Let Go

Matthew 18:21-35

I don’t like letting go of things; it doesn’t come easily to me.  In order to let go of something, the story has to change. I have to decide that since I only used it once, I don’t actually need the tea light fondu set.  I must choose to recognize that nobody in my house is clamoring for the Scooby-Do ‘Learn to Read’ books, so we’re probably done with those. Maybe that dusty basket of bleached seashells from that trip to Florida when the kids were in preschool no longer represents for me what it once did? And perhaps, with every bathing suit I’ve owned for 20 years folded neatly in a bin under my bed, instead of being armed and ready for any possible future, I could risk living in the now, and only own swimsuits that currently fit me. 

But letting go of being right? Letting go of how I know things should be?  Letting go of regrets and disappointments? Letting go of something unkind or unfair that was done to me? These are harder. If we can’t control the circumstances, at least we can control the narrative. If we can’t control what happened in the past, at least we can control what we do with it, learn from it, not make the same foolish mistakes again.  Control is a strategy we use to feel secure, to reduce anxiety, to combat fear, to give us a feeling of protection. Letting go of control? No thanks. 

The Greek word we translate as “forgive” means simply “to let go.” Sometimes we see forgiveness as giving up control, letting someone get away with something, or acting like what happened didn’t matter. We feel loyal to our pain. We stroke it and stoke it, longing for our injury to be recognized as unjust and wrong, and act as though to forgive someone else is to somehow betray ourselves. 

Peter has been listening to all Jesus’s teaching about conflict and forgiveness, and thinks to himself, Over, and over, and over again I go through the work of forgiving someone who hurts me. So when is enough? When can I stop? How much am I expected to put up with? 

Generally speaking, we are all for forgiveness, most of the time, but there’s a limit, right? So, Peter suggests a good, large, and even holy-sounding number: How about seven times? Surely that is a beyond-generous amount of times to forgive. Right, Jesus? I mean, let’s not go crazy. Surely, some people don’t deserve forgiveness.  

But forgiveness isn’t in the same zip code as deserve. They are completely different languages, contradictory accounting systems. Forgive and deserve are more like opposites, since forgiveness frees us from a system of gauging and measuring, and puts us instead into the realm of boundless and unlimited love. 

So Jesus answers, Try seventy times that. In other words, Forgive infinity times, Peter. Just keep on going till you lose track. There is no end to forgiveness. No point at which you’ve reached the limit. No lifetime maximum out-of-pocket amount. 

Then, to drive the point home, he tells one of his trademark parables with absurd extremes to reveal how we’re living trapped in the way of fear instead of free in the way of God. The servant in the parable is forgiven more than he could repay in fifteen lifetimes and then immediately and violently demands someone repay a tiny debt, and when he can’t, throws him in jail. This is like celebrating sobriety with a drinking binge, like running back into the burning building you were just rescued from, like scrapping the Ten Commandments for the golden calf and pining for the slavery of Egypt. 

He sticks with his old identity instead of the new one offered him by the king. He says, “Thanks, but no thanks.” to a life of freedom and generosity, and chooses instead captivity to a life of debt and indebtedness, where it’s all kept track of, and there is no forgetting, no forgiving, no letting go, ever.

Which currency will you use? Which way will define you and shape your life? If you choose a world without forgiveness, you stay chained to the suffering of the past. You repeat old hurts and live them current, you nurse your pain with no chance of release. Hanging onto wounds, insults, and offenses, practicing and spreading this pattern of deprivation and resentment, traps you ever more tightly in a misery of your own making.

So I can’t help thinking Jesus told his parable to Peter with a twinkle in his eye, his words like a shove on Peter’s shoulder, to highlight the absurdity of Peter’s question: 

How much forgiveness is enough, Jesus, before I can stop and be done with it already? How much freedom from injury do I have to endure before I get to be imprisoned in bitterness? At what point am I allowed to quit living in a future shaped by love? Is seven times a sacrificial and generous amount of letting go before it’s appropriate to throw in the towel and go back to hanging onto betrayal and stoking anger? 

Peter doesn’t know what’s coming—that Jesus will die and take into himself all suffering and betrayal, all pain and injustice; that none of it, ever, goes unseen, untended, unmet. God incarnate will bear it all, all that has been and all that will be.

 And as the last breath leaves his human body, Jesus will look out at his murderers and whisper, “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing” (Luke 23:34).
And they will cease being those who are killing God and instead become those on whom God has poured unending love. Jesus will die in freedom, and release his killers—and all of us as well, taking into the heart of God all the terrible things we think and say and do to one another, everything, every one of us. 

Setting aside deserve and debt, punishment and payback, Jesus will open to us mercy, grace, forgiveness, and freedom. All that is dead—between us, within us, around us—is swallowed up by resurrection. Our brokenness is now the ground from which new life is born, green, beautiful, and eternal. 

But how in the world do we forgive? How do we let go? 

 
Several years ago, I heard Dr. Fred Luskin speak. He’s a world expert on forgiveness and director of the Stanford Forgiveness Project. His work began out of frustration that most faith traditions speak extensively about the need to forgive but don’t tell us how to forgive. And we can get so trapped in unforgiveness. So, he began to study forgiveness. And by the time I heard him speak he had dedicated twenty-five years of research and work to teaching people how to forgive, and to measuring scientifically the effect it has on people’s bodies, minds and relationships. And do you know what his team has discovered is at the very root of all forgiveness?

Abiding in God’s love. 

Of course, they wouldn’t say it that way in the laboratory. Instead, they would talk about finding that place of peace within, about living from that place. But the way you get there? Love. 

He walked us through it. “Think of someone you adore,” he said. “Get a good picture of them in your head. Remember what it feels like to be so loved by them, so known and valued. How they delight in you! Breathe deeply. Let your heart even get warm right now as you think of this person. Hold that feeling within you. Now open your eyes,” he said. “Five minutes of this every day is more effective than psychotherapy in helping people to forgive.” 

Love drives out fear and frees us to forgive, because all forgiveness, all love and mercy and with-each-other-ness, come from God’s own love, God’s own being.  Love unclenches our heart. When we are no longer defined by our woundedness, but by our belovedness, it changes the story. 

