Mar 30 2020 Exodus 4: 10-31

But he said, ‘O my Lord, please send someone else.’

Moses has taken his sandals off, seen the burning bush, and been asked by God to go speak freedom to the people, and release to Pharaoh. But Lord, he counters, I’ve never been eloquent with words. I’m slow of speech. God reminds Moses that it is God who gives speech, hearing. God will be with Moses as he speaks. But Moses persists. O my Lord, please send someone else. Seems a little cheeky, after all God has shown Moses.

And I’m glad he was. I’m glad we hear this story of a human interacting with God, protesting what God has asked. Of Moses feeling unsure at his ability to do what God’s asked him to do. I can relate. There are times when I wonder, like everyone else does at times, whether I’m equipped to do what I am being asked to do. I fully believe that with God’s help, I am equipped or will be equipped to do whatever’s supposed to be done.

But I differ from Moses in that I don’t immediately turn it into a prayer. O Lord, please let someone else do this. Rather, I will wallow in my sense of inadequacy, until I again remember that with God, I will handle whatever’s put in my way.

Even though Moses was slow of speech, I believe with God, he would have been equipped to handle what God was asking. But God, perhaps sensing Moses’ persistent sense of insecurity, sent Aaron with Moses to speak the words Moses heard from God. God responded to Moses’ prayer, sort of. God did not send someone else, but he sent Aaron to accompany Moses on his journey.

What if I prayed, instead of wallowed? I suspect one of two things would happen. Perhaps I would be sent my own personal Aaron, someone to accompany me on my journey. To do the parts I feel ill-equipped to do. If I think about it, I suspect I’ve already had instance where Aaron showed up, precisely at the right time. The mental health professional who showed extra compassion precisely when I needed it. The colleague who offered help or prayer. The friend who called.

I believe we can do all things through Christ. I may not accomplish the thing the way I originally hoped, but it will all be good with God, whatever the outcome. And sometimes God throws in some extra support, to ease my burden, or to provide bolstering.

The other thing that prayer instead of wallowing does is shorten the length of the wallowing. Simply by crying out to God, I’m reminded that God is with me, and that although I might not see the resolution, God does, and with God, I can muddle through.

This morning, I’m thinking about arming myself with some prayers to offer up, when I feel I’m ill-equipped, and need help. In prayer language, these are prayers of petition, prayers we ask on our own behalf. I tend to pray for others more, feeling selfish if I pray for myself. Writing that sentence makes me realize how ill-conceived that is. I’ll work on changing that self-talk! There are plenty of beautiful petitions that, in their utterance might provide a sense of calm. From our common prayer book:

Heavenly Father, you have promised to hear what we ask in the Name of your Son: Accept and fulfill our petitions, we pray, not as we ask in our ignorance, nor as we deserve in our sinfulness, but as you know and love us in your Son Jesus
Christ our Lord. Amen.

And sometimes, a simple easy to remember prayer is what is needed. A perfect such prayer is simply, help. That simple word acknowledges I’m not alone, and that I need God’s help. Credit to this prayer is due to Ann Lamott, author of the book, Help, Thanks, Wow – The Three Essential Prayers.

With this complicated life I’m in now, I believe I’ll work on arming myself with the simple essential prayers, particularly help. Today, I want to acknowledge where I’m feeling ill-equipped, offer up my petitions to God, and notice what happens, whether it’s a change in me, or Aaron comes strolling along.

Mar 29 2020 Romans 12: 1-21

Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’


Never avenge yourselves. It’s interesting. I’m pretty good at being non-judgmental. But avenge? I’m also pretty good at that, and I don’t think I’m supposed to be.

It’s not that I hold a grudge. Rather, if I’m doing something, and I know it’s right, but I’m charged with causing or allowing some problem, I have a deep desire to clear my name. I want others t know that I was right. I don’t come out and say, “I told you so”, but that’s probably my deep seated motivation. Or I want credit for having been right.

In the grand scheme of things, however, who cares if I’m right? And to be clear, my form of avenging isn’t the more obvious form of exacting retribution. My avenging is more insidious and invisible. I need to make sure they know I was right, which concurrently shows them they were wrong.

As it turns out, God can keep a much better scorecard than I ever could. I should leave the scorekeeping to God.

This morning, I’m thinking about leaving room for God in my great scorecard of life. I don’t need to show anyone else I’m good or did something correctly. I can see those behaviors. I’m not so good at seeing the times when I did something incorrectly or wasn’t good. And I certainly don’t point that behavior out to others. Best leave the accounting of my life to God. God can see it all. And God loves me regardless of whether I got it right.

Mar 28 2020 Exodus 2:23-3:15

Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.


Moses has been beckoned to the burning bush by God. Upon his arrival, Moses is told to take off his sandals, because the place he’s standing is holy. And so he does.

This morning, I’m thinking about holy ground: what it is, where it is, and how we can mark it as holy.

It seems to me that if any ground is holy, it all is holy. God is everywhere, and everything has been made holy, including the mountain top, my front stoop, the hospital floors, and the homeless encampments. And while I believe that, it doesn’t make sense to take my shoes off everywhere. It’s hard to always remember that every step I take is on holy ground. I wish I could remember that, and behave like that always. And because that is nearly impossible, I do appreciate the marking of specific places as holy. Not that they’re more holy than others, but they help me mark and remember that ground is holy.



So what places feel holy to me? I am reminded about holy ground in the traditional religious places – temples, synagogues, cathedrals, chapels. It’s as if the holy intentions of the visitors stays in the space. I also get a sense of holy ground when I’m in the beauty of nature. A panoramic vista, oceans, the majesty of mountains. Frequently, I feel that my kitchen is holy ground. I cook, feed and nurture my loved ones there.

The final place that nearly always feels like holy ground is in grimy, bustling service settings, being with people in need. Homeless shelters, feeding programs, hospitals. It’s not that the ground is majestic or holy intrinsically, but when I see the face of Christ in others, it’s obvious that the ground is holy. How could it not be holy ground, when Christ is so imminent and present in the faces of volunteers and clients alike?

