Hope in the Desert

                          A Reflection on Matthew 11:2-11 for Advent

Poet and songwriter Leonard Cohen writes, “The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and it has overturned the order of the soul.” If we listen closely to the words of John the Baptist that begin our Gospel reading this morning, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” we hear what sounds like a simple question. But swirling just beneath the surface of his question is a strong under-toe of painful doubt that threatens to pull him under. After a long ministry of wandering the Judean wilderness, being ostracized for his strange clothing, odd eating habits, fiery calls for repentance, and declarations about the long-awaited Messiah, John continued faithfully in his call to prepare the way for the Lord.  After suffering and sacrificing for this call, he is thrown in jail for his criticism of the Tetrarch of Galilee, Herod Antipas. He called him on the carpet for marrying his half-brother Phillip’s wife…while Philip was still alive. John’s claim that this union was unlawful meant he would be swiftly locked up to await his sentence of beheading. He spoke truth to the one at the seat of power, believing that his call to repentance would make way for the Reign of God—a Messiah who would come to separate the “wheat from the chafe” and restore justice on a grand scale.

Yet now, by all accounts, his Messiah’s public ministry consisted of just the opposite. He was eating at table with sinners and tax collectors, touching the unclean, and walking from town to town feeding the hungry. The Messiah of the winnowing hook was nowhere to be found, and in his place was this peace-seeking, foot-washing, inclusive healer who eschewed all marks of status and wordly power. This Messiah didn’t resemble any kind of King they had ever seen before. It’s easy to picture John the Baptist sitting in his dank prison cell, cradling his head in his hands, aching from the fear that everything he did was in vain. John was expecting hope to come in the form of judgment. He expected a clear and comprehensive regime change, complete with fire and falling axes. So behind his inquiry was surely a desperate concern that the reign of God he expected he was helping to usher in was, in fact, not going to happen after all. All of his expectations were being turned upside-down. The only thing worse than being imprisoned by iron bars was being imprisoned by doubt and despair.

            In this season of Advent we each come with our own set of expectations. We hope that our homes will be filled with joy and laughter. We hope that will get the promotion we have earned. Our kids hope they will get that one gift they have wished for all year long. We hope that our church will fill with new people to welcome. We hope for health and healing for the people we love. But even as we set beautiful tables, wrap gifts, and prepare delicious food, we, like John, sometimes secretly wonder if the hope and restoration Isaiah prophesied is really with us after all. With music, lights, greens, and celebration all around us, we sometimes find ourselves in the desert places—in a wilderness of doubt and despair that swirl beneath us like an under toe, threatening to pull us under. To make it worse, as people of faith we often feel ashamed to admit this doubt.  But we are in good company. John the Baptist, who himself baptized Jesus, expresses doubt and feels he must ask, “Are you the one, or should we wait for another?”

When it comes to hope, we are used to waiting for it to happen to us—to find us. We look to our leaders to make hope happen through sweeping speeches and policy changes. We wait for inspirational figures to take the stage and change things. We assure ourselves that  if we could just get the right person in office, or the right set of policies in place, then there will be reason to hope. We look to all the seats of power and influence, waiting for hopeful change and transformation. When we find only ineffective policies, broken systems, corrupt figureheads,  cynicism, and the status quo we are tempted to ask God, “are we to wait for another?” 

We are not alone. John the Baptist, the one who prepared the way for the Messiah, did the same thing. Jesus did not shame him for asking such a question. Instead he reminds him that he is looking for God in all the wrong places. Reminding him of Isaiah’s prophetic vision, Jesus points him to the very last places he would look—not to the grand palaces and the seats of power, but to the desert—the wilderness. He redirects him to the everyday lives of ordinary people who are experiencing healing, feeding, and renewed strength where they once knew only brokenness, hunger, and hopelessness. He asks John, and us, to enter the wilderness places with him and participate in the reign of God there. He asks us to stop waiting for fire and axes and comprehensive regime change, and instead to go into people’s personal wildernesses to see and hear what God is doing there—to see what we can do there. In so many words, Jesus is calling his disciples, and us, to no longer be consumers of hope who wait for it to find us. Rather he is commissioning us to fulfill our baptismal covenant and become instruments and agents of hope, carrying it out into the wilderness places through simple acts of connection, compassion, and service.

Most of you may know about an not-for-profit organization here in Kansas City called “Operation Breakthrough.” This organization, started by two women, sister Berta and sister Corita, has grown to become the largest single-site early education, child care and social services facility in the state of Missouri serving over 400 children daily from the urban core. Their stated mission is to help children who are living in poverty develop to their fullest potential by providing them a safe, loving and educational environment. They also support and empower the children’s families through advocacy, referral services and emergency aid. In the modern wilderness of central Kansas City, 238 calls are made to the Child Abuse and neglect hotline; 25 teens drop out of school, 24 teens give birth; 212,369 children live in poverty, and one child or teen dies violently…everyday. It sounds hopeless and overwhelming. In the face of such brokenness it is easy to feel the under toe of doubt and despair pulling at us. But sister Berta won’t let that doubt and despair have the last word. Instead she will invite you on their bus tour called, “The City You Never See.” While on this hour-long bus tour through the central city, you will make several stops. At each stop a parent of a child being served by Operation Breakthrough will get on the bus and tell his or her story. Some will talk about what it is like to try and get through the coldest parts of the Winter without electricity. Another will share what it means to have to turn down a higher-paying job offer in order to keep receiving her Federal assistance, since the promotion will not be enough to cover the loss of the assistance. All of these families will share what it has meant to them to have a place like Operation Breakthrough for their children—the unbelievable relief of knowing that their children are in a safe and caring place while they are working two and three jobs. They will testify to the gift that is it to have advocates in their wilderness who refuse to let them go it alone—who remind them that they have companions in the desert. When Sister Berta visited a local church recently, she shared a story of a young boy at Operation Breakthrough who said to her one day, “If I ever grow up, I will be a firefighter and help people.” “If” I ever grow up, he said. Not when, but “if”. Talk about a different set of expectations.

