Empty: Speaking to the Soul, March 30, 2023

 Philippians 2:5-11

Empty of all privilege and power, 
empty of all vanity and puffed up pride 
he arrives not as a great warrior 
astride a mighty war horse. 

Nobodies herald him, 
the collaborators yawn and snicker 
the authorities wave their hands dismissively 
-- for now. 

Empty 
not like the chamber of a gun,
not like a fainthearted suitor pleading his case
not like the scroll of years in a crosscut of a tree,
   rippling concentrically, 
         adamantly, 
                if finitely.
Not like the would-be tyrant’s vise-like grin.

Empty like a ledger wiped clean, 
power ceded so that love is seeded and sown;
empty like cedar branches holding the morning light 
already eons old.

Lord, make us empty 
the way petals unfurl like a fist unclenched 
the way a heart, unburdened, embraces hope 
so that we may stand in solidarity 
   with the least of the least 
   out of love with the stranger 
shedding all that holds us back 
   from embracing the dream of God for all
borne aloft on a rood of love.

--This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 30, 2023.

Watching, Waiting, Hoping: Sermon for Lent 5A

When I was about twelve, we went to San Diego, and my Mom took me to a beach in La Jolla that was a perfect little crescent moon. I had brought a mask along because I loved to look for shells as I swam, since the beach was usually picked over by the hundreds of people who had been there before me. And so the beach where we were was shallow, until it suddenly plunged to about ten feet deep, and that’s where the shells were, down past that plunge. So down I would go, and when I would find a treasure, I would swim back to shore and deposit it on my beach blanket. By the way, this was also about the time that my lifelong bitterness about men’s clothing having pockets when the corresponding attire for women had none was reinforced. It’s an injustice, I tell you!

But I digress. Anyway, back then, I also was really good at holding my breath—just like I am still holding my breath about those pockets. So at one point I was down scrounging along the bottom for shells, and I happened to look up, and noticed the waves rolling over me way over my head. I kind of sat and floated there for a while, watching those waves roll, seemingly inside-out, the play of light and shadow, all the different subtle shades of blue and gray spinning overhead. When I swam back to the surface, I saw my parents standing with a mixture of dread and fury on the beach. I guess I had stayed down there too long. They kept motioning for me to come back to shore, but I am no dummy and so I tried to give them some time to cool off before I got within spanking distance. They had been calling my name while I was down there, but I couldn’t hear them so far underwater. All I could hear was the rolling of the waves overhead—that and my own heartbeat.

The image of the waves rolling over your head is not always an image of comfort, I have to admit. For the ancient Israelites, who were a desert people and NOT a sea-faring people, the ocean was the place of chaos, disorder, danger-- the home of monsters like the Leviathan and that whale that gobbled Jonah up. The apostle Paul claimed to have been shipwrecked more than once during his missionary travels because he knew that would send a shiver down the spines of his audience, and prove how MUCH he had suffered in carrying the gospel all around on that treacherous, salty menace known as the Mediterranean Sea.

A few months after that experience at the beach, I first attended an Episcopal church. One of the things I first noticed when I began attending an Episcopal Church was the Book of Common Prayer. Even though there were Bibles right next to them in the pews (this being Oklahoma, after all, where “Bible Belt” is not just a phrase but a stating of the obvious), a goodly portion of the BCP was taken up with the inclusion of the entire psalter. It drove home to me the beautiful realization that the Psalter is the Prayer Book within the Prayer Book. And so this began a years-long fascination with the Psalter that continued today.

It is amazing what you see if you sit down and look at how the psalms are arranged. When you sit down and read the psalms in the psalter, you notice that often there are pairings within its pages. Psalm 1 and Psalm 2 go together, for instance, likewise Psalm 22 and 23, and also with Psalm 130 with Psalm 131.

Psalm 130 starts with a cry of distress and fear, but reminds us of this precious truth: mercy is part of the fabric of God. Ultimately, both this psalm and our gospel passage are about hearing: Does God hear us? And do we hear God?