I’m learning something right now about loving and letting go.  After 18 years of raising a person, looking out for them, looking after them, you just send them away to fend for themselves and that’s that. Of course, I know that’s not that and all that, but still, there’s a lot of letting go involved. There’s an uncomfortable surrendering that makes life feel precarious and precious all at once.  And how similar the captivity can feel, between regret and fear! Not unlike anger, resentment, harbored pain, or the obstinate need to be right. How much my worry can keep me from being present in love to those I love! All of it ties us up and keeps us chained.  

But it has helped me to recognize in my learning this letting go, that there is a kind of fundamental forgiveness to it all, a gentleness with myself, a grace for each other, an acceptance of life as it is. The truth is, none of us can go back and redo anything differently, and none of us can control what will happen in the future. Right now, these two facts could paralyze me with sorrow or anxiety. But I am forgiven, and I can forgive, which is to say, I am released from keeping score, and I can be free from illusions of control.  

Letting go, and letting in the delight, the wonder, the incredible privilege it is to love, and the awe I feel at being loved by, these particular, quirky and astonishing humans my life gets to be tangled up with, I find myself unclenching. I discover I am being set free to receive the unearned, undeserved gift of my one, limited life, bound inextricably to dear people I can only love by letting go. 

To let go, the story has to change. Life’s not about what anybody deserves or doesn’t deserve. We’re loved and held in a boundless and unlimited love. We no longer need the anger. We can let the pain go. The worry is not serving us. The story of regret, recycled over and over, no longer represents what it once did. What was may no longer fit us, and it’s time to release it so we can receive what is. Instead of living fearful and guarded, armed and ready for any possible future, we can live in the present. Instead of grasping for control we will never have, to feel a security we will never reach, we can let go, and find we are already held secure by love. God’s healing, forgiving love meets us where we are and flows through us, and we abide in the love that holds us all.

Amen.

The Rigged Game and the Real Love

Luke 16:1-13

"The parable of the dishonest manager." 

First of all, it’s hilarious to me that this guy is called the "dishonest" manager.   He seems brutally honest to me. I’m not strong enough to dig, and I’m too ashamed to beg. That is some self-honesty there. 

But let’s just stop for a minute and acknowledge before we dive in any further that this is one of Jesus’ most difficult parables, because it kind of sounds like the Son of God is saying God’s people should be more manipulative and unethical.  At least he does say we could learn a thing or two about shrewdness from folks like the dude who cheats and steals and lies, whose apparently commendable act is to use someone else’s money to buy off people, so that when he needs something they’ll help him out.

Commentators and preachers go to great lengths to pretty it up – they say he eliminated his commission or his own salary, so he was being generous and didn’t cut into his boss’s profits.  They suggest he forgave illegal interest, or was a mistreated worker bringing vigilante justice to an unfair system.  Anything to rescue Jesus from this disaster of a parable.  

 Luke seems so uncomfortable with this parable that he tacks on a bunch of additional takeaways for us, like he’s just giving up, What does it mean? You decide!
Here are some of Luke’s suggested applications, paraphrased:

•       Liars gonna lie. When people show you who they are, believe them. 

•       Respect is earned and trust is gained.

•       If you can’t be relied upon look after the neighbor’s dog well, what makes you think your parents would ever get you your own? 

•       No one can play on two teams.  You’ll be loyal and give one your best effort, and and neglect and resent the other.  You can’t serve God and wealth.

All of these are fine take-aways, so we could stop right now and each pick whichever one tugs at us the most, and call it good enough.  

But I think this is a great opportunity to circle back to something that has been so foundational to us as a congregation that it has changed how many of us live our daily lives, and certainly how we are church together.  Session just reiterated last week about how important this perspective is to us, and we haven’t explicitly spelled out in a while.  Bonus, maybe if we remind ourselves of this perspective again, we’ll get some insights into this perplexing parable as well.  

So here it is: The way of fear vs. The way of God.

There are two competing narratives all the time, everywhere, in life, in scripture, in media, in the structures we occupy, in the air we breathe.

 Our instinctive go-to is based on the earliest lie, which says we are in this alone and God can’t be trusted. We’re convinced that the goal of life is security and self-sufficiency at all costs. The Way of Fear builds on that lie to say that the powerful matter and the weak don’t, that having more makes you better, and that all human worth is earned. So those around you are competition for your resources, threat to your security, or obstacle to your goals. There is us and there is them, enemies and allies, and if you’re not with us, you’re against us.   

Scarcity is the rule – there simply is not enough so take what you can and guard yours well. And that’s not just money, that’s also things like respect, dignity, opportunity, voice and worth, limited commodities all, so only some people can have it at any given time.  Safety and well-being is hard to get and easy to lose, so never slow down, never give up, never let go, never lose your place. You must be vigilant about self-protection and avoiding weakness, or even the appearance of weakness.  Life is an uphill battle, a never-ending to-do list, a criticism factory churning out judgment, comparison and shame, packaged in urgency and anxiety, and coated with desperation to avoid death that smells like younger, fitter, better, more. 

This week in the news, the way of fear was on display. It’s a system that uses human beings in need as pawns in political stunts, and then turns around to use them again as trophies of political self-righteousness.  A system where the movement of goods matters more than the lives of the people transporting them.  A system where people have to choose between food and rent while big companies rake in record-breaking profits and refuse to lower their prices. A system where the quality of the healthcare you can expect to receive can be predicted by the color of your skin.  This is what the way of fear looks like. 

In contrast, the Way of God is the real reality under it all.  The truth is that life begins in abundance and gift, and the earth and everything in it belongs to God, who made us for connection with God and each other. This belonging is foundational and permanent. Even when we forget or deny it, it remains.  There is nowhere God’s love does not reach, and nothing God’s love does not bear.  Each person is loved just as you are, and you are not meant to be “perfect,” just meant to be you, the only one of you God will ever make on this planet.  Together in all our glorious difference, we live alongside all these unique others who are in it together, with and for each other in this life as siblings and friends, companions who bear each other’s pain and joys.

There is enough for everyone because what we have is for sharing.  It’s all meant to work together in harmony.  And no matter what it looks like at any given moment, it’s all heading toward complete connection and wholeness, because God is the one who decides the end, and in Christ, it’s already been decided.  We can live in freedom and rest, we can join in redemption and hope, we can take in wonder and joy, and we can face our losses knowing death is not the end of the story, that life and love are eternal.   

