The Game is False

Devotion for Being Apart -
September 27

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

Today's scripture comes just after a rich landowner, who has followed all the religious rules, asks Jesus, What must I do to inherit eternal life? And Jesus tells him to sell everything he has and give the money to the poor and come follow him. Then Peter, seeing this, asks, Hey Jesus, we’ve given up everything to follow you, what will be our reward?  Jesus answers, "The Kingdom of Heaven is like a vineyard owner..."  Matthew 20:1-16.




Jesus’ parables are always designed to expose something about the way of fear and reveal something about the way of God. In the way of fear envy is at play – we envy others and desire to be envied.  Envy is an essential component, actually, a necessary part of the game.  We only know how good we have it or how far we’ve gotten, or how much we matter, if we compare ourselves with others and see where we rank.  

We want to know what we have to do to succeed, to be safe, to be good, to be secure. We figure that out by looking at others and seeing how we measure up. We’re better than some, but worse than others. It’s how the way of fear operates.
 
But in this parable the landowner pays everyone the same thing, no matter how long they work. Forget that they all start out equally in need – some worked all day, and some just a few minutes, and they all received the same thing.  And he made sure that they all knew it too, it wasn't a secret what he paid them. He set them up for envy and then broke the measuring stick. He refused to play the game.
 
The parable could just as easily have been about tragedy. When tragedy cherry picks– through accidents, or sickness, this one dies from covid, that one has no symptoms, these parents have a child with addiction or mental illness, that one’s kids are honor roll athletes – envy comes into play in a huge way. We feel relieved it isn’t us, or we wonder why it’s us and what we did wrong. 
 
But when tragedy is a hurricane that destroys the entire town, or a fire that wipes out the whole region, it doesn’t matter how nice our house was or how hard we worked, or how well we followed all the rules, all that we’ve invested is gone- whether that was a whole lot or nothing at all.  Now we are all equal – we all have nothing. The measuring stick is broken; everyone is out of the game.  (Of course, in real life we’d find other things to envy – like who has better home owner’s insurance, because inside the way of fear we can’t help comparing ourselves, searching for ways to save ourselves.) 
 
But in the way of God there are no comparisons, there is no way to gain an advantage over anyone else.  The reasons for envy disappear. We are all human beings, claimed and cared for by God.  We are all living by God’s grace.  We participate alongside each other and no one is better, or more deserving, worse, or less deserving than any other.  We are not paid by what we have earned; we are paid by the generosity of our God. 
 
This is bad news for when we think we think we’re doing pretty well comparatively speaking, when we’re convinced we’re secure or that we’ve succeeded. When the game is working for us, it sucks to be told it's pretend.  But this is good news when we have nothing to give, nothing to lose, nothing to compete with. The game is false. We are free.
 
We all belong equally to God and to each other, and every one of us is dependent on the generosity of our God.  All of us live in God’s grace. And God invites all of us to join in, no matter how much or little we think we have to give. And this God also makes sure we have what we need, no matter how much or little we think we’ve contributed to earning our keep.
            
I hope that this makes us brave.  We’ve got nothing to prove and nothing to earn.  In God’s Kingdom all people really are equal, each one valued, made in the image of God.  Every single one of us is loved by God completely, whether we think we deserve it or not. No matter our circumstances, each of us meant to share in God’s life and joy. And regardless of how much or little we may think we have to give, each of us is called join in God’s redemption and hope in the world. 

Amen.

(Go here for more on The Way of Fear and The Way of God).
 

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:

Envy and Gratitude - a mental, written, or praying exercise

Envy is the currency of the way of fear. Gratitude is the currency of the way of God. 

Envy tells us we are in it alone and against one another, and uses comparison as a way of measuring how well we are doing.  Gratitude recognizes we are all in it together and everything is a gift, and there is no measurement - it's all grace.  

It doesn't work just to try not to feel envy and to try to feel gratitude.  
But when envy arises we might be curious about it and acknowledge it, Oh, hello envy! There you are! Telling me I need to earn my place! I am envious because I am telling myself things would be better for me if...