Psalm 130 is a cry for help. And so I want you to imagine Martha and Mary praying that psalm as their brother falls ill, and as they send word to their treasured friend, Jesus. They are waiting like watchmen for the morning, certainly. And I believe they prayed this psalm knowing that God hears us and redeems us from death, from the breakers of death and suffering that roll over our heads especially in times of crisis and despair. But we have to be willing to wait, even while we are holding our breath as the waves seem to be crashing over us.

Tom Petty WAS right. The waiting is the hardest part.

That’s why this word is repeated four times at the center of this psalm.

Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.

What we hear in all our readings is the power of God’s voice, and the reminder of what amazing things can happen when we listen to God’s voice directed back at us. Jesus weeps at Lazarus’s grave, just as surely as God weeps alongside us when we despair or feel the waves breaking over our heads. God sees us loves each of us individually enough to speak words to us of forgiveness, of presence, of a new, better restored life to us—if only we will listen, and have faith. God’s voice is the power of resurrection in our own lives, calling us out of the tomb of hopelessness and fear.

The psalter reflects this same assurance. Take a look. Turn in your Books of Common Prayer to Psalm 131 later and see. Psalm 131 comes from a place of calm and security—the psalmist even goes so far as to envision themselves as a child upon its mother’s breast—one of the most obviously maternal images for God in the entire Bible. Where Psalm 130 begins with a cry as the waters rise over our heads, even by verse 3 we are reminded of the forgiveness that is intrinsic to God’s relationship with us and God’s self-disclosure to us.

If you consider the two psalms together, you will notice that Psalm 130 begins with the author’s own personal experience of anxiety and plea to God, followed by a reminder to himself of God’s justice and compassion, even though the word “feared” is used at the end of v. 3. In v. 4, the psalmist has moved to hope through verse 5. You can hear with wistful longing when the psalmist speaks of “my soul waits upon the Lord, more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.”

The idea of “waiting upon the Lord” is one that I think especially resonates in this time of pandemic, anxiety, and fear. In Psalms for a Pilgrim People, Anglican priest Jim Cotter, whose work also was included in the beautiful New Zealand Prayer Book, rendered the psalms in verse. Psalm 130 was entitled “Watching and Waiting:”

Dare I enter the dark?

Empty, exhausted, and ravaged,
in the depths of despair I writhe.
Anguished and afflicted, terribly alone,
I trudge a bleak wasteland, devoid of all love.

In the echoing abyss I call out:
no God of Compassion hears my voice.
Yet still I pray, Open your heart,
for my tears well up within me.

If you keep account of all that drags me down,
there is no way I can ever stand firm.
Paralyzed and powerless, I topple over,
bound by the evil I hate.

But with you is forgiveness and grace,
there is nothing I can give - it seems like a death.
The power of your love is so awesome:
I am terrified by your freeing embrace.

Drawn from the murky deeps by a fishhook,
I shout to the air that will kill me:
must I leave behind all that I cherish
before I can truly breathe free?

Suspended between one world and the next,
I waited for you, my God.
Apprehension and hope struggled within me,
I waited, I longed for your word.

As a watchman waits for the morning,
through the darkest and coldest of nights,
more even than the watchman who peers through the gloom,
I hope for the dawn, I yearn for the light.

You will fulfill your promise to bring me alive,
overflowing with generous love.
You will free me from the grip of evil,
O God of mercy and compassion.

Touching and healing the whole of my being,
you are a God whose reach has no limit.
All that has been lost will one day be found:
the communion of the rescued will rejoice in your name. (1) 

This psalm, which begins “out of the depths,” is also ironically what is called “a psalm of ascents.” These were chanted by pilgrims as they climbed the steps to the Temple in Jerusalem. And fittingly, the movement starts from a low place and ends on a high place. We *may* be in the deep, with the water over our heads, but God is near, hears us, forgives us because God treasures each of us, and accompanies us.

The structure of the psalm is much like a liturgy: v. 1 is the invocation, vv. 2-3 are a confession and absolution. It is at verse 2 that we are reminded that God watches us, including “taking note of what is done amiss.” The absolution in v. 3 ends with the unfortunate choice of the word “feared” used in its original sense that we have completely lost. “Feared” in this context originally meant evoking a feeling of respect and awe. In vv. 4-5 we center ourselves in the presence of God, as in the heart of the liturgy—if we are really paying attention, if we are here not just to check off a box but to worship and praise. A watchman looks for morning because his shift on the fortifications is then done, the danger that lurks in the night is now driven back by the light of day, and the watchman anticipates home and bed after a job well done. In vv. 6-7, we too turn for home—not as individuals, but as a community that has just shared communion and reminded ourselves of our bonds with one another and with Christ. We leave, assured of God’s care for each of us and presence alongside us, offering us renewed and restored life sustained by faith.

