Sitting High … Looking Low (Meditation for 28 December 2022)
Scripture:Who is like the Lord our God, the One who sits enthroned on high, who stoops down to look on the heavens and the earth? He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap. - Psalm 113:5-7 (NIV)
ABOUT SIX YEARS AGO, our church sponsored a youth trip to our nation’s capital. While touring the capital buildings, we ran into Congressman John Lewis. The Congressman John Lewis. The Civil Right’s icon. The Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient. The moral conscience of the U.S. Congress. We had no appointment with the Congressman, and our church is not located in his district. But upon introducing myself and our youth group, he invited us (a group of 30) to his office. His staff scrambled to find chairs for all of us and supplied us with plenty Georgia peanuts, fruit, and water. Then we listened as Congressman Lewis talked to us about how our nation has been lifted through the rich contributions and profound sacrifices of those who fight for racial equality. We looked at pictures of the Congressman leading historic marches and shaking hands with presidents, celebrities, and several world leaders. Then the Congressman answered questions from the youth and challenged them to give their best in every struggle for justice. I’ve often reflected on how amazing our time with Congressman Lewis was. Greatness and accessibility are not usually in sync in our society. The greater a person’s elevation, the less available they become to everyday people. The psalmist tells us God’s throne is so high that God stoops down to reach the heavens above. And God stoops even further to gaze upon the earthly affairs of you and me, with love and compassion.
Prayer: Thank you, Lord, for the high exaltation and the lowly compassion exemplified in your advent. Amen. [This medication was written by Kenneth L. Samuel, Pastor of Victory for the World Church in Decatur Georgia, and posted to the UCC’s Daily Devotional website on December 21.]
Music: Performance of Silent Night by the Salt Lake Symphonic Choir
Nativity banner in Buffalo's Worship Center
Final Advent Meditation: "Zealous Hopes" (Meditation for 21 December 22)
I LEARNED SOMETHING ABOUT WHAT IS POSSIBLE at St. John’s Abbey in Minnesota, just after morning prayer. I had told another resident of the Ecumenical Institute that the monks had begun 1 Corinthians, in case she wanted an opportunity to hear the letter read aloud. Her doctoral thesis had been on a passage from the epistle, and she was in the process of turning it into a book. This text had engaged her for more than ten years. She had made a pilgrimage to Corinth and knew Paul’s words in Greek, in German and in many English translations. But as she listened in the abbey church, something caught her attention that she had never noticed before. It was a revelation that left her gasping for breath, and I believe she left the church that morning amazed, not a little discomfited, and above all grateful to have been granted a new sense of the Bible’s power. We have many defenses against hearing the Christmas readings and taking them to heart. The images are resoundingly familiar—“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light”—and the nativity story is so colored by nostalgia that listening takes considerable effort. It’s hard for us to remember that, as is always the case with scripture, we are continually invited to hear “a new song,” words full of possibilities we have not yet seen and can’t imagine. All we need are the ears to hear, but our tired old ears resist us at every turn. As the magnificent titles that Isaiah foresees are proclaimed—“Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace”—we may suddenly remember that we forgot to take the rolls out to thaw, and this means that our despised sister-in-law will have gained another weapon in her war of one-upmanship on the domestic front. Or our listening is interrupted when our child comes to us in tears because another child bent the halo she is wearing in the pageant, and we must fix it, right now. I tend to enjoy Advent, with all of its mystery and waiting, but find it difficult to muster much enthusiasm when Christmas Eve comes around. I know I’m cheating myself, succumbing to my usual temptation to sloth, which Christian tradition understands as not mere laziness but as the perverse refusal of a possible joy. The ancient monks saw zeal as the virtue opposed to sloth, and in the Christmas readings we find the “zeal of the Lord” invoked by both the prophet Isaiah and the author of the letter to Titus. After naming the many promises made by God that are to be fulfilled by the Messiah—the lifting of oppression, the end of warfare and the establishment of “endless peace”—Isaiah states that it is the “zeal of the Lord” that will accomplish it. In the letter to Titus we are told that Jesus gave himself for us in order to create a people worthy of his name, a people who are zealous for the good. But zeal makes us nervous. It is out of fashion. We prefer the protective detachment of irony or sarcasm, and regard zeal as pathetic if not pathological. When a person exhibits too much passion over anything—God, a political movement, the latest in tattoos or a popular television show—we label that person as obsessive or compulsive, and mutter, “Get a life!” Might we better understand zeal as Isaiah does, as the prerogative of God, who, despite the mess we’ve made of things, still chooses to care for this battered creation and our faulty selves? If God can do this, why not just go along with