In the news this week the way of God was on display in a high school football team coming together to rebuild a bridge destroyed in a storm, a billionaire giving away his entire company to support climate action, and a close-knit island community dropping everything to provide food, clothing, housing and a warm welcome to unexpected weary travelers, sitting together for hours and listening to their harrowing stories, witnessing the bond of mutual care they’d forged with their fellow travelers navigating horror and hardship.  Drawing on their own sense of community and resilience through hurricanes and covid, these people relished the chance to minister to strangers, opening their hearts to true encounter that not only helped those whose lives are currently in upheaval, but also enriched the lives of those surprised in an ordinary week by the gift of their arrival, reminding them all that we all really do belong to each other.  That’s the way of God peeking through.

 So back to this parable, which is all the lodged in the way of fear. The so-called “dishonest” manager oversees corrupt wealth for an unethical rich guy in a broken system. And perceptions matter. If someone thinks his manager is stealing, the owner is firing him whether he did it or not, because the reputation of the business must not be tarnished. 

 The game is rigged. It’s all pretend. The manager’s actions expose as much when, after he uses his last act to slash the debts of his boss’s debtors, instead of exploding in rage, a slow smile creeps over his boss’s face, and he claps the manager on the back and bellows, “Touché!” 

 And it took the man losing his job to wake him up to how messed up it all is.  
What really matters? What is really real? 
Our belonging to God and each other.  
 
So much of life functions in transactional relationships. What can we get from the other person? And that way of functioning is still at play for our manager. It’s maybe all he knows. So he thinks, I don’t have the skills to make it out there on my own! But I do know transactional relationships. If I reduce their debt, they will be obligated to welcome me in.  
 
But what interests me here is that Jesus rephrases the man’s thought and reiterates his point, when he closes out the parable with, “So I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.” He added the word eternal. 

Eternity in scripture isn’t so much about time. It’s about substance – quality of being. Eternity is love, underlying, overlaying, everlasting, permanent love, love holding it all.  
What would it be like to be at home in love? 
To move in the world connected in love? 
To know you are welcome in each other’s love and to have love to welcome others into?  
 
I think our deeply honest manager, who knows his own limitations, who knows the jig is up, who is being ejected from his secure and comfortable seat in the way of fear, wonders about this, doesn’t yet know how to get there, but he knows he wants it.
 
As the clock is ticking down, and security is about to escort him and his cardboard box from the building, he uses the tools of the way of fear—the cunning, manipulation, and transactional relationships, the familiar resources at his disposal, along with the last bit of leverage he has while he still has access to the account passwords—to lower debts, buy good will, and reach out for connection, in an effort to propel himself into this something else, this deeper thing, the intangible, authentic and eternal.
 
Maybe he wonders if his life could be for something more, if he could maybe experience the belonging of being at home in love, of moving through the world connected to others in love, instead of existing as a cog in the wheel of commerce, comparison and corruption.
 
Luke says we can’t serve two masters, God and wealth. In other words, we can’t let our lives be for both the way of fear and the way of God. We will either pursue personal security at the expense of trusting God and upholding one another, or we’ll embrace connection and reject rivalry and scarcity.

Serving the one master got this manager nowhere. So, while he’s not sure yet how to serve the other, he’s going to take a stab at finding out.  Kudos, good sir.  More power to you.
 
I think generations of Christians are scandalized by this parable because we sort of believe our religion is meant to make us good citizens that prop up the dominant system with sound investments, ethical behavior and upward mobility.  It’s offensive to hear Jesus tell a story of someone blowing it apart and then praise him for it. 
 
But it’s all pretend. None of it will last.  
All that matters is what’s eternal -  love.  
 
We can choose to surrender to the love that already holds us all, the belonging that already connects us, and practice living in that eternal reality until that becomes the most familiar and natural way to be. 
 
Or we can live in the way of fear, scarcity and anxiety, dutifully striving away for what doesn’t last.  And when something punctures that and we have to face our own weakness and isolation, we can take comfort in knowing that, however mysterious and ungraspable it is, the way of God is here to meet us, even if our way of reaching for it is flawed and corrupt.  

We belong to God and each other, and every time we remember that--no matter how we turn back to that--we will be welcomed into the eternal home of love. 

Amen. 
 
 
 

You can relax now

Luke 12:13-21

I don’t know about you, but I am so completely sick of everything always being up in the air. Of having to react and respond all the time. Of not being able to make plans and set those plans in place and count on those plans happening.  If not actual control, I would like to have back the illusion of control. Please.   

The rich man in Jesus’ parable has the illusion of control. He is blessed with an abundance of crops and decides to tear down his barns and build bigger ones to store them all and then finally he will have enough, and then, “I will say to my soul, Soul, You can relax now…”

 

And oh my goodness does this grab me. What would it take to be able to say, Soul, you can relax now? Would you say it when you finally have “enough” money saved? When you have reached a high enough level of education? Progressed far enough in your job? When kids are finally settled and successful? 

When you’ve achieved all your goals for self-improvement and enlightenment, then you can say, Soul, you can relax now?  How about, the mortgage and student loans are all completely paid off, the dream job has been achieved, you’re contributing to real and lasting change in the world as a force for goodness, everybody thinks good things about you and nobody dislikes or distrusts you, your body is a specimen of good health and guaranteed longevity, and your impact, memory and legacy is cemented for several generations. Now you can relax, soul.  Now you can finally live and just enjoy your life! 

 

Oh wait, let’s add some more, Democracy is secure, racism is vanquished, the climate crisis is remedied, now can our souls relax?

 

How about when we do have times we’ve accomplished a goal or reached a milestone, and we feel some sense of inner peace because the hard work we’ve invested has paid off, or friends and family are generally doing well and life seems to be on a good track.  Not perfect, but humming along fair enough.  It feels good to feel this way. Not unlike the man in Jesus’ parable, (who then illustrates that even that doesn’t feel like enough). And as Jesus reminds us, any and all of that can disappear at any moment. Anything can happen to anyone. Like, a global pandemic from the movies could engulf the entire globe for years, or something.  And then the illusion that we have any control over anything is short-lived.

 

This is one of those moments when the lectionary fails us. Because it separates out scripture that make more sense if kept together.

