgment is one of the biggest problems we have in our society. Everyone thinks that their way is right, their political views, their religious views, even their particular practices within commonly held beliefs – Episcopalian compared to Free Methodists compared to Presbyterians compared to Pentecostals. That sense of judgement seems to come from a sense of empirical superiority. I can judge you and your beliefs or actions because mine are clearly more right, empirically true.
That has never made sense to me, because loving, smart people disagree on things I feel they’re wrong about. But, as it turns out, they feel the same. They feel I’m wrong. This was so apparent working in local government, where for every requested speed bump, there was someone requesting it be not installed. For every lakefront someone wanted to clear for views or recreation, there was someone advocating for the habitat living in the overgrown but protective banks. It became very clear that there was no single right answer. The perception of right had nothing to do with empirical truths, but rather from the values of the judge. And there’s nothing wrong with people having values, and holding opinions about what’s right based on their values. It just does not make the opinion empirically true.
So if opinions about right and true are so influenced by the values of the person holding the opinions, how can we accurately determine what’s empirically true? From a position of deep faith, I can look at someone else’s political position and feel they’re wrong, while at the same time, another person from a position of deep faith can look at my political positions and feel they’re wrong. Me and my sister in faith cannot resolve what’s true, since we both think we’re right, from a position of deep faith. At some point it’s dumb to keep arguing about it, since there is no human arbiter who can help resolve our conflicted sense of righteousness.
Paul realized this, and encouraged people to not judge each other. What I really appreciate about this passage is that he resolves the issue about there not being someone who can adjudicate my argument about my rightness. God, it turns out, is the ultimate arbitrator. God ultimately decides about right and wrong. I will stand before God, so will my loving sister.
And if I believe in a loving God, which I do, God is not a harsh judge. I will stand before God, and all of my strengths and weaknesses will clear. And at the end of the day, I will be loved by God, regardless of that accounting. So will my sister. She will stand before God, and all of their strengths and weaknesses will be clear. But at the end of the day, they will be loved by God, regardless of that accounting. If that is the case, why would I put a stumbling block in her way now?
Friday, February 14, 2020
Feb 14 2020 Romans 13: 1-14
Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God. . . Pay to all what is due to them—taxes to whom taxes are due, revenue to whom revenue is due, respect to whom respect is due, honor to whom honor is due.
This a timely bit of advice about how Christians should behave in a civil society. Paul was writing from the prosperous city of Corinth, to the church in Rome. Corinth was a bustling port city with bustling port city social ills. Nero was the leader in Rome, and although his full blown persecution hadn’t begun, he was not known as a nice guy.
So Paul is writing the people of Rome that they should be subject to governing authorities. Pay taxes when due, pay respect to whom it’s due, and honor to whom it’s due. Interestingly, Paul is not conditioning his requirement of obedience. He’s not saying that they should pay attention, be good subjects if they agree or if they like the leader. Rather, they should be subject to theleader because he’s the leader. Positional respect, not personal.
Throughout the history of humanity, I suspect this has been one of the most dismissed passages. When Rome burned, and Nero danced, people probably thought this section did not apply. Throughout the world and throughout time, there have been leaders with whom significant portions of the people they govern do not agree.
I don’t believe Paul is saying the governed need to be like lemmings, following evil directions off a cliff. He doesn’t talk about following directives at all. He’s talking about respecting the position. Honoring the position. Honoring the system that holds civil society together, and requires revenue do to so.
People have protested their civil leaders forever. People protested the actions of President Lincoln, to the point of trying to split the country. People protested the actions of President Kennedy, Johnson, Carter. I imagine every single president since Washington has had proponents and vocal opponents who absolutely disagree with the ethics, actions and outlook of the president.
Our current time is no different. And Paul’s counsel is no less relevant than when the people were under Nero. We live in a country where we’ve democratically elected a president that some don’t like. A lot. Some think is criminal, if not morally corrupt. Again, none of this is new. We are not the first people in the arc of history who’ve been led by a civil leader whose actions are called into question by some.
I don’t think Paul is saying we all need to buy MAGA hats. But I do believe we are called, as Christians to respect and honor the position. Paul is effectively making the “Love your Neighbor” commandment relevant even in politics. In the system, respect the position, be a part of the electorate, vote, voice your concerns, honor the position. On a personal level, civil leaders are beloved children of God. Do unto them. Serve Christ in others. We should not be maligning the person, unless we think that Jesus meant, “love your neighbor except if you don’t like them”. Paul’s explanation is the same thing on a civil system level. Respect the position. Be a part, and pay your taxes. Like Jesus, Paul doesn’t give us room to decide whether we’re going to do that. Be subject to governance and respect the positions, except if you don’t agree. Nope.
To be clear, I’m not suggesting we need to love a political leader with whom we disagree, nor respect their actions. Nor vote for them. Nor buy a hat. But I do think Paul remind us that Love your Neighbor applies to systems and leaders. We need to respect the position. And even if we dislike it, as Christians we should never besmirch another Christian. Love your neighbor. Serve Christ in your neighbor.
This morning, I’m thinking about respecting civil positions, and loving my neighbor, even when I don’t agree. I’m thinking about how much harder that is when the systems are on the news, espousing positions I don’t like. Even when the people appear to stand for things I don’t. Especially when the distance between my standards and beliefs appear increasingly far from the people and leaders. But despite that distance, I’m called to love my neighbor. I’m called to be a good citizen of the rulers. I’m called to honor and respect the positions. It’s really hard to do, but when we fall prey to the alternative, things get ugly, very quickly. Love God. Love thy Neighbor. Even your belligerent and loud mouthed neighbors.
This a timely bit of advice about how Christians should behave in a civil society. Paul was writing from the prosperous city of Corinth, to the church in Rome. Corinth was a bustling port city with bustling port city social ills. Nero was the leader in Rome, and although his full blown persecution hadn’t begun, he was not known as a nice guy.
So Paul is writing the people of Rome that they should be subject to governing authorities. Pay taxes when due, pay respect to whom it’s due, and honor to whom it’s due. Interestingly, Paul is not conditioning his requirement of obedience. He’s not saying that they should pay attention, be good subjects if they agree or if they like the leader. Rather, they should be subject to theleader because he’s the leader. Positional respect, not personal.
Throughout the history of humanity, I suspect this has been one of the most dismissed passages. When Rome burned, and Nero danced, people probably thought this section did not apply. Throughout the world and throughout time, there have been leaders with whom significant portions of the people they govern do not agree.
I don’t believe Paul is saying the governed need to be like lemmings, following evil directions off a cliff. He doesn’t talk about following directives at all. He’s talking about respecting the position. Honoring the position. Honoring the system that holds civil society together, and requires revenue do to so.
People have protested their civil leaders forever. People protested the actions of President Lincoln, to the point of trying to split the country. People protested the actions of President Kennedy, Johnson, Carter. I imagine every single president since Washington has had proponents and vocal opponents who absolutely disagree with the ethics, actions and outlook of the president.
Our current time is no different. And Paul’s counsel is no less relevant than when the people were under Nero. We live in a country where we’ve democratically elected a president that some don’t like. A lot. Some think is criminal, if not morally corrupt. Again, none of this is new. We are not the first people in the arc of history who’ve been led by a civil leader whose actions are called into question by some.
