The Language of Hope: Sermon for the 1st Sunday in Advent, year C

At first listen, our gospel today is not exactly a ray of sunshine. There are a lot of words in there that can cause anxiety to rise in our throats: storms and fainting and earthquakes and traps are all mentioned. 

In my childhood, I was repeatedly exposed to preachers and Bible teachers who used scripture like we hear today to try to scare their listeners into accepting Jesus as their Savior out of fear. They ignored the fact that scholars point out that Jesus was describing events that were happening (Roman occupation brought war all over the known world) and that was going to happen upon Jesus’s crucifixion. But what if we heard Jesus acknowledging the pain in this world, and his solidarity with us, beside us, right in the midst of it?

God knows it is hard right now. And then let’s repeat it again: God KNOWS that it is hard right now, but as that saying goes, God is good—all the time. And all the time, God is good.

It does not hurt to have this reminder, as we continue on in pandemic mode if we are wise and loving, as we reject the forces of nihilism that try to overwhelm us and proclaim that their own freedom justifies others’ fear, suffering, and even potential dying.

The Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston is a citizen and elder of the Choctaw Nation, a retired Episcopal bishop of Alaska, former dean of Episcopal Divinity School. Today he published this meditation:

If you are walking a long and difficult path, you may find it worn smooth by the number of others who have had to pass this way before. Sorrow and struggle are not new to our human family. The number of people who have carried heavy loads along this same road are too many to count. You can see the evidence of their passing. You can also feel their presence for in their heavy burden they made their imprint upon the earth. You can feel them watching over you, encouraging you to take the next step. The silent witnesses to our pain walk beside us, the ancestors of our journey lead us to the high ground of hope. Keep going. (Facebook, November 28, 2021) (1)

Here Bishop Charleston hits upon that same thing spoken of reassuringly by St. Paul in Romans 5, and echoed by the authors of the epistles of James (James 1:2-4) and Peter (Peter 1:3-9):

Therefore, since we have been made righteous through his faithfulness,[a] we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. 2 We have access by faith into this grace in which we stand through him, and we boast in the hope of God’s glory. 3 But not only that! We even take pride in our problems, because we know that trouble produces endurance, 4 endurance produces character, and character produces hope. 5 This hope doesn’t put us to shame, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. (Romans 5:1-5, CEB)

Hope is what brings us here.

Today we light the Candle of Hope on the Advent Wreath. It’s no coincidence we then hear our readings today. Unlike what we have been led to believe, they are reading meant to encourage. Meant to remind us that we are never alone.

We live in a time of lengthening shadows. This is LITERALLY true as we approach the winter solstice on December 21 this year. We try to deal with forbearance those around us who, like children, have just decided that they are done with this pandemic and think we can return to the way things were before—just because they say so. But that is not the language of hope. That is the language of denial. And the language of denial is ultimately a language of defeat, because it gives up rather than embraces life in all of its struggles as well as all of its glory. The language of hope acknowledges the now and looks toward the future. The language of hope acknowledges the depth of the anxiety and the suffering around us—and yet clings to the knowledge that there is something better we can grasp onto RIGHT NOW.

Yes, today we light the Candle of Hope on the Advent Wreath and we need to remember that and name it—not just that, but to will ourselves into embracing hope even as the shadows lengthen and obscure the clear sight of the way forward for so many of us through the gathering darkness. I am reminded of a poem by Mary Oliver called “Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness:”

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed. (2)

“The vivacity of what was is married to the vitality of what will be.” And as Christians, we are called to proclaim—especially now—that the love we claim to have for the world, whether in spring or in winter, is true, and eternal, and holds us far more steadfastly than our own faltering attempts, at times.

In the face of all that tells us "NO! There is no hope!" the love we proclaim he's us to instead insist on "Yes" to persevering and proclaiming grace and hope in a world in shadow.

This is the season of Advent. It is a season of anticipation in response to a world that tells us that five seconds to load a web page is an eternity. It is a season of waiting with expectation and zen-like calm in a world that has people literally climbing over each other at the bargain bin, either online or in person, as the marketers scream, “Grab it now before it’s gone!”