 

This rich man in Jesus’ parable is so often held up as a foil, a ridiculous, greedy fool. (My bible subtitles this pericope "The Parable of the Rich Fool").  We like to use him to remind ourselves not to get greedy and then move on.  But the story doesn’t stop right here. Jesus turns to the disciples and points underneath the pretend rich man’s striving, to the core of him, because it’s the core of all of us. Just like this man, we are all trying to quell that inner terror that things might not be ok. We all worry for our future, our safety, our loved ones, all the time, and our ability to live our lives with a sense of peace is so often dependent on how all these things and people are doing at the moment.  The rich man is seeking a feeling of security. An escape from the worry. The ability to enjoy life and not live in fear. Aren’t we all?

 

The passage continues with these words,
He said to his disciples, ‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds! 

And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.

 But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith! 

And do not keep striving for what you are to eat and what you are to drink, and do not keep worrying. 

For it is the nations of the world that strive after all these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, strive for his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.

 

Around here we remind each other that worrying is practicing fear, and resting is practicing trust.  We let go of worry not by talking ourselves out of it with logic, or by somehow controlling all the external factors around us so that we can finally be at rest inside.  

 

Into our worry, Jesus gives us a very concrete invitation –Look at the birds. Consider the lilies. Notice the beauty permeating it all. Right here in the world around us is evidence of God’s care. God who made and cares for this earth and its creatures values and treasures you, loves you.  

Instead of striving for your own security and wellbeing, Jesus says, point your being toward God’s reality, where we all belong inextricably to each other and to God, and we are here to care for one another and for this world. 

When you let go your attempting to make your own life secure, and return to this reality that the source of all life is holding your live in love, then the inner peace, the sense of deeper grounding, will come to you as a gift from God.  

 

James Finley talks about this in his podcast, Turning to the Mystics. He says our inner peace is so often dependent on conditions being conducive to peace. So when our family is healthy and things are going well in our lives we have peace. But when the condition are not conducive to peace, there is conflict, suffering, war, racism, then we do not have peace. So we try to change the conditions that are not conducive to peace, so that we can have inner peace. And we should do those things- we should address what is wrong in the world and in our lives. But the peace we are offered in Christ is not peace that is dependent on the conditions being conducive to peace. It’s God’s peace, given to us, regardless of the circumstances. And we can experience it even in the midst of great darkness and suffering, because it does not depend on the conditions being a certain way, it's deeper than that. And this peace actually allows us to be able to be present to the circumstances in a different way, in fact, to be with people in suffering and struggle more intentionally, and to bear those things ourselves, because the peace we have is not our own peace, it is God's. And it is not dictated by fluctuating circumstances.

 

From time to time the veil is pulled back, and, no matter the circumstances, we feel a sense of oneness with the universe. Maybe it happens when we’re laughing at a table filled with friends, or alone in the cacophonous silence of a still and busy forest, or suffering a terrible, life-severing loss, or simply catching eyes with a baby in a grocery store. We are occasionally, suddenly grabbed hold of by this love that is deeper and wider, more sure and more steady than everything else that exists. And we sense that not are apart from it, but in it, claimed by it. And for a moment we feel righted inside, and we wonder why it is we ever worry at all. And then, just as quickly as it comes, the fleeting glimpse of Reality fades. But these tastes give us hope, and feed our trust, and invite us to live differently.

 

We can’t make these experiences happen, but we can, “assume the inner stance of least resistance” to being overtaken by this love.  We can seek to be open – to, as Jesus invites us, notice the world around with wonder and gratitude, to be present in our own skin, our own lives, this one moment, unlike any other, and receive it. 

Instead of striving for the ideal someday version of our lives or this world that we can finally one day enjoy, we can welcome and appreciate our lives and this world right now, as they are, and be right here with God and each other. And this, perhaps, is what it means in the parable of Jesus, to be “rich toward God,” being ready to receive our lives as the generosity of God, abundantly poured into the world at every moment. 

 

I don’t think we are ever going back to a time when things can be planned and then carried out smoothly.  Life now is harder than it was three years ago, and all signs point to it continuing to get more complicated on nearly every front. There have never not been, and will never not be things to worry about, and there is not coming, in our lifetimes, the “finally” moment, when the barns are full, all the wrongs are put right, all the conditions conducive to peace are met, and we’ll heave a great collective sigh and say to our souls, Soul, you can relax now! 

And even if there were, it could all end in a second anyway.

 

But through all of it, whatever the conditions, the steady, never-ending, powerful, deeper love of God that claims the universe and is moving it all toward redemption, will continue to hold us fast. And we will be ok. No matter what.  

So beloved, let’s allow our lives to flow from God’s generosity and our souls to find rest in God’s peace.

Amen.

5-4-3-2-1

Daily Devotion - May 23

I will send a brief message each day 

(except Monday) while we are pausing gathering in person.
- Kara

The world smells magical in Minnesota right now. Lilacs and Lily of the Valley and lots of other flowers and plants I don't know the name of permeate the air with boldness. To walk around my neighborhood is to pass through one scentscape after another.  And the colors, everywhere you look, are vivid: vibrant greens below and above, and flashy flowers left and right.  The earth feels alive and joyful.

The world sounds magical too. The birds are loud and busy.  We've opened our windows, so right now, in addition to the raucous birds, I am hearing the neighbor playing scales on the clarinet, a lawn being mowed, a dog barking in the distance, and Andy chatting to the neighbor over the fence.

Some moments are hard. For me, most of this morning was hard.  But some moments feel easy. And this one right now, that smells like joy and sounds like summer, is a gift. 

This is reminding me of a common practice meant to help deal with anxiety, but which can also help ground us again in our life, and let us experience gratitude for what is - or at least notice what is so we can receive it.  

It's called 5-4-3-2-1.  It goes like this:

 

5: Acknowledge FIVE things you see around you. 
Say them to yourself, "I see my window frame. I see the tree outside the window..."

4: Acknowledge FOUR things you can touch around you. 
Your hair, the texture of your chair, your feet on the ground, the table in front of you...

3: Acknowledge THREE things you hear. 

The refrigerator humming, your stomach growling, the dog scratching, a child laughing...

2: Acknowledge TWO things you can smell.
What smells are right around you? Or go somewhere with more scents - smell soap in your bathroom, or step outside and sniff the Spring air.

1: Acknowledge ONE thing you can taste.
What does the inside of your mouth taste like—coffee, or the sandwich from lunch?

