Back to School Blessing

 

May be used by groups/congregations, or at home.  

In lieu of a "blessing of the backpacks," each person brings an object that will be used for school this year.

Pencils, computers, paper, headphones, masks and designated workspaces – 
we lift to you the tools of this school year.
They represent the learning we will be doing,
and all the unusual places and ways we will be doing this learning.

 As we hold in our hands these tools, 

and hold in our hearts this school year,

we ask your blessing on us, Gracious One.

 

May our teachers teach with wisdom, grace, imagination and love.

Give them patience and gentleness with themselves,

and their students.

Mark out for them the times to work and the times to rest.

And give them joy in their teaching.

 

May our learners grow in wisdom, grace, imagination and love.

Give them patience and gentleness with themselves,

and their teachers.

Mark out for them the times to work and the times to rest.

And give them joy in their learning.

 

May our parents parent with wisdom, grace, imagination and love.

Give them patience and gentleness with themselves,

and with their children.

Mark out for them the times to work and the times to rest.

And give them joy in their parenting.

 

Lord, bless these students. 

Bless these teachers. 

Bless these parents.  

Bless this learning.

May we remember it’s not about memorizing facts and figures,

but stimulating our inspiration, expanding our horizons, 

deepening our appreciation for living, 

and expanding our capacity to participate 

in a full life alongside each other.

Amen.

Taking Turns (or Not)

 

Devotion for Being Apart -
August 19

This summer, I will share new devotions fromtime to time,

and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted here on this blog.

I shared this prayer from Nadia Bolz-Weber Tuesday in the announcements: 

Dear God,

We are going to just be taking turns for a while, if that’s ok.

Yesterday was mine. My turn to be depressed-as-hell about the closing of beloved, been-around-for-decades local businesses. My turn to be afraid because the wildfires are so bad that my eyes sting and the interstate is closed. My turn to be angry.  My turn to indulge in post-apocalyptic future-casting. (OK maybe I shouldn't have watched Mad Max this week.)

Please help me not feel bad when it’s my turn, Lord. And with your grace, may my turn to completely freak out not last one minute longer than necessary. But also may it last as long as needed in order to allow it to pass when it’s time to move on and just go make the salad for dinner.

And Lord, may I be a non-anxious presence to the next person whose turn it is. May I not fear their fear so much that I fail to listen well. When I have even the tiniest extra bit of hope may I offer it without fear of being judged for “not paying attention”. 

And may I remember that my terror is not a sign of your absence and my hope is not a sign of your presence. 

Because you never take turns. 

This spoke to me Monday because Monday felt like my turn.
Tuesday, it turned out I am not so good at taking turns. 

My family spent five days in a cabin way up the Gunflint Trail last week.  Surrounded by the sounds and sights of nature, with my phone and email off, it was a much-needed rest for which I am profoundly grateful.  We returned Saturday to a delightful outdoor baptism Saturday evening, and then a lovely zoom worship service on Sunday.  
And then the funk descended.  

I flailed on Monday.  Rattled around aimlessly, trying to out-walk, out-eat, out-read the hovering depression that threatened to descend from the moment I awoke to another ordinary day in COVID world.  By bedtime I was determined to be gentle with myself and the adjustment back to reality that was going to look, apparently, messier than I'd hoped.

Today I am back to making lists and taking things slowly, welcoming interruptions and trying to remember to take lots of slow, deep breaths.  It helps to notice things like the resting dog's inexplicably wagging tail, the squirrel in the tree off our deck that's been boisterously shouting to the neighborhood for five straight hours, the tiny, personal smile on the face of my kid who just walked by me, lost in thought. 

But yesterday, oof. Yesterday it was not my turn.  It was other people's in my house turn to be a mess, and I met them with impatience and irritation. I pointed out their illogic. I lost my temper at their temper tantrums.  I competed for pathetic points.  I rolled my eyes, and sighed, and withheld my empathy and attention. 

The problem is, sometimes we don't actually take turns.
Sometimes we are all feeling rotten at the same time.  
Then what?

Then God's grace holds us too.  
Then, I am invited to recognize that it's not all dependent on our feelings, and how well or poorly we are handling things, or whether we are there for each other in the ways we hope to be or utterly not.  Because, as I continue to cling to throughout this time, This is part of the story. This is not the whole story. The world belongs to God.

The roller coaster ride of emotions will be what it will be.  And even when we handle things regretfully with each other, and do a bad job of taking turns, that is not the final word. We have the next moment, and the moment after that, the next day, and the day after that. And even our breakdowns and break-ups and broken relating can be part of the larger story of being made closer, more with each other, more for each other.  Because we already and always belong to each other and to God, and that's not up to us to decide.  God has already done this.

Last night, when session met under the shade of the maple tree on the church patio, we read a paraphrase (by Nan C. Merrill) of the Psalm Theresa preached for us on Sunday, Psalm 13.

It says,
How long, my Beloved?
Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I bear this pain in my soul,
and lie with sorrow all the day?
How long will fear rule my life?

Notice my heart and answer me,
O my Beloved;
enlighten me, lest I walk as one dead to life;
Lest my ego fears say, "We have won the day;"
Lest they rejoice in their strength.

As I trust in your steadfast Love;
my heart will rejoice,
for in You is freedom.
I shall sing to the Beloved,
who has answered my prayers a thousand fold!
Come, O Beloved, make your home in my heart.

I felt myself praying this as I awoke today: 
How long will fear rule my life?
Notice my heart and answer me, God,
enlighten me lest I walk as one dead to life.
Come, Lord, make your home in my heart.

I will not walk as one dead to life.
And today I feel fortified.
It can be someone else's turn to melt down, I'm ready today.  I will pray to be for them the non-anxious presence and the speaker of hope.

And if I am not as steady as I thought I was, and their meltdown leads to my own, so what?  God can use that too.  We are all in this together. You. Me. God. The rest of the world. This story keeps going.

 
So come, Lord, make your home in our hearts.
We will trust in your steadfast love. For in you is freedom.
Amen.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

 

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

Let's use the psalm to pray.
Read it through several times.
Let the phrases that reach for your heart nestle there.
Repeat them to yourself a few times and sit in silence. Let God speak to you through the words.
End by reading through the psalm one final time.