Taking a bus tour into the central city may not be the first thing we think of when we think of the hope and expectation of Advent. But Jesus asks the crowds, “What did you go out into the wilderness to see?...a man clothed in soft garments? Behold, those wearing soft garments are in the houses of Kings.” The good news of the Gospel is that doubt and despair do not have the last word. In Christ we are not asked to wait, helplessly, for healing and transformation to find us. Instead we belong to a household of faith that can’t be contained by walls. In Christ we are called to enter the desert—to enter people’s personal wildernesses—offering the companionship, compassion, healing and hope of Christ. When we do, God does not promise us that the desert will turn into a lush tropical rainforest. It will still be a desert—a wilderness. But it will no longer be a place of fear, danger, desolation or death. Instead it will be transformed into a seedbed for new life.

Cactuses are desert plants. They are used to growing in conditions of neglect: little water and poor soil. While all cacti are capable of blooming, it is a somewhat rare occurrence since blooming requires atypical care. To bloom, a cacti needs just the right light conditions, watering and fertilization. Left on its own in the wilderness, it rarely receives all of these elements at the same time. But with care and attention this painfully prickly plant will produce a magnificent bloom. In some the bloom will boast vivid colors and open generously into the shape of a chalice. To experience this exquisite blooming, you have to be looking for it—you have to know where and when to expect it and be there in the desert when it happens. When it happens, the desert becomes no longer only a place of desolation, but the bearer of new life. What seemed only to be a thorny nuisance to be avoided becomes a gift—a thing of beauty.

Pastor and writer Todd Weir, in his poem “Wilderness Rhapsody,” writes,

“The wilderness will rejoice and blossom.

I did not expect that. I thought the wilderness was punishment—my exile—

But I discovered I liked wandering in its stark beauty,

so I decided to stay…

My favorite cacti is the Night-Blooming Cereus, which only blossoms one night a year.

Wilderness finds virtue in hiding its light under a bushel.

If you want to see the wonder you must care enough to endure.

It is the same in the human wilderness. Not all beauty flaunts.

Down in the church bowels where capital campaigns never reach,

a voice says, ‘My name is Bill W. and I’m an alcoholic.’ ‘Hello Bill.’

One day at a time adds up to new forever…

When my son started to walk I realized my heart just grew feet

and is going to places where I can no longer protect it.

Please bloom, dear wilderness, in my cactus heart.”

This Advent, may we not be consumers of hope, waiting for it to find us. May we make ourselves instruments of hope, following Christ out into the desert places. May we journey there knowing that doubt and despair will not have the last word. Let us go expecting to behold the exquisite blooming of companionship, compassion, healing and hope. May we let our heart grow feet and go to places where we can no longer protect it. Christ has gone there before us and will meet us there.

Breathtaking and Bare

The Red Maple in our front yard waits all year to live up to its name. Somewhere behind the ordinary green it prepares to become more. More brilliant. More fiery. More breathtaking. It plays the part of ordinary things, day after day, month after month, until it just can't do it anymore. The greens fade to yellows. The yellows warm into oranges.

Then, one day when the sun sinks into just the right spot in the sky, we can see it. Like Moses at the burning bush, we turn aside to see what has been there forming all along.  Like Icharus flying too close to the sun, its colors flame against the sky, only surrender to the wind and fall--back to the ground; back into the ancient cycle of things.

Somewhere behind the ordinary, we long for more. We long to become more brilliant, more beautiful, more captivating. More. We try to capture moments at the height of perfection, hoping that maybe, if we do everything just right, we won't have to let go. We won't have to surrender to the seasons and be laid bare. But we weren't made to stay the same.

We aren't build to withstand the consuming fires of perfectionism. Our beauty comes from the letting go; from our willingness to turn aside and behold the breathtaking and the bare. The brilliant and the ordinary. Day after day, month after month, we are made to keep becoming. We are made, not to live up to anything, but to live into our belovedness--the most breathtaking identity of all.

Dear Parents of Littles

Parents of littles, when someone tells you that, once they're older, they won't need you as much anymore, don't listen. Don't believe them. It's true you won't need to spoon-feed them, change their diaper, or keep them from eating or playing with things that are dangerous (well, you will, in a way). But they will need you to feed them with your presence, to change your schedule, change your mind, and to keep them from consuming and internalizing the judgments of others. They won't need you to sort their laundry (ok, so they probably will, unless you're ok with day 2 of the same underwear. Which, at least once, you will be). But they will need you to help them sort their feelings about themselves, about their friends, and about the swirl of changes they experience. They won't need you to hold their hand while they walk across the street, but they will need you to hold on to them when they're raging mad at you, or at the world. They will need you to walk them through hard things, promising that nothing they say, do, or are could EVER change your love for them. They may not need you to give them a time-out, but they will count on you to create boundaries and limits that teach them to tune in to the right things. They may not need you solve their math problems, but they will depend on you to multiply your patience, when they have to argue; when they believe differently than you about some things; when they embrace things you're uncomfortable with. Some people will say they don't need you around as much when they're older, but they do. Just because they can cook their own food, and handle things on their own, doesn't mean they want to. A plate of homemade cookies and and some downtime next to them on the couch can be exactly the sanctuary they need to let everything else melt away. So don't believe them. Don't believe yourself when you hear that voice say, "they don't need me." They do. They always will. But it's not easy. Parenting little people into big ones means we can't control them. It means we have to keep learning how to become what they need. There are as many ways to do it as there are people. But we owe it to them to always show up. To never stop trying. To never stop calling, and to never stop learning who they are. When they tell you, through their words or through their actions, listen. Listen to them. Show up for them. Believe me, they always need you.

Breaking and Entering

(Art by He Qi (ho chee). You can find more of his               art at www.heqiart.com.)

