...I am, you are

We are called to be God’s prophets, speaking for the truth and right,

Standing firm for godly justice, bringing evil into light.

Let us seek the courage needed, our high calling to fulfill,

That we all may know the blessing of the doing of God’s will.

---Thomas A. Jackson, 1973

Prophet. When I see the word, my mind goes to oracles, seers, fortune-tellers, or at least future-tellers. Some guy dressed in outrageous rags with a more outrageous hair-do, straight up giving the king the business. Same dude, few days later, found tossed off the city heights or ripped limb from limb ‘under mysterious circumstances’. Is that your mental image, too? This does not sound like a highly sought-after gig, my people. 

In actuality, the word means something less spectacular, and more applicable to our lives today. A prophet is one who speaks a fresh word from God for the world. You see my meaning? We could all be called to be prophets, listening to the guidance of God as we share a fresh message of hope to the world. We could be the ones called to envision and embody the reign of Christ in the world. We could be the ones called to speak hope to despair. Strength to fear. Love to apathy. Welcome to mistrust. Plenty to scarcity.  Sound daunting? It does to me, too. But our help and courage comes from our close relatedness to Jesus and his message.

Prophets. I am, and you are. All of us are called. And family…we have these voices for a reason.

...illuminated in your presence

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;

naught be all else to me, save that thou art:

thou my best thought, by day or by night,

waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

---trad. Irish

“The room lit up when she walked in.” You can picture it—I bet you can—from a scene in a movie, or maybe even from a lucky moment in real life. That moment, the rare one, when the stir of the cocktail party crowd stills, the sea of tuxedoed and pearl necklaced extras parts, and the one glides across the room, lighting her own path, a hundred eyes following her. You can tell from the glow that she is the leading lady. You’ve probably experienced this effect irl (in real life) as well—the way some people seem to light up a room with their very presence, making everyone else around them lighter, too. We’re like moths, in those moments, drawn to that light.

In this beloved Irish hymn, the text speaks of God metaphorically. Among those metaphors is God’s presence as light. Not that God brings light, or that knowing God creates light, or that God helps us see light, although all of those may be true and are undoubtedly good. No, in this text, God’s presence is, itself, light. When God is my light, what is illuminated in my life? Things I had yet to notice, gifts or strengths yet to be exercised? Hurts and fears I had hidden away, in the dark, even from myself? Is, perhaps, the full beauty of my being illuminated in the presence of God, expressed as light?

If my life lights up when God walks in…what then?

...beside the weary road

All ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low,

who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,

look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing;

O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.

---Edmund H. Sears, 1849

This unfamiliar verse of the very familiar carol "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" has always drawn my soul. We all read our lives into the songs we sing, I think, and I read mine into this verse. I have felt that it speaks to anyone dealing with a chronic condition, toiling sometimes ‘with painful steps and slow'. This season, I feel it speaks to many, many of us, burdened with cares and sorrows beyond our comprehension. Who of us does not now and again feel crushed, stooped, weary of the pain of being human in a world full of humans?

But look! Ahead of us shine hours of ease and gladness, golden in their comfort. I know, I know…some who know me may be saying, right about now, that it is not like me to talk about ‘pie in the sky, by and by’, and you would be right. Stay with me. The genius in this verse, and in the grace offered us, is that the angels don't come like shiny aliens and whisk us away to a world where nothing matters anymore. No, the angels' song fills the skies over the weary road. Picture yourself, and me, all of us, laid out on the hoods of our cars, wrapped in fleece blankets against the winter chill; and there, because we happen to be travelers on this weary road, we hear angels. Because life has led us here, where we are, how we are, dealing with what we must, we hear the angels sing.

Wouldn't miss it for the world.

...frail God in the hands of clueless humanity

The hands that first held Mary’s Child were hard from working wood,

From boards they sawed and planed and filed and splinters they withstood.

This day they gripped no tool of steel, they drove no iron nail,

But cradled from the head to heel our Lord, newborn and frail.

---Thomas H. Troeger, 1985

I remember the hours well. Against all standards of logic and decency, the medical staff at West Paces Ferry Hospital in cozy intown Atlanta GA had seen fit to hand over a tiny, 8’12”, absolutely lovely newborn boy to two not tiny, already sleep-starved, absolutely besotted grownups, to…what? Wait, we were supposed to take care of that tiny creature? We, who knew nothing? We, of the too big hands, and the too loud voices, and the good intentions and brokedown followthrough? We?

