The deeper truth

 

Devotion for Being Apart -
October 4

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

Psalm 19

This weekend I’ve been cranky and frustrated and weary.  I can feel it when "the insolent have dominion over me."  It churns inside me and I have to let it out by adding to the noise with my own rants of incredulity and horror.  Andy calls it, “The Kara Talks Over the News About the News Podcast.” But I can’t help myself.  The Psalmist, most likely King David, prays, “Keep me back from the insolent, Lord;” I say, “Let me at them!” 
 
Right now there are so many voices, so many words. Shouting over each other to be heard. And we are listening to them all, taking them into ourselves, letting them shape us, make us afraid, anxious and angry, tying us in knots, paralyzing us.
 
As the decibels get turned up and the rhetoric roars in these next couple of months, Richard Rohr last week advised we safeguard our souls by standing “as a sentry to the door of our senses” and limiting our news intake to an hour a day. He said, “It will only tear you apart and pull you into the dualistic world of opinion and counter-opinion, not Divine Truth, which is always found in a bigger place.” 
 
Divine truth is always found in a bigger place. Bigger than opinion and counter-opinion. Bigger than fear and division. Bigger than viruses, and sickness, politics and fires, racism and power-mongering, bigger than all the words and voices that separate us into for and against, or seek to steal our hope.  But these days, I frequently feel pulled into the dualistic world. I often feel torn apart. 
 
This might be a good time to refresh ourselves on the Way of Fear and the Way of God that have guided us for a while.  Because this whole prayer, this poem, is celebrating the Way of God. It is resting in the confident peace of the bigger place, and by praying it, David is helping himself return to that place, being put back together. 
 
The Way of Fear begins in self-sufficiency and judgment; it curls us in on ourselves to seek security, self-preservation and personal glory, even at the expense of others.  Our worth is earned, having more makes us better, and other people are competition for resources or obstacles in our way –they exist to be used or discarded.  Every moment the world is urgent and dangerous so we can never let our guard down; and there is no stopping or resting or we will lose our place. In the Way of Fear, we walk through the world ruled by death, threatened always by the fear of loss - loss of dreams, plans, reputation, belonging, so we are dominated and held captive to isolation and suspicion.
 
The way of God begins in gift and abundance. This is the bigger place where the Divine truth is found.  We are created for connection and belonging, so the way of God opens us up toward the world and one another. We are loved just as we are, and meant to live fully this one wild and precious life we have been given. The people journeying alongside us are neighbors, friends, siblings, not threats, rivals or competitors.  We need each other to be whole, we have everything we need, and what we have is for sharing. We are meant to stop frequently and purposefully, to rest and receive this gift of a life, and because most of the things that really matter are slow and take time. The world is filled with beauty, infused with the life of the God who holds us all.  
Life in the way of God is shaped around the justice that means everyone has what they need, the kindness that means “I will stand with you,” and walking humbly—vulnerably, honestly—with our God, (Micah 6:8) who never leaves us nor forsakes us. We’re made for life—to seek life, and nurture life, and contribute to life for others—to feel joy in our deep abiding connection to God and each other. The love of God that breathes all life into being holds us and connects us, and nothing in all of creation can ever separate us from this love, so we are free to be with and for one another fully and wholly.
 
David’s Psalm reminds us that this message being proclaimed all around us, in ongoing expression, it’s being told every moment, just not with speech or voice.  Just not in the way we’re bombarded with.  The deeper truth is being told, from a bigger place than opinion and counter-opinion.
 
But the deeper truth is set at a different frequency. We have to attune ourselves to hear it. It sounds like music, and poetry, and windsong. It’s heard in children’s laughter, and snoring dogs and growling stomachs and sizzling food. It's expressed in quiet sighs, and unrestrained tears, and gentle pats, and falling rain. 
 
The whole cosmos declares the wonder of God, David writes, this vast, living container of a world witnesses to what God does.  Even though it’s not amplified voices and teleprompter speeches, God’s way is talking to us all the time; the deeper truth goes out to all the earth. When we forget there is a God, we quiet ourselves and listen for the voiceless voice, the speechless words of creation’s message. No matter how loud the noise of fear gets, we can hear the humming world to remember there is a God over all of this.
 
