I woke in the middle of the night and remembered Jesus on the Mount of Transfiguration talking to Moses and Elijah. The ancient Celts observed a day near November 1 when they observed a time when a "thin place" exists between our world and the next. Surely transfiguration's mountain moment was such a thin place--Jesus being counseled by a couple of Old Testament heroes who had been gone for several centuries.
Today we wake to a new month and new Sunday. I pray both will be thin places for you. I pray you will know peace with your tomorrows, and a fearlessness in the face of mystery. I pray we can hold confidence in the most trying of times that there is the One who can speak "Come forth!" And that at the end of the journey there will be a "Well done." This morning I long to instill such hope in some dear people.
(Seems "hope" is an abused word...one that has become hollow and less sacred. I wish we could reserve it for use amongst people of faith. I wish it were a word we shared amongst friends and heard only from poets. It should be the domain of intimacy, not fifth avenue.)
Today I'll have my first book signing. The entire process goes against my nature. I've never wanted an autograph, though I guess I have enjoyed a signed book from a few friends. I hope I'll be able to encourage a few friends with some written words in the front of a book.
I hope you will know peace today.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Love for a Sunday Visitor...
It may sound a little weird, but I want to say that I love you. I sense you aren't ready to hear that yet, and I'm sure you'll never read these words--let alone believe them if you did. No matter how little you think of yourself (and I can tell by the way you act that this is very little), the One who made you thinks you are amazing.
You've slipped into church a couple of times now. You come late and you leave early so no one will bother trying to speak to you. You can't smile, but I see you try. You can't believe things will be better (whatever it is that is wrong), but you come hoping. You can't help the shadow that darkens your dreams.
I hope that somewhere in our words or music or smiles you sense how loved you are. I fear you might not.
Whoever you are, whatever your name is, please know that you are loved.
Grace and peace to you...
You've slipped into church a couple of times now. You come late and you leave early so no one will bother trying to speak to you. You can't smile, but I see you try. You can't believe things will be better (whatever it is that is wrong), but you come hoping. You can't help the shadow that darkens your dreams.
I hope that somewhere in our words or music or smiles you sense how loved you are. I fear you might not.
Whoever you are, whatever your name is, please know that you are loved.
Grace and peace to you...
Friday, May 29, 2009
Light Dwelling
The sun is coming up. It's been at it for a couple of hours now...a slow crescendo of light. Our cabin doesn't receive those unimpeded beach sunrises. Instead, as soon as the glow strikes the horizon to the east, a filtered green begins to weave its way through leaves and branches. The filter-surviving illumination is a magical, velvety green; dark and light hues and all shades in between blanket our home and our yard.
Somewhere late in the morning the sun tops the oak forest and spills its intensity. Those garden plants which require "full sun" begin soaking up their daily, if abbreviated, supply of glow. And so do I, if I'm here on the hill. And then, before the afternoon is gone, shadows cross the lawn once again. Shade-loving plants sigh their relief, and the filtered light--now from the west--lays like some life-giving fog over our home.
I'm trying to learn the ways of light. I want to live in it, and I want to appreciate its nuances. When the sun is up, yet filtered green, it is still daylight on Sam's Hill. And somehow, this sea of green tempers into a kinder form, what can be a powerfully depleting day-long shine.
Sometimes you feel that God is distant, and other times you wish there were some God-filter to temper holy light. I'm trying to be patient with whatever form of light I receive. And I'm trying to appreciate the nuances.
Peace to you light seekers...
Somewhere late in the morning the sun tops the oak forest and spills its intensity. Those garden plants which require "full sun" begin soaking up their daily, if abbreviated, supply of glow. And so do I, if I'm here on the hill. And then, before the afternoon is gone, shadows cross the lawn once again. Shade-loving plants sigh their relief, and the filtered light--now from the west--lays like some life-giving fog over our home.
I'm trying to learn the ways of light. I want to live in it, and I want to appreciate its nuances. When the sun is up, yet filtered green, it is still daylight on Sam's Hill. And somehow, this sea of green tempers into a kinder form, what can be a powerfully depleting day-long shine.
Sometimes you feel that God is distant, and other times you wish there were some God-filter to temper holy light. I'm trying to be patient with whatever form of light I receive. And I'm trying to appreciate the nuances.
Peace to you light seekers...