Today, on this first Sunday of Advent, we gather in beautiful buildings where sunlight pours through stained-glass windows, candlelight illumines the altar, warm coffee brews in the common room, and purple banners, paraments, and vestments clothe us with reminders that this is a season of anticipation and hopeful expectation.  At home we prepare our favorite comfort foods, frost our homes with lights, build crackling fires in our fireplaces, and buy gifts for people we love. In stores and restaurants the aromas of cinnamon and pine wrap themselves around us like invisible security blankets. As we prepare for the birth of Christ—a baby in a manger who will be the Prince of Peace— we long for the comfort and security associated with the this season.

            So why does the gospel of Matthew disturb our sense of comfort and security with the image of a thief in the night; of a God who will come at an unexpected hour? Why this image of household invasion? We don’t typically think of breaking and entering when as we prepare for the birth of Christ. We are used to thinking of God’s presence as green pastures, still waters, the peace that passes understanding—but the ultimate “come to Jesus” moment when we have let our guards down? This feels like the very opposite of comfort and security, and inspires more fear than hope, more doubt than certainty.  How can we possibly prepare ourselves?

We like to arm ourselves with certainty. We secure our homes with elaborate security systems. Our cars have howling alarms. Our phones and computers are password protected. Even our animals can be protected with an injectable microchip to locate them if they get lost. Every fiber of our being is wired to avoid risk and vulnerability. So we tend prepare ourselves by trying to create fortified places—majestic cathedrals, organized committees, fool-proof programs, and well cared-for sanctuaries. God does certainly show up in all of these places. But in today’s gospel reading we find a people hard at work, busy preparing the fields, preparing their homes, and preparing their food when God breaks in to find that some are ready and some are not. It leaves us asking just what kind of preparation does this God of unscheduled inspections require of us?

            Shortly after the devastating typhoon in the Philippines, I saw a photo in the newspaper of a religious procession in the badly damaged province of Leyte. This was not a grand procession in the traditional sense. In the foreground of the photo are four women processing through the typhoon’s aftermath. The women at the front of the procession carry statues of saints bearing large crosses. These women are vested, but only short-sleeved t-shirts, shorts, and expressions of exhausted determination. The women’s dirt-sleeved arms hold the statues close to their bodies like mothers carrying their children out of an apocalyptic wasteland. In the background of the photo lies the wasted land itself, heaped with the splintered remnants of households and buildings—the scattered oblations of so many lost lives. This seems like a place God forgot—a place where pain and destruction had the last word. But God is in the business of breaking and entering. God broke through the harsh darkness of what seemed beyond repair and entered the hearts of women who found the courage to rise up and walk, putting one foot in front of the other, carrying the symbols of the source of their hope. These women expected that hope, not pain and destruction, would have the last word. Perhaps these women understood what the apostle Paul meant when he called early Christians to “put on the armor of light.” With all of their fortified places strewn beneath their feet, they lead us in procession as instruments of  Light—the light of Christ that grew in their hearts around so many Holy Eucharists, baptisms and prayer circles.

            The community for whom Matthew wrote faced similar displacement after the death of Jesus, then the fall of the temple at Jerusalem. Without their Messiah or a central gathering place to give them an identity, they could no longer point to a building and say, “that is where our God lives.” In Jesus Christ they had witnessed the Kingdom of God breaking and entering. He broke down the barriers between Jews and Gentiles, between clean and unclean, between the powerful and the powerless. He entered the homes of tax collectors, ate with sinners and washed people’s feet. Now in this in-between time, a time of unbearable conflict and strife,  they probably asked themselves, “Is the God of Israel still powerful and faithful to his promises? How long must we wait before God restores peace?”

            We are no strangers to these in-between places. We each make our own pilgrimages through conflict and struggle—we pray for hope after loss, for wisdom in difficult decisions, for resolution to painful transitions, for forgiveness in broken relationships, and for healing of physical and emotional pain. Where the weight of inequity and injustice seems overwhelming, we pray “Lord have mercy.” In all of these in-between places of our lives we wait with expectation and hope that God will break in and enter our struggles, healing, restoring, and redeeming them all.

Then the gospel of Matthew warns us, in so many words, be careful what you pray for! For God is coming in an unexpected hour! Keep awake and always be prepared! This second-coming that Matthew describes, often referred to as the “rapture,” is really about hope and fulfillment. It’s a vision that calls each of Jesus’ disciples to become more than just people who believe things about God while they go about the business of life. This vision calls them, and calls us, to become a word of God spoken forth for the sake of the world. It calls us all to “put on the armor of light.” While creating beautiful, secure, fortified households and churches can be a part of this preparation, we are called in our baptism to an even higher vocation. We are called, both individually and corporately, to create space for God—a place where awe and wonder, compassion and hope, find a home.  

This is what the Incarnation is all about. Brazilian theologian Rubem Alves describes the purpose of the Incarnation as “the way that God chose to reach out to creation and establish  relationship and connection…a divine act of solidarity with humans and an investment in our realizing what God intends for humans to become.” When the gospel of Matthew implores us to “be vigilant” he is not imploring us to just think about being good Christians. He is calling us to fulfill the vocation to which we are all called in our Baptisms: to feed the hungry, give water the thirsty, clothe the naked, nurse the sick, befriend the stranger, and visit the imprisoned. These acts of compassion, mercy and love are how God’s Kingdom breaks in and enters the world.  They are what the armor of light is made of.

In church we practice these acts of love every day. When praise bands play and sing at homeless shelters, God breaks in. When an outreach team delivers 120 back snacks, God breaks in. When we provide hundreds of pounds of food for  food pantries, God breaks in. When we care for the children in our church’s Day school, God breaks in. With each act of compassion, mercy, and love, God becomes what author Melissa Tidwell calls “Embodied Light.” God breaks in and enters the world through us—His body gathered.