We just moved from an apartment to a home in Portland. By the front door, there’s a built-in shoe rack. I have taken to removing my shoes and putting on slippers when I come in the door, and I’ve never been one to do that kind of thing before. It may have started for practical, don’t-track-dirt-in reasons, but I’ve grown to appreciate the marking of the space as different, as somehow special. I do get a sense that when I remove my outside gear, I’m entering a more holy space.

Holy ground is all around me. And today, I want to think of ways to identify and mark the ways that a particular ground is holy.

Mar 27 2020 Psalm 102

But you are always the same, and your years will never end.

The psalmist opens this lament with a plea that God hears his prayer, and that God does not hide his face. It’s a sorrowful psalm, with pitiful images. I am a sparrow, lonely on a house top. I lie awake and groan. My enemies revile me all day. I’ve mingled my drink with weeping. I whither like grass. Pitiful indeed.

In their own way, these are actually comforting words. When I’m in my own pity party, it’s nice to have someone join me. Not necessarily to fix anything, but to just join me in the mire. These lamenting psalms can do that for me. Even though I’m not actually sitting with the psalmist, reading their pitiful outlook provides some solace. Misery loves company.

The writer’s lament acknowledges that his days are numbered, as are the days of his enemies. But you, Lord, are always the same, and your years will never end. To me, that ending feels like a little bit like a last ditch effort at something positive. It’s almost out of context with the rest of the lament, but it demonstrates a steadfast faith that I want.

Maybe the psalmist doesn’t even feel that faith-filled. Maybe he just threw that sentence out as a ‘Hail Mary’. And maybe that’s ok.

Maybe I could learn from that part of the psalm. When everything is a mess, and I’m deep in my personal funk, maybe a single faith-filled sentence uttered could help. You Lord, are always the same, your years never end. It might be hard to feel that or see it, or even believe it. But perhaps professing something brings its truth a little closer.

In the midst of this pandemic and the continuing saga of my sick loved one, I wonder what my personal Hail Mary sentence might be. Scripture is full of pithy and meaningful sentences of hope.

This morning, I’m thinking about finding my own sentence of faith, to utter during my own lamentations. And while I’m at it, I’d like some good images, like the psalmist to describe just how pitiful I am. Laments are important. And so are strategies to get out of that dark place.

Mar 26 2020 I Corinthians 12:12-26

If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it.


Paul has just completed his analogy of the body of Christ to the human body. The human body needs eyes, ears, hands, feet. It needs parts that are visible, and parts that are invisible. Parts that are deemed beautiful, and parts that are not. All are needed. All are precisely what they are supposed to be, doing what they’re supposed to be doing. God values the bowel, as much as the face.

Paul concludes this analogy with a reminder that all are important, all should care for each other, because if one member suffers, all suffer. Sticking with the body analogy, we all know this to be true. When you have a tooth ache, nothing seems right. Or a headache. Or a broken toe.

Thinking about the body of Christ, of all of us humans, I wish this were more true. If one member suffers, I wish I had a more immediate pain or ache. If there are people suffering, and I don’t watch the news, or don’t read those stories, I can blithely continue on my day, without suffering at all.

But I believe Paul’s sentence to be true. From God’s viewpoint, if one of us is suffering, the whole human race suffers. We are not caring for each other, alleviating each other’s burdens.

So what do we do, when there is so much pain and suffering out there, and for the time being, we’re all stuck in our homes, riding out this pandemic? What do we do with all of those people we know don’t have homes, weathering this virus without beds, or soap, or the ability to maintain the recommended physical distances? What do we do, knowing of the people already fighting the virus, and their families? What about all of the pre-existing wrongs in the world? Illness, poverty, violence, corruption?

The pandemic has heightened my sense of impotence in dealing with this suffering; I cannot go out to do something, whatever that might be. But the truth is, even without house arrest, I feel like I couldn’t fix all the world’s suffering. True, I could do my little piece. And even stuck in my house, I could do my little piece. I could donate money to agencies serving the unhoused, I could make protective face masks.

But I alone cannot fix the brokenness. Maybe all of us together cannot either, even in the best of circumstances.

This morning, I’m thinking about how we should just be present and aware of the broken parts of the world. We should sit in solidarity with others who are hurting in their pain. We can do this, because God does this with us. There are times I’m in pain, and while praying doesn’t immediately lift my burdens, I know that God is present with me, sharing the burden. Maybe that’s what we are asked to do, is to just sit with others in their pain. Fix what we can, yes. But when we can do no more, be present with others in their brokenness Today, I will try to see and sit with someone else’s pain. When one member suffers, all suffer. Or at least we should.

Mar 25 2020 Feast of the Annunciation Luke 1:26-38

Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.

Today we celebrate the annunciation, or when God’s angel announces to Mary that she will be the Theotokos, or God bearer. It falls on March 25, precisely 9 months before we celebrate the Nativity. And much of the known world celebrated this day as New Year’s Day, from the 6th century until the 18th century. It wasn’t until the British empire adopted the Gregorian Calendar that our current January 1 New Year’s day was created, in the 1750’s. Before that, March 25 was the day that Christians marked as the new year. It all has to do with the feast of the Annunciation.

Mary, a very young Jewish woman is visited by the angel Gabriel. That alone is frightening, wouldn’t you think? The angel tells her she is to be the bearer of God’s son. Um, more frightening. But just how is that to happen, logistically, Mary asks. Don’t worry, the angel says. The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overpower you. What?? It’s not like Gabriel’s message is at all comforting, or that his explanation is pastoral. But in response, Mary says, Here am I, the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word. The story is that immediately after Mary’s assent, the Holy Spirit overcame her, and she was with God’s child. Wow.

This is why Christians celebrated March 25 as the marking of a new era; it commemorates a pivotal turning point in humanity’s understanding and interaction with God. For the faithful Jewish people, God was somewhere else, holy and majestic. Mary’s agreement to this weird plan was the beginning of God being with humanity, in humanity, in human form.