it and catch that wild transition, seeing the “bloody garments” of humanity’s violent history burned in a fire, all because—take a breath—“a child has been born to us”? Something so small and seemingly ordinary as that? Why not sing as the psalm commands us, joining in with the roar of the sea and the trees of the forest? The God who has created it all will come again to set things right, to judge in righteousness and truth, and even our most zealous hopes will not have been in vain. The zealous love of this God has already appeared among us in the flesh to train us for a new life and teach us how to welcome him when he comes again in glory. Our gospel is the unlikely tale that begins with an emperor’s folly, for in setting out to register “all the world,” Augustus and his governor Quirinius put something into motion that transcends all earthly power. We know the story and how it comes out, but let’s try to see ourselves in the shepherds’ place, afraid to open ourselves to God and in need of reassurance, of being told not to fear. Let’s be willing, like Mary, to take the words in, to treasure and ponder them, because so much is possible when we do. As these words wash over us they penetrate, despite our defenses and distractions. Their spirit can move us and change us, whether we will it or not. Simply being present is enough, for church is a place that allows this transformation to occur. If we feel utterly exhausted, drained of all feeling and weary with worldly chores and concerns, so much the better. Our weakness is God’s strength. Our emptiness means that there is room for God after all. [This meditation by Kathleen Norris was originally published by The Christian Century in December of 2005.]
Prayer: Precious Savior, breathlessly we wait for your coming. Come into our waiting hearts that we may celebrate the miraculous day of your birth. Welcome, Lord Jesus, for it is in your name, we pray. Amen
Fourth Sunday of Advent: Matthew 1:18–25 (Meditation for 14 December 2022)
Matthew's genealogy underscores that God has always worked through messy and broken families.
THERE ARE MULTIPLE GREEK WORDS FOR BIRTH that Matthew could use to begin his Gospel and describe the birth of Jesus. The one he uses is genesis. The genealogy that prefaces Matthew’s birth story seems as orderly as the first six days of creation. The names are what we expect, all the greatest heroes of Jewish history. Scratching the surface exposes more complicated truth. Abraham sets aside his oldest son, while Jacob cheats his brother out of his birthright. David murders a man to prevent a scandal. The women Matthew includes aren’t much better. Tamar plays prostitute; Rahab actually is one. Ruth is a foreigner. Yet all have their place in the new creation of Jesus. As Joseph enters the story, we are primed to hear of Jesus’ genesis in a new kind of way. By the time a direct descendant of Abraham finds his betrothed pregnant with a child not his own, the messiness of family life has been well established. Mary is “found with child,” and I can’t help but wonder who found her. Mary’s situation must have been known by some, perhaps by all: her parents, the village busybodies, maybe even the local rabbi. Joseph has to do something, but what? He has no good options. Divorcing Mary quietly might be the just thing to do, but it isn’t good. She might not be stoned to death, as Levitical law contends, but without a man to keep her she might well be reduced to begging or forced into prostitution. If instead Joseph marries a seemingly unfaithful woman, he himself is tainted by her sin. And that’s not the worst of it. Joseph runs the risk of nurturing an interloper in his own dynasty. In patriarchal terms, Mary’s son stands to inherit the birthright of Joseph’s own biological child. Joseph is still considering when an angel appears. The first words out of an angel’s mouth are almost always “Do not be afraid.” It may be that seeing an angel is frightening, but it seems just as likely that angels encounter people in situations where they are already afraid. Joseph in Matthew’s Gospel and Mary in Luke’s are no exception. On the cusp of marriage, they find themselves with a pregnancy they didn’t seek or expect. The very existence of this child may well threaten their place in their community, their synagogue, and their families. Their own relationship may be broken before it has even begun. In the face of this new beginning, fear seems reasonable. Yet maybe things aren’t as new as they seem. Matthew’s genealogy underscores that the more things change, the more they stay the same. God has always worked through messy and broken families, restoring them and bringing hope. Isaac will not be sacrificed; Judah will have sons. Rahab will save the people; Ruth will be claimed a matriarch by a people not her own. God will choose the unlikely one, the second son, the barren woman, the one who seemed beyond redeeming. Shame and heartache are not foreign to God. There is truly nothing new under the sun. For proof, note that God will help Joseph, son of Jacob, in the same way God helped another Joseph, another son of Jacob, farther back on the family tree. As then, a dream will illuminate an escape from shame and death. God will provide a path to salvation consistent with that which has come before. More than any other Gospel, Matthew views the Jesus story as the continuation of the Old Testament. Beyond the figures of the Pentateuch and the histories, Jesus fulfills the prophets’ vision. Eight times Matthew writes that Jesus “fulfills” what was spoken by the prophets; the first occurs in