We are used to thinking of preparation as working harder, doing more, producing more. We think we need to have something to show to prove that we have been vigilant. But our God of unscheduled inspections hasn’t come merely to judge us, he has come to redeem and transform us. Like a handmade pottery candleholder with slight crack in it, our identity as God’s children comes from our willingness to receive and share God’s light, not from being without cracks. In fact, God uses our cracks and imperfections. As songwriter Leonard Cohen puts it, “there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” So when we prepare for the birth of Christ, God-with-us, it may not feel comfortable at first. Every fiber of our being resists vulnerability. But this is precisely what God asks of us. God calls us to practice grace, to be “embodied light.”

That is what spiritual formation is: practicing God’s grace and giving Christ’s light hands, feet, mouth, eyes and ears for transforming the world.  To help with this, print out this Advent calendar with simple spiritual practices for each day of Advent. (www.thomasmousin.wordpress.com) They are radical because they ask us to participate in making a space for God to break in and enter the world. With each practice the light grows, making all around it light.

Each time we come to Christ’s table for Holy Eucharist we are united with all of those disciples who came before us in receiving Christ’s redeeming presence. Here we are fed with spiritual food that strengthens us to carry the light of Christ’s presence out into the world. Here we catch a glimpse of the fullness of God’s Kingdom not yet revealed. As the first Advent candle burns in our midst today, may it remind us of the God who is in the business of breaking and entering. May God’s presence at an unexpected hour find us on our knees engaged in acts of justice and compassion, mercy and love. May God find us rising up, after our fortified places have broken down around us, and carrying the Light of Christ into the world.

Like a Child At Home

My Godmother always called me her precious girl, no matter how old I got. She always made me feel, deep in my bones, that she was privileged to be my Godmother. We never used the front door entrance to go into her house. We always came in through the kitchen. In an Italian family that means something. If you’re family, you come in through the kitchen. Food meant love. The biscotti and amaretti cookies never came from the grocery store. They took time and patience to make. When I pushed the creaky storm door open, that aroma of almond and confectioner’s sugar met me first. I always knew the cookies would be waiting on that same fall-floral patterned china platter, decorated with a hand-embroidered white doily. In that moment, all of my moodiness and awkward tweenage insecurity evaporated. I felt loved and precious even before her words reached me. She didn’t just reach in for a hug. She cradled my face with both of her hands, paused to take me in, smiled and said those words I knew she would say, “My precious girl.” She made me feel like I had done something amazing for her just by showing up. There, in that dark, wood-paneled kitchen, with that same crisply-ironed rust-colored tablecloth, I felt privileged. I felt spoiled. I felt at home with myself. I came in through the kitchen and love made its way in through all of my senses and settled into my marrow.
                                                                     

       On the day my Aunt Eleanor—my Godmother—died I held her hand and sung my favorite setting of the 23^rd Psalm. She had become unconscious. Her breaths had become short and more rapid. I trusted that hearing was the last sense to go, so I sung:

“My Shepherd will supply my need;

Jehovah is his name:

In pastures fresh he makes me feed,

beside the living stream.

He brings my wandering spirit back,

when I forsake His ways;

and leads me, for His mercy’s sake,

in paths of truth and grace.
(Hymn here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YUvxPGxZt-s)

As more space lingered between her breaths, I felt so privileged to be there with her. This woman God gifted to me, whose two hands and three welcoming words taught me how to feel about myself, was finding her way home. With each line of this old hymn I prayed that she felt loving hands cradling her face, pausing to take her in, smiling with pride saying, “my precious girl.” The last verse of the hymn stole my breath because I knew, even as her body slipped away from me, that I would have her forever. She had been my Godmother, my legal guardian in case something happened to my parents. She held me at my Christening. She made me Italian Cream cakes on my birthdays. She sent me dolls from the countries she had visited. She sent me cards at Christmas and Easter. But on this day I held her. I sung,

“The sure provisions of my God

attend me all my days.

O may your house be my abode,

and all my work be praise.

There would I find a settled rest,

While others go and come;

No more a stranger, or a guest,

but like a child at home.”

It took my breath away when I realized that she had been so much more than my guardian should anything happen to my parents. She was so much more than a sweet aunt I saw once a year.. Year after year, cake after cake, one plate of cookies after another, she had gathered my spirit into her two hands and spoken me into the heart of God. She taught me, not just how to see myself, but how God sees me. She taught me what the privilege of love looks and acts like. I think about her every day, but especially in November. As the rusty leaves let go of the branches, I picture her tablecloth. I remember the feeling when her soft hand let go of mine for the last time. Every time I smell an amaretti cookie I think of her table—the table where I learned that I was precious, just because I showed up. Just for being me.

            In these difficult days since the election, days fraught with argument about who belongs, who is loved, who is welcome at the table, I think of my Godmother and that last verse of the hymn, “There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come. No more a stranger, or a guest, but like a child at home.” We are all children in search of a home. Not a big box with four walls, but the home built in our souls when two hands cradle our face, take us in, and make us know that we are precious. That we are God’s. We know that we are home when we know that a place has been set for us long before we showed up. In these difficult days that is the kind of love we can bear into our small corner of the world. With each encounter we can make people know, deep in their bones, that they are no more a stranger, or a guest, but like a child at home.

Serenity Now!

God is our refuge and our strength, a very present  help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,

though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;

though its waters roar and foam,

though the mountains tremble with its tumult. --Psalm 46, verses 1-3

Most of us say some version of the Serenity prayer to ourselves at least once a day. Several times on some days. You know it: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and  the wisdom to know the difference.”  It’s easy enough to say. Seems simple. But it’s really the hardest work of our lives because, if we’re paying attention, far too much happens that is unacceptable, horrifying, tragic, painful, and even evil. And as people of faith aren’t we called in our baptism vows to be instruments of God’s justice, mercy, and love in this broken and hurting world? Aren't we called to change the things we can't accept? We form committees, organize protests, write rules of order for governance, make casseroles, stock food pantries, feed hungry people, create safe havens for those who are unhoused or abused, and we create beautiful liturgy for worship. Our “change the things I can” list can get really long, really fast.