The second movement of David’s poem celebrating the way of God is for when we forget who God is and who we are meant to be with and for each other.  David gushes about the law of God – God’s way is not chaos and cutthroat; it’s not everyone in it for themselves. It’s ordered by love and designed for belonging. It revives the souls, and makes wise the simple, and rejoices the heart, and enlightens the eyes. It is pure and good trustworthy and true.  And at any moment we can turn to the wisdom of our faith, and immerse ourselves in scriptures - the words of Jesus, the prayers of Psalms, and the stories of the struggles and conflicts of the faithful who have gone before us, in their own forgetting and remembering that there is God who loves, and orders and intervenes in this world, we are reminded too. 
No matter how bitter the division and turmoil, and how disordered things appear, we can feed ourselves on the precious gift of scripture and words and writings of women and men of faith who’ve gone before, to remember who God is and who we are meant to be with and for each other. 
 
And David’s final moment is within, turning right toward God it shifts the mic from creation and scripture to our own mouths.  When we forget that we belong to God, and find ourselves overwhelmed by hopelessness or swept up into the discord, we speak to God directly from the heart.  God see me as I am. Clear out everything in me that gets captive and caught in the way of fear. I am being dominated by the disdainful and contemptuous; I might even be disdainful and contemptuous myself.  May the words that come from my mouth, and the thoughts that swirl in my heart, be part of your reality, be reflections of your love and care for all people and this whole wide earth.  Keep me in your way, O God. Keep me here.
No matter how badly we feel torn apart, polluted with and sucked into the fray by the undertow of despair and disgust, we can open our vulnerable hearts right to God and ask to be cleared out, put back together and set right to remember that we belong to God, and we can trust and rest in God’s reality.
 
In the midst of the fires and the virus and the crazy politicians, God is still good. In all things, no matter what they are, God is still moving the world toward goodness. 

We can choose to listen to the voices fighting for power, splitting us into my team against your team, and echoing sonorous speeches of doom.  But day to day pours forth speech and night to night reveals knowledge of a good God whose purpose for the world, for each one of us, is not hindered or stopped by the violence of our rhetoric or the damage of our actions.  And we can choose to listen to that instead.  
 
God’s way of love and justice and standing-with-you kindness moves through it all – in the middle of the suffering, right up against loss, not backing down from fear or the noise, and paying no mind to the mindgames or the power plays.  Because in Christ our God is right here with us, in the death, leading to life, the light shines that no darkness can put out.  Behind, underneath, through and always, gently and unceasingly, God’s way persists and prevails.
 
 CONNECTING RITUAL:

Before we go to bed, whenever that is in our home, may we pause pray, and so our hearts with each other and the world:'

God of all,
help me listen to Divine truth in the bigger place.
Attune my heart to your frequency, Lord.
I want to see hope, and feel joy, and recognize love
and share all these things with others.
I want to be grounded in the wisdom that transcends the noise.
I want to be brave to face suffering and pain,
knowing your love meets us there too,
there especially.
I want to see you, Jesus, here with us.

Free me from the way of fear.
Help me to live in the way of God.
Teach my heart to hear
the voice of truth.
Amen.

Prescription for the week:  Limit news to one hour a day.  Take some or all of these supplements: Read poetry, listen to music, spend time in nature, read the bible, read some of the mystics, or writers Henri Nouwen, Eugene Peterson, Thomas Merton, Kathleen Norris, sit in silence for five minutes, tell God whatever is going on in your heart.

Besieged but not beset

 

Devotion for Being Apart -
October 2

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

What a strange and strained time this is.  The world feels chaotic and frightening right now.

I went on my mostly-monthly 24 hours retreat this week. My rules for these retreats include turning off my phone and reading no fiction, because I want to be as present as possible.  I broke my rules. 
Restless and tense, I walked four miles, some of that on talking my phone.  Then I came back and read a mediocre novel, and then went out and walked four more miles. Then, from a big chair at the picture window overlooking the tall pines, I watched the "presidential debate" on my phone.  