(Psalm 13, paraphrase by Nan C. Merrill in Psalms for Praying.)

How long, my Beloved?
Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I bear this pain in my soul,
and lie with sorrow all the day?
How long will fear rule my life?

Notice my heart and answer me,
O my Beloved;
enlighten me, lest I walk as one dead to life;
Lest my ego fears say, "We have won the day;"
Lest they rejoice in their strength.

As I trust in your steadfast Love;
my heart will rejoice,
for in You is freedom.
I shall sing to the Beloved,
who has answered my prayers a thousand fold!
Come, O Beloved, make your home in my heart.

Already, always, forever

                    Devotion for Being Apart -

August 9

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted on this blog.

 

Romans 8:38-39

This summer we've worked our way through Romans eager to get to chapter 8 – the pinnacle that the whole first part is building toward, and rightly so because it’s a ridiculous treasure trove of good news, and things kind of go downhill into complicated Paulisms after that. So three weeks ago, when we got to chapter 8, I called Lisa and said, “There’s so much goodness here, I’m taking just the first part and saving the rest for you!” Then, on Sunday, like a true Minnesotan who keeps cutting the last piece of cake in half, Lisa called me and said, “I saved you the end, verses 38-39!” 
One of my favorite things to do is to listen to books while I am driving.  When Lisa called, I was driving home from Kansas and listening to Jim Finley’s Thomas Merton and the Path to the Palace of Nowhere.  Finley is a former monk, a psychologist and contemplative.  And it just so happened that he unpacked some things about the love of God in such simple and profound ways, that his illustrations have stuck with me all week.  So I am going to be sharing a lot from him today.
 
So let’s start by reframing the message to hear how good this news is that Paul is sharing: For I am convinced that neither death nor life, nor a global pandemic, nor the deep-seated, soul degrading institution of racism, nor terrible tragedies of floods and fires and cities exploding, nor terrible sadness in our own hearts, nor melting ice shelves, nor impending election drama, nor distance learning, nor a quarantined winter, nor financial hardship, nor loneliness, nor worry, nor fear, nor the broadest nightmare my imagination can conjur up, nor the most specific, surgical insult or injury, nor anything else in all of existence can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
 
Nothing can separate us from God’s love.  This is really good news, and we need to hear it.  Except that, really, most of the time we doubt this. 
 
Doubt 1 – Does God really love me?  We tell ourselves there are things we need to change, or do, or be, or let go of, or stop being, or stop doing in order for God to love us. We tell ourselves God is something we need to pursue, and God’s love is something we need to search for in order to find, and if we do find it, we need to figure out what to do right so we don’t lose it.
 
We don’t actually trust that we are already in the love of God, that in fact, nothing can separate us from this love that is already holding us.
 
James Finley says, “Imagine if, sitting in this room, I were told I had 10 minutes to figure out how to get into this room.  So I lept up from my chair and raced down the hallway and frantically searched through the books on the shelves for something to help me figure out how to get in this room.  No matter what I did, I would never figure out how to get in this room, and I actually can’t get in this room. Because I am already in it.”
 
Nothing can separate us from the love of God that is here, already, right now, holding us. Nothing.
 
We are already in this love. We don’t do anything to get here.  We just stop and be here. Just be. Be here. In your life, in your skin, in your experience, however that is, however you are. Here is where God is already loving you. 

God loves you. Nothing ever can stop that from being true.  Seeking God does not mean wandering around searching for an elusive being. It means attuning your attention to the right now, and surrendering to the love that already holds you. 
 
Then, Doubt 2 -   Can I really surrender to this love? Can we entrust ourselves to God? Should we? Can we pray, “thy will be done,” trusting that what that means is only love, more love, deeper love?
 
“We proclaim the good news of God’s love,” Finley says, “but when we get down to the act of surrendering to this love, that is when the doubts rise up.”
 
He says, imagine you’re in a grocery store and you see someone you know and they say, “Did you hear about so-and-so?” 
“No! What happened to her?” 
“Well, God’s will, that’s what.” 
“Oh no!” you reply. “That’s terrible!  “But actually, come to think of it, I did hear her say “’thy will be done.’” 
What do we imagine God’s will is? Who do we think this God is and what do we think this God is up to? Deep inside do we think God is secretly trying to rope us into something terrible?  
 
I imagine that my kids are still little, and one of them is on the the top of a monkey bars, and I am down below, and I say to my precious toddler “Jump!” and hold out my arms to my child. If my little one were to jump, it would be inconceivable to imagine that, at the last minute I step out of the way and let them fall to the ground.  And yet we think this way about God. 
 
In Matthew 7 Jesus says, “Is there anyone among you who, if 
your child asks for bread, will give a stone?  Or if the child asks for a fish, will give a snake? (Luke’s version adds an egg and a scorpion).  If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!
 
These are symbols of life and death. In other words, if we ask for life, will God give us death? God is the maker and sustainer of life! Our life is in God, and this life of being loved by God will never end. Even death cannot stop this life, this love, from continuing! 
 God wants us to have life, and have it abundantly.  And yet, we imagine that surrendering to God’s love might somehow be dreadful for us.  
 
We avoid surrendering, we hold back trusting, as though we have the power to hold back from God’s love. What adorable hubris! As though somehow we could stop God from loving us by stopping ourselves from receiving it.  
This is what actually restricts us.  God’s love has already got us.  We don’t hold God back.  We hold ourselves back from experiencing God’s love from which nothing can separate us. We act like we can’t, or don’t want to, get into the room where we are already sitting, because we aren’t sure we can trust the love inside which we already exist.
We doubt God’s goodness, but trust our own ability to see what is good. This is backwards.  
 
When we say, Your will be done, we are surrendering to the love of God. We are dying to preconceived ideas of God, or of love, or of what a good life is. And we are set free from the false things we cling to, thinking they can somehow get us into the room where we already sit. 
 
