Sunday Prayer

Ah, Lord GOD, we do not know how to begin or where,
for you are eternal and we are finite;
you so loving and we so very wounded;
creation so vast and we are only a few within it.

What praise can we offer that is not a clanging gong?
What prayer can we say to bend your holy ear?
Do not shake the dust from your feet at us, we pray,
but be gracious and know the cares of our hearts.

We long most simply for love:
love that overflows in holy courage to stand for justice,
love that cares for one another without reservation,
love that is unrestrained by our brokenness,
love that holds on through storm and grief,
love that comforts our hearts,
love that brings about your kin(g)dom,
love that changes us.

We pray for love, O God,
knowing that in you and because of you
Love is already and ultimately realized.
With a sigh we pray: Amen.

cross-posted at RevGalBlogPals

Psalm 46

There comes a time when something (Something) must come about, for if nothing (Nothing) comes about, that will be death. We believe so often that change is death, that disaster is death, that Death itself is death, but no — even in Death, something (Something) occurs and something (Something) continues. Even in disaster, something (Something) trembles and shifts. Even in change, something (Something) falters and fades. And though it may be alarming, take heart: it is not nothing (Nothing). There is still something (Something) that remains, still something (Something) that comes. So as it comes — this something (Something) — and until it comes and through all of the angst of it coming: hold a hand; walk together; ungate your heart; find space to breathe; give space to breathe; blend your voice with others in song; show up and participate — do not do nothing (Nothing). And most of all, do not be afraid. There is still and always Something.

Traveling

With every flight and every new city,
I am mercifully one step farther away from you
in miles, in memories, in fresh molecules of air
on my skin to erase any trace of your breath.

[Where can I go from your spirit?
How far can I flee from your presence?]

Cleveland. Orlando. Chicago.
United. Delta. American.
And out of the skies: highways and byways
from city to suburb to country. Keep going.

[If I fly as far as the sunset,
if I hide beneath the ocean,
even there you find me.]

Let me leave you. Find a new heart to haunt.
You have no use for my rising or my sleeping,
and I have no use for your secrets, no matter how holy;
they elude but ensnare me. You are not playing fair.

[You surround my thoughts, my living, my being.
I am helpless as your hand & your eye behold me.]

Chase someone else with your ridiculous love;
find a new quest to win, a new enemy to test
but depart from me if you care at all…
…and I will depart
and depart and
depart until
I am all
gone.

on Psalm 139

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Sunday Prayer

Most holy God,
you who are our good news,
you who are the prisoners’ release,
you who are the glad dance of the weary,
you who are the beginning and the fulfillment;

Our prayers are not celestial hymns or heavenly speech, but
these words bear our hearts, our hopes, our meditations. Have mercy.
You are grace beyond reason, power beyond imagination,
and beauty beyond compare. We worship you.

By your grace,
help us love one another.
By your grace, draw close to those
who need you. By your grace,
use our talents – use us
for your purposes.

By your power,
grant us courage to walk
the difficult but necessary paths.
By your power, heal us —
for we war and rage,
bleed and die.

By your beauty,
overwhelm us with delight.
By your beauty, awe us to humility.
By your beauty, pour your favor
over this burdened earth
until all are healed.

In community and in crisis, with words and with silence,
bind us together and bind us to you — for we are
lost without you and we are broken without
one another. Until it is finally finished,
we bless you: Amen, amen.

cross-posted at RevGalBlogPals

Of Sleeping Giants

More ancient than memory are the giants whose sleeping forms are the softly rolling hills and tall jagged mountains that could tell tall tales if anyone bothered to ask them. So deep is their hibernation that no one has seen the giants breathe in years, although the trees prickle with the life they cover and the stars count the days until the mountains awake. Beware the mountains’ dawn, that time when the sleeping giants arise together and protest with disgruntled envy: Who is this LORD who has built a mount taller than our revered heights? And who are these walking together toward that mount with praise? For as long as we have been sleeping, the people have turned to us for inspiration — they climbed our sides and painted our portraits and consumed our resources with gratitude. For as long as we have been sleeping, we have been gods, but now we wake to find that the LORD from a higher mount is calling the people to harmony and humility. Then the earth will quake to feel their jealousy. Rocks will cascade like waterfall from their shoulders. Trees will stand on end like hair raised in astonishment. But those ascending the mount will extend their joy to the giants, singing in invitation, Come, mountains of Bashan! Come, giants of the Himalayas! Wipe the sleep from your eyes, shake the stones from between your toes. Climb with us and be not an enemy of the LORD. Join the procession and be a blessing to the One whose mount is our destination.

on Psalm 68:15-18

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