I don’t think Paul is saying we all need to buy MAGA hats. But I do believe we are called, as Christians to respect and honor the position. Paul is effectively making the “Love your Neighbor” commandment relevant even in politics. In the system, respect the position, be a part of the electorate, vote, voice your concerns, honor the position. On a personal level, civil leaders are beloved children of God. Do unto them. Serve Christ in others. We should not be maligning the person, unless we think that Jesus meant, “love your neighbor except if you don’t like them”. Paul’s explanation is the same thing on a civil system level. Respect the position. Be a part, and pay your taxes. Like Jesus, Paul doesn’t give us room to decide whether we’re going to do that. Be subject to governance and respect the positions, except if you don’t agree. Nope.
To be clear, I’m not suggesting we need to love a political leader with whom we disagree, nor respect their actions. Nor vote for them. Nor buy a hat. But I do think Paul remind us that Love your Neighbor applies to systems and leaders. We need to respect the position. And even if we dislike it, as Christians we should never besmirch another Christian. Love your neighbor. Serve Christ in your neighbor.
This morning, I’m thinking about respecting civil positions, and loving my neighbor, even when I don’t agree. I’m thinking about how much harder that is when the systems are on the news, espousing positions I don’t like. Even when the people appear to stand for things I don’t. Especially when the distance between my standards and beliefs appear increasingly far from the people and leaders. But despite that distance, I’m called to love my neighbor. I’m called to be a good citizen of the rulers. I’m called to honor and respect the positions. It’s really hard to do, but when we fall prey to the alternative, things get ugly, very quickly. Love God. Love thy Neighbor. Even your belligerent and loud mouthed neighbors.
Thursday, February 13, 2020
Feb 13 2020 Commemoration of Absalom Jones Galatians 5: 1-5
Christ has set us free to live a free life. So take your stand! Never again let anyone put a harness of slavery on you.
Absalom Jones was born a slave who bought his own freedom. His evangelism increased the number of African Americans at the local church, which resulted in the leadership of the church to force them to sit upstairs. Instead of being harnessed by that yoke again, Jones and his fellow worshippers left the church. They ultimately started their own church, and were admitted as full and equal members of the Episcopal Church. In the early 1800’s, he was known as the first African American Bishop of the Episcopal Church.
With the luxury of 200 years, it’s easy to see the gross wrongs of that earlier time. Why would anyone think it’s ok to own another human being? Why would church leadership make a class of people sit upstairs? It’s easy to assess their behavior on our modern day understanding and expectations. And I think it’s fair to say that if that happened now, I’d know enough to know it’s not ok. But I’m not sure its safe for us to read into that time and their motives our modern standards and expectations. What’s normal and customary now, wasn’t.
Sure, there are things now that happen that segments of the population don’t believe are ok. I’m not making a judgment by mentioning these things, but things letting some people get married, but not others. Letting some people enter the country, but not others. Welcoming people who talk and look like me, but not others. I mention this list not to quarrel about any of the topics, but to say that our understanding is constantly evolving. Issues arise – slavery, women’s right to vote – and society takes a while to respond. And eventually a past expectation is changed, and is no longer ok. I believe there are some issues where the change is underway - there are people on both sides of a very political or challenging topic, who deeply and lovingly believe they’re right. It’s as if there are some societal issues where we as society are at the tipping point. To be on one side or another of an issue that has already been identified as an issue is not surprising. Mention the border wall, and it’s hard not to hear people’s opinions.
This morning, I’m thinking about those societal issues that have yet to be surfaced. Where someone like Absalom Jones hasn’t brought the topic into focus for discussion. What are our modern day issues of slavery or women’s rights, that none of us see? I’m not thinking about the topics that have already been raised, and some people take the moral high ground, feeling their on the right side. What are the things none of us have spotted as inherently wrong, as the yoke of bondage?
The prayer associated with today’s commemoration may hold some of the answers. Today, I pray I am open to all forms of prejudice and fear in me.
Set us free, heavenly Father, from every bond of prejudice and fear; that, honoring the steadfast courage of your servant Absalom Jones, we may show forth in our lives the reconciling love and true freedom of the children of God.
Absalom Jones was born a slave who bought his own freedom. His evangelism increased the number of African Americans at the local church, which resulted in the leadership of the church to force them to sit upstairs. Instead of being harnessed by that yoke again, Jones and his fellow worshippers left the church. They ultimately started their own church, and were admitted as full and equal members of the Episcopal Church. In the early 1800’s, he was known as the first African American Bishop of the Episcopal Church.
With the luxury of 200 years, it’s easy to see the gross wrongs of that earlier time. Why would anyone think it’s ok to own another human being? Why would church leadership make a class of people sit upstairs? It’s easy to assess their behavior on our modern day understanding and expectations. And I think it’s fair to say that if that happened now, I’d know enough to know it’s not ok. But I’m not sure its safe for us to read into that time and their motives our modern standards and expectations. What’s normal and customary now, wasn’t.
Sure, there are things now that happen that segments of the population don’t believe are ok. I’m not making a judgment by mentioning these things, but things letting some people get married, but not others. Letting some people enter the country, but not others. Welcoming people who talk and look like me, but not others. I mention this list not to quarrel about any of the topics, but to say that our understanding is constantly evolving. Issues arise – slavery, women’s right to vote – and society takes a while to respond. And eventually a past expectation is changed, and is no longer ok. I believe there are some issues where the change is underway - there are people on both sides of a very political or challenging topic, who deeply and lovingly believe they’re right. It’s as if there are some societal issues where we as society are at the tipping point. To be on one side or another of an issue that has already been identified as an issue is not surprising. Mention the border wall, and it’s hard not to hear people’s opinions.
This morning, I’m thinking about those societal issues that have yet to be surfaced. Where someone like Absalom Jones hasn’t brought the topic into focus for discussion. What are our modern day issues of slavery or women’s rights, that none of us see? I’m not thinking about the topics that have already been raised, and some people take the moral high ground, feeling their on the right side. What are the things none of us have spotted as inherently wrong, as the yoke of bondage?
The prayer associated with today’s commemoration may hold some of the answers. Today, I pray I am open to all forms of prejudice and fear in me.
Set us free, heavenly Father, from every bond of prejudice and fear; that, honoring the steadfast courage of your servant Absalom Jones, we may show forth in our lives the reconciling love and true freedom of the children of God.
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Feb 12 2020 Psalm 119: 97-120
Oh, how I love your law! all the day long it is in my mind.
I like to knit. I like to knit lace, with intricate patterns. It looks like a mess when you’re knitting it, but when you’re done, you stretch it out and the patterns take shape. It’s surprisingly not complicated, but it does require keeping track of what you’ve just done – where you are in the pattern. Then it’s easy. You follow the pattern, stitch by stitch, and voila! It’s something pretty when you’re done.
It was in knitting lace that I discovered a cognitive problem I have. I could not, for the life of me, remember what stitch I’d just completed, or what row I was on in the pattern. I’d have to go back and count from the beginning of the row. I’ve since introduced some knitting hacks that mostly solve that problem, things like writing a pattern out row by row on notecards, and flipping the cards when I’m done with a row. Or putting little jump rings in the knitting every 10 stitches.
I mention this because it was from that knitting epiphany that I realized I need memory hacks for all sorts of things in life. Now I have all sorts of things that help me with very short term memory.
I’m wondering if Jesus did a similar thing. In the Hebrew law, there were hundreds of rules and laws, all for the glory of God, or their understanding of God’s desires at the time. Some of the laws were likely introduced for practical health reasons, like washing hands and avoiding pork. But all were done for the glory of God.
