Was It Worth It? A Mary Meditation (Part 1)

A woman gives birth after hours that seem like days passing into night.  A friend who had been by her side throughout the ordeal looks upon her and asks was it worth it?  

The woman understands the question, yet is surprised by it, by her friend’s ignorance.  How can her friend not know?  How can she not see? 

Oh yes, she answers smiling through the pain.  Yes.  It was worth it.

The woman clutches the child to her just a little tighter, as if to protect him from all the doubts and fears that have led up to this single moment in their time.

The woman has no idea what will come for this little person entrusted to her.  But in that single instant when mother and child meet face to face for the first time, doubt and fear are replaced by the single polestar that will guide their lives together: love.

In the days turning to weeks and months and years to come . . . the long nights of worry and the days leaching into old age, the question will come back to her.  The facts of a lifetime will change, the texture of the real life of the child she bore will take the place of the life she imagined for him.  

Yet her answer remains always the same: Oh yes.  Yes.  It was worth it.

The friend’s question was driven not by mere curiosity.  It was driven by a genuine desire to know what she herself had not experienced: how could it be ‘worth it’ to go through what the woman had borne?  How could any woman desire this travesty to her body?  How was it possible that what looked to the friend like torture would produce what she saw on her friend’s face?  For where the friend saw only fear and heartache and pain, the woman saw . . . felt . . . embodied . . . joy, the joy born of love.

So it has been from the beginning of time, as women have given birth and bystanders have wondered that they would.

So it was for the woman.  So it was for Mary.

Imagine, then, Mary, not as the young woman to whom Gabriel appeared, but as an old woman having outlived her son who was publicly executed by the Roman Empire, pondering in her heart all that had happened before, being asked by strangers and friends alike whether it was worth it.

As recorded in the first chapter of Luke’s gospel, she would remember the words of the angel Gabriel, spoken to her when she was little more than a child herself:

The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.  And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.  He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David.  He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

An old woman now, she will remember her question to the angel – how would this be possible?  And in the face of the angel’s response:  For nothing will be impossible with God, she recalls her own words, her own blind, naive-sounding faith:   Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.

Looking at her own wrinkled hands, pondering that her son, the beloved of her heart, did not live long enough to be so marked by time, she thinks on the promise of his greatness, his ascension to David’s own throne and wonders where the never-ending kingdom went to.

She laughs at her own naivete and considers how God’s ways never look the way her people think it will.  She is gentle with her many visitors, especially with the mothers who themselves have lost sons.

She knows the cost and no words need be spoken between them as she and they simply sit together in the silence of their shared experience and sorrow.

When it is time for them, these visiting mothers of sorrow, to leave her, she takes their hands and offers her own silent blessing and comfort.

Advent4: Hope for the Ravaged

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,

    because the Lord has anointed me;*

Can a baby-in-waiting be anointed?  Can greatness reside in a mother’s belly?  Where do babies come from?  The imaginations of their parents?  Or, rather, the imagination of God?  

he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,

    to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives,

    and release to the prisoners;

When Dr. King read Isaiah, he saw hope for the oppressor as well as the oppressed.  I wonder, do I?  Do I see hope for those who seem to have it all?  For the bad actor among us, within me?  And what of the prisoners who so richly deserve their captivity?  Are they released?  Is there liberty for them?  I do so surely hope, for in their captivity is mine; in their release is my liberty.

 to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,

    and the day of vengeance of our God;

    to comfort all who mourn;

 to provide for those who mourn in Zion—

    to give them a garland instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness instead of mourning,

    the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit.

The year of the Lord’s favor . . . oh, Lord, for but a day, an hour, a moment, resting in your favor, surely a king would render up a kingdom . . . surely we would render up all else . . . surely we would . . . wouldn’t we?  And yet I am still moved to ask where joy, where hope in the day of your vengeance?  It is not a prayer I, not oppressed, not captive, can pray, for who on the receiving end of your vengeance would seek it?  Not I.  Nay – my gladness must reside in your mercy, your tender forgiving side – there does my hope reside, for I have no right to claim your vengeance, I on the side of the oppressive ones, can find no comfort there.

They will be called oaks of righteousness,

    the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.

Oh to be of your garden, to stand fast as a tree planted by you, to point heavenward with my arms as my call – what wondrousness is this, the privilege of proclaiming your glory with my life – would that it were so.

 They shall build up the ancient ruins,

    they shall raise up the former devastations;

they shall repair the ruined cities,

    the devastations of many generations.

