So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything, and followed him (Luke 5:11).
I’m thinking this morning about Simon’s boat. It’s a minor character in the story, a silent supporting role. But the real meaning of the story we’ve been looking at this week is captured in the boat.
At the start: Jesus is teaching, backed knee-deep into the water by the crowd. What to do? He sees the boat. An ordinary boat put to sacred use. Jesus does that – loaves and fishes, bread and wine, spitting in dirt to heal blind eyes. And speaking God’s word from a boat.
In the middle: The boats nearly sink from the huge draw of fish. Full boats mean strong sales, a good day at market and a significant profit margin. A full boat means success.
Final scene: the boat is unloaded and left on shore. No more fish, no more fishermen. They’ve left it all to follow Jesus.
It seems that the boat full of fish is what grabs our attention. It’s the miracle moment. Simon has fished all night to no avail, but when he goes out with Jesus he gets more than he can manage by himself. He calls for help and dumps loads of fish in the boats.
That’s an exciting moment, but here’s the danger: Plenty of people are waiting for Jesus to fill their boats. But boats full of fish are not the point.
We do better to notice how Jesus takes the ordinary things of our work-a-day world and puts them to sacred use. Nets and internet, boats and board meetings, fish and finances. The purposes of God get worked out in all of those things.
And we should take particular note of the boats left on the shore. The dormant vessel signals the close of one drama and the start of a new one. Catching fish takes a back seat to catching people. Boats pulled up on shore and left there make it clear that Jesus changes everything.
We don’t follow Jesus as the key to getting boatloads of blessing. We don’t obey the word of Jesus so that we’ll be successful and make a killing in the market place. That might happen – but it’s not the point.
The point is Jesus. Grace rearranges our lives. We get a glimpse of who Jesus is and it puts us on our knees in worship and confession. We see who Jesus is, and suddenly our full boats are not as important to us as we once thought they might be.
Must everyone who follows Jesus leave their day job? No. But for followers of Jesus, the day job is a place to serve Christ. That’s a shift from simply asking Christ to bless your day job. A boat full of fish is a wonderful thing, but it’s not the point. Following Jesus is.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, you are at the center of it all. The story of our life is about you – not about achieving success or breaking sales records or boasting in our full boats. Above all, we want to follow you. We give you thanks for every blessing, and we hold them all loosely, ready to go wherever you might lead us. Amen.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Re-thinking
“Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so, I will let down the nets” (Luke 5:5).
Every fishing trip should be this easy.
John and I walked onto the pier. I baited his hook with a slimy piece of shrimp. John cast his line in such a way that the bait flopped into the water not far from us. And then before the ripples had time to settle a fish took the bait. One cast, one fish. Another dad and his son had been on the pier for much longer without catching anything. “You just hit a home run your first time at bat,” he said.
Cast and catch. That would have made Simon envious. Simon spent an entire night lowering his nets – and came up with nothing.
I’m rethinking Simon’s role in this story. I’ve usually understood Simon’s response to Jesus as a begrudging compliance. He seems to humor Jesus, winking at his business partners as he puts back out to deeper waters. I’ve seen him as one who has little more than a polite respect for Jesus. That’s the only thing that gets him back out after a night of futile fishing: mere obedience to Jesus’ word.
But it’s a hard thing to lower your net and bring it up empty again and again. The repeated nothingness begins to raise questions, it shakes our hope, it breeds anger. When the nets come up empty often enough, mere obedience to Jesus’ word is all we have. But maybe that’s enough.
We pray only because Jesus said to ask and seek. Those prayers are still heard and answered.
We love our neighbor only because Jesus told us to do so. It still counts and it’s still radical in our world of self-interest.
We serve others only because Jesus modeled being a servant and told us to follow his example. The act of serving still forms in us the likeness of Jesus.
And then the blessing comes. Peter’s reluctant response to Jesus’ word couldn’t stop it. Grace came and stretched nets to the breaking-point and nearly sank the boats with fullness.
Jesus speaks his word into your life today, perhaps calling you back to a place where your net has come up empty time after time. It’s hard to go there, but Jesus goes with you. Your act of obedience is enough for this day. Keep doing what Jesus asks. Keep walking where Jesus leads.
Prayer:
There are days, Lord Jesus, when I think I cannot bear to see the nets empty again. There are days when I question you because of what my life lacks. And yet you speak. You speak the word of invitation, and in your word is all my hope. “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope” (Psalm 30:5). Amen.
Every fishing trip should be this easy.
John and I walked onto the pier. I baited his hook with a slimy piece of shrimp. John cast his line in such a way that the bait flopped into the water not far from us. And then before the ripples had time to settle a fish took the bait. One cast, one fish. Another dad and his son had been on the pier for much longer without catching anything. “You just hit a home run your first time at bat,” he said.
Cast and catch. That would have made Simon envious. Simon spent an entire night lowering his nets – and came up with nothing.
I’m rethinking Simon’s role in this story. I’ve usually understood Simon’s response to Jesus as a begrudging compliance. He seems to humor Jesus, winking at his business partners as he puts back out to deeper waters. I’ve seen him as one who has little more than a polite respect for Jesus. That’s the only thing that gets him back out after a night of futile fishing: mere obedience to Jesus’ word.
But it’s a hard thing to lower your net and bring it up empty again and again. The repeated nothingness begins to raise questions, it shakes our hope, it breeds anger. When the nets come up empty often enough, mere obedience to Jesus’ word is all we have. But maybe that’s enough.
We pray only because Jesus said to ask and seek. Those prayers are still heard and answered.
We love our neighbor only because Jesus told us to do so. It still counts and it’s still radical in our world of self-interest.
We serve others only because Jesus modeled being a servant and told us to follow his example. The act of serving still forms in us the likeness of Jesus.
And then the blessing comes. Peter’s reluctant response to Jesus’ word couldn’t stop it. Grace came and stretched nets to the breaking-point and nearly sank the boats with fullness.
Jesus speaks his word into your life today, perhaps calling you back to a place where your net has come up empty time after time. It’s hard to go there, but Jesus goes with you. Your act of obedience is enough for this day. Keep doing what Jesus asks. Keep walking where Jesus leads.
Prayer:
There are days, Lord Jesus, when I think I cannot bear to see the nets empty again. There are days when I question you because of what my life lacks. And yet you speak. You speak the word of invitation, and in your word is all my hope. “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope” (Psalm 30:5). Amen.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Jesus is Smart
When he had finished speaking he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water and let down the nets for a catch.” Simon answered, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so I will let down the nets.” (Luke 5:4-5)
It was a nice idea that came along at the wrong time. Jesus had just finished teaching, using Simon’s boat as a makeshift lectern. Now that the lesson had ended Jesus wanted to go out and do some fishing. The problem was Simon & Co. had already been doing that all night long. They were tired. And what’s more they knew there was nothing out there to catch.
Peter didn’t think Jesus’ plan to head back out to those deep waters was such a good idea. Peter knew those waters the way a pitcher knows a baseball diamond. He could sense movement, knew where the play would be made, knew exactly where to cast the net, how to throw the next pitch. Peter knew what was out there, and in his mind he knew more about it than Jesus did. Fishing with Jesus was a nice idea, but a waste of time. Fundamentally, this was a matter of trust.
When Jesus asks us to “put out into deep water” he asks us to go back to a place we’ve been time after time. The deep waters are familiar territory. We’re sure we know what’s there. We’re sure we know what not there too.
The deep waters are where our expectations have shriveled, where we simply go through the motions, where nothing seems to be happening.
Some deep waters are relational. Old arguments that never seem to get resolved, painful memories that won’t heal, acts of love never reciprocated. We stop going there – until Jesus shows up and invites us to put out into those deep waters again.
Some deep waters are professional. We can go to the same job every day and get nothing from it except a paycheck. We can search for work day after day and bring the net up empty time after time.
Peter sailed back out to those deep waters weary and certain of catching nothing. What he failed to grasp was that this time Jesus was guiding the expedition. The catch was enormous. Jesus knows exactly what is in those deep waters. Jesus understands fishing. Jesus understands organic chemistry. Jesus understands your work. Jesus understands your family. Jesus can be trusted with anything and everything that concerns your life.
Dallas Willard has been quoted as saying that we cannot say that Jesus is Lord unless we can also affirm that Jesus is smart. The question for us is will we trust him. Do we trust Jesus enough to put out into deep waters, confident that he knows more about that place than we do?
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, teach us to trust you. Remind us daily that there’s nothing about our lives that baffles you, that you understand completely all that concerns us. Today and every day we will go with you to the familiar deep waters, safe in the knowledge that you are with us in all things. Amen.
It was a nice idea that came along at the wrong time. Jesus had just finished teaching, using Simon’s boat as a makeshift lectern. Now that the lesson had ended Jesus wanted to go out and do some fishing. The problem was Simon & Co. had already been doing that all night long. They were tired. And what’s more they knew there was nothing out there to catch.
Peter didn’t think Jesus’ plan to head back out to those deep waters was such a good idea. Peter knew those waters the way a pitcher knows a baseball diamond. He could sense movement, knew where the play would be made, knew exactly where to cast the net, how to throw the next pitch. Peter knew what was out there, and in his mind he knew more about it than Jesus did. Fishing with Jesus was a nice idea, but a waste of time. Fundamentally, this was a matter of trust.
When Jesus asks us to “put out into deep water” he asks us to go back to a place we’ve been time after time. The deep waters are familiar territory. We’re sure we know what’s there. We’re sure we know what not there too.
The deep waters are where our expectations have shriveled, where we simply go through the motions, where nothing seems to be happening.
Some deep waters are relational. Old arguments that never seem to get resolved, painful memories that won’t heal, acts of love never reciprocated. We stop going there – until Jesus shows up and invites us to put out into those deep waters again.
Some deep waters are professional. We can go to the same job every day and get nothing from it except a paycheck. We can search for work day after day and bring the net up empty time after time.
Peter sailed back out to those deep waters weary and certain of catching nothing. What he failed to grasp was that this time Jesus was guiding the expedition. The catch was enormous. Jesus knows exactly what is in those deep waters. Jesus understands fishing. Jesus understands organic chemistry. Jesus understands your work. Jesus understands your family. Jesus can be trusted with anything and everything that concerns your life.
Dallas Willard has been quoted as saying that we cannot say that Jesus is Lord unless we can also affirm that Jesus is smart. The question for us is will we trust him. Do we trust Jesus enough to put out into deep waters, confident that he knows more about that place than we do?
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, teach us to trust you. Remind us daily that there’s nothing about our lives that baffles you, that you understand completely all that concerns us. Today and every day we will go with you to the familiar deep waters, safe in the knowledge that you are with us in all things. Amen.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Ready or Not
When he had finished speaking he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water and let down the nets for a catch.” Simon answered, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so I will let down the nets.” (Luke 5:4-5)
When Jesus invited Simon to “put out into deep water,” Simon answered with some reluctance. Who can blame him? He had already been out there all night long – and the entire night of fishing was an exercise in futility.
What a lousy time for Jesus to show up. Simon & Co. had already been washing their nets. They had already worked through the night. Their bodies are tired. Their equipment is clean and hanging to dry. And yet Jesus has the nerve to say, “Let’s go out again. Put out into deep water.”
Sometimes Jesus asks us to do things that we don’t feel ready to do. The problem is timing. We want to obey, but we’ll have to obey later. If we can just get ourselves together, get ready, get rested, make arrangements, then we will serve God much more effectively.
But maybe God is most glorified in your life when you are least ready.
There’s a great story in the Old Testament about a man named Gideon (Judges 7). God asked Gideon to gather an army to fight the Midianites. That’s what Gideon did, only to have God tell him that the army was too big. If Gideon won the battle with his large army, then the credit would go to those who fought. They would boast in their own strength. When we are most prepared and ready we are most likely to boast, to take credit. We point toward heaven, but the cameras are pointed at us.
So Gideon reduced his army from 30,000 to 300. What we call desperate, God calls ready. When the victory comes we get the gift, but God gets all the glory.
This may be one of those days when you don’t feel very “spiritual.” You’re not entering this day with a great vision of what God will do in those deep waters of your life. You’d like to stay home and channel surf or just go shopping. But Jesus is asking you to live in obedience. Jesus invites you to trust him. Jesus invites you do put out into deep waters one more time.