Three things reside “with” Yahweh: forgiveness (v. 3), steadfast love (chesed, translated here as “plenteous redemption” in v. 7), and the power of redemption, also in v. 7. Redemption is a word we seem to skim over and take for granted in our worship and in our understanding of God’s forgiveness, so it bears emphasizing: to be redeemed is to be reclaimed, ransomed, restored to wholeness and home. It is to be a captive who has been freed from captivity—in this case, the captivity to sin to which we all are prone when left to our own desires and devices. These three qualities that dwell with God demand an ethical response from us, as we acknowledge and give abundant thanks for God’s redemption and restoration of us to new life.

First, we give thanks when we truly worship with our hearts and allow that worship to transform how we live in the world. That is what we are here for in the first place, after all. Second we share that gift of forgiveness and reconciliation with those we encounter rather than judging them, condemning them, or targeting them. I am convinced that right there is a word that needs to be preached to those struggling for power and control in our common life together outside these walls. As the writer Anne Lamott famously remarked, you can be pretty certain you have created God in your own image when God hates all the same people you do.

God not only hears us, God calls us to be honest that here are times when the waves crashing over our heads are waves of our own fashioning, as we fall subject to the temptation of sin—when we act hatefully toward marginalized groups in our society—or just remain silent as the powerful in the world perpetuate injustice and hatred in our names. So God calls us to listen for God’s voice of resurrection and redemption in our own lives—to listen, and to be formed and shaped by the ethic of abundant love, abundant life, and abundant grace that we ourselves receive.

When we hear that voice of forgiveness of resurrection, we can then feel the power of God’s loving call to us in everything we do, and we can then embrace the pure joy of Psalm 131. I share again Jim Cotter’s beautiful interpretation of Psalm 131, which he entitled “Calm and Contentment:”

Dear God, my heart is not proud,
nor are my eyes haughty.
I do not busy myself in great matters,
nor in what is beyond me.

I am glad I depend upon my neighbour,
I make no great claims of my own;
Sealed off by myself I would never know gifts,
never know the bonding of trust.

I have calmed in quiet and my whole being,
I am like a child contented at the mother's breast,
in the stillness I look into the eyes of my lover,
I am absorbed in the task of the moment.

It is like the silence of an evening in spring,
made intense by the bleat of a lamb.
It is like the waves of the sea come to rest,
no more than a whisper in the caress of the shore.

The silence and stillness lift the woodsmoke of prayer,
a song of quiet gratitude wafting it high.
Aware of descendants an ancestors with us,
we join the soft chorus of praise. (2)

Listen carefully. We are those dry bones, being restored to new hope and new life at just the word of God being spoken over us. We ARE Lazarus, beloved so much that Jesus weeps over us, drawing us forward in response to the loving call to us from the grave of our own fears and prejudices.

God’s dream for us is resurrection, redemption, and abundant life. All these things are there for us. All we have to do is listen. Listen, and come forth out of the tomb, our of the depths.

Preached at the 505 on March 25 and at the 10:30 Eucharist on March 26, 2023 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

Ezekiel 37:1-14

Psalm 130

Romans 8:6-11

John 11:1-45

Citations:

1 and 2) Jim Cotter, Psalms for a Pilgrim People, kindle edition.

Lazarus Unbound: Speaking to the Soul March 23, 2023

John 11:1-45

To the sound of distant weeping I exited:
“Eleazar, Eleazar,” my sisters cried
but the keen came as if from the bottom of a well,
recessing like a long, slow tide; fevered rasp
of buzzing insects in the sick room;
and my scroll was torn in half with what I thought
was finality.