Nothing can separate us from the love of God. It’s not that obstacles don’t exist, they do. Everywhere we look we can see obstacles to belonging, obstacles to trust, obstacles to goodness, obstacles to life, obstacles to love.  And yet, in God, these obstacles are not obstacles at all.  Remember what we said two weeks ago and Paul said just a few verses ago? “In all things, God works for the good, together with those who love God.”  So in the broken places, in the places of loss and sorrow, in the division, in the sickness, in the death, God is working, bringing love.  The cross of Christ reveals that God goes right into the greatest of obstacles, the ones that seem to stop life all together, and uses even those to continue bringing freedom and life, through the the relentless, profoundly good, kind, and never-wavering love of God.

We know this love because we’ve felt it - we are most fully ourselves when we are acting in love for others. We are most fully at home in the world when we recognize that which cannot be broken that holds us all, even for a brief moment – in the face of your beloved on zoom, in the joy of crazy loud birds in the sunrise, in the laughter of your grandchild, in the minute a bunch of strangers come scurrying over in their masks to bend down and pick up groceries that fell out of your cart, blueberries bouncing onto the parking lot, when something snaps in you and the grief and anger finally comes pouring out, in the unexpected conversation with an old classmate where courage, vulnerability and well-placed questions open up the possibility for being seen and heard  – in a brief, ordinary moment of living and dying and being, when suddenly the top layer is pulled back, and for that moment we can see the love that is always here, the real underneath the obstacles and illusions, for a moment, we know we are in the room.  

And, then, if someone passing by that very moment were to notice our face, and were to stop us and ask, “What do you most know to be true?” we might respond, “I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Amen.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

 

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

Tonight, let's pray like we did in worship.

Here is the need God... your will be done.
Here is my thanks, God... your will be done.
God your will be done in all things.
I surrender my life to you.
Amen.

On this train together

Devotion for Being Apart -
August 6

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted on this blog.

My kids’ head of school, said the other night, at an online parent meeting:

“If you could join me, adults, if we could join in a small ‘pinkie pact’... when we read articles about students, ‘losing ground’ or ‘falling behind’, that we might take those metaphors and set them aside and talk about how we’re on a train together, and that train has slowed down. What can we do to engage deeper in the scenery that we have access to [now], so that when our train starts moving faster again, we’ll all feel just fine about it?
         Our students right now will become adults. And there’s no reason to think they’ll be less prepared adults than we are currently, or the adults who came before us. In fact, because of this they may be better prepared for adulthood, even if they’ve had a small slow down in the rate of math facts that they’ve accumulated through their academic career."

We are all on this train together. We are no longer racing along at the pace of life that we were accustomed to.  And when we were, we knew, most of us knew, it was an unsustainable speed.  And now it's slowed down. And we are slowed down.  
What is the scenery on this slower ride?  
How can we take in the ride more intentionally?

Over twenty years ago, Andy and I spent three months in Australia. We mostly traveled between cities by plane. But once, we decided to take a train, so we could "get a feel for the size of the country."  We didn't even go that far - Cairns to Brisbane - a 2 hour and 5 minute flight.  

But this train, friends, it went like 30 mph. We puttered along and puttered along, and when we passed through tiny towns we slowed down even more.  School busses passed us.  Kids on bikes passed us.  Dogs ran alongside us barking.  

We were on that train for two days.  Interesting people got on and off.  I found a novel in the dining car and read the whole thing. Andy's shirtless, overall-wearing sleeper-car mate showed him his toe-missing bare foot.  We heard rural Australian accents- different than city talk.  We felt ourselves in a different culture.  Acutely.  Outside the windows, we saw vast stretches of nothing but bushland. Sunset, sunrise, sunset...  

We are on a slow train right now. All of us, together.
One thing that might help is to have different expectations of ourselves, of the world.  Yesterday I went to get labs done, something I often need to have done every six weeks or so.  I have done this three times since covid began, by walking in and being checked in for a lab appointment.  Yesterday I was told, "Since Covid, we don't take walk-ins. You will have to make an appointment." I made one for today, and had to come back to the doctor's office.  Driving through construction to the doctor's office, and back again felt like about all I had in me when it came to outings and errands.
A friend and I were laughing about how we define a "full" day now, as compared to when we were all on a speeding train.  I imagine it's not easy for the doctor's office to slow down so much either.

A wise friend who spent many years living in another country (the one with the great wisdom about being in another culture, which I shared in a devotion) said today:
"I am reminded over and over of the culture adjustment metaphors.  When I arrived in Senegal, the departing worker told me, 'You can do three things a day. When you go into town, do three, no more. Doesn't matter how big or small they are, cap it at three.  Go to the bank, that's one. Then if you buy a pen from a street vendor, that's two.  Pick up some eggs. That's three. Don't do any more.'  I think about that so much these days.  I tell myself, 'Do three things.'"

We are in another culture: Covid Culture. It's nobody's place of origin, nobody's home base or first language. Everything is different. Everything takes so much more effort. Everything is more exhausting. Do three things in a day. No more.

And let's be on this slow train together. Let's figure out how to ride well at this speed.  Notice what's outside the windows. Take in the scenery. See our fellow passengers. Rest while we can.  Let conversations be longer. Find things to read.  Notice the kids and the dogs.  Surrender to the journey.  

CONNECTING RITUAL:

 

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

Lord, give me patience to live at this pace.
Give me grace for my fellow travelers.
Give me peace in the small gifts around me.
Give me joy in the surprises that await notice, when I'm going slow enough to take them in.
Give me trust that the journey has a destination.
Give me hope about the quality of life available in this slower ride, that I may not yet have discovered.
Give me patience with myself and for others.
Give me discipline to do three things a day. No more.
Let this time prepare me for what's next, in ways I can't yet see.

Let this time shape us for what we can be.
Amen.
 

Widening our hope scope

Devotion for Being Apart -
July 30

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted on this blog.

Last week I stopped by the church building for the third time since mid-March. It's like a time machine.  Frozen in place from the day we walked out of it.  Dee's cookbooks are in the narthex for sharing - where we put them at her Memorial service. The Lenten "hope" bracelets are at the back of the sanctuary for people to take one on their way out of worship. And our bible people are smiling down on the empty pews from the windows.  The building feels stuffy and still, and a little sad.