So when I read that the psalmist loves God’s laws, and meditates on them, I admit to feeling overwhelmed. How could the psalmist remember all of the laws? Maybe that’s why they needed to meditate on them all day.
And then Jesus comes along and simplifies the law, providing a memory trick that solves my problem of not being able to remember simple things. He summarized, or restated the law as super simple, even something that I can remember. Love God. Love your Neighbor. Bam!
Now all of a sudden, I have access to all the law. Love God. Love your neighbor. With this simple repackaging, even I can meditate on the law.
This morning, I’m thinking about God’s law in all its simplicity. It is easy to love God’s law, when it’s that simple, that encompassing, and that easy to remember. To be clear, I’m not suggesting that it’s easy, but I have a fighting chance of following the law, since I can remember what it is. Now, I love to meditate on your law and I don’t even need index cards.
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
Feb 11 2020 John 8: 2-11
Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.
And with this simple sentence, the adulterous woman was not stoned do death. This story is about judgment, and intolerance, and hypocrisy. All of these are things that I can loudly and proudly claim others should not practice. Like Jesus, I can stand on the side of the event, and question who’s without sin. And to be clear, we are called to do that, to stand witness when judgment, intolerance and hypocrisy occur in our presence.
But what about when I’m the one holding the stone? What about when there’s no one around to remind me who should be casting a stone, and perhaps why I should not be?
Granted, I’ve never participated or seen a public stoning, as the result of adultery. But I have behaved just like the crowd – judgmental, intolerant and hypocritical. I have decided that others deserve something bad, because of my standards of good. I have been intolerant of differences that are an affront to what I consider the right way to do things. I have judged others, when I’m far from ‘without sin’.
This morning, I’m thinking about being the person who calls out the hypocrisy of judgment, and about being the person who’s called out. More insidious and dangerous are the instances when I’m behaving like the crowd, and no one is around. When it’s just me and God. I pray that I have the ears to hear Jesus’ simple sentence, ‘let anyone among you…’
And with this simple sentence, the adulterous woman was not stoned do death. This story is about judgment, and intolerance, and hypocrisy. All of these are things that I can loudly and proudly claim others should not practice. Like Jesus, I can stand on the side of the event, and question who’s without sin. And to be clear, we are called to do that, to stand witness when judgment, intolerance and hypocrisy occur in our presence.
But what about when I’m the one holding the stone? What about when there’s no one around to remind me who should be casting a stone, and perhaps why I should not be?
Granted, I’ve never participated or seen a public stoning, as the result of adultery. But I have behaved just like the crowd – judgmental, intolerant and hypocritical. I have decided that others deserve something bad, because of my standards of good. I have been intolerant of differences that are an affront to what I consider the right way to do things. I have judged others, when I’m far from ‘without sin’.
This morning, I’m thinking about being the person who calls out the hypocrisy of judgment, and about being the person who’s called out. More insidious and dangerous are the instances when I’m behaving like the crowd, and no one is around. When it’s just me and God. I pray that I have the ears to hear Jesus’ simple sentence, ‘let anyone among you…’
Monday, February 10, 2020
Feb 10 2020 Hebrews 13: 1-16
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.
Over the weekend, I successfully moved from our apartment into a house. This was our fifth move in less than two years, moves that were necessitated by ever-changing housing needs with our sick loved one. This final move was out of multi-family housing back into a neighborhood, not unlike the one where I grew up. It turns out it’s difficult to live in multi-family housing with someone who has a significant mental illness. Now we have a little more separation between us and any neighbors, and no cramped elevator to endure with our loved-one’s ramblings and critiques of everyone else in the elevator.
The last night in our apartment, much to our surprise, our loved one called. Tentative and nervous, they told us about what’s been happening at the hospital, and asked for some of their things here. To our even greater surprise, they called back Saturday and Sunday nights too. Over the past three days, we talked probably two hours, more than we have in the past five months. They sounded great, with a positive outlook and comments. There’s still a significant disconnect from my reality, but it was a great step.
They continue to have no interest in returning to our house, but rather are eagerly awaiting the housing they’ll be given, along with sufficient money from disability to sustain an independent and rich life. I don’t quite see how that’s going to happen, but I’m glad they have a sense of hope about the future. We’ll walk with them as they try to navigate a more independent future, meanwhile continue to make a hospitable environment should that plan not work.
While my loved one is not a stranger, they have definitely been increasingly estranged for the past five months. And hard to live with. And hard to host. And just plan hard. I fully believe I am called to be hospitable. By doing so, I am not only entertaining angels without knowing it, I am also serving Christ.
And now I have a driveway, and street parking, and room for a bigger dining room table, and a spare bedroom, so I can entertain or be hospitable to other angels, which gives me deep gladness.
This morning, I’m thinking about being hospitable, and how good it is for my soul to be equipped to host both my sick loved one and others. I have a sense of having set anchor, as a friend of mine put it. Anchor in a possibly incoming storm. And I am exceedingly content.
Over the weekend, I successfully moved from our apartment into a house. This was our fifth move in less than two years, moves that were necessitated by ever-changing housing needs with our sick loved one. This final move was out of multi-family housing back into a neighborhood, not unlike the one where I grew up. It turns out it’s difficult to live in multi-family housing with someone who has a significant mental illness. Now we have a little more separation between us and any neighbors, and no cramped elevator to endure with our loved-one’s ramblings and critiques of everyone else in the elevator.
The last night in our apartment, much to our surprise, our loved one called. Tentative and nervous, they told us about what’s been happening at the hospital, and asked for some of their things here. To our even greater surprise, they called back Saturday and Sunday nights too. Over the past three days, we talked probably two hours, more than we have in the past five months. They sounded great, with a positive outlook and comments. There’s still a significant disconnect from my reality, but it was a great step.
They continue to have no interest in returning to our house, but rather are eagerly awaiting the housing they’ll be given, along with sufficient money from disability to sustain an independent and rich life. I don’t quite see how that’s going to happen, but I’m glad they have a sense of hope about the future. We’ll walk with them as they try to navigate a more independent future, meanwhile continue to make a hospitable environment should that plan not work.
While my loved one is not a stranger, they have definitely been increasingly estranged for the past five months. And hard to live with. And hard to host. And just plan hard. I fully believe I am called to be hospitable. By doing so, I am not only entertaining angels without knowing it, I am also serving Christ.
And now I have a driveway, and street parking, and room for a bigger dining room table, and a spare bedroom, so I can entertain or be hospitable to other angels, which gives me deep gladness.
This morning, I’m thinking about being hospitable, and how good it is for my soul to be equipped to host both my sick loved one and others. I have a sense of having set anchor, as a friend of mine put it. Anchor in a possibly incoming storm. And I am exceedingly content.
Sunday, February 9, 2020
Feb 9 2020 Mark 10: 13-22
Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, ‘You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.
The wealthy man has come to Jesus, asking what he needs to do to inherit eternal life. Jesus responds initially with the commandments. Don’t murder. Check. Don’t bear false witness. Check. I can imagine the man is pleased with Jesus’ answer, because he’s kept these commandments since he was a child. You might even assume the man is feeling a little confident that he’s got this one figured out. Yes, Lord, he says, I’ve done all of that.