Here, then, the promise, the crop yield, the fruit plucked . . . glorying you do the weak ones, the captive ones, the oppressed ones, come into their own, these rebuilders of cities, these redeemers of the ravaged – themselves formerly the ravaged ones . . . and ruined cities and generations worth of devastating destruction will be not erased but repaired . . . 

and Chernobyl will be repeopled . . . and Zaporozhiya will be no threat . . . and Nagasaki and Hiroshima will flourish . . . and Dresden and London, Pompeii and Antigua, Lisbon and San Francisco, Baghdad and Berlin, Ferguson and Ninevah testify to the truth of your promise and former devastations and ancient ruins will resurrect

and the challenge will be, the challenge is, that we, your people, your creation, see your power in the works of our hands as well as yours . . . that we, your people, your creation, strive towards raising up, not tearing down . . . that we, your people, your creation, dare to dream your cities in the beauty of the nights of our own destruction. . . and hope.

Luke 4.16-21

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*Isaiah 61.1-4

Advent3: A Mother’s Lament for the Children that Never Were

I am an old woman named after my mother

My old man is another child that's grown old

If dreams were lightning thunder was desire

This old house would have burnt down a long time ago*

I am an old woman . . . have been for a long time now . . . so long that if a baby came my way, I’d Sarah-laugh in God’s face.  Babies are for the young.  And I haven’t been young since, well, I can’t even remember, now, can I?

And whenever I’m tempted to forget just how old I am, I get a look at my old man . . . now there’s a face worn by time.  I do love the old coot, but where did all those wrinkles and folds and creases come from?  I wish I remembered.

We had so many dreams . . . all with child faces . . . our house would be overrun with them.  No children came, and so our dreams died.

Make me an angel that flies from Montgom'ry

Make me a poster of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go*

I don’t have much left to hold on to. . . without the babies I should have had, life is just too hard.  

How is it, I sometimes wonder (although not so much anymore), that I can see their faces, know their lives, these little people of our loins who never were?  Where, oh where, are my babies?  How I wish I knew.  Did they find other homes?  Better mothers?  Oh Lord, why give me this longing to never be fulfilled?  I never thought you a cruel God . . . until now.

I am an old woman. . . have been for a long time now. . . the children of others tease me with their smiling, winning ways . . . I reach out my arms for them only to have mothers scoop them out from under me . . . and no, Lord, I would not laugh . . . I am not Sarah . . . I am Elizabeth – satisfaction of God . . . well, Lord, you may be satisfied with me, but I am far from satisfied with you . . . there – I said it . . . will you strike me?  Sometimes I wish you would . . . for this infernal, eternal – silence – mixed with my own longing, does drive me mad . . . 

And where, I would very much like to know, is my miracle?  My Hannah’s promise fulfilled?  My angel?  

It’s not that I’m not grateful, but he appeared to the Old Man?  Really?  Am I not the one to bear this son?  Where, then, Satisfying One, was my angel?  Most days, in my joy, I do forget this slight, this favoritism.  Most days.  This is not one of those days.  John is gone to the wilderness.  I don’t know that I’ll see him again.  And I do so fear what will become of him, he speaks out so.  It would have been nice on days like this to have had an angel memory to hold on to.  That’s all I’m saying – it would have been nice.

Please do not think me ungrateful.  For this gift of a son, I am grateful.  For the elimination of my shame, I am grateful.

But now I am a mother and I know what I did not know before.  Now I know that my own heart does reside outside my body.  It resides with him.  And all will not be well with him.  Will it?  

So yes, an encouraging angel memory would have been nice.

I’m going to need some bucking up in these days.

So all I’m saying is that it would have been nice.

Luke 1.7; 24-25; & 39-45 (NRSV)

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*Lyrics from Make Me an Angel, by John Prine.

Advent2: In Our Forgetting Is God’s Remembering

I am Zechariah . . . named after men great and small . . . men who were wise, believing they knew all and more than all, who knew nothing . . . nothing at all . . . and I am surely one with them . . . 

Zechariah, I named you for so many who came before – priests and prophets, wise and foolish, godly all.  

Your only job was to listen . . . and believe.  It was too much, I suppose, to expect . . . that a namesake of the bringer of oracles of doom and redemption might remember the ancestral call . . . might heed an angel’s voice in the night . . . might recall the wisdom of listening . . . 

For you, Zechariah, believe you were born to argue . . . debate . . . hone the finer points.

You thought it was all about you.