Afterwards, I took a deep breath and took stock. 

I could feel bad for doing it "wrong," for “wasting” my time.  Or I could have curiosity about my choices.  As NVC tells us - every No is a Yes to something else.  What was I saying Yes to? What need was I meeting?

I think what I was needing was ease, a sense that things will be ok. Right now in lots of ways, things do not feel ok.  And evidently right now, my go-to strategy for meeting that need is distraction.  

Getting away from the ever-present agendas, voices, bodies and demands of my family for 24 hours was supposed to help me be present with myself and God, and pray for the world from a grounded place.  

Instead, something in me panicked, and I chose distraction, numbness, avoidance.  I chose the diversion of watching an appalling debate and feeling the rushes of outrage and astonishment over sitting quietly in the night and letting my sadness come up and out of me.  I opted for the shallow amusement of an unsatisfying novel instead of being alone with myself and God, where the silence might feel too loud and the stillness too empty, and the words of contemplatives, mystics or scripture might feel too pointed and challenging. I took up the project of keeping my body in motion, racking up steps to feel like I was getting somewhere and achieving something, when all I was doing was walking the same 4 mile loop – one mile, turn, one mile, turn, one mile, turn...  

I didn’t actually want to be in time, in life. I didn’t want to feel it. I wanted to not feel it. I wanted to be inattentive, unfocussed, and unmindful of the realities of life right now. I wanted to be blissfully inconsiderate of what I was feeling.  Evidently, I was telling myself that it was too much to bear, and it was better just not to stop and let it in.
 
I’m tired of it all. I’m afraid. I am worried. I am heartbroken. And those feelings are unpleasant. So instead I choose distraction.
 
But I don’t really choose that.  

By the next morning I was able to slow down a little bit.  I had compassion for how tense we all are, day in and day out, and how much longer it takes us right now to unwind and relax.  I had a little more awareness, compassion and curiosity for myself, at least enough to sit still and journal and notice. At least enough to let my last walk be slower and more attentive - to smell the pine needles and feel their softness under my feet, to hear the birds and scurrying squirrels and wind in the branches, to feel my own heartbeat and breath - and to feel grateful at how the world persists and life moves on whether we notice or not.  
I choose to notice. 
 
Kristen gave me a wonderful book by David Whyte called Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words. The word I read today was BESIEGED.  I was struck by this paragraph: 

If the world will not go away then the great discipline seems to be the ability to make an identity that can live in the midst of everything without feeling beset.  Being besieged asks us to begin the day not with a to-do list, but with a not-to-do list, a moment outside of the time-bound world in which it can be reordered and reprioritized. In this space of undoing and silence, we create a foundation from which to re-imagine our day and ourselves. Beginning the daily conversation from a point of view of freedom, and being untethered, allows us to re-see ourselves, to reenter the world as if for the first time. We give ourselves and all our accomplishments, our ambitions and our over-described hopes away, in order to see in what form they return to us.
 
I can deeply appreciate how distractions are a helpful strategy to get through all of this.  But I don’t want my whole life to be a distraction. I don't want to be afraid to live this life.  

I choose to live and feel and be in time.  

So maybe a not-to-do list is helpful.  Like Richard Rohr’s suggestion of limiting news and social media to an hour a day. And maybe ‘beginning the daily conversation untethered and free’ is a helpful invitation.  Maybe this isn’t the time to be so concerned with accomplishing, but instead to be gentle with our own humanity, to greet our souls tenderly, to help ourselves start each each day by giving away our expectations, our fears and our 'over-described hopes...in order to see in what form they return to us.'
 
We are besieged, dear sisters and brothers.  This is an overwhelming time, and we are beleaguered and careworn.  Perhaps we can have some compassion toward ourselves, and curiosity about our actions, wondering what valuable needs we are meeting with our choices.  Perhaps we might give ourselves – when we awaken in the morning, or just before bed, or with an alarm on our phone or watch periodically pausing us in our day for a full minute – a moment of undoing and silence, to re-enter our lives, this life, having momentarily recognized ourselves inside the larger story, belonging to the deeper reality. Maybe this might help us come closer to living 'in the midst of everything without feeling beset.'
 