But one thing stopped me in my tracks.  It was our Lenten theme of hope, still speaking from the hallway wall:







Our questions, with the Psalm 23 collage we did in All-ages Sunday school.

So here it is.
When we hung these questions on the wall, we were living in the "what if?"  We had no idea what was coming, and would not have believed someone if they'd tried to tell us.
I mean, imagine, in retrospect, what "what ifs" we could have said!
What if there's a global pandemic?
What if suddenly kids can't go to school for the rest of the school year?
What if all public places shut down and everyone stays home for weeks on end?
What if hundreds of thousands of people get sick and thousands in our country and around the world die?
What if our economy teeters on the brink of collapse, and people lose their jobs or have to work from home, and those who work at grocery stores and on delivery trucks become "frontline workers?"
What if a black man is brutally murdered in our city by a police officer and the whole country ignites in protests and our nations wakes up in a new way to the problem of racism? 
AND SO ON.

All those what ifs came to pass! False security has crumbled, brokenness is on full display, our future feels uncertain, and life is in a strange suspension and upheaval unlike anything anyone now living has ever experienced before, (As my 90 year old grandma asserted to me last week).

Now we are living in the "Even if"s of our previous "What if"s!
And God is still God.
Love is still love.
Life and hope are coming up where we don't expect them.

Looking forward as we wait for word on schools, and as we watch the virus numbers and death rate climb, as we watch our city try to figure out a way forward.... it would so easy to fall back into "What if."  

But I suggest we look around ourselves at the things that would have been unthinkable, terribly dreaded "what ifs" that have happened, and we notice that here we are, in them, right now, and then we, paradoxically, let that feed our hope.  

We might think of this as practicing "Even though" reflections.
Even though we can't meet in person as a congregation for months on end, still we are church, still worshiping together, still holding each other in prayer.
Even though we can't physically be with those we love, still we are connected, still finding ways to laugh and cry and talk and listen.
Even though... Even though... Even though...

This is what Israel did all the time. They looked back at what God had done, they looked around for what God was doing, and they let them point them ahead to trust what God would do.  At least, this is what they sometimes did, and what the prophets and poets kept inviting them to do.  And through it, they learned that when we are stuck in "What if," then recognizing the "Even though " can lead us back to "Even if."

Even though my job has changed significantly, I'm working, and so many people right now are in this same boat. So...
When I feel myself asking, What if I lose my job? I can trust that
Even if that happens, I will be cared for by God and a way forward will become clear.

Even though the kids struggled in the Spring, we made it through, and everyone learned from that experience. So...
When I feel myself asking, What if the kids don't go back to school in-person?  I can trust that
Even if that happens, we will be cared for by God and a way forward will become clear.

And so on.
And we begin to widen our hope scope, and build our hope muscle.

By the way, I love how hope is a time traveler. The words we hung on the wall back in February have come here to speak to us now.  

Fear asks, "What if?" and Hope answers, "Even if!"  

Thanks be to God.

And now the words drawn and illustrated on the mural taped below our lenten questions by "then" us for "now" us, Psalm 23:

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
   He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters; 

   he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths
   for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
   I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
   your rod and your staff—
   they comfort me. 
You prepare a table before me
   in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
   my cup overflows. 
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
   all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
   my whole life long.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

 

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

Let your prayer be a kind of litany to God, a call and response in which God answers you.

1-  Begin with the Even though... this is the gratitude time, that purposely acknowledges the presence and activity of God.

Think back to all that you've lost, all that has changed in this time, name it and let the Holy Spirit fill in the rest of the sentence.  This formula makes space to recognize the steadfast love of God.

Even though...   still...
This formula makes space to recognize the resurrection life of God in places that feel fraught.  Watch for signs of hope you can see in the midst of circumstances that have taken place or are taking place right now.

When... God...

2-  When you feel ready to move on, let yourself tap into the places of anxiety and worry in you.  You say the What if... and let God bring you to the Even if...

What if...

Even if...

What are you waiting for?

Devotion for Being Apart -
July 24

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted on this blog.

As a pastor, I have the distinct and unique benefit of also being the proofreader and theological sounding board to a prolific theologian. The section of Andy's latest manuscript that we worked through today talked about waiting. I wrote about waiting in a devotion back in May.  It’s July, and we are still waiting.

Waiting, Andy discussed, is always waiting for something. There is no waiting that isn't directed at some end.  We wait for a bus, or for our food at a restaurant, or wait for an answer to our college application, job interview, or offer on a house.

Because waiting is for something, imagining being stuck waiting, with no end or goal, feels awful.  He uses the example of prison - where the only thing someone is waiting for is for the waiting to be over. 

Right now, as a whole country, we don’t have a for to be waiting for. Are we waiting the pandemic to “end”? (What would that even look like?) A vaccine to be found? (distributed widely?) School to start? (meaning what??) The economy to recover? (??)  Life to get back to “normal”-? We don’t know what the end of our waiting will look like, or when it might come.  We are pandemic prisoners, waiting for our waiting to be over.

And yet, as I said in May, the church's job is to wait. We're called to this.  And we do know what we’re waiting for.   Christian waiting is shaped by the recognition that at any moment God might break in and meet us right here.  We wait for encounter with God. We wait for the justice God is bringing, and the peace God is bringing, and we wait actively, by living those realities now, even as they are not yet fully here.  We sit in the places of suffering and despair, of injustice or emptiness, and we wait for God together, alongside each other. With the world. For the world. Our waiting is active, hopeful. We know God is coming, is always coming into our death experiences with resurrection and new life. We don’t know when or how God might come, might bring redemption in small or big ways to the situations in which we wait. But that is part of the wait too. We watch, we trust, we hope, we wait.

Sabbath prepares us for this. By regularly putting down our doing and purposely spending time in being we are cultivating our waiting. Sabbath is meant to help us step out of the way of fear long enough to recognize its emptiness and inability to fulfill us.  It’s meant to shift us back into a way of life that waits expectantly every day, every moment, for God to show up and do something.

