Were you there

When she felt alone,
unknown, adrift
in the small spaces between us?

When he grabbed the gun,

swallowed the pills,
huffed a noxious puff,
poured out his blood
into the bathtub?

Were you there

on the bedroom floor,
kitchen linoleum,
bathroom tile,
after the fist, the belt, the knife?

Were you there

when the cashier dropped her hand,
pushed the alarm two seconds
too slow?
When the deal went bad,
or the heart roiled with revenge?

Bless those who will

meet up with the cross tonight,
whose darkness has not yet
known a dawn so bright
it could bring us back from death.


Cynthia E. Robinson © 2013

The power of music

I've been having a rough time of it some days, hence, the lack of posts. Waiting and the distraction of it by keeping busy can take its toll. But then moments like these come along, and provide a space to be vulnerable and yet experience some healing. This is one of those songs when it felt like the Spirit had unzipped my armor and yanked it down around my ankles, leaving my fragile self exposed and yet not broken but somehow stronger for it.

(My husband is standing behind my left shoulder and my oldest daughter in front of him.)

The incandescence of a word

Lemons.
Lemony.
I am a gooey meringue when I read those words.
Golden eggs whipped with cream, sugar,
and zest—voilá, joyous custard.
Bright twist shines
on earthy espresso.
Iced tea slices stuffed
under the skin of chickens,
rosemary, garlic, pats of butter.
Mashed potato clouds in summer.
Pastel light beams in winter.
Sunshine, soft breezes, sky
so blue it almost stings the eye.
Tart and pucker,
squeeze these sour orbs—
they tease for sweetness.
When I smell them
I know something is clean.
Lemons.
Lemony.
Antithesis of despair.
Give me a lemon—
I know I would be happy.


Cynthia E. Robinson © 2013

Lemon Slice on a Wood Block by Abbey Ryan, 2009.  Used with permission.

Gifts overwhelming

Isaiah 40: 1-9; Matthew 2: 1-14




Earlier this week NPR did a story about post-disaster donations, how the desire to help can often overwhelm the very efforts to aid people in distress.  At my home church, Monroe Congregational Church, we've been collecting teddy bears and other huggable friends to give away to children affected by the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School.  Currently we have received over 2000 stuffed animals and more continue to arrive.  A good deal of them have been ferried out to social workers and other professionals who have been counseling these children--Sandy Hook and Newtown students and beyond.  But there are still hundreds hanging out in our fellowship hall, waiting for a place to go and a child to hug them.

When something this horrible happens, we want to do something.  We want to have a positive, tangible effect, make a difference, let someone know that we care deeply and that we hurt for them.  Sometimes, though, the line between someone else's pain and our own can become strangely blurred, our own spirit having not received all the healing it needed when we were the one in distress.  We begin to identify with the other's present sorrow, perhaps convincing ourselves that we 'know their pain'.  Even if our sense of self is healthy, we still cannot bear to imagine the horror of losing one's child to a suicidal gunman.  We want to reach out, open our hands and our hearts in compassion, DO something, anything.

The hard truth to accept is that we can only do so much, ease someone's emptiness and grief only up to a point.  The healing that may or may not come is between a person and their family, their friends, their faith community if they have one, their higher power if they acknowledge one.  We cannot enter that space without invitation, even with the best of intentions.  As a clergyperson, it has been my humble privilege to bear witness in that space and offer what I can.  Sometimes there are words, but more often than not, there are none to be had.  It's an icky place to be, making the flesh of our souls crawl.  Hence, we give to ease our own discomfort as much as to be of service to another.

Last Sunday we honored the story of the magi and their journey.  They too brought overwhelming, extravagant gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.  They too wanted to be a part of something life-shattering, life-altering.  Can the incarnation be anything else?  And before I go any further, I read this story as a story with a purpose, rather than as an event that actually happened.  The gospel writer of Matthew had an agenda: to convince Jewish brothers and sisters and to assure Jewish Christians that Jesus was the fulfillment of messianic hope and prophecy.  So when I speak of the magi, I do so as characters in a story, not as historical figures.