The Psalmist in Psalm 46 has nothing against faithful work and ambitious to-do lists, but he knows that we often forget the part of the prayer that is  just as important: “Accept  the things I cannot change.” This isn’t a call to be complacent  and let the chips of injustice fall where they may. But it is a call to remember that we are not God.  In much  more sweeping and poetic language than the serenity prayer’s, the Psalmist , much like a good sponsor, gives us a cheat sheet for navigating life: Scary things will happen that we can’t control; God is present for us and through us; As people of faith,  we are called to discern how to respond. So before we put everyone else’s oxygen masks on but our own, and  hit rock bottom  trying to prove that we aren’t  powerless and  helpless in the face of hard things, the Psalmist tells it to us straight: The earth changes. The mountains shake and fall into the heart of the sea. The sea’s waters roar and foam. Mountains tremble. Nations are always in an uproar. Kingdoms always totter. The things we think will last forever won’t. They can’t. Things pass away. Bad things happen to good people. We are not in control.

But that's not the end of the story. It's not the last word. Here’s what we know about who God is: There is no where we can go, and no desolate valley we can go through, where God is not. God will always be God. He will always provide refuge. He will always be our strength. He will always show up and help us in our trouble. He will make us glad. He will always utter his voice in order to speak life into desolate places. He will be with us. We aren't left to wonder what God's dream for creation is, because the Psalmist reminds us: God makes wars to cease, breaks the bow, shatters the spear, and burns shields with fire,  In other words, our God works for peace and flourishing, not for war and division.  He is a God who creates, not a God who destroys. So now we know what we can’t  control. We know what God can do in and through us. Now for the most important to-do list of all— our response. This list is the short. but is so hard that we can't do it without God's help: Do not fear; Behold God’s works; and be still and know that God is God.

God is exalted in all the earth. God, not us. So when we find ourselves burned out, run down, overwhelmed by the hard things, and wondering what to do and where to turn, we need to pray through our cheat sheet—Psalm 46. We need to write it on our hearts. Hard and terrible things will happen,  but God is always at work in and through us bringing life into desolate places. Look for the helpers, the beauty, the compassion, and the peacemaking. Do not fear. Love one another.  Hold one another. Feed one another. Comfort one another.  Stand  up for one another. Pray with and for one another. Worship together. Reach out and be honest when you need  help. These are all beautiful ways of beholding and participating in God’s work in the world. These are the things we can control. But above all, we need to remember to be still and know that we are not God. We  need to be held. We  need to let go. We need to let God be our refuge. We need to quiet ourselves long enough to listen for God’s still, small voice, which whispers "You are my beloved. ALL of you." These steps require us to surrender control--to acknowledge that we have limits. Taking these steps requires the wisdom to know the difference between who we are and who God is. When we do, the hard things will not disappear, but we will find the strength, hope, guidance, and community we will need to speak love into the midst of those hard things. In those holy moments, heaven and earth mingle. Then we will know, deep in our bones, that the Lord of Hosts is with us. Therefore we will not fear. We will find serenity now.

Hope Waits

Hope waits through long, cold nights, for light to rise in the East.

It pours itself through color-drenched panes of hand-hewn glass.

It  gathers around  altars, breathing life into tongues of flame;

at home in the darkness, made beautiful by shadows.

Hope rises in the unmistakable scent of hand-kneaded dough,

watched over, waited on, covered, warmed, and faithfully tended.

Hope crackles in the fire, sparked within the wood of ancient trees,

divested of majesty to be warmth in frigid places.

Hope wraps itself in gifts freely given; in presence undistracted.

Hope clothes itself  in the holy vestments of comfort for the lonely,

solidarity with the suffering, healing for the afflicted, and confession for the burdened.

Hope blankets us with comfort, security, and peace.

It shelters us in safety when storms swirl around us.

But Hope does not leave us in the safe, warm, well-lit places.

Hope calls to us, “Rise, bear the light. Pour yourselves out into the world.

Bear the altar of Love out into the dark and shadowed places.

Knead compassion into the forgotten  places. 

Be yeast where there is not enough bread. 

Watch over those whom no one sees.

Wait on those who are regularly passed over. 

Cover those who feel exposed and vulnerable.

Warm those whose bodies and souls have grown cold on their journey.

Advocate for those who live without privilege, protection, or safety."

The Holy One comes at an unexpected hour and in strange places.

We live armed with certainty, wired to avoid vulnerability,

so hope must steal our attention like a thief in the night.

The God of unscheduled inspections shows up in plain clothes-- 

in the processions of barefoot pilgrims escaping wasted lands,.

in broken homes, broken hearts, and pillaged streets,

begging us to see that Love lives there.

The Prince of Peace is no stranger to the in-between places;

He dwells between despair and hope after a loss; 

between difficult decisions and resolution;

between broken relationships and forgiveness; 

between  inequity and justice.

Hope calls us to “put on the armor of light.” 

May we make of ourselves a safe space;

a place where both strangers and friends can feel at home.

May we feed the hungry, be a well for the parched, clothe the naked, befriend the stranger.

May we sit with those imprisoned behind bars, or caged by despair.

May we break in and enter the hardest, darkest places with unbridled love and embodied light.

May hope find us restless in our safety, unsettled by our peace,

and unsatisfied  with our comfort,  not because we don’t deserve it,

but because so many others live without it. Hope waits. Hope lives. Hope rises.

How To Be A Saint

Hello Saints! No, it’s not still Halloween, and I’m not pretending you are all dressed up as saints. I’m addressing you as “Saints” because that’s exactly who you are in God’s eyes.  That’s exactly how God sees you. When we hear the word “Saints” we tend to think of people like Mother Teresa, St. Francis of Assisi, or the apostles, like St. Paul. So when we hear the word “saints” we tend to think only of the giants of the faith who cloistered themselves away from everyday life, dedicated themselves to Holy things, and achieved a kind of spiritual and moral perfection. So to call ourselves “saints” feels a bit like playing dress-up for Halloween. But long before we celebrated Halloween with costumes and candy, Christians around the world have remembered the dead, All the Saints, the Great Cloud of Witnesses who have gone before us. We have called these people “saints” because we have deemed them “holy.” The word Halloween comes from the same root word as “hallowed” or “halo” meaning Holy.  Throughout the centuries we have grown accustomed to hallowing other people as Holy—people who we think can sacrifice things we can’t, or pray in ways we can’t, or love and serve others in ways that we feel we can’t. We  put these Holy men and women on spiritual pedestals and revere them for doing God’s work, while we look on and talk about how Holy they are. It’s difficult for most of us to imagine that we could ever be counted among the saints.

