...we never knew

All the way my Savior leads me; cheers each winding path I tread,

gives me grace for every trial, feeds me with the living bread;

though my weary steps may falter, and my soul athirst may be,

gushing from the Rock before me, lo! a spring of joy I see.

---Fanny J. Crosby, 1875

There are times the path seems winding, and the end unseen. At those times, when each step grows heavy, and the way seems never-ending, a hint of breeze refreshes, cheers. A rest along the way, to refuel and rest, can cast the day in a different light.

And when that path is life, and goals are elusive, and progress seems awfully rare, grace is that refreshing—gift, given with no thought of return, or of its having been earned in the first place. The words of our brother Jesus, urging us on toward greater compassion, more tenderness, consistent understanding—these words are food, fuel.

And the very presence of Christ, in the midst of our mess, feet on our path, God with us—this presence is pure joy, springing up like cool spring water, unexpected, thrilling, a little shocking. The very thing we never knew we were thirsty for.

All. the. way.

...tell one thing

For the harvests of the Spirit, thanks be to God.

For the good we all inherit, thanks be to God.

For the wonders that astound us, for the truths that still confound us,

most of all, that love has found us, thanks be to God.

---Fred Pratt Green, 1970

I know you’ve done it, and I know it has made you squirm, sigh, or roll your eyes (depending on your generation). Go around the circle --- the grownups’ table AND the kids’ table at your family Thanksgiving, the fellowship tables at church supper in November, the class seating arrangement in Sunday School --- and tell one thing you’re thankful for. Is there any exercise guaranteed to bring out the trite and repetitive in all of us? And yet, is there any chance most of us would stop to express gratitude for the richness of this life without going around the circle?

This hymn is a list of rich joys of the abundant life for which we can all be thankful; the list includes thanks for things I never thought of as rich until Fred Pratt Green brought them to my attention between the covers of our hymnal. No matter how world-wise and jaded we get, wonders still astound us, and (thank God) some truths still confound us. And best of all, love has found us.

There’s a place for us in the circle. Go around…thanks be to God.

...harvest home

All the world is God’s own field, fruit unto his praise to yield,

Wheat and tares together sown, unto joy or sorrows grown.

First the blade, and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear,

Lord of harvest, grant that we wholesome grain and pure may be.

---Henry Alford, 1844

It doesn’t look like corn. It looks like wide blade grass; St. Augustine, or maybe Johnson grass. Not like corn. Not at first. But wait. Just wait. Keep caring for the plant, watering, weeding, tending. And wait. It doesn’t look like corn at first. But time will tell.

Our own efforts at spreading the good news about God’s lavish gift of abundant life, and sharing life's rich journey with others, may be like tending that corn. It may not seem like our efforts are yielding any results. Funny thing is, though, our task is to  water, weed, tend, care. And wait. It may not look like a harvest at first. But time will tell.

...when I'm empty

O fill me with your fullness, Lord,

until my very heart o’erflow

in kindling thought and glowing word,

Your love to tell, Your praise to show.

---Frances R. Havergal, 1872

‘Service burn-out’ is a common complaint among those who serve in positions of leadership in the church, both clergy and laity. The formula of unlimited needs answered by limited resources can exhaust the heartiest of servants. A common cause of burn-out, I think, is seeking to serve ‘empty’. Often, those who serve never take the time to be filled, inspired, refreshed.

This text reminds me that our source for the good that we do is God’s goodness. We are reminded that we speak what God speaks to us, that we lead as we are led, that we teach what we are taught by the Spirit, that we serve the world out of the fullness of God’s grace in us. In our eagerness to pour out our lives for others, let us not forget to draw from the source of our fullness.

Stop us, God, when we are empty. Fill us, that we may minister out of the riches of your goodness.

...on being relentless

Let us be a servant people, reconciling, ending strife;

seeking ways more just of sharing and of ordering human life.

Fill us with a glowing vision of this world as it should be;

send us forth to change that vision into blest reality.

---Joy F. Patterson, 1994

To be called to Christianity is to be called to labor. We are to take up a shared yoke, plowing shoulder to shoulder with Jesus in the humble chores of the household of God. We are to serve wholeheartedly, to share openhandedly.

