This week, I’m creating blog post reflections based on Psalm 23.
Part 3:
“He restores my soul. He leads me in right paths
for his name’s sake.”
Restoration…
As we’re taking intentional precautions collectively to slow the spread of COVID-19, we’re hearing about destruction. We know that some are experiencing the pains of this time quite directly. Some are hospitalized, and some are distanced from loved ones they cannot visit in nursing homes and living facilities.
Restoration…
As we’re taking intentional efforts personally to recapture the pieces of normalcy that we can, we’re hearing about disruption. At the moment, everyone I know is experiencing the pain of this disruption quite directly, though to varying degrees. We are mostly indoors, separated from communities and friends. Many people are losing income as businesses are closing and gigs are being canceled. Some are feeling loneliness and panic. These forms of disruption impact our physical, mental, emotional, and financial health.
Restoration…
— And —
As we’re taking intentional measures to live this time together, might we also hear about restoration? Is it possible that in this time, some of the best of us might arise too?
There’s no need to sugarcoat the destruction and disruption. We are seeing it, experiencing it, and feeling it. It’s real.
But I also wonder…
–Could this moment restore pieces of who we are? Pieces we thought we lost?
–Could this moment restore awareness of what’s most important to us?
–Could this moment restore the use of skills and talents we haven’t used in a long time?
–Could this moment restore the knowledge that we really belong to community?
–Could this moment restore a greater sense of solidarity?
–Could this moment restore our generous giving?
–Could this moment restore the some of best or ourselves, individually and collectively?
Along the destruction and disruption, I’m going to look for this too.
Image Description: Tree roots criss-cross visibly near a still body of water.
This week, I’m creating blog post reflections based on Psalm 23.
Part 2:
“He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters.”
There is more water than we can see.
When we think of water, we think of what comes through pipes and taps. And we think about the bodies of water we’ve seen — streams, creeks, ponds, lakes, rivers, and oceans. But a whole lot of water exists underground and outside of our view. There’s a whole lot of water traveling through intricate root systems, allowing trees to share resources of nutrients together.
There are also more resources than we can see.
In a time like this, we can expand our recognition that we all have particular needs, and we all have unique skills and resources we can provide. We need to turn both of these toward one another.
This week, I am seeing people give money to complete strangers online. I am seeing people call the governor in my state fervently to demand that water shutoffs end in Detroit and other areas of the state. (If you are quarantined without water, how do you sustain yourself? How do you wash your hands and faces?) I am seeing mutual aid networks popping up all over the country to support service workers whose places of employment are now closed. I am seeing houses of worship delivering groceries and medications to their neighbors.
We all have particular needs.
We all have unique skills and resources we can provide.
We can put these more in view. We can turn both toward one another.
Image Description: A single roll of toilet paper viewed from above.
This week, I’m creating blog post reflections based on Psalm 23.
Part 1: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”
The title is accurate: In Washtenaw County, Michigan, we’re TP-ing each other’s houses. But in a totally different way than that phrase usually suggests. Local organizers started a Facebook page called Washtenaw County Mutual Aid Resources. In that space, people are helping one another to address a variety of needs.
Some are letting people know about public resources and how to access them. Some are advocating for paid sick leave. Some are requesting Venmo, PayPal, and CashApp accounts of those who are losing income due to cancelations, and they’re sending money along.
And you guessed it, we’ve started a thread that invites people to pass toilet paper along to those who need it.
In my faith tradition, there are stories about Jesus feeding crowds of 4,000 to 5,000 people from a mere five loaves of bread and two fish. These enormous crowds have been following him and assembling together to request healing and listen to him teach. The disciples of Jesus want to send them away to surrounding towns to buy food, but Jesus says, “You give them something to eat.”
Crickets. How do we do that?
They’re likely panicking. It’s a task too large, and they don’t necessarily want to be responsible for people growing weak and fainting.
Maybe they also want a break. Please. I need some introvert time. Send them awaaaaay for a while.
“We only have five loaves of bread and two fish,” they say. Could that have been a sarcastic response?. Or maybe just a declarative, matter-of-fact one? A practical one?
We’re not going to be able to do it.
But then, a miracle happens. Jesus begins to break that bread and share that fish, and everyone has enough to eat. They even finish with twelve baskets left over.
What happened here?
The traditional interpretation I’ve heard most is that Jesus reveals himself to be a creator: He’s in alignment with The Creator and is one and the same. He miraculously creates and multiples this food out of virtually nothing.