There are some who get hung up on celebrating Mary. To be clear, I don’t think Mary is God. But I do believe that without Mary’s agreement, my understanding and relationship with God would be very different. I am not fond of the Annunciation because of a Mary fetish, or because she is to be worshipped. Rather, she said yes. I celebrate the Annunciation because Mary, as another human being, is someone I can understand, or at least strive to model. After an extremely odd and frightening visit from an angel, Mary said yes to God. Yes, use me as you will. I worship Mary’s faith, and her absolute trust in God’s goodness. Mary had no idea how things were going to turn out. And as a mother, they didn’t turn out terribly well. I get weepy thinking about Good Friday from Mary’s perspective. It must have bene horrible to watch. But she did not know God’s plan, either on the Annunciation or Good Friday. She trusted God’s plan, whatever that was.

This morning, I’m thinking about how I can say yes to God’s mysterious plans for me. I don’t know how things are going to turn out. This pandemic drags on, and I have family and friends who’ve tested positive. My loved one remains in the hospital, and we’ve no idea how that will turn out. I want to have the faith to say, like Mary, let it be with me according to your word. I want to say Yes.

Mar 24 2020 Commemoration of Oscar Romero John 12:23-32

Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.

Oscar Romero was a Roman Catholic bishop in San Salvador. He fought against poverty, terror, and assassinations which were undertaken by the government leaders and funded by the US.

He was a fierce advocate of the rights of all, especially the least, the lost and the last. He wrote, “Those who surrender to the service of the poor through love of Christ, will live like the grains of wheat that dies. It only apparently dies. If it were not to die, it would remain a solitary grain. The harvest comes because of the grain that dies. We know that every effort to improve society, above all when society is so full of injustice and sin, is an effort that God blesses; that God wants; that God demands of us.”

It bears repeating. Every effort to improve society is an effort that God blesses and God demands of us. His understanding of God’s demands give me a greater understanding and appreciation of the analogy of being a grain of wheat, the appointed and appropriate reading for commemorating Oscar Romero. When the wheat grain is planted, it stops being a wheat grain. It effectively dies to its previous state. Instead, it becomes a harvest, producing many more wheat grains. This is what working for justice, working for God’s kingdom sometimes feels like. We are asked to sacrifice our current state. We don’t know what will come of our efforts. But we know we are asked to do something. God blesses that work, and good things come.

Another of his themes was that people come and go, priests and bishops may be killed. But the church, the people of God remain. He said, “If some day they take the radio station away from us, if they close down our newspaper, if they don’t let us speak, if they kill all the priests and the bishop too, and you are left, a people without priests, each one of you must be God’s microphone, each one of you must be a messenger, a prophet. The church will always exist as long as there is one baptized person. And that one baptized person who is left in the world is responsible before the world for holding aloft the banner of the Lord’s truth and of his divine justice.”

From a clergy/lay perspective, I’ve always believed this. The church is not the church leaders. It’s the people. But in these weird pandemic times, I think we need to remind ourselves that the Church is not the building. It is the people. As long as there is one baptized person left in the world, that person is responsible for holding the banner of the Lord’s truth and divine justice. We are the church.

He preached a sermon calling for the peaceful resistance and disobedience of soldiers that violated human rights. He knew he was living dangerously, but for the Gospel. In that sermon he said, ”You can tell the people that if they succeed in killing me, that I forgive and bless those who do it. Hopefully, they will realize they are wasting their time. A bishop will die, but the church of God, which is the people, will never perish.” The following day, he was shot to death while conducting a church service.

This morning, I’m thinking about being the Church. Our buildings may be shuttered, but now’s the time to remember the Church is not the building. We are the church. How, in the midst of this pandemic, can we be the church? While we can mourn the familiarity of our physical places, now we can be freed from that illusion that the building is Church. We are church. How are we going to respond? How are we going to work for God’s justice? Do we see that work as blessed by God? As demanded by God?

Mar 23 2020 Genesis 49: 1-28

All these are the twelve tribes of Israel, and this is what their father said to them when he blessed them, blessing each one of them with a suitable blessing.


We continue the long narrative of Jacob and his 12 sons. By now, Joseph has been through his technicolor drama, and Jacob is very old. He has run through each of his sons and offered them a blessing. To be clear, they weren’t all stellar. To his eldest son Reuben, he tells him he will no longer excel because of Reuben’s transgressions. Simon and Levi are denounced as angry, and Jacob curses their anger. Some of the blessings are neutral, just stating facts – Issachar is as strong as a donkey, Ascher shall provide royal delicacies, Gad shall be raided. Joseph and Judah receive the most positive blessings. But Jacob goes through each one and says something to each, fitting for each. He offers his blessing on his sons before his death.

Two years ago, I was honored to be present for my father-in-law’s death. Dying of terminal liver cancer and beset with challenges from mini-strokes, he opted to take advantage of Oregon’s death with dignity law, allowing terminal patients in sound mind, with at least two doctors’ consent to end their life, legally.

He arrived at my home with his wife of over 50 years. Because he had planned this, family had arrived from all over – four generations gathered in my kitchen. Before he died, he did the same thing that Jacob did – he offered his blessing on each of the family members in the room. To some grandchildren, he offered one last bit of advice, to others, to his children he offered his thanks for their particular contribution in his life.

It was a lovely time, with extended family and friends. It was a lovely way for him to pass on his parting wisdom, in a beautiful and poignant moment. And it was a moment afforded him because of the particular way he died. Many of us do not have the luxury of having that planned of a farewell party.

But that doesn’t mean we cannot offer our blessings. Maybe they aren’t our literal parting thoughts, but we can and I think should, offer others our thoughts and blessings, lest we get to a place where we cannot. I’m not talking about offering the negative or snotty things. Skip the curses. But if someone has been good to you, if you’ve learned from someone, if a particular action touched you, why not tell them?

This morning I’m thinking about Jacob’s blessings on his children, and how we could learn from this ancient story. We could take the time, especially now that many of us are confined to our homes, to write or call or even text someone and tell them how they’re a blessing to us, in specific ways. Today, I’m going to add some specific time in my day to think about the people in my life who are blessings, in big and little ways.

Mar 22 2020 John 9:1-41

He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.
I am guessing that it’s this sentence from Jesus that is at the root of so much crummy theology. Bad things happen, just so that Jesus can fix them. Children get sick, pandemics happen, just so we can see Jesus’ power and might. Bunk. I cannot imagine that God would purposefully inflict trouble for the sake of fixing that trouble.