Oh, son, you matter, but yours is the place of setting the stage for those who come after.  It is a fine job.  Worthy of a Zechariah.  But you would not listen, could not hear.

You have forgotten even as I have remembered.  And even your own name could not call you back.

So how about this?  How about you just be quiet.  No talking.  I, your God, am putting you in the corner for a time-out.

Luke 1.5-25

Feet-guiding Lord of All, in Your most tender of mercies does Your dawn break the hold of darkness upon us. . . thanks our only worthy reply . . . a son You have given me . . . thanks my only worthy reply . . . peace the destination You have shown us . . . thanks our only worthy reply.

Now, Zechariah, now thou dost see.  Now thou dost hear.  Now thou dost understand.  Now at the last dost thou stand alongside me.

Thus it has been . . . thus it shall ever be.

Luke 1.57-79

The Hermeneutic of Love

What lens we look through determines what we see.

This, perhaps, was one of the most important lessons I learned and learned again and relearned while in seminary.

Where I stand shapes, well, everything.

I cannot understand what I cannot see.

And there is much I cannot see.

It is a conundrum.

Seeking to look through the lens of love helps greatly.

But I must take care to define very clearly what I understand love to be, to include.

Hence my own list:

1. Love is humble enough to know and freely admit to itself that it does not, cannot, know everything.  Thus even in understanding my own hermeneutic, I must always take care to remember this crucial caveat: I might be wrong. . . about you, about me, about ‘it’, whatever it may be, the simple truth is that I might be wrong.

2. Love is caring and caring requires the time and discipline and effort to do the work – the work of seeking understanding from your point of view . . . the work of listening . . . the work of loving, especially in the midst of conflict or disagreement . . . the work of self-evaluation and understanding, especially, perhaps, when I would seek to tell someone else what they ought or ought not do (which, of course, takes me right back to #1, that old friend and enemy, humility).

3. Love actively seeks to try to see from another’s vantage point, for love knows itself for the captive to self that it is.

4. Love always checks its own motives.  Assuring that I am acting from love, and not from bias, prejudice, self-interest, or efforts to control is hard, but important and necessary work.  Think Paul’s admonition about clanging cymbals here – without love as the motive, the impetus, a seemingly loving act is really nothing at all.

5. Love requires encounter.  I cannot love someone theoretically.  Love always has a locus, an object, a direction.  There is no abstraction in love.

6. Love is a freeing thing.  If what I’m doing is entangling, controlling, desirous of reward or recognition, filled with expectation, it’s something, but it isn’t love.  Pretty simple.

7. If it isn’t about ‘I’ or ‘we’, but all about ‘you’, it’s not love, it’s control.

8. If I cannot see myself in you or your situation, I haven’t looked hard enough (which takes us back to doing the hard work of loving, eh?).

9. I cannot say that I am loving when I ‘love’ one person or group at the expense of another.  (Think here of MLK”s reminder that what he did he did for the oppressor, whom he loved, as much as for the oppressed).  Standing up for one does not mean demonizing another – that is not love or loving.

10. And back to the beginning – the humility of love must recognize that God is doing a work in you as much as God is doing a work in me, stand back and allow you and God to sort out your business as we are sorting out mine.  In other words, I am no one’s god and in loving you, it is not my job to change you.

11. The hardest one of all for me – loving someone probably means not making decisions for or about them when they’re not in the room.  It’s that freeing freedom thing – allowing someone the freedom of their own lives, their own choices.  Even the bad ones.  Hmmm.

I am wondering today what you would add to this list – what are the things you have to remember about your own hermeneutic of love?

To Young Folk Not in Church

Your parents stopped coming largely not because of some grand disagreement with the people or their ideas.  They stopped coming because they could and rebellion and rejection were popular in my youth.  Everyone was required to be an individual.

Church isn’t about being an individual – church is about being part of a group or community.  So for my generation, it was one of the first things to go.  Clubs followed pretty quickly.  Schools – public schools – are following rapidly in their wake as home schooling and enclaves of education of the like-minded becomes the order of the day.

Whether these trends are good or bad remains to be seen.

But to the young folk of today, before you decide church isn’t for you, investigate it more thoroughly than you have.  Base your rejection on more than one sample.

Speaking for your grand- and great-grand-parents, here’s a few things you might want to consider:

1. It’s not about entertainment.  It never was.  We were bored in church when we were kids too.  But in spite of ourselves, we learned something just because we were there:

a. we learned that it isn’t always about us – and it shouldn’t be.  Maybe we were bored.  But someone in that church was hearing what they needed to hear.

b. our being there to witness it made a difference in their lives and in our lives too.

c. the discipline of discipline requires discipline, which we were learning in spite of ourselves.