And yet, there we were, tiny babe buckled into tiny rear-facing carseat, on the short surface road drive to the tiny house the babe would call home. Into the nursery, walls telling the story of teddy bears serving tea to bunnies and geese, and pigs in pearls. And, lulled to sleep by the purring car motor and the air conditioner against the August heat, laid (maybe gently) into tiny skirted bassinet. To sleep…and sleep…and sleep. As clueless parents paced, and fretted, and looked at our books (the Dr Spock and the hippie one, for balance) in this pre-Google age. Finally, at 12 hours, frantic parents called the emergency nurse line, all to say, the tiny baby seems to be sleeping so peacefully. After a, well, pregnant pause, the tired nurse murmured, and this is a problem how?

Imagine, the God of the universe embodied in the frailty of a babe, entrusted to the rough, calloused hands of a clueless father…never having cradled “God with us” before, and only the fog of the half-remembered dream of angel whisper to guide and reassure.

Who’d imagine? …our Lord, newborn, and frail…

...ancient splendors fling

For lo, the days are hastening on, by prophet bards foretold,

when with the ever-circling years comes round the age of gold;

when peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling,

and the whole world give back the song which now the angels sing.

---Edmund H. Sears, 1849

I won’t lie. The complete text of this hymn, written in 1849 by Massachusetts minister Edmund Sears, is one of the most incisive studies of peace, and how we destroy it, that I have ever read. Almost no hymnal includes all the verses, but you can find them complete on several internet sites, and I encourage you to do so (along with the entire text of ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day’, from Longfellow’s poem  ). Their power will affect you deeply; and in our world of commonplace, numbing un-peace, we need the angels’ song to shock us out of our complacency.

This verse looks forward to a time when the world will be set right, in tune with the song of the angels, at peace. Imagine, a time when peace, personified, flings its splendors over the whole world; a time when warring and internal turmoil cease around the globe; a time when we mortals can forget our war-cries and shouts of hate and fear, and fill our mouths and hearts to echo back the peace song the angels have sung all along.

Lo, the days are hastening on…and I can’t wait.

...the world in pieces

Christians all, your Lord is coming, hope for peace is now at hand.

Let there be no hesitation, walk in faith where life demands.

Bear the word that God has given; share the birth that stirs your soul.

Alleluia! Alleluia! Christ will come and make you whole.

---Jim Miller, 1993

“What do you want from me?!” This question, borne of frustration, whispered in fury or shouted in rage. This question, from a student in over his head and floundering in an advanced academic class. This question, from an uncommunicative spouse during a couples counseling session crackling with tension. This question, from a sleep-deprived, wound-tight new mother, desperate to know why the tiny baby she loves refuses to be comforted.

And we, too. We who claim Christ. We who pray for a world at peace and, instead, survey a world in pieces. We who stand helpless, empty hands curling uselessly into fists as we are tempted, ourselves, to go to pieces. We stand, fists curled, feeling helpless, and clueless, and cry into the broken world, “What do you want from me?!”

And from the silence…answers. Walk in faith, don’t hesitate. Carry with you the word God gave you. Share the nativity story that still lights you up. Can you do these things? They are part of your breathe-in-breathe-out, after all, your being. The world wants you…to be fully you.

And Christ will come, and in the coming, the world in pieces will find peace.

...created for together

O that with yonder sacred throng we at His feet may fall!

We’ll join the everlasting song, and crown Him Lord of all.

--Edward Perronet, 1779

I drove in that sort of half-mindless reverie that long sunsets and lonesome backroads inspire, far enough from the few small towns I passed through that I met few headlights or taillights. My NPR station crackled with enough static that the quirky voices of the show hosts teased me with nearly-full statements of great import. Then, all of a sudden and also at long last, I found myself on a long stretch of road, aimed at the dying-sun sky, with the held-breath world embracing me from either side of the road. And there, and then, I sat up. I took notice. I slowed my breath. I turned grateful eyes, heart toward the Creator of this exquisite moment.

Perhaps you have experienced those instants of solitary adoration also. They echo in the soul (and if I’m lucky, and prepared, my camera roll) far after the moment passes. And they are important. But they are not the only holy moments.

The moments when the pieces fit, and we match our voices to the lasting song, and to our beloved family—across the aisle, around the world—hold their own glory, and offer us a chance to join in a sort of worship we will never experience on our own.

Not because we are not good enough, alone. But because we are created for together.