At that point, Jesus gives him a second answer. It seems to me that this supplemental answer from Jesus could be for one of two reasons. First, the man has not really understood what the commandments are about. If you read the 10 commandments, some of them are squarely about loving God, and the rest are all about loving your neighbor. The man has kept the letter of the law, but perhaps not the spirit of the law, as he is quite wealthy. Jesus quickly assesses the man’s shortcomings and augments his answer with a few added requirements that for this man, would signify the way Jesus talks about the commandments – Love God and Love your neighbor. Sell what you have and give the money to the poor (love your neighbor), and follow me (love God). Jesus adds to his answer because the man went legalistic with the law, rather than the intent.
The other thing I can imagine is that Jesus added to his answer because of the man’s sense of accomplishment and pride. Yes, he says before God incarnate, I’m accomplished and have done what I’m supposed to do on this planet. Jesus looks at that sense of self-sufficiency and reminds him that, no, you’re not done, and you’re not ready. Get rid of that sense of pride and try again.
I’m guilty of both of the things the man did. I get legalistic about what I’m supposed to do. I follow the laws, without always acknowledging or meeting the intent. I attend worship regularly, and sometimes it’s because I should. I also sometimes think I’m doing what I should. I’m ready.
In this exchange, Jesus told the man to sell everything he has and follow him. I think that’s what that particular man needed to hear, in response to his question, what do I need to do to inherit eternal life. If I ask the same question of God, I don’t think the answer will be exactly the same. My shortcomings before God are not the same as the wealthy man in this story, so the hard things for me are not likely to be the same as they were for the wealthy man. I’m not sure what it would be, but I challenge to us with this reading is to imagine asking Jesus what I need to do, given who I am, and all the things I do or don’t do that interfere with Loving God, and Loving my neighbor. The answer to that question will be different for every person who asks. And we must ask, as opposed to standing before God thinking we’ve got this all covered.
Regardless of what God sees in us when we ask that question, regardless of the stumbling blocks we can’t even see, there’s a bit of Jesus’ answer that gives me great hope. Jesus, it says, looked at the man and loving him, said…
I know that look, when someone looks at you, loving you. It’s different than just looking. It’s deep compassion from friends, it’s googly eyes from a beloved. It’s the way parents look at their children. There’s definitely something about being looked at, when you see that spark of love. This is one of those details about Scripture that make me grateful God was made human in Jesus. It’s one thing to know God loves me in a general, all-powerful, but invisible way. It’s another thing to be looked at by another person, with love.
This morning, I’m thinking about looking at people, with love. Certainly I should be looking at loved ones, with love. My husband, my kids, my friends. But I can also look at strangers with love. The folks on the street, the check-out guy, the bus driver. I don’t want to look at them like a creeper, but I do think there’s a way to look with more love. Today, I want to try that.
The wealthy man has come to Jesus, asking what he needs to do to inherit eternal life. Jesus responds initially with the commandments. Don’t murder. Check. Don’t bear false witness. Check. I can imagine the man is pleased with Jesus’ answer, because he’s kept these commandments since he was a child. You might even assume the man is feeling a little confident that he’s got this one figured out. Yes, Lord, he says, I’ve done all of that.
At that point, Jesus gives him a second answer. It seems to me that this supplemental answer from Jesus could be for one of two reasons. First, the man has not really understood what the commandments are about. If you read the 10 commandments, some of them are squarely about loving God, and the rest are all about loving your neighbor. The man has kept the letter of the law, but perhaps not the spirit of the law, as he is quite wealthy. Jesus quickly assesses the man’s shortcomings and augments his answer with a few added requirements that for this man, would signify the way Jesus talks about the commandments – Love God and Love your neighbor. Sell what you have and give the money to the poor (love your neighbor), and follow me (love God). Jesus adds to his answer because the man went legalistic with the law, rather than the intent.
The other thing I can imagine is that Jesus added to his answer because of the man’s sense of accomplishment and pride. Yes, he says before God incarnate, I’m accomplished and have done what I’m supposed to do on this planet. Jesus looks at that sense of self-sufficiency and reminds him that, no, you’re not done, and you’re not ready. Get rid of that sense of pride and try again.
I’m guilty of both of the things the man did. I get legalistic about what I’m supposed to do. I follow the laws, without always acknowledging or meeting the intent. I attend worship regularly, and sometimes it’s because I should. I also sometimes think I’m doing what I should. I’m ready.
In this exchange, Jesus told the man to sell everything he has and follow him. I think that’s what that particular man needed to hear, in response to his question, what do I need to do to inherit eternal life. If I ask the same question of God, I don’t think the answer will be exactly the same. My shortcomings before God are not the same as the wealthy man in this story, so the hard things for me are not likely to be the same as they were for the wealthy man. I’m not sure what it would be, but I challenge to us with this reading is to imagine asking Jesus what I need to do, given who I am, and all the things I do or don’t do that interfere with Loving God, and Loving my neighbor. The answer to that question will be different for every person who asks. And we must ask, as opposed to standing before God thinking we’ve got this all covered.
Regardless of what God sees in us when we ask that question, regardless of the stumbling blocks we can’t even see, there’s a bit of Jesus’ answer that gives me great hope. Jesus, it says, looked at the man and loving him, said…
I know that look, when someone looks at you, loving you. It’s different than just looking. It’s deep compassion from friends, it’s googly eyes from a beloved. It’s the way parents look at their children. There’s definitely something about being looked at, when you see that spark of love. This is one of those details about Scripture that make me grateful God was made human in Jesus. It’s one thing to know God loves me in a general, all-powerful, but invisible way. It’s another thing to be looked at by another person, with love.
This morning, I’m thinking about looking at people, with love. Certainly I should be looking at loved ones, with love. My husband, my kids, my friends. But I can also look at strangers with love. The folks on the street, the check-out guy, the bus driver. I don’t want to look at them like a creeper, but I do think there’s a way to look with more love. Today, I want to try that.
Saturday, February 8, 2020
Feb 8 2020 John 7: 14-36
Can it be that the authorities really know that this is the Messiah? Yet we know where this man is from; but when the Messiah comes, no one will know where he is from.
Jesus is preaching and teaching of the festival, and those around him were astonished. They were incredulous because they thought they knew Jesus; they knew where he was from. On the other hand they were skeptical because Jesus was a nobody; what little they knew did not provide the pedigree they thought the Messiah ought to have.
Jesus didn’t really clear things up at this point, at least in John’s recounting. Jesus says you know me and where I’m from, but you don’t really know where I come from, because I come from the Father, whom you do not know, but I know. I wonder if the those around Jesus at this explanation had the same perplexed look I do.
But there’s something about this idea that we know someone, or should know someone because of where they’re from, or what they’re like, or who their parents are, or the color of their skin. The crowds thought they knew Jesus because they knew some demographic facts about him. They didn’t know his heart and soul, so they didn’t really know him.
How easy is it us to presume we know someone because we know something about them, and that something becomes a defining, all-encompassing truth. But it’s not the exclusive truth, nor is it defining.
Religion. Political preference. Choice in house or car or spouse. Things they cannot choose, like skin color, first language. We look at people and presume we know far more about them because of one little thing. In my recent trip to Guatemala, there were people who had different political outlooks, different ways of worship, and yet their hearts looked strikingly like mine. Hmm.
This even is true with my loved one and the all-encompassing significant mental illness that’s plagued them. It’s easy for others to presume to know their heart, or their outlook, or their intentions, because of this label, or because of the illness-induced behavior. It is definitely a part of their life now, but it is not them. They’ve been hospitalized for 40 days, increasingly getting more stabilized, and continuing to have significant fearful delusions about my husband and me. We haven’t communicated with them at all during that time. It’s easy to assume that I know how this is going to go. Or forget that the person I know is still there.