The classic interpretation is that these gifts are representational:  gold for a king, frankincense for a priest, myrrh for anointing before burial.  The outlook is not good for baby Jesus; we all know how this story is going to end.  In fact, according to Matthew, toddler Jesus narrowly escapes death by moving to Egypt with his parents.  The rest of the littles in Bethlehem do not survive, so as to fulfill a gruesome prophecy in Jeremiah, which probably had more to do with Israel's exile in Babylon rather than a paranoid King Herod wreaking revenge over 600 years later.  I don't like 20/20 hindsight because it really isn't clear vision.  As usual, we see what we want to see.  I don't trust life when it shows up in a neat little package because more often than not, it's simply not true.  Life is messy and who knows why things happen the way they do.

But these gifts can still represent something that can give us a way forward, a journey to honor the life-shattering, life-altering events in our lives, whether they be painful or joyful.  These gifts are wastefully extravagant, prodigal in nature.  If anyone is wastefully extravagant, it's God, with all that unconditional love and forgiveness.  These gifts tell us about God, about God-with-us in Jesus and in all of us.

First, gold.  Gold is for today; not for storing up and stashing away but for sharing, for giving, for making the incarnation something real and tangible right where we live.  In the gospel of Matthew Jesus is recorded as saying, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal;²⁰    but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal.²¹   For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."  We can make a little heaven each day by what we do with our treasure.

Second, frankincense.  The basics in life are all about good smells.  Food cooking, bread baking, a fire on a cold night, a bath or hot shower, clean clothes, fresh breath; dark soil, the air right before rain, tomatoes, flowers, clean air.  We all are worthy of these things.  We shouldn't have to earn them.

Third, myrrh.  Unfortunately the meaning of this one doesn't really change.  We're all headed there.  None of us is getting out of this alive.  It's a reminder that we truly only have today.  And none of us deserves an ignominious death.  Imagine if we treated everyone's death the way we have begun to treat birth.

We can honor the painful journey of others by giving the gifts we have to those who need them, who live where we live, as well as those who live halfway around the world, and then send word of what was done in their name.  Light begets light and brightens the darkness, whether close-by or from afar.  Imagine, in your own distress, receiving a letter or email or tweet, that someone else's burden was eased in honor of you.  "Whenever you do this, remember me." 

We would be beacons, signaling that help is coming, love is on its way, and that hope can dispel any dark thought.  It might be a little murky at first.  Light may travel at a head-spinning speed but the darkness arrived first and hunkered down.  Nevertheless, the darkness did not and will not overcome it.  Dawn overwhelms even the longest night.  Arise, shine, for your light has come!

The word for the year is...

Two years ago (yeah, I skipped a year) I chose a word to remember for the 365 days ahead, to keep me on a path, to lead me toward a better self, a word around which to frame my mind and incline my heart.  In 2011 the word was forgive.  And yes, I'm still working on that one.  God, I hope so.

After the horrible, terrible, awful in Newtown, CT (only 9 miles from my home), I had posted this on Facebook:  "Consider this: individual freedom is like the right of way - it's not something we can possess but only yield to others for the sake of living peacefully, cooperatively in community."  Since Dec. 14, 2012 I have been even more disturbed by our seemingly unique American inability to yield, not only as it relates to the second amendment but in any way that infringes on our individuality.

The driving lane one chooses seems to be thought of as personal real estate, rather than something we use temporarily and share with others.

The language we use, even if filled with hate, is protected by the first amendment, so because we can means we should.

We inundate the web with our photos and the minutiae of our lives, yet we think we can still retain and have a right to, some measure of privacy.

We're all about the line, the queue -- God forbid someone cuts in front of us or moves too slowly but please, just let me squeeze in here, it's urgent, I'm having a senior moment, I forgot where I was going, I just have a few things, but I won't allow you the same mercy.

I'm entitled to what I have, I earned it, it's mine.  If you want what I have, work for it.  If you need help, work for it.  Otherwise, you're just a parasite.

If you haven't guessed already, the word for 2013 is yield.  Most of the time, resistance really is futile.  Unless you've been seized by the Borg, most of what we encounter on a day-to-day basis is pretty tame.  The only thing we truly can control is ourselves.  Resisting the idiocyncracies (I spelled it that way on purpose) of others only hardens our arteries and reinforces the cycle of misery, numbing behaviors, and self-loathing.

Ironically we don't resist with any great resolve the actual evil with a capital "E" that surrounds us.  We've yielded quite nicely to it in some ways, thank you very much.  There is always more to do in that department.  Thank God Lent is on its way.  For now, though, I'll stick with softening my heart rather than steeling it, like Kevlar.  I've had enough of that.