All was still. I rose and spun
and I cooled like a stone skipped into a river
pain and broken body shrugged off, a spent husk:

At this point of the page I resume:
I had shed this tomb of a body and rolled back the stone.
In golden sunlight, walking under a canopy
of lupine-blue sky, hands at waist facing forward, fingers open
as bobbing seas of wildflowers
- anemones and poppies, rockrose, Aaron’s rod-
weave their stems around my wrists,
and I absorb the honeyed petrichor of a desert in bloom,
murmuration of sparrows from a wadi nearby

swallows swooping from the tops of locust trees.
The difference between a field and a wasteland is in the flowers.
All was rest. All was God. All was peace.

A kaleidoscope of colors and I am jerked back
by the voice of love, insistent.
From the depths he called me to rising with a voice tear-choked.
Then the longed-for renewal of breath back into a body
now stretched like a new wineskin across my soul.
I am a somnambulist, stumbling pale in my shroud
toward an aperture so bright all was white beyond,
heart pounding like a child’s eager fist at a door.



--Leslie Barnes Scoopmire, March 22, 2023


This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 23, 2023.

Scripture Reference: John 11:1-45, Lent 5A

Image: Jose Luis Castrillo, The Resurrection of Lazarus

Refreshment: Speaking to the Soul, March 9, 2023

John4: 5-42

Lenten violet and white papel picado flutter overhead,
the bougainvillea blooms sprawl
over the crisp white tablecloths,
altars beneath the warming Oaxacan sun.

Come, be refreshed. Offer up your cup
from stall to stall, a feast amidst fast
for stranger or friend, all receive refreshment:
Agua frescas, jamaica, tamarindo, chilacoyata, horchatas,
tejate brimming from clay bowls
on the Dia de la Samaritana.
The Pacific air is redolent and vibrant
with chocolate, sugar,
sunlight and music.

Remembering the heat of another noonday sun,
in Samaria, scorned for its mongrel faith,
sprawled between the boundaries
of Jerusalem’s industrialized religion
and Galilee with its olives and figs,
crocus and anemone,
cyclamen nodding from rocky crevices.
His face was turned toward home.

He did not seek more contention
or midnight visitors brimming
with questions. He sought
a shortcut. The route
should have been along seashore or river bank,
but God so loved the world,
and the world begins
within the hostilities in Samaria,
beyond boundaries of belief,
or the scorn of gender
or judgment and prejudice.

Photina sought to retrieve her water
when the gossiping tongues remained at home,
the heat of the sun less bitter,
her footsteps slowing as she took in
the shimmering shape of the dusty traveler
seated despite the noonday heat.
Only her need overcame her wariness. But
despite all differences,
he did not judge her but loved her,
stripping away all the rumors that clung to her,
and seeing a disciple instead.

Through her refreshed perception
she was emboldened to witness;
by calling her to tend his humanity--
his weariness, his thirst, his hunger,
and seeing hers--
the disillusionment, the contempt she bore
even among her kindred, the
burden of abandonment and scorn
but also the strength of mind and heart to dare.
His words provoke and promise,
testimony received and boldly proclaimed
to her and to us.

Nicodemus saw he was from God,
but Photina saw he was Savior.

Come, be refreshed.
Let down your bucket within your heart
to receive the living water of joy,
faith and hope--
a wellspring of witness.

Come be refreshed and restored,
stranger or friend,
by the love that was always within you
from the Maker’s handiwork
and seal upon your soul.

It is only those who have need of Jesus
who hear the hope of the invitation,
who receive the offered cup of fresh water
of God’s kingdom.


Note: the Oaxacan festival of the Dia de la Samaritana will be March 17 this year.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 9, 2023.

Where the Wind Blows: Speaking to the Soul March 2, 2023

Abraham, back when 

he was just two syllable Abram
heard the voice of God
from within his soul
speak so convincingly that even
as his molars still
rattled from the conversation,
he packed up
wife and cattle and nephew
and headed to an unknown land.
In doing so
he left behind
all he had ever known.

I am a good man,
admired, respected,
a leader.
So through the anonymity
of dark-veiled streets
I went, seeking answers,
overflowing with questions.

I started with oil:
Rabbi, we know
that you were sent by God.
He blinked up.

And to be fair,
I did barge in
in the middle of the night.

There were signs.
But I wanted answers.
Instead I got riddles.
And he left me here.