In the hard moments, this is available to us, grounding us again and letting us be receptive to God's presence with us in the moment. But it's also available to us in the easy moments, when we want to truly receive and not overlook the gifts right here and now.


CONNECTING RITUAL:

Perhaps tonight before bed, whatever time that is in each of our homes, we and so join our souls with each other and the people of the whole earth:

A prayer of gratitude, using 5-4-3-2-1 in retrospect:

God, thank you for this day,
come and gone,
the only May 23, 2020 I'll ever have.
For five things I saw today...  I thank you.
For four things I touched today... I thank you.
For three things I heard today... I thank you.
For two things I smelled today...  I thank you.
For one thing I tasted today... I thank you.
Thank you for your company today,
in what I saw, touched, heard, smelled and tasted,

I thank you.
Rest my soul this night,
and ready me for tomorrow.
Amen.

A good day for some reminders

Daily Devotion - May 7

I will send a brief message each day (except Mondays)
while we are pausing gathering in person.
- Kara

(If you don't have the time or attention span today to read this whole thing - jump down to #5 and watch the video).

I woke up to a lot of outrage on social media  - anger, fear and hopelessness breeding more anger, fear and hopelessness, and it's on full display today.  A friend reminded me that social media is not real life, and that is true.

In real life I went for a glorious walk with my daughter and dog, and we explored alleyways we hadn't before, noticed fascinating front doors, and ridiculously plentiful buds on trees and shrubs positively glowing with color (see above!).

I think today is a good day for some reminders. These are things we've talked about before--in passing, in person, in worship, and in these daily devotions.

1-
"There is grace for what already is, not for what might be."  Living in dread and apprehension about what might come and how we will handle it, or not, is not living in the present, the one real life we have - where God is already here caring for us.

2-
Fear asks "What if?"  Hope answers, "Even if..."  Fear dwells on all the terrible things that could happen, and hope says, Even if the very worst things happens, still... God is God, you are loved, there is enough, you will be ok, etc.

3-
Anxiety is a reasonable response.  Anxiety a normal part of life. Resisting anxiety is what causes damage. The movement into new life is always anxious.  We can feel it, let it pass through us, and if we have energy for more, wonder about what new life may end up coming from this.  The way to freedom is always through the anxiety, not by trying to avoid it.

4-
"This is part of the story. This is not the whole story. The world belongs to God." When something terrible happens, we rally our attention to it. We say things like,  "If you're not outraged you're not paying attention."  Sustained outrage and perpetual anger is no way to live, and it is a false response to the world's complexity.  If you are always outraged, you are not paying attention. So how to respond when tragedy feels so overwhelming?? We are limited creatures, bound by space and time, given to specific people in specific places, with one specific life to live. If we try to hold the whole whole world's suffering, we will break. If we try to solve the whole nation's brokenness, we will buckle.  It's impossible. Thankfully, that's not our job, it's God's.
We can - and should - look squarely at evil, and suffering, and injustice and call it what it is, "This is part of the story."  Then we can pull back and remember there is more - there is beauty and love and hope and truth. "This is not the whole story."
And maybe we need to spend some time looking for examples of other parts of the story - the ones where redemption and hope are breaking in, and people are conscious of their belonging to each other and God.  Or maybe we need to return consciously to our own life, the people around us, the community we are in and do something concrete right here that contributes to the wholeness, justice and good God is bringing everywhere.  Both these options can help return us to trust. "The world belongs to God."

5-
Finally, we are people with a further horizon - the people of "eschatological imagination."  We know the end of the story: wholeness, belonging, peace, justice and rest for all - for the whole of the earth and all its humans and creatures.  We trust that what will be is already leaking into what is. And we know we can watch for it and join in it now. We live into a different story than the loud ones about fear, division and hopelessness.  We live into a different future than the one shaped by dread.

I am putting here a video to spark your eschatological imagination. (It made me ugly cry hopeful tears and helped me remember God's relentless agenda always unfolding). If you can't view it below, please click this link and please watch the video).  

CONNECTING RITUAL:

Perhaps today at lunch time, whatever time that is in each of our homes, (or at dinner if I've already missed your lunch by the time I get this shared)  we might all pray again this "World Peace Prayer" - either sung or spoken, which is prayed at noon in every time zone around the world, as an unbroken prayer, and so join our souls with each other and the people of the whole earth:

WORLD PEACE PRAYER

by Marty Haugen

Lead us from death to life
from falsehood to truth
from despair to hope
from fear to trust.
Lead us from hate to love
from war to peace
let peace fill our hearts
let peace fill our world
let peace fill our universe.

(Listen here)

Anxiety - a reasonable response

Daily Devotion - March 26

I will try to send a brief message each day while we are pausing gathering in person.
- Kara

I like to tell this a lot, so you've probably heard it from me, but here I go again.

A couple of years ago, on a road trip, I listened to a wonderful On Being podcast in which Krista Tippett interviewed Benedictine Monk David Steindl-Rast, who talks about the power of gratitude to reconnect us to God and each other, to ground us again in what is real.

But what stuck out to me most in this interview is how he answered her when she asked him about his perspective of living in a time where things seem so precarious and terrible.

She couldn't have known what was coming in 2020.  Nevertheless, his words made such an impact on me then, that I kept stopping and rewinding the podcast to hear them again, (while my kids groaned behind me in the car and told me to quit it).

This is what he said:

We must acknowledge our anxiety... We must acknowledge our anxiety, but we must not fear.  

There is a great difference. 

…Anxiety, or being anxious, this word comes from a root that means “narrowness,” and choking, and the original anxiety is our birth anxiety. 

We all come into this world through this very uncomfortable process of being born…. It’s really a life-and-death struggle for both the mother and the child. And that is the original, the prototype, of anxiety. 

At that time, we do it fearlessly, because fear is the resistance against this anxiety. See? If you go with it, it brings you into birth. If you resist it, you die in the womb. Or your mother dies.

So, anxiety is a reasonable response to a lot of human experience.

and we are to acknowledge it and affirm it, because to deny our anxiety is another form of resistance. 
But the fear is life destroying.

Anxiety is not optional in life, he says. It’s part of life.
 
But we can look back at our lives, at times we were in really tight spots, times of anxiety, and say to ourselves, we made it! We got through it! … In fact, the worst anxieties and the worst tight spots in our life, often, years later, when you look back at them, reveal themselves as the beginning of something completely new, a completely new life.