Last night, on the eve of our move, our sick loved one called. She sounded better than she had in months. It was a simple, and short conversation. But it concluded with words we hadn’t heard in months. I love you.
I’ve no illusion that this is a sign that all is well, and going to remain well. But I am reminded that it’s too easy to think we know about someone’s soul, based on things we see, or things we know about them. My loved one’s sweet soul remains, currently tormented and hijacked by things I can legitimately refer to as modern-day demons.
This morning, I’m thinking about how we can’t know someone’s soul based on the things we see or the things they do. God knows their soul. God can judge. We should not.
Jesus is preaching and teaching of the festival, and those around him were astonished. They were incredulous because they thought they knew Jesus; they knew where he was from. On the other hand they were skeptical because Jesus was a nobody; what little they knew did not provide the pedigree they thought the Messiah ought to have.
Jesus didn’t really clear things up at this point, at least in John’s recounting. Jesus says you know me and where I’m from, but you don’t really know where I come from, because I come from the Father, whom you do not know, but I know. I wonder if the those around Jesus at this explanation had the same perplexed look I do.
But there’s something about this idea that we know someone, or should know someone because of where they’re from, or what they’re like, or who their parents are, or the color of their skin. The crowds thought they knew Jesus because they knew some demographic facts about him. They didn’t know his heart and soul, so they didn’t really know him.
How easy is it us to presume we know someone because we know something about them, and that something becomes a defining, all-encompassing truth. But it’s not the exclusive truth, nor is it defining.
Religion. Political preference. Choice in house or car or spouse. Things they cannot choose, like skin color, first language. We look at people and presume we know far more about them because of one little thing. In my recent trip to Guatemala, there were people who had different political outlooks, different ways of worship, and yet their hearts looked strikingly like mine. Hmm.
This even is true with my loved one and the all-encompassing significant mental illness that’s plagued them. It’s easy for others to presume to know their heart, or their outlook, or their intentions, because of this label, or because of the illness-induced behavior. It is definitely a part of their life now, but it is not them. They’ve been hospitalized for 40 days, increasingly getting more stabilized, and continuing to have significant fearful delusions about my husband and me. We haven’t communicated with them at all during that time. It’s easy to assume that I know how this is going to go. Or forget that the person I know is still there.
Last night, on the eve of our move, our sick loved one called. She sounded better than she had in months. It was a simple, and short conversation. But it concluded with words we hadn’t heard in months. I love you.
I’ve no illusion that this is a sign that all is well, and going to remain well. But I am reminded that it’s too easy to think we know about someone’s soul, based on things we see, or things we know about them. My loved one’s sweet soul remains, currently tormented and hijacked by things I can legitimately refer to as modern-day demons.
This morning, I’m thinking about how we can’t know someone’s soul based on the things we see or the things they do. God knows their soul. God can judge. We should not.
Friday, February 7, 2020
Feb 7 2020 The Lord’s Prayer
Thy will be done.
This is beautiful and holy work because unlike me, the seekers are actively praying and listening for God’s voice, and direction. And the discerners are actively praying and listening for God’s voice and direction. The discussions during these holy conversations is rich, and I’m generally humbled by the faith of all in the room.
The discussion yesterday turned to what one of the seekers envisioned for their ministry in the next three to five years. Their response was that as a person of faith, they believed they were precisely where God wanted them to be. Right now. Into the future, God’s hand will guide them, and where they end up – wherever it is – will be God’s will. I was reminded of their answer when I prayed the Lord’s Prayer this morning.
This morning, I’m thinking about God’s will, and my life. Thy will be done. My life is perhaps overly full right now. But with few exceptions, it’s full because of things I cannot control. I am grateful to be reminded that I’m right where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be. I absolutely need to keep an eye on my personal gas gauge, because I’m also certain I’m not supposed to run out of gas. But I can rest a little bit in the knowledge that God’s will is being done, and that I’m the precisely right person to be precisely where I am.
One of the great blessings of my job is I get to accompany and help people who are discerning what God is calling them to do and be, when they may be called to ordained ministry. Yesterday was one of the days I sat through interviews of where beloved children of God asked questions of other beloved children of God, to clarify and affirm God’s call for them.
This is beautiful and holy work because unlike me, the seekers are actively praying and listening for God’s voice, and direction. And the discerners are actively praying and listening for God’s voice and direction. The discussions during these holy conversations is rich, and I’m generally humbled by the faith of all in the room.
The discussion yesterday turned to what one of the seekers envisioned for their ministry in the next three to five years. Their response was that as a person of faith, they believed they were precisely where God wanted them to be. Right now. Into the future, God’s hand will guide them, and where they end up – wherever it is – will be God’s will. I was reminded of their answer when I prayed the Lord’s Prayer this morning.
This morning, I’m thinking about God’s will, and my life. Thy will be done. My life is perhaps overly full right now. But with few exceptions, it’s full because of things I cannot control. I am grateful to be reminded that I’m right where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be. I absolutely need to keep an eye on my personal gas gauge, because I’m also certain I’m not supposed to run out of gas. But I can rest a little bit in the knowledge that God’s will is being done, and that I’m the precisely right person to be precisely where I am.
Thursday, February 6, 2020
Feb 6 2020 Canticle 19
O ruler of the universe, Lord God, great deeds are they that you have done, surpassing human understanding.
This morning, I’m tired, and grateful. I’ve had an eventful first 40 days of 2020, including a trip overseas, hospitalization and commitment of my sick loved one, bought a house and car, and this weekend will move. This is all in addition to a full day-job.
I’m tired, the kind of tired that needs either a long uninterrupted time of rest, or a longer time incremental ease of this pace. And yet, I’m unbelievably grateful.
Yesterday, I worked my regular day job, and then had the great honor of serving at the celebration of new ministry and installation of a new rector at a local parish. It was a 13 hour day. And again, I’m grateful, and happy.
My house is in boxes, and today, I needed to cobble together my last work outfit from what incongruous and mismatched clothes.
I say this not to solicit sympathy at my busyness; I don’t for one second think that being busy or tired is a sign of a life well lived, or my value to society. Rather, it’s to stop and be amazed at all that God does in and around me. My contentment, even now, is a certain sign of God’s great deeds done in me. My peace, in fact surpasses human understanding.
This morning, I’m thinking about the great deeds God has done. And those that surpass human understanding. Especially mine. This sense of resting in God’s great deeds is hard to hold on to, in the midst of a crazy busy day or life. But if I can sense them now, if I can find a bit of gratitude and peace and love, they’re always within reach. I just need to stop and remember. God’s great deeds undergird everything I do, and how I walk through my days and they absolutely surpass this human’s understanding. I just need to stop long enough to remember.
This morning, I’m tired, and grateful. I’ve had an eventful first 40 days of 2020, including a trip overseas, hospitalization and commitment of my sick loved one, bought a house and car, and this weekend will move. This is all in addition to a full day-job.
I’m tired, the kind of tired that needs either a long uninterrupted time of rest, or a longer time incremental ease of this pace. And yet, I’m unbelievably grateful.
Yesterday, I worked my regular day job, and then had the great honor of serving at the celebration of new ministry and installation of a new rector at a local parish. It was a 13 hour day. And again, I’m grateful, and happy.