But I’m also intrigued by another interpretation:
What if Jesus began giving this food away to the first few people as a deliberate teaching moment? Modeling this first, what if people then understood he was issuing an invitation? What if they then reached into their pockets or satchels or baskets or whatever they used back then and began to share the food they have too? Giving and receiving, what if they passed it all around to their neighbors and were amazed to discover that there’s enough? Even more than enough?
That invitation continues right now.
In these days, we might turn ourselves toward what is most ultimate in our lives, whether we call that God, a Higher Power, or a Some-Larger-Meaning/Value-That-Informs-Who-We-Are, and ask,
What need do I see or know about? What abundance do I have? How do I make them match?
Or even… What meager, small thing do I have? What tiny thing can I share as part of a collective contagion of giving? Something that might chip away at a need and inspire more giving?
These are good questions.
We’re going to keep TP-ing people’s houses. And we’ll provide in other ways too.
Image Description: A person sits alone in the grass near some water.
This sermon was preached on behalf of First Presbyterian Church in Dearborn, Michigan and was focused upon the story told in Jonah 2. An audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.
Early last week, before we began social distancing collectively, I had the occasion to meet two lovely people named John and Emil. They are both brothers of the Taize community. The Taize Community is an ecumenical Christian monastic community in the Burgundy region of France. More than 100 brothers live there from a variety of Christian traditions, and they represent 30 countries around the world.
They are known for a worship tradition that honors silence and repetitive singing as forms of prayer. They hold pilgrimages for people around the world and have a special calling to provide pilgrimage space for youth and young adults. Some years, they interface with tens of thousands of young people.
Have you ever attended a worship and prayer service with music from the Taize community? If so, you’ll know that the worshipping community is invited to sing simple, prayerful choruses repetitively and often with beautiful harmony. These choruses invite us to center ourselves in the presence of what is larger than ourselves — the presence of God and the presence of those who surround us as we sing together.
In many Taize-style worship services, there is also prolonged period of silence. Sometimes, this lasts as long as ten minutes. Have you ever sat in silence together in the midst of a community? If so, you know that we can become a bit restless. (“This is lasting a long time…” we might think.) But we can also enter a period when we feel a greater sense of meaning.
Silence is so rare in our world; it’s even more rare to practice it together as a group. Suddenly, we can feel connected to that which is larger — not only to what is ultimate beyond us, but also… to what is most foundational to us. Suddenly, we are connected internally with what matters most to us. We are also connected with our present circumstances: We ponder the gifts and callings that are a part of our lives as well as what is most difficult in our present life circumstances. In that silence, we are connected — and sometimes, confronted — with ourselves.
When I had this conversation last week, Brother Emil said something that I’ve continued to reflect upon. He said that people often describe Taize music and silence as heartfelt. They are “of the heart.” He added, “But ‘the heart’ is not always about feelings.” Continuing, he told us that the Jerusalem Bible, an English translation of the Bible, translates the Hebrew word for heart as “the real me.” Brother Emil said, “I love that.”
I love that too. Brother Emil said that he wants music and silence to bring people into connection with their real selves in the presence of God and in the presence of their neighbors. I found myself wondering… how many transformative ,internal experiences have taken place all over the world during the periods of silence in Taize-style worship services?
This month, the worshipping community of First Presbyterian Church of Dearborn is pondering the story of Jonah. In this story, we are also invited into that which is larger than ourselves. In this story, we are also invited into that which is most true to ourselves and within ourselves.
Jonah is definitely having this experience…
Last week, we explored the first chapter of the story. In that part of the story, Jonah receives a calling that he does not want to fulfill. God tells Jonah that he is to go to the city of Nineveh, the capital of the Assyrian Empire, and the capital of the people that will eventually take the Israelite people captive. He is called to tell them to repent and change their ways.
And Jonah doesn’t want to do it. So he is on the run. He decides instead that he will flee to the city of Tarshish. When he puts this plan into place, everything goes wrong. He gets on a ship, and that ship is endangered when he, the crew, and the other passengers find themselves in a life-threatening storm. The crew determines that the storm has developed because Jonah is shirking his calling from God, so they throw him overboard into the sea. And Jonah prepares to die until… he is swallowed up into the belly of a large fish.
As I shared last week, I love how satirical this story is. It’s purposefully written to be dramatic and over the top. An outrageous, outlandish story somehow gets to the heart of universal aspects of the human experience. Have we not all been on the run at one time or another, and in a multitude of ways? Have we not also shirked our calling in a number of ways? Have we ever experienced the presence of God in situations we would never choose? Have we ever been moved in the heart? Toward the heart? Toward the real me?
Jonah is now experiencing all of these at once.