Advent is a season of honesty and embracing of the truth that nothing lasts forever. And yet have you ever noticed that the way you change the inflections in those three words can make all the difference? When I was a child, I would mourn the day when all the leaves shook free from the trees this time of year, when the trees would stand barren and the colors on the forest floor would briefly radiate in oranges, reds, and yellows, only to subside to muddy, crackling brown a week later. “Nothing lasts forever,” my dad, who was also no fan of winter, would say, mournfully.

And yet, in spring, I would watch in wonder as the first buds would spring forth into purple coronas and then tiny green hearts all over the Redbuds in Redbud Valley where our Camp Fire group would hike in the spring. Those trees would shake off the constrictions of winter with abandon, and we would watch winter recede right before our eyes, promising a long and luxuriant spring and then the glories of summer. “Ha!” those trees would say to winter. “NOTHING lasts forever!” 

And so those who are resilient, or who want to be, repeat THAT phrase to themselves when they encounter pain, or heartbreak, or loss. Nothing lasts forever—not even this struggle, or this loss, or this tribulation.

Advent is a season of plucking one fallen leaf from the millions of fallen leaves in your back yard and admiring its architecture and fading glorious color rather than being compelled to rake, mulch and dispose of the accumulated mass of fallen foliage. As we look at that leaf, with just a bit of memory we can see the green energy gatherer it once was, and the bud it was before that. If we let it flutter to the ground, we can even see it as eventually joining to the soils to lay down its body in the service of next spring’s new buds, of whom the tree is already dreaming.

In our gospel, Jesus reminds us to do three things: to wait, to look, and to notice. These are always good things to do—but especially when se are not sure we know the way forward. Stop and wait. Look around and really be present in the moment, whether it’s one of joy or pain. Observe closely, and see what is going on all around you and within you at this present moment.

So listen again to what Jesus is telling us. Wait for the signs—of the world descending to sleep so that it can turn again toward light and life. Look at the fig tree and see those promises of spring’s leaves even when the branches are at their barest. Notice that just like the promise of those new leaves are already there, my truth-- and I --am also with you always. And it is there that we can make the turn from being lost to finding a path, from being frozen in place to finding a way forward.

Those three things lead to a fourth. Wait, look, and notice. Then, once you are centered, dare to imagine. Dare to hear the promise of presence and love that walks alongside you even when things are grim, and cold, and dark. It is that same promise that Jeremiah proclaimed in the midst of exile thousands of years ago. It is that same promise that Jesus makes to us yesterday, today, and tomorrow: Nothing lasts forever—nothing but God’s love and devotion to us, wherever we are, in exile or in homecoming, but above all in embracing the beautiful now. Beautiful because God is with us—Emmanuel.

Preached online and in person at the 10:30 am Holy Eucharist at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

• Jeremiah 33:14-16
• 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13
• Luke 21:25-36
• Psalm 25:1-9

Links/Sources:

1) The Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston, post from Facebook, November 28, 2021.

2) Mary Oliver, "Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness," from A Thousand Mornings, 2012

Perceiving the Light Within: Sermon for Transfiguration Sunday

In her lovely book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, the writer Annie Dillard talks about how individuals who had been blinded by cataracts, some from birth, reacted to being given the ability to see when those operations to remove cataracts were first available. For people who had been sighted most of their lives, the operations were miraculous enough. But, as you can imagine, the most shocking was the effect that was visited upon people who had no real memory of sight.

The surgeons found that those blind since birth had no understanding of space and depth perception, no way to name shapes or shadows or tell the difference between them. Instead, they were dazzled by the sheer brightness of the light that now flooded their eyes—vision was more a physically overwhelming sensation rather than a fully functional one of the five senses. Some were filled with delight everywhere they looked. She tells of a girl who sees a tree in a garden and stands before it, transfixed. She takes a hold of it, and at the touch of the leaves and bark names it as a tree, but then refers to it as “The tree with the lights in it.”

Dillard herself seeks to be visually amazed in her perception of the woods and creek near her home, where she walks daily. She seeks particularly to try to untrain her mind for just a moment to see the two-dimensional yet carnival-like swirl of colors and brightness of what is before her described by those with restored vision.