To be brave enough
to let go of our “certainties”
—which are often just opinions
wrapped up in fear
and cynicism.
“The wind blows
where it chooses.”
And I hear leaves
rattling down the narrow alleys

I took my questions to Jesus.
The answer took me
someplace unexpected.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 2, 2023.

Being Human, Being Humble: Sermon for 1 Lent A

The first thing I notice when I read these passages every three years on the first Sunday of Lent is a comforting reminder that seems especially appropriate for our current age: even snakes and the devil can quote scripture at you and make it seem persuasive. That’s something that we can really hold on to in this time, as we see religion being used as an excuse for hatred, division, and greed run amok in our common lives together. I think that insight lying right under our noses this week can provide a lot of clarity.

But when I look deeper, there is a question that underlies the readings we heard today, and it is a question as old as time. From the birth of philosophy, one of the ultimate questions is “what does it mean to be human?” Regarding unique human characteristics that separate us from other animals, and from the rest of creation. What makes humans unique? It certainly isn’t strength, or speed, or agility—other creatures have us beat on all of those fronts. And the answers have been varied.

Reason, some proclaimed—and then we learned that dolphins, ants, and chimpanzees problem-solve and use tools. Language, others proclaimed—and then were learned about whale song and Koko the gorilla learning sign language. Memory, others suggested—and then we hear stories of elephants grieving their deceased kin, even years afterward, and loyal dogs returning to their family home after years of being lost thousands of miles away. Some claim that only humans have souls—but that takes us down another rabbit hole again, since you can’t prove the existence of a soul in ANYTHING.

Some people try to deny the humanity in others for their own benefit. In the 15th century, the Church debated whether indigenous people had souls, and were therefore human (they decided yes, but also decided that converting them justified treating them as disposable, so long as their souls were saved). At about the same time, slavery was brought to the Western hemisphere with a claim that those enslaved were less than human—about 3/5 of one. In the 20th century, Nazis famously denied the humanity of Jews, using a German term for them that translates to “beneath human.” Some people even today deny the humanity of immigrants, or of people merely suspected of crimes, much less of actual convicted criminals, and use that denial of these “othered” groups as fully human to justify denying them their rights to life, liberty, and property in one guise or another.

Rather than ever thinking we have the right to deny the humanity of others, we would do better to work on living into the humanity placed within ourselves. What does it mean to be a human? What experiences do our mammal bodies all share? We are born, we breathe, and almost immediately we get confused or scared at all the sensations short-circuiting our newly-minted minds. We cry out, we move clumsily, we seek nourishment and warmth and security. We seek companionship, love, and nurture. We listen for the familiar voices of our parents, for the people who teach us and guide us.

Along the way of growing up, which is a journey we all must take, we will encounter marvels and misadventures, times of play and times of trial. All of these experiences combine together to form us as young people. But it is the MEANING we make of our experiences—the narratives that we understand as running like a river through our lives and tying all that we have seen and learned and experienced together that makes us truly human. It is the stories we tell—the spark of imagination that ties us to being made in the image of the One who Created the Universe—that is one of the things that truly makes us human.

We hear two well-known stories in our readings today about the quest to understand what being human looks like. We hear two famous stories of the temptation. From the earliest collected scripture we hear of Adam and Eve being tempted in the Garden of Eden—and falling to that temptation. In our gospel passage, Jesus has just been baptized in the river Jordan. He was begun a new phase in his life. He is going to begin his ministry. And like all great religious leaders in scripture, he has to be centered in his heart, his mind, his body. Therefore he heads out into the wilderness, where he practices mastery over his mind and body with 40 days of fasting and tempting, seeking clarity, a vision to guide his ministry. Unlike Adam and Eve, Jesus will emerge triumphant over temptation.

Episcopal bishop and Choctaw elder the Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston describes Jesus’s experience in the wilderness as a traditional indigenous vision quest. The purpose of the vision quest was to receive a vision, and that vision was meant to be a blessing for one’s community. The quest would end with a vision that the seeker would bring back home for the help of his or her people. It would end with a narrative or insight that would provide guidance and benefit for all. In Indigenous wisdom, being human meant being willing to sacrifice for the well-being of those in your community, and to put wisdom and contemplation first in seeking a way through a challenge.