This story of the blind beggar that Jesus heals comes form the Gospel of John, a book chock full of poetic language and imagery. Poetic language and imagery may be beautiful, but frequently I struggle to understand it because I’m so literal. Like this story.

People are asking Jesus who sinned, the man or his parents. In the God they understood, bad things when God is displeased by sin and bad things. Good things occur because God smiles on good behavior. And these judgments by God were passed down to children and children’s children. So it was a reasonable question – who sinned, this man or his parents? That’s how they understood God’s action in the world.

Jesus, in trying to dissuade them from this, explains that neither the parent or the child sinned. The man was born blind so God’s works might be revealed. The literalist in me, and in the Pharisees in the story hear it and think it’s about literally not being able to see.

But Jesus goes on to tell them that people who think they can see, remain blind, and those who do not see may see. The Pharisees respond literally to what they thought Jesus was literally saying. We surely are not blind! Jesus says that since they see, their sin remains.

So up until this point, Jesus was talking about seeing and not seeing. Vision and blindness. But now he’s thrown in sin. Ah! Obviously, he’s not talking about literally seeing. So if the punchline of the story is figurative, I’m guessing the intro is too. The figurative way to rephrase this story’s opener is something like, “This man was born blind because things happen. But because he’s literally blind, I can heal him, and teach you all something about grace, and God’s power, self-perception, and humility before God”

Jesus gave the man his sight, who’d previously been blind. The man knew he was blind because he literally could not see. If our blindness was as obvious as a lack of vision, we might know it too. But as it is, our blindness is much harder to recognize. We may not ever recognize it. But it’s there.

The Pharisees are either literalists who know they an see, or their proud and unaware of their own shortcomings and sin. They are blind to their conditions.

Jesus is saying that if they walk around thinking they can see everything, thinking they see clearly, they’ve lost that sense of humility, and the willingness to have God’s merciful power fix those parts they don’t even recognize are broken.

Jesus used the man with the physical blindness to teach about God’s ability to let us see, if we’re willing to admit we too are blind. We’re blind and we don’t even know it, just like the Pharisees.

This morning, I’m thinking about how it’s hard to acknowledge that we don’t see everything, don’t know everything. How easy it is to act and sound like the Pharisees. Surely I’m not blind! We want to be competent, and capable. We don’t like admitting we aren’t. But when a bad thing happens, whether it’s an illness or pandemic, or job problem, or family trouble, we quickly realize we don’t have everything handled. Through the problems, we ‘see’ our shortcomings, or at least that we can’t fix, solve, heal, everything. That’s God’s job.

The blindness in the man, or my shortcomings make me realize that God, not I, have the power to heal, and restore, and redeem. Through my blindness, I see.

Mar 21 2020 Psalm 90

So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.


It’s all over us. All of this fear and suffering. We’re just in the beginning, I fear, of this pandemic, and how we will be asked to respond. In my household, our son was effectively evicted from his dorm in one of the east coast hot spots. He couch surfed for a while, and landed in New York with his girlfriend. Now, he’s stuck in NY, although I suspect it’s not the worst place, as far as he’s concerned. A shelter-in-place order is likely coming in Portland, so we’ll be stuck. Meanwhile, our sick loved one remains in the hospital. The news is full of stories about the pandemic, its effects, dire warnings and talk of shortages.

And yet. This morning’s psalm reminds us to number our days. During this time of anxiety, that sounds a little ominous, but really, I believe it’s life affirming. During this time of pandemic, the reality of the fact that our days will, in fact, have a countable number, is more palpable. Of course our days are numbered. They’ve always been numbered. It’s not an onerous or scary thing; it’s a fact. The psalmist is reminding us to remember that it’s a finite number – enjoy the ones we have.

This reminds me of a book I recently read, When Breath Becomes Air, by Paul Kalanithi. He was a neurosurgeon, who developed terminal lung cancer as a very young, non-smoking, doctor. The book is his reflection of life and dying, and I found it deeply moving. One phrase he repeated was that “until I actually die, I am still living”.

Instead of being morbid, his simple mantra reminds that life is really a on/off, yes/no, either/or proposition. Unless I am dead, I am fully alive. It’s only my frenetic mind and a panicked country that add shades of gray. I’m living, but I’m stuck in my house… I’m living, but I’m worried. . No. There’s no But. I’m living.

Teach me to number my days. The days I’m alive, and l can love, and be loved. Until I die, I am alive.

This morning, I’m thinking about what a tragedy it is that we allow worry to diminish or conditionalize our aliveness. Today, I want to think about numbering my days, not because I have an eerie sense of doom, but because I want to remember that I am fully, entirely, unconditionally alive. I want to live like that for those numbered days, regardless of what’s happening in my house or in my world.

Mar 20 2020 Prayer of Self Dedication

Almighty and eternal God,
so draw our hearts to you,
so guide our minds,
so fill our imaginations,
so control our wills,
that we may be wholly yours,
utterly dedicated unto you;
and then use us, we pray you, as you will,
and always to your glory and the welfare of your people;
through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.


What a weird week. Weird Lent. Weird time. I have completed my first week, working remotely due to social isolation recommendations in light of this pandemic. The Governor has issued executive orders closing public schools through April, closing higher education, banning gatherings more than 25, and closing all restaurants, coffee shops and bars. She’s also advised that any gathering that includes more than 10 people in a vulnerable population, including anyone over 60, be cancelled. That’s pretty much every church service anywhere.

As a result of those recommendations, our bishop has said that there can be no public or corporate worship through mid-April. For the first time ever, or at least the first time in anyone’s memory, there will be no Palm Sunday procession. No Maundy Thursday foot washing. No Easter Sunrise Service.

People are reeling. People who were already feeling isolated, holding their breath during this weird time, were waiting for Easter to collectively exhale. My clergy colleagues were equally waiting to exhale, and do what they love, what God’s called them to do.