You may not feel ready. But sometimes in the grind of the day you see the glory of God. Simon did. So go ahead, put out into the deep waters, ready or not.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, we will once again put out into the deep waters in obedience to you. Give us the grace we need for this day so that even in our fatigue, in our distraction, in our lack of readiness we will see your glory. Amen.
When Jesus invited Simon to “put out into deep water,” Simon answered with some reluctance. Who can blame him? He had already been out there all night long – and the entire night of fishing was an exercise in futility.
What a lousy time for Jesus to show up. Simon & Co. had already been washing their nets. They had already worked through the night. Their bodies are tired. Their equipment is clean and hanging to dry. And yet Jesus has the nerve to say, “Let’s go out again. Put out into deep water.”
Sometimes Jesus asks us to do things that we don’t feel ready to do. The problem is timing. We want to obey, but we’ll have to obey later. If we can just get ourselves together, get ready, get rested, make arrangements, then we will serve God much more effectively.
But maybe God is most glorified in your life when you are least ready.
There’s a great story in the Old Testament about a man named Gideon (Judges 7). God asked Gideon to gather an army to fight the Midianites. That’s what Gideon did, only to have God tell him that the army was too big. If Gideon won the battle with his large army, then the credit would go to those who fought. They would boast in their own strength. When we are most prepared and ready we are most likely to boast, to take credit. We point toward heaven, but the cameras are pointed at us.
So Gideon reduced his army from 30,000 to 300. What we call desperate, God calls ready. When the victory comes we get the gift, but God gets all the glory.
This may be one of those days when you don’t feel very “spiritual.” You’re not entering this day with a great vision of what God will do in those deep waters of your life. You’d like to stay home and channel surf or just go shopping. But Jesus is asking you to live in obedience. Jesus invites you to trust him. Jesus invites you do put out into deep waters one more time.
You may not feel ready. But sometimes in the grind of the day you see the glory of God. Simon did. So go ahead, put out into the deep waters, ready or not.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, we will once again put out into the deep waters in obedience to you. Give us the grace we need for this day so that even in our fatigue, in our distraction, in our lack of readiness we will see your glory. Amen.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Gustav and the Glory of God
When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said “Go away from me Lord; I am a sinful man.” (Luke 5:8).
As I write this, all eyes are to the south. South and West, Gustav is churning through the Gulf of Mexico. Within hours this massive hurricane will hit the coast of Louisiana – almost exactly three years after Katrina.
South and East, Hannah seems to be gaining strength, possibly threatening Florida or the Southeast, but it’s too early to tell right now.
In Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ John Piper writes, “The deepest longing of the human heart is to know and enjoy the glory of God. We were made for this . . . To see it, to savor it, and to show it – that is why we exist.” Later in the book Piper tells the story of being in Pensacola Florida in July 1995 when Hurricane Erin hit the Florida Panhandle. After briefly recounting that experience Piper adds, “beneath the wreckage of such wind you have two choices: worship or curse” (Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ, 50).
I’m not exactly cursing. After all, I don’t live in Louisiana. But I’m not worshiping either. What almost everyone sees approaching the Gulf Coast is destruction. And in anticipation of the destruction we lament the plight of those who live in the path of nature’s fury. And if you happen to be one of those living in that path, it’s highly likely that you feel some fury of your own. Prayer and cursing get mingled.
We are slow to see the glory of God in hurricanes, especially the ones that bring harm right to our door. And yet, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1).
At Jesus’ command Peter sailed his vessel back to the same waters he had been fishing all night long without catching anything. At Jesus’ command Peter lowered his nets – and the catch was enormous; the nets were ripping and boat sat low in the water from the weight of the catch. And Peter worshiped. He fell at Jesus’ knees because he saw that Jesus was not simply good, he was powerful.
I can understand worship as a fitting response to great blessing and abundance. It’s not too hard to worship when your nets are ripping and your boat is sinking because God has been so good.
But when the storm’s projected path is coming straight for your house, worship is hard. When the heavens and skies seem only to announce loss and pain, worship won’t come easy.
Either way, the Glory of God surrounds you today. It is out in the Gulf and in your home and in the faces of people you’ll talk to today. God’s glory is everywhere. We need to learn to see it. Pray today for people who are being impacted by Gustav. And worship the one who “sends lightning with the rain, and brings out the wind from his storehouses” (Psalm 135:7).
Prayer:
Almighty God, teach us to see your glory – and to see it in all things, not simply those things that please us or bring us pleasure and comfort. Where people are in need of help, display your glory through your Church. Move your people to acts of service and compassion. Let my life today point to your goodness, that others may see your glory and be drawn to the one who commands wind and waves. Amen.
As I write this, all eyes are to the south. South and West, Gustav is churning through the Gulf of Mexico. Within hours this massive hurricane will hit the coast of Louisiana – almost exactly three years after Katrina.
South and East, Hannah seems to be gaining strength, possibly threatening Florida or the Southeast, but it’s too early to tell right now.
In Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ John Piper writes, “The deepest longing of the human heart is to know and enjoy the glory of God. We were made for this . . . To see it, to savor it, and to show it – that is why we exist.” Later in the book Piper tells the story of being in Pensacola Florida in July 1995 when Hurricane Erin hit the Florida Panhandle. After briefly recounting that experience Piper adds, “beneath the wreckage of such wind you have two choices: worship or curse” (Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ, 50).
I’m not exactly cursing. After all, I don’t live in Louisiana. But I’m not worshiping either. What almost everyone sees approaching the Gulf Coast is destruction. And in anticipation of the destruction we lament the plight of those who live in the path of nature’s fury. And if you happen to be one of those living in that path, it’s highly likely that you feel some fury of your own. Prayer and cursing get mingled.
We are slow to see the glory of God in hurricanes, especially the ones that bring harm right to our door. And yet, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1).
At Jesus’ command Peter sailed his vessel back to the same waters he had been fishing all night long without catching anything. At Jesus’ command Peter lowered his nets – and the catch was enormous; the nets were ripping and boat sat low in the water from the weight of the catch. And Peter worshiped. He fell at Jesus’ knees because he saw that Jesus was not simply good, he was powerful.
I can understand worship as a fitting response to great blessing and abundance. It’s not too hard to worship when your nets are ripping and your boat is sinking because God has been so good.
But when the storm’s projected path is coming straight for your house, worship is hard. When the heavens and skies seem only to announce loss and pain, worship won’t come easy.
Either way, the Glory of God surrounds you today. It is out in the Gulf and in your home and in the faces of people you’ll talk to today. God’s glory is everywhere. We need to learn to see it. Pray today for people who are being impacted by Gustav. And worship the one who “sends lightning with the rain, and brings out the wind from his storehouses” (Psalm 135:7).
Prayer:
Almighty God, teach us to see your glory – and to see it in all things, not simply those things that please us or bring us pleasure and comfort. Where people are in need of help, display your glory through your Church. Move your people to acts of service and compassion. Let my life today point to your goodness, that others may see your glory and be drawn to the one who commands wind and waves. Amen.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Lighten Up . . . Seriously
They said to him, “John’s disciples often fast and pray, and so do the disciples of the Pharisees, but yours go on eating and drinking” (Luke 5:33).
When I read the story of Levi I’m slightly unsettled by the scene in which Pharisees and teachers of the law complain about the party being thrown in Jesus’ honor. These days I am by vocation a teacher of God’s word, the Law. Would I have been reclining at the table, swapping stories, laughing at the jokes, reaching for more bread? Or would I have stood aside, watching, grumbling? I don’t know.
Back in my days as a seminarian chaplain I had a supervisor who basically told me I was too serious. He wanted me to have more fun, lighten up. This was not the kind of “clinical” feedback I was expecting. It troubled me. I guess I took it, well . . . seriously.
Some time later I shared this with my parents on a visit home. Surely Mom and Dad would rush in with just the right word of affirmation. Well, not quite. My mom replied, "you’ve been serious since you were three years old.” Great.
The Pharisees were very serious about God’s law. To be fair, what Jesus was doing at Levi’s house had troubling implications for their reading of scripture. After the party they confronted Jesus with the example of John and his disciples. “Those guys fast and pray – but you and your followers eat and drink.” In other words, get serious.
Throughout the history of our faith there have been, broadly speaking, two ways of living out the Jesus life. One path leaves the heavy traffic, withdraws, seeks solitude, listens for God’s voice and answers back in prayer. On this path the Jesus way is a rigorous way, marked by discipline.
There is another way that engages the world, that touches the leper and eats with tax-collectors and sinners. It isn’t offended by prostitutes or inconvenienced by the needy. On this path the Jesus way is marked by open arms and a ready embrace.
The Pharisees trouble me because they were serious about living in a covenant relationship with God, but not serious enough about bringing others into it. They would have done well to lighten up, seriously.
In his fine book “O2” Richard Dahlstrom maintains that living the Jesus way is like breathing. We inhale and exhale. To inhale is to take in the life giving oxygen of prayer and scripture and solitude. To exhale is breathe out in service and hospitality and generosity and compassion. We must do both. We can’t live without breathing, and we can’t follow Jesus with out breathing either.
Some of us on the Jesus way are always inhaling, seriously practicing the spiritual disciplines, and sucking the life right out of everything and everyone around us. We need to engage this world that Jesus loves. Maybe a raucous banquet with folks who drink a little too much would do us good.
And others of us never take deep breaths that draw life giving Spirit into our existence. We’re too busy changing the world . . . and turning blue in the process. Sit down. Stop talking. Breathe deep. Think, reflect, pray.
So what do you need to do today?
(You still have a couple of days left to respond to this week’s poll at the top of this page.)
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, you taught us that the greatest commandment was to love God and love neighbor. Teach us how to do that. Make us serious about those practices that feed our souls. Make us serious about engaging the world. And in all our serious obedience to your great command, make us a joyful people we pray. Amen.
When I read the story of Levi I’m slightly unsettled by the scene in which Pharisees and teachers of the law complain about the party being thrown in Jesus’ honor. These days I am by vocation a teacher of God’s word, the Law. Would I have been reclining at the table, swapping stories, laughing at the jokes, reaching for more bread? Or would I have stood aside, watching, grumbling? I don’t know.
Back in my days as a seminarian chaplain I had a supervisor who basically told me I was too serious. He wanted me to have more fun, lighten up. This was not the kind of “clinical” feedback I was expecting. It troubled me. I guess I took it, well . . . seriously.
Some time later I shared this with my parents on a visit home. Surely Mom and Dad would rush in with just the right word of affirmation. Well, not quite. My mom replied, "you’ve been serious since you were three years old.” Great.
The Pharisees were very serious about God’s law. To be fair, what Jesus was doing at Levi’s house had troubling implications for their reading of scripture. After the party they confronted Jesus with the example of John and his disciples. “Those guys fast and pray – but you and your followers eat and drink.” In other words, get serious.
Throughout the history of our faith there have been, broadly speaking, two ways of living out the Jesus life. One path leaves the heavy traffic, withdraws, seeks solitude, listens for God’s voice and answers back in prayer. On this path the Jesus way is a rigorous way, marked by discipline.
There is another way that engages the world, that touches the leper and eats with tax-collectors and sinners. It isn’t offended by prostitutes or inconvenienced by the needy. On this path the Jesus way is marked by open arms and a ready embrace.
The Pharisees trouble me because they were serious about living in a covenant relationship with God, but not serious enough about bringing others into it. They would have done well to lighten up, seriously.
In his fine book “O2” Richard Dahlstrom maintains that living the Jesus way is like breathing. We inhale and exhale. To inhale is to take in the life giving oxygen of prayer and scripture and solitude. To exhale is breathe out in service and hospitality and generosity and compassion. We must do both. We can’t live without breathing, and we can’t follow Jesus with out breathing either.
Some of us on the Jesus way are always inhaling, seriously practicing the spiritual disciplines, and sucking the life right out of everything and everyone around us. We need to engage this world that Jesus loves. Maybe a raucous banquet with folks who drink a little too much would do us good.
And others of us never take deep breaths that draw life giving Spirit into our existence. We’re too busy changing the world . . . and turning blue in the process. Sit down. Stop talking. Breathe deep. Think, reflect, pray.
So what do you need to do today?
(You still have a couple of days left to respond to this week’s poll at the top of this page.)