But being human is also being fallible. We can use our stories to tell truths about ourselves—or to justify wrongs we have done. Anyone who has ever raised a middle schooler has experienced that. Our readings this week seem to be pointing us toward consideration of one thing that humans definitely are really good at—and that is the subject of justifying ourselves when we serve our own interests at the expense of others.

We seem to always get off track, beloveds, when we overlook the fallibility part, and deny the responsibility part of being human in favor of the argument from exceptionalism that confers more rights on whoever we define as “us” versus whoever we define as “them.” When we define being human as something that makes us exceptional, that’s a dangerous endeavor, because it inevitably leads us to trying to justify selfishness and injustice. When we decide that we can depend more upon our own resources than trusting in God, that’s where we go wrong. Every time.

The story of Adam and Eve is at the beginning of scripture for a reason, after all. This story begins with the reminder that God had given Adam and Eve everything they needed for survival—and yet they were driven to try to take something that God said was not meant for them. I love the fact that the ancient people who first told the stories in the Torah start right out with admitting that when it comes to temptation, we humans have almost never met one we didn’t like. It’s like that great saying, “Opportunity may only knock once, but temptation leans on the doorbell.”

The temptation of Adam and Eve—and Jesus-- started out with a discussion of food, there through God’s providence—but it’s really about seeking power to free us from dependence upon God. It’s about being humble. Likewise, in the first two temptations Jesus faces after those 40 days in the wilderness, the devil tries to get Jesus to turn his back on God’s providence, and use his power for himself. The first two temptations try to play up to what in anyone else would be human vanity— “Hey! You’re God’s son! The rules don’t apply to you, and what can it hurt?” The first two try to lead Jesus from obedience to God by setting himself up over God. The third temptation drops all pretense and nakedly reveals the agenda: “Abandon God, worship me, and I will give you the world, since it’s mine.” He’s lying, of course. The world doesn’t belong to Satan—unless we hand him the keys. Ultimately, what Satan tries to tempt Jesus to do is to abandon his humanity—the point of his incarnation in the first place-- and exploit his power as the Son of God to rely upon himself over God.

And that, my friends, right there, might be the greatest temptation facing humanity in our time. We have convinced ourselves we do not need God—well, maybe to get ourselves out of hell, but after that God can just become a convenient proxy for our own worst impulses. We have convinced ourselves that we do not need to live by God’s word, or honor God’s creation upon which we depend, or limit indulging ourselves in any way, even if that hurts or endangers others or this planet. We have forgotten to be humble before God, and each other.

What we see here in looking at the parallels between our Genesis reading and the temptation of Jesus here is that the “original” sin has nothing to do with sex. It has to do with not trusting God to guide us in ways that maximize our own flourishing—being arrogant and humble enough to believe that we can do whatever we want, regardless of whom that might hurt. It’s about not trusting God’s urging for our lives to be ones of compassion, empathy, and humility in which we work for the common good. It has to do with putting the trust and faith that we should have in God in ourselves and our own judgment—even as we know that our judgment is often tainted by fear, anxiety, and feelings of scarcity.

One of the blessings of Lent is that it is a time to address our fears and free ourselves from them, by realizing that no matter what we are going through, God has gone through it. too, especially in the passion and execution of Jesus at the hands of the evil humans can create and justify when they believe themselves the ultimate authority on Earth. A time like right now.

But this time—this Lenten season especially—is a gift given to us, to confront our fears and overcome them. A theme for sermons during Lent this year could be “Fearless.” Jesus fearlessly faces his time in the wilderness because he has been led by the Spirit into the wilderness as God’s beloved Son, for the express purpose of being tested. Jesus is fearless and bold in the face of the devil’s temptation because he knows who he is, and he knows that God is with him. His ultimate trust in God means that he can’t be tested away from his faith or his obedience to the will of the Father. He is secure within the love of God. We are tempted to sin when we are afraid— afraid that we are alone in the world, despite all the promises of God that God is always with us.

If Jesus’s forty days in the wilderness is a time of self-creation, a time for Jesus to decide who he is and how he will live out his calling, then consider carefully what the Son of God chooses: deprivation over ease. Vulnerability over rescue. Obscurity over honor. At every instance in which he can reach for the certain, the extraordinary, and the miraculous, he reaches instead for the precarious, the quiet, and the mundane.