My house is in boxes, and today, I needed to cobble together my last work outfit from what incongruous and mismatched clothes.
I say this not to solicit sympathy at my busyness; I don’t for one second think that being busy or tired is a sign of a life well lived, or my value to society. Rather, it’s to stop and be amazed at all that God does in and around me. My contentment, even now, is a certain sign of God’s great deeds done in me. My peace, in fact surpasses human understanding.
This morning, I’m thinking about the great deeds God has done. And those that surpass human understanding. Especially mine. This sense of resting in God’s great deeds is hard to hold on to, in the midst of a crazy busy day or life. But if I can sense them now, if I can find a bit of gratitude and peace and love, they’re always within reach. I just need to stop and remember. God’s great deeds undergird everything I do, and how I walk through my days and they absolutely surpass this human’s understanding. I just need to stop long enough to remember.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
Feb 5 2020 1 Peter 1: 13-16 Commemoration of Roger Williams and Anne Hutchinson
Like obedient children, do not be conformed to the desires that you formerly had in ignorance. Instead, as he who called you is holy, be holy yourselves in all your conduct
Williams and Hutchinson are each remembered for their brave insistence on religious tolerance. Their stories are similar, in that they both immigrated from England to New England, to escape religious persecution. Williams advocated for a ‘wall of separation’ between civil and religious powers, and used his sense of following God’s will to found a community he named ‘Providence’, later chartered as Rhode Island. Hutchinson also fought against the puritanical views that denied equality and rights to women. She was branded a dangerous dissenter and banished from the colony.
Reading about the lives and challenges of people in the past, it’s fascinating to me how much is different, and yet the same.
Williams and Hutchinson both fought against their government in England that was intolerant of their Christian faith. Williams founded a city we now know as Providence, and it was absolutely named for God’s providence, or God’s protective care. Hutchinson was banished for her radical feminist beliefs. We Christians in the US mostly don’t experience these challenges.
But on the other hand, many people, many beloved children of Abraham do. Jews in this Country are targeted for their faith, with unbelievable intolerance and hate. A synagogue in a previous city where I lived had armed guards at the doors during their services, because of previous threats and actual violence. I cannot imagine feeling so persecuted and vulnerable that I needed an armed guard to protect my worship time.
US citizens, children of Abraham who are Muslim are perhaps more targeted now. Their country of origin, the color of their skin, their accents, all seem to put them at risk of persecution. I, along with other faithful non-Muslims have sat vigil outside a mosque during their time of worship, at a time of active threats, to allow them to worship freely.
And even people of no faith are attacked in this country, for what they believe. I understand that our country was founded by Christians, but it does seem a bit presumptuous to me that our pledge of allegiance was amended to add “under God” as recent as 1954. For people who are beloved Children of God, but who don’t believe in God, this pledge becomes an affront to their beliefs. They are forced to recite and profess something they don’t believe. The same goes for our currency. In God we trust. For people of no faith, this seems like an affront. More than that, it’s an intolerance to their beliefs perpetrated by people of faith who founded this country largely in response to intolerance to their beliefs.
This morning I’m thinking about the very fine line between religious intolerance and the actions of the religious majority. It’s easy to spot intolerance when your views are different than the predominant culture. In the 1600’s, Williams and Hutchinson left England to follow their convictions rooted in their faith. In the 2000’s in the US, that looks to me to be about a Christian-centric nation that is increasingly intolerant of the beliefs and convictions of anyone not Christian. Today, I hope to see all those insidious, implicit presumptions about commonly held beliefs of faith, that are not, in fact, commonly held.
Williams and Hutchinson are each remembered for their brave insistence on religious tolerance. Their stories are similar, in that they both immigrated from England to New England, to escape religious persecution. Williams advocated for a ‘wall of separation’ between civil and religious powers, and used his sense of following God’s will to found a community he named ‘Providence’, later chartered as Rhode Island. Hutchinson also fought against the puritanical views that denied equality and rights to women. She was branded a dangerous dissenter and banished from the colony.
Reading about the lives and challenges of people in the past, it’s fascinating to me how much is different, and yet the same.
Williams and Hutchinson both fought against their government in England that was intolerant of their Christian faith. Williams founded a city we now know as Providence, and it was absolutely named for God’s providence, or God’s protective care. Hutchinson was banished for her radical feminist beliefs. We Christians in the US mostly don’t experience these challenges.
But on the other hand, many people, many beloved children of Abraham do. Jews in this Country are targeted for their faith, with unbelievable intolerance and hate. A synagogue in a previous city where I lived had armed guards at the doors during their services, because of previous threats and actual violence. I cannot imagine feeling so persecuted and vulnerable that I needed an armed guard to protect my worship time.
US citizens, children of Abraham who are Muslim are perhaps more targeted now. Their country of origin, the color of their skin, their accents, all seem to put them at risk of persecution. I, along with other faithful non-Muslims have sat vigil outside a mosque during their time of worship, at a time of active threats, to allow them to worship freely.
And even people of no faith are attacked in this country, for what they believe. I understand that our country was founded by Christians, but it does seem a bit presumptuous to me that our pledge of allegiance was amended to add “under God” as recent as 1954. For people who are beloved Children of God, but who don’t believe in God, this pledge becomes an affront to their beliefs. They are forced to recite and profess something they don’t believe. The same goes for our currency. In God we trust. For people of no faith, this seems like an affront. More than that, it’s an intolerance to their beliefs perpetrated by people of faith who founded this country largely in response to intolerance to their beliefs.
This morning I’m thinking about the very fine line between religious intolerance and the actions of the religious majority. It’s easy to spot intolerance when your views are different than the predominant culture. In the 1600’s, Williams and Hutchinson left England to follow their convictions rooted in their faith. In the 2000’s in the US, that looks to me to be about a Christian-centric nation that is increasingly intolerant of the beliefs and convictions of anyone not Christian. Today, I hope to see all those insidious, implicit presumptions about commonly held beliefs of faith, that are not, in fact, commonly held.
Tuesday, February 4, 2020
Feb 4 2020 Acts 1: 1-9 Commemoration of Anskar, Missionary
You shall be witnesses to me in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.
Anskar was a missionary to the a people who were oppressed by a foreign power. He worked to plant churches, and to show God’s love to the people but his work would not see much result for three generations. He died with little awareness of the impact of his work.
So here’s what Anskar teaches us. First, we don’t know the impact of our efforts – either our good efforts or those that fall short. It would be very easy to get discouraged when you don’t see the fruit of your labor. Having recently returned from a mission trip, I understand this. While I did paint and build, those things are fleeting. The things we painted will need repainting, and the things we built will be replaced at some point. We may never know the impact of our work. But I’ve no doubt we had a positive impact on the people with whom and for whom we served. We lifted up, encouraged, and loved. We’ve no idea what fruit that will bear, nor do we really need to. It was enough to lift up, encourage and love. The rest is up to God.
The other thing Anskar teaches us is that the mission field may not be where you think. He did his mission work in a place now that sounds absurd to be a mission – the wilds of Scandinavia! Now granted, at his time, the area was inundated with those pesky and ill-behaved Vikings. But it does sound odd to modern ears that he was a missionary to Denmark and Sweden.
I live in one of the most un-churched areas of the US. Perhaps I don’t need to go to Guatemala to share God’s love. To encourage, lift up and love. I can do it on the bus ride to work.
