God Our Refuge: Speaking to the Soul May 4, 2023

(inspired by Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16)

In You, O God, do we take refuge:
our trust is in You as we cry out in distress.
Even when the darkness surrounds us,
when walls close in upon us,
You are our mighty fortress.
Preserve us within the storms of life,
for though the tempest rages about us,
You are our God.
Mighty winds may blow and howl,
but You,
O God,
are our rock of refuge and stronghold to keep us safe.
For You take heed of our souls’ distress
and will never give us up to the power of darkness and despair.
We rest in the hands of the Almighty:
we rejoice in your mercy and lovingkindness.
Watch over your children, we pray,
and embrace those who rest within You.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 4, 2023.

A Fortress Not of Stone

Psalm 27:1, 5-13

Into your courts, O Most Holy,
we come bearing our weights and burdens,
to cross the threshold and breathe in the cool air
redolent with tallow, incense, wood soap,

dust motes set ablaze and twirling
by colored grass and the breath of prayer–
a humble little church, carpet threadbare
from the tread of feet drawn to your radiance.

Your house, O God—
made not of stone or plaster,
but lyric of the human heart,
a refuge from all that assails
when we see beyond the skin that divides us
to the image of eternity with each one..

Here I see You, O redeemer,
in the beauty of your living temple:
in the sticky face of a child playing in the pew,
looking up to say “Amen;”
in the young woman whose very step across the threshold
is an act of bravery and resistance
to the pains yoked to her against her will
by those who thought themselves God’s anointed, praying
that this day she will be reminded of her beauty carved by your love;
the mother who has prays for her son awaiting diagnosis,
the young man whose job hangs by a thread,
the elderly father whose children do not call.

You call us to embrace of each other- that is your church.
To sing for those who breath is tight,
to welcome those seeking shelter,
to embody grace for the bowed down,
to flare with hope and tenderness for those casting off their burdens.
made free by your mercy.
In resting on each other,
we rest in You.
This is a fortress not of stone,
but of being a people for others.

You, God, are our sheltering fortress,
rock and refuge,
our dwelling place for all our days,
shelter in storm and trouble
made visible in the peace that we share.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on January 19, 2023.

Last Day of Summer: Speaking to the Soul, September 22, 2022

Yours is the day, yours also the night;

    you established the luminaries and the sun.

You have fixed all the bounds of the earth;

    you made summer and winter.

— Psalm 74:16-17

It is time to gather
the green tomatoes,
even as the day and night are at equinox.
Gourds lie drunkenly in the fields.
The crows exult in thuggery
as they hog the birdfeeders, the jays
cursing them with frat-boy fluency.
Strange migrants, Nashville warblers, phoebes, and vireos,
belly up like tourists in a foreign pub,
nervously observing the commotion,
in the basement of the pecking order.

Whether you call it
haying season
or hay-fever season
reveals your real relationship to the land:
as giver or nuisance.

After years of living in a maze of suburban
lawns crowding haphazardly against each other
like mah-jongg tiles midgame, we now live
where folks like this farmer own tractors unironically,
faded rust colored, almost salmon pink
International Harvesters tilting and
heeling, sailboats in a sea of grass. He’s dragging
a wheel rake behind him, peering over his shoulder
in Half Lord of Fishes pose, the farmer-yogi sagely
trails windrows behind, a serpent effigy mound,
ceremoniously marking the celestial season
transition to equinox
after darkfall.

There’s a sweet clean fragrance of the dew 
vaporizing in the heat
as the grass is tedded rather than tended.
Let the sun do his work,
this final summer sun
in all faithfulness. Summer lingers
until earth turn away at the coming twilight.

The last day of summer is not yet over,
despite the barbarism of storefronts 
full of sweaters, cinnamon, skeletons, even Santas. It is
a precious time of turning from green to gold,
of tending to harvest, of lining up 

what has been received:
this last summer sunset
with gratitude and grace.

-- Leslie Scoopmire, first published this day at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 22, 2022.

God, My Shepherd: Speaking to the Soul May 5, 2022

The 23rd Psalm

The Holy One is my Shepherd;
there is nothing else I need or lack.
In verdant fields God urges my rest,
by clear, sweet waters God leads me.
You refresh and revive my soul,
and are my guide to holy pathways
that I may glorify Your NAME in each step.
Even if evil and death overshadow me
and the walls of the deepest valley tower over me,
no fear of evil shall overtake me;
for You are my companion alongside me always;
Your rod and staff are ever between me and danger,
and I am comforted and at peace.
In the face of those who seek my harm
You prepare a feast;
You have marked me as holy and beloved,
and have filled my cup to overflowing.
The sureness of Your goodness and mercy
is the foundation and lodestar of my life,
and my home is with You in each moment,
and eternally.