...with my eyes closed

…still with Thee in closer, dearer company,

in work that keeps faith sweet and strong ,in trust that triumphs over wrong;

in hope that sends a shining ray far down the future’s broadening way,

in peace that only Thou canst give, with Thee, O Master, let me live.

---Washington Gladden, 1879

Meat, browned. Tomato paste and water. Beef bouillon paste, spices. Red beans. Cook in crockpot, add salt and tomatoes in juice.

In my sleep I made this recipe, stumbling through blurs of soccer seasons, choir seasons, season seasons. With my eyes closed, with one hand tied behind my back, while pretending I understood the math homework. So when middle child texted for the recipe, I sent it off from pure muscle memory. …”Mom? Is there any kind of tomato stuff in there before the ones at the end?” …”Yes. The tomato paste and water at the beginning…” “Ummm, not there. Did you leave it out?”

Well. A little lesson for me on the power of habit, and falling out of it. When I had stopped making chili by the bucketful, the habits that guided my cooking (and the mental index card that held the much-loved recipe) had fallen away too. Walking in the company of Jesus, our teacher and friend, incorporates habits—habits of work, trust, hope, peace. In the daily practice, the repeating rhythm of these habits we exercise walking in the presence of Christ, we find our way to life.

In Christ’s closer company, we become what we practice.

...in all life

To all, life Thou givest, to both great and small;

in all life Thou livest, the true life of all;

we blossom and flourish as leaves on the tree,

and wither and perish – but naught changeth Thee.

---Walter Chalmers Smith, 1867

This mid 19^th century hymn of praise tackles a tough issue for many God-seekers of all eras: the unknow-ability of God. God, invisible, hidden, inaccessible. Over centuries, millennia, from the dawn of humankind, folk have been searching for a face for God; usually the one we come up with is an awful lot like our own. Having an invisible God doesn’t suit a human race that likes visibility. Thus, we erect statues. We paint icons and frescoes. We weave tapestries. We create stories full of personification and pronouns. We fall short. Every time. Our minds are too small for the vastness of God’s identity.

And that’s ok. Because with every rendering, parable, grasping simile, we stretch ourselves to glimpse a little more of the God-ness of God. In this hymn, Walter Chalmers Smith grasped just a bit, I think. God gives life to all, great and small. God lives a true life in all. God lives in all. …God lives in all? If God is present in all life, perhaps we need not look too far to catch a glimpse of God’s glory. Perhaps I need only look into your eyes, and you need only look into mine.

...the praise of the created

All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing

Alleluia!

Let all things their Creator bless, and worship him in humbleness,

Alleluia!

---Francis of Assisi, 1225

The text of this ancient hymn is attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, and dates from around the year 1225. Let’s just think for a minute about a tradition that still values the wisdom that can be gleaned from the riches of the past. Thank you, Church, for preserving these hymns for us and our children.

Now, on to the poetry and genius of the text. St. Francis couldn’t actually cover “all things”, but he covered all the bases he could with contrast. Listen to some of the contrasts from this lover of all things natural: burning sun and silver moon, rushing wind and sailing clouds, rising morn and evening lights, flowing water and masterful fire. Can you imagine a concert of voices made up of all these natural elements, praising the One who’d imagined them? It would be pretty spectacular, I’ll bet!

And yet, Francis doesn’t leave out the human element of nature’s praise, and reminds us that our voices are needed to make the song complete. Hearts, both tender with forgiveness and heavy with pain and sorrow, are called to praise God, and to cast all care on the One who cares for us.

Let all things their Creator bless…Alleluia!

...the wholeness, after

I thank You, Lord, for each new day, for meadows white with dew,

for the sun’s warm hand upon the earth, for skies of endless blue,

for fruit and flower, for lamb and leaf, for every bird that sings,

with grateful heart I thank You, Lord, for all these simple things.

---Mary Kay Beall, 1991

Chaos is built of complexity. It is busy-ness, and noise, and frenetic motion, and confused grasping. It is layers of responsibility and burden. It is a multiplicity of demands—those from within, those from without. It is the rushing, and the doing, and the chasing, and the getting. And it is the emptiness, after. The echoing emptiness, too, can be chaos.

Gratitude is crafted of simplicity. It is pause, and breath, and gaze, and attending. It is unhurried presence in the face of a rushing culture. It is listening for the highest call. It is the abiding, and the being, and the discovering, and the acknowledging. And it is the wholeness, after. The echoing wholeness, too, can be gratitude.