We are not called to be peacekeepers, holding together some uneasy truce between suspicious adversaries with tape and twine and suspect promises. Rather we are to aspire to peacemaking, to the bold and audacious task of reconciling brokenness and doubt with trust built on God’s abiding love. This vision, this dream, is one that can set the world right.

But, sisters and brothers. There are teeth in this gospel call. In addition to the courageous labor of service, peacemaking, sharing, and dreaming, we are called to more. We are called, relentlessly, to the dogged pursuit of justice—the justice we seek out of a knowledge of God’s overflowing love for each and every one of us, least to greatest.

So my friends, don’t you get tired. The vision of a just world is urging us on—and justice can set things right.

...be like

Gracious Spirit, dwell with me, I would gracious be;

help me now thy grace to see, I would be like thee;

and, with words that help and heal, thy life would mine reveal;

and, with actions bold and meek, for Christ my Savior speak.

---Thomas Toke Lynch, 1855

One of my favorite movies as a child was Walt Disney’s The Jungle Book. A soundtrack highlight for me was the scat jazz ‘I Wanna Be Like You’, sung by the masterful Louis Prima and penned by Richard and Robert Sherman. In the chorus, King Louie sings,

            Oh, ooh-bee-doo, I wanna be like you-hu-hu,

            I wanna walk like you, talk like you, too…

Now, in the movie, King Louie had his own reasons for wanting to be like Mowgli. But I thought about this song when I read this verse of today’s hymn for Children’s Sabbath.

I thought of it because, as a follower of Jesus, there is nothing I want more than to be like Jesus. I want to walk ( and live) in the way of Jesus; I want to talk (and love) in the way of Jesus. ‘I would gracious be;’ I want to live my whole life letting my words, my actions, my intentions be motivated and guided by the gift of love that has surrounded me from birth.

How will I live if I know that I am representing Jesus to the world? I want Jesus to speak through my life by my actions, bold in love and meek when honoring others. I want to show Jesus’ life in mine, through words that help and heal, in a world where words often tear down and injure, or where silence causes wounds of its own.

Gracious spirit, dwell with me, I would gracious be…

I wanna walk like you, talk like you, too…

...into my brokenness

Jesus, the name that calms my fears, that bids my sorrows cease;

‘tis music in the sinner’s ears; ‘tis life and health and peace.

He speaks, and listening to His voice, new life the dead receive;

the mournful broken hearts rejoice, the humble poor believe.

---Charles Wesley, 1739

I don’t like admitting it. It doesn’t make me proud, isn’t the sort of admission that I’d want engraved on a plaque or cross-stitched on a pillow. But because I don’t like it doesn’t make it any less true: I’ve been battling the way of the world lately, and the world is winning. I mean, I am beat. If you are not seeing the scars, it must be because I’m dressing right. I am just weary and worn with the meanness that seems to be around every corner, waiting to pounce on the weak or unsuspecting. And the weariness feels cumulative and exponential, building on itself like a runaway snowball (children, remind me to tell you about ‘snowballs’ from the good old days).

In my weariness, it is so easy to forget. To forget to listen for the voice that is always whispering life into the stillness. To forget to listen for the presence that is always calling into the absence. To forget to listen for the joy that is always singing into the despair. To forget to listen for the voice of my brother Savior speaking wholeness into my brokenness.

But, oh. When I remember. The mournful, broken hearts rejoice…

...love pitches a tent

Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven to earth come down,

Fix in us Thy humble dwelling: all Thy faithful mercies crown.

Jesus, Thou art all compassion, pure, unbounded love Thou art;

Visit us with Thy salvation; enter every trembling heart.

---Charles Wesley, 1747

You a camper? I am…was…have been…wouldn’t mind being again. I grew up camping with my folks and brother, both in tents and in a way-cool pop-top VW van camper that seemed in my teen years to have all the comforts of, well, almost-home. For those of you familiar with the groovy contraptions, my sleep spot was the hammock hung over the front seats (because I sleep curled up anyway---perfect). Tim slept in the pop top. We have slept in that van in every sort of weather (including a surprise tropical storm), and even in someone’s front yard outside Baton Rouge by mistake (another story for another day)! Our longest trip was a 5 week jaunt out west, as far as Glacier National Park and back, most of the trip toting a genuine tumbleweed (don’t ask) that took up much of our precious free space. Dad even drove straight through the night to get us from Oklahoma to the AHS parking lot in time for Mr. Goff’s band camp to begin (‘cause didn’t nobody miss band camp).