Yield, as in compassion, mercy, kindness, and patience.

And of course, yield to God - thy will, not mine, be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Maybe now those neck problems I've been having will go away.

And a child shall lead us

A question is like a small child and should be treated as such:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

 - Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1934)

Thanks and wow

Last night I went to Symphony Space in NYC with my friends Suzanne and Christie to hear Anne Lamott speak about writing and her new book on prayer, Help, Thanks, Wow:  The Three Essential Prayers.  Annie was so sweet she signed every book everyone brought or bought there, plus posed for photos.  You'd think you were over at her house, just having coffee.

Seeing an author in person, for me, is more like seeking confirmation that an author's inner life matches or shines through their outward being.  I once saw Octavia Butler at a booksigning, and when I asked her a question, she made me feel like a bug.  I mean, the woman's genius was off the planet.  But Annie had patience with folks.  (We're in a picture together, so I feel like I can call her Annie now, at least here.)  One woman at a microphone didn't ask a question; she just wanted to thank Annie for inspiring her and giving her the hutzpah to be a writer herself.  Since she didn't have a question to answer, Annie then talked for a spacious 5 -7 minutes about being a writer and some experiences she's had and a good small story.  Annie is really good at the small story with the big spiritual shoe drop at the end.

Another woman who asked a question copped to being clergy.  One my friends who went with me is also a UCC minister.  Made me wish Annie had taken a poll, asked us to raise our hands.  But then I think being called a theologian scares the shit out of her.  She just likes to write about the big questions with her one small life.  Thanks, Anne Lamott, for all your help.  And...wow.

There's a new blog in town...

...for that day when church and I find each other.  Go check it out and tell me what you think.

IrRevRant

And the soul felt its worth

Psalm 146; Mark 12: 38-44

Lordship Community Church, Stratford, CT

November 11, 2012

(Whenever song lyrics appear in my sermons, I sing them.)

Widow's Mite, JesusMafa.com

            This is a story that Jesus could have told alongside the story from Mark’s gospel of the robber baron scribes and the widow’s offering of all she had.  It comes from Calcutta, India, from the Missionaries of Charity and their superior, Mother Theresa.

Unfortunately it was nothing unusual for her, just an entire family in one of the slums of Calcutta that was suffering from malnourishment, nearly on the brink of starvation.  Mother Theresa put some rice into a sack, a few handfuls—all that she could spare—and delivered it to this desperately hungry family.  The mother was so thankful and joyous, she instantly took the bag of rice into their small cooking and living space.  In a few moments she came out with half of the rice in a container and rushed down a small alley.  Puzzled, Mother Theresa called after her, “Where are you going with that rice?”  The poor mother replied, “I know another family who has nothing to eat, who also needs rice.”

            Prosperity and poverty live side by side in Calcutta or Kolkata.  In a city the size of Dublin reside more than 14 million people.  Alongside beautiful historic buildings and its educated middle class, reside the sick and the dying, the starving and destitute outcasts, about 3 million people.  Calcutta has a rich history of religious tolerance, with Hindus, Muslims and Christians living together in community.  Yet even though all three religions advocate for the poor and decry the injustice of poverty, still 80% of those living in slums live on $11 - $37 a month.

            None of us really like to sit through public service announcements picturing the bloated bellies of children or gaunt-faced women breastfeeding a baby, asking for our support.  When we go to a city we try to avoid panhandlers or anyone with a cardboard sign or we give the change jangling in our pockets.  None of us likes guilt; none of us are truly motivated to give more because we may feel guilty about the abundance we enjoy.

            This is not a sermon about guilt and money.  We’ve all heard more than our share of them, and they’re not highly effective at changing our giving habits and money attitudes.  Instead, I’d rather talk about knowing our own worth as a human being, and thus knowing the worth of every other human being on this planet.

            There are two interpretations of this reading from Mark.  The traditional understanding is that Jesus is praising the widow’s religious devotion, for giving all she had to live on, in contrast to the offerings of the rich, who are giving what will not be missed.  The other explanation is that Jesus is lamenting that this poor woman is being taken advantage of by the religious authorities, paying for the expenses of the temple out of an already impoverished pocket.