Meanwhile my sick loved one remains hospitalized. Unlike previous hospitalizations, however, this time they are working on finding alternative housing. Given their intense dissatisfaction at my home, it’s a good thing. My husband and I are holding our breath, waiting to see what’s going to happen with that.

As a family, community, country, world, we’re all holding our breath, not sure what’s coming next. But we know – at least in the Episcopal Diocese of Oregon – we won’t be able to enjoy the fellowship and joy of Easter together.

So what to do?

As it turned out, Jesus did not leave buildings, or denominations, or even wonderful, worshipful, fellowship. Jesus left a motley crew of followers. They were probably afraid, without his presence. They were in strange places doing things they’d not done before.

This morning, I’m thinking about those first disciples, they probably could have lived just fine within the weird times we have now. They would not have worried that they couldn’t stop at the coffee shop. That they couldn’t gather in more than 25. They probably wouldn’t have worried that Easter services were cancelled. They would have gone about their work of loving God and serving God’s people.

One of the prayers we include in Morning Prayer is this prayer of self-dedication. If this prayer had a musical setting, I imagine that the first parts, so draw our hearts, so guide our minds, so control our wills, would be a beautiful swelling anticipation bit, that then resolves with ‘that we may be wholly yours’ and gently resolves and concludes with ‘then use us, we pray you, as you will’.

Today, I’m thinking about how to be utterly dedicated to God. About praying that God draws my heart, guides my mind, fills my imagination, controls my will, that I know I am wholly God’s and used for the welfare of God’s people. None of that is dependent on corporate worship, or on whatever the next few weeks hold. Today, I want to work on being able to exhale this long-held breath.

Mar 19 2020 Matthew 1: 18-25

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way.

So here we sit in the midst of Lent, in the midst of this pandemic, and in the appointed readings for Morning Prayer, we hear about the birth of Jesus. My first reaction was, “Really? Now?”

And yes. Really. Now. Now more than ever. To protect the least among us, we are self-isolating. We are drastically changing the way we worship. Our Lenten discipline has all of a sudden gotten very real. What are you giving up for Lent? Community. Church. Togetherness. Tough stuff. A Lenten spiritual practice is designed to bring you closer to God, better understand yourself and your relationship with God. It’s not about giving up chocolate, or something we want to give up.

So we give up corporate worship, and fellowship. How in the middle of that can we find good news?

Because Jesus came in the middle of the night, to a homeless refugee in a strange land, in their barn. Jesus knew darkness, and hard things. Think about how his earthly life ended! But Jesus was the ultimate of light. He brought light wherever he went, whatever he did. He was able to be loving, and merciful, even in horrid situations. From the cross, he prayed, Forgive them Lord. They know not what they do.

As incongruous as Jesus’ birth narrative is in these dark times, we need it. Especially because of these dark times. Darkness cannot overpower the light.

This morning, I’m thinking about God coming into the dark world in the form of a helpless infant. We need to remember Jesus’ life, how it wasn’t all roses and sunshine. And we need to remember that through Jesus, God brought unbelievable and yet very relatable light and mercy and love.

Today, I hope to reflect some of that light, in these weird times.

Mar 16 2020 Mark 5:21-43

'Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’

Jesus is on his way to heal Jairus’ daughter. On his way, a woman who’s been hemorrhaging for twelve years works her way through the crowd to Jesus. She believes that if she just touches his cloak she’ll be healed. So she does. An interesting detail in the story is that Jesus feels that the power goes out of him at that moment, and looks around to see who’s touched him. With the crowds pressing in, the disciples remind him it would be difficult to spot just one person who touched him.

The woman comes forward and identifies herself as the one who touched Jesus, falling at his feet, in fear and trembling. In response, Jesus explains that her faith has healed her. Jesus continues on to heal Jarius’ daughter too.

Here we have another one of Jesus’ healing story. It’s a challenging time in the world and in my house to read two more accounts of Jesus’ miraculous healing. This pandemic is gripping our town, nation and world. In Italy, the decision has been made to simply not treat people over 80 years old, because the system is so overwhelmed. And while the death toll is mounting, the economic and community costs are perhaps greater. Restaurants are being forced to close, events, and gatherings of the faithful all cancelled. Small businesses, those on the financial edge, and the people who work there will struggle to recover after weeks or months of forced closure. The same is true for faith communities.

In my home, my loved one is back in the hospital to be evaluated and stabilized this week, during which time, professionals will decide what’s next. Meanwhile, those same professionals are dealing with the pandemic on a professional and personal level.

Where’s Jesus in all of this misery? Have we deserved this? Are we not praying hard enough? Or worse, have we done something – individually or collectively – to deserve God’s wrath or apathy?

Those are questions it’s hard not to ask, when you look around. Asking them makes me feel like the psalmist, who was lamenting and railing at God. I can imagine the psalmist shaking a fist at God. I can imagine me shaking a fist at God.

And once I’ve done that, I come back to the place of a certain knowledge that God is with us. God is with the ill and dying. Like the hemorrhaging woman who comes in fear, God is with us in our fear and trembling. Even when we laugh like the people around Jairus’ daughter at Jesus’ proclamation that she’s just sleeping, God is with us.

As certain as I am that God is with us, I’m also certain that we did nothing to deserve this. God isn’t apathetic or wrathful. We aren’t insufficient in our prayer. This pandemic or my loved one’s illness isn’t my fault, and definitely does not prove God’s impotence. God is with me. God is with the dying. God is with the fearful. God is with my loved one.

Looking back at what Jesus said to the hemorrhaging woman, I’m struck at what he said. Your faith has made you well. He did not say you are cured of the disease. She was made well. Perhaps with our faith, we can be made well – not cured, but freed from the fear and anger and sense of abandonment.

Then Jesus tells her to go in peace. He says this to a woman who minutes before came to him in fear and trembling. Jesus is talking about healing that part of her – the part that was fearful and trembling. ‘Go in peace’ isn’t about hemorrhages, it’s about her fear. He speaks to her outlook and perceptions. Go in peace.

This morning, I’m thinking about all of us in fear and trembling. I’m thinking about shaking my fist at God, asking where is God now. And mostly, I’m thinking about Jesus’ response about faith, and peace. That’s what we all need now. Faith. And then we need to go in peace.