But the truth is, in each of your baptisms, you were anointed with just this identity. You were sealed in the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever. You, or your parents on your behalf, agreed to uphold a covenant— promises to continue in the apostles teaching, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers. You promised to persevere in resisting evil and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord. You promised to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ. You promised to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself. You promised to strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being. But more important than all of these promises is the promise you made to do all of these things with God’s help. See, what makes us Holy, what makes us saints in God’s eyes, is not our perfection (for none of us can ever be perfect), and it’s not our moral purity (for we all know that we are human and will always struggle against our own brokenness and selfishness). What makes us saints is not how much we can isolate ourselves or separate ourselves from the world. What makes us saints has nothing to do with what we are able to do. What makes us saints is what God can do through us. Singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen says, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” Saints, you and I and the great cloud of witnesses throughout history are all cracked, imperfect vessels. Spoiler alert: we will never be perfect or pure. We will never be without doubt and anger, without questions and fears. What makes you saints, what makes me a saint, and what makes our brothers and sisters and friends and family and heroes of the faith saints, is not our perfection, but God’s gracious love for us. What makes us saints is God’s gracious claim on our lives. God does not call us to “dress-up” as perfect, pure, people, unscathed by the tragedy, struggles, and challenges of this life. God’s claim on our lives calls us to hear His cry for healing, justice, and restoration of the world and to respond—to rise and to work with Him for that healing, justice and restoration, even when it seems futile; even when it seems that the odds are stacked against us; even when we think we are too powerless to make a difference. You see, “Holiness” is as much of a verb as it is a noun. Holiness happens whenever we are willing to sacrifice in order to love as Jesus loved and serve as Jesus served, even in the most seemingly hopeless circumstances.

Today’s gospel reading seems perfectly timed for Halloween. Lazarus, one of Jesus’ closest friends, and the brother of Mary and Martha, dies, and Jesus comes and raises him from the dead. When we first hear this story it sounds like something straight out of a fantasy or horror movie. Lazarus was dead. We are told that he had been dead for 4 days. The Jews believed that it took 3 days after a person’s death for their soul to leave their body. After 4 days, Lazarus’ soul had most certainly left his body and, as if that weren’t enough, we are told that there is already a stench. The gospel of John does not mince words here. John wants us to understand that Jesus’ power is greater than even the most futile, most hopeless, and most final losses of all. There is no “science-ing” our way out of this. This is no less than a miracle.

 But the real miracle isn’t simply a dead body coming back to life. The real miracle is far more powerful. You see, this act is the final straw for Jesus. It is the healing that causes the Roman authorities to sentence Jesus to death on the cross. And Jesus knew, before agreeing to do it, that this would seal his fate. So the real miracle here is so much more than a man being brought back from death into life. The real miracle is Jesus’ willingness to use his power to bring life to another when he knew that it would mean giving up his own life. The real miracle is that, when Jesus heard Martha and Mary’s cries for healing, justice, and restoration, he responded. He knew that Lazarus’ death would leave Mary and Martha destitute, without any social status, and vulnerable. So he weeps with them. He grieves with them.  He faces all of Martha’s questions, accusations, and doubts, and then asks her to “roll away the stone.” Faced with the stench of hopelessness and grief she confronts Jesus at the end of her faith. Like each of us, when we are faced with unbearable loss, she wants answers and guarantees. Like each of us, when we are faced with unspeakable tragedy, she longs for promises and comfort, but finds herself hanging onto her faith by a thread. Through blinding tears she finds herself begging Jesus for hope. But the hope Jesus offers—the real miracle—can’t be completed by Jesus alone. The real miracle requires that Martha and Mary, and the gathered community obey Jesus’ command and participate in the miracle. Lazarus cannot find new life until they roll away the stone, unbind him, and let him go.

See, our calling as saints is not to be perfect, pure, or certain. Our real work as saints is to respond to cries for healing, justice, and restoration in the world with God’s help. Our work as saints is to roll away the stones of oppression, poverty, loneliness, and hopelessness wherever we may find them—in our communities, in our families, or even in our own hearts. Our work as saints is to call out to Christ even in the midst of anger, doubt, discomfort, and despair, and to ask him to help us make a space for healing, justice and restoration there. Our work as saints is not to avoid pain and suffering, but to recognize the presence of God in the midst of our pain and suffering so that God can use us to heal the pain and suffering of others. Our work as saints is to recognize that bringing life to others will always cost us something of our own life. To trust another always costs us something of our independence. But the great good news of the gospel is that, when we obey our calling to roll away the stones of hopelessness, by fulfilling our baptismal promises, we will be forever changed. It will come at a cost. We may have to lay down our own ambitions, and lay aside our allegiance to some of the world’s values. But when we believe—when we love as Jesus loved and serve as Jesus served—we will see the glory of God.

 We will see it in the eyes of a child when we volunteer at her underserved school to teach her how to read. We will see it in the eyes of the woman who has not had any visitors in a long time, and whose face lights up when we walk in the room. We will see the glory of God in the grateful hands of a neighbor who receives a warm meal after a an exhausting chemotherapy treatment. We will see it in the relieved eyes of a young single mother when we offer to take her children to the park while she takes a much-needed nap or gets a long-post-poned haircut. We will hear it in the voice of an estranged family member when we tell them that we forgive them.   