When I returned from my retreat and pulled my car into the the driveway, the carpenter who is working on the kitchen next door turned off his saw in their front yard and watched me get out of my car.  I said "Hello." He replied, “Hey, I really like your lawn sign. It’s such a good reminder.”
 

I looked at the sign and smiled, and thanked him.  

 
I need to be reminded.
He reminded me to be reminded.

This is part of the story.
This is not the whole story.
The world belongs to God.


CONNECTING RITUAL:

Look inside yourself with compassion and curiosity:

• What ways are you coping and making it through - what choices/strategies are you using?  
• What stories are you telling yourself with these strategies? (eg., I just keep moving because if I stop things will fall apart, or, My emotions are so big they will smother me if I let myself feel them).
• What needs are you meeting with your choices?
• Might there be more life-giving strategies to meet those same needs?
• After you've allowed yourself to be present to your soul, where does gratitude arise in you?

When you awaken to a new day, what can be on your not-to-do list?
What pauses can you give yourself throughout the day to remember the bigger picture and reorient?

PRAYER

Perhaps before we go to bed, whenever that is in each of our homes, we might pray this together, and so join our souls with each other and the world:

God, this life is hard.
I have never been through anything like this before.
Sometimes it feels like too much to bear.
Help me to be gentle with myself.
Help me to be gentle with others.
Help me to lift my head to the sky,
and sink my feet to the ground,
and let my soul return to its home in you.
I belong to you. This world belongs to you.
Amen.

In It Together

Devotion for Being Apart -
September 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.

Matthew 18:15-20

In this day and age, we do not assume the best of each other. We almost look for excuses to blame and condemn one another. We even have a proud term for the absolute cut off we do of others, we call it “canceling” people.  We feel almost no obligation to try to work things out – why bother?  If someone hurts us, we tell others – sometimes many others – before going to that person.  We build our case and get people on our side.  Often we never go directly to the person at all, we’d prefer it that way. Because it’s more important to us to be right and uphold ourselves, than it is to stay connected or to uphold one another.  

 So today’s scripture feels like it comes from another time, a different place. And it does. It comes from a different realm altogether, actually. In the Kingdom of God, we are all human beings, whose dignity and worth is not up for grabs, who cannot be abandoned or dismissed or canceled.  We all belong to God.  So we human beings belong to each other too, like it or not.

 
And not only that, but this particular community called the Church—this collection of souls who have died to self and risen to Christ, who are baptized into the life and death of the One who gave his life for us—we belong to each other in a particular way because we acknowledge that we belong not to ourselves but to God, and we declare that we exist not for ourselves but for the world.  
As God is minister to us, we are ministers – we exist as a community of care, shaped by love. What sets us apart is only our love and service to this world that God loves.  That is who we are, alongside each other.  
 
We are carriers of the love of God, choosing to be defined by Christ.  And this is such a powerful calling it’s as though we stand between heaven and earth. We exist in this world as representatives of God, incognito agents of the Kingdom of God right here in our neighborhoods and families, on our streets, in our schools and at work, and for our fellow human beings. 
 
In this identity and role, we speak to God about the suffering and pain here and God listens to us.  When we come together and ask God for something, God hears us and acts.  When two or three of us are gathered, God is right here with us. When our hearts are in unison, what we say and do in the name of Jesus is as though Jesus himself were here doing and saying those things – and in fact, he is.
 
So, in this kind of community, it’s important that we make it a priority to stay connected in healthy ways. It matters that we don’t build up resentment, we don’t let division fester, we don’t cut each other off or let pain and anger build.  We are citizens of God’s Kingdom; we cannot take the world’s approach to conflict. 
 
In this short life, a shared purpose defines us.  Agents of hope, bearers of love, strivers for justice, seekers of joy, we have an assignment here.  So it is essential to directly address hurt between us.  To be above-board and honest. Not to embarrass each other but to communicate when we’ve hurt one another, and give each other a chance to repent and be forgiven, to keep bringing each other back into the communal mission alongside one another. And not to give up easily either, to keep going at it, seeking reconciliation with each other for our own sake, but also for the sake of the whole world.
 
