Author: Steve

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.
 

I hear
the love of those
who have loved me
echo in me.
All the notes of my song
sing over theirs,
the only kind of beauty.
The song does not die.

May I live
with love and mercy
for it will echo
long after.

 

Today I give thanks for saints,
saints who have laid a path of life and light
for thousands of years, so many of them,
who blessed me generations ago.

I give thanks for the pillars of light in my life:
elders who taught me, embraced me, blessed me,
walked ahead and let me follow, watch and learn.
They patiently accepted my immaturity,
they showed me what was possible,
they held me up to see a farther horizon,
and I am grateful for them.

I give thanks for peers who have loved me,
who have grown with me, traveled with me,
created with me, who held hope when I faltered,
bore wisdom when I didn’t, forgave me,
believed in me when I most deeply doubted.
These too are my saints, and I am grateful for them.

I give thanks for the saints yet to come,
children whose miracles I can’t yet imagine
but who will surely shine with God’s glory,
who will rectify my mistakes
and carry on what we cannot complete.
For saints yet to be born I give thanks.

For all the saints I give praise
and humble thanks that I may serve with them
in this one holy, remarkable life.

 

There is in me a monster,
a queen, a cadaver, a cartoon character.
I know they’re there.
I invite them all to come,
dressed their best,
a community of great oddness and beauty,
and get to know each other.
Let the angel in me look silly
bobbing for apples,
my demon accept with grace
that everyone recognizes him
though he looks like a movie star.
Let the strong man need help with his popcorn,
the beauty queen with her padding.

Welcome, all my neuroses and foibles,
delusions, fears and addictions, welcome!
There is candy enough for all, and games.
Every single one of you gets treats
and a prize for your costume.
Enjoy yourselves and one another.
When it gets dark
your parents will bring you home
and you will take a bath, the saving font,
put on your familiar pajamas
and climb into the bed of me
and rest.
And with a prayer for my little ones
I too will go to bed, and pray to God
my soul to keep.

 

         When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him,
         “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.”
         So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him.
         All who saw it began to grumble and said,
         “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.”
                  —Luke 19.5-7
 

Like two old friends,
God and the sinner.
Here’s the scandal:
The Beloved actually, really
wants to be with you.
Imagine that.
The Loving One sees you
in your awkwardness,
uncomfortably hanging on
in your ridiculous perch,
knows all about the gossip,
and still can think of nothing
more desirable
than being with you.
At your place. On your terms.
It’s this simple.
The Holy One wants to be with you.
No condescension.
It’s no job requirement.
God likes being with you.

God likes being with you.

God likes being with you.

 

         May the name of our Lord Jesus be glorified in you,
         and you in Christ, according to the grace of our God
         and the Lord Jesus Christ.
                  —2 Thessalonians 1.12

Today may you shine with Christ’s glory,

as surely as Christ shines more brightly
because of you.

May you shine with God’s grace this day,
transparent to God’s mercy and love.

May God breathe deeply in you,
and make you true to your call.

Know that for your sake prayer is offered
and gratitude given, with hope and joy.

Today may you be Christ’s glory,
and Christ be yours.