Normally, we are always filling up our life with busyness, so we don't have to be still, and uncomfortable. Busyness buffers us from waiting and wonder what we’re waiting for, or whether what we’re waiting for is worth the wait.  Modern people have mistaken fullness for busyness, so we get busier and busier, and make our lives fuller and fuller, which only makes them feel more and more empty. Normally, we’re too busy to really be in our lives. We're so busy doing, we forget our being and our belonging.

Now we are not in our lives, as they were. But we are in a season of waiting. 

It may be helpful in this season, to reflect on what we are actually waiting for, and what we hope will come.  Perhaps we may need to face that what we're waiting for either won't arrive or won't satisfy us when it does.

Are we waiting to return to a way of life that kept us from living a full life because we packed it too full?

We are made for fullness of life, to live in our belonging, connected to God and each other. We pause and rest regularly in order to remember that and return to it, and hopefully take that awareness into the rest of our week, so that it might shape our lives.

Now we are paused indefinitely, and we are waiting.

But can we let this pause help us remember and return to our true belonging and life meaning? Can we live in the Christian waiting we are called too?  Can we wait trusting that God comes in, that God is already here, and that our lives, our world, our nation, our communities, can be and are the place God is bringing salvation, in small and big ways, even every day?  Can we watch in the despair and pain, in the suffering and the anxiety, for the activity of God?

 This pandemic wait is longer than anyone thought it would be, and it's going to go on a whole lot longer.  Waiting only for the waiting to end is torture.

But this Christian waiting lasts a lifetime.  And waiting for the inbreaking of God is active, and hopeful, and joins in the transformation the Spirit is always bringing into the world.

These words of T.S. Elliott, from Four Quartets, speak to me today:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

For more:

Here is May’s post about waiting.

Here is a podcast Andy did about these themes.

And here is a reflection on sabbath lessons for this pandemic time.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

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


God, the waiting is so hard.
What am I waiting for, really?
I think I am waiting for...
because I am telling myself...


God help me wait for you.
Help me watch for you.
Help me sense your presence.
Help me follow your guidance.
Help me join in your Kingdom,
breaking in now,
all around me,
moving the whole story,
toward life and fullness.
Teach me to wait.
Make me someone who waits,
hopeful and brave.
Amen.

Looking more closely

Devotion for Being Apart -
July 23

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted on this blog.

Last night Maisy called me into her room. She'd had a rough day,  feeling down and despondent for most of it.  But I could see when I entered her room that something had shifted.  Her eyes sparkled when she said, "Hey mom, I was just talking to my friend Greta, and I asked her how she is such a content and happy person so much of the time. She told me its gratitude. She tries every day to notice all the things she's thankful for. I just did it, and Mom, it really works!"

"That's great, honey!" I replied. Then, in typical Maisy-style, never letting me be a bystander but pulling me into life, she said, "You try it now. Just look around and name what you're thankful for in your head."
Then she watched me expectantly.

So I did it.

I looked around the room and felt thankful for the roof over our head and a strong sturdy house, and noted that I really am thankful for that. When I turned back my eyes fell on the dog, and then slid onto Maisy.  I was surprised to feel a heart-squeeze of deep gratitude. She nodded, smiling. I could see in her eyes that she knew I was thanking God for her and for Khaleesi.
I smiled at her and left her room, letting my mind go already to more things I felt grateful for.

Wouldn't you know it, Maisy was right. Suddenly being told to name what I was thankful for, and obeying for just 60 seconds, pulled me into a different headspace and heartspace for a moment. It changed how I prayed for her when I returned to kiss her goodnight and and put her to bed. It changed how I laid my tired self down put myself to bed. Just a little bit more aware, a tad bit more in touch with the mystery it is to be alive at all.

It's nice to be given a liturgy by a couple of 13 year olds. (That's Church!)  Also, we have this practice deeply embedded in our Christian faith. I think of Eva's favorite hymn, "Count your Blessings..." and of countless theologians and mystics before Eva who've turned to gratitude as a way to stay grounded in God's bigger picture.

Specifically, I love the work of Brother David Steindl-Rast on gratefulness, and I will send anyone who is interested a copy of his book, Gratefulness, the Heart of Prayer.  It's excellent. I'm serious that I will mail you one if tell me you want one.
(So tell me. Do it).

True gratitude doesn't deny what's in front of us, it looks more closely into what's in front of us and into ourselves, for the Kingdom of God. It assumes we can already taste the Kingdom of God, catch glimpses of it.  It assumes God made the world good and goodness is all around us.  To rejoice in the good doesn't deny the evil or the brokenness is there, it acknowledges all that is here, but that means we acknowledge the goodness too.  And we direct that acknowledgment at its source.  Gratitude is one of the shortcuts out of the Way of Fear and back to the Way of God. (False cheerfulness and platitudes are not).

In the meantime, here are some things I am grateful for this week, that I want to share with you.

This conversation with David Steindl-Rast, about gratefulness.

This Krysta Tippett interview with Pauline Boss about "Ambiguous Loss", which is loss without any promise of a resolution -  how that impacts us and how we can navigate it.  (I shared an introduction to it in the "prayer and poem" section of this week's announcements).

Finally Theresa Latini wrote this lovely reflection on masks, along with a blessing for masks that she uses with Eleanor whenever they leave the house with their masks.

CONNECTING RITUAL:

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

Tonight, I will let Maisy direct us in prayer.
Simply stop wherever you are and look around.
Start naming the things you feel thankful for - they can be big or little, silly or deep, just start listing them.
Being still in place and noticing is simply the starting point - let your mind wander out of the room to other things you are thankful for too.

Don't just say, "I'm thankful for..." - thought that's a terrific start.  Try saying, "God, thank you for..." and speak right to the God who is present here with you.

. . .
When you are finished, listen in the silence for a response.
. . .

Amen.

Calloused Hope

Devotion for Being Apart -
July 17

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through devotions that have been posted on this blog.

I heard a couple weeks ago that while Japan has reopened some theme parks, to help prevent the spread of Covid-19, screaming on roller coasters is outlawed. Signs at the parks now say, "Please scream inside your heart."  Someone shared this news on Twitter with the comment, "After 6 months, 2020 finally has a slogan."

Please scream inside your heart.

From time to time this comes back to me and I like it, because I feel like that's what I am doing, and it makes me smile to be given permission - nay, encouragement - for this activity.