            I would like to propose a third reading of this passage.  The widow, having no one else, sees herself as connected to a larger, wider family, that of her faith; that in her giving she becomes part of the community, that she too can give, like those around her.  The widow knows her worth as a child of God and gives accordingly.  What Jesus praises is that she knows her own worth, that she has not devalued herself because she is a poor widow.

            When Jesus observes the scribes in their long flowing robes, sitting in the best seats, requiring acknowledgment and respect from others, and saying long prayers just for show, I doubt these scribes saw themselves as connected to the poor, the outcast, to the orphaned and the widowed.  Most people who strut have not only an inflated sense of self but are also fearful and insecure.  They are more likely to be disconnected, lonely, and isolated.  When Jesus says that they will receive the greater condemnation, I interpret that he is saying that not only will they suffer the consequences of their actions and attitudes but they will do so alone—separated and apart from others.

            The great gift of the incarnation, of God with us, is the realization that we are all connected, one to another, and to the earth, to the creation itself.

Long lay the world, in sin and error pining,

‘til he appeared and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

If Jesus is lamenting anything, I think it would be over the rich scribes and others who don’t yet realize that their worth is not dependent on money or influence or power or education but simply that they draw breath.  In the first creation story, when God made human beings and breathed life into them, God declared them good before they had done anything.  When as yet Jesus had not yet begun his ministry but had simply risen out of the waters of baptism, God declared that he was a beloved child.

 

But we human beings tend to size up others based on actions rather than seeing the deeper kinship we share.  Often we put ourselves in the place of God, forgetting that it is God who judges “people and nations by [God’s] righteous will, declared through prophets and apostles.”[1]  It takes a lot of hard work to be able to see all people the way God sees people—as beloved children.  And that is because we don’t yet know our own worth.  We don’t yet see ourselves as precious.  We don’t yet see the hope that God has placed in each and every one of us.

The Son of God lay thus in lowly manger

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our need; our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King, Before Him lowly bend!

Gregory Boyle, a Jesuit priest in Los Angeles, has been working with gang members for the past twenty years through his organization Homeboy Industries.  When they are ready to leave the life of gangbanging, maybe when they get out of jail, maybe when a close friend dies, maybe when they become a mom or a dad for the first time, these young people come to Greg, or G as they call him, for a job in the Homeboy Silkscreen warehouse or the bakery or Homegirl café or in another offsite job that partners with them.  In his book Tattoos on the Heart, Greg describes, in story after story, how these once violent, risky kids begin to see themselves as something other than a life that will end before the age of 25; as something other than a target for a bullet; as something other than a waste of a human being.  They begin to see that their soul has worth.

Homeboy Diner

But then the stories catch us up short, because this young man or that young woman who saw their worth then dies as a result of a stray bullet or one that was meant for them.  Greg has baptized over a thousand gang members and their families but he’s also buried over 160 of them.  Over and over again he is asked the question, and he asks it of himself too:  What’s the point of doing good if this can happen to you?  What’s the point of changing your life if you don’t even get a chance to really live it?  The answer that Greg came to was this:  these gang members were human beings who came to know the truth about themselves and liked what they found there.  He says, “What is death compared to knowing that?  No bullet can pierce it.”[2]  All she had to live on.  And the soul felt its worth.

In the Monroe Congregational Church we say our church covenant as a Body of Christ every Sunday except Communion Sundays when we say the UCC Statement of Faith.  In our covenant we promise ‘all that we are and all that we have, to the fulfillment of God’s kingdom’.  In order to promise all that we are and all that we have we need to know our worth.  And of course it’s a journey that we’re on, a process that we’re engaged in.  I’ve yet to see a member of my church ‘give it all up for Jesus’.

But we don’t come to know our worth on our own.  In Africa it is said that we become a person through other people.  It is through our connections, our relationships, through a sense of belonging that we know our own worth.  The more connected we are, the more engaged we are with others—others of all stripes and not just our own—we begin to see ourselves and others the way God sees us: as something other than abundantly rich or oppressively poor or somewhere in between; as something other than one of the many labels that have been placed on us or that we own with pride; as something other than just an obscure person who can’t make much of a difference.

Do you, Lordship Community Church, know your own worth as a body of Christ?  Do you realize how precious you are in the eyes of God?  How have you experienced the hope that God has placed in you?  How do you connect with the wider church and have a relationship with it? 