Intentionally choosing simplicity over complexity may guide us in the way of wholeness rather than emptiness. And choosing gratitude over chaos may remake our lives as offering –every heartbeat, every breath.

...befriended

Praise to the Lord, who doth prosper thy works and defend thee;

Surely his goodness and mercy here daily attend thee.

Ponder anew what the Almighty can do,

If with his love he befriend thee.

---Joachim Neander, 1680, tr. Catherine Winkworth, 1863

This particular hymn text astounds me. Penned in 1680 (the translation made in 1868), this text deals with the nature of God’s power. What is amazing to me is the intimate nature of the relationship the writer envisions between the powerful God of the universe and everyday people like us (h/t to Sly and the Family Stone). I know I shouldn’t, but I tend to think of intimacy with God as a contemporary thought; this text brings me up short. This familiarity, this friendship, is nothing evolved with our relational thinking; this has been a part of the way many before you and me have experienced God’s care for God’s beloved. I am asked to ponder anew what friendship with God can mean to regular folk like me.

What does it mean to be friends with God? How does this new identity affect the way I view my worth, my potential, my value? And how would being God’s friend change the way I walk this earth, the way I relate to the rest of humanity? How would being God’s friend make me a more compassionate, more understanding, more tender friend to you? What kind of effect does that kind of friendship have?

With friends like that…would we have enemies?

...isn't it rich?

As we worship, grant us vision, till Your love’s revealing light

in its height and depth and greatness dawns upon our quickened sight,

making known the needs and burdens Your compassion bids us bear,

stirring us to tireless striving, Your abundant life to share.

---Albert F. Bayly, 1961

“Abundant life” is an attractive concept to believers. Definitions for abundant include “in plentiful supply, ample; abounding with; rich.” The picture I have in mind is of a life so rich and full that it is overflowing. Just as there are many mental images of abundance, there are many interpretations of what Jesus really meant when he promised an abundant life. As I study this hymn text, I find a new favorite.

This text suggests that the abundant life Christ lives, and beckons us to, is abundant in service. Out of the abundant life we have “in plentiful supply”, we can reach out to salve the hurts of an aching world. And, just perhaps, a fully abundant life cannot be lived separate from serving others out of the riches of grace and mercy showered on us by God. No one can live an abundant life outside the sphere of serving a hurting world.

Isn’t it rich?

...less by sight

Teach me your way, O Lord, teach me your way!

Your guiding grace afford, teach me your way!

Help me to walk aright, more by faith, less by sight;

lead me with heavenly light, teach me your way.

---B. Mansell Ramsey, 1919

More by faith, less by sight. Is there anything we humans like less than not seeing? Whether it is a fear of the dark, the panic of a blindfold, or the frustration of low vision or driving through a pounding rainstorm, not seeing can leave us feeling helpless, and hopeless. Yet in scripture we are instructed to ‘walk by faith and not by sight.’ Could anything take us out of our comfort zone faster?

How might our lives change if we walked less by sight and more by faith? Would our decision-making process change? What judgments might we forgo, or at least suspend?  Would we experience others’ needs and problems in a different light? Would our dependence on God make us weak…or would it make us strong?

...I'll be good sometime

Take my life, lead me, Lord, take my life, lead me, Lord,

Make my life useful to thee.

---R. Maines Rawls, 1968

I was sitting up late one night during a holiday break, when college-age children were ‘home’ for a bit. My cell phone chime startled me out of a thoughtful reverie (ok, Sarah, I was probably asleep in the green chair), and I picked it up to read the following text message: I’ll be good sometime. After my heart stopped racing, I was able to decipher the message; the sender’s predictive texting had interpreted the entered word ‘home’ as the word ‘good’ (same letters on the T9 keypad). And while I’ll be home sometime isn’t terribly specific, it is much more comforting than  I’ll be good sometime.

In this life, most of us can handle being called to ‘goodness’. We can do that, even if it is only ‘sometimes’. But, God knows, family, we are called to more than goodness. We are called to usefulness, to service, to faithfulness to the Savior who poured out his own life for ours.

Friends, we are not called just to be ‘good sometime’; we are called to be good for something.

...what light does

Live Your Light within and through us,

dawn in us eternal day.

Tell us, as we brave the darkness,

when to speak and what to say.

---Terry W. York, 2006

If you learned the song as a child, I bet you’ll have trouble not acting out some of the motions right now, where you sit---

            This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!

            Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine!

            Won’t let Satan {whuff} it out! I’m gonna let it shine!