Image: The Good Shepherd, by Laura James

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 5, 2022.

Prayer for Easter Thursday, April 7, 2022

Psalm 8

Dawn parts the velvet curtain of night
as we rise from our beds to praise You,
O Creating God:
accept our prayers,
offered in gratitude and humility.
For what are we, that You have made us
just a shade below the angels?

Your fingerprints are revealed
in the sun and moon that soar overhead
even as You place our feet
firmly upon the Earth your hands have molded.
Birds of the air, fish of the sea
all praise you with their entire being:
how can we give you glory and honor?

Place a new song in our mouths and our hearts, O Lord:
let us sing our praises from the deeps of our souls.
Give us a joy in doing your will:
to act justly,
to love mercy,
and walk humbly with You in love, O God.

You have lifted us out of the pit we ourselves have dug;
You have delivered us to abide in your light.
Take us by the hand and lead us for joy;
may your healing radiance shine through us.

Knit us together in justice, reconciliation, and peace,
loving each other as ourselves.
Spirit of Peace,
spread the wings of your redemption and grace
over all who call upon You
our exalted Lord,
our Loving Shepherd,
as we pray.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on April 7, 2022.

Prayer in the Wilderness: Rector’s Reflection for March 18 2022

Psalm 63:1-8

This coming Sunday’s Psalm portion we hear this coming weekend is a beautiful piece of devotional writing, one that one again focuses on the foundational characteristic of God (and one we are therefore called to emulate as children of God) being chesed, or loving-kindness, giving oneself fully, with love, mercy, and compassion.

The psalm offers a vivid admission of vulnerability but also the loving trustworthiness of God. The first 8 verses of this psalm work both as a thanksgiving and as a plea for intercession. You could summarize it as three emotional and spiritual responses: desire--“I want and need you” (v. 1-2); worship— “I praise you” (v. 3-5), and confidence— “I trust you to protect me (v. 6-8).” The most important descriptors used for our relationship with the Almighty are a hunger and thirst for God, one that God completely satisfies.

At the center of the verses we see, we move from the metaphor of thirst to hunger, and we suddenly are no longer in the sanctuary but in the humble home, concentrating upon God as we lie awake in bed and as we wander about the house in the middle of the night. Thus worship is not merely tied to a particular time or place (10:30 on a Sunday morning, for instance) but to the commonplace moments in our lives—every activity is an opportunity to praise God, an outlook in which Brother Lawrence was a famous exemplar. The faithful life is described as one of hungering and thirsting for God – and always finding satisfaction and abundance, even feasting on God’s provision and presence. For while we are hungering and thirsting for God, yet still we are held tenderly in the palm of God’s hand.

Sounds good, right? But if we know what we don’t see, Psalm 63 becomes even more of a comfort to us where we are right now. The superscription for this psalm claims that it was written by King David in the Judean wilderness. David was on the run—because his son Absalom had staged a coup and rather than strike down his son, he and his followers had fled, as described in 2 Kings 15. The three omitted verses ask God to powerfully protect the king from those who seek his life.

Most of us may not be dealing betrayal of the level of Absalom against his father. But we certainly should all be able to relate to the disorientation and prolonged anxiety of being in the wilderness, and of feeling a significant amount of vulnerability and lack of control as we deal with war, division, and pandemic.

How would it change our perspective as we continue to navigate this wilderness if we took seriously the reality that God is always with us, and that we can use every moment to praise and worship God, to dedicate each moment—even the pandemic ones—to God? When we wake up in the night, to practice breath prayer—such as the Jesus Prayer, which can remind us to lean into the feel of God’s hand beneath us. Especially for Lent, the Jesus Prayer works:

(inhale) Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God,

(exhale) Have mercy on me, a sinner.

Or, the beginning of the 23rd Psalm:

(inhale) God is my shepherd,

(exhale) Therefore I lack nothing.

Or this simple focus on the physical breath:

(inhale) I breathe in love.

(exhale) I breathe out peace.

As we continue through this season of Lent and beyond, I want to encourage you to lean into the knowledge that God is filled with lovingkindness and is always alongside us. And perhaps you could try using a breath prayer. And make time for worship and devotion, mindfully, each and every day.

Image: "Woman Lying Awake in Bed,"1635-1640 and "Young Woman Sleeping," Rembrandt, both from the British Museum.

July Thunder (Domine non est)- Speaking to the Soul for July 1, 2021

 

Psalm 131

 

My shivering dog draping himself over me 

like a quaking blanket, pride abandoned,

driven to anxiety by the sound of thunder 

rumbling overhead for most of this week, sometimes 

bringing rain, sometimes just a threat. And for all with pets, 

 

this entire week holds more of the same--

the neighborhood will echo with the report of 

fireworks and hopefully not gunfire 

at least through the sixth of July. 

