Wordprints

In Winter the snow falls and catches us in our tracks, making molds where our feet pass, reminding us of how we have tread, and showing us the marks we have made. What if our words, like our feet, left prints and impressions we could see? What would the faces of our family, friends, co-workers, and enemies look like? Words land like seeds or like shards. They either nurture growth, or they leave pain in their wake. Words can transform a dark path into a luminaria walk. They can transform a hopeless heart into a resilient one. Words can transform scars into love stories, and shame into dignity. Be mindful of your wordprints. Plant seeds. Nurture hope. Offer light. Recognize beauty in what has been broken. Speak truth without shaming. Your wordprints shape souls. Be careful how you tread.

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.