Month: November 2016

         Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter
                  the sheep of my pasture! says the Lord.
         I will raise up shepherds over them
                  who will shepherd them,
         and they shall not fear any longer, or be dismayed,
                  nor shall any be missing, says the Lord.
                           —Jeremiah 23.1, 4

Ancient Israel was satisfied to trust that God appointed kings.
We aren’t so naïve.
It’s our choice.

Then what might this scripture mean for us,
who have chosen a shepherd,
and see a lot of destroying and scattering going on,
a lot of fear and dismay,
and some missing, or threatened with it?

Jesus shows us: the shepherds won’t be kings.
They will be the humble but courageous
who speak and act for justice and mercy,
who receive power not by coronation
but by the anointing of the Spirit.
We won’t look to the powers to save us.
We will look to one another to tend us.

And God will give might to their compassion,
and fill their shepherding with power.
God will dwell within their struggle for justice,
and speak in their voices.
God will raise up shepherds who set free the oppressed
and bind up the brokenhearted—
in their wounds and to each other—
who resist those who destroy and scatter,
who tend to those who are fearful or dismayed or missing.
God will anoint them and raise them up
and they will be the shepherds who heal the people,
and justice and mercy will rule.

The prophet’s cry is not a promise of comfort.
This is a call to action.
 

 

         Joyfully give thanks to the Holy One,
         who has enabled you to share in the light
         all God’s beloved ones inherit.
         God has rescued us from the power of darkness
         and transferred us into the realm of the Beloved,
         in whom our sins are forgiven
         and our lives are made complete.
                           —Colossians 1.12-14

The darkness is real.
But we are rescued from its power.
Light shines in us, shining in that dark,
light we do not earn and cannot keep,
but passes to us like the color of our eyes,
shining from the Beloved within us,
forgiving our darkness by filling us with light,
light of Creation that gives life.
In the night the light shines.
In the darkness the light rules.
In the deep darkness we give thanks.

We are not to generate the light
but to receive it.
We are not to vanquish the darkness,
but to shine in it.

We see the darkness without flinching.
We look the darkness in its dark eye,
and we are true to the light,
the light within us.

We pray that we may lead lives
worthy of our light.
 

         The soldiers also mocked him,
         coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying,
         “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!”
         There was also an inscription over him,
         “This is the King of the Jews.”
                  —Luke 23.36-38

An unrecognizable Messiah, this one,
whose power is hidden in defeat,
who lives in the Land of Not-Oneself,
who knows the secret kingdom of grace
and its magical powers.

We didn’t expect this kind of Mighty One,
without army or court or political victory,
whose throne is powerlessness,
whose palace is human suffering,
whose power is not domination
but to draw us into resurrection.

We still don’t quite get it,
chastened by our losses,
fearful of our destitution,
that this is the greater power,
Not-Ours, from the beyond within,
given, not seized, not even held,
not standing over us
but flowing through us;
that we are loved from beneath
to be of a different kind.

On our knees, stripped of our powers,
empty handed, we awaken
to this vast might, to our royalty,
and our waiting subjects.

 

         O give thanks to the Holy One,
                  for God is good;
         the steadfast love of the Giver of Life
                  endures forever!
         It is better to take refuge in the Lord
                  than to put confidence in princes.
         I was pushed hard, so that I was falling,
                  but the Lord helped me.
         The Lord is my strength and my might;
                  God has become my salvation.
         The Lord has punished me severely,
                  but did not give me over to death.
         The stone that the builders rejected
                  has become the chief cornerstone.
         This is the Lord’s doing;
                  it is marvelous in our eyes.
         This is the day that the Lord has made;
                  let us rejoice and be glad in it.
         Save us, we beseech you, O Lord!
                  O Lord, we beseech you, give us success!
         Blessed is the one who comes
                  in the name of the Lord.
         O give thanks to the Holy One, for God is good;
                  the steadfast love of the Giver of Life endures forever!
                           —from Psalm 118