We might turn toward gratitude by letting envy lead us there.  
The way of fear is telling me I need _____ to be (secure, happy, ok, good enough, successful, safe, etc).  
But here is my life, just as it is.
I know love through ______.
I feel joy when ______.
I am grateful for ______.
God cares (God, you care) for me through _____.
(Thank you).

This whole exercise can be done written, in our head, or as a prayer.

"Be Still and I'll Show You"

 

Devotion for Being Apart -
September 13

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

Exodus 14:10-14, 19-31

My wise friend Peter recently asked, “Why do we always act like ‘sustainable’ is a positive thing? There are a lot of things that are sustainable that are not good.  Racism, clearly is sustainable. We’ve sustained it for a long time.” Then he asked, “Instead of asking if things are sustainable, why aren’t we asking if they’re ‘life-giving’?”  “The broken systems that perpetuate injustice in this country are sustainable, but they sure are not life-giving. And a frenzied, way too busy pace of life that drains my soul, I sustained that just fine. But it wasn’t life-giving. “ 
 
When we’ve lived in brokenness for so long, it shapes our understanding of what’s possible for a good life to be. We stop asking what a good life is, what is life-giving, what brings wholeness or fullness to our lives and to the world. We shrink down within the walls of our collectively enslaved minds and hearts and we grasp the tiny reprieves and little escapes that keep our lives sustainable.
 
But when we find ourselves in unknown territory, forced out of our sustainable patterns, possibility opens up for something previously unimaginable.  And there are some experiences so significant, so deeply formative, that they change how we define ourselves and become a lens for how we see the world from then on out. 
 
The Red Sea moment is that for the Israelites.
 
All of our scripture – all Judaism and Christianity in fact – comes through the lens of this story. Even the things that happened before it are seen in retrospect through this part of their story. It’s the starting point: God is the one who delivers. We are the people of a God who saves.
 
So it’s almost impossible for us to imagine what it was like in the moments before this moment, because we are not given anything from that angle.  But I want us to try to imagine it anyway.  Because before this moment, their trust in God was hypothetical trust, it was trust in theory, inherited more than personal. The stories of creation, and the ancestors--Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Leah, Rachel, Jacob and Rebekah--were a long time ago, far removed from daily life. 
 
They practiced their faith every day and they believed that God was real and they were the people of God. That was true in the big picture.  But what was true for them on the ground, day in and day out, and had been for their parents and grandparents and grandparents’ parents before them, was that they were slaves of Pharaoh.  They were valued only for their capacity to labor, cherished less than a chariot horse.  They belonged to God, sure. But really, actually, daily, they belonged to Pharaoh for a life of constant work and no rest. 
 
So yes, they’d seen the seven plagues that convinced Pharaoh to release them, they’d seen themselves spared from the angel of Death. Moses said God was leading and they were going to follow Moses. They were ready to be free.  Let’s do this.  But their trust in God was more abstract then applied.  Their right-now-God-is-real-and-God-has-got-me-and-I-am-in-God’s-hands muscles were just starting to get exercised.
 
So it might have been that they set out on this escape with some brand new baby hope, tentatively trying on, inside themselves and with each other, a new identity that does not involve slavery but is something else, something ancient and true, wondering a little awed about what this might mean.
 
But now that Pharaoh has unleashed the entire Egyptian military against them, and is running them down in rage, with mighty chariots racing and terrible weapons drawn, they tend to agree with Pharaoh.  Who do they think they are to go against the Empire and imagine they could be free? Of course Pharaoh is going to come after his property, his workforce!  And of course he is angry! 
 
And now they find themselves on the banks of the Red Sea, with nowhere to turn, and the Egyptian army fast approaching. There is no escape, and they are terrified.  And—I love the sarcasm that often comes through, revealing across the centuries the feisty personalities of the Israelites—they say, ‘Hey Moses, were there no graves back in Egypt you could bury us in? You have to drag us into the wilderness to die? Didn’t we say, just leave us alone and let us serve the Egyptians? Huh? Didn’t we say that?” 
 