Which brings us to this line- if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax-collector.
 
In a Way of Fear way of reading this line we assume this means excommunicate them– some

mid 20^th century bible translations actually say that.  Cut them off, cut them out and don’t give it another thought - they’re dead to you. Cancel them. 
 
But that is the opposite of what that means. 
Who did Jesus hang out with?  Who did he come for?  He says himself he did not come for the righteous, but for sinners.  Sinners and tax collectors were his jam—Matthew himself was a tax-collector.  Those on the outside are the ones Jesus showed love and care, for without expecting anything in return. 
 
Belonging to God and others is not front and center for gentiles and tax collectors.  Their answer to “What is a good life and how do I live it?” does not factor in obedience to God or obligation to love their neighbor as they love themselves.  They don’t see themselves don’t see themselves as servants of God, those who lay down their lives for others. They are bound by this covenant life; they are not defined by the death and resurrection of Jesus.  Nevertheless they do belong to God and they belong to us. Just like us, they are in need of love and care, of grace and hope.  
 
If someone among you refuses to be reconciled, refuses to reconnect after multiple attempts to repair the bond, you no longer consider them a coworker for the Kingdom.  If someone has caused harm, and refuses to see how they have hurt others and take responsibility for it, Jesus is saying, you no longer assume they have the same goals as you.  You do not expect them to participate in the work of staying in it together, or being accountable to the community anymore.  You do not expect them to see the world as you do, to seek reconciliation with you, and you no longer attempt to live in the same kind of shared life that you once expected to share.  
 
But you do not cancel them.  Instead you see them a beloved of God.  The kind of person Jesus prefers to hang out with, the one Jesus came for.  Rather than conscious bearers of grace, they’ve become grudging recipients of grace, pursued by God.
 
 Instead of fellow ministers, agents in God’s Kingdom, these are those to whom we are sent.  They are the ones we are meant to eat with at table, to listen to, to stand up for, to stand alongside. Jesus is not saying to abandon the one who has done harm and refuses to be reconciled. Jesus is telling us to treat them with care and respect and expect nothing from them.  They are now among the ones the Holy Spirit works on for repentance. That’s the Holy Spirit’s work to do.  Awakening in them awareness of their belonging to God and all others is God’s responsibility, not ours.
  
We are talking this year about being faithful now-  seeing God’s faithfulness with us today, right here.  God is faithful to us now.  Always.  And as we seek God’s presence and try to live a good life, we ask how we to be faithful right now in this life – with this person in front of us, this moment we are in, this situation we are living in right now, where we are, where God is. Right here.
 
We are ministers with and for each other, to and for the world, ministers of God’s love and care.  What happens between us matters – our relationships and connection matter.  We need to do the work to tend and preserve our connection.  It's so important because there is power here. Great power.  Power far beyond this earth’s limitations and brokenness.  The very power of heaven and earth. Power to bind together and ask for things from God. Power to advocate for the needs of the world.  We must listen to one another, because God listens to us.  We must do the work to stay connected, to stay in it together, because where even two or three of us are gathered, God is right here, among us.
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:

Ground me and root me in your love, God.
Make my belonging to you so palpable,
and my belonging to each other so real,
that I will long do the work to stay connected
with joy and faithfulness. Even when it's hard.

As a member of this community,
Give me the courage to speak up when someone has hurt me.
Give me the courage to repent when I have hurt someone else.
Give us the tenacity to pursue reconciliation,
and the wisdom to know when to stop,
entrusting us all into your hands, as your beloved children.

And may we do all this tending of relationships
because we remember the incomprehensible greatness
of the power of this bond: You hear us. You act when we ask. You call us to ask.
You bring us together to minister to the world. 

May we hold your love and healing of all ever before us,
as our purpose and our call.
Even as we remember that none of us can do any of this alone.
I need you.  We need each other.
You give us yourself. You give us one another.
Thank you, God.
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.