As I shared last week, Bob Marley has a song with these lyrics:
“You’re running and you’re running,
and you’re running away,
You’re running and you’re running,
but you can’t run away from yourself.”
Jonah can’t run away from himself or the God who refuses to give up on him.
Alone and silent (except perhaps for the gurgling of various fish organs) Jonah then prays in the belly of the large fish. Up to this point, in conflict with God, he has been resentful, afraid, and determined to be anywhere but Nineveh. Now, in communication with God, he gets to the heart of the matter. He gets to the truth of himself, the truth of the situation, and the truth of God’s steadfast love.
The real me. The real God.
Jonah prays words of gratitude.
‘I called to the Lord out of my distress, and he answered me; out of the belly of Sheol I cried, and you heard my voice. You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood surrounded me; all your waves and your billows passed over me. Then I said, “I am driven away from your sight; how shall I look again upon your holy temple?” The waters closed in over me; the deep surrounded me; weeds were wrapped around my head at the roots of the mountains. I went down to the land whose bars closed upon me for ever; yet you brought up my life from the Pit, O Lord my God. As my life was ebbing away, I remembered the Lord; and my prayer came to you, into your holy temple. Those who worship vain idols forsake their true loyalty. But I with the voice of thanksgiving will sacrifice to you; what I have vowed I will pay. Deliverance belongs to the Lord!’
We might now expect that the heavens will part above the sea and some majestic, beautiful, sacred miracle might take place.
Perhaps it is a miracle, but it’s not like that. God speaks to the fish and it spews Jonah out. Jonah is now fish vomit. And guess what? The calling comes again. Immediately. Right at the beginning of the next chapter — chapter 3.
Jonah has emerged from silence. He knows who he is — the real me, the one who is troubled, yes, but also, the the one who is loved, yes — and he knows what he needs to do.
As we’ve all experienced…
There has been more silence this week.
Throughout our world, throughout our nation, throughout our local area, and throughout various rooms of our own houses, there has been more silence. We are practicing social distancing as best we can. In the wake of the coronavirus pandemic, we need to do this, not only for our own health, but primarily and especially for those whose health and living situations are the most vulnerable. They are most susceptible to COVID-19.
There has been more clamor this week.
Throughout our world, throughout our nation, throughout our local area, and throughout the various rooms of our own houses, we have heard the panic. Perhaps we’ve heard it aloud on newscasts, or seen anxiety building on social media, or grappled with our own internal fears. I believe there is a difference between concern and worry. It’s not always easy to flip a switch and stop our worries, of course, or even our panic. We are especially going to need to take care of our mental health and the mental health of our neighbors. But concern is proactive with love toward ourselves and our neighbors. Worry zaps our energy and moves through our communities like a contagion. It even suppresses our immune systems. As we much as we can, and it’s not always easy, let’s privilege concern over worry.
There has been more love this week.
Throughout our world, throughout our nation, throughout our local area, and throughout the various rooms of our own houses, we have seen the ways that people practice love and care. In Washtenaw county where I live, there is a Facebook group for mutual aid. People are passing money to those who are losing income due to cancelations, and we are TP-ing each others houses! (Different meaning) We are passing along toilet paper to people who are low on it, and we are telling people where we’ve spotted it in stores.
Even in a time like this, love can abound.
So I wonder, even amidst the pain, changes, and uncertainties — especially amidst the pain, changes, and uncertainties — how can love abound? How can we quiet ourselves and connect with ourselves and our neighbors through this silence? What kind of inner transformation might you experience in the silence? How might we emerge differently from this silence?
The real me.
The real us.
The real God.
The real calling.
In the silence, in the clamor, in the love, God goes with us.
In the silence, in the clamor, in the love, we go with one another.
Even in a time of social distancing, we cannot truly be disconnected from one another. So call each other. Check in with each other. Share your resources with one another. TP each other’s houses! Love one another. Pray for one another.
Image Description: Three orange seesaws in a neighborhood residential area.
This week, I’m preparing to preach from Jonah 2. In this place in the story, Jonah prays in the belly of the big fish. On Smuggling Grace, I’m posting pieces about prayer.
This is my prayer for my community in the midst of COVID-19…
Over the next few weeks, we’re probably going to ride that constant seesaw of wanting to check social media for connection, but then… we’ll encounter some posts and news that shock us and bring anxiety.
We’ll have to pay attention to our bodies to know where we are with that.
We’ll have to gauge the difference between social distancing and those moments when we begin to turn inward in isolation due to feelings of fear, depression, and despair.