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, you taught us that the greatest commandment was to love God and love neighbor. Teach us how to do that. Make us serious about those practices that feed our souls. Make us serious about engaging the world. And in all our serious obedience to your great command, make us a joyful people we pray. Amen.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Like Rain
After this, Jesus went out and saw a tax collector by the name of Levi sitting at his tax booth (Luke 5:27).
It’s raining this morning. Steady but not torrential. This rain falls like mercy, not wrath. It is gentle, life-giving.
I can’t remember the last time it rained like this. Summer often brings afternoon showers that blow in violently but don’t hang around long enough to truly do any good. We’ve had our share of those, but this is the kind of rain we’ve needed for a long time.
Almost a year ago our Governor prayed for rain. I think what’s falling this morning is what he had in mind – but is this the answer to those prayers? Many would say no. As if prayers have a statute of limitations after which the desired reality can no longer be regarded as God’s answer to prayer.
Years ago I served a wonderful group of people in a community that had a long history as a farming community. It wasn’t uncommon, especially during the summer, for rain to be mentioned as a “prayer request.” On one occasion an older member of the congregation recounted to me how they used to gather for specially called prayer meetings to pray for rain. Folks who came to the prayer meeting often brought umbrellas with them. The prayer gathering spoke to their humility. The umbrellas spoke to their confident faith.
All of this makes me wonder about grace and how God works in our lives. Does it rain because we pray, or do we pray because God is the only one who can give rain? We can answer by saying both are true, and find plenty of biblical evidence to back us up.
We’ve been reflecting this week on the story of how Jesus called Levi. At its core, this is a story about grace – not because Levi was a lousy human being to whom Jesus showed kindness. That is one way to think of grace. But grace is most evident when Jesus shows up and steps into Levi’s life while Levi is minding his own business.
The opening verse of the story has Jesus doing all the action. Jesus is on the move, Jesus sees Levi, Jesus speaks the word of invitation. Levi is simply sitting at his cubicle, tending his work. Jesus found Levi. Nothing suggests that Levi was looking for Jesus.
But then Levi gets up and leaves everything. Grace always calls for a response.
Grace falls like rain. We know we need it, but we can’t create it. It comes to us without regard for our plans for a day of golfing or the desperate condition of a lake. But once it comes, it defines the world we live in and calls for response.
Levi got up and left everything, his life defined by a new reality. This new reality found him, and seemingly found him when he wasn’t looking or making plans for a major life change.
Has God’s grace surprised you lately? Who knows. Grace could invade your world today, falling like rain you’ve long been yearning for. How will you respond? As you step into this day, take your umbrella.
Prayer:
Let it rain, Lord Jesus. Not simply on our land, but on us. Pour out your grace in ways that we don’t expect, and make us ready to respond. With words from the old hymn, we ask for “showers of blessing.” Give to us this day whatever you see fit to give, and we will live by your grace, giving thanks in all things. Amen.
It’s raining this morning. Steady but not torrential. This rain falls like mercy, not wrath. It is gentle, life-giving.
I can’t remember the last time it rained like this. Summer often brings afternoon showers that blow in violently but don’t hang around long enough to truly do any good. We’ve had our share of those, but this is the kind of rain we’ve needed for a long time.
Almost a year ago our Governor prayed for rain. I think what’s falling this morning is what he had in mind – but is this the answer to those prayers? Many would say no. As if prayers have a statute of limitations after which the desired reality can no longer be regarded as God’s answer to prayer.
Years ago I served a wonderful group of people in a community that had a long history as a farming community. It wasn’t uncommon, especially during the summer, for rain to be mentioned as a “prayer request.” On one occasion an older member of the congregation recounted to me how they used to gather for specially called prayer meetings to pray for rain. Folks who came to the prayer meeting often brought umbrellas with them. The prayer gathering spoke to their humility. The umbrellas spoke to their confident faith.
All of this makes me wonder about grace and how God works in our lives. Does it rain because we pray, or do we pray because God is the only one who can give rain? We can answer by saying both are true, and find plenty of biblical evidence to back us up.
We’ve been reflecting this week on the story of how Jesus called Levi. At its core, this is a story about grace – not because Levi was a lousy human being to whom Jesus showed kindness. That is one way to think of grace. But grace is most evident when Jesus shows up and steps into Levi’s life while Levi is minding his own business.
The opening verse of the story has Jesus doing all the action. Jesus is on the move, Jesus sees Levi, Jesus speaks the word of invitation. Levi is simply sitting at his cubicle, tending his work. Jesus found Levi. Nothing suggests that Levi was looking for Jesus.
But then Levi gets up and leaves everything. Grace always calls for a response.
Grace falls like rain. We know we need it, but we can’t create it. It comes to us without regard for our plans for a day of golfing or the desperate condition of a lake. But once it comes, it defines the world we live in and calls for response.
Levi got up and left everything, his life defined by a new reality. This new reality found him, and seemingly found him when he wasn’t looking or making plans for a major life change.
Has God’s grace surprised you lately? Who knows. Grace could invade your world today, falling like rain you’ve long been yearning for. How will you respond? As you step into this day, take your umbrella.
Prayer:
Let it rain, Lord Jesus. Not simply on our land, but on us. Pour out your grace in ways that we don’t expect, and make us ready to respond. With words from the old hymn, we ask for “showers of blessing.” Give to us this day whatever you see fit to give, and we will live by your grace, giving thanks in all things. Amen.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
What Matters
. . . Levi got up, left everything, and followed him (Luke 5:28)
A few days ago I was with my kids in Target, killing time while they looked around at stuff that I had no intention of buying them. Not a problem. Target has a decent book section, so I wandered over and ended up reading the opening pages of Jon Krakauer’s Into the Wild. This is the true story of Christopher McCandless, who made his way into the Alaska wilderness in April 1992, scratching his existence from whatever he could hunt or find to eat. His body was found five months later, having apparently starved to death.
In preparation for his solitary foray into the Alaskan wild, McCandless jettisoned every earthly possession. The child of suburban affluence, he gave the $24,000 remainder of a college fund to charity. He even burned the cash he had in his pocket and gave away his watch. He walked into the Alaskan wilderness with little more than the clothes on his back, a ten pound bag of rice and a .22 rifle.
Over the years a cult-like interest has developed around McCandless’ story. Krakauer’s book is honest about the different ways people have assessed McCandless’ death. Some regard him as a spiritual visionary who had the courage to shed the trappings of modern life and the expectations laid upon promising college graduates. He dared to reach for something more and lost his life in the quest. Others regard McCandless as foolish and ill-prepared for what he was attempting, a young man who sacrificed his life on the altar of a poorly formed idealism.
With two simple words Jesus evoked a crisis moment in the life of Levi the tax-collector. “Follow me,” Jesus said. And the response was decisive, clean and unwavering. Levi got up and left everything and followed him. “Left everything.” It’s easy to let those words slip past the eyes when you read the story, but the phrase is significant. The same kind of action is seen in the call of Peter (Luke 5:11).
Levi’s response to Jesus had to have been the subject of much talk. What did people say? Was Levi a bold visionary man willing to risk everything in devotion to this Rabbi? Or was he a fool for stepping away from a comfortable career track? Whatever people thought or said this much is certain: Following Jesus will require something of us.
To say “yes” to Jesus always entails saying “no” to something else. Whether we’ll admit it or not, many of us have the idea that we can embrace the life Jesus offers us while remaining comfortably undisturbed in the life we’ve made for ourselves. Jesus was pretty clear that it doesn’t work that way (Luke 9:57-62).
To say “yes” to Jesus is to follow a person who re-defines what matters in your life. The story of Levi, and even the tragic story of Chris McCandless, raises a question for us all. What matters, and what difference does it make in my life?
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, we want to follow you. We want to respond to your invitation. And yet, we’re afraid of where you will take us and what your invitation will require of us. Come and re-define what matters most to us, so that our “yes” to you will be gladly given. Amen.
A few days ago I was with my kids in Target, killing time while they looked around at stuff that I had no intention of buying them. Not a problem. Target has a decent book section, so I wandered over and ended up reading the opening pages of Jon Krakauer’s Into the Wild. This is the true story of Christopher McCandless, who made his way into the Alaska wilderness in April 1992, scratching his existence from whatever he could hunt or find to eat. His body was found five months later, having apparently starved to death.
In preparation for his solitary foray into the Alaskan wild, McCandless jettisoned every earthly possession. The child of suburban affluence, he gave the $24,000 remainder of a college fund to charity. He even burned the cash he had in his pocket and gave away his watch. He walked into the Alaskan wilderness with little more than the clothes on his back, a ten pound bag of rice and a .22 rifle.
Over the years a cult-like interest has developed around McCandless’ story. Krakauer’s book is honest about the different ways people have assessed McCandless’ death. Some regard him as a spiritual visionary who had the courage to shed the trappings of modern life and the expectations laid upon promising college graduates. He dared to reach for something more and lost his life in the quest. Others regard McCandless as foolish and ill-prepared for what he was attempting, a young man who sacrificed his life on the altar of a poorly formed idealism.
With two simple words Jesus evoked a crisis moment in the life of Levi the tax-collector. “Follow me,” Jesus said. And the response was decisive, clean and unwavering. Levi got up and left everything and followed him. “Left everything.” It’s easy to let those words slip past the eyes when you read the story, but the phrase is significant. The same kind of action is seen in the call of Peter (Luke 5:11).
Levi’s response to Jesus had to have been the subject of much talk. What did people say? Was Levi a bold visionary man willing to risk everything in devotion to this Rabbi? Or was he a fool for stepping away from a comfortable career track? Whatever people thought or said this much is certain: Following Jesus will require something of us.
To say “yes” to Jesus always entails saying “no” to something else. Whether we’ll admit it or not, many of us have the idea that we can embrace the life Jesus offers us while remaining comfortably undisturbed in the life we’ve made for ourselves. Jesus was pretty clear that it doesn’t work that way (Luke 9:57-62).
To say “yes” to Jesus is to follow a person who re-defines what matters in your life. The story of Levi, and even the tragic story of Chris McCandless, raises a question for us all. What matters, and what difference does it make in my life?
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, we want to follow you. We want to respond to your invitation. And yet, we’re afraid of where you will take us and what your invitation will require of us. Come and re-define what matters most to us, so that our “yes” to you will be gladly given. Amen.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Handoff
And Levi made him a great feast in his house, and there was a large company of tax collectors and others reclining at table with them (Luke 5:29 ESV).
By the time you read this the 2008 Olympics will be over. Plenty of us will be grateful for a return to normal bedtime hours, but fewer will be more thankful for the conclusion of the Beijing games than the members of the USA 4x100 relay teams in track and field.
Marnie and I watched in disbelief last Thursday as the women runners failed to successfully pass the baton. The same affliction – whatever it was – had plagued the men’s team on Wednesday night. Like a nightmare that wouldn’t end, the repeated slow motion images wouldn’t allow any of us to wake and tell ourselves that it didn’t happen. It did happen. Reaching, straining, bobbling, looking back, looking down. And by that time the other runners are blowing right by. End of race.
More was going on in that moment than the loss of a medal. The real pain came from the glaring nature of the failure itself. Forget winning. If you can’t pass the baton to the next person, there’s no need to bother running at all. It’s all about making the connection, the execution of the transfer, the successful delivery.
When Jesus encountered a tax collector named Levi something surprising happened. At first glance it appears that the moment of high drama came with that initial call, Jesus extending the invitation to follow, Levi getting up and closing shop in response to the Rabbi’s call. Walking away from a lucrative business is a big deal.
But the truly exciting moment came just after that. Levi threw a party. He gathered other tax collector friends and people who weren’t very careful about observing the Torah. Luke doesn’t tell us much about who was there and what kind of conversations Jesus had with them. We don’t know whether any of them also made some radical life-changing decisions as a result of what Jesus said to them as they reclined at the table. But this much seems clear: whatever Levi had experienced with Jesus, he wanted to share it with his friends. He wanted Jesus to meet his friends and his friends to meet Jesus. It’s the moment of connection, of passing something along.
Grace is that way. It’s fairly common to speak of grace as something that we receive. As wonderful as that is, grace is also something that we pass on. The disturbing reality is that we have a tendency to bobble the hand-off. We drop the baton.
Wherever you may be today, you will have a chance to pass the grace of Jesus along to someone else. Honestly, you may reach out to someone who doesn’t receive it. But someone around you needs the presence of Jesus in their life, and you can bring it to them. The grace you have received was never meant to be stockpiled. The love of Jesus comes to you on its way to someone else. So run well. Run hard. And pay special attention to the handoff.