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...

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.

Can't seem to get it right

Devotion for Being Apart -
July 5

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 7:15-25

Paul's letter just got awkward.  The renowned teacher has been talking about God, and the church, and big ideas about faith, and now he’s suddenly talking about himself. But he’s not saying things he's proud of, he’s talking about what he’s not proud of – where he feels helpless or lost.
It’s a little too personal, like he’s had one too many, and the deep down feelings are coming up and, we want to say, Paul, dude, it’s ok, and try to get him back on track to with the big ideas. Or tell him to save it for his therapist’s office.  Besides, instead of good news, this kind of feels like bad news.  Or like he’s telling us this bad news to set us up for some good news, but we’re clearly not there yet.  It’s uncomfortable to stop here. Let’s get to the gospel!

But one thing we Presbyterians believe about scripture is that it’s all gospel - It’s all good news, even the “bad news.” Each time we open the bible, God can speak truth to us.
So we’re sticking here today with Paul’s personal lament about knowing the difference between good and evil, and even wanting to choose good, but watching himself choose evil anyway.  An inner battle between sin and the law.

Just before this part, Paul explains that the law of God is good – it shows us how God designed human life to work best, connected to God and each other, so it’s a gift to us. But once we know, we are also suddenly aware of how often we choose not to live that way.

It was easier not to know right from wrong, just to be selfish or ignorant of the ways we contribute to disconnection and brokenness.  Doing harm to ourselves and others because we didn’t know better, feels better than realizing all the harm we’ve done.  And worst of all is knowing, and continuing to do it anyway.

And once we start to have this awareness, we often look back at our previous self, or at those who are where we were, and feel disgust or contempt.  How could we have believed what we did, done what we did, said what we did?

I think about this when it comes to language.  Imagine we’ve just learned that a word or phrase we’ve used a lot is racist, which is to say, it contributes to brokenness and disconnection.  First of all, with that new awareness comes shame and regret, for having used the word.  Now we have the law, in other words, we know this phrase is bad and we add it to the list of words we should not use.  This is a helpful list, it guides us toward respect for others, so we are on board with the law.  We can see how life would be better if everyone followed the law and avoided the words on the list.

Now having been given the law, we are awake, and aware in a way we were not before. So when we hear other people use the word or phrase we know should not be used we get upset, angry.  We tell them they should not use that word or phrase.  They, perhaps, are not under the law yet, have not been converted to see how that word or phrase causes harm, so they tell us to back off and mind our own business, they can talk however they want.  Well, that makes us even madder. So mad, in fact, that we call them some words and phrases off that list.  But that’s ok, because they don’t deserve respect because they are refusing to show it.
Now we are trapped right back in sin  - only this time, we are contributing to brokenness and division knowing better.

Or to bring it closer to home, I know how I want to treat my children, I have read all the books and articles that give me clear guidance for the parenting I believe in and choose to practice. But in the moment of flared tempers, or exhaustion, or frustration, all that goes out the window.  And I can see myself behaving in ways I absolutely do not believe in.  O wretched mom that I am!

Knowing what is wrong isn’t enough to keep us from doing wrong. The law itself can’t set us free. In fact, it first makes us more miserable.  Now, having this second, awakened self within me, I can turn and look at the yelling self and say, What are you doing? This is not how you should be acting! And that feels awful.

We are not slaves to sin anymore – we are not helpless to those urges that are self-serving or divisive, we are not ignorant of our behavior and its impact.  We agree the law is good! We delight in the ideals we stand for – that everyone would be upheld and respected, and we could work together and listen to each other. Of course this is how we want to live, we say.  But that doesn’t mean we do it.

The law can’t save us, Paul says. In other words, awareness, being woke, knowing what’s right, recognizing the difference between good and evil, this doesn’t keep us from doing evil. It can’t ultimately fix what’s broken.
The law is good and necessary, but it also creates one more thing we can become a slave to.  We go around policing each other, and living in harsh judgment of ourselves, thinking change can come from just more knowledge and insight.  Of course knowledge and insight are important – they move us forward. But the place we’re moved to first is a greater awareness of our sin, of the ways we are trapped. The law illuminates our need for something beyond us to save us, because, wow, it’s all so much worse than we realized.