2. Listening is a learned behavior.  And we learned how to listen in church.

3. We learned things we wouldn’t have learned anywhere else, like

a. the reasons we are moral beings

b. how to get it right and how to get it wrong

4. We learned how to live inter-generationally, as we all mixed together in church like we do nowhere else – these days, not even in our own families so much.

5. We learned how to care for others by how we were and weren’t cared for – mostly by how we were cared for, in spite of what the headlines may tell you.

6. Oh yeah, and then there’s God.  God is everywhere or nowhere.  It’s kind of the deal.  And yes, we all can spend time with God without other people (which, after all, is actually what church is – a gathering of a group of people around the worship and following of God).  What we cannot do is learn much from ourselves by ourselves.  Even internet worship is a community inhabited by other people.

7. And the truth is, some things (actually most things) are done better with other people.  God is one of them.  Even monastics, anchorites and ascetics lived and worshiped in community, community with God as its center.

Finally, consider this: for every headline you read about how church got it wrong, there are literally thousands upon thousands of examples of how small enclaves of people all over the world, calling themselves church, got it right.  It’s not news.  But it is true.

Jesus Schooling the It Boys

Matthew 23.4-10:  They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them.  They do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long.  They love to have the place of honor at banquets and the best seats in the synagogues,  and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have people call them rabbi.  But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all students. And call no one your father on earth, for you have one Father—the one in heaven.  Nor are you to be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Messiah. [NRSV]

“Instead of giving you God’s Law as food and drink by which you can banquet on God, they package it in bundles of rules, loading you down like pack animals. They seem to take pleasure in watching you stagger under these loads, and wouldn’t think of lifting a finger to help. Their lives are perpetual fashion shows, embroidered prayer shawls one day and flowery prayers the next. They love to sit at the head table at church dinners, basking in the most prominent positions, preening in the radiance of public flattery, receiving honorary degrees, and getting called ‘Doctor’ and ‘Reverend.’  “Don’t let people do that to you, put you on a pedestal like that. You all have a single Teacher, and you are all classmates. Don’t set people up as experts over your life, letting them tell you what to do. Save that authority for God; let him tell you what to do. No one else should carry the title of ‘Father’; you have only one Father, and he’s in heaven. And don’t let people maneuver you into taking charge of them. There is only one Life-Leader for you and them—Christ. [The Message]


Religion cannot be about showing off, or it isnt’ religion at all.

Showing off shifts our faith away from the worship of God (its very purpose) to the worship of ourselves.

The most insidious, the sneakiest way we have of doing this fools (even) ourselves.

The sneaky voice of the pretender is the voice of condemnation: look how bad he is! . . . I cannot believe she goes to church and acts like that! . . . And she calls herself a Christian! 

Here’s the thing: whenever I recognize myself in your sin, I am much quicker to lean toward mercy, forgiveness, compassion, love, understanding, forebearance, grace.

It is only when I do not see myself in you that I feel so free to condemn and judge.

In this way might we understand that our condemnation of others is just a slick way of pointing out how wonderful we are, for surely in our condemnation of others is at least implied a celebration of how very lucky we are not to be (like) them.

Remember how much Jesus liked that?  Not so much.

Why should it matter so to God?  After all, aren’t we better than some folk?  Aren’t there people just begging for a little healthy criticism?

Perhaps.  But by whom?  Is not God the judge?  And if God is THE judge, then who are we pretending to be when we get all judging?

Exactly.

Because once again, we are making ourselves the focus (spiritual narcissism), making of ourselves gods (or at the least, demi-gods), to be admired (which is perilously close to being worshiped) for our wondrous selves, if for no other reason that at least we’re not that guy.

But we are not the judge.

If it’s a legal model we so desire, what we, all of us, are, are co-defendants.  But the metaphor will only take us so far.  Life is not a courtroom.  And we do not get off more lightly for our wrongs by rolling over on the other guy.  It doesn’t work that way.

Condemnation of others is the adult version of tattling – we’re the kid and God’s the Dad.  And he doesn’t want to hear it.  The only person’s inventory we are responsible for is our own.  And God isn’t just Dad.  God is The Dad.  And he already knows.

Ultimately, condemnation of others is evidence of the absence of love in our hearts for another.  And we are commanded to love others, just like we love us.  To condemn another is to find them wanting in the courtroom of our own minds and appoint ourselves the judge.