And that can teach us, and that can give us courage, also, now, that we think about it, in looking forward and saying, yes, this is a tight spot. …But, if we go with it,…it will be a new birth. And that is trust in life.

I have been thinking about his words today.
The grocery store was an anxious place. I felt anxious there.
But in the midst of the anxiety, and the care we took not to get too close to one another, we still saw each other, maybe more so.
We smiled, we nodded hello, we were careful to leave enough for others. When I thanked my check-out person, I choked up.  I am really thankful for her.

This is an anxious time.  Yes, this is a tight spot.  We are being squeezed.
What new life will come from this, we've yet to even speculate.
But the way God works is to bring us through death to life,
through fear to hope,
through anxiety to newness.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

Perhaps tonight before bed, whatever time that is in each of our homes, we might all receive this blessing, and so join our souls:

Lord, open unto me

Open unto me—light for my darkness.
Open unto me—courage for my fear.
Open unto me—hope for my despair.
Open unto me—peace for my turmoil.
Open unto me—joy for my sorrow.
Open unto me—strength for my weakness.
Open unto me—wisdom for my confusion.
Open unto me—forgiveness for my sins.
Open unto me—love for my hates.
Open unto me—thy Self for my self.
Lord, Lord, open unto me!

Amen.

• Howard Thurman (1900-1981)

Be Here Now

Daily Devotion - March 22

I will try to send a brief message  to my congregation each day while we are pausing gathering in person. Today's is the sermon from our online church gathering.
- Kara

 Luke 10:38-42
Martha

I was having an anxiety moment this week on the phone with my sister. This is a surreal reality we are living in, where there is no end in sight, where the threat looms, the numbers climb, the scenarios unfold, and none of them rosy. The losses pile up, big ones and little ones, the pressures build up, big ones and little ones.
And life as we’ve known it has ground to a screeching halt.  An unfathomable stop.

And the questions loom: What happens with school? With the economy? When we start getting sick or losing those we love? What happens to the vacations we had been saving for? To the job we had just gotten? To the comfortable, familiar rhythms of life?  Haircuts, and dentist appointments, and movie theaters, and coffee shops?  What are we going to do?  How are we going to get through all of this? What will this do to us?

If I want to go there, I can go there, quickly. I can elevate my heart rate and feel the adrenaline course through me.  I can get sleepless, and restless, and worried, and anxious, distracted by many things.

So as we were ramping up, pulling each other into anxiety, my sister paused, and as I have shared a couple times this week – she said something that I have been repeating to myself over and over.

From outside the urgency, she spoke truth that brought me back to the present.

She said, “There is grace for what actually happening. Never for what might happen.”
Last week Lisa introduced us to Lazarus- the resurrected man, when she preached about his sister, Mary.  He lived in his sister Martha’s house in Bethany, along with their sister Mary. These three were very close friends of Jesus, and, not having a home of his own, their house was where he went when he wanted to come home.  Since most of us are stuck in our houses, we are going to spend the next few weeks in theirs.

In this scene, we see Martha doing what women were supposed to do when they welcomed people into their home. They were supposed to be preparing – the home, the meal, the table.  Men were supposed to sit with their guests and carry on the conversation; they were allowed to live in the present. But women were supposed to be organizing and planning, and doing the work to be ready for what was next.

 Mary should be preparing too, but she decides she is going to go sit with Jesus instead, and Martha gets stuck with the work alone.
But Martha doesn’t stick with what she should be doing either, because she brings her concerns right to Jesus.  She shows us what to do with our own anxiety.

Lord, don’t you even care? She asks. Don’t you even care that she’s left me to do all the work alone?  Tell her to help me!

There is another time in scripture where Jesus’ friends said, “Lord, don’t you even care…? It was when the disciples were caught in the middle of a terrible storm, and the boat was going under, and Jesus was asleep ASLEEP in the stern.  And they shook him awake in terrified panic and said these very same words, Lord, don’t you even care… that we are dying?  Don’t you even care that we are going to drown?

And for as much as that is NOT actually where Martha is, it is where she feels like she is. I am drowning here! Tell her to help me!  I am alone! Do something!  Jesus, don’t you even care?

Don’t you care that there are not enough hospital beds or ventilators?
Don’t you even care that my retirement is dwindling away?
Don’t you even care that I lost my job?
Don't you even care that my kid is stocking groceries during a lockdown?
Don't you even care about the people stuck in refugee camps?
Don’t you even care that I can’t handle work and kids in the same space a single second longer?
It’s bad, so bad, can’t you see how bad it is? Don’t you care?

It’s the “What if?” of fear that projects the future. We are used to preparing for the worst, or the best, or any possibility that might arise.
This future-oriented, preparation kind of life is how we’ve shaped our whole society, it’s how we operate. We work for what is coming. We look toward what is coming. We live for what is coming. We make calendars, and lists, and reservations, and investments. We know how to be organizing and planning, and doing the work to be ready for what is next.

But this? This being stuck in the perpetual present?  We have no idea how to do this.
We’re stuck at home and not even living, as we’ve come to define living.
Or we’re out there where somehow the hospital and grocery store have become the front lines of something even our high tech models can’t completely predict, and we are not prepared.  We have no choice but to simply face it when it comes.

And what we want, desperately, is grace for what might be.
We want grace for the possibilities, and the dangers, and the contingencies.
We want some way to be organizing and planning, and doing the work to be ready for what is next. We want God to join us in the urgency!  To rally others to take it seriously! To get us all pointed on the solution!

But what we need is God from outside our urgency to speak truth to us.
We need the voice of “Even if…” to bring us back into the present.
Martha, Martha, Jesus says, you are worried and distracted by many things.  There is need of only one thing.  Mary has chosen the good, and it will not be taken away from her.

Just like the disciples, tossed about in the little boat in the big storm, Martha has lost sight of who is sitting in her midst.  Jesus invites her to be in the moment.  Be where Jesus is.

Jesus is inviting us to live in the truth that in life or in death we are held in the love of God. To take a deep breath, and set it all down and come back to that truth.
That nothing can separate us from the love of God.
There is never grace for what might be, only for what is.