Monday, May 25, 2009
World Salve
Sometimes I marvel at how any of us flawed human beings can coexist for even a little while. We are such passionate beings, or dispassionate. We are angry, lonely, ecstatic, lost, treasonous, paranoid, loyal—and all on the same day. We fear communicating our deepest needs, and chafe at our others when they go unmet. We blurt out our every complaint—from rain to mistreatment; and then our discontentment is lessoned and now hangs like a cloud over another.
You’ve met the selfish and the selfless, and found them both to be both. You’ve met some holy and some evil, and found them each to reflect each. You’ve held absolute confidence in another, been betrayed and wondered at how you could have judged so poorly. You’ve been the one believed in, and wondered why…if they only knew.
Angst invades our inter-relationships like fossil fuels in an automobile engine—both toxic and necessary. And in this week when yet another nation has tested yet another more powerful nuclear weapon, I shake my head and wonder from where our restraint has come? How have we not blown our world and one another away by now?
And onto the stage walks grace—perhaps behind the set where it is unseen. And she rubs a shoulder and irons a shirt. He changes a diaper and cares for the elderly. She doctors or nurses or counsels or he befriends or opens scientific mysteries to entertain our minds with truth. She dances a dance we can all feel, and gives us reason to pull our hands from the button that could waste it all.
Sometimes I marvel at how well the world gets along. We go to our jobs and classes—frustration overshadowing our attempts at accomplishment—and come away better and holding hands. We contract and we marry; we fight and we bring lawsuits. And somehow at the end of the day (for the most part) we smile and put it all away for the night—and some have the grace to drop it forever.
Perhaps there should be a God invented who would take the worst the world could give, and come out loving its people anyway. Maybe we could start a religion where God becomes one of us, and leaves unblemished by our weakness, yet moved by the experience. Maybe we need a faith that teaches that God sends his own stuff—his own, well, “spirit” let’s say—to saturate our lives and living. Maybe such a faith could hold the world together…
You’ve met the selfish and the selfless, and found them both to be both. You’ve met some holy and some evil, and found them each to reflect each. You’ve held absolute confidence in another, been betrayed and wondered at how you could have judged so poorly. You’ve been the one believed in, and wondered why…if they only knew.
Angst invades our inter-relationships like fossil fuels in an automobile engine—both toxic and necessary. And in this week when yet another nation has tested yet another more powerful nuclear weapon, I shake my head and wonder from where our restraint has come? How have we not blown our world and one another away by now?
And onto the stage walks grace—perhaps behind the set where it is unseen. And she rubs a shoulder and irons a shirt. He changes a diaper and cares for the elderly. She doctors or nurses or counsels or he befriends or opens scientific mysteries to entertain our minds with truth. She dances a dance we can all feel, and gives us reason to pull our hands from the button that could waste it all.
Sometimes I marvel at how well the world gets along. We go to our jobs and classes—frustration overshadowing our attempts at accomplishment—and come away better and holding hands. We contract and we marry; we fight and we bring lawsuits. And somehow at the end of the day (for the most part) we smile and put it all away for the night—and some have the grace to drop it forever.
Perhaps there should be a God invented who would take the worst the world could give, and come out loving its people anyway. Maybe we could start a religion where God becomes one of us, and leaves unblemished by our weakness, yet moved by the experience. Maybe we need a faith that teaches that God sends his own stuff—his own, well, “spirit” let’s say—to saturate our lives and living. Maybe such a faith could hold the world together…
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Beatles/A Hymn/and A Sunday Morning Pastor
Before reading, please sing the Beatle's Eleanor Rigby. Done? Make sure the chorus is playing in your head... All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Ahhh, look at all the lonely people...(repeat last phrase.) So, are you with me now?
On Sunday mornings, I awake thinking of the day ahead. I rise earlier than most any morning of the week and go downstairs to my chair. I pray. I seek strength. I rehearse my sermon for the morning--sifting it through my spirit and hopefully a Greater One. And I feel alone.
Around the area where I live I know there are people, preparing to rendezvous with me at the "meeting place." (I always like that Quaker title better than "church.") I begin seeing their faces. There are parents who are hurting for sick or rebellious children. Elderly who are wondering if they can make it again ("Just hanging in there," I'll hear one say in another few hours). There are some couples struggling to stay faithful--or who have no idea their spouse is. There are teenagers doing life as if it feels like walking through deep oncoming water--or motor oil. There are single people wishing they were loved. There are people awaiting a diagnosis...cancer? There are children who will run to me for a hug. (God bless the children.)