When we know the truth about ourselves and like what we find there, we give not out of our abundance what we won’t miss, we put in everything we have--even our hopes, our dreams, our fears--all that we have to live on, to the fulfillment of God’s kin-dom.  We give so that others may know that we are kin to them and they are kin to all of creation.  Death can’t touch it.  No bullet can pierce it.  Love is its name.

Truly He taught us to love one another;

His law is love and His gospel is peace.

Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother;

And in His name all oppression shall cease.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

Let all within us praise His holy name.

Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

Amen.

---

[1] United Church of Christ Statement of Faith, 1981.

[2] Tattoos on the Heart, Gregory Boyle, S.J. New York:  Free Press, 2010.  Pp. 16-17.

Vote!

No matter your political persuasion, make yourself heard and vote!  So many people in other countries either do not have the right to vote or there are numerous obstacles they must overcome in order to do so or their vote is a joke.  We have this right granted to us in the constitution of our nation and in the 15th and 19th amendments.  One of the many things to be thankful for; one important way to bring about change.

This is a video of my friend Kristen Graves singing her original song "Dear Mister".  I hope you enjoy it and share it with others!

The undiscovered country, part 2

Well, another temporary gig is finished without another one in sight...nor an interview for a settled gig.  Usually this leaves me feeling like a spider's silk swinging in the breeze.  Recently, though, I've discovered that this isn't a bad thing.  Have you ever wondered how a spider gets those threads over such a distance?  She spins and spins and spins a very long thread.  Then she waits for a breeze to waft her to a branch, a stem, a leaf, a post--anything that she can land on.  If she can affix her sticky silk to her landing place, then she begins the next anchor thread of her web.  If not, she tries again and again until she sticks.  So here's to me sticking somewhere!

For now I plan to do some volunteering at a couple of places. One is Simply Smiles.  I've done some data entry for them in the past; they probably still need to do more, entering all the volunteers they've had on mission trips over the past 10 years. The other is an outreach ministry at United Church in Bridgeport. This is a church that takes the gospel seriously by ministering to those in their midst. They feed over 200 people a week with a community supper. On Thanksgiving they'll feed over 800 folks! They do afterschool tutoring, ESL education, addiction recovery, children's art program--lots to do and be a part of.

If I am too idle, I am miserable. I like having the freedom of a flexible schedule but I need somewhere to put my energy. To all of you who have been praying for me, many thanks and please keep it up! I'm praying for you too.

The undiscovered country

Psalm 23; Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8; John 14: 1-3

First Church of Christ, UCC, Woodbridge, CT

October 28, 2012 – Reformation Sunday
 

Wheat Field with Reaper and Sun, Vincent Van Gogh

 

 

             For the first time in a long time I am diverging from the lectionary.  Normally I like to receive an assignment from the Holy Spirit:  “Here, preach on this!” and then struggle with what I’m given.  In this way the scripture has a way of working on me even as I am working on the sermon.  In spite of this, the Holy Spirit seemed to have another idea.

 

            Last week I attended the funeral of a long time member of my church in Monroe.  Marie had four sons, one of whom preceded her into God’s glory.  The other three spoke in turn about their loving mother, of how she raised her boys into men who loved their mother, each other and what it means to be a human being in this world.

 

            The three scriptures for today’s worship came from Marie’s service.  As I sat in the pew and read them in the worship bulletin, I saw words and phrases that spoke to me of this church, right now.  “He restoreth my soul.”  “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”  “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”  “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”  “…a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.”  “Do not let your hearts be troubled.  Believe in God, believe also in me.”

 

            And then the sermon title came to me:  “The Undiscovered Country”.  Some of you may recognize this phrase from Shakespeare’s Hamlet.  In his famous soliloquy that begins “To be or not to be”, Hamlet contemplates taking his own life but cannot find the courage to carry through—not because of any fear of divine wrath but because of the great unfathomable unknown that awaits him.

 

“Who would Burdens bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.”

 

(Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1, 76-82)

 

            But those few of you who may be Star Trek fans will recognize the phrase ‘the undiscovered country’ from the sixth movie of the same name, where it refers not to death, but to the future—itself a great unfathomable unknown that awaits us all.
 