 

 “Domine non est

exaltatum cor meum…”

 

But the sky right now is exactly the color of a bruise, 

matching the one inflicted on me as

he pawed me last night to make the insufferable

thunder stop. Stevie Nicks once 

famously sang, “Thunder only happens when it’s raining.”

 

She was wrong. But Kobe believes her. His first owners 

left him outside in all weather, and thunder is a memory 

of being swept into wind and downpour 

with no chance of shelter. Thunder is the memory 

of storms and cruelties long past, 

the menace fresh, the carelessness vivid.

 

Don’t we all know the weight of helplessness

when hoping in God is all there is? 

 

So into the basement we descend. I will 

sit next to him, the press of my body and 

Bach cello suites by Ma in attempted comfort, 

notes gliding and bouncing exactly like rain,

the blare of the C string masking the thunder 

perhaps enough that he can be quieted and rest.

 

And sleep will come and breath will ease 

for all afraid yet drawn into love’s leeward side,

like a child upon his mother’s shoulder

asleep on a damp cheek,

sliding gratefully into open-hearted trust,

elusive too often for the proud and haughty self

I too often wear like armor.

 

I wait upon you gratefully, O Mothering God,

and rest upon you as the storms 

within and without subside.

I have no need to walk in mighty matters

for the reward in my soul

is your abundant lovingkindness and mercy--

more than enough.

--LKS, written for Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for July 1, 2021. 

Wonder at the Center: Speaking to the Soul for May 27, 2021

The writer Annie Lamott observed that there are three basic prayers: “Help!” Thanks!” and “Wow.” She wrote a book about it.

Scripture attests to that as well, especially in the psalter. But it reorders Annie’s list a bit. “Help!” certainly comes first in most people’s experiences, and “Thanks!” certainly follows. But “Wow,” as an expression of wonder, seems most appropriate and necessary as the middle. We pray for God’s help; God rides in clothed in might and yet hearing our humble, often unsteady plea, assuring us that no need is too small for God’s notice; and after that brush of divine presence, then we give thanks.

“Help!”
“Wow!”
“Thanks!”

This morning, we hear of the glory and wonder of God in Psalm 29. If you step back, and look at Psalm 28, you find a plea for help. In Psalm 30, you find thanksgiving for help. Psalm 29, one of the oldest psalms, declares God’s power and glory.

The first surprise to most listeners is that this psalm mentions other gods, sometimes translated as “heavenly beings” or “mighty ones.” It’s plausible. But what if, as Calvin translated, “gods” instead means mighty rulers here on Earth, those who think they are god-like? Then this psalm could be looked at as a call for humility in the face of divine power, to “know our place” within the created order.

We are compelled here, to recover the “wow!” within our lives, especially our spiritual lives, a welcome reminder. Many people, both within and without communities of faith, have lost a sense of wonder and awe in the world around us. Especially as adults, we too often are prone to try to explain away or domesticate mystery in our lives, to brush it off in an attempt to declare ourselves the masters of our surroundings.

Even in our spiritual lives.

Too often, we try to put God into a nice tiny little box—maybe only polishing God up and bringing God out on Sundays or special occasions. If we do think about God’s power, it’s often only when we are in trouble, and want God to “save” us. Yet even there, we try to erect fences around our relationship with God. Save us—give us help– but please don’t demand anything of too unguarded of us as we go about our busy, world-focused lives.

Yet God will have none of it, as we are reminded of God’s power in Psalm 29. God’s mere voice is emphasized again and again as a physical force that reordered nature—which is only logical for the One who spoke creation into being from disorder. Psalm 29 tells us God’s voice is one of splendor and explosive force. We hear the repeated descriptions of the power of that voice, nine times over in these few direct verses.

How does one respond to such an awesome reminder of God’s wondrous might? The psalm reminds us that our proper response to God is “Wow!” Listen, for in verse 9: “And in the temple of the Lord, all are crying, ‘Glory!’” And then the psalm concludes by predicting the saving help of God, leading to the deliverance gratefully received in Psalm 30.

We sometime do not know how to pray, or the words we think we need. Psalm 29 reminds us not to worry about that. Just recover the sense of awe and wonder that is in the middle of all our encounters with the Holy One, who loves us enough to call us again and again, and that is more than enough.

Help! Wow! Thanks!

The center of prayer is the embrace of wonder and awe.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 27, 2021.