She searches for her own “tree with the lights in it,” what the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins described as kingfishers catching fire, to see beneath the recognition of objects as objects and instead to behold the spark within all creation. Sometimes, she manages the un-knowing of the objects around her until they broke down into their constituent colors and brightness, but only fleetingly, for an instant at a time.

Far more commonly she would look for hours and yet have everything resolve into known categories of flora and fauna. She walked through a peach orchard repeatedly, craving the montage of fruit, leaf, branch, and air to unravel in front of her, to no avail. She admitted:

“I couldn't sustain the illusion of flatness. I've been around for too long. Form is condensed to an internal dance macabre with meaning: I couldn't unpeach the peaches. Nor can I remember ever having seen without understanding; the color patches of infancy are lost. My brain then must have been smooth as any balloon. I'm told I reached for the moon; Many babies do. But the color patches of infancy swelled as meaning filled them; they arrayed themselves in solemn ranks down distance which unrolled and stretched before me like a plane. The moon rocketed away. I live now in a world of shadows that shape and distance color, but world where space makes a kind of terrible sense…. The fluttering patch I saw in my nursery window --silver and green and shapeshifting blue --is gone; a row of Lombardy poplars takes its place, mute, across the lawn.” (Dillard, p. 31)

Finally, one day it happened when she had all but given up after years of effort.

“Then one day I was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was holy fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, not breathless by a powerful glance.” (Dillard, p. 35)

Dillard, in other words, was looking for the spark of the divine that is embedded in and that makes holy everything in creation. Our readings today similarly writhe and swirl with visions and revelations. The veil of our knowing perception is pulled back to reveal that which has not been seen before, and those who witness it are both charged and changed forever. What are we to learn from these stories of the revealing of God’s presence in the world, what is known as a “theophany,” or showing of God?

In both the story of Elijah’s departure from Elisha, and the disciples’ witnessing of the Transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain, we see awe and wonder—but also bewilderment, confusion, and a sense of looming loss. Scholar and teacher Debie Thomas points out that these visions also represent thresholds, changes in the lives of those who witness these events. With each of these epiphanies, something familiar is lost, and what will take its place is shrouded in mystery. It’s only human to be reluctant and resistant at the approach of such transitions in our lives.

As we have moved through the stages of life, our vision and perceptions are changed as well. We resonate to these stories because we know that life itself involves crossing many thresholds.

We are well acquainted with the bittersweet passages of life: there is no new baby without the pain and risk of childbirth and often the vulnerability and risk of relationship for the parents and then the parents and child. There is no creation of a family without eventually letting go of children as they enter adulthood and leave home to make their own ways in the world. Our own parents, who once seemed so invincible and unerring suddenly begin to become dependent upon our help, and it sends a ringing slap of a reminder about our own mortality as well as calling in the loan of care they first invested in us.

It seems we are just get used to one way of relating to each other, and then another season of life comes by and scrambles our understanding of what we thought we see and know, especially about each other.

If we remember the backstory to our reading from 2 Kings, we recall that old Elijah had taken the boy Elisha away from all he had ever known and become his teacher and mentor. Now, in the reading we hear today, all that has become familiar to Elisha in those succeeding years is coming to a close with a final snap, and Elisha is awash in what today we call “anticipatory grief.” How will he go on without the old man’s guidance? We all have been there, as Thomas notes:

Regardless of the particulars, we all know what it's like to get used to one way of being in the world. One way of knowing God, one way of practicing our vocations, one way of relating to our families, one way of doing church, faith, and religion. By the time Elijah's ascension draws near, his student Elisha is well entrenched in finding both his God and his purpose through his mentor. He can't bear the thought of having that safety net ripped away. Who will God become in Elijah's absence? Who will Elisha become, if he is forced to step into spiritual adulthood? If he is forced to evolve?... Elisha saw God's glory, that's for sure. But he also saw a point of no return, and his response was neither gratitude nor joy. He tore his clothes and grieved. (3)

Because Lent moves in the calendar from year to year, the number of Sundays in the season of the Epiphany can change, and due to the way the Christian calendar is set up, there just aren’t that many weeks between Jesus being born as a baby and Jesus moving toward his passion and resurrection. It is traditional to tell the story of the Transfiguration on the Sunday before Lent starts.