The work has been no different since the beginning,
the thin golden thread through the chaos,
the dimly lit path through the valley,
the hand in the night:
to trust the Giver of Life in the darkness,
to trust the goodness buried in the terrible moment,
in every awful passage, every ending,
to receive the love that is given.
The test is only clearer in dark times,
to see the hollow illusion of princes
and forego their poisoned promises,
to come into this day in the name of the Holy One,
not in the thrall of our fears.
The stone they have rejected will be our foundation:
the Belovedness that cannot be destroyed,
the bond that can’t be severed,
hope and gratitude in the song we must sing
to each other as night falls.
For the Beloved walks with us
even through this, even through this.
When we hold each other we will know
the steadfast love that endures forever.
 

God of peace,
there is work to be done.
There are wounds to mend,
bridges to build,
memories to heal,
dreams to uncover,
hope to exhume.
There is a rend in our souls
to be tended to.
There are despondent hearts
to listen to, and to listen,
and to listen.
And there is a realm to be built
despite all odds, against all powers.
This is your work, and we join you.

God of peace,
give us the courage of warriors,
the strength of saints,
the love of new mothers,
the resilience of gravity,
the patience of breath,
the freedom of children.
May we befriend gentleness
and seek out hope;
may we marry justice
and give our souls to compassion.

Let us hear your voice.
Let us sense your hope.
Let us feel you move.

God of mercy,
give us your mercy.
God of peace,
give us your peace.

 

November 9, 2016, The day after the election of Donald Trump.

Dearly Beloved,

Grace and peace to you.

 

         When some were speaking about the temple, he said:
         Not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.
         Many will come in my name and say, “I am he!” Do not go after them.
         When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified;
         for these things must take place first,
         but the end will not follow immediately.
         Nation will rise against nation;
         there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.
         But before all this occurs, they will arrest you and persecute you.
         This will give you an opportunity to bear witness.
         I will give you words and a wisdom
         that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.
         By your endurance you will gain your souls.
                  —from Luke 21.5-19

Not since the morning of September 11, 2001 have I felt more deeply the profound sorrow and dread people must have felt at the destruction of the temple. Only then, if ever, have I felt such deep anguish and wanted to raise such a desperate lament. I have never before ached with such terror that is not eased, sought sleep that would not come, cried out for comfort that will not lend itself, tried to pray and been unable.

The temple will fall. Fear, anger and self-absorption rule; disregard for the suffering of others has ascended to the seat of power,. There is no longer a safe place to retreat to, a sacred center of hope and belonging where the world is all right. Even in the temple in my own heart not one stone remains upon another.

When the temple falls we are awakened from the illusion that the world is just fine. Power structures will not save us. But this is nothing new. We finally know what others have known all along: we are vulnerable. We are exposed to the cynicism, violence, greed and hatred of the world. From the Roman Empire to the Holocaust to today’s unarmed young black men, or the people of Aleppo, or refugees or the trafficked and exploited—they know: there is no guarantee of justice, no illusion that everything will be all right. The whole world is at risk. There is no refuge. There never has been.

When the temple falls what do we do? When we can’t look to our power structures, what do we do? We become the temple ourselves. “Destroy this temple,” Jesus says, “and I will raise it up.” He says, “When you see the desolating sacrilege standing in the holy place (let the reader understand)—the good news of the Empire of God will be proclaimed throughout the world. And the one who endures to the end will be saved.”

For some today is a day of rejoicing, but for me it is Good Friday. This happens. This is how God works. Human power structures fail us, and then God raises up life out of death. So what do we do? When the temple falls we become the resurrection. We let ourselves be raised, let ourselves be changed. Don’t look to the temple or the World Trade Center or the White House. Power structures will not save us, but God will. God pours love directly into our hearts. Live that love.