I also have plenty of challenges in my home. I don’t even really need to leave the house, to minister to the sick. I can encourage, lift up and love. I can show God’s love to those with whom I work, play and live. I can be a missionary right here.
This morning, I’m thinking about how I’m called to be a missionary. To go out to the ends of the earth and share God’s love. I’m thinking about how that might not mean the literal ends of the earth, and I’m thinking about how I may never know the impact of my actions. I am, none the less called to serve.
Here I am. Send me.
We hear of missionaries and think of foreign, savage, third world countries. People are missionaries in Africa, South America, even Guatemala. But that’s a limiting concept, I think. And Anskar is an example of how our concept of mission is so small.
So here’s what Anskar teaches us. First, we don’t know the impact of our efforts – either our good efforts or those that fall short. It would be very easy to get discouraged when you don’t see the fruit of your labor. Having recently returned from a mission trip, I understand this. While I did paint and build, those things are fleeting. The things we painted will need repainting, and the things we built will be replaced at some point. We may never know the impact of our work. But I’ve no doubt we had a positive impact on the people with whom and for whom we served. We lifted up, encouraged, and loved. We’ve no idea what fruit that will bear, nor do we really need to. It was enough to lift up, encourage and love. The rest is up to God.
The other thing Anskar teaches us is that the mission field may not be where you think. He did his mission work in a place now that sounds absurd to be a mission – the wilds of Scandinavia! Now granted, at his time, the area was inundated with those pesky and ill-behaved Vikings. But it does sound odd to modern ears that he was a missionary to Denmark and Sweden.
I live in one of the most un-churched areas of the US. Perhaps I don’t need to go to Guatemala to share God’s love. To encourage, lift up and love. I can do it on the bus ride to work.
I also have plenty of challenges in my home. I don’t even really need to leave the house, to minister to the sick. I can encourage, lift up and love. I can show God’s love to those with whom I work, play and live. I can be a missionary right here.
This morning, I’m thinking about how I’m called to be a missionary. To go out to the ends of the earth and share God’s love. I’m thinking about how that might not mean the literal ends of the earth, and I’m thinking about how I may never know the impact of my actions. I am, none the less called to serve.
Here I am. Send me.
Monday, February 3, 2020
Feb 3 2020 Hebrews 11: 1-12
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Faith is a great thing, right? It lets us be optimistic, in the face of no evidence. It allows us to be calm, in the midst of a storm. It lets us have certitude, when we really ought not. It gives us conviction of things not seen.
Or is it just a break from the reality of the challenges of this life? Is it delusional hopes?
I had a friend who’d ‘found religion’ as an adult. They were totally immersed in an orthodox religion, baptized and married in the faith within a year. Children baptized into that community shortly after. However, after a series of tragedies – the death of a parent, and tragic death of a friend – their faith fled. They could not believe in a God who’d let all of these horrible things happen. And as quickly as it had been found, their religion was lost.
I don’t know what to say about their loss of faith, or about their sense of betrayal of things hoped for. I can say that they were happier and more content when they had something they believed in. When their faith disappeared, a sense of despair and hopelessness crept in. Maybe they felt they were living more genuinely or more realistically. It looked to me like they were living less.
I cannot know about the presence of God, any more than my friend can know about the absence of God. But I absolutely have faith that there is a larger arc to humanity in general, or my life in particular. Some of this is a matter of choice; if I have the capacity to choose, I’ll choose life and love, rather than hopelessness. And I fully acknowledge that the capacity to choose is a gift, that it’s not something I can solely conjure.
This morning, I’m thinking about the gift of faith, and the choice of faith. It’s like Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” Thank God for faith.
Faith is a great thing, right? It lets us be optimistic, in the face of no evidence. It allows us to be calm, in the midst of a storm. It lets us have certitude, when we really ought not. It gives us conviction of things not seen.
Or is it just a break from the reality of the challenges of this life? Is it delusional hopes?
I had a friend who’d ‘found religion’ as an adult. They were totally immersed in an orthodox religion, baptized and married in the faith within a year. Children baptized into that community shortly after. However, after a series of tragedies – the death of a parent, and tragic death of a friend – their faith fled. They could not believe in a God who’d let all of these horrible things happen. And as quickly as it had been found, their religion was lost.
I don’t know what to say about their loss of faith, or about their sense of betrayal of things hoped for. I can say that they were happier and more content when they had something they believed in. When their faith disappeared, a sense of despair and hopelessness crept in. Maybe they felt they were living more genuinely or more realistically. It looked to me like they were living less.
I cannot know about the presence of God, any more than my friend can know about the absence of God. But I absolutely have faith that there is a larger arc to humanity in general, or my life in particular. Some of this is a matter of choice; if I have the capacity to choose, I’ll choose life and love, rather than hopelessness. And I fully acknowledge that the capacity to choose is a gift, that it’s not something I can solely conjure.
This morning, I’m thinking about the gift of faith, and the choice of faith. It’s like Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” Thank God for faith.
Sunday, February 2, 2020
Feb 2 2020 Luke 2: 29-32 Feast of the Presentation
Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised;
For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see:
Today, February 2, is the Feast of the Presentation. In ancient Jewish tradition, women were in semi-seclusion after birth, for 40 days. February 2 marks 40 days after Jesus’ birth, so it’s the day selected to commemorate when Mary and Joseph took Jesus to the Temple to be presented. When they arrived, the old man Simeon recites this song. He’s been waiting in the Temple for the savior, and upon Jesus’ arrival, says that he can now be released. He continues that the child will be a sign that many will oppose, because the inner thoughts of many will be revealed. Anna, an old female prophet was also in the temple that this time, and added her prophecy about Jesus, that he’d be the redemption of Jerusalem.
This story comes from the Gospel of Luke, the writer which speaks most to me. Luke is very attentive to the people and emotions and images, to all the concrete human things that would have happened to Jesus. I can vividly imagine Jesus and his family arriving at the temple. Mary would have been very young, and just coming from semi-seclusion after Jesus’ birth. I can imagine her squinting at the sunlight, and wandering in awe at the temple, and the whirlwind events since being informed she was going to give birth.
They arrive in the temple and the ancient Simeon and Anna affirm all of the wonderous things they’ve heard about their infant. Awe.
Many Christian traditions use Simeon’s words, known as the Nunc Dimittis, as a prayer for the end of things. It’s prayed in evening prayer, daily. Lord, you now have set your servant free to depart in peace. I have seen the savior. It’s a lovely way to end every day, remembering that we have seen the savior. This prayer, the Song of Simeon can also be offered at memorial services, again to remind us all that we have seen the savior, and now can rest in peace.
I am generally more of a morning-anticipate-the-day person, than an evening-recount-the-day. But the Song of Simeon is a beautiful, and short prayer that could be added to my day, even as I lay down.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to introduce more end-0f-day recounting and gratitude, possibly by simply praying the Song of Simeon. Frequently, by the end of the day, I’m tired, and have lost my sunny disposition. I want to eat dinner, and head to bed. But honestly, there isn’t a day that passes that something wonderful hasn’t happened, even if it is as simple as a good dinner, or no aches, or a good hug from my husband. I need to take a cue from Simeon and recognize God’s presence. The recognition of God’s presence alone should give me the ability to rest in peace, if I intentionally remember.
For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see:
A Light to enlighten the nations, and the glory of your people Israel.