this week’s reading. Matthew’s explanation of the virgin birth, Joseph’s dream, the angel’s visit, and a new name are rooted firmly in the past. The virgin birth and the naming of Jesus are not original; they are the completion of what was once begun. God created the world in the beginning; now God creates it anew in Jesus. God who made the universe out of nothing decides to do something even harder: enter into a human family. Despite its messiness and failure, its sin and sorrow, its brokenness and despair, God will redeem Abraham’s line. God will fulfill the promise made to Abraham and his descendants, that through them God will bless all the families of the earth. And we are part of this genesis, this new creation. Through the waters of baptism, Jesus becomes our brother and we children of God. Consequently, just as God enters the story of Abraham’s family, God enters our own. Our genealogies—with their complexity, their secrets, and their shames—are now part of Jesus’ story too. Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Joseph, Tamar and Rahab, Mary and Joseph—none of them is beyond God’s capacity to love and save. Neither are we. Christmas will be our confirmation. In these remaining days of Advent we look with hope and expectation for genesis. The child born into Mary and Joseph’s family is born into our family as well. God will make the world new through him—and, because of him, through us. [This meditation by Katie Hines-Shah, senior pastor of Redeemer Lutheran Church in Hinsdale, Illinois, was originally posted to the Christian Century website in November of 2016.]
Mary Brings Her Whole Story (Meditation for 7 December 2022)
Scripture: The Magnificat–the Song of Mary (a lectionary reading for this week in Advent)
And Mary said, My soul doth magnify the Lord, And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden: for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed. For he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name. And his mercy is on them that fear him from generation to generation. He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree. He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away. He hath helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy; As he spake to our fathers, to Abraham, and to his seed for ever. ~Luke 1:46b-55
IN THE GOSPEL OF LUKE we encounter the Magnificat, Mary’s celebration song about her pregnancy. If anyone is expecting a lullaby, they better think again. Mary expresses a raw thankfulness for what the arrival of Jesus means for the liberation of oppressed peoples, and she uses language that reflects triumph over the powerful through protest and resistance. She includes vivid imagery and jaw-dropping linguistic effects in each line. It makes sense that this song appears in the lectionary as an alternative to a psalm, because like a psalm it carries the weight of generations long before and after the singer. And along with having significance for the broader community of faith, Mary’s song has a personal tone, as she celebrates that God has given her a significant role in the fulfillment of promises to Abraham’s descendants. When considering how to engage this passage in preaching and worship, I suggest giving attention to the way Mary embraces God’s invitation for her to bring her whole story to the life God is calling her to live. Here are three related directions to consider.
Mary’s holistic praise. Some translations begin the song with Mary claiming that her celebration comes from her “soul” and “spirit.” These terms might suggest to us a neglect for bodily experience, but that is not what they mean here, nor throughout the New Testament. I appreciate the way the Common English Bible translates the opening lines: “With all my heart I glorify the Lord! In the depths of who I am I rejoice in God my savior.” The depths of who we are includes our deepest joys and concerns, influential memories, connections to communities, and ideas that shape us even if we don’t know how to explain them. To rejoice from one’s depths is to bring all of oneself into the moment.
Mary’s embrace of her story. Throughout her song, Mary speaks of the way God pays attention to and liberates “the lowly.” She initially focuses on her own situation. When she sings that God has looked with favor upon her lowliness, this could also be translated as “humiliation.” Is she talking about her socio-economic status? She lives in Nazareth, a small town that is looked down upon in the region. Is she referring to what people will think about her pregnancy when she returns home from Elizabeth’s house? Mary is from an area where homes are so close to each other that it would be near impossible to keep her pregnancy a secret. In either case, Mary celebrates the freedom to be unashamed of where she is from, who she is a part of, and what her experience is. Moreover, she is happy for all generations to know her story.
Mary’s embrace of her community. The majority of Mary’s song refers to the lowliness of Israel—the people that make up her community of faith—and how God has mightily removed the powerful from their thrones to liberate and lift up this oppressed people of God. It is important to notice that Mary does not receive the invitation to be the mother of the Christ as an isolated calling or a path for escape. As blessed as she is, she is not trying to exalt herself up above her community. Rather, she recognizes, names, and embraces her community the whole way. [This meditation by Montague Williams was posted to the Christian Century newsletter Sunday’s Coming on December 5.]