Who-- and Whose--Are You? Sermon for the Third Sunday in Advent B

For Joy ©Jan Richardson janrichardson.com

The last six weeks and the last six months have found us in the wilderness of loss. We have interred two of our members, had a delayed funeral for another, and tomorrow there will be another funeral. How much then do we need this Sunday dedicated to hope and joy? But even as we remember our lost loved ones, I am comforted by the fact that the liturgy for funeral rites reminds us of who we are, and whose we are from its opening anthems. “For none of us has life in themselves… If we have life, we have life in the Lord, and if we die, we die in the Lord. So then, whether we live of we die,we are the Lord’s possession.” Even in the midst of wilderness. Even in the midst of trial.

Our psalm is a song of joy and reclamation from the midst of trial. Think how amazing that is. Our psalm is a song of joy, perfect for this Sunday with its theme of Joy—even while the people themselves are in the midst of a crisis. The people can tap into this joy and embody this joy because they know who they are—and WHOSE they are, come what may.

The theme of this psalm is restoration, a jubilee concept. The people are located between two restorations: one in the past, and one that is hoped for in the future. Both of these restorations are celebrated for their impact on the community as a whole. Because they know who they are, they carry the assurance of their past as a predictor of their future. When the past restoration occurred, the people were filled with hope—"like those who dream.” They dared envision for themselves a future.

They saw their good fortune as coming from God, and gave God the credit, and also realized it made them an exemplar among the other nations. Their restoration was an opportunity to witness to the world about the wonders of God—simply by their mere act of showing their gratitude. They knew they were called to be a priestly people, and priests minister to not just their own, but in the name of God to the world. And that hope and that faith helped sustain them during their current time in the wilderness of occupation and oppression. Hope points the way through the wildernesses we all traverse.

This is an important realization. Crises can bring out the best—or the worst in people. Crises can either draw communities together—or destroy them. We also see that often, the best way to conquer a people is from within.

Again and again, when the people of Israel were conquered, they were literally separated from each other. Sometimes, the leaders were carried off into captivity—where some of them acclimated into the captors’ world, and never returned—leaving behind the people of the land to labor for the benefit of the invading empire. The invaders brought along other people and settled them within the boundaries of Israel, hoping to further dilute the people’s unity and encourage the extinction of the culture, in much the way the governments of Canada, the United States, and Mexico dealt with the indigenous people who lived here before European discovery of the Americas or as the Chinese did in Tibet when they invaded it in 1950. Other times, the leaders capitulated, and openly collaborated with the invader, or the invaders raised up those collaborators as leaders and placed them over the people as was happening in Jesus’s time with the Romans, or as the Germans did in France in 1940.

Crises can bring out the best—or the worst-- in people, especially when they lose sight of their reliance upon God and especially upon community. We see that right now in our own time. In the 1930s and 1940s, this country was faced with two staggering crises, one after the other—or more accurately, one that built on the opportunities of the other. The worldwide Great Depression brought this country to its knees. Providentially, this country was fortunate enough to choose leaders who helped rebuild this country by emphasizing the value of community -- the resources that together a people can muster that they would never be able to take advantage of individually.

Other countries weren't as fortunate, or as wise. They instead, while in the throes of the very same economic forces of destruction, turned to supposed “strong men” who offered easy answers and obvious scapegoats for the people's troubles. The funny thing was that these strong men before this crisis had themselves been failures by all the measures of society at the time. And so they needed to overcome that history of failure in their own lives by huge outward displays of power and ruthless oppression. And these so-called “strong men” wasted little time rallying their followers to oppress those around them who were weaker.

Our country was fortunate in that it had a history of democracy that stretched back over a century and a half, and that we had oceans on either side to shield us from the depredations of tyranny in both Asia and Europe. So when we were finally drawn into the conflict with these deadly dominions, on December 7, an anniversary we observed a few days ago, we were able to use our belief in the power of community and common action to form great alliances across broad swathes of our own population and with our allies abroad. The power and strength of common cause and common action in the defense a freedom, justice, and life, through long and bitter struggle eventually overcame the forces of death, division, and hatred.

We made use of our time of non-involvement to prepare for the day when we would be called upon to help. When we finally did enter the Second World war officially, we continued to rally together, moving ever closer to the ideal of being one American people despite our differences. Millions went overseas and fought. Tens of millions more sacrificed all that they had previously known here at home, upending their lives, giving up food, scavenging for scrap, giving up their former jobs and learning new ones for the good of their community and for the sake of the survival of democracy.