The big good news is coming in the next part of this letter, but the little good news of this part is that if you feel hopeless because you’ve done so much work and learning, and tried to change, and keep feeling stuck, that’s normal. It’s actually good. You are actually on the way of transformation.  We, as a nation, in a new reckoning with our history and systemic racism, are on the way of transformation.  People starting AA, facing their addiction, are on the way of transformation.
Awareness of how bad it is, and how trapped we are in repeating the cycles of destruction or dehumanization again and again, even generation after generation, is part of how we are set free.

And here Paul models for us what we can do with that: We can confess it. We can repent of it.  We no longer say, “I didn’t know!” Instead, we say, “I knew, and I did it anyway.”  We can speak boldly of our sorrow and shame; we can claim our guilt as part of our story.  We don’t pretend we are perfect, or even enslave ourselves to the quest to be perfect. We confess our brokenness. We draw closer to the pain instead of trying to flee or fix it. We let ourselves say the deep down feelings that are coming up; we tell the uncomfortable truth.

This Christian life is a life of deep honesty.  And the hardest things to be honest about are not the things we did by accident. They’re the times we hurt others on purpose, or went against what we believe, or lied to protect our reputation, or turned away from someone instead of acting for them.

So instead of pretending we don’t need saving, and covering up or making excuses for the brokenness and division we contribute to, we can face it and tell the truth about it.
And instead of thinking the law can save us, we can admit how hard it is to realize how very far away we are from the goal, and how trapped we feel by the ever-increasing list of rules for doing it right, and how it can even can make more judgmental of others and ourselves.

In other words, instead of avoiding doing what’s right, or obsessing about doing it right, we confess. We repent.  We tell the truth about it and grieve it. We join Paul in the discomfort, and let ourselves feel how hard all this is.  And we boldly acknowledge that we need someone from outside this mess to save us.  Wretched person that I am, who will rescue me from this body of death?  Paul says. Then his outrageous and hopeful whiplash declaration, Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!

Hear the good news: We can't get it right.
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:

A good way to end the day might be with an adaptation of the prayer of confession from worship:

God, I pause at the end of this day
to let my awareness catch up with me.
I can see the sin and brokenness within me.
I don't turn away, but welcome that awareness now,
and name now those places in us me, where I long for your healing and wholeness...

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy. 

And God, as I think about my relationships, with those close to me, and those I don’t know so well, I welcome awareness of the sin and brokenness between us.
Into all the ways I act as though we do not belong to each other, bring your healing and wholeness, especially....

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.

God, I welcome awareness of the sin and brokenness around me. I lift up those places in my community, my country and your world, where I long for your healing and wholeness, especially....

Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy.

Hold me in your forgiveness.
Speak to me your peace.
Rest me in your grace. 

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.

Context

Devotion for Being Apart -
June 18

We will share a devotion Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays through Fridays.
- Kara

Today the confirmation class and I met to talk about what we're reading in our Action Bibles.  These are funny pandemic-era gatherings, facetiming from wherever we are: in bedrooms, on porches, buckled into back seats of cars.  We talk about something that we thought was strange, or confusing, or interesting from the bible reading.

We've made it into the wilderness with the Hebrews, and today one of them commented how over, and over, and over again, the Israelite people forgot that God takes care of them.  God keeps getting them out of impossible circumstances, and they say, "You're our God and we will always worship you!" Then the next page they've boiled down their jewelry and made an idol because it took Moses too long to get back from the mountain and they got impatient and anxious without a leader.

But God stays faithful. And once in what we read, God was ready to give up on them and Moses reminded God of God's promise to be faithful, and wondered aloud what the neighboring people would think of God if it turns out the God of the Israelites doesn't keep promises.  (Those biblical folks were so brazen in their conversations with the Divine!)