We are not off this roller coaster any time soon, so please scream inside your heart.

Also feels true: Screaming in each other's faces could spread infection, so please scream alone and quietly. That message I am actively resisting.  We need people to scream with. Even virtually.

But of course the whole thing breaks down as an analogy pretty quickly. Nobody chose to get on this roller coaster, and certainly none of us is here because we think this is fun.

When I was first starting out in ordained ministry, I was part of a group of new pastors assembled by the wise and gentle Rev. Cal Cooper, a retired minister who would convene us monthly to share lunch and support.  One thing he was insistent on: you must have something on the calendar to look forward to.  Each month he would go around the table and ask us what ours was. It didn't have to be huge, or even soon, but some trip, some adventure, some plan that tickled our fancy, something outside the regular pattern should be shimmering out there in our near future.

I am remembering the wisdom of that advice this week. It goes deeper than I realized at the time. Having something to look forward to helps us remain present right here and now. It somehow anchors us.  In my house, in the past five months, we have had only the opposite, as plan after plan has dropped off the calendar and fallen into the abyss.

 But suddenly we have a few things on the calendar: god-willing and if all stays stable, the kids are quarantining in preparation for (highly-adapted, bubbled-up, masked and socially-distanced) camp next week, and while they are there I will lead a silent retreat for tired pastors, each tucked into our own cottage for a few days of prayer and rest.  Then in mid-August, my family will spend five greatly-anticipated days in a cabin on the Gunflint Trail.  This is the one we've buckled our anticipation to most.  My daughter keeps asking, every few days, "So if everything else gets canceled, the cabin up north is still happening no matter what, right Mom?"

After mid-August, we'll have to put something else on the broad, empty, white expanse of our hall calendar, because having those things to look forward to these past few weeks has fed our souls and stabilized us a bit.

We're strapped into this wild ride for a while, you guys.  Things are not improving, indeed, with school just around the corner, and winter coming soon enough, this ride is only getting more twisty and nausea-inducing.

We could look ahead to the sharp turns and sudden drops with so much anxiety and fear.  We're debating between the terrible possible repercussions of exposing our children and teachers to great risk, or the challenge of keeping kids isolated trying to learn through screens.  We're dreading the frigid elimination of the outdoor spaces we've become so dependent on to meet our needs for connection and engagement in the world.
For me, considering both of these upcoming thresholds leads directly to projecting the complete failure of America as a nation.  The virus hijacks the next few years, destroys our economy and quarantines us from the rest of the world, the whole structure of our society crumbles, and my children inherit a dire, dystopian future. (Please scream inside your heart).

But then I remember we have a death and resurrection faith, and God is always moving, and this is part of the story, but not the whole story, and the world belongs to God.

Nicholas Kristof has an excellent opinion article this week in the New York Times called, "We interrupt this Gloom to Offer: Hope."  He talks about how our needless suffering right now may be a precursor to real change. "Perhaps today’s national pain, fear and loss can also be a source of hope: We may be so desperate, our failures so manifest, our grief so raw, that the United States can once more, as during the Great Depression, embrace long-needed changes that would have been impossible in cheerier times."

The pandemic has glaringly exposed the brokenness of our system.  "The grim awareness of national failures — on the coronavirus, racism, health care and jobs — may be a necessary prelude to fixing our country."  Fifty years of economic and healthcare policies crafted for systemic inequity have taken a terrible toll on our nation, and we've been largely indifferent, until now.
“There was something about seeing a man’s knee on another man’s neck that woke people up,” Kristof quotes Helene Gayle, the chief executive of the Chicago Community Trust.

Drawing from examples in history, he then goes on to lay out what is possible, when we've seen how bad it really is and have the motivation to build something better.  He spoke with President Jimmy Carter: “I know we will see a better future... Sometimes there must be a reckoning and course correction.” And Senator Cory Booker: “Hope right now in America is bloodied and battered, but this is the kind of hope that is successful. It’s hope that has lost its naïveté.”  Booker calls it "calloused hope" - hope that is tough and resilient.

(I highly recommend reading the whole article). 

The article shifted me back into the space of remembering that America is a long story, still being written.

But even beyond that, whole nations rise and fall, kingdoms come and go, but the story of God's world continues: death and resurrection, always redemption, always toward life.

There's no disembarking this roller coaster. But we can keep making sure there is something on the calendar to look forward to. Even if it falls off shortly.  Our naiveté is gone.  We know it's all up for grabs.  We have to hold all our plans lightly and hang on for the ride.  Our looking forward can be with dread, or with calloused hope. I choose calloused hope.

So today I lean into calloused hope, and remain ready to scream inside my heart (and over zoom with others) as the need arises.  

CONNECTING RITUAL:

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

I scream my fears and dread into the abyss,
You hear my cry, O Lord.

And I feed the tender shoots of hope,
with memories of your faithfulness,
with reminders of life coming from death,
with recollections of despair giving way to newness,
with gratitude
that what is dead,
and broken,
and destructive
within us,
can be rooted out,
and a new way can be planted.

Deliver us from evil.
Free us from temptation.
Feed us with the bread we need today.
Bring your Kingdom way into reality now,
that we might truly live our belonging to each other,
and find our life to you.
Give me the courage to plan for joy,
and the strength to hold plans lightly.
Give me the trust to rest in your love,
and to join in your trajectory of justice and peace.
for yours is the Kingdom, now and forever,
and in you is our hope and our future.

Amen.

True Freedom

Devotion for Being Apart -
June 28

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through previous devotions that have been shared on this blog.