(Levi’s example raises some questions about our circle of friends. What would a party for Jesus look like at your house? Please take the poll at the top of this page.)
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, let my words and my actions and my demeanor convey your grace to others today. Don’t let me blow the handoff with careless and calloused ways with people around me. Help me to pass along what you’ve graciously given me, that others may be drawn to follow you. Amen.
By the time you read this the 2008 Olympics will be over. Plenty of us will be grateful for a return to normal bedtime hours, but fewer will be more thankful for the conclusion of the Beijing games than the members of the USA 4x100 relay teams in track and field.
Marnie and I watched in disbelief last Thursday as the women runners failed to successfully pass the baton. The same affliction – whatever it was – had plagued the men’s team on Wednesday night. Like a nightmare that wouldn’t end, the repeated slow motion images wouldn’t allow any of us to wake and tell ourselves that it didn’t happen. It did happen. Reaching, straining, bobbling, looking back, looking down. And by that time the other runners are blowing right by. End of race.
More was going on in that moment than the loss of a medal. The real pain came from the glaring nature of the failure itself. Forget winning. If you can’t pass the baton to the next person, there’s no need to bother running at all. It’s all about making the connection, the execution of the transfer, the successful delivery.
When Jesus encountered a tax collector named Levi something surprising happened. At first glance it appears that the moment of high drama came with that initial call, Jesus extending the invitation to follow, Levi getting up and closing shop in response to the Rabbi’s call. Walking away from a lucrative business is a big deal.
But the truly exciting moment came just after that. Levi threw a party. He gathered other tax collector friends and people who weren’t very careful about observing the Torah. Luke doesn’t tell us much about who was there and what kind of conversations Jesus had with them. We don’t know whether any of them also made some radical life-changing decisions as a result of what Jesus said to them as they reclined at the table. But this much seems clear: whatever Levi had experienced with Jesus, he wanted to share it with his friends. He wanted Jesus to meet his friends and his friends to meet Jesus. It’s the moment of connection, of passing something along.
Grace is that way. It’s fairly common to speak of grace as something that we receive. As wonderful as that is, grace is also something that we pass on. The disturbing reality is that we have a tendency to bobble the hand-off. We drop the baton.
Wherever you may be today, you will have a chance to pass the grace of Jesus along to someone else. Honestly, you may reach out to someone who doesn’t receive it. But someone around you needs the presence of Jesus in their life, and you can bring it to them. The grace you have received was never meant to be stockpiled. The love of Jesus comes to you on its way to someone else. So run well. Run hard. And pay special attention to the handoff.
(Levi’s example raises some questions about our circle of friends. What would a party for Jesus look like at your house? Please take the poll at the top of this page.)
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, let my words and my actions and my demeanor convey your grace to others today. Don’t let me blow the handoff with careless and calloused ways with people around me. Help me to pass along what you’ve graciously given me, that others may be drawn to follow you. Amen.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Learning a Life
“. . . Follow me,” Jesus said to him, and Levi got up, left everything and followed him” (Luke 5:27-28).
Last week I played a video game with my son. I didn’t play long, and at first I didn’t play gladly. I’m not fond of video games and their power to captivate and dominate my child’s mental faculties. With the exception of the “Wii,” I typically regard video games as the enemy: the enemy of good reading and time spent outdoors and anything else that will contribute to the formation of a well-rounded college applicant.
I hate to admit it, but the game we played was impressive. (For any who might care, the game was “Lego Star Wars II” – great graphics!). While I warmed up quickly to the game, what has stayed with me since last week was the way my son coached me as we played. As we navigated the game’s various levels he gave me instruction and his language had a familiar ring to it.
“Dad, Follow me . . . . Do you want to learn how to use the force? . . . I’ll show you how.” At one point my Jedi figure was moving about aimlessly on the screen. John reached over, pushed the right buttons, put me back on track. I needed time to learn the game. By his instruction and example, my son showed me how. I guess for those few moments, sitting cross-legged on the basement floor, I was his disciple.
To be a disciple is to be a learner. And when it comes to the life of faith, what we are learning is the Jesus way. That will be the focus of these daily reflections in the weeks and months ahead. We’ll make our way through the gospel of Luke, watching how Jesus lived, learning the Jesus way. There are a couple of things that might help us as we get started.
First, the Jesus way doesn’t come naturally to any of us. The world we live in offers plenty of options to the Jesus way, and to be honest most of them look far more appealing. As we follow Jesus our steps will at times feel awkward and we’ll move about clumsily. This is part of it. The life of Jesus is formed in us, not downloaded.
Second, to learn the Jesus way we have to get in the game. We don’t adopt this way of life by having it explained to us, even if it is explained well. We don’t live this life by watching someone else live it, even if their example is stellar. Listening and watching are helpful. But the Jesus way was meant to be lived.
It’s interesting; church buildings are typically characterized by pews. But the Jesus way is never learned by taking a seat. To follow we get up, just like Levi. Where will this day take you? Jesus is already there. He invites you to join him. He’ll show you what comes next.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, help us to be more like you. Not simply by our efforts at imitation, but by the gift of your grace and the working of your Spirit in us. Form your very life in the lives we will live this day. Amen.
Last week I played a video game with my son. I didn’t play long, and at first I didn’t play gladly. I’m not fond of video games and their power to captivate and dominate my child’s mental faculties. With the exception of the “Wii,” I typically regard video games as the enemy: the enemy of good reading and time spent outdoors and anything else that will contribute to the formation of a well-rounded college applicant.
I hate to admit it, but the game we played was impressive. (For any who might care, the game was “Lego Star Wars II” – great graphics!). While I warmed up quickly to the game, what has stayed with me since last week was the way my son coached me as we played. As we navigated the game’s various levels he gave me instruction and his language had a familiar ring to it.
“Dad, Follow me . . . . Do you want to learn how to use the force? . . . I’ll show you how.” At one point my Jedi figure was moving about aimlessly on the screen. John reached over, pushed the right buttons, put me back on track. I needed time to learn the game. By his instruction and example, my son showed me how. I guess for those few moments, sitting cross-legged on the basement floor, I was his disciple.
To be a disciple is to be a learner. And when it comes to the life of faith, what we are learning is the Jesus way. That will be the focus of these daily reflections in the weeks and months ahead. We’ll make our way through the gospel of Luke, watching how Jesus lived, learning the Jesus way. There are a couple of things that might help us as we get started.
First, the Jesus way doesn’t come naturally to any of us. The world we live in offers plenty of options to the Jesus way, and to be honest most of them look far more appealing. As we follow Jesus our steps will at times feel awkward and we’ll move about clumsily. This is part of it. The life of Jesus is formed in us, not downloaded.
Second, to learn the Jesus way we have to get in the game. We don’t adopt this way of life by having it explained to us, even if it is explained well. We don’t live this life by watching someone else live it, even if their example is stellar. Listening and watching are helpful. But the Jesus way was meant to be lived.
It’s interesting; church buildings are typically characterized by pews. But the Jesus way is never learned by taking a seat. To follow we get up, just like Levi. Where will this day take you? Jesus is already there. He invites you to join him. He’ll show you what comes next.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, help us to be more like you. Not simply by our efforts at imitation, but by the gift of your grace and the working of your Spirit in us. Form your very life in the lives we will live this day. Amen.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
When Labor Day is Every Day: Praying Psalm 18
In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help (Psalm 18:6).
For reasons that I don’t fully understand, the school my children attend doesn’t begin the year until well after everyone else around here. Yes, there are plenty of colleges that don’t begin the fall semester until sometime in mid-September, but if you’re not old enough to drive in the city of Atlanta you’re usually catching a bus or being dropped off at the carpool line before Labor Day. In many cases, long before Labor Day.
But not so for us. Class begins next week. All the summer activities that gave my kids something to do during the day are now a fading memory. No day camps, no VBS, no family trips. Here we are. Waiting. Marnie and I have both had to be in the office this week, so we’ve relied heavily on the good graces of Grandpam and Grandy, Mimi and Papa. Summer has indeed run its course. My kids are bored and ready to go back to school.
This is that time of the summer that finds me making jokes about desperately yearning for school to start, craving some structure and the freedom that comes with knowing my children are in a closely supervised environment from 8:00 to 3:00, occupied with something other than that demon-birthed cartoon network. I feign weariness in my remarks and laugh at the grind of a summer that won’t seem to end. Parents get it and commiserate with me, laughing at my lame jokes about it all.
It all seemed a little less funny this morning when I opened my email and found the monthly newsletter from World Vision. I opened the main page and saw a headline for one of the articles. The global food crisis means that children who should be going to school are instead going to work, often in dangerous conditions. Across the globe there are an estimated 218 million laborers between the ages of 5 and 17.
And I speak of back-to-school as if my own convenience is what really matters. I just assume that school is where kids will be once we’ve celebrated Labor by sleeping in and grilling burgers by the pool. It never occurs to me that there are children for whom labor day is every day. Western privilege makes rich man Divies of me and I don’t even know it.
I didn’t read the entire article right away. I have this nasty habit in the mornings of going to my email before going to my Bible. I closed the newsletter, the reality of children who work to eat sitting heavy in my brain, and tried to give my attention to Psalm 18, the assigned Psalm for this week.
I’ve struggled with Psalm 18. It’s long. That’s a pathetic thing to say, but I have to push myself through those 50 verses. At times the language is strange on my tongue, violent and vengeful and then suddenly speaking of "my righteousness" and how God deals with me according to "my blamelessness." Apart from Jesus, there’s no way anyone can really pray Psalm 18 with a straight face.
But after seeing the World Vision newsletter, the words of the Psalmist sounded different. They meant something different. I began to understand this morning that the prayer has nothing to do with me. I prayed Psalm 18 for children around the world who can’t afford enough food and who get up every day to work 11 hour shifts in mines and who will not go to school next week. The Psalm allowed me to say more than “God please bless those children and help them find food to eat.”
Psalm 18 gave language for crying out against enemies and oppressors. The Psalm verbalized the distress and the sense of being swallowed by death, and that would include the death of starvation. The Psalm affirmed that God hears and praised God who is our strength and help and confidence.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer is quoted as having said that “those who will not cry out for the Jews cannot sing Gregorian chant.” If we cannot stand up and stand with those who suffer, our words of praise whether spoken or sung are empty. We are only posturing as we pray.
So I am thankful for Psalm 18. I think that tomorrow it will not be so hard to make my way through those 50 verses. I will pray the Psalm for those afflicted by disease and hunger and corrupt governments and evil people. And next week, when I drop my kids off for that first day of School, I won’t simply be relieved. I will be truly thankful.
For reasons that I don’t fully understand, the school my children attend doesn’t begin the year until well after everyone else around here. Yes, there are plenty of colleges that don’t begin the fall semester until sometime in mid-September, but if you’re not old enough to drive in the city of Atlanta you’re usually catching a bus or being dropped off at the carpool line before Labor Day. In many cases, long before Labor Day.
But not so for us. Class begins next week. All the summer activities that gave my kids something to do during the day are now a fading memory. No day camps, no VBS, no family trips. Here we are. Waiting. Marnie and I have both had to be in the office this week, so we’ve relied heavily on the good graces of Grandpam and Grandy, Mimi and Papa. Summer has indeed run its course. My kids are bored and ready to go back to school.
This is that time of the summer that finds me making jokes about desperately yearning for school to start, craving some structure and the freedom that comes with knowing my children are in a closely supervised environment from 8:00 to 3:00, occupied with something other than that demon-birthed cartoon network. I feign weariness in my remarks and laugh at the grind of a summer that won’t seem to end. Parents get it and commiserate with me, laughing at my lame jokes about it all.
It all seemed a little less funny this morning when I opened my email and found the monthly newsletter from World Vision. I opened the main page and saw a headline for one of the articles. The global food crisis means that children who should be going to school are instead going to work, often in dangerous conditions. Across the globe there are an estimated 218 million laborers between the ages of 5 and 17.
And I speak of back-to-school as if my own convenience is what really matters. I just assume that school is where kids will be once we’ve celebrated Labor by sleeping in and grilling burgers by the pool. It never occurs to me that there are children for whom labor day is every day. Western privilege makes rich man Divies of me and I don’t even know it.