In the wisdom of the lectionary, we began the season of Epiphany with the story of Jesus’s baptism in Mark, hearing the voce of God address Jesus and declare to him, “You are my Son, the Beloved….” It is only right and fitting, therefore, that we close out the season after Epiphany with another declaration from God about the identity of Jesus, and with another revelation of God’s glory. It is a bit disconcerting, considering that we spent six weeks covering just the first two pages of Mark’s gospel, and now suddenly we jet to the fulcrum of Mark’s story like we were teleported. Yet we hear those words twice, and are reminded that we are God’s Beloveds, too, and Lent tells us exactly how much God, through Christ, loves us.

The depiction of the Transfiguration is a singular miracle story. Unlike the other ones we’ve heard this year, where Jesus heals or changes others, it is Jesus himself who is the one who appears changed. But is he really changed—or is the veil pulled back from what we mere mortals can tolerate in seeing the glory of God, so that the disciples get a glimpse of Jesus as he REALLY is?

The Transfiguration reveals to us the profound mystery of God’s intimate involvement in confronting the evil that can overshadow too much of human existence. And that’s a truth we need to remind ourselves of repeatedly, as we witness injustice, oppression and falsehood seemingly reign. We have to remind ourselves that God empowers us as children of God to denounce and stand against evil forces in the world, that lie to us and tell us the world is so broken there is no point in trying. There is a reason why Satan is called “the Father of Lies.”

That evil comes about through our need for domination, mastery, and power over others, which is also the source of much of the suffering for the majority of the world’s population. In the reading from 2 Corinthians, Paul reminds us about the things that keep us from seeing the gospel as it really is. Paul points out that if we focus on the “god of this world,” we are unable to perceive to see God in unexpected places, or to see the gospel with clarity and what it requires of us. Instead, our perception is “veiled.” Humans are the ones who have broken our societies, and God gives us the wisdom to fix it. We just need to understand the power within ourselves. That’s another thing the Transfiguration does—it reveals God’s empowerment of us as God’s children.

Perhaps Paul is too generous to make the “god of this world” singular. Power, status, self-righteousness, money, material possessions, fame, greed, entertainment, yes, even violence, as we remember three years since the Parkland Florida school shooting at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School: all of these things we may worship, as we offer them the priority for our attention, our time, and our striving, hoping they make dependence upon God unnecessary.

There are so many gods we focus upon and elevate that we think will take the place in our hearts that belongs to God. And this is especially true in our lives today, with false prophets all around us proclaiming a gospel that seeks to divide and conquer rather than unite and heal. Our perceptions are scrambled.

The story of the Transfiguration recounts a moment when the veil between the visible and the previously invisible is torn away, like the first time you look at a few drops of pond water through a microscope, or at the milky surface of the moon through a telescope. In both cases where once we saw something ordinary, now color and crater and shadow dance before our eyes, and we become aware that those things were there all along—we just didn’t see it.

This is the turning point, midway between Jesus’s baptism and his death. Now he will turn his face toward the cross. On the cross, Jesus will also be between two figures—the two criminals who were crucified with him. On the cross, his claim to be God’s son will be inscribed over him as a form of mockery, for surely the true Son of God would not be hanging on a cross. While he is on the cross, the crowds will wait around to see if Elijah will come to save Jesus. Three of Jesus’s followers will witness his crucifixion, although they will be women (Mary Magdalene, Mary and Salome).

We now turn toward Lent, a wilderness season of our own, where we are led to being transformed ourselves—transformed by our honest admission of our need for repentance, for perceiving the world and ourselves with a new light. During Lent we are called to let go of all that holds us back and prevents us from crossing the threshold of new life that Jesus offers. Yet if we allow this season to open our eyes to new ways of seeing the gospel of Jesus at work even in the face of evil, violence, and death, we will cross over to the other side of death, to resurrection and joyful discipleship, to full maturity, from belief to faith.

As we prepare to enter into Lent, we are encouraged to lean into the creative power of darkness in order to expand our perception. We end the season after Epiphany each year with stories of transfiguration to give us the courage to allow our eyes to adjust to the seeing of who Jesus REALLY is in our lives, much like those disciples who witness his transfiguration in our gospel.