The good life is only ever the life we are in, not the life that may be.
God’s grace is for the now.
God is making something TRULY new, right in the middle of what actually is.  Always.
We can’t stop this from happening. It’s what God does.
It is not dependent on the work that we do.
We can’t bring it about, but we can join it when it happens, right now.

Beloved one, you are you are worried and distracted by many things.  There is need of only one thing.  To be in our lives where God already is. To be here now.

God is in our living rooms.  And also in the hospital rooms, and the strategy rooms, and grocery store stock rooms, and the great wide empty streets, and resting rivers and quiet skies of the whole world; God is right here in this with us.
God is seeing us through, right now.
There is grace for what is actually happening.
Each day, right now. Right here.
God is with us.
Amen.

(This year, we are asking, "Who is this God and what is God up to?" And "What is a good life and how do we live it?" along with some of our biblical ancestors.  The sermons related to this series are here: Hannah, Mary, Anna & Simeon, John the Baptist, Samuel, David (we had a theater performance, here's an older sermon about David), The Samaritan Woman, Mary of Bethany (preached by Pastor Lisa), Martha, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, Thomas (preached by Pastor Lisa, follow up devotion here)

Anxious but Unafraid

Matthew 6:24-34 and Proverbs 3:5-8

Friends, I think it’s about time we talked about worry.

I have a daughter who is pretty good about it – she calls me into her room when she needs “Worry Time”. We save up whatever has got her worried throughout the day, and then we sit down and she pours it all out. Sometimes she has to correct me, because I am not very good at platitudes, so she tells me what is most helpful for her to hear, “Mom, just say, ‘That will never happen, honey.’”  And so I do.

But most of the time, just sharing whatever it is that has got her worried, seems to take away the power of the worrying, at least for the moment.  And then she always asks me, “What are you worried about, Mommy?” And it always stops me in a rush of gratitude. Because it reminds me that we belong to each other.

For me, the most comforting thing for me to hear is not, “That will never happen.” But “Even if…” Even if the very worst thing that could happen does happen, it will still be ok.  

Even if, like the psalmist says, the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, that is STILL not the biggest thing. God is still God. Love is still the most true and first and final word. God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore I will not fear. (Psalm 46) Because we belong to God and we belong to each other. No matter what. 

That is what I most often need to hear.

But oh, is worry a potent thing! 

Here is how worry works for me.

That terrible thing that happened over there happening to someone else?

What if it happens to me, or to someone I love? 

That loss – of home or family, of safety or order – flood, earthquake, war, famine, violence, I want to keep it far from my doorstep.

That unexpected tragedy that came out of the blue - that car accident or diagnosis - what if that happens to me or someone I love?

This terrifying and dangerous threat – ideology of dehumanization and division, isolation or provocation – it’s one thing in the hypothetical or in words, but what if it is given power, and action, and threatens me and my well-being?

I don’t worry about people suffering elsewhere. 

I might feel terrible about it, 

I might grieve it, feel angry or upset or compassionate or be filled with pity. 

But the worry comes in when I think that something bad could happen to me.

Worry always says “What if…” and then it shifts to the threat: What if…I wont not be safe. I wont have enough. I wont belong. I wont be seen. I lose someone I love, my security, my comfort, my place.

Worry rehearses the lie, over and over again; it whispers that we are unsafe, abandoned, futureless, hopeless and ultimately alone. 

In other words, we don’t belong to God, and we don’t belong to each other.

This is why worry is linked here with money. 

Money means security. If we are in it on our own, money is reassurance.  It means I have buffered myself from risk. I will have what I need – food, a bed, a home, a future. Because ultimately, this whole text is really about trust, and let’s be honest, Money is what we put our trust in. We trust in money so that we don’t have to worry. So most of the time what we worry about is having enough money.

So here is how I worry. I obsess. I read every dumb article I can get my hands on. And I can feel my blood pressure going up, and my heart racing, and my mind churning and my stomach clenching. I can feel the world around me fading out when I concentrate on whatever it is I am worried about. 

I think to myself, What if my worst fears come true? And then I google them. 

The news, the stock market, politics, webMD, CaringBridge – I feed the worry and it grows.

And while this is happening, the world is turning around me, like it does moment by moment, year after year.  The leaves are gently shifting into brilliance and color, the squirrels are finding their hiding spots for the winter.  Kids around me are discovering new, amazing skills, like standing upright and walking to their daddy, or cracking the code and suddenly discovering those shapes on the signs outside the car windows are words, and knowing what they say, or realizing in some other new way that their bodies, or minds, or voices, can do things in the world that have an impact and make a difference. And the ones in my own house are even sometimes inviting me to see that and celebrate or mourn whatever is real in their life along with them, but I am missing that.

While we are obsessing and worrying, new little people are being born, and rich full lives are ending, and every day in between is filled with all these moments where God is trying to show us, over and over again, Hey! You belong to me you wonderful, beloved person! And look, you belong to each other, all around you, all these other wonderful, beloved people! All of you, scared and longing and hopeful and brave, walking around on this earth like it matters, because it matters.

And here’s the truth about all the things we worry about: when the worst things do happen, the hardest and scariest and ickiest things have happened to us in the past, we made it through.  And what in advance had seemed unendurable, is endured after all, and worry’s “What if…” did not help us at all.

I heard a wonderful On Being podcast in which Krista Tippett interviewed Benedictine Monk David Steindl-Rast, who talks about the power of gratitude to reconnect us to God and each other, to ground us again in what is real.  But what stuck out to me most in this interview is how he answered her when she asked him about his perspective of living in a time where things seem so precarious and terrible.

We must acknowledge our anxiety about it. He said. We must acknowledge our anxiety, but we must not fear.  There is a great difference.

…Anxiety, or being anxious, this word comes from a root that means “narrowness,” and choking, and the original anxiety is our birth anxiety.

We all come into this world through this very uncomfortable process of being born…. It’s really a life-and-death struggle for both the mother and the child. And that is the original, the prototype, of anxiety.

At that time, we do it fearlessly, because fear is the resistance against this anxiety. See? If you go with it, it brings you into birth. If you resist it, you die in the womb. Or your mother dies.

So, anxiety is a reasonable response to a lot of human experience.

and we are to acknowledge it and affirm it, because to deny our anxiety is another form of resistance. But the fear is life destroying.