The true miracle of the resurrection is that God invites to share in it, participate in it, nurture it, create space for it, and proclaim it. The true miracle is that, in Christ, every day is All Saints Day. Every moment is a precious gift in which God’s love, healing, justice and restoration is possible. Every encounter we have with another person presents us with the opportunity to roll away the stones of hopelessness, suffering, and loneliness and to speak hope, healing, and community into those spaces. You don’t need to be perfect or pure to do this. In fact, you need to be cracked to let God’s Light in. So as you celebrate all of the saints in your own lives today, remembering the big and small ways they nurtured love and hope in you, remember that you are Holy. You are a saint. You don’t need a costume. You have everything you need. You are everything God needs. As our prayerbook’s funeral rite reminds us, “For none of us has life in himself, and none becomes his own master when he dies. For if we have life, we are alive in the Lord, and if we die, we die in the Lord. So, then, whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s possession.” Saints, you are the Lord’s possession. So roll away the stone. Believe. You will see the glory of God. Amen.

I Will Answer Them: A meditation on Psalm 91

When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them.

All of them.

The ones who choose between groceries and medicine, nourishment and healing.
The ones who leave one job only to rush to the next one.
The ones who live and move with constant pain, and cover it with a smile. 

When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them.

All of them.

The ones who must look over their shoulders, profiled, targeted, chased.
The ones who mortgage their dreams to give their children their best chance.
The ones who hide what makes them special because bullies will be cruel.

When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them.

All of them.

The ones who care for children and for parents, set the table, and clean the house. 
The ones who wear their hearts on their sleeves in a heavily armored world.
The ones who share their flaws in these airbrushed and photo-shopped times.

When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them.

All of them.

The ones who maintain their softness when their circumstances are hard.
The ones who maintain their faith when their hearts are overwhelmed.
The ones who maintain their generosity when their resources are exhausted.

When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them.

Breathtaking Light

Clouds with the most beautiful silver linings are full of large water droplets. The larger the droplets, the more light gets diffracted to the outer edge of the cloud. Breathtaking light doesn't require the absence of darkness or the elimination of obstacles. Breathtaking Light dances with darkness. It makes of the gathering storms a masterpiece, simply by being Light and finding a place to shine.

Lines

We often think in terms of lines.

      We stand in them with folded hands and muted voice,
      assuming that we have no choice.

       We run the lines we need to say,
       keeping the unruly ones at bay.

       We keep the colors well inside.
       It's not like us, but we can say I tried.

We often think in terms of lines.

        We map my routes from A to B,
        planning what we want to see.

        We map my progress on a graph.
        Yep, we do! I knew you'd laugh.

        We mapped our goals out on a grid;
        color-coded, dated, organized. We did!

We often think in terms of lines.

        We try to make things fit,
        even if it takes sheer willpower and grit.

But sacred moments live outside of lines.

        Blood-orange streaks of light
        pour out sunset for the heron's flight.

        Tears we thought we'd never cry
        spill from eyes we cannot dry.

        The reaching up of tiny hands
        makes us forget our best-laid plans.

        The day-trip we charted with GPS
        becomes an impromptu road-trip West.

Don't always think in terms of lines.
Graphs and grids can make you blind
to holy revelation
found right where you stand,
on Holy Ground.

American Dreams and God's Dreams

“Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.’"
(Luke 15:4-6)



We Americans prize the self-reliant individual above all others. We idolize figures like The Lone Ranger, Captain America, Steve Jobs who ostensibly set out on their own and faced their respective frontiers with cut-throat ingenuity, bravery, and grit. We praise leaders who have the backbone to say "You're fired," and who are willing to do what needs to be done to protect the bottom line, even if it means sacrificing personal relationships and dismantling the livelihoods of others. The film Up in the Air captures this perfectly when George Clooney's character, a corporate firing consultant, receives his 10 million mile flier status, just moments after losing the one real relationship he had ever experienced. He had spent his whole life "up in the air," loyal to his corporation, only to realize far too late that he was lost, and had no one with whom to share his free miles.

 Everywhere we go we hear the drum beat of consumer values. They try to make us believe that, if we want to be successful and belong, we must be willing to look out for #1, and compete in an every-man-for-himself game. It's no wonder that this image of Jesus the Shepherd, holding the one little lost sheep, isn't on the flagship image of business school brochures.  We don't see billboards with pictures of those who give their lives working for causes like homelessness, poverty, addiction, and human trafficking because our collective consciousness would have us believe that this isn't what success looks like. Whether consciously or not we have come to believe that material and social success is a sign of being blessed.  We are led to believe that we must choose either success or service. But, in the image of Christ the Shepherd, God calls us out of "either-or" thinking into "yes-and" dreaming. 

Every one of us, wherever we live and work, encounters "lost sheep." Every one of us, at one time or another, becomes lost ourselves. Some are lost on the streets, in addictions, or in poverty. Others are lost in broken relationships, loneliness, or mental illness. What often keeps us from loving one another, and loving ourselves, through those lost places is a powerful lie. It's a lie that says that money equals worth, social status equals value, help-seeking equals weakness, and sacrifice leads to financial insecurity. This lie cuts us off from others and from the God who wants only to find us and love us just as we are. It alienates us from a God who longs to connect us to one another, and rejoice with us at the reunion. God's dream is to stop at nothing until every single person who is lost and alone gets found, celebrated, and reconnected to loving community. Those are God's values. In God there is no shame in being poor, not holding important titles, seeking help, and sacrificing. Quite the opposite, in fact. From God's perspective, the real shame is when our wealth, status, pride, and fear of not having enough keeps us from living as we were created to live. God created us out of the very heart of Love and calls us to carry love out into the world. God asks us to find those who feel beyond love's reach, and use all the resources at our disposal to shepherd them back into loving community. The truth is that we weren't created to do life on our own. God doesn't need us to be self-reliant. God only asks that we look out for one another. God only asks that we do all that we can to open our arms to one another, to carry each other into safety, and to rejoice with one another every time we get a chance. We weren't meant to use our ingenuity, bravery, and grit merely to win and survive. We were meant to serve one another and thrive. So let's change our flagship image of success to a shepherd, and start teaching our children that real heroes leave no one out of the fold. 