Did I see you with your finger up, 'letting it shine'? There is such a good message for us in this simple song---the message to live our truth boldly in the world, unashamed of the love we profess, refusing to let the not-love quench the flame. I want to live this way, I do; and some days I get closer than others.

But here’s the thing. If the Source of Light is in us (and It is, oh, It is), we. just. shine. Not because we’re shiny every single day. Not because we produce any light in and of ourselves. But because the Source, the Light of the World, is in us, lighting the world through us. All we’ve got to do is get out of the way and let the Light do…what Light does, for Heaven’s sake.

With the light of Christ in you---I dare you not to shine.

...no more

gonna lay down my sword and shield
down by the riverside,
study war no more.
--black spiritual

the commitment to radical peace will require of us laying down both sword *and* shield--weapon *and* defense. learning to lay down fear and pick up trust.

meet you at the river. my hands will be empty.
--laca

...and in me

Does sadness fill my mind? A solace here I find,

May Jesus Christ be praised!

Or fades my earthly bliss? My comfort still is this,

May Jesus Christ be praised!

The night becomes as day, when from the heart we say,

May Jesus Christ be praised!

The powers of darkness fear, when this sweet song they hear,

May Jesus Christ be praised!

--Katholisches Gesangbuch, 1828

Probably none of us, if we live long enough, will avoid the deep ache of sadness. Some may be fortunate, and experience only brief periods of ‘fadedness’. Others, through life circumstance or brain chemistry, may slog through long terms of depression and sadness. And, because Jesus walked this life fully human, we can surmise that he experienced every emotion common to humanity, including the dark cloud of sadness. This thought is so comforting to me --- to know that I can experience nothing that my Savior has not experienced first. And out of that comfort can come praise. In my darkest moment, I can cling to Christ, and sing my anguished, confused, joyful song of praise, faint or full though it may be.

May Jesus Christ be praised, and may praise do its transformative work in the world. And in me. And in me.

...and God showed up

O Master, from the mountainside make haste to heal the hearts of pain;

among these restless throngs abide;

O tread the city’s streets again:

Till all the earth 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

God showed up last Sunday. God showed up in the powerful story of affirmation of the place where a pastor’s core identity and elemental calling each complemented and strengthened the other. God showed up as a diverse congregation gathered to bless one of its own, a young PhD ready to return to his country with the love and nurture of a faith family behind him. God showed up in bread and wine, the body re-membered; and in call to action for peace and justice; and in grief over young lives detained and lost (because God shows up in the grieving, God does). 

But then a funny thing happened. Sarah and I got on the train for home. And God showed up in the singing aloud with the song in his earbuds of the disheveled man a few seats ahead of me (all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble...). And we got our bus transfer, along with a couple struggling with a stroller. And God showed up in the guy in gym clothes who gave up his seat and jumped up to lift the stroller into the aisle beside them. And God showed up in the wondering gaze of the babe who, lifted in his tiny kimono from the stroller, lit up the faces of the strangers all around him. 

And I’m reminded, in a hundred big and small ways, that where and when glimpses of beauty and love break through our isolation and fear, it’s then that Christ walks the city’s streets again. It’s then that God’s kin-dom reveals itself a little more fully. It’s when we learn to follow, that we’ll find we’ve been walking on holy ground all along. 

...the best sorts of Mothering

Like a mother with her children You will comfort us each day,
giving guidance on our journey, as we seek to find our way.
When we walk through fiery trials, You will help us take a stand;
when we pass through troubled waters, You hold out Your tender hand.

—Jann Aldredge-Clanton 

My ideas of good mothering have matured along with me, being shaped by the act of mothering itself, moving from theory to practice and from toddling to dancing. Okay, okay...so, there  may  only be minutes that my mothering approaches the lithe grace of dancing, but you know what I mean. As my maturity as a mother has increased, I have grown to trust more in the preparedness, capability, and potential of my children, and to see my role as less of a rescuer. I’ve learned to provide more guidance and support  than unsolicited direction and dictation. And it is more and more evident to me that presence in the storms of life is to be desired over protection from any discomfort. Somehow I bet life is not through teaching me, either. 

When I look at the ways God loves me, I see the tender strength and steadfast presence of a Mother come through. Comfort, Guide, Courage, Presence—God embodies the best sorts of Mothering. And whether we had a mother who did for us, or not—imagine what it would feel like to know that we all have a God who mothers us so well.

Thanks be to our good God, whose love never fails.