We often describe Lent as a journey, as a time of testing. May it be so: a time for us to purify ourselves and clarify our minds, to be reminded that we are called into community with each other for the blessing of the world. A time to humbly remember that what makes us human is NOT our independent streak, but our ability to trust in God and care for each other.

Amen.

Preached at the 505 on February 25 and at the 10:30 Holy Eucharist on February 26, 2023 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7

Psalm 32

Romans 5:12-19

Matthew 4:1-11

Citations:

Steven Charleston, The Four Vision Quests of Jesus, pp. 22-25.

Marked By Love: Speaking to the Soul February 23, 2023

Ashes to tie us to dust,
the alleged poverty of too brief time on Earth,
but instead proclaims our kinship
with the flaring symphony of stars overhead,

The fragrant oil graves the ash upon each forehead,
and answers the ash’s challenge
with a proclamation of being chosen and beloved,
entrusted as heirs of God’s promised lovingkindness.

Then the cross,
the shape of love that never gives up,
drawn into the tender and wide open embrace
of the One, who proclaims with generous grace
that Love
always
wins.

Emptiness isn’t poverty,
but the ability to make room for something better,
hallowing and honoring us
by reminding us of our unity
with all of creation borne tenderly by God.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on February 23, 2023.

Prayer 2628: Maundy Thursday in time of COVID-19

Photo from 2019; this year COVID-19 will prevent us from worshiping in person.

Lord Jesus,
you taught us
that to serve others
is the greatest way to love and serve God:
help us also accept the honor
of being cared for with grace.

May we be fed and filled
by serving and being served,
and feel your tender hands
take hold of our feet, and our hearts.

Holy One,
help us shed our fear of being vulnerable,
that we may love You and each other fully,
and be healed by love ourselves.

Help us to join hand and hearts
in the true spirit of thy Holy Communion, Lord,
no matter how the space between us is measured,
to be strengthened and united,
giving thanks to You
and interceding for the entire world and its cares.

Bless those for whom we pray,
O Merciful One,
and pour your comfort like a balm over them.

Amen.

Prayer 2627: Wednesday in Holy Week

Blessed Jesus,
bend near,
and grant us your healing,
that we may dedicate ourselves
to following in your footsteps
as the world cries out Hosanna!

Save us, O Lord,
from hardness of heart,
and awaken us unto our common humanity 
and our dependence upon all your wondrous creation.

May we link hands and hearts
with courage, charity, and faithfulness
against those who would divide us
through fear, greed, and want;
may we instead empower love in our lives
and be the hands of Christ in a hurting world.

Merciful One, kindle a spirit of service within us,
and bless and comfort all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2626: Tuesday of Holy Week

Lord Jesus Christ,
we worship you and praise you,
grateful for your tender compassion in our lives.

May we make our hearts gentle,
reshaped by the power of your grace and mercy,
that we may testify to your truth, O Lord and Savior.

May we resolutely resist the lies of this age,
O God of Truth,
nor take advantage of others in the name of profit.
May we cast off the works of darkness and deceit,
and live instead with integrity and holiness,
that we may be a fit habitation for Christ.

Bend near, O Holy Spirit,
and bring us to new life in God,
and grant your blessing upon those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2625: Monday of Holy Week

Almighty God,
we give you thanks for this day,
and turn to you for strength and guidance
as we seek to be your hands and heart in the world.

We confess to you our sins and offenses:
forgive, O God of Mercy,
that we may make recompense to those we've wronged,
and be guided instead by charity and kindness.

Help us embody compassion and reassurance,
and be the healing hands of Jesus
to those who are anxious, isolated, or afraid.
Lead us, O Savior, into solidarity and empathy,
and place our common welfare
at the center of all we do. 

Spirit of God, inspire us;
make us beacons of love and hope
and a priestly people in a hurting world.
Grant the balm of your peace and comfort
on all who turn to You, O God of All,
especially those whom we now name.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2623

Be among us, Lord Jesus,
as we make our prayers to You.