Today, February 2, is the Feast of the Presentation. In ancient Jewish tradition, women were in semi-seclusion after birth, for 40 days. February 2 marks 40 days after Jesus’ birth, so it’s the day selected to commemorate when Mary and Joseph took Jesus to the Temple to be presented. When they arrived, the old man Simeon recites this song. He’s been waiting in the Temple for the savior, and upon Jesus’ arrival, says that he can now be released. He continues that the child will be a sign that many will oppose, because the inner thoughts of many will be revealed. Anna, an old female prophet was also in the temple that this time, and added her prophecy about Jesus, that he’d be the redemption of Jerusalem.
This story comes from the Gospel of Luke, the writer which speaks most to me. Luke is very attentive to the people and emotions and images, to all the concrete human things that would have happened to Jesus. I can vividly imagine Jesus and his family arriving at the temple. Mary would have been very young, and just coming from semi-seclusion after Jesus’ birth. I can imagine her squinting at the sunlight, and wandering in awe at the temple, and the whirlwind events since being informed she was going to give birth.
They arrive in the temple and the ancient Simeon and Anna affirm all of the wonderous things they’ve heard about their infant. Awe.
Many Christian traditions use Simeon’s words, known as the Nunc Dimittis, as a prayer for the end of things. It’s prayed in evening prayer, daily. Lord, you now have set your servant free to depart in peace. I have seen the savior. It’s a lovely way to end every day, remembering that we have seen the savior. This prayer, the Song of Simeon can also be offered at memorial services, again to remind us all that we have seen the savior, and now can rest in peace.
I am generally more of a morning-anticipate-the-day person, than an evening-recount-the-day. But the Song of Simeon is a beautiful, and short prayer that could be added to my day, even as I lay down.
This morning, I’m thinking about how to introduce more end-0f-day recounting and gratitude, possibly by simply praying the Song of Simeon. Frequently, by the end of the day, I’m tired, and have lost my sunny disposition. I want to eat dinner, and head to bed. But honestly, there isn’t a day that passes that something wonderful hasn’t happened, even if it is as simple as a good dinner, or no aches, or a good hug from my husband. I need to take a cue from Simeon and recognize God’s presence. The recognition of God’s presence alone should give me the ability to rest in peace, if I intentionally remember.
Saturday, February 1, 2020
Feb 1 2020 Matthew 6: 25-35
And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?
The birds of the air, the lilies of the field. Jesus is explaining that we are more beautiful, more beloved, more tended than these. Why worry?
I have heard that regret is uselessly fretting about the past, and worry is uselessly fretting about the future. In my head, I know this to be true. And yet, it’s hard not to worry, right?
In truth, I cannot do anything about the future, at least not for certain. I can try to frame things, or prepare things for a better possible future, but nothing’s guaranteed.
Yesterday, we got keys to our new home. In mid-December we hadn’t planned on moving from our fun, downtown apartment. But with blistering speed, we started our searched for a home, on January 1, and got the keys January 31. We’ll begin to move things in to our new home today, and we’ve got movers coming next Saturday for the rest.
Meanwhile, our sick loved one remains in the hospital, we think. They refuse to talk to us, but they’re communicating with the care team, who has let us know basic info. And by basic, I mean that we know where they are. No idea if/when/where they’ll be released. No idea how they’re doing, or whether they’ll seek us out once released.
In the world of big life stressors, I have a few running concurrently. And mostly, I don’t worry. But sometimes, in the middle of the night I roll over and start thinking about something. Wondering about another thing. Worrying about something. It definitely does not add one hour to my life. In fact, it removes an hour of perfectly good sleep.
If I really think about it, I’m not worried about finances, or the house, or even my loved one. Mostly. I think what’s hardest for me is the incredible uncertainty of my next week, next month, next year or next decade. My husband and I moved to Portland as part of a longer term plan to finish up our working careers, enjoy some fun downtown urban living, and then play. Now I’m not sure if our loved one will return, if they’ll need longer term care either with us or near us. I’m not sure how long we’ll be working, in the house, or in Portland.
I think it’s the lack of control about the future that’s most unsettling. But truly, even before this illness, I couldn’t ‘control’ the future. Any number of things could have derailed my tidy plan. This disruption is perhaps more extreme, uncertain, and, um, disruptive. I’m actually pretty good with dealing with things that come up, unexpected things. Even if I don’t like it.
This morning, I’m thinking about turning over my future days to God. As it turns out, I never was able to control or predict them; I just had a stronger illusion that I could. Now, it’s clear I cannot, and never could. There is freedom from not being in control, just like there’s freedom in being the passenger seat, compared to the driver’s seat of a car. Today, I need to remember that life is actually a little easer when I’m not in control. Especially when I consider that God’s in the driver seat. Worrying about the future, about my control of the future, or the certainty of my future is, in fact futile, and does not add a single hour to my life. Besides, I like my sleep.
The birds of the air, the lilies of the field. Jesus is explaining that we are more beautiful, more beloved, more tended than these. Why worry?
I have heard that regret is uselessly fretting about the past, and worry is uselessly fretting about the future. In my head, I know this to be true. And yet, it’s hard not to worry, right?
In truth, I cannot do anything about the future, at least not for certain. I can try to frame things, or prepare things for a better possible future, but nothing’s guaranteed.
Yesterday, we got keys to our new home. In mid-December we hadn’t planned on moving from our fun, downtown apartment. But with blistering speed, we started our searched for a home, on January 1, and got the keys January 31. We’ll begin to move things in to our new home today, and we’ve got movers coming next Saturday for the rest.
Meanwhile, our sick loved one remains in the hospital, we think. They refuse to talk to us, but they’re communicating with the care team, who has let us know basic info. And by basic, I mean that we know where they are. No idea if/when/where they’ll be released. No idea how they’re doing, or whether they’ll seek us out once released.
Additionally, a complaint has been lodged with the State that we abused our loved one, and we met with the investigator this week. They'll write up their report, sent it on to the State, and we'll hear something within 90 days.
In the world of big life stressors, I have a few running concurrently. And mostly, I don’t worry. But sometimes, in the middle of the night I roll over and start thinking about something. Wondering about another thing. Worrying about something. It definitely does not add one hour to my life. In fact, it removes an hour of perfectly good sleep.
If I really think about it, I’m not worried about finances, or the house, or even my loved one. Mostly. I think what’s hardest for me is the incredible uncertainty of my next week, next month, next year or next decade. My husband and I moved to Portland as part of a longer term plan to finish up our working careers, enjoy some fun downtown urban living, and then play. Now I’m not sure if our loved one will return, if they’ll need longer term care either with us or near us. I’m not sure how long we’ll be working, in the house, or in Portland.
I think it’s the lack of control about the future that’s most unsettling. But truly, even before this illness, I couldn’t ‘control’ the future. Any number of things could have derailed my tidy plan. This disruption is perhaps more extreme, uncertain, and, um, disruptive. I’m actually pretty good with dealing with things that come up, unexpected things. Even if I don’t like it.
This morning, I’m thinking about turning over my future days to God. As it turns out, I never was able to control or predict them; I just had a stronger illusion that I could. Now, it’s clear I cannot, and never could. There is freedom from not being in control, just like there’s freedom in being the passenger seat, compared to the driver’s seat of a car. Today, I need to remember that life is actually a little easer when I’m not in control. Especially when I consider that God’s in the driver seat. Worrying about the future, about my control of the future, or the certainty of my future is, in fact futile, and does not add a single hour to my life. Besides, I like my sleep.
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