Shortest camping trip? A bit shorter. Counting car time, it lasted 4 hours. Henry and I were the parents of a toddler, and looking forward to passing on a joy of camping adventure to Sam. The itinerary went something like this: plan, pack, check for approximately 2 days; load up the car with tons of stuff (camping, little kid, pregnant lady, etc.); drive just across the state line to FDR State Park in Pine Mtn GA; unload tons of stuff in the dark (yeah, those of you who camp, or have kids, or watch comedy movies, or read Greek tragedies---you know where this is going); set a lit kerosene lantern safely (haha) out of reach on the picnic table while assembling the 347 pieces of the new family-size tent; listen in horror as prized first-born son screams in agony after grasping the hot kerosene lantern; cuddle child, bandage hand, sing songs, hang lantern on tree, mutter under breath, try to continue with the joy of camping adventure; give the whole thing up; do everything in reverse; arrive back home---4 hours later. Even with this less-than-stellar start, we enjoyed some good times in the woods over the years following.

When I read the line in this verse of Charles Wesley's wonderful hymn---‘fix in us Thy humble dwelling’---I can’t help but think back to those years of pitching tents in the woods with little kids in tow. There was a time in our collective faith memory where pitching a tent figures pretty prominently, too. When the people of Israel wandered in the wild places, they packed the ‘tent of meeting’ with them, inviting God’s presence among them even in (or especially in) their wandering.

For us today, the cry of our hearts is that the God of Love would pitch a tent in us---among us, and within us. Imagine the ways we might experience transformation, with the tent of love fixed in our souls.

Visit us with your salvation, Divine Love. Fix your dwelling in us.

...more and more

God who made us, Christ who calls us,

Breath who guides from deep within,

may our lives of mumbled praying

end with Heaven’s clear “Amen.”

---Terry W. York, 2006

In this beautiful new hymn, which guides us into worship with an invocation of the Trinity—God, Christ, Breath—we are called to consider the deep mystery that is prayer. Well. At least, to me, prayer is often deep mystery. I think I am clear on some differences between prayer and wishing, and prayer and magic…although I am certain that in moments of crisis I might act less on points of clarity and more on base instinct.

When I think of magical prayer, I think of the now-famous instruction Dorothy was given in L. Frank Baum’s 1900 novel Wonderful Wizard of Oz:

Then close your eyes and tap your heels together three times. And think to yourself, there’s no place like home.

As for the power of wishing, who doesn’t immediately burst into song on hearing the lovely waltz from the 1950 Disney animated film Cinderella?

            A dream is wish your heart makes

            when you’re fast asleep.

But prayer must hold more for believers. More than lining up words in some incantational magic, more than wishing and dreaming what will delight us. The prayer I aspire to is the dynamic partnership between our searching and God’s guiding, a holy hide-and-seek where God will always intend, more and more, to be found.

More and more.

...gathering beside the flood

So now let peace and justice be never far apart,

but flowing like a river for every thirsty heart.

These two shall be united, a mighty flowing stream,

upon whose banks we gather to work and pray and dream.

---Ken Medema, 2003

One thing I’ve noticed lately…peace does not have a very powerful reputation. In an age where even our words are weaponized, the idea that peace could be strong, or courageous, salvific in a world of self-made chaos—such an idea is foreign, unsettling, maybe even a little bit radical.

Now it’s true, that there can be an uneasy peace-and-quiet sort of peace overlaid like a coverlet on a reality of fear and hatred and warring. That creepy sort of quiet from suspense movies, right before the villain bounds out from his hiding place to hatch his dastardly plan on his poor, doomed, should-have-known-better victim.

But there is a powerful peace, and it is real. This peace is rooted in justice—justice that seeks the good of the village, and the equitable treatment of neighbor. When this steady, seeking justice and this powerful, persistent peace join streams, their rolling becomes a massive force that is transformative and healing. Beside that flood we can gather, and dream a new way to live together.

Because empowered peace can change the world.

...while we wait

O God in whom all life begins, who births the seed to fruit,

bestow Your blessing on our lives; here let Your love find root.

Bring forth in us the Spirit’s gifts of patience, joy, and peace;

deliver us from numbing fear, and grant our faith increase.