Now more than ever the world needs our love and justice and mercy. It needs our courage and community. It needs for us to be the crucified and risen Body of Christ. Realize that you are at the foot of the cross. Give voice to your pain, and let it rise as courage. Love this world with all you have. Connect with each other. Connect with strangers. Notice beauty. Celebrate the things God is doing in this world, the miracles that pass before us each day. Work for justice. Get involved. Now is the time to live resurrection. Live what really matters, as if these are your last days, and then maybe they won’t be.

My dread and sorrow are deep; but in that dark tomb hope is already rising. May the peace of Christ that passes understanding fill and guard your heart and mind today.

Deep blessings,
Pastor Steve

This day, every day, is a day to make choices,
to choose with one’s being and take a stand:
to choose one’s calling and to follow it,
to choose this world, and to live in it,
to choose each other and what we may be.
This is a day to choose love over fear,
truth over comfort, reconciliation over anger,
courage over safety, hope over despair.
This is a day to take sides without apology,
to take sides with respect and compassion,
to take sides with justice and mercy and peace,
to take sides with the poor and powerless,
with the rejected and condemned,
with those most deeply longing.
This is a day to stand not against anyone
but against violence, against threat,
against disunion, against condemnation;
a day to stand for something,
for someone, for everyone, for everyone-ness.
This day, every day, is a day to make choices,
not in a curtained booth but in the street,
with body and soul, word and deed,
a day to stand with one’s truth and remain,
to be steadfast for a cause, and to endure.
This is a day to make choices, and with one’s choices
to make the world what it will be.

 

God of peace,
         fill me with your mercy.
When others around me are anxious
         give me peace.
Though anger cloud people’s vision
         open my eyes.
When others blame and threaten
         may I listen.
In the midst of cruelty
         may I be gentle and kind.
May there be only blessing
         in my words and in my hands.

When the stench of abuse fills the air,
         when oppression demands a seat at the table:
protect the tender ones,
         heal the wounded,
vindicate the gentle,
         and give me courage to attend.

God of peace,
         bless me,
that when the world cries violence
         I will sing peace;
when the world spouts hatred
         I will sing justice;
when the world shouts fear
         I will sing love.

When the world shouts
         I will sing, I will sing.

 

How much of nature sleeps in the nude.
Some trees have already stripped naked.
Most have changed their clothes by now
out of their playful duds into something more formal,
with darker, more sonorous tones,
evening gowns, and suits of grey and brown,
the turning down of leaves and grass.
Now the hues don’t flash and jump,
they gesture, bow and embrace,
they are priests, not cheerleaders, strings, not brass.
The trees are turning beyond all this with grace,
toward something, letting go, but not resigning,
not just getting old, but turning,
turning toward quieter, darker work,
and it is work, the dreaming of this sleep,
a vow of poverty, obedience to the sweeping wind,
a pledge of presence in the cold, the dark,
the stillness— turning in.
 

         Blessed are you who are poor,
                  for yours is the empire of God…
         But woe to you who are rich,
                  for you have received your consolation.
                  —Luke 6.20, 24

Blessed are you, children of Aleppo, Ferguson, Standing Rock,
         prisoners, immigrants and bullied queers,
blessed are you, welfare mothers, discouraged rednecks,
         depressed teens, bipolar and suicidal,
blessed are you, unarmed young black men,
         women bearing memories of abuse.

Blessed are you who are discouraged or afraid or doubting,
         and you, the forgotten who are no one at all,
you are blessed because God blesses you.
         Don’t let your circumstances tell you otherwise.

Blessed are you, for God gives the Realm to you;
         gives it readily to all whose hands are empty;
not to the powerful—they’ve already gained what they sought.
         Those whose hands are full can’t receive.

Blessed are you, for you are God’s saints,
         made beloved by God’s love, not ours,
made holy by God’s grace, not your accomplishments,
         made sacred by your being, not your experience.
Blessed are you, and woe to us who do not see it
         and bow down in humble amazement.
Woe to us who do not empty our hands
         and receive the infinite gift.