Be among us, O Almighty One,
as we meditate upon your Word
and remember your saving help.
Be among us, O Spirit of Truth,
to guide our hearts, minds, and souls
and make them holy offerings to our God.
Be among us, O God,
as storms rage without and within,
and lead us to safety and reconciliation.

May peace, justice, compassion, and love reign
in our lives today, O Merciful One.
May we embody God's grace in our words and deeds,
and testify always to your mercy and care as we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2622: Based on Psalm 23

Let me give thanks and praise to God,
my shepherd and provider,
who claims me and unfailingly loves me as God’s own. 
I lay all my trust at the feet of the Almighty,
Lover and Seeker of my soul. 

God leads me into verdant, abundant pastures
filled with all I need, and gives me rest and security. 
God restores and refreshes my soul,
tending and guarding my inmost being. 
My Shepherd sees my weariness, and lifts me up;
guiding me in right pathways,
that I bring honor to God’s Name. 

God, You shield me with your strength and vigilance;
may I always remain at your side. 
No matter what terrors or trials approach me,
I am not afraid 
for You, 
Emmanuel, 
are with me, even if death overhangs me. 

O God, You provide for me plentifully and exalt me,
even as my enemies look on,
helpless to harm me. 
You have consecrated me
and blessed me abundantly,
and the cup of my blessings overflows
like a spring in the desert. 

O God, your promise to love me
envelops me in goodness and mercy,
following me as my companions throughout my life. 
I am secure in God’s arms,
and my home is with you forever,
even into eternity.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2621

Our praises rise before you,
O God Most High;
Our prayers rise unto You,
O Redeemer, Our Lord Jesus Christ;
Our fears we lay before you,
O Holy and Eternal Abba, Father and Mother.

Our hopes we breathe in from your Eternal Love,
O Savior;
Our resilience we draw from you,
Abiding Holy Spirit,
who lifts us and prepares us for our work in your kingdom today.

O Creator,
we turn into your embrace for solace and strength,
and lay before you those needs for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2620: Inspired by Matthew 19:13-14

Lord, night is over, 
and we give thanks to You for the gift of this new day: 
may we use it for the bold proclamation of your love. 

Blessed Jesus,
with loving hands and compassionate heart
you welcomed the little children to come to you: 
you rebuked your disciples for their hardness of heart. 
Help us to unstop our ears
that we hear the cries of the little children in our midst, 
crying out from detention for mothers and fathers, 
seeking food for their hunger in a land of plenty. 
Awaken us to their cries, Lord Christ, 
and let our silence not condemn us. 

May we thus live into the wisdom and compassion 
that are the foundation of your path, 
that our souls may flourish within You, 
O God of Salvation. 

Spirit of the Living God, 
who sustains us by mercy and upholds us by grace, 
hallow us to the service of God today, 
and pour out your blessing upon those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2619: Nurtured by God

O Nurturing One,
You are our Light and our Dwelling:
accept our praise and our homage this day.

May we be kind and virtuous in our path today,
that we may be vessels of your truth, O God.
May we pattern our steps
to reveal your generous grace, Lord Christ,
to allow it to work within our souls
and lead us to compassion and integrity.
May we walk mindfully and gently
upon this greening earth,
and in grateful companionship with each other.

God of Mercy,
bless the hands that heal,
and strengthen the hearts that soothe
all those who are in pain, illness, or anxiety.

O Ground of Our Being,
root us in your love and strengthen us in hope,
that we may serve you with devotion and gratitude.
Pour out your blessing over all who seek You,
and give light to the hearts of those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2618

Almighty God,
who holds creation within your protective hand,
we lay our hearts at your feet,
and give thanks for your abundant blessing.

Lord Jesus,
teach us to be humble in spirit
and open-hearted in our dealings with each other,
welcoming each other as children of God.
Make us ardent
in our pursuit of virtue and integrity,
O Shepherd of Our Souls,
and gentle and loving as we walk our paths today.
Make us steadfast in faith, Beloved One,
and committed to the flourishing of all,
defending the vulnerable and empowering the oppressed.

May we welcome the power
of the Holy Spirit into our lives,
that we may seek out the path of justice and peace.
God of Mercy, lead us into the Way of Love,
and grant your peace to those for whom we pray.

Amen.