And somehow in the strange way we do church, I will be a key to providing hope and healing to all of these.
I pray for the strength--the faith to perform.
I weep here alone in my chair, before anyone else gets up.
And I go to facebook hoping for a friend. One pastor after another has already been there, or drops-by while I am. Some mention sermon topics, others psych themselves up with a positive statement. And none of us comment on the others, or speak using the chat feature. We post no notes to each other. What can we say? We are storming the beaches today, and once again, we wonder if we'll survive.
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?
Father mckenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working. darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Eleanor rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father mckenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
RECORDED BY THE BEATLES
And there is another text, this one by Edwin Hatch:
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
fill me with life anew,
that I may love what thou dost love,
and do what thou wouldst do.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
until my heart is pure,
until with thee I will one will,
to do and to endure.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
till I am wholly thine,
till all this earthly part of me
glows with thy fire divine.
AMEN
On Sunday mornings, I awake thinking of the day ahead. I rise earlier than most any morning of the week and go downstairs to my chair. I pray. I seek strength. I rehearse my sermon for the morning--sifting it through my spirit and hopefully a Greater One. And I feel alone.
Around the area where I live I know there are people, preparing to rendezvous with me at the "meeting place." (I always like that Quaker title better than "church.") I begin seeing their faces. There are parents who are hurting for sick or rebellious children. Elderly who are wondering if they can make it again ("Just hanging in there," I'll hear one say in another few hours). There are some couples struggling to stay faithful--or who have no idea their spouse is. There are teenagers doing life as if it feels like walking through deep oncoming water--or motor oil. There are single people wishing they were loved. There are people awaiting a diagnosis...cancer? There are children who will run to me for a hug. (God bless the children.)
And somehow in the strange way we do church, I will be a key to providing hope and healing to all of these.
I pray for the strength--the faith to perform.
I weep here alone in my chair, before anyone else gets up.
And I go to facebook hoping for a friend. One pastor after another has already been there, or drops-by while I am. Some mention sermon topics, others psych themselves up with a positive statement. And none of us comment on the others, or speak using the chat feature. We post no notes to each other. What can we say? We are storming the beaches today, and once again, we wonder if we'll survive.
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?
Father mckenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working. darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Eleanor rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father mckenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
RECORDED BY THE BEATLES
And there is another text, this one by Edwin Hatch:
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
fill me with life anew,
that I may love what thou dost love,
and do what thou wouldst do.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
until my heart is pure,
until with thee I will one will,
to do and to endure.
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
till I am wholly thine,
till all this earthly part of me
glows with thy fire divine.
AMEN
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Such a thing as glory?
I paused in the forest the other day to look at a leaf. Then a tree trunk. Then I felt a breeze. I stopped again next to a gently flowing stream.
If there were only one tree in the world, would we cherish it? Charge admission? Send pictures across cyberspace? What if even the trees were gone, would we marvel at one remaining leaf in a museum? Would we gaze at the veins in its leaves and wonder at the life that once coursed through them? Or if there was no more wind, would we fan our children and tell them of the mystery of what once was? And if our faucets went empty in a drought, what would we think of water?
Rich Mullins once sang "There is such a thing as glory, and there are hints of it everywhere." If the hints were less abundant, would the glory shine brighter? Or, as I gaze out my office window and see a forest of trees that seem to have no end--each mulched in last season's leaves, blowing in the breeze and drawing up life their roots--is it OK if I experience each chunk of ever-recreating-creation as a demonstration of glory?
I think I will.
If there were only one tree in the world, would we cherish it? Charge admission? Send pictures across cyberspace? What if even the trees were gone, would we marvel at one remaining leaf in a museum? Would we gaze at the veins in its leaves and wonder at the life that once coursed through them? Or if there was no more wind, would we fan our children and tell them of the mystery of what once was? And if our faucets went empty in a drought, what would we think of water?