The power of determination not to be defeated—because it was unthinkable—and the understanding that only unified, coordinated action would defeat the enemy at our gates was vital to the defeat of evil. And this can never be a lesson that we in our time forget as we face our own challenges in this time of pandemic. Only by coming together and by honoring each others’ labor and contributions to building stronger communities—communities which themselves are part of a sacred whole—can a people survive times of crisis. Our history—and today’s psalm-- remind us of this. Our national spirit was fueled by a realization of the previous times that we ourselves had persevered and won through unity from our colonial past through the Civil War and beyond. After the war, groups who had previously not been fully allowed at the national table of equality used the idea of common action to themselves fight for their full inclusion within our common life.

Our psalm demonstrates the power of memory, and the power of identity. Knowing who you are, where you come from, and working together for the common good helped the people of Israel survive against repeated attempts to crush them. They know their history enough to know that they have survived, through the grace of God, in the past.

Looking back to those times of salvation, even in the midst of the current crisis, under their current occupation, the people have confidence that restoration can occur again. Even though they labor for the profit of their foreign overlords as a conquered people, they nonetheless continue in planting crops, even if it is with tears that they sow.

The proof that they have faith is this declaration: “The Lord has done great things.”

The importance of remembering and commemorating events in the past is that this gives those past events new life in the present: to “re- member.” The hoped-for restoration is anticipated like a torrent of rain after a long drought, that fills up the baked walls of arroyos and gullies and the baked channels of canyons with water enough to allow flourishing for months afterward. That’s what is meant by the comparison to the watercourses of the Negev.

Because it is not enough for the people of Israel to survive, if they abandon their true role as God’s priestly people. If they abandon their sacred duty to bear witness to the hand of God within their lives, to serve as a light to all the nations of the wonders of their God. This is also a challenge we as Christians—also called to be a priestly people—must meet. It is a challenge that we are being formed to meet. Do we ourselves know who we are—and more importantly, WHOSE we are?

Flash forward to our gospel. Those who are collaborators with the invaders see this wild-looking man come up out of nowhere, and they demand to know who he is. And notice the difference between John and Jesus. When Jesus gets asked who he is, he often turns the question back at his questioners.

John is more straightforward: right out of the box he tells his questioners who he is NOT: Not the Messiah. Not Elijah. Not “the” prophet. Just the one who we heard about in last week’s reading from Isaiah, the one whose voice comes out of the wilderness by the command of God, even when that voice itself doesn’t fully comprehend what direction God’s path through the wilderness is going.

John is in the wilderness because the wilderness is often where God is most near and obvious to us. Who is John? He is the witness to the light—not the light itself. He himself is not the source of salvation. He is sent by God to prepare the way for the One who is.

Once God helps strengthen the people and provides them with a savior, they don’t get to passively sit back and wait for salvation to be handed to them on a platter. They then have harvesting to do, with this harvesting will come with joy enough to turn their tears to shouts of joy. The harvest will be plentiful, and God’s people must continue in the meanwhile to be faithful, to have hope, and to do what they can to maintain the ties of community.

As we heard last week, the Way of God is the Way of fearlessly testifying to the power of God in our lives. God promises a way through the wilderness, not an exemption from the wilderness. God calls us back from the exile we have put ourselves in, through fear and faithlessness. If we choose the way of God, the path that is shaped not by our own fears and blindness but by the powerful, redeeming Law of Love, we will take a step toward working alongside God in building a new creation, a new hope that will now burst forth, in which all will be level and even and equitable. This is a song of relief, of joy at deliverance, and a renewed covenant between God and the people.

God reminds God’s restored people that salvation is now—not decided after our deaths, but offered to us as a gift and a blessing right NOW.

Eternal life is now. What we do today in this time is the most powerful testimony we can give to the power of God in our lives. It is in times of crisis and darkness that our witness shines as brightly as John’s did. Many around us are losing hope. It is our calling to remember that we are a people of hope, of resurrection, and to lift that message high before us for the sake of all.

Today’s reading from Isaiah roots salvation in the time in which we live. Salvation is the kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven, and requires not just our grasping it for ourselves but our making it visible to. those around us by how we live. Salvation looks like good news, healing, liberty, release, and comfort. It is what the reality of this world looks like by God’s command-- a restored city, better and brighter than it had ever been, restored to the glory it was intended but never achieved. It orients our attention precisely AWAY from our own selfish concerns as individuals AND as members of the Church, from our own self-preservation to a grander purpose: to working for the freedom, liberation, and healing of those who are marginalized in our society. Working for the removal of all barriers that stand between those around us and the life of blessing.

On this third Sunday in Advent, we are drawn to ask ourselves who we are—and whose we are. Can we give ourselves over to our part in pointing the way? Are we willing to strengthen this community of faith so that it may care not just for our own needs but the needs of others? Are we witnesses to the active, powerful love of God in the world, especially to those who have lost sight of the light? Are we beacons of hope who exist for the sake of those who have lost their way? Are we living embodiments to the economy of God, willing to give of ourselves to embody the values of equality and compassion?