Romans 6:15-23
What then? Should we act disconnected from God and each other because we are not under the law but under grace?  Absolutely not! Don’t you know that you are either ruled over by division and brokenness that leads to death, or by living the way you were made to live, which leads to connection to God and each other?
Thanks be to God, we who were once ruled over by division have become obedient from the heart to the message of true freedom that is now ours to share.  Having been set free from isolation and disconnection we are now ruled by our true connection with God and each other.
Where once we found ourselves trapped in cycles of hostility, and greater and greater division and contempt, now we can be ruled by belonging to God and each other, for greater and greater connection and wholeness.
When we were slaves of destruction and division, we didn’t have to worry about being in right relationship to anyone.  So what did that gain us other than shame and regret?  Those actions lead only to deadness.  But now that we’ve been freed from division and brought under the power and leadership of God, what we gain is deeper and deeper belonging.  The end result is lasting connection, freedom and life.  What we pay for division and contempt is death, but God freely gives us life filled with belonging and wholeness in Christ Jesus.
(paraphrased by Kara Root)

Last week I took my son to the barber.  The sign on the door said masks were required.  Inside with us were two barbers, and one other client, all wearing masks. Then there was one barber without a client and without a mask. In this small space, he talked and talked and talked, loudly, and I imagined his aerosols billowing through the air surrounding us all.  I sat rigid; rage roiling inside me.  How could he be breaking the rule posted on the door?  Didn’t he care about anyone else?  What arrogance! What selfishness!

For a half hour, I wrestled with my anger, and tried to get to through my fierce judgment to some empathy for myself and for him.  I stoked my courage and practiced my words, and when Owen’s haircut was finished I told him to wait in the car.  Heart pounding, I was about to say something when the man stood, put on a mask, and welcomed in his next masked client.

I was shaking when I paid our barber, and I weakly told him I had been really uncomfortable that the other barber had not been wearing a mask.

Oh friends. This is just one of my many mighty Mask Moments.  I almost never say something in real life to the actual person, but I have spent more hours than I care to acknowledge having those conversations in my head– even going so far as to mentally design a card I might keep a stack of in my purse to somehow pass to the offending person while staying six feet away from them informing them of the importance of mask wearing. I don’t have a lot of energy for much else in life right now, but wow, can I find energy for this.

There are two views of freedom.  Philosopher Isaiah Berlin calls them “negative liberty” and “positive liberty.” Negative liberty says freedom comes when we take away constraints. “It’s a free country; I can do what I want.”  Positive liberty says freedom is when everyone has what they need to live full lives. By this definition, this has never been a free country.

In our scripture today, Paul says, You can live in your negative liberty, not bound by anything or anyone. But all that gets you is more isolation and deadness.  To pretend we are not connected violates our very being, and dehumanizes others.

To be free, then, as Paul describes it, is to let our lives be ruled by being children of God who belong to each other.  By that token, wearing a mask is a simple way to live in positive liberty and real freedom.  We don’t wear it for ourselves; we wear it to protect each other. We wear it to contribute to well-being for each other, for all.

Luther and Bonhoeffer talk about it as false freedom that is free from, and true freedom that is free for.  We are free for each other, free for God, free for life.

Except here’s the thing. In the moment when I am dutifully wearing my mask and someone near me is not, I do not feel free. I feel trapped in anger and despair. And I don't even want to be for them! I want to be free from them!  Free from their selfishness, from the risk they are creating, free from the consequences of their actions in our society – the extension of this virus.  In fact, I want so badly to be free from this pandemic, that anyone working against that goal feels like an enemy.

And besides, if I wear a mask, I get to show that I am on the right side of things. I get to show that I care about others, where, clearly, they do not.

And suddenly this action that should be about belonging to each other becomes about judgment and self-justification, and it contributes to greater division and contempt.  And now Paul would lump me right into his definition of sin, and say I am living under the law and not under grace.

So what would it look like to actually be free?

In the first century something happened to the Christian church that exploded its numbers, and took it from a small obscure sect, to something big enough to eventually be noticed by Constantine and made into the official religion of the Roman Empire.  That something was an epidemic.
When a plague came to Rome, everyone with any means fled-  even the doctors left the city – and went to the Italian countryside to protect themselves and keep themselves alive. They exercised their liberty, their freedom, and got themselves out of harm’s way.
Except the poor and the sick could not leave; they were forced to stay.  So the Christians stayed too, and cared for them.  Christian women, in particular, nursed the sick.  Two things resulted – the first is that compassion was revealed as central to the message of this new religion. Compassion became a calling, nursing the sick a mark of the Christian church – which, in part, is why Christianity is responsible for the creation of more hospitals than any other institution.
But second, mysteriously, many of these Christians didn’t die.  It seemed to the rest of the society that they were mysteriously and supernaturally protected from death.  That may be. It’s also likely that they developed immunity, which allowed them to keep nursing the weak.  And these women could trust that if they were to fall ill, they too would be nursed.

They did not care for the vulnerable because they thought the plague was fake, or that God would protect them and not others, or because they wanted to prove they were better than other people. They put themselves at risk to care for the vulnerable because the only way we are truly alive, truly free, is to live free for our neighbor, free for the most vulnerable and weakest among us. Plague or no plague - we belong to God and each other.  And they were so intriguing to the greater populace because they seemed to be without fear.  Weren’t they afraid of dying?

This is the deepest mark of the Christian.  According to Paul, we have already died with Christ, and been risen to new life.  In life and in death, we belong to God.  No matter what, our true life is found in connection to God and each other, and we are free to live it without fear – even of death.

True freedom extends deep and wide. Whatever the behavior of others or the circumstances around us, we can still be free.
We are free to love, and serve, and care for one another.
We are free to face our complicity in racism and look at our history with unflinching gaze and grief that could open us up to a new way.
We are free to receive criticism from others without dread that it will destroy us.
We are free to speak out when we see harm being done to another person, and free to repent and ask forgiveness when our words or actions have harmed another person.
We are free to honor our limitations as human beings, free to rest when we are tired, free to say so when we need help and free to receive support from others.
We are free to have our prejudices dismantled and to be surprised by each other’s and humanity. There are no sides in the Kingdom of God.  There is just broken and beloved humanity, all of us, belonging always to a steadfast and faithful God.

When we try to live free from God and others, we end up ruled over by the need to earn or prove something, or bound to act out of obligation and duty, or dominated by anger or contempt.  But when we surrender to our weakness and stuckness, and let what we thought was liberty be exposed as chains, we find our true freedom not in what we do for ourselves or in what others do or don’t do, but in what Christ has done for us all. We die to sin and are made alive to our true humanity in Christ, set free to live toward each other and toward God.