We’ll have to pay attention to our bodies to know the difference.
Even in times of distance, we can check in on each other. In fact, let’s just do that. Sometimes, we tell people that they can reach out if they have that need. But in the midst of a need, that sometimes requires energy that is missing. We can be proactive.
Does someone come to mind throughout the day? When we have the energy, we can initiate contact over distance.
We can give.
We can receive.
We’ll have to pay attention to our bodies to know which to prioritize.
This week, I’m preparing to preach from Jonah 2. In this place in the story, Jonah prays in the belly of the big fish. On Smuggling Grace, I’ll post pieces about prayer this week. Some pieces have been shared previously, and others will be new. Here’s a sermon I preached in July 2016.
This sermon was preached at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan and was focused upon Luke 11:1-13. An audio recording is include above, and a manuscript is included below.
Do you remember who taught you how to pray? Do you have memories of specific people or communities that helped you memorize the Lord’s Prayer and say it aloud? Who comes to mind for you? Do you feel gratitude when you remember them?
Let’s take just a moment to think of those people. Let’s have a few seconds of silence to bring their memory to our recollection. . .
I know we’re going to say the Lord’s Prayer later in the service, but I thought we might say it together right now too, specifically remembering the people who taught us to pray. Let’s imagine them with us. Let’s imagine them saying these words…
Image Description: Tealight candles are it and lined up next to each other in an s-curve pattern.
This week, I’m preparing to preach from Jonah 2. In this place in the story, Jonah prays in the belly of the big fish. On Smuggling Grace, I’ll post pieces about prayer this week. Some pieces have been shared previously, and others will be new. Here’s a piece I wrote in February 2018.
I know a pastor who often says a particular phrase when he prays in worship:
“Help us to be a part of the very prayers we make.”
It’s a phrase I have taken on as well when I lead prayers. Prayer can mean many different things and take on many different forms. I suspect if we pray, most of us pray in many different formats, and we likely infuse that process with many forms of meaning.
But certainly, praying should call us to action.
We need to be a part of the very prayers we make.
So if you pray, what do you pray for these days? Or if you would use a different word than prayer, what do you hope for? Or long for? What need is grabbing your attention in this world, your community, your family?
Whatever it is, how might we take an action to be present to that very need? Or to address that very need?
How might this be important especially for neighbors who are so often out of view?
– Those in prison,
– Those going hungry,
– Those experiencing homelessness,
– Those in the throes of addiction,
– Those who are immigrants,
– Those who live in fear in the shadows,
– Those who are sick without healthcare,
– Those who are stigmatized because of mental illness,
– Those who have lost jobs,
– Those who are foreclosing on their houses,
– Those who have received a challenging diagnosis,
– Those who are harassed or bullied. . .
Image Description: A person looks upward with hands in prayer while standing in a field. The light is on the horizon like a sunrise, and there is a band of clouds in the sky.
This week, I’m preparing to preach from Jonah 2. In this place in the story, Jonah prays in the belly of the big fish. This week on Smuggling Grace, I’ll post pieces about prayer. Some pieces have been shared previously, and others will be new. Here’s a poem I wrote in November, 2017.
Suddenly, I heard my own prayer.
As I was making my final rounds before sleep —
turning off lights, putting dishes in the sink —
I suddenly heard myself,
my deeper self,
reverberate words from a prayer nine years ago.
There it was,
from a moment I had actually forgotten:
The words rose up and found themselves inside me
like a thought I didn’t think.
It was a mantra I prayed during a Taize service
in a time of transition —
a time
for which I was not ready, yet
for which I was being prepared.
Two phrases of prayer, uplifted over and over,
anxiety lending itself toward trust,
wondering if change can change us
even if we would like to change its pathway.
Times like this can shape becoming,
our own shaping,
our own becoming.
Times like this can shape our meaning-making,
as we carry mantles we do not know to choose,
yet for which we are lovingly chosen.
Despite what we hope for,
Despite what we wish for,
even our Deepest Despite
can lend its way toward a world of meaning and becoming.
So I suppose if a prayer can return again,
we can return
to this truth,
to this wondering,
to this becoming.
This sermon was preached at First Presbyterian Church in Dearborn, Michigan and was focused upon the story told in Jonah 1:1-17. A video recording is above and a written manuscript is below. If you have any trouble viewing the embedded video in this post, you can also view it here.
The scripture is read in two places: 10:25-12:05 and 26:20-29:00.
The sermon takes place between 32:30-51:15.