 

            There are times we human beings approach the future in the same way we approach death.  Both can make us feel more than just uncomfortable but vulnerable, defenseless.  We’d rather not talk about it but if we do, we do so with some measure of dread.  Some days we do all we can to forestall it.  There are days that thoughts of the future “make us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of”.  We fear it because we don’t know what lies ahead, especially in this ever-changing world.  Yes, we have faith, we have trust in God but in truth we really don’t know.  When the old mapmakers reached the end of the known world, they wrote “beyond here there be dragons”.  No one has traveled to the future or to death and returned to tell us what is there waiting for us.

 

            What we do have is Jesus’ reassurance, that in God’s house there are many rooms and that Jesus goes ahead to prepare a place for us, not only beyond death, but also into our future.  Jesus has gone ahead of us, like a guide building and lighting a bonfire in the distance, so that weary travelers can find him and come to the place that been prepared.

 

Walk with me, Lord

Walk with me

Walk with me, Lord

Walk with me

While I’m on this pilgrim journey

I want Jesus to walk with me

 

 

            Meanwhile we are on our pilgrim journey, looking for those still waters, that promised green pasture in which to lie down just for a while.  We tend to wander off the paths of righteousness from time to time, sometimes stepping off the path just so we can find it anew.  Because it’s not an easy path, is it?  Righteousness isn’t something we come by naturally.  Sometimes we stumble across it like a gift.  Most of the time it comes from perseverance, from striving in our daily living to align our actions with the will of God.  And we need God’s help to do this.  All the time.

 

Hold my hand, Lord

Hold my hand

Hold my hand, Lord

Hold my hand

While I’m on this pilgrim journey

I want Jesus to hold my hand

 

            In order to sit at that table with our enemies that God has prepared, we need God to help us stay at that table, to not leave until both we and our enemy have been fed and satisfied, for that is what God intends.  Rather than God helping those who help themselves (which is not biblical), God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves, even what seems impossible.
 

 

            Even when we cannot imagine the way forward through the valley of the shadow of death, the place has not only been prepared, and the way, but Jesus promises to come again, to take us to where he is, that we may be there also.  Through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, through the surprising grace of the Holy Spirit, God is willing to do whatever it takes to get us to where God is.  God is not yet done with us, for God is still speaking.

 

Be my guide, Lord

Be my guide

Be my guide, Lord

Be my guide

While I’m on this pilgrim journey

I want Jesus to be my guide

 

            But it doesn’t mean we get to walk around Good Friday and the time in the tomb, that valley of death.  Our way to that future that Jesus has prepared leads straight through the way of sorrow.  When Jesus said, “Pick up your cross and follow me”, we knew where he was going but did we really think we were going anywhere else?[1]

 

            There is a season for everything, and seasons mean that there are cycles, ebb and flow, phases of light and darkness that are intended for growth.  And growth includes dying as much as planting, birth, and harvest.  We can’t have one without any of the others.  Jesus said, “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it bears no fruit.”  There is no growth, there is no harvest if the seed does not die.

 

 

We are the Body of Christ, something altogether different from another non-profit or an organization or a club or even a family.  Jesus came to change human lives: to heal, to forgive, to love unconditionally, to show justice, to be fearlessly generous with himself that everyone would know the love of God that has the power to transform us into something new.  It doesn’t mean that the way we are is bad or not good enough but that God is still creating us, shaping us, renewing us because that’s what a Creator does.

 

The purpose of being the Body of Christ is to be Christ in the world:  a living, breathing body doing the work of Christ—healing, forgiving, loving unconditionally, working for justice, being fearlessly generous with ourselves that everyone would know that the love of God has the power to change human lives.  And we are called continually to seek out how to live that purpose in our own lives and in our life together as a community.

 

Joan Chittister, a Benedictine nun and author, writes that “[seeking] depends on the willingness to let God lead us through the deserts of a lifetime, along routes we would not go, into the Promised Land of our own lives.”   How willing are we to be led to that yet undiscovered country called the future?  How healthy is our trust in God?  For surely goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives and we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever, yes?  Then though we may have everything to fear, we have nothing to lose and all to gain.

 

Nobody but you, Lord

Nobody but you

Nobody but you, Lord

Nobody but you

While I’m on this pilgrim journey

Nobody but you, Lord

Nobody but you

 

Amen.

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[1] Thanks to J. Barrett Lee for his reflection, A Growing Church is a Dying Church

Lizz Wright, "Walk With Me, Lord" - live, Soho Revue Bar
 

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