An Advent Meditation: Waiting in Darkness (Meditation for 30 November 2022)
Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other. Faithfulness will spring up from the ground, and righteousness will look down from the sky. ~Psalm 85:10–11
THE DARKNESS WILL NEVER TOTALLY GO AWAY. I’ve worked long enough in ministry to know that darkness isn’t going to disappear, but that, as John’s Gospel says, “the light shines on inside of the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it” (1:5). Such is the Christian form of yin-yang, our own belief in paradox and mystery. We must all hope and work to eliminate darkness, especially in many of the great social issues of our time. We wish world hunger could be eliminated. We wish we could stop wasting the earth’s resources on armaments. We wish we could stop killing people from womb to tomb. But at a certain point, we have to surrender to the fact that the darkness has always been here, and the only real question is how to receive the light and spread the light. That is not capitulation any more than the cross was capitulation. It is real transformation into the absolutely unique character and program of the Risen Christ.
What we need to do is recognize what is, in fact, darkness and then learn how to live in creative and courageous relationship to it. In other words, don’t name darkness light. Don’t name darkness good, which is the seduction that has happened to many of our people. . . . The most common way to release our inner tension is to cease calling darkness darkness and to pretend it is passable light. Another way to release your inner tension is to stand angrily, obsessively against it, but then you become a mirror image of it. Everyone can usually see this but you! Our Christian wisdom is to name the darkness as darkness, and the Light as light, and to learn how to live and work in the Light so that the darkness does not overcome us. If we have a pie-in-the-sky, everything-is-beautiful attitude, we are in fact going to be trapped by the darkness because we are not seeing clearly enough to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Conversely, if we can only see the darkness and forget the more foundational Light, we will be destroyed by our own negativity and fanaticism, or we will naively think we are apart from the darkness. . . . Instead, we must wait and work with hope inside of the darkness—while never doubting the light that God always is—and that we are too (Matthew 5:14). That is the narrow birth canal of God into the world—through the darkness and into an ever-greater Light.
Reflect: In what parts of your life are you trying to push away darkness instead of living with it as a teacher and transformer?
[This meditation comes from Richard Rohr’s Preparing for Christmas: Daily Meditations for Advent, published by Franciscan Media in 2012.]
Music: A performance of an ancient hymn dating back over 1,000 years: O Come, O Come Emmanuel by Anna Hawkins; filmed in Israel, sung in Hebrew and English.
Entrance to the Buffalo Labyrinth
Midweek Meditation in Preparation for Thanksgiving: Who’s Coming to Dinner? (Meditation for 23 November 2022)
Scripture: “Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?” - Matthew 6:25 (NIV)
DELICIOUS FOOD HAS MANY DESTINATIONS TONIGHT. Dinner tables across the country will be brimming with all kinds of culinary indulgences: sumptuous appetizers, rich entrees, delectable desserts. On this national day of feasting, many churches and service organizations are particularly mindful of the poor and homeless. Beyond our regular food programs, we make special efforts to provide hot meals for the indigent and to assemble food boxes stuffed with turkeys and fixings for seniors and struggling families. There is definitely a time for fasting, but for most of us, it’s not today. If there is one day when calorie counters feel they deserve a break, it’s today. In Black American culture, food is a prominent expression of cultural pride. Living through generations of poverty and scarcity undergirded by systemic racism, Black Americans find a certain self-affirmative jubilation in being able to dress our dinner tables with the savory delights of our creative cuisine that our communal struggles have never been able to stifle. But notwithstanding all the energy and attention we give to food preparation, food distribution, and food presentation today, we know viscerally that what’s on our tables is not nearly as important as who’s at our tables. Food is only the precursor to the persons who are the main ingredient at any dinner gathering. What satisfies us is not just the perfectly seared seafood or the delightful vegetables or the decadent sweets. What fills us is the presence of loved ones and friends who share with us another anniversary of gratitude for being alive and for being together. And more than the food on the table, we are filled by the spaces of loved ones who are no longer with us. Even if we dine alone tonight, the dinner is honored by the presence of our own thankfulness.
Prayer: Lord, feed us today with the peace of your presence. Amen.
[This meditation by Kenneth L. Samuel, Pastor of Victory for the World Church in Stone Mountain, Georgia, was posted on Thanksgiving Day last year to the Daily Devotional website.]
Christ the Artist, We the Portfolio (meditation for 16 November 22)
We are God’s artifacts—beautiful, incomplete, and mysterious.