And there we are, slipping into the judge’s chair again, forgetting that our job, our only job, when it comes to other people, is simply, merely, only, to love.

Anything else just isn’t our business.

Take Your Camera Outside

On one line, the other rang, a message left, a call returned, with the added bonus: take your camera outside.  Hurry.

Ending the other call, I grabbed my cell (turned off) with camera in one hand, house phone in the other, and scurried outside, hitting the cell on button with the one hand, dialing back the friend with the other as I scooted outside, impatiently telling the cell (which takes forever in this time of instant access) to hurry up and come on, as my friend answered her phone.

Where is it? I ask.

Sorry.  It’s gone.  You missed it.  The setting sun lit up the whole sky.

There were traces of glory.  Bits and pieces, leftovers on the table of God’s sky.  Clouds and light of the sun from behind the mountains bidding its quiet farewell for the night.

I felt not impoverished but enriched for it having been there.

Sure trees make noise whether I’m there to hear them or not.

And sunsets leave fingerprints whether my eyes behold them or not.

And it is glory abounding.

Of Wooly Worms and Such

Last Sunday I was in West Virginia for a family reunion, which reminded me of another like gathering I hosted back when my grandson Rowen was just a tiny little guy.

He was fascinated by a wooly worm.  He pointed at it and laughed.  He put his finger close to it, almost touching it, then he’d pull back and laugh some more.

But when I picked up the furry critter and put it in his hand, he threw it down and burst into tears, only a few moments later to start the whole thing over . . . pointing, almost touching, laughing.

Rowen was flirting with the wooly worm . . . like many of us when it comes to God, Rowen liked the idea of the wooly worm much more than he liked the wooly worm himself.

Like many of us when it comes to God, Rowen wanted to get close to the wooly worm, but not too close . . .

The question begs to be asked, what is it that we so fear from something or someone we instinctively know is inviting, interesting, even fun?

Why do we pull back . . . from wooly worms?  From God?

14 Things I Want to Tell Folks About to Be Married

I'm performing a marriage ceremony this afternoon.  The weather doesn't look promising for the planned outdoor event, but no worries, we have a back-up plan.  But these days of such promise always get me to thinking about what makes a marriage work.  We hear so often about the failures.  But there are many success stories out there as well.  

Here, then, are some of the things I hope people entering into the grand adventure of marriage know, take on board and keep:

1. No, I cannot tell whether you will succeed or fail as a couple.  Chance are neither can you.  The  

one thing that seems to mark the difference is that both people are people who keep commitments, for the fact is that there will be days when it’s easy to stay together, but there will be just as many when it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do.  Sometimes the promise is the only thing that holds.*

2. There are three rings rather than two.  Visualizing the covenant aspect of marriage, where God is the other party to the compact, friend Jim White pointed yesterday to three wagon wheels fused together as his vision of marriage – there are three rings, not two, he observed.  Jim’s right.  God is in the mix.  Always.  Forgetting that is costly.

3. Be sure you like each other.  Love and desire are fine things.  But if you do not, cannot, like the person, you cannot, you will not, last.

4. Matching values matter.  You don’t have to be identical.  You can even be very different.  But your values, the core things you hold dear, should match.  It’s a pretty painful life to spend with someone who thinks what you hold dear or sacred even is silly, foolish, unimportant or something to be daily trounced.

5. You can’t cure each other.  If there are blindingly obvious problems, they will not get better.  They will, in fact, get worse.  Neither of you are the cure for the other.  Marriage is not a hospital.  

6. Don’t forget to dance – often.  Have fun together.  Laugh together.  Dance together.

7. Don’t make the other person your ‘half’ of anything.  If you are not already whole, they cannot, contrary to Jerry Maguire, complete you.  It isn’t their job, it isn’t within their ability and it’s a recipe for disaster to expect.

8. Your failures are no one else’s fault.  Never blame each other for what you have done or failed to do.  Regardless of circumstances or context, your choices are just that: yours.  Own them.

9. Words matter.  Use them wisely, lovingly, judiciously, always.  Ditto for refraining from using them.  Keeping silent is the best option when all you’ve got to say is hurtful.

10. Money doesn’t.  Unless you let it.  Fights about money are always about something else:  power, control, security, felt needs, fear.  Respect, mutuality, shared values, these are what you’re really searching for when you fight about money.