Life in Egypt was sustainable.  This feels like sure and certain death.
 
When we are in a dark and terrifying place, we’d rather go back to what was, even if what was sucked out our souls. Even if we lived like slaves, working for what doesn’t matter, wasting our lives for something we don’t believe in, grinding away for survival far removed from our deepest belonging and highest calling, with no real rest.  Because as bad as that is, at least it’s not death in the wilderness.
 
And when God is a religious concept that we hang onto but don’t really experience as a real, all-powerful, all-loving being who hangs onto us, it makes us much less thrilled about the risks of really living, and much more willing to settle for merely being alive.
But Moses answers the terrified Israelites, "Do not be afraid, stand firm, and see the deliverance that the Lord will accomplish for you today; for the Egyptians whom you see today you shall never see again. The Lord will fight for you, you have only to keep still."

And then, against all instinct – both as slaves defined by their labor, and as people filled with terror and adrenaline – they are still. They stand still and watch.  And before their eyes a re-creation happens. Hemmed in by light and cloud of darkness, there is evening and there is morning, a new day, and this God who formed the earth moves again and the waters are separated, and dry land appears. 
God makes a way where there was no way.  
And they are brought from death to life.
And then, not only does God save them, but in front of their eyes, God destroys all that would destroy them.  God wipes out the enemy entirely, with a bodies-scattered-on-the shoreline kind of finality.  The invincible powers dominating them for centuries as an indisputable fact of life were obliterated by the hand of God.
 
You are MINE. God says decisively. Be still and I will show you this is so.  

On either of the Red Sea, life is no picnic. Life is full of hardship and unknown. There is struggle and pain in life no matter what. But on one side fear is dominant, and God seems a nice, sustainable notion while the tangible threats to our stability feel far more powerful than an unreachable God.  On that side we are slaves who never stop, whose life is only for existing, whose worth is defined by our doing, who have settled for a small, rigid world with emaciated hope.

But when we pass through the waters to the other side—when, in a moment of terrible need and difficult stillness, God comes to us, and saves us from what was certain to destroy us--we are redefined as people held by God no matter what. We are led into something new and also returning to our identity, ancient and true: we belong to this God. We belong to each other.  Heading into the wilderness, as hard as that will be, we are made free. 

God begins us in love, and ends us there too. And along the way God grows in us enduring trust, and forms in us expansive hope. God shapes us for a good life—a life of belonging to God and to each other. This life cannot be earned or lost, but only received and enjoyed.
 
The other side of the Red Sea is not about what is sustainable, but about what is life-giving.  Salvation is described in scripture as resting in God’s care.  And this is trust too.  As the continuation of the Israelite’s story makes clear, learning to live as the people who rest in God’s care, who trust in God, never ends.  But it begins here:  God saves. God saves us. We are those who are saved by God.  We belong to the God who acts to save us; we are the people who rest in God’s care. That is who we are. That is our story.  
 
There is no mustering that faith, or crossing that sea on our own.  God must do that.  God will act for us.  That’s who God is. That’s what God does.  So when we are ejected from our sustainable patterns into the unknown, when it feels like persistent and powerful fear will undoubtedly capture and destroy us, when death feels sure and certain, don't be afraid, be still.  God will make a way make a way where there is no way.  The terrors we face today will not prevail.  The Lord will fight for you.  You need only Be still. 
 
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 simple way of praying that frees us from having to figure out how God should solve things, and allows us to grow in trust that as we hold people and situations up to God, God hears and will act.

This works especially well as a walking prayer.

Here now,
with you,
for _______

For example:

Here now,
with you,
 for those sick with covid.

Here now, 
with you,
for those fighting fires.

Here now,
with you,
for the hungry and afraid.

Here now,
with you,
for (name).

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.

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.

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.