Too often we seem to expect a bearded man, wearing a loose linen tunic, sandals, gorgeously-tressed hair. We fail to perceive him in other guises: the frazzled dad working three jobs to help put food on the table; the teenager hungry for someone to take her under their wing and counter the story she hears at home about being ugly inside and out; the neighbor with whom we have been feuding for so long we no longer remember why; the panhandler on the corner we sneer at for having a cell phone.

But the point of the transfiguration is not to focus on how Jesus has been changed. Rather, what if we looked upon him and realize that the veil has been pulled back: Jesus reveals just a tiny bit of who he really is, and once we perceive that, it is we who have been changed. In a year when even the everyday and commonplace has sometimes become a struggle, we may not perceive the ways in which the Christ-light has been revealed to us, much less within us.

The season of Epiphany is about drawing back the veil and joyfully encouraging us to see God’s presence everywhere and for everyone. Jesus’s transfiguration calls us to embrace our own, so that we ourselves may perceive that that same glory and light resides within each of us. As Jesus transfigures us, he urges us to leave behind the gods of this world. “Come, follow me. Be the light you need to see within the world.”


Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 am online worship service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

• 2 Kings 2:1-12
• 2 Corinthians 4:3-6
• Mark 9:2-9
• Psalm 50:1-6

Citations/Links:

(1) Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, 31.

(2) Ibid., 35.

(3) Debie Thomas, “When Everything Changes,” February 7, 2021, at Journey With Jesus, https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2917-when-everything-changes

Prayer, day 2927

Creator God,
come shine your light through us,
that we may be enlightened
and strengthened in our path through this day. 

Drive far from us all hardness of heart,
and guide us to seek reconciliation and amity. 

Come, Lord,
place your hand of peace
upon those who are in strained relationships,
or are alienated from those who love them.

Come, Jesus,
place your hand of power among us,
that we may work in fellowship with the oppressed. 

Come, Holy Spirit,
and place your hand of healing
upon all who are needful, in mind, body, or spirit
as we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2865: 1st Sunday in Advent

Most Merciful One,

we awaken before You
and offer our thanks and praise
for your hand that has held us
and renews our spirits in hope.

Come, Lord Jesus, come,
banish the curtain of darkness
and drive away the clouds that enshroud us
with the glorious light of your love.

Let all people
from the four winds of the earth
sing praises as we await your coming,
sing praises to the humble Prince of Peace.

Let us be watchful and wakeful
as our Holy One approaches
and seeks entry into our hearts
to guide us in ways of redemption and peace.

Send forth your angels
to spread the canopy of your wisdom over us;
that we may perceive the coming light of God
pierce the lengthening veil of darkness.

By the power of the Holy Spirit,
draw forth within us
budding leaves of faith and expectation,
that we flourish in righteousness and abundant love,
as is your will.

Lead us in the ways of your Word, O God,
and rest your blessing upon all whose hope is in You.


Amen.

Prayer 2596: For the Second Sunday in Lent

God of Light and Life,
we turn our eyes to You
in times of joy and times of anxiety,
for You are our hope and our guide.

We thank You, O Holy One,
for meeting us where we are,
for sitting with us in the darkness
and helping us to open our hearts 
to the full possibility of new life in You. 
Give us strength to step out on the path
our Savior laid before us 
with rejoicing, with humility, with courage,
bearing your light to the world. 

Forgive us for our stumbles and misdirections, 
for times we have been faithless, 
acting out of anger or blind self-interest. 
Help us be reborn through the Spirit, 
that we may be children of hope, 
embodying the love God bears for the world.

Blessed Jesus, draw us within your embrace,
and place your hand of healing upon all we place upon you.

Amen.

Prayer day 2568: Fifth Sunday after Epiphany

Holy One,
Light of Lights,
rise within our hearts
and fill us with your light,
that we may be people of hope.

Help us to lift up those
who are in anxiety, grief, or trouble,
by loving each other
through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Grant us strength for today's labors,
compassion for today's encounters,
and rest within You, O God, at day's end.

Ground us in your mercy, Lord Christ,
and root us in your love,
that we may grow deep in faith and justice.

Gathered in your name, O Savior,
we ask you grant your peace and comfort
to those we remember before You.