Mar 15 2020 John 4:5-42

"Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.”

Jesus has come upon the Samaritan woman at the well. She was not only a nameless nobody, she was seen as the enemy, by being a Samaritan. Jesus asks her for water, and eventually tells her that he is the living water. In her incredulous moments, she asks about the differences in the ways of worship – with the Samaritans worshipping on the mountain where their ancestors worshipped, versus in Jerusalem at the Temple, as the Jews argued was the right place to worship.

Jesus responds that the hour is coming where you’ll worship the Father neither on the mountain nor in Jerusalem. Hmm. Sounds like the next few weeks, as people of faith are finding their church buildings closed.

Perhaps we are experiencing a course correction, where we’ve become overly attached to our churches – our modern day temples. Jesus was saying we don’t need to go to the Temple to worship God. That still holds true. There is plenty of opportunities to worship and serve God in these fearful and isolated times. Do something nice for the police, grocery store workers, health care workers. Throw up a prayer of gratitude for U-Haul that’s providing 30 days free storage for college students abruptly found turned out of their dorms. Or local restaurants that are providing free lunch for children without access to school lunches.

I will encounter several of those folks today. Last night, our loved one somehow ended up in police custody, and transported to a hospital, long after we’d gone to bed. We talked to the police after midnight, and will today figure out where they are and what’s next. These people all don’t have a choice. They can’t socially isolate. They do their job, to keep the rest of us safe.

This morning, I’m thinking about worshipping God in the places I can and the places I can’t. Churches have shuttered their doors, to discourage the gatherings which spread this deadly virus. Meanwhile, I’ll worship God at the grocery line and the hospital waiting room. I’ll see God’s face in the haggard restocking clerks, and police, and receptionist. Getting out of our modern day temples forces us to seek and see God all around us. I’m pretty sure that’s what we’re supposed to do anyway. Hmm. Maybe I’ll stock up on coffee gift cards today.

Mar 13 2020 Mark 4:35-41

He said to them, ‘Why are you afraid?

[I have some new followers that came by way of my sick loved one's social media presence. To you, thank you for stopping by. This is a place where I reflect on my faith tradition's practice of daily scripture reading in the morning. Sometimes my reflections veer into my personal world. My intent has never been to expose anyone, or share secrets or stories that are not mine. Rather, I find that when I pray and reflect on Scripture, real life is how it relates in my world. Please respect my loved one's privacy, and my faith practice here. I hope you find peace and God's grace. And share..]

When praying the assigned Morning Prayer readings, there is a reading from the Gospel every day. With the brevity of the Gospels, and the repetition of some of the stories, some stories seem to crop up very often. Or maybe I just remember reflecting on the last time a particular story came up. Today is one of those days.

Jesus and his disciples are in the boat, heading over to the other side of the lake, which in Jesus’ time, was similar to heading over to the other side of the tracks. A big storm comes up and their little boat is tossed about. Meanwhile Jesus is asleep in the front of the boat. The disciples are afraid and awaken him. With his command, he calms the storm, and then turns to the disciples and asks why they’re afraid. Um, I can think of many reasons..

I have returned from my conference on the other side of the country, with people from all over the country. To get there, we probably travelled through most major airports, and came into contact with thousands of people. Upon our departure, three of our members got sick, and were tested for CoviD-19. It turns out they all had the Flu A. Another member works closely with someone who did test positive for CoviD. Our last action on the Board of Directors was to talk about a communication plan in case anyone from our group tested positive. If that occurs, all of us, and everyone we travelled with should, according to the CDC self-quarantine.

Upon returning, I was thrown in to similar planning and communicating in my job – what do we do, what should churches do, what about us as employees? The second day back, I awoke to a scratchy throat, stuffed up head, and tight chest. For an abundance of caution, I stayed home yesterday, and will again today. I’m nearly certain it’s just that malaise that happens from airline travel and 3 hours time difference. But I’m only nearly certain. Not certain certain. So I’ll work from home today.

Meanwhile, my sick loved one is increasingly agitated and unhappy.

So today’s reading is fitting. Why am I afraid? Why are we as a country or world afraid? For one reason, we are facing a pandemic that hasn’t been seen in our lifetime. For another, I have no certainty about my sick loved one’s future.

This morning, I’m thinking about how are we – facing such uncertainty – supposed to loose the fear that’s gripping us?

There’s nothing about faith in God that lessens the uncertainty, or immunizes me from bad things. There’s nothing about faith that assures me and my loved ones will escape unscathed from this pandemic, or that my loved one’s future will be rosy.

But what faith gives me is something to hold on to today, a certainty that I am loved and that God’s providential mercy will be with me all day. Today, I will deal with whatever comes up. I also have a certainty that when tomorrow comes, the same will be true. I will deal, and I am loved. Jesus is telling his disciples and is telling us not to worry about tomorrow. Don’t worry about the storm, CoviD, illness.

Today, I am glad some of these stories from Jesus come up frequently. Today, I need to be reminded that fear is not what I am ever called to. Today, I will deal with whatever comes my way. Today, I am loved. Tomorrow, it will be true again.

Mar 8 2020 – Suffrages

Give peace, O Lord, in all the world;
For only in you can we live in safety.


I’m at a conference of fellow archdeacons and deacon leaders. It’s a wonderful group of people, and we’re sharing ways to do this work from peers from Maine, Florida, Iowa, Montana, Arizona, Washington, and everywhere in between. It’s interesting how much is the same across the country, and how much diversity there is. For example, we struggle sometimes in Oregon to overcome distances for events. It’s great to learn from Montana, who has even greater distances.

Tne of the interesting things about this week is that we gather for worship, and we’re all trying to figure out how to address the reality and fears of the corona virus. As a community that traditionally shares a common cup at Eucharist, the struggle is real. There is conflicting reports about best practices, and there are differing degrees of anxiety about it.

We’ve come up with some norms or protocols that reduce the risk of infection and the associated anxiety.

This morning, I’m thinking about how to approach this outbreak as a person of faith. I definitely don’t want to do anything that increase the risk of exposure, especially when we don’t know the severity. I don’t want to minimize anyone else’s anxiety. And at the same time, I don’t want to behave or talk in a way that increases the anxiety.