Advent reminds us of the urgency of “Now” and what we do with it while we wait for the coming of the light. Together, may we declare that the Lord has done great things—and is doing them still, right here among us. Our witness moves that dream to a reality, for we know whose we are.

Amen.

Preached the 10:30 am live-streamed service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO, in time of COVID19.

Readings:

Psalm 126

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11

1 Thessalonians 5:16-24

John 1:6-8,19-28

Miraculous in Wisdom: Speaking to the Soul, May 28, 2020

Psalm 104: 25-35, 37

The last ten days I have been back in my hometown, caring for my mother who has suffered a stroke. I’ve been working with my sister to get her medical care and to clean, update, and prepare her house for her release from rehab, doing all within our power to keep her out of a nursing home or assisted living. One of the things we had to do was go through old photographs and assorted detritus from our childhoods. Born in the 60s, I am a child of the 80s, and there have been many fashion experiments that we have discovered in old photographs that have brought fits of laughter in the midst of our anxiety and exhaustion.

I found a box out in the garage of a lot of my college stuff—posters of Magnum PI and the Beatles, a calligraphy print of Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, old notebooks, and cassette tapes. When I was in college Christian pop and rock had just become a big deal. Although I didn’t listen to a lot of that type of music (my tastes ran more toward classical, new wave, and indie artists), I did like Amy Grant, and she did a lovely, simple song based upon Psalm 104’s celebration of creation. It’s a simple song: the sound of night insects, then a legato guitar arpeggio, and then the simply sung lyrics and melody, straight from our portion of Psalm 104 we will hear on the Day of Pentecost. You can listen to it on YouTube. Each layer of sound is reminiscent of the steps and stages of creation, from simple to more complex.

One of my favorite lines of this section of Psalm 104 is “In wisdom you have made them all.” When I was a kid, sitting in science class and learning about the amazing diversity of life was a religious experience for me. There are creatures that live in extreme cold, extreme darkness, extreme heat. There are giant amoebas called xenophyophores that live six and a half miles below the surface of the Pacific. There are bacteria that eat oil that have developed in the Gulf of Mexico. There’s a species of walking stick insect in Borneo that grows to over a foot long.  There’s the Venus Flytrap. There’s the seahorse. There’s the platypus. There’s the sea urchin. There’s a plant called “dancing grass” that visibly moves in response to sound.

The psalm celebrates the splendor and order of creation and the absolute generosity and sufficiency of all the works of God. Once again, as in Psalms 8 and 9, we are reminded that all that we have and all that we are are gifts from God. In this reading, we see mountains being turned into something insubstantial by the power of God—this time they smoke. God is the seat of ultimate power-- but that power is used for blessing far more than for curse. There are abundant images of plenty- use of words like “manifold,” “all,” “full,” “great,” “wide,” innumerable,” “filled,” “endure forever.” All of the images but one remind us of gifts. The one reminder that this generosity is in itself something that we enjoy but do not earn is found in v. 29: “When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to dust.” Our time on earth is short in our sight but is nonetheless a gift.

The first 24 verses of this psalm retells the story of creation from Genesis, but we get the SparkNotes version here. The order in verses 25-29 echoes Genesis --as well as evolutionary theory (I’ve always felt that the laws of physics are some of the most amazing miracles and signs of God’s love for us). First there is the sea, full of life, then come crawling things out of the water and onto the land, and some things become great. I have always thought of the Leviathan as a dinosaur-like creature, so that’s the image I get there, as well. And then there is the mention of the breath of life as in Genesis 2. The sea here is represented as a place of creation, which is different than how it is often depicted elsewhere in scripture, as a place of chaos, disorder, and storms.

I have heard people claim that they don’t believe in miracles. And yet, they are all around us: the blaze of a rainbow against a dark prairie sky after a thunderstorm of percussive force. The firing of synapses, electric impulses timed just right, as a baby stands upright and toddles her first few steps. The frilled beauty of wildflowers, so easily discounted, but greater in loveliness than Solomon in all his glory. And this week, watching my mother relearn words and go from simple demands to sentences and paragraphs and names, finding creative ways including drawing and metaphor to attempt to get around the roadblocks the injury to her brain has created. In the same seven days that reminds us of the breadth and beauty of creation, my mother has been recreating her connection with language and speech, facing her long recovery with realism but also with hope, faith, and perseverance. I know that her deep faith informs it all, for my mother’s relationship with God has not been shaken one bit. These small but consequential miracles remind me of God’s ongoing creation and care for us, granting us comfort and peace in the face of struggle and trial. The works of God are indeed without number, and the grace of God undergirds each miraculous moment.

