Distant Promises

They died in faith without having received God’s promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them. (Hebrews 11:13)

What do we ask of you, O God,
but faithfulness in presence and
mercy from devouring powers?

What do you ask of us, O God,
but integrity in discipleship and
compassion in community?

How have we failed one another, O Christ?

What do we ask of you, O God,
but timeliness in justice and
holy fury in redemption?

What do you ask of us, O God,
but patience in labor and
hope in restoration?

How have we tested one another’s limits, O Call?

What do we ask of you, O God,
but a rock to rest upon and
reward for sacrifice?

What do you ask of us, O God,
but trust in your steadfastness and
surrender of our treasures?

How have we counted one another’s costs, O Creator?

What do we ask of you, O God,
but inspiration for renewal and
courage for peace?

What do you ask of us, O God, but
but humility in worship and
dreams of what may be?

How have we failed one another, O Covenant?

What do we ask of you, O God,
but that you come?
And what do you ask of us
but that we be ready?

And will it be so?

Amen.

cross-posted at RevGalBlogPals

Learn Your Lessons

Gimel
Be good to your servant while I live,
that I may obey your word.

Daleth
I am laid low in the dust;
preserve my life according to your word.

– Psalm 119:17, 25 (NIV)

Through my earbuds plays the wisdom of Dua Lipa’s “New Rules” about setting boundaries after a bad relationship: “One: Don’t pick up the phone… Two: Don’t let him in… Three: Don’t be his friend…”

One, two, three.

The psalmist prays in an acrostic format, with one letter of the Hebrew alphabet beginning each stanza’s lines: Aleph, Bet, Gimmel, Dalet.

A, B, C.

Given the complexities of the world, given the complexities of our lives, given the complexities of faith as we mature and ask hard questions and wrestle with God: it’s no wonder that sometimes we need simple tools and elementary lessons to keep us grounded.

One, two, three. A, B, C.

In Sunday School when I was a child, the foundational lessons were built into our songs: “One, two, three. Jesus loves me! One, two. Jesus loves you!”

In the days of memorized catechism, it was a series of questions and answers: “What is your only comfort in life and in death? What must you know to live and die in the joy of this comfort?” (à la the Heidelberg Catechism)

In Psalm 119, twenty-two letters shape the psalmist’s prayer, but it can also be a string of beads or the fingers of a hand or the hours of the day that help us pray. It can be the simplicity of a rhyme or the faithfulness of a sunset that teaches us of God’s love. It can be an earworm or an alphabet that keeps us honest about our relationships with God and with one another.

So long as we learn the lesson. So long as we keep returning to it, by whatever simple tools we find most useful for the living of these complex days.

A: All that I am is yours, O God.
B: Be present with those who suffer, O Christ.
C: Call us beyond our egos and out into the work of love, O Spirit.

written for the UCC Daily Devotional

Melted

What the hell do any of us know, O Eternal Mystery?

While we worship constancy and might,
mountains melt and remold like wax.

While we sing hymns in echoing caverns,
the Spirit waits upon those in prison.

While we pray to love our enemies,
the Church itself nurtures violence.

While we thirst for truth and order,
we get drunk on self-righteousness.

While we say “Believe us — here is God, and there too!”
a prescient slave girl is considered a threat to orthodoxy.

While we await God’s redemption from evil,
our loyalties fly high for military domination.

While we stake our place “so help me, God,”
creation is wise enough to tremble and bow.

While we die the daily death of change,
your love remains in all and through all.

You tried to make it known and living;
we preferred to make it certain and stagnant.

What the hell do any of us know, O Eternal Mystery?

on the Narrative and Revised Common Lectionaries,
cross-posted at RevGalBlogPals

Terrible Signs

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” – Luke 21:25-26

 In Cleveland this past winter, in the middle of February, we enjoyed a full week of spring-like temperatures in the 60s.

In the western region of the Pacific, small islands are gradually disappearing under rising ocean waters.

So far in 2018 in the US, more school children have died by gunfire than military personnel have died in the line of duty (according to The Washington Post).

There are plenty of signs, terrible signs, all around us in the earth and the seas, in the stars and in the sun, in the news and in our communities. We are not lacking for signs.

The question is: how do we interpret them, and to what end?

Do we proclaim the signs of global warning to incite fear or to rally creativity?

Do we point to signs of violence to cast judgment or to join in lament?

Do we perceive heaven’s quaking as a call to humility or as an excuse for self-indulgence?

There are plenty of signs, terrible signs, and Jesus doesn’t promise their easy resolution but only: “the realm of God is near” and “my words will not pass away” (Luke 21:31-33).

Let signs come and go; Christ is near.

Let stars fall and heavens shake; we will watch and work together in the confidence of God Everlasting.

When I am afraid and troubled, be near to me, O Christ. When I would prefer to hide my head under a pillow or in the sand, help me draw near to others for the sake of your realm. Amen.

posted originally with Stillspeaking Daily Devotional