The sentence I’m reflecting on today, is from a call and response portion of Morning Prayer, repeated every morning. The person leading the prayers says, Give peace, O Lord, in all the world. We respond, For only in you can we live in safety. This is how I think I’m seeing this outbreak. If I were to live with the fear and anxiety of some, I would not be living in safety. My head would be swimming with dire thoughts. To be clear, I’m not suggesting God will protect me from catching or spreading this virus. But I want to live in safety. Worrying about this isn’t going to do anything other than make me feel less safe. It will not change my exposure or risk. Worrying about other people’s behavior or hand washing isn’t going to do anything other than make me feel less safe.

I’m not suggesting this isn’t a real threat. But I absolutely believe that if I keep my eyes focused on God’s peace, I will be more peaceful. I will feel safer. Give peace, o Lord, in all the world.

It’s a fine line between keeping my eyes focused on God, and being in denial about this outbreak. God will not protect me from illness. My faith will not immunize me or my loved ones. But I fully believe that God’s peace can calm the anxiety, which will increase all of our safety. Today, I want to share God’s peace in any way I can. For only in You can we live in safety.

Mar 7 2020 Mark 2:23 – 3:6

He looked around at them with anger; he was grieved at their hardness of heart and said to the man, ‘Stretch out your hand.’


[I have some new followers that came by way of my sick loved one's social media presence. To you, thank you for stopping by. This is a place where I reflect on my faith tradition's practice of daily scripture reading in the morning. Sometimes my reflections veer into my personal world. My intent has never been to expose anyone, or share secrets or stories that are not mine. Rather, I find that when I pray and reflect on Scripture, real life is how it relates in my world. Please respect my loved one's privacy, and my faith practice here. I hope you find peace and God's grace. And share..]

This is not your average Sunday School Jesus. He looked around with anger. I don’t like the thought that God-made-man was angry. I’d prefer saddened. But here it is, Jesus looked around with anger.

He’s just been chastised by the Pharisees, the ultra Orthodox Jews, for doing something on the sabbath.To this day, there are Orthodox Jews who keep a very holy Sabbath, without lightbulbs, or cars, or work. In our overly busy world, there is something appealing about truly keeping sabbath. And of course, Moses called for a holy sabbath, so the Pharisees were living by what they believed was the law of Moses.

So why was Jesus first chastised, and then angered? Was he just demonstrating relativism, where rules count. . . until they don’t? As someone who’s great at making, remembering, keeping and enforcing rules, I’d probably make a great Pharisee, and would probably do something that would anger God-man.

Maybe it’s not a sense of relativism, as much as it is simplification, and priorities. Instead of the Ten Commandments or the resulting dozens of rules in Leviticus, Jesus is again boiling God’s law down to the simplest, purest form. Love God. Love your Neighbor. Maybe the rules of the Pharisees were initially created to absolutely help them Love God. But over time, keeping the sabbath holy became an ends, not a means. It had turned into the destination, as opposed to the journey. The Pharisees were keeping the sabbath holy, at the expense of Loving God and Loving Neighbor.

As someone who’s good at rule making and rule keeping, I need to always keep my eye on the true destination, Love God and Love Neighbor.

I’m spending about a week with a group of lovely people, who function in their ministry as coordinators and administrators and advisors for deacons in their communities, as I do in mine. One of the things about Loving your Neighbor is that sometimes I’m the neighbor being loved. That is definitely happening this week. And although it’s humbling, and not my normal stance, I am so grateful to be carried through this week by these people, loving me. Things at my home are complicated and challenging, so I nearly didn’t come to this archdeacon conference. But I’m glad I did.

This morning I’m thinking about the reciprocity of Love your Neighbor. I normally get a great deal of joy, perhaps more than anything else, from Loving my Neighbor, from actively helping, empathizing, sitting with a fellow child of God. This week, I am feeling the object of that love from my peers.

Today, I pray to be able to keep Jesus’ simple commandment front and center. Love God. Love my neighbor. I want to strip my days from the rules and practices that don’t serve that. I want to think about adding things to my life that would help me. And especially this week, I want to bathe in the love from my neighbors.

Mar 6 2020 - something different for morning prayer

Mar 4 2020 Mark 1:29-34

In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.

We are still in the first chapter of Mark, and Jesus has had a very busy time, healing Simon’s mother-in-law of a fever, and because of that wonderous act, the whole town crowded around the door, and he healed many of them too. It’s no wonder that after this busy night, Jesus steals off, while it was still dark, to a deserted place to pray.

I’m not sure if it’s the drama in my home life, or a natural result of aging, but I’m increasingly ready to steal off to a deserted place, while it is very dark, to pray. Recently I saw a video about a group of cloistered nuns who sing beautiful music. Other than the very infrequent medical appointments, they don’t leave the monastery. Instead, they milk cows, tend gardens, make cheese, eat their meals all in silence. Except when they’re singing their sacred music, which they do 4 hours a day. I thought it looked wonderful. Here I am Lord, Send me.

And while I’m not really going to run off to a monastery, that sense of silence, stillness, and devotion is increasingly appealing. My morning time of prayer and reflection has become a version of Jesus running off to a deserted place to pray.

Thinking about Jesus’ days before his escape, he was very very busy, and there were many demands on him. He did things he loved, for people he loved. And yet he needed his peaceful, prayerful time away. He needed to retreat. He needed a retreat.

This morning, I’m thinking about how to build in mini-retreats in to my day. The more frenetic my days and nights are, the more the convent looks appealing. The more the convent looks appealing, the more I need to figure out how to find a place to pause during my day.

I have absolutely no excuse not to find such time. I work in an old, beautiful house, on acres of even more beautiful gardens. The flowers are beginning to come out, and I can see the garden from my desk window. I can see the wonderful stone altar that’s in the garden, where we have Eucharist in August. In the building, there’s a quiet, peaceful and beautiful chapel, where we have Morning Prayer or Eucharist five days a week. Even when we’re not in corporate prayer, the chapel is always open, and inviting. I’ve got numerous places where I can steal away, be still, and pray.