Amen.

Prayer, Day 2538

Holy One,
Light of Lights,
rise within our hearts
and fill us with your light,
that we may be people of hope.
Help us to lift up those
who are in anxiety, grief, or trouble,
by loving each other
through the power of the Holy Spirit.
Grant us strength for today's labors,
compassion for today's encounters,
and rest within You, O God, at day's end.
Ground us in your mercy, Lord Christ,
and root us in your love,
that we may grow deep in faith and justice.
Gathered in your name, O Savior,
we ask you grant your peace and comfort
to those we remember before You

Prayer 2534: On Epiphany

Blessed Savior, we come to you in wonder, 
and lay our hearts before You: 
fill them with wisdom and courage
that we may love You boldly
and show forth your glory in our lives.

May we persevere in reflecting your light, Lord Jesus, 
in all we do and say,
by embodying compassion and integrity,
resisting the forces of evil and injustice, 
and serving each other and You in humility and hope.
May both our words and our silences
be ever aligned with building true justice and peace, O Holy One.
May we ever be mindful
as the Body of Christ in the world,
bearing your name
as a sign of our devotion to your gospel, Blessed Jesus,
that we stand with the lost and forgotten as You did, 
and never acquiesce to fear, exploitation, or hatred. 

 May we remember
that we are the children of your Light, O God, 
and called to holiness and love.

May we be forces for healing and reconciliation,
and embrace each other in charity and empathy 
in the name of Our Shepherd and King.

Lord, we ask for your blessing and your grace,
and ask your peace and light to rest upon those 
whose needs we lift before You.

Amen.

Prayer 2528

We lift our hearts to You, 
Mechayeh HaKol, 
O Giver of Life to All: 
through the gates of prayer 
we center ourselves within your light and wisdom,
and draw near to your mercy.

Teach us to treasure your paths
of faithfulness and unity, O Holy One, 
that we may make them our own. 
May we proclaim our fellowship and love of each other 
as a sign of our worship of You, O Light Eternal. 
May we walk together reverently upon the Earth,
and extol your glory revealed in all creation. 

May we seek to heal and repair our communities, 
and restore our respect for our common bonds 
as a testimony to your call to us, O God,
to live in community and companionship with each other. 

Accept our prayers and praises
as we seek to draw closer to You, O Holy One,
and grant your peace and blessing
upon those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2523: On St. Stephen's Day

Most Merciful God, bend near,
and place the balm of your spirit
upon this turbulent world we have made.
Let us hear again your call to live
as children of light, justice, healing, and peace. 

Lord, let us be children of light.
When we stumble blindly
in the storms of sin and destruction,
let us be filled with and reflect
the light of your love.

Let us be for laborers for justice.
Let us seek to not live by the sword,
but by the wisdom and grace of your Word.

Let us be for agents of healing.
Let us seek reconciliation and repentance,
not retribution,
for one wound cannot be healed by another.

Lord, let us be for peace.
Let us unclench the fists of our hearts,
renouncing all that separates us from each other.

Lord, let our cry come to You from our depths
as we pray in your mercy.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2516

Holy One, we lift our hearts to You 
in praise and thanksgiving. 

Envelop us in your light, O God, 
that your radiance may shine through us into the world. 

Make us bearers of your gospel with each step we take, 
and worthy disciples in your Way. 

Purify our hearts of all malice, enmity, or carelessness, 
and forgive us our offenses, 
as well as those done in our name. 

Open our spirits to receive your truth 
as we await the coming of your Son, O Almighty One. 

Bend near to those who call upon you, Merciful God, 
and accept our prayers.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2498

Come, Lord Jesus,
and teach us to follow your path
with humble joy and peace!

Help us to hear your call to transformation,
that we may live by the values proclaimed in your gospel.
Help us stand with the poor and the oppressed,
and bring healing and relief to all who suffer.
Help us learn to live together
in justice and peace for all,
and seek to work alongside each other
for the common good.
Help us worship You
by honoring You and your creation,
not only in our words, but by our deeds.

Holy One,
we are drawn to your light and mercy;
help us to reflect that light and mercy
as your disciples.
United by our hope in God,
Earth-maker, Pain-bearer, Life-Giver,
we ask you send your Spirit upon all who call upon You.