O Lord, how many are thy works! In wisdom thou hast made them all!

This was first published at the Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 28, 2020.

Fearlessly Faithful: Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent

Sometimes I wonder about the wisdom of the Revised Common Lectionary, and at the first glance at our first reading, I admit I recoiled a bit. Here we are, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. I really don’t want to jump to the scene of desolation first depicted in our reading from Ezekiel.

For most of us, this is our first experience with this kind of lasting upheaval and fear. The Flu Pandemic of 1918, which killed my grandmother's father and left him in an unmarked grave, was over a century ago. The “Greatest Generation” that lived through the cataclysms of the Great Depression and World War II, which included my dad and mom, are in their 90s now. Yet, in other parts of the world, war and famine, disease and oppression, are constant companions. And hopefully, what we may take from this right now, is a biblically-grounded message of how very interconnected we all literally are.

Our readings today are a reminder of the importance of faith in a time of turmoil, of the life-giving role that hope, compassion, trustworthiness, and integrity play not just in being good Christians but in being healthy people.

This is why I myself am grateful for the vision of mercy and honesty which is at the heart of one of our psalms for this morning, Psalm 130. Its beginning is immediately relatable: “Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord….” The word for “depths” is the one used to speak of ocean deeps, a place at the very center of our being, yet dark and remote. The psalmist, in trying to express the extent of his feeling of desolation and alienation, creates an image of waters rising over his head and pulling him under. Sounds so familiar right now. 

The psalm acknowledges our human frailty, how we are too quick to break covenant and relationship with God and with each other. In this particular case of this psalm, what has separated the writer from being fully in communion with God are his own actions. Yet God has not abandoned, and will not abandon, the psalmist. The psalmist lives in hope of forgiveness, mercy, and reconciliation with God. 

Despite all our human calculations and barriers, God’s love, mercy and reconciliation cannot be contained. Rather, and especially in this time of pandemic, we see that God’s love will go where it will, making families of people who once were not only strangers but often outcasts. Even into the depths within ourselves, God still presses upon us, behind and before, below and above, and calls us out of ourselves, out of the toxic individualism that leaves us afraid, instead calling us into community with God, and with each other.

But even in Psalm 130, that frailty and brokenness is not the entire story. Listen again! Even in the opening cry from the foundation of his heart and soul, the psalmist voices his first statement of trust, for he knows that God can hear his voice no matter where the psalmist is.

As we envision those watery depths, perhaps another image and promise can shine through as we recall that the same waters of turmoil can also be waters of creation. God moves over the depths as well as within the depths—what an amazing promise that is! God hears the psalmist’s voice from the depths—because God is always with us in the depths of our fear, anxiety, and despair. Even though this is a psalm of lament, nonetheless hope shines through it throughout.

This is possible because of the three great qualities attributed to God in this brief psalm: forgiveness, steadfast love – which is the term used in the Old Testament for “grace” – and the power to redeem. These are the three essential qualities of God mentioned in this psalm which are vitally important to those who feel they have done something which has disrupted their relationship with God or with others. Forgiveness, grace, and mercy. That right there is a start of a powerful prayer when we are feeling lost, or afraid, or overwhelmed.

Out of the depths I call to you, my God:
Forgiveness, grace, and mercy.

After the Name of “Lord,” the word that appears the most in this short psalm is “wait.” “Waiting for the Lord” is repeated, although varied slightly, three times in succession, and the phrase then follows two repetitions of “more than watchmen for the morning” in verse 5. At the end of the psalm, the psalmist addresses the people of Israel, repeating once again to “wait for the Lord,” and reminding the people that God is merciful, seeking to redeem rather than to destroy. The verb used at the very end, though, which here translated as “wait,” however, also can be translated as “hope.”

And I think that’s key, because unlike what we usually think about “waiting,” hope is not passive. Hope is an act of faith and will—sometimes a rebellious act of faith and will, even. As we face the next few coming days, we are hearing right now a call to us to be fearlessly faithful to the bonds of decency, generosity, and caring that we may have neglected for far too long. This waiting upon God that we do is filled with hope for forgiveness, for reconciliation with ourselves and with each other, as well as with our God.

And yet, we have to remember that asking for forgiveness is nothing without a determination to turn—which is literally what “repentance” means. To embrace light rather than hopelessness or cruelty. To make amends to those we have wronged rather than expect them to continue to “give” us a pass. We depend on grace, but we work for reconciliation.

When times are the darkest, we place our hope in God, whose love never fails. But we also ourselves are called to embody that hopefulness for each other—caring for each other, being present with each other, looking out for each other, extending mercy and grace to each other and to ourselves because our actions are grounded in belovedness. That’s what being children of God made in God’s image and likeness means.