Today, I want to build in more of those times. Today, I need to build in more of those.

Mar 3 2020 1 Corinthians 1: 20-31

God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise;

God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong;

God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are,

Paul is laying out the new economy of God. Where the world values strength and power, and wisdom, and possessions, God does not. Not only are these things not valued by God, God uses the exact opposite in wonderful and mysterious ways to show that. Jesus, a man captured, tortured and killed, is the one we call Savior. To the world’s standards, Jesus was a loser, not a winner.

It’s ironic how we still value the things Jesus wasn’t. He wasn’t wealthy. He didn’t have military power, or strength. He didn’t have possessions. But we mortals continue to place value on these things, on knowledge and wisdom, power and strength, and possessions. This is true around the world, but perhaps no more true than in our country. We are exceedingly attached to our possessions. We value knowledge, power and wealth.

I’m not sure that these things are inherently bad, but rather our striving for them becomes bad. They become the idols we are commanded not to place before God. When do I make a choice to value financial security over God? Or possessions? Or comfort?

We can hear these words of Paul and believe them. We can cognitively know they’re true. God chose what is weak to shame the strong. But while assenting to that, we seek strength.

This morning, I’m thinking about professing one thing about God, and doing the opposite. About how I can believe, then behave, then act in a way that is entirely consistent with what I know God seeks in this world. I want to spot those places where this is not the case. Where I seek strength, and wisdom, and power, and possessions, and I want to ask what I’m really gaining from that search.

Mar 2 2020 Mark 1: 1-13

And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness

Mark doesn’t waste any time. In the first 13 verses of Mark, we hear about John the Baptist, coming to prepare the way, about Jesus’ arrival, and baptism by John, about the dove-like appearance of the Sprit, and the voice from heaven saying, “You are my son, the beloved, with you I am well pleased, and finally about Jesus’ hasty retreat to the wilderness, where he’s tempted by Satan, and angels waited on him. A lot happens in this brief section.

Today, I’m thinking about Jesus immediately being driven out into the wilderness by the Sprit. In my world, I don’t get the sense that the Sprit does anything warranting the word ‘immediately’. The nudgings I sense from the Spirit are gentle, and sometimes hard to even notice.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m less open to the voice and calling of the Spirit. For example, if I got the sense that the Spirit was calling me to 40 days in the wilderness, I’m sure I’d second guess that message. Maybe it was something I ate. Or maybe I mis-heard. My mortal, practical brain would definitely weigh in, if I got a sense of a spiritual call that didn’t seem to make sense.

It’s unlikely that I would be called into the wilderness for 40 days. But what has the spirit called me to do, to be? What have I talked my way out of, because it didn’t jive with my understanding of my world? There are many places in my life where it seemed like there was a split in the road. Did I listen to the Spirit?

I don’t know, and I’m not worried about it, because I believe God looks at my life, at my choices, and says, “Hmm. I can work with that” (a concept I heard in a sermon once).

But I do want to live more attentively to what the Spirit is calling me to do. That requires a level of stillness and discernment that I constantly need to practice.

Mar 1 2020 John 12: 44-50

I have come as light into the world, so that everyone who believes in me should not remain in the darkness.
Yesterday, I had the great honor to spend the day with colleagues in ministry. Some are currently deacons, one was a priest, and the rest are studying and practicing to become ordained deacons. We spent the day talking about Holy Week, the week before Easter. As a deacon, Holy Week is a spectacular, and exhausting time.

It starts with Palm Sunday, commemorating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, complete with the excited crowds who line the road with vegetation. Never mind that they were excited because they thought he was going to kick the occupying Romans to the curb, with great military power.

The week continues with what we call Maundy Thursday, Maundy coming from the root word from which we get mandate, or commandment. That night commemorates the night Jesus gave his new commandment, an there is traditionally a foot washing. As Jesus said, because I have washed your feet, so you should wash others’.

Good Friday is a day deep sorrow, as we read through an enactment of Jesus’ betrayal, capture, trial, torture, and execution.

Then comes Saturday, where many hold a vigil. The service begins with a new fire being built, and a big candle lit from that fire, and carried into the darkened church. If there is a deacon at the church, the deacon carries in the new fire chanting, “The Light of Christ”, and the community responds, “Thanks be to God”. This is repeated until the deacon is at the front of the dark church. The candle is placed in a holder, and remains lit and in the front of the church throughout the Easter season, as a symbol of Christ’s light.

Then the deacon chants an ancient and haunting song, that lasts nearly 5 minutes. Picking some of the highlights:

Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels.

This is the night you brought the people out of Egypt.

This is the night when all who believe in Christ are delivered from the gloom of sin.

This is the night when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.

How holy is this night, when wickedness is put to flight, and sins are washed away. It restores innocence to the fallen, and joy to those who mourn.

It casts out pride and hatred, and brings peace and concord.

How blessed is this night when earth and heaven are joined and man is reconciled to God.

In many places and throughout history, the Great Easter Vigil is a bigger deal than Easter morning. Because of the prominent, historical role of the deacon to be the one to bring in the Light of Christ, and proclaim this hymn of gratitude and salvation, it remains a highlight for many deacons.

Our training yesterday reviewed some of the richness and history of this ancient hymn, and we had the opportunity to practice. One of the things that was stressed is that we stand in for Christ, bringing the light into the darkened people, which is a humbling experience.

It’s no wonder that this phrase from John struck me this morning. Christ is able to shed light into the darkness of our lives. And it doesn’t take much light to lighten things up. I’ve read that if the earth’s curve didn’t get in the way, you could see a candle flicker from 30 miles in the darkness. If that is true, than to have even a slight flickering faith in Christ should illumine our bodies, and beyond.

That’s the beauty of God’s gift of faith. Just a little bit in me, dispels the darkness in me. And hopefully spills out a little beyond me, to lighten a little bit beyond me. Likewise, a little bit of faith in someone else, dispels their darkness, and spills out, and dispels a little bit of mine.

This morning, I’m thinking about the light that dispels darkness, how to carry it at the Great Vigil, and beyond.