I INHERITED AN IMPRESSIVE SEQUENCE OF ART COMMISSIONS from my predecessor at St. Martin’s. He not only conceived a number of projects but also gathered an expert panel of art consultants and found donors for a remarkable east window, two altars, a processional cross, and much more. I come from the strand of the church that tends to assume such things should be sold and the money given to the poor. So I’ve had to listen and learn about faith, art, and mission. I began with the words of Jeremiah: “The vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel.” Here I found the essence of art and the essence of Christianity in one sentence. It’s the essence of art because art is the convergence of form, material, and ideas. The artist whom Jeremiah went to see is taking the material of clay, the form of the vessel, and the idea of God’s relationship with Israel. Like most artists, the potter finds that the first attempt wasn’t a huge success, and the original plan is research that leads to an improved outcome next time round. That’s how art works. Art doesn’t fundamentally lie in the creation of the material. The material is a given—to be understood, practiced upon, cherished, for sure, but not created. Art lies in the re-creation of that material in a new form, according to a governing idea or set of ideas. That’s what makes Jeremiah’s words the essence of Christianity. Christianity is not about imagining something perfect called creation and straining to get ourselves back to that ideal state; it’s about taking the material of humankind and the surrounding world and universe, exploring the form of a relationship between God and us, and contemplating the governing idea that God the artist will go to any lengths to restore that relationship. In the words of Athanasius, “When a portrait . . . becomes obliterated through external stains . . . the subject of the portrait has to come and sit for it again, and then the likeness is re-drawn on the same material.” This is the story of Christianity, that God does not throw us away as flawed but reworks us into something more beautiful. The agent of this remarkable artistic project is Jesus. We are his portfolio. Vincent van Gogh wrote: “Christ lived serenely, as a greater artist, despising marble and clay as well as colour, working in living flesh . . . this matchless artist made neither statues nor pictures . . . [but] loudly proclaimed that he made . . . living people, immortals.” In other words, Jesus heals the diseased and comforts the distressed, and makes them icons of the beauty of God. Paul says that Jesus is “the image of the invisible God”: not that God the artist created Jesus the material and form, but that Jesus is the ultimate depiction of God’s way of turning us from formless material into works of glorious and eternal art. This is justification and is the work of Jesus. Continuing to work with the material that we are and redeeming the form according to the idea or pattern of God’s grace is called sanctification and is the work of the Holy Spirit. Augustine, describing our resurrected bodies, says that an artist who makes an unsatisfactory statue need not throw it away but simply moisten the material and remix it. He calls God the almighty artist who removes our shortcomings and makes us beautiful like never before.
[Samuel Wells, the author of this meditation, is the vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields in London and author of Humbler Faith, Bigger God. This meditation was originally published in January of 2017, and was recently re-posted on the Christian Century website.]
Prayer: We give thanks to God, the almighty artist, who transforms our shortcomings and gives us a grace and beauty we could never achieve on our own.
Music: The spiritual Steal Away performed by the King's Singers and recorded in St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
Little Bluestem at Buffalo UMC
Sacrificial Love (meditation for 9 November 2022)
Scripture:Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant. ~1 Corinthians 13:4
LAST SUMMER I TOURED SAINT JOHN'S ABBEY WOODWORKING where a small team of craftsmen (mostly monks) build furniture they describe as sustainable, long-lasting, and utilitarian. I think their designs are better described as artistic, sublimely gorgeous, and eat-your-heart-out-Ikea minimalist. On the tour, a woodworker explained that they had long outgrown their workshop. Soon they would be tearing down their buildings and creating a new, expansive workshop with space for all their tools, projects, and room still to grow. There was great anticipation about this long-dreamed-of woodworking shop. The final stop on the tour was the lumber shed, where high above planks of red oak and maple was a loft soaked in natural light, sunbeams beckoning for a passerby to climb up and explore. For over 50 years this loft was the studio of a monk who is a prolific painter. Nestled above the woodworkers he births vibrant works of art that end up in the Vatican and Parisian galleries alike. When the old workshop is demolished, his sacred space will also be torn down. The community helped the painter set up a new studio nearby. They assisted him in packing his canvases and brushes and gently unpacked his tools in the new space. They recognized that in the midst of the exciting growth for the rest of the community came this deeply personal loss for one among them. They grieved with him. They named and honored his sacrifice, just as the painter named and honored the need for a new woodworking shop. This is the commandment to love one another. To accompany each other rather than insist on our own way. To tell truthful, tender stories rather than keep a record of wrongs.
Prayer:Together may we bear all things and endure all things. May Christ’s love never end.