I didn’t read the entire article right away. I have this nasty habit in the mornings of going to my email before going to my Bible. I closed the newsletter, the reality of children who work to eat sitting heavy in my brain, and tried to give my attention to Psalm 18, the assigned Psalm for this week.
I’ve struggled with Psalm 18. It’s long. That’s a pathetic thing to say, but I have to push myself through those 50 verses. At times the language is strange on my tongue, violent and vengeful and then suddenly speaking of "my righteousness" and how God deals with me according to "my blamelessness." Apart from Jesus, there’s no way anyone can really pray Psalm 18 with a straight face.
But after seeing the World Vision newsletter, the words of the Psalmist sounded different. They meant something different. I began to understand this morning that the prayer has nothing to do with me. I prayed Psalm 18 for children around the world who can’t afford enough food and who get up every day to work 11 hour shifts in mines and who will not go to school next week. The Psalm allowed me to say more than “God please bless those children and help them find food to eat.”
Psalm 18 gave language for crying out against enemies and oppressors. The Psalm verbalized the distress and the sense of being swallowed by death, and that would include the death of starvation. The Psalm affirmed that God hears and praised God who is our strength and help and confidence.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer is quoted as having said that “those who will not cry out for the Jews cannot sing Gregorian chant.” If we cannot stand up and stand with those who suffer, our words of praise whether spoken or sung are empty. We are only posturing as we pray.
So I am thankful for Psalm 18. I think that tomorrow it will not be so hard to make my way through those 50 verses. I will pray the Psalm for those afflicted by disease and hunger and corrupt governments and evil people. And next week, when I drop my kids off for that first day of School, I won’t simply be relieved. I will be truly thankful.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Vacation Reading
We’ve been at the beach for few days now. We arrived Saturday evening, unloaded and settled in, went out for seafood at a small local establishment where we were seated at a table on a screened porch and pulled our ‘napkins’ from a roll of paper towels.
This is an unlikely vacation spot for our family. We all burn easily. Marnie spreads the sunscreen on us the way I put peanut butter on bread. The sand is a sad necessity for enjoying the ocean. I say it every year. I love the ocean, but I could do without the beach. My kids feel differently. So the pattern is beach before lunch, an interlude of lunch and napping or whatever can be done inside where there’s AC, usually followed by late afternoon time at the pool nearby.
We love it here. And my favorite place at the beach is a fair distance from the ocean. It’s the front porch of this beautiful house. Those chairs are the best reading site to be found here, removed from the sounds of the TV, visited by occasional breezes that make it a delight in the morning and bearable at mid-day.
So here’s what has occupied my time and thoughts on the porch this week.
In the mornings I’ve been spending a few minutes with The Journals of Jim Elliot. To read Elliot’s journals is to get a tutorial in reading the Bible. Elliot came to his Bible every day expecting to hear God speak. The journal was simply a means of recording what the Spirit spoke to him through the text. When Elliot came to the Bible he was on a quest, expectant and eager – and disappointed on those days when nothing seemed to arrest his attention. I was somewhat gratified to read these words:
March 17, 1948: Meditation yesterday on the curtains and boards seemed fruitless. I fear I don’t have time in a single hour to both pray and study . . .
March 19, 1948: Somehow the study of the tabernacle seems fruitless. . .
Even Jim Elliot struggled to wrest meaning from Exodus 26 and 27. These barren moments with the scriptures only intensified his quest, moving him to pray for mercy, for insight into the “wonderful things” of God’s law.
In the afternoons I made my way through Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner. The back of this book is sprinkled with snippets from various reviews and I can’t think of an adjective that hasn’t been used. This story managed to wriggle its way into some deep place within me. I can’t comprehend what it takes for an author to create and tell a story that has the capacity to lay claim to the reader and not relinquish that claim until well after the final page. I was sitting in the chairs when I finished it around 3:00 pm today. That favorite place here at the beach was the site of a sad moment – finishing The Kite Runner. Hosseini makes me wish I could write fiction.
Elliot – making me want to be a better student of scripture. Hosseini – making me want to write better, especially when it comes to stories. Vacation reading gives me something to aim for when I get back to my work.
This is an unlikely vacation spot for our family. We all burn easily. Marnie spreads the sunscreen on us the way I put peanut butter on bread. The sand is a sad necessity for enjoying the ocean. I say it every year. I love the ocean, but I could do without the beach. My kids feel differently. So the pattern is beach before lunch, an interlude of lunch and napping or whatever can be done inside where there’s AC, usually followed by late afternoon time at the pool nearby.
We love it here. And my favorite place at the beach is a fair distance from the ocean. It’s the front porch of this beautiful house. Those chairs are the best reading site to be found here, removed from the sounds of the TV, visited by occasional breezes that make it a delight in the morning and bearable at mid-day.
So here’s what has occupied my time and thoughts on the porch this week.
In the mornings I’ve been spending a few minutes with The Journals of Jim Elliot. To read Elliot’s journals is to get a tutorial in reading the Bible. Elliot came to his Bible every day expecting to hear God speak. The journal was simply a means of recording what the Spirit spoke to him through the text. When Elliot came to the Bible he was on a quest, expectant and eager – and disappointed on those days when nothing seemed to arrest his attention. I was somewhat gratified to read these words:
March 17, 1948: Meditation yesterday on the curtains and boards seemed fruitless. I fear I don’t have time in a single hour to both pray and study . . .
March 19, 1948: Somehow the study of the tabernacle seems fruitless. . .
Even Jim Elliot struggled to wrest meaning from Exodus 26 and 27. These barren moments with the scriptures only intensified his quest, moving him to pray for mercy, for insight into the “wonderful things” of God’s law.
In the afternoons I made my way through Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner. The back of this book is sprinkled with snippets from various reviews and I can’t think of an adjective that hasn’t been used. This story managed to wriggle its way into some deep place within me. I can’t comprehend what it takes for an author to create and tell a story that has the capacity to lay claim to the reader and not relinquish that claim until well after the final page. I was sitting in the chairs when I finished it around 3:00 pm today. That favorite place here at the beach was the site of a sad moment – finishing The Kite Runner. Hosseini makes me wish I could write fiction.
Elliot – making me want to be a better student of scripture. Hosseini – making me want to write better, especially when it comes to stories. Vacation reading gives me something to aim for when I get back to my work.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Praying More than We Mean
Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think . . . (Ephesians 3:20 ESV).
On-line streaming video is amazing. It’s almost 9:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I’m sitting around in shorts and a T-shirt, planning to be on the beach before lunch time. And yet, thanks to streaming video, I’m right there in worship with the folks at Peachtree.
I know. How pathetic is it that we’re at the beach and we’re still watching our service back home. Seems to defeat the whole idea of a vacation. But we can’t help ourselves. Sunday morning in shorts and a t-shirt just doesn’t seem right. So even though I’m barely paying attention, sitting here at my own computer with an occasional glance at the service unfolding on Marnie’s laptop, it feels good to be connected to our worshipping congregation back home.
While this beach trip may not find us gathering with a community of believers, it has not been void of worship. Last night we rode our bikes to the beach and walked out on the sand. John and Anna jumped small waves and this meant repeated reprimands and admonitions about not getting too wet or venturing into the water. But to stand beneath the black sky of the gulf coast with stars and constellations smattered overhead and the accompaniment of roaring ocean all around was worship indeed, parenting challenges aside.
And this morning on the front porch of the house, after reading the assigned scripture texts, I spent a few minutes reading The Journals of Jim Elliot. Jim Elliot, missionary to Ecuador, was killed with four colleagues by the Auca Indians on January 8, 1956. His story inspired a generation of missionaries, and continues to do so today. I’m reading journal entries that were written in 1948 when Elliot was a student at Wheaton. He is reading the Old Testament, a chapter a day it seems, and writing a paragraph or so of reflection and prayer on the text he reads.
I know. How pathetic is it that we’re at the beach and we’re still watching our service back home. Seems to defeat the whole idea of a vacation. But we can’t help ourselves. Sunday morning in shorts and a t-shirt just doesn’t seem right. So even though I’m barely paying attention, sitting here at my own computer with an occasional glance at the service unfolding on Marnie’s laptop, it feels good to be connected to our worshipping congregation back home.
While this beach trip may not find us gathering with a community of believers, it has not been void of worship. Last night we rode our bikes to the beach and walked out on the sand. John and Anna jumped small waves and this meant repeated reprimands and admonitions about not getting too wet or venturing into the water. But to stand beneath the black sky of the gulf coast with stars and constellations smattered overhead and the accompaniment of roaring ocean all around was worship indeed, parenting challenges aside.
And this morning on the front porch of the house, after reading the assigned scripture texts, I spent a few minutes reading The Journals of Jim Elliot. Jim Elliot, missionary to Ecuador, was killed with four colleagues by the Auca Indians on January 8, 1956. His story inspired a generation of missionaries, and continues to do so today. I’m reading journal entries that were written in 1948 when Elliot was a student at Wheaton. He is reading the Old Testament, a chapter a day it seems, and writing a paragraph or so of reflection and prayer on the text he reads.
A couple of days ago I was especially challenged by something he wrote on February 16, 1948 after reading Exodus 1. Elliot is observing how Israel flourished under persecution. How the people increased in Egypt, even as slaves. Elliot rightly observes that God’s kingdom advances through affliction. And then Elliot adds, “send persecution to me, Lord, that my life might bring forth much fruit.”
How God answered that prayer. Elliot himself could never have imagined what God intended to do with and through his life, how his violent death would bear much fruit.
Sometimes we may pray things we don’t mean. But perhaps, just as often, we pray more than we mean. Our hearts are in the right place, not distant, not at odds with the words we speak. But we speak things to God without realizing what our prayer might mean, or what it might mean if Gods truly answers us and does what we ask.
The gospel reading this morning was Matthew’s telling of the feeding of the five thousand. Matthew leaves out the boy with loaves and fishes. As Matthew tells it the disciples somehow have the meager meal, no explanation offered as to where it came from. I like the version that involves the boy with his sack lunch. He allows the disciples to take what he has, but none of them have any idea what Jesus will do with the bread and the fish.
Maybe Jesus does the same with our prayers. We pray from the life we have today. We offer who we are right now. And maybe as we do so, we pray more than we mean because God takes what we offer and does more than we can ask or imagine.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Prayers I Don't Mean
I know the plans I have for you . . . (Jer. 29:11)
Sometimes we say things we don’t mean. We’re not lying, deliberately stating something that isn’t true or trying to mislead. The intentions that give rise to these words are usually good but poorly formed.
Most often I do this with my kids.
“Dad, can we go to Bruster’s for ice cream?” A simple yes or no question. One stock response of mine goes like this: “Not now kids, it’s too close to dinner time. Maybe we’ll go tomorrow (or later this week, etc.).
I’m not sure what this is. Maybe it is a lie. Most likely it is a lame effort to be the good guy, the great dad who does fun things. To that end I devise ways to say “no” without just coming out and saying “no.” The fact is I have no idea when or if we’ll go to Bruster’s. I’ve said something I don’t mean.
Sometimes we say things we don’t mean when we speak in anger. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean because we speak in ignorance, without all the pertinent information. We do this with each other more often than we care to admit. And recently I’ve had to confess that I’ve done the same thing with God.
God gave me a sign, a real estate sign to be exact. A few days ago I left my driveway and noticed that the home just down the street had sold. The house was put on the market earlier this year. I’d have never given it a second thought except my own house was put on the market a year ago and we’ve not had one offer.
Our plans to move are being driven by lifestyle considerations. We’d like to be closer to where we work and where the kids go to school. We don’t have to sell, and that’s a nice position to be in these days. Still, it’s been a matter of trusting God and waiting patiently. All year long I’ve mouthed a prayer that sounds like what any devout person might pray in our situation. “Lord we want to be where you want us to be.”
When I saw the big SOLD sign in my neighbor’s yard it said to me loud and clear, “God wants you right where you are now.” And somehow that bothered me. Whatever it was I felt, it told me that I’d been praying something I didn’t mean. I’d been saying something to God that didn’t reflect what was in my heart.
It’s not uncommon that I teach beyond myself. I regularly speak or preach on things that I deeply believe and have thoroughly studied, but haven’t mastered. Last spring I wrote a series of daily reflections on the fruit of the Spirit. Here I am a year later still struggling with patience and gentleness and, well . . . with all of them.
I realize now that in the same way I sometimes pray beyond myself. I say things to God that reflect where I’d like to be and not where I truly am.