11. Only God can be your god.  No one person can fulfill all your expectations, desires, wishes, needs.  So have other friends.  And do not make of your spouse an idol, for he or she will surely disappoint if you do.

12. Trust is something given as well as something earned.  Actually, trust is more about grace than it is about merit.  We trust not because someone is trustworthy.  We trust because we are trusting.  If there is no trust, if there is jealousy, insecurity, questioning of every motive, every action, there is no trust.  And the absence of trust is a killer of any relationship, especially a marriage.

13. Believe, desire and work for the best for your mate as well as for yourself.  Always.

14.  Forgive often.





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*I am speaking here not of abusive or extreme situations, but of ordinary marriages with ordinary challenges.  For even then, living side-by-side with the same person, year in and year out, is hard.  Really hard.

There's a Balm Somewhere

There is a balm in Gilead 

or so goes the song,

but

where on earth is Gilead?

Somewhere in modern Jordan

among the mountains

where trees did grow

whose resin provided

a healing – a balm – 

a soothing salve – 

there, then, is the geographical

of our Gileads, our safe, healing

places, our sacred, set aside

spaces, our finish-line

races, our no-more-put-through our

paces, our sought-for-in-the-crowd

faces

for

wither Thou art,

O God,

there be my Gilead

Was Jesus Naive?

If we say that the Golden Rule is naive, we are saying that the man who laid it down is naive.  And that man was Jesus.

The irony is that we seem to actually believe that Jesus lived some easy life with no understanding of the dangers we face, forgetting that Jesus died as a victim of torture of the worst kind; that Jesus was the defendant in a show trial; that Jesus was himself murdered in a public, shameful, excruciating way.

We forget that the man who laid down the Golden Rule for us also laid down his life for us.

We forget that he knew suffering, he knew death, he knew shame, he knew anger and he knew temptation.

I think what we’re really doing is turning our backs on the demands of our faith in favor of its gifts, as if the two could be separated.

And where, oh where, is the disclaimer that the rule we call golden (as in something to be valued or treasured) not be observed when we are in groups (as in how we behave as a nation)?

Jesus knew what we face, the challenges of our lives.  He always has known.  Perhaps the earth journey was simply to show us that he’s always known, so we’d get it, the way a parent may share an episode from her youth with her teenager, to show the teenager that she really does understand.  Maybe.

Whether it took a trip to planet earth to redeem us or whether it was an elaborate object lesson or something else entirely, of all the things Jesus was, naive was not one of them.

What we call the golden rule was part of his father’s business – the very family business that we, his followers, have inherited.

There are other businesses.

But this one is ours.

How we are to conduct that business is very clear.

We can come up with all the reasons in the world not to follow it.

But then, we’re about somebody else’s business, aren’t we?

Fear Makes the Wolf Bigger Than He Is 2.0

This, then, is addressed (primarily) to people of faith.  In Christianity, Jesus says quite directly and specifically,

fear not.  

So do angelic messengers.  So does God.

In other traditions, there are exhortations away from fear as well.

God does not fear.  God, as we would understand, can and does, mourn, repent, rejoice, laugh.  But God does not fear.  And God exhorts us not to – fear – but notice what is said and what is not said.

What is not said is that there is nothing to be afraid of.

There are wolves.  

Next to God, they just aren’t all that big.

And that, perhaps, is how the saints among us, ancient and modern, can stand up against their own fears with calm and even with joy – because next to God, a wolf is a small thing indeed.

Or maybe even more accurately, they simply see with a clarity the rest of us lack – the clarity that recognizes the wolf for what he is, but never, ever, ever, for more than what he is.

When I am frozen like a deer in the headlights, I am focused on the object of my fear to the exclusion of all else.  Literally, I can see nothing but that fear.

When, however, I am focused on God, I can see nothing else, including my fears.  And because I do not see them do they evaporate.

I may well be in real danger.

But I do not have to be afraid.

Wolves walk the land – every day.  But they do not, they cannot, dictate my actions, my responses, unless I allow it – unless I stop looking at God and look only at them.

For when I awaken and direct my gaze to my Lord, it turns out that a wolf is just . . . merely . . . only . . . a wolf.

No less.

But no more.

Wrapped in Color

Thanks, Laura LaPrade!