Amen.

Prayer 2283: inspired by 1 John 1:1-10

(inspired by 1 John 1)
Holy God, Light Eternal,
You drive away the darkness that overhangs us
and gather us within your radiant love:
we praise You and bless You, Amen.

Make us a holy fellowship, Lord Christ,
one that seeks out the lost and the hurting
and welcomes all into the circle of light and life,
following your example.

Make us bearers of your light and mercy,
and joyful witnesses of the power of resurrection,
O Creator and Sustainer.

Holy One, we place before you
all those whose peace and well-being has been shattered
by violence and persecution.

Keep watch with those
who worry or weep or mourn, Holy Lord,
and send your angels to minister to those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2220

Holy One,
Light of Lights,
rise within our hearts
and fill us with your light,
that we may be people of hope.
Help us to lift up those
who are in anxiety, grief, or trouble,
by loving each other
through the power of the Holy Spirit.
Grant us strength for today's labors,
compassion for today's encounters,
and rest within You, O God, at day's end.
Ground us in your mercy, Lord Christ,
and root us in your love,
that we may grow deep in faith and justice.
Gathered in your name, O Savior,
we ask you grant your peace and comfort
to those we remember before You.

Amen.

Prayer 2203: Praise song for a Bright Winter Day

As morning light gilds the heavens,
drawing an azure veil over the dancing stars,
we praise you, O God.

As noonday sun makes shadows disappear,
we think of your steadfast love beside us,
through whatever may come,
and we praise you, O God.

Though winter chill abides with us still,
we hear the whispered promise of spring
as the dry branches murmur their secret
of abundant green life rising, surging,
deep within their veins,
and we wonder in awe of your mysteries,
O Lord of Creation.

As evening sets the sky alight,
catching fire to the wingtips of darting sparrows
whose trills of joy stir an echo of hope
even within the winter heart,
we remember your tender care, O Holy One,
your watchful eye on the smallest creature,
and we praise your steadfast lovingkindness.

Even as the shoulder of Earth
turns toward night with a sigh,
like a sleeper settling deeper into dreams,
so we too rest secure, Blessed Savior,
within the bounds of your mercy,
and ask for your healing hand
to rest upon the brow of all for whom we pray
by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

Prayer 2166: Seeking Wisdom

We bow before You, O Creator,
as you shape the stars into patterns
and set them spinning above us to guide us
and draw us into wonder and praise.

Our souls sing out to You, O Savior!
In the cradle of our hearts, dear Jesus,
may we welcome You and make You a home.
Make us seekers of wisdom and truth
lying newborn before us,
that we may grow in compassion and mercy,
and carry the light of your gospel before us.

Refresh our spirits in charity and grace,
and breathe new joy into the embers of our souls,
O Breath of God.
Grant the blessing of your peace and comfort, Lord Christ,
upon all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2139

Night tells its tale to the dawn:
it has gently enveloped us in its velvet embrace,
opening our eyes
to the delicacy of light's filigree from the candle's flame
as our prayers ascend to You, O Creating God.

Almighty One,
we thank you for the darkness which opens our eyes,
reminding us to seek you always,
even when our way seems veiled.

Take us by the hand, Precious Savior,
and lead us deeper into the mysteries of your grace,
for we know our faults,
and yet your mercy continually draws us in.
Accept our repentance, we pray, O Lord.

Let our mouths be filled with praise,
and our hearts with gratitude and tenderness,
that we may serve you in constancy and love.

Pour out your spirit upon the turbulent waters of our souls,
and grant your peace to all who watch or weep, O Holy One,
especially those whose needs we lift before You.

Amen.

Prayer 2134

Joy comes in the morning,
as the Light of Christ illumines the world!
Lead us, O Holy One,
anointing us to your service for your Name's sake.
Make us beacons of hope and trust
in a world too often rent
by division and faithlessness.
Shape us as steadfast servants of your Truth,
that we may give all of our selves--
heart, mind, and soul--
to You.
Draw us into the holy mystery
of your abiding grace and mercy,
that our lives testify to your goodness.
Spread the canopy of your protection and blessing
over the hearts and minds of those who seek You.

Amen.