---Carl P. Daw, 1990

The more we learn about gestation and human growth, and germination and plant growth, the more similarities become apparent. So much of early growth happens silent, hidden—good, strong changes taking time and nourishment before new life is ever ready to make an appearance on the scene. And while I’ve never been a farmer, having to depend on invisible growth for the future, I have been a mom, waiting helpless for months on growth beyond my control for my arms to be full. And I know the numbing fear that comes with trusting unseen growth, especially what must be the farmer’s fear after a drought year. I know the mother’s waiting fear after still birth. The breath-held, afraid-to-hope, needing-to-trust, wanting-to-believe fear that growth is happening.

I think other parts of our lives are like that, too. So many characteristics of a faithful life grow unseen, tucked away, nurtured by time and steady attention. The Spirit’s gifts grow in us, perhaps unseen as they germinate, but growing all the same, ready to yield mature aspects of our character that will shape the world around us. Peace, love, joy—powerful forces for transforming life. And the patience to believe that unseen growth will yield a harvest.

May God deliver us from the chokehold of fear into the embrace of faith…while we wait.

...all we thirsted for

All the way my Savior leads me; cheers each winding path I tread,

gives me grace for every trial, feeds me with the living bread;

though my weary steps may falter, and my soul athirst may be,

gushing from the Rock before me, lo! a spring of joy I see.

---Fanny Crosby, 1875

There are times the path seems winding, and the end unseen. At those times, when each step grows heavy, and the way seems never-ending, a hint of breeze refreshes, cheers. A rest along the way, to refuel and rest, can cast the day in a different light.

And when that path is life, and goals are elusive, and progress seems awfully rare, grace is that refreshing—gift, given with no thought of return, or of its having been earned in the first place. The words of our brother Jesus, urging us on toward greater compassion, more tenderness, consistent understanding—these words are food, fuel.

And the very presence of Christ, in the midst of our mess, feet on our path, God with us—this presence is pure joy, springing up like cool spring water, unexpected, thrilling, a little shocking. The very thing we never knew we were thirsty for.

All. the. way.

...what feet are for

Oh, how sweet to walk in this pilgrim way, leaning on the everlasting arms;

oh, how bright the path grows from day to day, leaning on the everlasting arms.

---Elisha A. Hoffman, 1887

Path. Way. Journey. Through the years, these expressions of spiritual life have come to ring truest in my ear, and resonate most soundly in my soul. While I am not always positive about my destination, and my goals change, and sometimes finish lines seem frustratingly movable, feeling called to the journey is a constant. If day breaks, there is a path, and even when I may not be totally sold on the reason, my feet will be on it, because that is what feet, and paths, are for.

In this little bit of late-19^th cent. poetry, the hymnist speaks of the path growing bright from day to day. My mind travels to the memory verse from Bible Drill---“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.” (Psalm 119:105) And the thing is, I’ve walked on some dark paths in my life (yep, literal and metaphorical), and I know how lights work. That flashlight? Even a good one, with the batteries you remembered to replace before you packed it up for the campout? It illuminates the path a few steps ahead.

God’s presence? Right there with us on the path, every step of the way. But that light it throws? It’s a flashlight, not a floodlight. We were always meant to walk leaning on God, steps at a time, waiting for the light to shine up ahead.

Wow. Light for the journey, and an arm to lean on. On the path with Jesus.

...holding ourselves hostage

He breaks the power of canceled sin, He sets the prisoner free;

His blood can make the foulest clean, His blood availed for me.

---Charles Wesley, 1739

I have been singing this hymn for most of my life, and other Christians have been singing it since, well, the mid-1700s when Charles Wesley composed the text. You can imagine, then, how surprised I was by something new speaking to me from this page of the hymnal.

I believe most of us are familiar with the idea that Christ’s sacrifice has freed us from, and forgiven us for, our sins. This act of Christ’s has removed the separation between us and God. Look closer with me at the first phrase of the selected verse: He breaks the power of canceled sin. Now I am thinking, what is the power of sin, if it has been canceled by Christ? For me, the power of canceled sin in our lives is guilt, and the inability to really believe in Christ’s power to forgive. With the memory of sin, its shadow, hanging over our heads, we continue to live as sinful, and therefore separated beings.