A half hour after leaving the barber shop, I got a text from an unknown number.  “Hi, is this Kara? This is Chris, the owner of the barber shop. I want to apologize for not wearing my mask after my appointment today when you were in the shop. I completely understand and sincerely apologize. I had gotten into the habit of pulling my mask down between appointments and feel awful if I made you uncomfortable while you were in today. I hope you can accept my apology and know that I do sincerely apologize.” 

I was surprised and flooded with gratitude.  I could have been free from him–In negative liberty, I was “free” to leave there and never go back. Good riddance!  But I had struggled so hard to find my humanity and his in the midst of that, and saying something to our barber was the closest I could get. I mostly still felt trapped in anger, stuck in judgment and anxiety.

Barbershop Chris had his negative liberty too; he could have been free from me. He could have written me off and never given me a second thought.  But instead he was free for me. He acted from our belonging to each other, and when he was free for me he helped me be free too.

I texted back my gratitude and we wished each other well. And I took a deep breath and thanked God for way Christ had met me in Chris.

Life is messy and being human is hard.
May we continue to be ruled by freedom, to be with and for each other, and there find our life.  Amen.

---

CONNECTING RITUAL:

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

O Lord, release me from false freedom this night,
and bring me to wholeness and life in the new day.

Release me from judgment and fear,
make me free for curiosity and compassion.

Release me from anger and despair,
make me free for mourning and trust.

Release me from comparison and striving,
make me free for generosity and ease.

Release me from isolation and self-preservation,
make me free for connection and belonging.

May I seek your face in the faces of others.
May I find my place here among all others.
Lead me through death to new life again, O God.

Rest me in you this night.
Awaken me in you in the new day.
Amen.

Our Sabbath of Discomfort

Devotion for Being Apart -
June 25

This summer, I will share new devotions from time to time,
and invite you to browse through the many devotions that have been posted on this blog 

since March 16.
 

Matthew 6:33-34 says, "But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. ‘So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today."

Every pastor and church I know is doing the hard work of shifting mindsets right now, out of the pull-out-all-the-stops, short-term, full-throttled approach we took when we thought this thing would go on for a few weeks, to a settle-in-and-find-sustainable-ways-to-continue mentality.

One thing our session (church board) decided in May was to not even to discuss in-person gatherings in the church building until September 1. After thinking we should get a jumpstart on figuring some things out, we've decided that decision will remain.  

This is a long season.  We will know more then than we know now.  We don't have the energy to put to hypothetical scenarios--the concrete ones in front of us are where our energy is needed - "today's trouble is enough for today." 

It's tempting to begin making plans, but there is nothing to plan for yet.  In fact, this time of year, we usually begin planning for Fall. Our worship planning team takes a retreat to plot out the next year. We talk through Advent and Christmas, and sometimes we even get through Lent and Easter in our dreaming. Not this year.  Our ordinary church life is at a forced rest - we didn't choose it; it just came.  What we had has stopped, and we are living in what we have now.

We bought a VBS curriculum a couple weeks ago designed to use online, so that we could create our own all-ages VBS together in this time. But friends, I can't lead that. And nobody on session feels called to lead it. So unless someone in the congregation steps up and says, “I really want to lead this!” - it should not happen right now. (The VBS curriculum won't expire. It can be used ANY time, in a variety of ways, even completely in-person!).  It seems perhaps don’t have energy for more than what we are doing right now. Pulling back and slowing down seems to be what people are needing. And it's what we're getting too, if we can let ourselves receive it.

 

Our congregation talks about sabbath, and learns about sabbath, and have practiced sabbath in some specific, defined ways.  But sometimes we are given a sabbath.  And perhaps right now we are meeting a need for sabbath. 

There will be a chapter after this one.  But we don’t know what it will look like or what new calling and energy will come for that.  It’s ok to live in this chapter fully, which is a week-to-week kind of existence for us all.

This is a time of sitting in discomfort. Discomfort is so uncomfortable. 

Who wants to be uncomfortable? We want to avoid or escape it.  We want to plan ahead, and to fix what's broken with everything around us right now.  Or we want to numb and tune out the discomfort with alcohol, drugs, television, video games, food, or obsessing about the people who refuse to wear masks.

But what if we didn't try to avoid or escape our sabbath of discomfort? What if we stayed right here?  What if we accepted that this is a season for sitting in discomfort.  The discomfort of limitations in where we can go and what we can do. The discomfort of facing our history and our own complicity in systemic dehumanization. The discomfort of not being able to live like the ever-future-oriented modern people we are.  The discomfort of living these awkward pandemic routines we didn't choose, for far longer than we thought we would be.  This is a season for staying here.

There is richness in allowing ourselves to be uncomfortable.  We let things germinate and heal and grow.  Even in the discomfort, this pulled-back and slowed-down pace is doing deep sabbath work in us.  It helps us to rest from what has been, and it prepares us for what will be. This is a time to stay attentive to the moment, and reflective as we do so.

I have written something like 100 devotions since pandemic life began. I first committed to writing one every day, and did that for months, then 4-5 times a week. I am pulling back from that. I will write when I have something new to say.  And I will share some of what I've already written, or point you to where they are stored on my blog, because I am finding it helpful to circle back and reread some of the work we've done earlier in this season of covid - things like learning to listen to our needs  and how it's ok to not be happy, and how every day we are making really hard choices about things that used to be simple and require no decisions at all, and how there is always grace enough for what is, not for what might be.

Sabbath is rarely comfortable. (We already knew that).  But it's good. (We know that too). Staying in the discomfort of the moment is our sabbath task right now. "God is doing something here and now that incorporates the past and will lead us into the future," remember? Let's live the season we are in.

We can do this.
 

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CONNECTING RITUAL:

 

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

Matthew 6:33-34 says, "But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. ‘So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today."

Seek ye first the Kingdom of God
and God's righteousness
and all these things will be added unto you
Allelu, Alleluia.
Ask and it shall be given unto you
Seek and ye shall find
Knock and the door shall be opened unto you
Allelu, Alleluia.

God, help me live today.
Help me trust today.
Help me be present today.
Help me seek you today.
Help me live this day - the one I have, right now.
Amen.