Of course, there are plenty of prayers that I do mean. When I pray for my children I mean every word. I know my failures quite well and when I confess I mean every word. When I ask for the Spirit’s help to do things that I can’t do in my own power, I mean every word.
But when it comes to where my life is headed and what the future might bring and the plans I’ve made for myself, I lapse into the error that Jesus saw in the Pharisees. I draw near with my lips while my heart is somewhere else, distant, wrapped up in myself (Mark 7:6). God spoke to his people through Jeremiah and assured them that he had a plan for them, plans to give them a future and a hope (Jer. 29:11). Problem is, I’ve got some ideas about that too. With my prayers I seek God’s plan. My heart, however, silently pursues the course I’ve charted, hoping that at some point the two paths will converge.
It seems that the life of faith and the life of prayer are lived in the gaps: gaps between what we know and what we do, gaps between what we aspire to and the realities of our lives, gaps between what we say to God and what we hold deep inside of ourselves.
So many look at those gaps and name them hypocrisy. Not so. Hypocrisy is an attempt to mask the distant heart. It knows the right words and draws near with the lips while denying the deeper truth of what forms and fills the heart. Following Jesus in those gaps means telling the truth about who we are while moving toward what God calls us to be.
Look closer at those gaps and you’ll find plenty of grace there. Grace is the only thing that makes it possible for us to keep walking in those places. Grace keeps us from settling for a distant heart. It keeps us from the despair of never measuring up. Grace is what we count on because we don’t always know how to pray as we should (Romans 8:26). But the Spirit intercedes for us, praying according to God’s will.
Thanks be to God. I mean that.
Sometimes we say things we don’t mean. We’re not lying, deliberately stating something that isn’t true or trying to mislead. The intentions that give rise to these words are usually good but poorly formed.
Most often I do this with my kids.
“Dad, can we go to Bruster’s for ice cream?” A simple yes or no question. One stock response of mine goes like this: “Not now kids, it’s too close to dinner time. Maybe we’ll go tomorrow (or later this week, etc.).
I’m not sure what this is. Maybe it is a lie. Most likely it is a lame effort to be the good guy, the great dad who does fun things. To that end I devise ways to say “no” without just coming out and saying “no.” The fact is I have no idea when or if we’ll go to Bruster’s. I’ve said something I don’t mean.
Sometimes we say things we don’t mean when we speak in anger. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean because we speak in ignorance, without all the pertinent information. We do this with each other more often than we care to admit. And recently I’ve had to confess that I’ve done the same thing with God.
God gave me a sign, a real estate sign to be exact. A few days ago I left my driveway and noticed that the home just down the street had sold. The house was put on the market earlier this year. I’d have never given it a second thought except my own house was put on the market a year ago and we’ve not had one offer.
Our plans to move are being driven by lifestyle considerations. We’d like to be closer to where we work and where the kids go to school. We don’t have to sell, and that’s a nice position to be in these days. Still, it’s been a matter of trusting God and waiting patiently. All year long I’ve mouthed a prayer that sounds like what any devout person might pray in our situation. “Lord we want to be where you want us to be.”
When I saw the big SOLD sign in my neighbor’s yard it said to me loud and clear, “God wants you right where you are now.” And somehow that bothered me. Whatever it was I felt, it told me that I’d been praying something I didn’t mean. I’d been saying something to God that didn’t reflect what was in my heart.
It’s not uncommon that I teach beyond myself. I regularly speak or preach on things that I deeply believe and have thoroughly studied, but haven’t mastered. Last spring I wrote a series of daily reflections on the fruit of the Spirit. Here I am a year later still struggling with patience and gentleness and, well . . . with all of them.
I realize now that in the same way I sometimes pray beyond myself. I say things to God that reflect where I’d like to be and not where I truly am.
Of course, there are plenty of prayers that I do mean. When I pray for my children I mean every word. I know my failures quite well and when I confess I mean every word. When I ask for the Spirit’s help to do things that I can’t do in my own power, I mean every word.
But when it comes to where my life is headed and what the future might bring and the plans I’ve made for myself, I lapse into the error that Jesus saw in the Pharisees. I draw near with my lips while my heart is somewhere else, distant, wrapped up in myself (Mark 7:6). God spoke to his people through Jeremiah and assured them that he had a plan for them, plans to give them a future and a hope (Jer. 29:11). Problem is, I’ve got some ideas about that too. With my prayers I seek God’s plan. My heart, however, silently pursues the course I’ve charted, hoping that at some point the two paths will converge.
It seems that the life of faith and the life of prayer are lived in the gaps: gaps between what we know and what we do, gaps between what we aspire to and the realities of our lives, gaps between what we say to God and what we hold deep inside of ourselves.
So many look at those gaps and name them hypocrisy. Not so. Hypocrisy is an attempt to mask the distant heart. It knows the right words and draws near with the lips while denying the deeper truth of what forms and fills the heart. Following Jesus in those gaps means telling the truth about who we are while moving toward what God calls us to be.
Look closer at those gaps and you’ll find plenty of grace there. Grace is the only thing that makes it possible for us to keep walking in those places. Grace keeps us from settling for a distant heart. It keeps us from the despair of never measuring up. Grace is what we count on because we don’t always know how to pray as we should (Romans 8:26). But the Spirit intercedes for us, praying according to God’s will.
Thanks be to God. I mean that.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
God Misplaced: Setting "Before" and Setting "Aside"
I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken (Psalm 16:8).
“Hey, we’ve still got your drums in the basement. Do you want them?”
I’ve heard that more than once. My parents gave me that set of Ludwigs for Christmas when I was a sophomore in high school (think 1978 . . . ouch!). For years I used them often, kept them set up in our basement, “jammed” with a guitarist friend of mine, played at church and picked up other random gigs from time to time throughout my college years.
And then I stopped. I’ve barely touched my drums since the mid-80s. There was no room for them in my Fort Worth apartment once I started seminary. And over time, it seems there was just no room for them in my life. I pause to ponder that. It didn’t have to be that way. No one pointed a gun at me and said “step away from drums.” I just did.
I set them aside.
Back in the day I was always setting the drums before me. Literally. I loved to be behnd the kit, I loved to watch and listen to other drummers and bands, I browsed music stores pricing hardware and cymbals and all things percussive. I didn’t need a pair of sticks in my hands. Drumming was woven into my sense of identity, embedded somehow in whatever it is we speak of when we describe the “self.”
So the drums are in my parents’ basement, dormant and dusty in their cases. Do I want them? Yes, but not in my own house. My basement is crammed with various household items and all those toys my kids stopped paying attention to years ago. But I don’t want to sell the drums and I don’t want to give them away. They’re mine . . . just set aside.
Yesterday I read a line from Psalm 16 in which the Psalmist states “I have set the Lord always before me.” The Psalmist is using different words to describe the practice of the presence of God. To “set the Lord always before me” is to practice God’s presence.
What I seem more inclined to do is to set the Lord aside. This isn’t a rejection of beliefs or a renunciation of the faith. Maybe you could call it a rhythm of carelessness.
The day begins. I read the assigned scripture, thinking through the day, offering it up to the Lord of all time. And then I enter that day, but somewhere along the way God is set aside. Present, yes – but in an “over there” kind of way.
So what does it mean to “set the Lord continually before me?”
Whatever it means, it has to be something far deeper than doing the daily God things, good as those things are. If God is confined to the moments of morning prayer, we’ve got a problem because few of us can linger in those moments for very long. We have employers who expect us to show up and children who need to get to school or lacrosse camp. We have emails to answer and phone calls to return. Life confronts us with such varied and wonderful demands.
I like what I’ve heard somewhere from someone, probably many times. We don’t take God to those places. God is already there, right in the middle of all of it. Our task is to look, to think, to pay attention: To set the Lord always before us.
That’s not an easy thing to do, but if we’ll practice it and learn to do it, the benefits are amazing: joy, gladness, security, confidence (Ps. 16:9). Not a bad way to live.
“Hey, we’ve still got your drums in the basement. Do you want them?”
I’ve heard that more than once. My parents gave me that set of Ludwigs for Christmas when I was a sophomore in high school (think 1978 . . . ouch!). For years I used them often, kept them set up in our basement, “jammed” with a guitarist friend of mine, played at church and picked up other random gigs from time to time throughout my college years.
And then I stopped. I’ve barely touched my drums since the mid-80s. There was no room for them in my Fort Worth apartment once I started seminary. And over time, it seems there was just no room for them in my life. I pause to ponder that. It didn’t have to be that way. No one pointed a gun at me and said “step away from drums.” I just did.
I set them aside.
Back in the day I was always setting the drums before me. Literally. I loved to be behnd the kit, I loved to watch and listen to other drummers and bands, I browsed music stores pricing hardware and cymbals and all things percussive. I didn’t need a pair of sticks in my hands. Drumming was woven into my sense of identity, embedded somehow in whatever it is we speak of when we describe the “self.”
So the drums are in my parents’ basement, dormant and dusty in their cases. Do I want them? Yes, but not in my own house. My basement is crammed with various household items and all those toys my kids stopped paying attention to years ago. But I don’t want to sell the drums and I don’t want to give them away. They’re mine . . . just set aside.
Yesterday I read a line from Psalm 16 in which the Psalmist states “I have set the Lord always before me.” The Psalmist is using different words to describe the practice of the presence of God. To “set the Lord always before me” is to practice God’s presence.
What I seem more inclined to do is to set the Lord aside. This isn’t a rejection of beliefs or a renunciation of the faith. Maybe you could call it a rhythm of carelessness.
The day begins. I read the assigned scripture, thinking through the day, offering it up to the Lord of all time. And then I enter that day, but somewhere along the way God is set aside. Present, yes – but in an “over there” kind of way.
So what does it mean to “set the Lord continually before me?”
Whatever it means, it has to be something far deeper than doing the daily God things, good as those things are. If God is confined to the moments of morning prayer, we’ve got a problem because few of us can linger in those moments for very long. We have employers who expect us to show up and children who need to get to school or lacrosse camp. We have emails to answer and phone calls to return. Life confronts us with such varied and wonderful demands.
I like what I’ve heard somewhere from someone, probably many times. We don’t take God to those places. God is already there, right in the middle of all of it. Our task is to look, to think, to pay attention: To set the Lord always before us.
That’s not an easy thing to do, but if we’ll practice it and learn to do it, the benefits are amazing: joy, gladness, security, confidence (Ps. 16:9). Not a bad way to live.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
I'm Out of Practice
About three weeks ago I began gathering on Sunday mornings with anyone who cared to join me to work through The Practice of the Presence of God. This little book, authored or told by a Carmelite monk known to us as Brother Lawrence, has been around since the late 1600s. I ordered a particular edition for participants to purchase, but apparently I’m not introducing something new to these folks. Many of them have shown up with their own copies, varied editions and translations of the original French.
It’s a modest gathering. Maybe twenty people, hardly a crowd. But what we lack in size is more than made up for when it comes to the level of interest in what it means to live daily in God’s presence. To be honest, our interest is often matched by our confusion. We want to live in God’s presence, but we’re not sure how to do it, and we’re not sure a Carmelite monk can help us much given our hurried, overscheduled, urbanized way of life.
But maybe it’s that very way of living that accounts for our curiosity. Likewise, that desire to understand (dare I say hunger to know) God’s presence probably accounts for the staying power of this little book. The writing doesn’t strike me as particularly artful. The author lived an obscure existence; were it not for this one title none of us would have ever heard of Brother Lawrence.
But the book’s substance, the matter being addressed by this cloistered kitchen-hand, this is what seems to have engaged the hearts and minds of people for more than three centuries.
I offer that as part opinion, part theory, but mostly as confession. I’m drawn back to this little book because I’m not satisfied with my own experience of the presence of God.
The very title of the book exposes my lack. Practice suggests something undertaken with intent and with repeated regularity. That’s not me. There are plenty of aspects of the life of faith that I do practice. I practice the disciplines of Bible reading and prayer almost daily. I practice corporate worship . . . never mind that I get paid to do that. I practice certain virtues but not very well. There’s no lack of practice and discipline in my life with Jesus. I just never actually practice his presence. I don’t work at keeping company with Christ.
When it comes to the presence of God in my life I’ve largely been a passive recipient, perfectly ready for God to show up and be present whenever he chooses to do so. I can’t say strongly enough that I’ve never had a problem believing in God’s presence. God has promised to be present, and so I accept God’s presence as a basic tenet of faith.