And friends, living in the shadow of canceled sin, in guilt, is in no way living as free people. In a way, guilt is more of a prison than sin ever was---because, brothers and sisters, we sit in cells with unlocked doors, steadfastly refusing to step out into the freedom of forgiveness. By letting guilt exercise its death-grip on our hearts, we hold ourselves hostage.

But we have a great Redeemer. Our gracious Master has not only broken the power of active sin in our lives, but also the power of canceled sin. We are free from sin…and guilt. We are free.

...welcome, every single one

All who hunger, never strangers, seeker, be a welcome guest.

Come from restlessness and roaming. Here in joy, we keep the feast.

We who once were lost and scattered in communion’s love have stood.

Taste and see the grace eternal. Taste and see that God is good.

---Sylvia Dunstan, 1990

Sylvia Dunstan, the writer of the hymn text for today’s meditation, spent the major portion of her cancer-shortened ministry as a prison chaplain. All along, until her death at 38, she wrote hymns of profound wisdom, celebrating the mystery of God and the welcome of God’s love. In this text, it seems evident that Dunstan’s decade in ministry to those imprisoned has informed her sense of the isolation and rootlessness experienced by so many on the fringes of society. Hungry, strangers, restless, roaming, lost, scattered (and in other verses wandering, empty, lonely, longing). Some in this population have alienated themselves from the mainstream of society, and others have been cast out by the mainstream. Obviously, Dunstan’s heart was for the castoff and cast out; there is pretty good evidence that God’s heart is, too.

If I’m honest today, the words Dunstan chose to relate the alienation from the ‘center’ are feelings I have felt from time to time. How about you? Who hasn’t wandered, felt empty, restless, lonely? Who hasn’t longed for…well, for something more than this?

Here, Dunstan says, here is the table, and we, all of us, all of them, are welcome. Every single one. And there is grace, starting now, overflowing and lasting forever. Enough for all of us, all of them. Everyone together.

Taste and see.

...I have been afraid

Lo! the hosts of evil round us scorn thy Christ, assail his ways!

Fears and doubts too long have bound us, free our hearts to work and praise.

Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the living of these days.

---Harry Emerson Fosdick, 1930

Careful now. Before we go seeing monsters under every bed, and bogeymen around every corner, let’s be clear-headed. When the hosts of evil scorn Jesus and his ways, what ways exactly are they disregarding? What are Jesus’ defining ways? I am going to go out on a limb here, and say that anytime you saw Jesus speak for the voiceless, stand with the invisible, lift up the lowly, welcome the outsider, or free the oppressed, it was then you were seeing the ways of Christ.

And if that be true, the hymn’s next line is put into beautiful, and perfect, and fearsome context for us. Because, my friends, I have been afraid. To speak up in the face of hate or disregard. I have doubted. Whether I was strong enough to stand up. Whether it would be worth it. Even (God forgive me) whether my stand would be fully understood and appreciated. Fears and doubts have silenced my speech and frozen me into inaction. I have not walked in Jesus’ ways.

Well, I checked, and there is no way Harry Emerson Fosdick, the prominent progressive pastor who penned this hymn, and John Mayer, popular singer-songwriter, could have been best friends. The dates just don’t line up. But, folks, let me tell you, I think they would have shared a groovy moment of synchronicity over some of their writing and personal philosophies. Because here is a verse of Mayer’s song Say:

            Even if your hands are shaking

            And your faith is broken

            Even as the eyes are closing

            Do it with a heart wide open

            Say what you need to say

Grant us wisdom, grant us courage. To say what we need to say.

...my kind of river

Like a river glorious is God’s perfect peace,

Over all victorious in it’s bright increase;

Perfect, yet it floweth fuller everyday,

Perfect, yet it groweth deeper all the way.

---Frances R. Havergal, 1874

I have never floated on the Mississippi River, but I’ve read Huckleberry Finn. There is a vivid description of the river that stays with me. Huck and Jim are floating on their raft down the river, intending to veer into the Ohio where it joins the Mississippi. Neither had ever seen the Ohio, or that part of the Mississippi; when they realized that the time for paddling hard upstream of the Ohio was nigh, it was obvious that the river was too wide, too deep, too inexorable to fight against.