Rich Mullins once sang "There is such a thing as glory, and there are hints of it everywhere." If the hints were less abundant, would the glory shine brighter? Or, as I gaze out my office window and see a forest of trees that seem to have no end--each mulched in last season's leaves, blowing in the breeze and drawing up life their roots--is it OK if I experience each chunk of ever-recreating-creation as a demonstration of glory?
I think I will.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The Runaway Pastor: Prologue?
It wasn’t as if he didn’t care. Indeed, there were many people and things he loved. And he could remember days when a painful depression cursed his every waking thought. No, it wasn’t that.
A nagging web stretched across his path, more disgusting--intimidating--than limiting. It must be cleared away, lest the fibers smother his existence—the question proving to have no proper answer.
Having lived with fiery passion dictating his actions, his every moment; he feared his life held no more tinder. A widening gulf appeared before him; the expanse between his life, and his purpose, seemed insurmountable. A man may, after all, own loves, yet loose direction.
Perhaps this fearsome abyss was that which drove him out from himself--seeking some resuscitating-bracing breath, something after which to dream--for longing was missing in his living.
A nagging web stretched across his path, more disgusting--intimidating--than limiting. It must be cleared away, lest the fibers smother his existence—the question proving to have no proper answer.
Having lived with fiery passion dictating his actions, his every moment; he feared his life held no more tinder. A widening gulf appeared before him; the expanse between his life, and his purpose, seemed insurmountable. A man may, after all, own loves, yet loose direction.
Perhaps this fearsome abyss was that which drove him out from himself--seeking some resuscitating-bracing breath, something after which to dream--for longing was missing in his living.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sparks Flying
I remember when I was a kid, scooting my feet across carpet, and chasing my older sisters at the same time, in order to experience the joy of "shocking" them with the spark that would fly off of my finger, and into them. Flash! Out of no where, I was a source of light creating, electricity transferring energy!
During Advent, in these dark days, our church has been reading the longing scriptures of the season. "O that you would make the earth tremble." O how we want to see God do something, and when we are honest, there are at least days when we doubt his moving amongst us. Yet, week after week, as we read from Isaiah and the Psalms, from the Gospel and an epistle--we see that God is up to something.
It seems sad that those who received the assurances of God's coming in the prophets, never saw Jesus. In fact their great great grandchildren's great great grandchildren didn't see him! Think of it! All of their longing, and all of God's promising, did not enter their own reality?!
Must I always see the answers to my prayers in order to believe God is up to something? I want to pray--like so much scooting of my feet over carpet--and then see God at work. O God, give me faith to understand that I may not enjoy the answers to my prayers. That some future generation may reap blessings from my prayers, and not me. But in all things, keep my feet scooting across the carpets and my heart convinced that in some miraculous way, you are sending a shock-wave into some tomorrow.
Somehow I see Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel masterpiece showing God's finger and Adam's. Reaching, aren't we?...ever longing and reaching. As is God.
Well, I plan to post another section of the >Parable of the Gym this Saturday sometime. We have had some good conversations. Thanks to those bold enough to converse on-line. This next entry is a tough questioning of a lot I've given my life to.
Grace and peace to you, and keep the sparks flying!!
During Advent, in these dark days, our church has been reading the longing scriptures of the season. "O that you would make the earth tremble." O how we want to see God do something, and when we are honest, there are at least days when we doubt his moving amongst us. Yet, week after week, as we read from Isaiah and the Psalms, from the Gospel and an epistle--we see that God is up to something.
It seems sad that those who received the assurances of God's coming in the prophets, never saw Jesus. In fact their great great grandchildren's great great grandchildren didn't see him! Think of it! All of their longing, and all of God's promising, did not enter their own reality?!
Must I always see the answers to my prayers in order to believe God is up to something? I want to pray--like so much scooting of my feet over carpet--and then see God at work. O God, give me faith to understand that I may not enjoy the answers to my prayers. That some future generation may reap blessings from my prayers, and not me. But in all things, keep my feet scooting across the carpets and my heart convinced that in some miraculous way, you are sending a shock-wave into some tomorrow.
Somehow I see Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel masterpiece showing God's finger and Adam's. Reaching, aren't we?...ever longing and reaching. As is God.
Well, I plan to post another section of the >Parable of the Gym this Saturday sometime. We have had some good conversations. Thanks to those bold enough to converse on-line. This next entry is a tough questioning of a lot I've given my life to.
Grace and peace to you, and keep the sparks flying!!
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