[This devotional by Liz Miller was posted to the Daily Devotional website on November 6. Miller serves as the pastor of Edgewood United Church (UCC) in East Lansing, Michigan.]
Music Video: A performance of the beautiful "You Raise Me Up" by the Gracias Choir and Orchestra.
Leaves of a Tulip Tree in the Buffalo Labyrinth
The Birds Don’t Know They Have Names (meditation for 2 November 2022)
Scripture: But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind. ~Job 12: 7-10
THE WARBLERS ARE COMING THROUGH NOW. Very hard to identify them all, even with field glasses and a bird book. (Have seen at least one that is definitely not in the bird book.) Watching one which I took to be a Tennessee warbler. A beautiful, neat, prim little thing–seeing this beautiful thing which people do not usually see, looking into this world of birds, which is not concerned with us or with our problems, I felt very close to God or felt religious anyway. Watching those birds was as food for meditation, or a mystical reading. Perhaps better. Also the beautiful, unidentified red flower or fruit I found on a bud yesterday. These things say so much more than words. Mark Van Doren [an American poet], when he was here, said, “The birds don’t know they have names.” Watching them I thought: who cares what they are called? But do I have the courage not to care? Why not be like Adam, in a new world of my own, and call them by my own names? That would still mean that I thought the names were important. No name and no word to identify the beauty and reality of those birds today is the gift of God to me in letting me see them. (And that name–God–is not a name? It is like a letter X or Y. Yahweh is a better name–it finally means Nameless One.)
[Meditation by the Trappist Monk Thomas Merton, from a journal entry written October 5, 1957 and published in A Year with Thomas Merton: Daily Meditations from His Journals, edited by Jonathan Montaldo.]
Prayer: God our Father, help us to participate in the life around and within us, restore us to your peace, renew us through your power, teach us to love all that you have created, inspire us to care for the earth as your gift and our home.
Music: Concluding this Midweek Devotion is a YouTube video, just recently posted, of Ethel Waters singing "His Eye is on the Sparrow" at a Billy Graham crusade in 1957 in New York City.
Milkweed seed pods in rain garden at Buffalo UMC
Another Meditation on Jumping In (meditation for 26 October 2022)
Scripture for this week: "For we live by faith, not by sight." ~2 Corinthians 5:7
IT CARRIES US AWAY. Outside of the cities we live in. Outside of ourselves. That is actually the definition of ecstasy: something that takes us outside of ourselves. The world needs more ecstatic people who live beyond themselves. The river is ecstatic. And with jumping in we risk everything. We risk losing ourselves. We risk not coming back. We risk sinking to the bottom. We risk allowing the Current to guide us rather than being guided by our own feet on the banks. From time to time I sit on the banks of the river that runs through my city. Those who first walked this land and those who first swam this river named it Toolpay Hanna, which in the language of the Lenape means “Turtle River.” Ah, turtles live in ponds and rivers–oceans too. Thank God they are everywhere! When the river was (re)discovered by the exploring Dutch, they named it the Schuylkill River, which means “Hidden River.” There is a Hidden River that carries us away. Protective and free and grace-filled like the turtle. The walk to this body of water is slightly longer from my desk, but I find my way to its banks. And sit. And dream. And imagine what it would be like to jump in. I’m a good swimmer. I’d be fine. But that isn’t going deeper. I want more than just a brief dip in the waters. Faith is jumping in and letting the Current take me where It wants. Submitting to the Wind and the Living Water and the “Ground beneath it all,” as Paul Tillich might call it. We (seem to) control our steps and our direction when journeying on the ground. Journeying in the River where the strong Current moves us, where the direction laid out by the River guides us toward our destination, is a very different path–one that calls for a deep trust and a deeper faith. It’s dangerous. There are painful rocks beneath the surface that we might strike a foot on. We might be bitten by something that dwells within. We might go over the waterfall. We might not come back out of the River. Traveling by River was never promised to be easy, but it is indeed holy. Submitting the direction of our lives to the Current is one of the most difficult endeavors we can undertake. But the walker who wants to go deeper must indeed jump in. With it comes love unimaginable. And while trusting and allowing the Current to guide us brings life and love, there is a cost. That cost is the forfeiture of our perceived control.
Questions to Hold • What makes you ecstatic? Both excited ecstatic and also “coming out of oneself” ecstatic? • What’s holding you back from jumping into the life that you sense the Current would like to lead you to? What can you do to overcome that fear? [This week's meditation is from Pond River Ocean Rain by Charles Lattimore Howard and published by Abindon Press.]
Maple tree at Buffalo UMC on a beautiful October afternoon.