There are all sorts of things in the bible I forgot were there.  And we are stumbling onto them in graphic novel form.  Today we read Aaron's blessing over the freed slaves, "The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you, the Lord lift his countenance upon you, and give you peace."  This is the blessing that my husband has prayed over our kids at bedtime since their birth.  And here is its origin: a disoriented, exhausted people, freed from slavery but stuck in the wilderness, learning how to trust God and messing up a lot.  And here is God, faithful, again, and again, and again, meeting them in impossible situations and reminding them they belong to God and God will continue to take care of them.

We are part of a long and ancient story, filled with confused, impatient and anxious people, messing up and learning to trust, and centered on an eternally steadfast and faithful God.
Thanks be to God.

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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:

Maybe tonight we can pray that blessing on ourselves, on each other. Placing a hand on a head (partner, child, dog, your own) say these words,

The Lord bless you and keep you,
The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you,
The Lord lift his countenance upon you and give you peace.

or

God loves you and holds you.
May God smile on you and meet you with all the grace you need.
May God look you full in the face, and fill you with peace.

or, if you're alone:

God loves me and holds me.
God smiles on me and meets me with all the grace I need.
God looks me full in the face, and fills me with peace.

Tend Life

Devotion for Being Apart -
June 12

I will share a devotion Sundays, and Wednesdays through Fridays.
- Kara

I repotted the church peace plant yesterday.
It had outgrown its pot - the one session planted it in nearly twelve years ago.
You can read more about that plant here.

It made me think about how we are changing and growing during this, in ways we don't yet understand and maybe can't yet see. It made me wonder about what kinds of containers will support our life together in the chapters after this one.

And it made me come back to the moment - it was also a tactile thing to do that used my body (it's heavy!) and needed my attention, and it wasn't crisis or worry or fatigue.  It was simple.  Instead of being consumed with the unknown, I was consciously tending life.

I saw my hairdresser today for the first time since January (!) She had taken six weeks off for surgery just before the pandemic hit.  I texted her when she left telling her to go easy on herself, that my experience with any surgery has been that your body takes longer to recover than you think it will.
Today she thanked me for that text, and said it helped her, because even though they told her six weeks, it's been four months and she only this week feels like she is recovered.  We talked about how hard it is to let your body do what it needs to, but also how amazing it is that your body does get there.  Healing is really hard work. It takes exactly the amount of time that it needs to take.

I am finding that a lot these days. I have an agenda for my body. It is night - I will sleep now and wake up rested.  I am taking the day off - I will get the rest and energy I need and come back ready.  Or for my mind -  I have this thing to accomplish and will focus and get it done in the amount of time I have set aside for it.  Or my children - you can cry and get over it and move on in a logical amount of time, right?  We have that with our society  - it would be nice to be done fighting about things. It would be lovely to recognize the problem of racism and then get it fixed and done with, whether out there or inside our own selves.  But it doesn't work that way.  Change is slow, deep work, that takes remembering again and again, noticing again and again, coming back to what's actually here and letting things heal and unfold because we are tending the life. 

And in the midst of all this - we are still sick and getting each other sick - with an actual virus, which we can't see and can't just fix.  This is exhausting. We wish it were over. Shouldn't it be over by now? Maybe if we act like it's over, that will make it over? Alas, it isn't so.  We must live the moment we are in right now.  It's the only way.

So, tend life. Within you, around you. Instead of being consumed with the unknown, be in this moment, and right here, tend life. Put your hands in the dirt. Take naps. Notice hunger and eat. Let tears come when they want to, for as long as they want to.  Laughter too. See the invitations in front of you and respond - there is life popping up all around us, calling to us to join in.  Be gentle with those around you. Be gentle with yourself. We are changing and growing during this, in ways we don't yet understand and maybe can't yet see.  That's really hard work. Let it happen in the way it needs to.  

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CONNECTING RITUAL:

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

Lord God,
you have called your servants to ventures
of which we cannot see the ending,
by paths yet untrodden,
through perils unknown.
Give us faith to go out with good courage,
not knowing where we go,
but only that your hand is leading us
and your love supporting us;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
AMEN

(From the Lutherans - I am not sure what book but I hear them use this prayer a lot!)