A house sits 

nestled

nurtured

surrounded

wrapped

by a symphony

of color

Master Artist

is showing off – 

again –

it is fall 

in the Highlands

and hearts

rejoice

at the hope

promise

found

in dying

things

and all

is well

Larry Died Today

Larry died today

and I found myself

these past days

and weeks – looking –

without realizing – 

for signs – not wonders –

just signs – just a little hint,

Lord, that all is well with Larry,

that all would be well with

Larry, that even as we’re here,

and he was here and not here,

that You are here with us and

more, there, wherever there is,

with him – and who knows about

such things – do I see what I’m 

looking for?  Or did you really 

send some signs to a little ole’

country preacher – was it you

when I saw Larry’s profile, hugged

by a mother, in last evening’s clouds?

Was it you?  Or even Larry?  In the 

swirling dervish of autumn leaves

swirling and swirling round me and

running, like a teasing child, across

the road, taking the leaves with you,

like when Larry used to mulch and

mow and rake and gather and cart

away the many leaves of fall – 

a tender by nature, Larry tended

these grounds I inhabit so very well – 

the leaves did dance around and then

away from me – but leaving a few 

behind in my rocking chair – 

in the hours after – 

when he has gone and we are left

and wondering what to do with

ourselves now in the aftermath, in 

the gone-ness of this thing that was

a life?  I do not know which of you it was

– but I was looking for signs without

even knowing I was looking and 

somehow, I got my answer, didn’t I?

And that is enough and good enough

and more than enough and Larry is

fine and more than fine and it is another

day and the leaves are dancing and 

signs and wonders are abounding

and I?  Well, I suppose I am grateful.

Thanks for the leaves – always the 

perfect leaving – how do you do it?

Blood-Dripping Tears: A Florida Lament

blood-dripping tears

quench the ground’s

lust for such things

as all is silence - for

death is silent and

only the dead waited

those with eyes to see - 

their dying already

a done thing - waiting

only for living tears to

begin their commencing

turning into salt and light

in the cosmic way of things

even as earth-bound critters

solidify into something

hard and angry, for who

cannot be angry beholding

such horror? 

God

_____________________
Written in response to the news of a grandfather killing his daughter and all her children – his grand-children, in Florida, wondering and worrying about those who found their bodies – their reactions, their internalizations, for how can they not carry hard places with such images residing alongside the memories of favorite meals, Christmas with family, and all that is good?  Only, I think, with, through, alongside, God.

Brownie Points

Being served the extra brownies just for asking, Rosalee shouts out to our erstwhile leader and bringer of goodies, Jimmy, “you just earned yourself some brownie points!”

We laughed and laughed and contemplated in convivial silence there at table how good it is just to be together – enjoying good company, sharing memories in the making, fussing at kids like they were our own.

I don’t know if God gives out brownie points or not, but if so, I’m betting there were some floating around the table last night.


_____________________
*Brownie points:  social currency earned by doing good deeds or gaining favor in the eyes of another.  Guesses as to its origin include brown stamps (forerunner of the green stamps I remember licking with incredible patience as a child, hopeful that some of the stamps’ largesse might come my way); merits and demerits given to railroad employees by superintendent George R. Brown; and my own favorite (having been one myself and having found the outfit – I know, it was a uniform – but I eschew uniforms, so to me it was always an outfit – far superior to the ones that came after) Brownie Scouts’ merit badges.  Wikipedia

On Baptisms, Babies & Such

Scripture Reading   Luke 18.16-17:  People were bringing even infants to him that he might touch them; and when the disicples saw it, they sternly ordered them not to do it.  But Jesus called for them and said, “Let the little children come to me; and do not stop them; for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.  Truly I tell you: whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

On Baptisms, Babies and Such

Think back to the births you remember . . . babies don’t remember, but mammas and pappas do . . . the waiting time, the getting ready time, the he’s coming now time . . . they remember it all . . . sorrow and joy and laughter and pain all mix in together and they remember . . . so remember now, won’t you . . . a happy birth . . .

Babies being born are holy ground places . . . And no matter what station they are born into, no matter who their parents are, no matter, even whether they live to ripe old age or leave us far too soon, God greets them all . . .

The older I get, the more God’s voice, at least in my head, sounds like Dr. Seuss . . . Can’t you just picture it . . . you are born . . . people are gathered . . . and God whispers in your ear . . . and even as a baby, you’re surprised that God is reciting Dr. Seuss’s Oh! the Places You’ll Go . . .

Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You’re off to Great Places!

You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes.    

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

You’re on your own. And you know what you know. 

And YOU are the guy [or gal] who’ll decide where to go.

This journey, this child, began literally as an idea . . . his parents may be tempted to believe that he began as their idea, but we know better – every child begins as God’s idea . . . a grand thing, really . . .he’ll do, oh yes, he’ll do very nicely indeed . . .