And yet, even when things are the darkest, there is hope, and mercy, and forgiveness, and reconciliation. On the heels of this cry from the deepest troughs in our heart, Psalm 131 follows, and I think it actually continues the thought found in Psalm 130. Psalm 131 continues:

O LORD, I am not proud;
    I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself with great matters,
   or with things that are too hard for me.
But I still my soul and make it quiet,
   like a weaned child upon its mother's breast;
   my soul is quieted within me. 
O Israel, wait upon the LORD,
   from this time forth for evermore. 

Psalm 131 reinforces the sense of hopefulness and trust in Psalm 130, but expands it further, grounding itself in humility and simplicity. The beautiful maternal image of laying upon the breast of God like a child who has awakened from sleep in the night with tears and terror continues to remind us of God’s promise never to abandon us, no matter what. Whether you have been the sobbing child or the weary parent in that scenario, you know how eagerly you await the dawn on nights like that. 

Both Psalm 130 and Psalm 131 end with a reminder for the community to remember the forgiveness, steadfast love, and redemption of God as our foundation—and go and do likewise. In a world where too many of us feel isolated and alone, especially right now, when we are physically separated from each other, we are reminded that we are called to embrace unity and faithfulness—we are made for God, but also, significantly for each other.

The great English poet, essayist and priest John Donne reminded us of our interconnectedness in a famous meditation he wrote upon hearing the church bells toll a funeral. Donne’s first thoughts were not about himself, but about his relationship with others, especially the deceased whom he did not know. He started with the truth that every single person is abundantly beloved by God. I’ve shared this with you before, but I think it speaks to our situation even more forcefully now, so I will repeat it. He wrote:

No man is an island entire of itself;
   every man is a piece of the continent,
   a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea,
   Europe is the less,
   as well as if a promontory were,
   as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were;
any man's death diminishes me,
   because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
   it tolls for thee. (1)

Perhaps this pandemic can remind us to remember how radically inclusive Jesus’s vision is, the same dream that God has had for us from creation onward. One of raising us to new life and new communion with God, with each other, with all creation. Just as Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, so we can be raised to new life too, starting right now. The heart of Jesus’s message, contrary to what we see represented in popular culture, is not self-centeredness, but community—community rooted in abundant grace, abundant mercy, abundant hope and faith in each other. Abundant life through love in action for those we know and do not know. 

And our lives right now depend on cultivating those attitudes, on scrupulously avoiding anything that might harm another, not just for our own sakes, but for the sake of the most vulnerable among us. If any of us is injured, we all suffer. We share a common life. That’s what communion is really all about.

Loving-kindness encircles us so that we may then embody it out into this aching, hurting world. Grace upon grace raises us and heals us, if only we will let it—but not for own sakes only—no, so we can go out, fearlessly faithful in the name of our brother Jesus, who loves us as profoundly as he loved Lazarus, and who has called us to a new life of compassion and unity. claimed us as his kindred through his determination that no one be left to sink in the depths. 

Out of the depths we call to you, our God:
Forgiveness, grace, and mercy.

Almighty One,
we trust in your steadfast presence.

Show us your ways,
and teach us your paths,
O Lord Most Tender and Loving.

We know you are creating within us
new opportunities to share your love
and embody your gospel in the world.

In trust and assurance,
we wait upon You, O Lord,
to find that You are already here,
whatever the tide may bring.

You, O God, hold us tenderly;
your steadfast love is with us in the depths— 
the depths within us, 
and the depths that surround us.

Make us fearlessly faithful 
that we may proclaim your truth
and be your steadfast disciples in the world.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 am Morning Prayer service, online, due to COVID-19, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:
Psalm 130
Ezekiel 37:1-14
Romans 8:6-11
John 11:1-45

References for more information:
(1) John Donne, Meditation 17, from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, 1624.  The full text of this meditation can be found at http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/meditation17.php.  The fascinating background to the creation of this work can be found here.

Prayer 2617: Fifth Sunday in Lent A

Almighty One,
we trust in your steadfast presence.

Show us your ways,
and teach us your paths,
O Lord Most Tender and Loving.

We know you are creating within us
new opportunities to share your love
and embody your gospel in the world.

In trust and assurance,
we wait upon You, O Lord,
to find that You are already here,
whatever the tide may bring.

You, O God, hold us tenderly;
your steadfast love is with us in the depths— 
the depths within us, 
and the depths that surround us.

Make us fearlessly faithful 
that we may proclaim your truth
and be your steadfast disciples in the world.

Amen.

Scripture reference: Psalm 130