Sometimes Miracles Occur Only When You Jump In (meditation for 19 October 2022)
Lectionary Scripture for This Week: You answer us with awesome and righteous deeds, God our Savior, the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas, who formed the mountains by your power, having armed yourself with strength, who stilled the roaring of the seas, the roaring of their waves, and the turmoil of the nations. The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders; where morning dawns, where evening fades, you call forth songs of joy. ~Psalm 65: 5-8
THE EGYPTIANS SOLDIERS WERE CLOSING IN and Moses and his followers were stuck at the shore. It was only a matter of time before every one of them would be slaughtered. Naturally, Moses and his followers were panicking. No one knew what to do. And then, just before the Egyptian army caught up to them, a Hebrew named Nachshon did something unexpected. He simply walked into the Red Sea. He waded up to his ankles, then his knees, then his waist, then his shoulders. And right when the water was about to get up to his nostrils, it happened: the sea parted. The point, said Rabbi Bachman, is that “sometimes miracles occur only when you jump in.”
The Bible has a way of reaching out and grabbing us when we least expect it. Even a snippet of a verse can stop us in our tracks. When I visited the memorial to Martin Luther King in Memphis, Tennessee, at the motel where he was murdered, I found a simple stone placed under the balcony made famous by the photos of King’s companions pointing to the boardinghouse from where the shots had been fired. A plaque on the stone reads: “Behold, here cometh the dreamer, let us slay him . . . and we shall see what will become of his dreams.” That is from the Book of Genesis, one of Joseph’s brothers speaking, plotting to murder the family’s favored younger son and leave his body in the desert. When I was a child, that story was my introduction to the notion of betrayal. I felt sure that my older brother would never do such a thing to me, but here was a story suggesting that it was possible. Standing below that balcony at the Lorraine Motel, I found these ancient words taking on new life, revealing the terrible things we do to one another when we forget our common humanity. If we allow ideology and prejudice to take hold of us, we can forget that we are brothers and sisters under the skin. We find ways to kill each other, literally and figuratively. But the dreamers among us refuse to die. Their dreams, like seeds, give us a chance to grow into better people, a better society, and remind us that hatred does not have the last word.
And I think this is what the Bible is for. It is meant to keep reaching out to us and, despite our inattention and indifference and infernal self-absorption, every now and then hit us in the gut. Prophets like Amos, Jeremiah, and Isaiah challenge us in our complacency, reminding us of our calling to be God’s witnesses, but also comforting us when we need it most, when we’re in the desert and there seems no way out. This week’s meditation by Kathleen Norris, excerpted from The Good Book: Writers Reflect on Favorite Bible Passages.
Prayer: We seek in these moments of reflection and prayer to be attuned to your Word. Grant us strength to persevere in our witness, to catch a vision of the joy you offer to all who serve you. Amen.
Music: “He Leadeth Me,” one of the hymns we sang in our Worship Service on 16 October. Note: no video, just music with lyrics.
Buffalo's Little Free Library
Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid (12 October 2022)
"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face."~Eleanor Roosevelt
Scripture:The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. - Psalm 111:10
WITH UTMOST RESPECT to the heavenly angels who make a name for themselves by careening into some unsuspecting person’s life and proclaiming, “Be not afraid”: it’s okay to be afraid. Those angels can keep their proclamations and see themselves to the door. We need a little fear in our lives.
If all we are told is to be brave and forget our fear, we might miss out on the opportunity to get to know it: what fear feels like, why it shows up when it does, and how we might use it. Fear is the threshold we have to cross to make our way to courage. It’s the signal our bodies send whenever we’re about to take a risk or do something new.
Whenever I publicly push back against the powers that be, whether with my words or with my body in the street, my muscles tense and I break out in a sweat. Right before I reveal my tender, vulnerable self to another person, my stomach starts flip-flopping and my pulse races. This is fear’s way of saying, “Pay attention! Something consequential is happening here!”
And when you feel afraid of God? Perhaps you’re being asked to follow a call so important it gives you the chills. Perhaps you should be on alert for what direction the Holy Spirit is moving in your midst. Perhaps you should lean into the dis-comforting mystery of the sacred instead of settling for your comfort zone where nothing startles, nothing alarms, and there’s nothing to be afraid of because nothing ever changes.
[This devotional was written by Liz Miller (pastor of the Edgewood United Church in East Lansing, Michigan) and posted to the Daily Devotional website on October 6.]
Prayer: Dear God, I recognize you in my joy and in my grief. Give me the courage to find you in my fear.