Anxiety is not optional in life, he says. It’s part of life. But we can look back at our lives, at times we were in really tight spots, times of anxiety, and say to ourselves, we made it! We got through it! … In fact, the worst anxieties and the worst tight spots in our life, often, years later, when you look back at them, reveal themselves as the beginning of something completely new, a completely new life.

And that can teach us, and that can give us courage, also, now, that we think about it, in looking forward and saying, yes, this is a tight spot. …But, if we go with it,…it will be a new birth. And that is trust in life.

So here is what I have to say to 2016: 2016, you suck.

And here is what I have to say to us: Right now is an anxious time.  

And most of us feel the anxiety acutely. All these ugly and toxic things inside of our culture, our systems, our very selves, they are leeching out, coming to the surface, and they are right here in the open, like gaping wounds.  We can see the horror we’ve practiced avoiding, ignore or suppressing, and it is really hard to look at.  And it feels big and sad and awful. It feels like we’re broken, a little bit.  And that makes us feel helpless.

We hate anxiety so we resist it, and we give in to fear. And worry is fear’s fuel, it’s momentum.  So in fear we might lash out at each other, or turn in on ourselves, obsessing about how our safety or security or happiness or precarious balance of equilibrium could vanish, seeing the threat all around us, feeding the fear, working the worry.

Right now we are in a narrow, constricted time.  And it hurts, and feels rotten and uncomfortable.  And we are resisting it.  Oh, are we resisting it. We are letting fear get us stuck, and the worry keep us distracted and preoccupied.

But there is invitation in this time.  There is an opportunity opened up in these times, to move from “What if…” to “Even if…”

By considering the lilies and the birds, by noticing and gratitude, we are shifted from worry to trust.  Trust in the one who holds us.  Trust looks up; it sees much farther and wider than worry, which can only look in one frozen spot with fear.  

Trust can look back at God’s faithfulness in the past, and trust can look forward with courage and hope, and trust can look around with eyes wide open, acknowledging the anxiety, seeing things as they are, but also holding onto a vision of things as they should be. Trust seeks first the Kingdom of God, the belonging of God that claims us and connects us.  The rest will fade and wither and die and change, but we will always belong to God and we will always belong to each other, no matter what it looks like on the surface at the moment.

We are in a series on Sabbath.  So as I say each week, when we say we are a congregation that practices Sabbath, we are not just saying that we worship sometimes on Saturdays instead of Sundays.

By practicing Sabbath, we are saying that as a community of people, we refuse to live fueled by worry and driven by fear. We will face anxiety and call it what it is – uncomfortable, terrible, painful, and we will trust anyway.

Sabbath is an active form of resistance to the way of fear, a powerful practice of defiance to worry.  In a 24/7 system where fear is cultivated and encouraged, and our connection to God and others is buried under noise and lies.Sabbath refuses to numb out, or rush past the pain, or submit to the relentless cycle of obsession and worry.

So when Sabbath invites us to say, I am going to step off the spinning carousel of chaos, and take a breath, and get my bearings, and sit down and be here, right here in my life, right now in honesty and gratitude, with no other agenda, it is a direct affront to the system of fear, and a powerful antidote to the cycle worry. Sabbath is such a potent and subversive move because it reminds us that we are, in fact, free, free to opt out of that game at any moment.

Because when we rest, we trust. It’s not a feeling; it’s an action. 

We actively give up the frantic resistance of fear, and the flailing of worry. Instead we welcome the anxiety, and let ourselves face it and feel it, as uncomfortable as it is. We recognize that it’s true, in lots of ways we are completely helpless.  

But then, something comes after that: the “what if” dissipates and the “even if” finds us and reminds us what is real. That despite what we see on the news and on the CT scan and on the bank statement, that is not the most true thing. “Even if” the very worst thing that could happen does happen, God is still God. Love is still the most true and first and final word.  And we usually find ourselves surprised by gratitude, a sense of peace, a momentary remembering of the belonging that claims and connects us all.

This is what it means to be people who practice Sabbath. 

We are people who practice trusting God with all our hearts, and leaning not on our own understanding, acknowledging God in all our ways, and letting God direct our paths, and in so doing, we will find healing for our bodies and refreshment for our souls. (Prov. 3:5-8)

And something else happens as well.  

Stopping, resting, trusting, makes space for the Spirit to lead us to responses that are productive, and faithful.  Responses like grieving – which connects us with the heart of God that longs for things to be as the are meant to be.  Or helping each other, listening to each other, or tending the earth, tending our souls- all these things plug us back into the real reality – belonging to God and belonging to each other.

Because when we remember the real, instead of seeing a crisis a half a world away and fearing it might land on our doorstep, we might reach out in generosity, or listen for the stories of hope and connection.  

Instead of dreading danger in our communities or vilifying those we don’t understand, we might let curiosity lead us to learn about our neighbors, or seek a way to connect more deeply with someone and their story. 

Instead of walling ourselves off in shame and supposed self-protection, we might find courage to reach out in our need and let others come near to us and tend to us.  

In other words, when we remember that we belong to God and we belong to others, we will live that way, and that can change the world.

Someone said to me this week, Why do we think worrying is fruitful, but breathing and meditation is not? Why are we so willing and quick to worry? But not to be silent or pray or stop, things that actually are fruitful?

So today, we are going to be a Sabbath people. 

We are going to actively practice silence, and praying, and stopping.  

We are going to spend the next couple of minutes countering worry with trust, reconnecting with the source of our being and our belonging, preparing us to reconnect with ourselves and each other as well. (And if you are reading this at home, you are invited to breathe along as you read).

Breathing Prayer by ab simpson

Breathe in the breath of God

Breathe out your cares and concerns

Breathe in the love of God

Breathe out your doubts and despairs

Breathe in the life of God

Breathe out your fears and frustrations

We sit quietly before the One who gives life and love to all creation,

We sit in awe of the One who formed us in our mother’s wombs

We sit at peace surrounded by the One who fills every fibre of our being

Breathe in the breath of God

Breathe out your tensions and turmoil

Breathe in the love of God

Breathe out your haste and hurry

Breathe in the life of God

Breathe out your work and worry

We sit quietly before the One who gives life and love to all creation,

We sit in awe of the One who formed us in our mother’s wombs

We sit at peace surrounded by the One who fills every fibre of our being

You belong to God.

You are loved.

You are part of God’s plan to love the world.

Be at peace.

Amen.