But my convictions here are vague. I affirm God’s presence, God's with-ness, in general terms based on the promises God has made. “I will fear no evil for thou art with me.”
That’s all well and good until something happens, something is reported in the news, something goes wrong and I realize that I really do fear evil. I can sense my anxiety plugging my throat, picking at my thoughts, chasing my pulse and forcing my heart to beat faster. I know this is happening and it seems as if I really don’t believe “thou art with me.” I affirm God's presence as a theological premise. I'm just not so sure God is here in this place and this moment.
So I want to learn how to practice what God has promised. I want to discover what I need to do, over and over, day by day, to enter into the reality of God’s presence with me. I want to get to a place where I can walk boldly through the valley of the shadow of death because of the Presence. From time to time I’ll be sharing stories about how it’s going. If you happen to stop by, I’d love to hear yours.
It’s a modest gathering. Maybe twenty people, hardly a crowd. But what we lack in size is more than made up for when it comes to the level of interest in what it means to live daily in God’s presence. To be honest, our interest is often matched by our confusion. We want to live in God’s presence, but we’re not sure how to do it, and we’re not sure a Carmelite monk can help us much given our hurried, overscheduled, urbanized way of life.
But maybe it’s that very way of living that accounts for our curiosity. Likewise, that desire to understand (dare I say hunger to know) God’s presence probably accounts for the staying power of this little book. The writing doesn’t strike me as particularly artful. The author lived an obscure existence; were it not for this one title none of us would have ever heard of Brother Lawrence.
But the book’s substance, the matter being addressed by this cloistered kitchen-hand, this is what seems to have engaged the hearts and minds of people for more than three centuries.
I offer that as part opinion, part theory, but mostly as confession. I’m drawn back to this little book because I’m not satisfied with my own experience of the presence of God.
The very title of the book exposes my lack. Practice suggests something undertaken with intent and with repeated regularity. That’s not me. There are plenty of aspects of the life of faith that I do practice. I practice the disciplines of Bible reading and prayer almost daily. I practice corporate worship . . . never mind that I get paid to do that. I practice certain virtues but not very well. There’s no lack of practice and discipline in my life with Jesus. I just never actually practice his presence. I don’t work at keeping company with Christ.
When it comes to the presence of God in my life I’ve largely been a passive recipient, perfectly ready for God to show up and be present whenever he chooses to do so. I can’t say strongly enough that I’ve never had a problem believing in God’s presence. God has promised to be present, and so I accept God’s presence as a basic tenet of faith.
But my convictions here are vague. I affirm God’s presence, God's with-ness, in general terms based on the promises God has made. “I will fear no evil for thou art with me.”
That’s all well and good until something happens, something is reported in the news, something goes wrong and I realize that I really do fear evil. I can sense my anxiety plugging my throat, picking at my thoughts, chasing my pulse and forcing my heart to beat faster. I know this is happening and it seems as if I really don’t believe “thou art with me.” I affirm God's presence as a theological premise. I'm just not so sure God is here in this place and this moment.
So I want to learn how to practice what God has promised. I want to discover what I need to do, over and over, day by day, to enter into the reality of God’s presence with me. I want to get to a place where I can walk boldly through the valley of the shadow of death because of the Presence. From time to time I’ll be sharing stories about how it’s going. If you happen to stop by, I’d love to hear yours.
Friday, July 18, 2008
We Are Beggars
“ . . . Apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5).
The familiar phrase “kid in a candy store” comes to mind. That’s me when I have a gift certificate to our church bookstore. Earlier this week I went down to the bookstore with a gift certificate that had ten dollars and change remaining on the balance. Ten dollars can almost cover the entire cost of a paperback book, so I went browsing the shelves like a lion stalking prey.
Maybe because we had just finished the family sermon series with a focus on the church, or perhaps because the larger Presbyterian family is being severely strained, this title by Robert Benson caught my eye: The Body Broken: Answering God’s Call to Love One Another. Well, there went my ten dollar gift certificate.
I’m only one chapter into the book. So far, so good. What has lingered with me to this point has been a very brief excerpt from the Book of Common Prayer placed as a prescript to the first chapter. The words are a prayer for the church, asking that all who profess themselves Christians would “hold the faith in unity of Spirit and in the bonds of peace.”
The prayer then ends with these words: “And this we beg for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”
When it comes to the wholeness of God’s family, we’re not just asking, we’re begging. The same should be said of our own individual families. Asking isn’t urgent enough. The stakes are too high. When it comes to our families, we are beggars.
Luther biographer Heiko A. Oberman writes that the last recorded words of the great reformer just before his death on February 18, 1546 were “we are beggars . . . this is true.” The words capture our dependence on the grace of God. Apart from God we have nothing. Jesus said as much. Reminding us that we are branches that must remain connected to the true vine if we are to bear fruit, Jesus said “apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5).
And so, when it comes to our children and the task of parenting, we are beggars. We plead for grace to parent well and with wisdom. We beg God’s blessings on behalf of our children.
When it comes to our marriages, we are beggars. We petition God with urgency for the grace we need to love well and to live with each other in such a way that God’s original two-made-one design is a reality.
When it comes to honoring parents and loving our siblings we are beggars. We know that left to ourselves we lack the patience and understanding we need to do this – and so we knock on heaven’s door every day and ask for more grace.
And all of this begging is for Jesus’ sake. We don’t make these desperate requests of God simply so that our home life can be pleasant and everyone can find happiness. The name and reputation and character of Jesus are at stake in our homes and in our churches. The well being of our families, or the lack of it, says something about God.
So keep praying for your family and for your church, seeking God’s grace with persistent intense prayers. The stakes are high and, after all, we are beggars . . . this is true.
Prayer:
Gracious God, today we come to you as beggars, pleading for our marriages, our children, our churches, our homes, our friendships, our brothers and sisters. We beg for grace that makes our families a reflection of who you are. We pray for the mercies of patience and love and compassion. We give you thanks for our families and seek your richest blessings with urgency and boldness, for we are indeed beggars who can do nothing apart from you. All of this we ask in Jesus’ name, Amen.
The familiar phrase “kid in a candy store” comes to mind. That’s me when I have a gift certificate to our church bookstore. Earlier this week I went down to the bookstore with a gift certificate that had ten dollars and change remaining on the balance. Ten dollars can almost cover the entire cost of a paperback book, so I went browsing the shelves like a lion stalking prey.
Maybe because we had just finished the family sermon series with a focus on the church, or perhaps because the larger Presbyterian family is being severely strained, this title by Robert Benson caught my eye: The Body Broken: Answering God’s Call to Love One Another. Well, there went my ten dollar gift certificate.
I’m only one chapter into the book. So far, so good. What has lingered with me to this point has been a very brief excerpt from the Book of Common Prayer placed as a prescript to the first chapter. The words are a prayer for the church, asking that all who profess themselves Christians would “hold the faith in unity of Spirit and in the bonds of peace.”
The prayer then ends with these words: “And this we beg for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”
When it comes to the wholeness of God’s family, we’re not just asking, we’re begging. The same should be said of our own individual families. Asking isn’t urgent enough. The stakes are too high. When it comes to our families, we are beggars.
Luther biographer Heiko A. Oberman writes that the last recorded words of the great reformer just before his death on February 18, 1546 were “we are beggars . . . this is true.” The words capture our dependence on the grace of God. Apart from God we have nothing. Jesus said as much. Reminding us that we are branches that must remain connected to the true vine if we are to bear fruit, Jesus said “apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5).
And so, when it comes to our children and the task of parenting, we are beggars. We plead for grace to parent well and with wisdom. We beg God’s blessings on behalf of our children.
When it comes to our marriages, we are beggars. We petition God with urgency for the grace we need to love well and to live with each other in such a way that God’s original two-made-one design is a reality.
When it comes to honoring parents and loving our siblings we are beggars. We know that left to ourselves we lack the patience and understanding we need to do this – and so we knock on heaven’s door every day and ask for more grace.
And all of this begging is for Jesus’ sake. We don’t make these desperate requests of God simply so that our home life can be pleasant and everyone can find happiness. The name and reputation and character of Jesus are at stake in our homes and in our churches. The well being of our families, or the lack of it, says something about God.
So keep praying for your family and for your church, seeking God’s grace with persistent intense prayers. The stakes are high and, after all, we are beggars . . . this is true.
Prayer:
Gracious God, today we come to you as beggars, pleading for our marriages, our children, our churches, our homes, our friendships, our brothers and sisters. We beg for grace that makes our families a reflection of who you are. We pray for the mercies of patience and love and compassion. We give you thanks for our families and seek your richest blessings with urgency and boldness, for we are indeed beggars who can do nothing apart from you. All of this we ask in Jesus’ name, Amen.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Fighting For (not With) Your Family
Thanks to the automatic drip feature, the coffee was ready when I woke up. Wrapping my hands around the heat of the cup, I made my way back upstairs to the little room in the far corner of the house that serves as a study. Having turned on the lamp on my desk and situated myself in my chair, I looked at the assigned Bible reading for the day: Micah 7.
I was disappointed. That seems like a strange thing to say. How does one manage to feel disappointed over a Bible reading? It would sound much better to report to you that I came eagerly to God’s word. I hear other people talk like that, and I’d like to be that kind of person. It’s the least someone should expect from pastor. But that’s not how it was for me this morning. I wasn’t too jazzed about reading Micah 7.
What challenges me most about someone like Micah is the fact that prophets have a tendency to make lengthy use of poetic speech. Poetry is hard. I prefer stories, following the action and not just seeing the images. I grew up singing a hymn, “Tell Me the Story of Jesus.” I never sang anything that said “Read Me the Poems of Micah.”
At any rate, I began making my way through Micah 7, and there at verse 6 I came across these words.
For a son dishonors his father, a daughter rises up against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, a man’s enemies are the members of his own household.
The prophet is describing and lamenting a godless age, a period of time in which people are skilled in doing evil and governments are corrupt and bloodshed is common. Not unlike what you’ll see and hear on the news every night. In such an age, families are fractured and in trouble. Trust and intimacy are losing out to conflict and hostility. But then Micah adds these words:
But as for me I watch in hope for the Lord, I wait for God my savior. My God will hear me (Micah 7:7).
After these weeks of reflecting on the family, I couldn’t escape the pairing of the description of family turmoil with the statement of patient and confident prayer. I pray for my family, but it hit me hard that I don’t pray for my family nearly enough. Prayer is a way of fighting for the well being of our home and our children and our churches. We combat the erosion of family life with prayer.
Not long ago I read a wonderful book by Patricia Rayborn, I Told the Mountain to Move. I could see that the book was about prayer, but as I read it, it became obvious that prayer was a means by which she fought for her family in the midst of her husband’s life threatening illness and her daughter’s decision to reject the Christian faith.
For families in trouble prayer is a weapon. There are other good weapons in counseling and conferences and books. But we’re not fighting against flesh and blood and the culture. There’s more involved. You can do nothing better today than to fight for the well being of your family by praying persistently and patiently. God will hear you.
Prayer:
We pray today, O God, for troubled families. Teach us to pray with confidence and patience, and make us diligent in our praying. We pray for our own families, knowing that apart from your grace we cannot love each other as you taught us to love; apart from grace we will not show that love to the world. Hear our prayers, we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.
I was disappointed. That seems like a strange thing to say. How does one manage to feel disappointed over a Bible reading? It would sound much better to report to you that I came eagerly to God’s word. I hear other people talk like that, and I’d like to be that kind of person. It’s the least someone should expect from pastor. But that’s not how it was for me this morning. I wasn’t too jazzed about reading Micah 7.
What challenges me most about someone like Micah is the fact that prophets have a tendency to make lengthy use of poetic speech. Poetry is hard. I prefer stories, following the action and not just seeing the images. I grew up singing a hymn, “Tell Me the Story of Jesus.” I never sang anything that said “Read Me the Poems of Micah.”
At any rate, I began making my way through Micah 7, and there at verse 6 I came across these words.
For a son dishonors his father, a daughter rises up against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, a man’s enemies are the members of his own household.