God knows even better than we parents . . . you’ll always be happy . . . except when you’re not . . . you’ll always be perfect . . . except when you aren’t . . .

And thus the mothering God of Isaiah and Hosea bends down to embrace . . . and to comfort . . . and to raise this new child of creation to the divine cheek and whisper . . . hush . . . of course you failed . . . I always knew you would . . . you’re all right now . .. Shh . . . shhh

And then there are the waiting times . . . waiting for the magic day to come is a waste of time . . . and waiting for things to ‘get better’ is magical thinking . . . and waiting for Godot is but an amusing interlude to a life that’s meant to be lived, not waited for . . .

But . . . but . . . not all waiting is a bad thing . . .

Within the circle of God’s embrace, there is the waiting for the Lord . . . and like all of us, this child will have plenty of that . . .

It’s hard, this waiting on God thing . . . and we’re not very good at reading the signposts . . .

. . . but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint. . . The Isaiah promise is for us all . . .

Waiting for fish or kites is silly . . . waiting for God is holy . . . and renewing . . . and joy-filled . . . Waiting for people or the ship to come is wish-filled nonsense . . . waiting for God is holy . . . and beautiful . . . and frustrating . . . and spirit-filling . . . Waiting for God is not the staying-stuck kind of waiting at all . . .

And sometimes other people, other Christians especially, will try to convince you that your baptism was all about repentance . . . about being sorry . . . about piling ashes on your head . . . about being a bad boy . . . a lucky bad boy, but a bad boy, nevertheless . . .

Don’t you believe them. . . not for an instant . . . The God who created you called you not just good, but very good . . . God smiled when you were born . . .

And it doesn’t matter one little bit to God whether you’re famous or infamous . . . or just plain old you to the world . . . you will always be a rock star in God’s eyes . . . and a very loved rock star at that . . .

A long time ago, there was a man baptizing folks in ‘John’s baptism’ . . . the baptism of repentance . . . and another fellow named Paul came along and said, ‘what are you doing?

This won’t do at all . . . don’t settle for John’s repentance baptism, a sorry thing indeed, when you can have Jesus’ baptism . . . the baptism that brings fire to your belly and purpose to your life . . . the baptism that brings God’s very own Holy Spirit to live in your house all the days of your life . . . that’s the baptism for you, Owen, my boy! . . . and for us all . . .

But it won’t all be a bed of roses . . . not in this life . . .

But even when when your feet get tangled up and you find yourself lying flat on the ground . . . we will be there . . . and even when we aren’t there . . . even when we let you down . . . because we won’t . . . except when we do . . . even then, child of God, even then, God will always be with you . . .

Today you come to God as a little child . . .

And all of us come with you, the little children that we still are . . .

We come and lift up our faces to feel the wind of God’s Spirit blowing upon us . . .

We come at the invitation of the Most High God, as “The Spirit and the bride say, “Come.”  And let everyone who hears say, “Come.”  And let everyone who is thirsty come.  Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.”

Looking back and looking forward . . . we come . . .

In joyous expectation . . . we come . . .

In proclamation of God’s own gospel good news in our lives and yours, we come . . .

God’s promise is for this baby . . . and for us all.

Won’t you reclaim it today?

Let’s stop being sorry, shall we?  And start being happy!  Joyous!  Free!

For we are all God’s own good news.  And that is good news indeed.

Conversations

My epiphany moment came as I lay in the dark struggling with imaginary dialogues – debates, really, what they would say, how I would respond, ad infinitum.

The epiphany is more about our posture in coming to the conversation than it is about any particular solution.

We – I – need to come confessionally –

about my own role

about my own biases

about my own blind spots

From such a space, might doors be opened, if only a crack, for others to do likewise?

And even if not, is it not nevertheless where God calls me?

Where God is?

Standing in all our crack doors seeking entrance if we would but allow it?

Taking Stock

Fifteen does and a young buck

A hummingbird or two

The usual suspects of cows

A whisper of a whistle pig

A passle of sunflowers

And one very faint rainbow

One evening drive, two miles or so, I take stock, so to speak and wonder how it was for God, out for an evening stroll in the garden.

I derive some sort of satisfaction in this counting I do on an evening drive in the country.

Does God have that same sense, made even more full for the pride of having made it all happen?

I, mere bystander, am filled to overflowing with such things.

And so I stay in my state of wonder and consider what it must be like for God to take stock.