I thought of this passage when I read the hymn text for today. This river of God’s peace? It’s no shallow, meandering, drought-sickened rivulet. This river, this peace, is a powerful force, growing ever deeper and fuller in its completeness. This peace is not a resigned, mousy resignation to the ‘true’  powers in the world. It is the force that is able to sustain life, overpowering the unrest, the injustice, the terror in the world with its current. This peace is the true force to be reckoned with.

That’s my kind of river.

...seeking the city

Where cross the crowded ways of life,

Where sound the cries of race and clan,

Above the noise of selfish strife

We hear your voice, O Son of Man!

In haunts of wretchedness and need,

On shadowed thresholds dark with fears,

From paths where hide the lures of greed

We catch the vision of your tears.

The cup of water given for you

Still holds the freshness of your grace;

Yet long these multitudes to view

The strong compassion of your face.

O Master, from the mountainside,

Make haste to heal these hearts of pain;

Among these restless throngs abide,

O tread the city’s streets again;

Till all the world shall learn your love

And follow where your feet have trod:

Till glorious from your heaven above

Shall come the city of our God.

---Frank Mason North, 1903

What a privilege we have today, to experience this hymn, just over a century old. It presents a great contrast between two cities --- one earthly, one the city of God. In this verse, I can almost feel the dank walls of the city closing in on me: narrow alleys with doorways leading to shadowy rooms; streets crowded with strangers passing, eyes down; threat of danger holding in the stale air like a threadbare blanket. Wretchedness, greed, fear, the noise of selfish strife, lurk around each corner and haunt each boulevard.

And Christ himself visits these streets, never shrinking from the pain and need. Weeping while he walks, aching for the hurting world he loves, but fully giving himself to its brokenness. And while we are Christ’s people in this brokedown city, we walk and weep like our brother Savior.

But there is another city, another city than the one we manage to create when left to our own devices. This city is inhabited with love, and these streets, too, are paved with the footfalls of Jesus; walking in them, living in the rare air of compassion, we put our hands to the wheel to co-create the Kingdom with our Savior. The cup of cold water still holds the freshness of grace; we tread the streets together, Christ among us, on his face “strong compassion.”

Seeking the City…

...diamonds from ashes

When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

---John Rippon, 1787

There are lots of ways to look at the rough patches and tragedies in our lives. Some folk choose to look at everything that happens as God’s distinct will, some look at bad stuff as karma or payback. I see the bad things that happen as part of the price of being truly human in this world. For me, this resonates with my observations, with history, with my own life experience, and with my belief in a loving God.

In today’s hymn, with its text from the 18^th century, the hymnist speaks from the viewpoint of a strong, caring God to a searching believer. We will be called, no choice about it, through our life experiences, to journey through deep waters; but we will not go alone. God goes with us through our troubles and distress, to bless and even to make holy those experiences that try us the most. To me this says that God can bring some worth out of even the most tragic, worthless, hurtful situation, diamonds from ashes.

What a hopeful thought from a loving God!

...something rushes in

Come away from rush and hurry to the stillness of God’s peace;

from our vain ambition’s worry, come to Christ to find release. Come away from noise and clamor, life’s demands and frenzied pace;

come to join the people gathered here to seek and find God’s grace.

---Marva J. Dawn, 1999

Horror vacui, “Nature abhors a vacuum”, was thought to have been postulated around 485 BC by Greek physicist-philosopher Parmenides. The theory, in my (very) laywoman’s terms, is that where nothing is, something will rush in to fill it up. Lots of things about physical science don’t make sense to me; this, I have no trouble with. Clear off the kitchen table…whoosh, two days later, the surface is covered with the flotsam and jetsam of daily life. Horror vacui, indeed.

I thought of this principle as I read Marva Dawn’s wonderful new hymn text. She addresses the call, tempting to us all at various times in our busy lives, to come away, to retreat, to leave behind. And the things she names as ‘retreat-worthy’ are indeed the things that wear us down and use us up. But our lives don’t need to be left vacant, empty spaces void of substance or meaning when we retreat from the stressors of everyday.

Dawn suggests that when we come away from rush and hurry we come toward the stillness of peace. When we retreat from the idea that we change the world by worrying we move forward to release through trust in Christ. And when we draw back for a time from the lures of this world, with its clamor, frenzy, and unending demands, we can step into the gathered family of faith, seeking grace in each other’s company and God’s presence.

Nature abhors a vacuum. So when we step away from what binds us, let us lean toward the fullness of faith.