The prophet is describing and lamenting a godless age, a period of time in which people are skilled in doing evil and governments are corrupt and bloodshed is common. Not unlike what you’ll see and hear on the news every night. In such an age, families are fractured and in trouble. Trust and intimacy are losing out to conflict and hostility. But then Micah adds these words:
But as for me I watch in hope for the Lord, I wait for God my savior. My God will hear me (Micah 7:7).
After these weeks of reflecting on the family, I couldn’t escape the pairing of the description of family turmoil with the statement of patient and confident prayer. I pray for my family, but it hit me hard that I don’t pray for my family nearly enough. Prayer is a way of fighting for the well being of our home and our children and our churches. We combat the erosion of family life with prayer.
Not long ago I read a wonderful book by Patricia Rayborn, I Told the Mountain to Move. I could see that the book was about prayer, but as I read it, it became obvious that prayer was a means by which she fought for her family in the midst of her husband’s life threatening illness and her daughter’s decision to reject the Christian faith.
For families in trouble prayer is a weapon. There are other good weapons in counseling and conferences and books. But we’re not fighting against flesh and blood and the culture. There’s more involved. You can do nothing better today than to fight for the well being of your family by praying persistently and patiently. God will hear you.
Prayer:
We pray today, O God, for troubled families. Teach us to pray with confidence and patience, and make us diligent in our praying. We pray for our own families, knowing that apart from your grace we cannot love each other as you taught us to love; apart from grace we will not show that love to the world. Hear our prayers, we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tensions
If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, do not take him into your house or welcome him (2 John 10).
I had to separate my children this afternoon. I’d gladly narrate some amusing story about what happened, but I honestly don’t know what happened. They were in the basement, I was upstairs. I know what they told me, and their stories are amazingly dissimilar.
But maybe it doesn’t matter. The plot is all too familiar: crying breaks out . . . accusations fly . . . reprimands are spoken (at elevated volume) . . . protests are made in response to the reprimands . . . the combatants are sent to different corners to cool off. I don’t think that I ever truly addressed the problem, nor did I effectively coach my children in dealing with it, whatever it was. I just got them away from each other and restored peace to the house.
That happened in the early evening. Interestingly, earlier in the day I had spent a few hours at Presbytery meeting. For any non-Presbyterian readers, the Presbytery meeting involves lots of Presbyterians from lots of different churches in an area (Greater Atlanta) getting together to accomplish the work of the Kingdom, or something like that.
After a few hours at Presbytery I need to be sent to my room. I seem to do better there. I hate to admit that. I want to serve the larger church, take my place in the family and be a good presbyter – but those meetings irritate me, and things are so much easier in my own corner of the ecclesiastical house. The real issues that disturb us as God’s family won’t be dealt with that way, but it’s the simplest formula for peace it seems. One party holed up over here, another over there.
I puzzle over the words I read in John’s short letters in the New Testament. No one spoke more about love and loving each other than John. And no one was quicker to point the finger at errant Christians and dismiss them from the family. Love each other, but don’t tolerate deviant teachings and the people who spread them (see 2 John).
Family life is full of tensions – and by that I do not mean strained relationships. I mean two worthy objectives or aims that make opposite demands of us.
Parents need to spend time with their children . . . and they need time with each other alone. But there’s only so much time to go around.
Kids need careful supervision . . . and they need to learn independence. Don’t smother, and don’t be cavalier.
Grown children must establish healthy boundaries with parents and in-laws . . . and yet they are to honor mother and father.
And in God’s family, we are to name the name of Jesus and love each other. And yet, those who name the name of Jesus often have very different ideas as to what the name means for us and what it means to be identified by that name.
Perhaps healthy family life is marked not by the absence of tension, but by a capacity for living in the tension. People who can’t tolerate the ambiguities and tensions won’t stick around to be faithful to their spouse and to raise their children. The trick is being in the tensions without becoming tense. Human anger will never bring about God’s righteousness (James 1:20).
So how are you doing with the tensions of family life today? Are you ready to come out of your room?
Prayer:
Gracious God, work in my life in such a way that I grow in my capacity to love all the members of your family. And at the same time make me bold for Truth. Make me humble to learn from others, and confident enough to challenge them as well. Help me to venture from the safety of my room to take my place in your family. Amen.
I had to separate my children this afternoon. I’d gladly narrate some amusing story about what happened, but I honestly don’t know what happened. They were in the basement, I was upstairs. I know what they told me, and their stories are amazingly dissimilar.
But maybe it doesn’t matter. The plot is all too familiar: crying breaks out . . . accusations fly . . . reprimands are spoken (at elevated volume) . . . protests are made in response to the reprimands . . . the combatants are sent to different corners to cool off. I don’t think that I ever truly addressed the problem, nor did I effectively coach my children in dealing with it, whatever it was. I just got them away from each other and restored peace to the house.
That happened in the early evening. Interestingly, earlier in the day I had spent a few hours at Presbytery meeting. For any non-Presbyterian readers, the Presbytery meeting involves lots of Presbyterians from lots of different churches in an area (Greater Atlanta) getting together to accomplish the work of the Kingdom, or something like that.
After a few hours at Presbytery I need to be sent to my room. I seem to do better there. I hate to admit that. I want to serve the larger church, take my place in the family and be a good presbyter – but those meetings irritate me, and things are so much easier in my own corner of the ecclesiastical house. The real issues that disturb us as God’s family won’t be dealt with that way, but it’s the simplest formula for peace it seems. One party holed up over here, another over there.
I puzzle over the words I read in John’s short letters in the New Testament. No one spoke more about love and loving each other than John. And no one was quicker to point the finger at errant Christians and dismiss them from the family. Love each other, but don’t tolerate deviant teachings and the people who spread them (see 2 John).
Family life is full of tensions – and by that I do not mean strained relationships. I mean two worthy objectives or aims that make opposite demands of us.
Parents need to spend time with their children . . . and they need time with each other alone. But there’s only so much time to go around.
Kids need careful supervision . . . and they need to learn independence. Don’t smother, and don’t be cavalier.
Grown children must establish healthy boundaries with parents and in-laws . . . and yet they are to honor mother and father.
And in God’s family, we are to name the name of Jesus and love each other. And yet, those who name the name of Jesus often have very different ideas as to what the name means for us and what it means to be identified by that name.
Perhaps healthy family life is marked not by the absence of tension, but by a capacity for living in the tension. People who can’t tolerate the ambiguities and tensions won’t stick around to be faithful to their spouse and to raise their children. The trick is being in the tensions without becoming tense. Human anger will never bring about God’s righteousness (James 1:20).
So how are you doing with the tensions of family life today? Are you ready to come out of your room?
Prayer:
Gracious God, work in my life in such a way that I grow in my capacity to love all the members of your family. And at the same time make me bold for Truth. Make me humble to learn from others, and confident enough to challenge them as well. Help me to venture from the safety of my room to take my place in your family. Amen.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Say "Shibboleth"
. . . They said, "All right, say 'Shibboleth.' “If he said, "Sibboleth," because he could not pronounce the word correctly, they seized him and killed him at the fords of the Jordan (Judges 12:6).
“Are you one of us?”
We’re constantly asking that question, though not with those words. We know what to listen for. We quickly pick up on clues that reveal a stance or attitude or belief. We arrange the evidence in our minds and reach a conclusion. “Yes, one of us” or “No, not one of us.” The conclusion shapes the relationship.
There’s an odd story in the book of Judges about jealousies that crept up between two Israelite tribes. The tribe of Gilead had gone to war against a familiar nemesis, the Ammonites. Gilead – small and insignificant among the Israelite tribes – came away with an upset victory. This made the tribe of Ephraim jealous. “You should have included us in the fight,” they whined.
Gilead fires back, “We asked for your help, but you wouldn’t respond. We had to protect ourselves so we fought them alone. Get over it.” This answer was not well received. Things got ugly between Gilead and Ephraim. Very ugly. They ended up fighting each other. I’m sure that’s hard for us to imagine. The people of God fighting each other. Family members eaten up with jealousy, taking shots at each other. Unheard of? Not so much.
When Ephraim tried to retreat and escape Gilead, some of them were captured crossing the Jordan. As a way of clearly identifying their enemy, the Gilead tribe demanded that the captured Ephraimites pronounce the word “Shibboleth.”
Ephraimites couldn’t say that word. They tried but it came out “Sibboleth.” Too bad for them. If you can’t say the word, you don’t belong to us. Say it right or say goodnight.
My Dad was asked to say “Shibboleth” the other day. Not the exact word really. He had made a hospital visit but didn’t have his clergy card when he tried to leave the parking garage. The card is basically a pass for free parking. The attendant told him to simply write his name and the name of his church on the parking ticket. And then he added, “Once you do that, I have a test for you.” That got my Dad’s attention.
Dad signed the card and handed it to the attendant, who then questioned him. “You say you are a minister of the gospel . . . everyone knows John 3:16, but can you quote John 3:17?” In other words, say “Shibboleth.” My Dad gladly quoted John 3:17. The attendant praised his knowledge of the scripture and let him leave the parking garage. (So what if Dad had drawn a blank on that verse? I have no idea).
The story from Judges is peculiar, but timely. Within God’s family we keep asking each other to say “Shibboleth.” We keep looking for ways to determine who’s like me and who isn’t. Who’s one of us, and who’s one of them.
The New Testament offers different criteria for knowing the family. Name the name of Jesus and love one another. That sounds good – but it’s so hard. Can’t we find an easy test like “shibboleth?” Shibboleth is easier in some ways, but it’s a wedge that fragments the family. The world takes notice of our love, or lack of it.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, it is hard to love the brothers and sisters we find in your family. We test each other, assess each other, including some as true family and regarding others as strangers. But you have prayed for our unity and given us a new command to love one another. With your command give us your grace, that we might truly be your children. Amen.
“Are you one of us?”
We’re constantly asking that question, though not with those words. We know what to listen for. We quickly pick up on clues that reveal a stance or attitude or belief. We arrange the evidence in our minds and reach a conclusion. “Yes, one of us” or “No, not one of us.” The conclusion shapes the relationship.
There’s an odd story in the book of Judges about jealousies that crept up between two Israelite tribes. The tribe of Gilead had gone to war against a familiar nemesis, the Ammonites. Gilead – small and insignificant among the Israelite tribes – came away with an upset victory. This made the tribe of Ephraim jealous. “You should have included us in the fight,” they whined.
Gilead fires back, “We asked for your help, but you wouldn’t respond. We had to protect ourselves so we fought them alone. Get over it.” This answer was not well received. Things got ugly between Gilead and Ephraim. Very ugly. They ended up fighting each other. I’m sure that’s hard for us to imagine. The people of God fighting each other. Family members eaten up with jealousy, taking shots at each other. Unheard of? Not so much.
When Ephraim tried to retreat and escape Gilead, some of them were captured crossing the Jordan. As a way of clearly identifying their enemy, the Gilead tribe demanded that the captured Ephraimites pronounce the word “Shibboleth.”
Ephraimites couldn’t say that word. They tried but it came out “Sibboleth.” Too bad for them. If you can’t say the word, you don’t belong to us. Say it right or say goodnight.
My Dad was asked to say “Shibboleth” the other day. Not the exact word really. He had made a hospital visit but didn’t have his clergy card when he tried to leave the parking garage. The card is basically a pass for free parking. The attendant told him to simply write his name and the name of his church on the parking ticket. And then he added, “Once you do that, I have a test for you.” That got my Dad’s attention.
Dad signed the card and handed it to the attendant, who then questioned him. “You say you are a minister of the gospel . . . everyone knows John 3:16, but can you quote John 3:17?” In other words, say “Shibboleth.” My Dad gladly quoted John 3:17. The attendant praised his knowledge of the scripture and let him leave the parking garage. (So what if Dad had drawn a blank on that verse? I have no idea).
The story from Judges is peculiar, but timely. Within God’s family we keep asking each other to say “Shibboleth.” We keep looking for ways to determine who’s like me and who isn’t. Who’s one of us, and who’s one of them.
The New Testament offers different criteria for knowing the family. Name the name of Jesus and love one another. That sounds good – but it’s so hard. Can’t we find an easy test like “shibboleth?” Shibboleth is easier in some ways, but it’s a wedge that fragments the family. The world takes notice of our love, or lack of it.
Prayer:
Lord Jesus, it is hard to love the brothers and sisters we find in your family. We test each other, assess each other, including some as true family and regarding others as strangers. But you have prayed for our unity and given us a new command to love one another. With your command give us your grace, that we might truly be your children. Amen.
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