Sacred Music: A link to a Celtic-style performance by Morningtide of the hymn Blessed Assurance.
EL - The Lord (4 October 2022)
Scripture (from this Sunday’s lectionary) In the Lord I take refuge. How then can you say to me: “Flee like a bird to your mountain. For look, the wicked bend their bows; they set their arrows against the strings to shoot from the shadows at the upright in heart. When the foundations are being destroyed, what can the righteous do?” The Lord is in his holy temple; the Lord is on his heavenly throne. He observes everyone on earth. . . . For the Lord is righteous, he loves justice; the upright will see his face. ~from Psalm 11
ONE OF THE EARLY WORDS by which the ancient Hebrews knew God was El. El–the Lord. Beth-el, for instance, means the house of God. So I find it helpful, wherever and whenever possible, to call God El, or el, rather than using the masculine or feminine pronoun, because the name “el” lifts the Creator beyond all our sexisms and chauvinisms and anthropomorphisms. We human creatures, made in the image of God, in church as well as out, too often reject instead of affirming the Word which has proven to be the cornerstone. And we worry, too often, about peripheral things. Like baptism: is dunking more valid than sprinkling? And we are continuing to worry about sexist words to the point where we are coming close to destroying language. To call God either him or her, he or she, is in both cases to miss the wholeness of the Creator. And so we lose all sense of proportion, and try to clamp God once again within our own broken image. And so I return to the reality of our trinitarian God of creation, el. El. That power of love. That holy thing. Do we believe that it was a power of love which created everything and saw it was good? Is creation purposeful? Or is it some kind of cosmic accident? Do our fragments of lives have meaning? Or are we poor human beings no more than a skin disease on the face of an unfortunate plane? Can we see the pattern and beauty which is an affirmation of the value of all creation?
[Devotion written by Madeleine L’Engle, author of the Newberry Award-winning children’s classic A Wrinkle in Time. This passage on El was first published in Episcopal Life and reprinted in Glimpses of Grace.]
Since Loretta Lynn’s passing was announced earlier today, it seems appropriate that this devotion be concluded with her performance of “Peace in the Valley.”
The Everyday is Replete with Meaning (27 September 2022)
Scripture: He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds. ~Psalm 147:1
From the Introduction to The Courage to See by Greg Garrett and Sabrina Fountain:
. . . the everyday is replete with meaning, if only we will pay attention to it. Great art, whether visual, musical, written, or otherwise, ushers us toward this kind of attention. The Marilynne Robinson quote from which the title of this book comes reminds us: “Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who could have the courage to see it?”
Garrett and Fountain’s book contains a series of devotions based on passages from world literature. One of their first quotes is from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott:
Jo did not recognize her good angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity. . . . Her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo’s, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went hand in hand with natural sorrow.
Prayer: Our Father, when we are broken and filled with sorrow, may we know in the deep places of our hearts that you are the God who suffers with us.
Escapist Realities [Devotion by Chris Mereschuk, an "Unsettled Pastor in the Southern New England Conference"; posted to the United Church of Christ "Daily Devotional Website" on 17 September 2022.]
Scripture: O that I had in the desert a traveler’s lodging place, that I might leave my people and go away from them! - Jeremiah 9:2a (NRSVUE)
I CONSIDER A STROLL on the bike path to be an accomplishment, so I’m in awe of my friend who’s through-hiking the Appalachian Trail. Though she’s hiking mostly solo, occasional fellow sojourners help ease the journey. Through social media updates, she shares miles logged, stunning photos, observations, obstacles, and her daily quest for shelter. Trailside hostels serve as lodging places with hot meals, showers, and clean water. When the trail is less generous, she seeks a safe camping spot, hoping for good enough rest. Because, come sunrise, she wakes up and does it all again. Though my friend’s adventure is beyond my abilities, escaping into the wilderness to find a “traveler’s lodging place” plays into my escapist fantasies. In reality, that escape is only a brief pause. Each new day brings new rugged terrain to traverse. Exhausted from the journey, God desired a traveler’s lodging place to rest and escape God’s own careless, belligerent, cruel people. But God can’t escape the people any more than the people can escape God. Not for long. I feel you on this one, God. O that I could escape the chaos and cruelty of far too many of your people! Alas, I know this is an escapist fantasy, and I can’t escape forever to a hermit’s shack. But maybe, God, you and I can find a traveler’s lodging place so we can get some good enough rest before we rise again for the journey together. The trail is easier when you hike with friends. Prayer: Sojourning God: if we can’t escape forever, let’s find a traveler’s lodging place to rest for the journey together. Amen.