God's Mirror

“…For if any are hearers of the word and not doers, they are like those who look at themselves in  mirror; for they look at themselves and, and on going away, immediately forget what they were like.” –James 17:24

If you’re anything like me, you have a love-hate relationship with mirrors. They are everywhere, in our cars, our bathrooms, our bedrooms, and in public places. We have all seen things we never knew existed in those crazy high-magnification mirrors at cosmetics counters in department stores! Our mirror-image looks different than one in a photo or painting. A mirror leaves no room for Photoshop, or the sympathetic interpretation of a gifted artist. Mirrors simply reflect the raw image of who we are in any given moment. They ask us to look at ourselves unedited. The beauty of mirrors is that they give us important information. If we have food in our teeth or stray hairs out of place before a job interview or meeting, the mirror can save us from embarrassment. It can give us a chance to adjust or fix things.  The most profound thing about a mirror, though, is that it forces us to see ourselves—to examine ourselves—for better or for worse. How we judge what we see depends more on what is inside of us than what is on the outside. All those messages we have received about what we should look like, dress like, and smile like, and act like form the lens through which we see ourselves.

In this epistle reading from James, James uses the analogy of a mirror to talk about our spiritual image and identity. He wants the early Christians to whom he writes to examine themselves through the lens of God’s Word. He wants Jesus’ disciples to be doers of their faith, not just hearers. James knows that they have received lots of different messages about who God is and who they are, from their government, Jewish High Priests, their families, and their brothers and sisters from neighboring religions. So he decides to give them a picture of who God really is. He wants to give them the only lens that matters, so that they see an image of wholeness to which to aspire. For James, God is generosity, light without shadow, life-giving truthfulness, and fruitfulness. This life-giving, generous God sees us, His creation, as beloved ones. In God’s mirror, we look like saints who are slow to anger, quick to listen, and slow to speak. He calls us to live into the image of one who cares for orphans and widows in their distress, and keeps himself unstained by the world. This might sound like too tall an order if God were asking us to do it on our own. But we’re not on our own. We only have to do two things: “welcome with meekness the implanted word that has the power to save your souls;” and “persevere, being not hearers who forget but doers who act.” James is imploring us to throw out those earthly mirrors that magnify our flaws or allow us to become absorbed with ourselves. Instead, we are invited to come to the Lord’s table to find our true image in Christ; to continue to become the ones who received the name Beloved in our baptism. He sends us from His table out into the world to reflect for others the generous, light-filled, shadow-less, life-giving God of abundant love and grace. So look into God’s mirror! See yourself as God sees you. Then go in peace to love and serve the Lord! 

Where Else Can We Go?

That God chose to “wear skin” and take on our humanity is a shocking truth. We know all too well how broken and imperfect this world is. We know how limited and broken we can be. It is one thing to hear Jesus say that we are loved, welcomed, and invited to become part of His body in the world, but it is quite another thing to live out that kind of welcome in our lives. It’s incredibly hard to know how to find God’s grace, love, forgiveness, and presence in the midst of loneliness, isolation, pain, loss, and suffering. It’s easier to feel close to God, and serve God, when things are going well for us. It’s much harder to rest in God’s presence when we are struggling, hurting, or angry. 

In the gospel reading from John 6: 56-69 we realize that, even though Jesus’ disciples have been with Him through thick and thin, they still struggle to stick around. Even for Jesus’ disciples, living out their faith was hard. They struggled as we struggle. Loving as Jesus loves, and serving as He serves, means the hard work of relationship: loving those who are hard to love; taking care of those outside of our inner circle; forgiving those who haven’t earned our forgiveness; and seeing God’s presence in the simple and ordinary parts of life. 



Sometimes it will feel like the best we can do is grope around in the dark looking for God. When peace doesn’t come easily we can struggle to feel God’s presence. But Christ calls us back to the simplest places; to water, bread, and wine. In the grace of our Baptism we were marked as God’s beloved forever. In the spiritual food of the Eucharist Christ promises us that He is bound to us forever. We can never be separated from His love, just as the food that nourishes us can’t be separated from our bodies. So when we struggle, like the disciples, to accept that hope is stronger than brokenness, let us continue to come to Christ’s table together, to love one another, to serve one another, and to share Christ’s love with everyone we meet. Let us become so rooted in prayer, scripture, and service that, when the world asks why we keep coming to Christ’s table, we, like Peter, can say, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Come and Eat!

Food is at the center of everything we do, whether we are overwhelmingly busy or have lots of time on our hands. We may put off cleaning, laundry, or that project that has lived on our to-do list for way to long. But we never go for too long without eating. Most of us are privileged enough to know where our next meal is coming from, and we rarely forget to eat. Food is the way we care for the people we love and the way we celebrate a special occasion. Food gives us a reason to get together and share our stories. The savory and sweet aromas of certain foods has the power to instantly make us feel at home. We gather after church around a table of good food to catch up on the details of each other’s lives, and hopefully leave with the knowledge that we are loved, known, and belong.

In John 6:37 Jesus says, “Everything the Father gives to me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.” In other words, all are welcome at God’s table. No one will be turned away. No exceptions. We humans have a hard time wrapping our mind around that kind of welcome. So did the religious leaders of Jesus’s time. The need to eat is the most fundamental and universal human need. Jesus is telling us that, if you’re someone who eats, you are qualified to come to His table. Not only are you allowed to come, but you belong there. The meal was made for you; not the new-improved, once-you-get-your-act-together you. You, just as you are. This kind of welcome isn’t always comfortable or easy because it means there will be a whole lot of folks we might not invite if it were our table. God’s VIP list looks very different from ours. New Testament scholar David Rensberger says Jesus is “wisdom’s persistent address to the world.” As we go about our lives, preparing and eating from so many different tables, let us remember that the One Who Welcomes, “wisdom’s persistent address to the world,” has set a wide open table. At His table we are all loved, known, and belong. Your place is set. Come and eat!