On the run… Jonah is on the run. At least for now, he’s running continually. At least for now, he’s running with no end in sight. That being said, he may have his own end in sight. He ends up in danger in the midst of a terrible storm and then, worse — at least seemingly, for now — he ends up in the belly of a large fish.
Not great. How’s your morning run going, Jonah?
Running… I wonder, what did he think he was running toward.? I wonder, what he thought he might be running from? When we’re on the run — running from calling, running from responsibility, running from fear, running from possibility, running from vitality, an running from wholeness — these seem to be good questions. But honestly, sometimes we don’t even know. We don’t know what we’re running toward. We don’t know what we’re running from. We’re just running.
There are certainly times when we need to run from danger and what is harmful to us. And today, we express support for all people who feel this, know this, and need companions along the journey. We want to be here for you.
But sometimes, we also run from what is good for us, whole for us, grounding for us, and connecting for us. And we run from what is faithful for us. We sense a calling — perhaps just a glimmer, or perhaps something resounding obviously like a bullhorn — GO! — and we do not want to do it. It makes us uncomfortable. It makes us uneasy. It calls us to stretch ourselves toward loving people we’d rather not love. It calls us to take on risk we’d rather not take.
On the run… Jonah is on the run.
Here’s something I love about the Book of Jonah: It’s so wildly satirical. It’s completely the top, and in some places, it’s wonderfully snarky. Biblical scholars believe all of this to be intentional. It’s a satirical story, dramatic and theatrical. And yet, it speaks right into a human experience that might be universal.
We have stories of running too.
We have stories of struggling too.
We have stories of inner conflict too.
As the Bob Marley song says,
“You’re running and you’re running,
and you’re running away,
You’re running and you’re running,
but you can’t run away from yourself.”
So in this story, Jonah ends up in the belly of a large fish, and he cannot run anymore. He can’t run from himself.
The story, of course, also aims to share that he can’t run away from God either. It’s not that God will force Jonah to do the calling that he’s currently shirking. But God won’t give up on Jonah either. We could look at this story and view God as capricious, endangering people through a storm out of anger or truly needing some kind of sacrifice to quell divine rage.
But really, I think this might be a story about God journeying with us when we want to do the opposite — run away from God in conflict and run away from the very neighbors that God is calling us to love. God keeps journeying with us in the most creative of ways, even in the belly of a large fish. Though the calling we’re receiving could difficult for us, it may also be for our benefit. It may also be for our growth and our wholeness.
As Dr. Michael Jinkins, one of my seminary professors used to say,
“There are some people for whom God must say, ‘The only way to save this one is to make a preacher out of them.’”
And there are lots of ways to be a preacher, by the way! So just because I’m the one up here wearing a robe and a stole, that doesn’t mean that couldn’t also be you.
Maybe our calling is saving us… When we find ourselves in conflict with God, neighbors, and in our own internal world, that beckoning call to go, act, do, and love may also be a calling to turn around and live more fully, even if it stretches us, even if it invites risk.
God doesn’t give up on Jonah. God helps Jonah turn around, and God keeps beckoning and keeps summoning with that calling.
Interestingly enough, the calling is to go to the city of Nineveh, the capital of Assyria, the prime city of the empire that will take the Israelites captive in the 8th century BCE. It is a calling for them to repent. In its most literal form, the word ‘repent’ means to turn around. Jonah has a calling to journey with Nineveh toward turning around.
Now in the belly of a giant fish, God journeys with Jonah and turns him around.
“There are some people for whom God must say, ‘The only way to save this one is to make a preacher out of them.’”
The calling is for Jonah’s benefit too.
When I think of a calling for my benefit, and along with it, a sense that I was in the presence of something much larger than myself. I have a moment that comes to mind. I think about a field in Marktoberdorf, Germany.
I think about how I marched to a field in a huff of anger and conflict, then departed with a sense of reassurance and wonder. I didn’t expect any of it, but it was exactly what I needed.
At age 23, I was on the verge of more than one major life transition. It was all a whirlwind of sorts. I was spending twenty days in Germany with the Cardinal Singers, the choir I had performed and traveled with for the last few years. With gratitude, we had been invited to participate in some prestigious competitions, most especially the Marktoberdorf Chamber Choir Competition.
And when I returned home to Indiana where I grew up… Whew. In ten days, I would then get married, and soon after that, I would move across the country to Austin, Texas. That would be the first time I had moved from home. I chose this… I’m the one who applied to seminary, and I loved choosing this seminary, but suddenly, on the Germany trip, I struggled mightily with the move. I knew I had to do this. No turning back. But I didn’t want to do it.
But what was I thinking?
I kind of panicked.
And I was also angry. I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, especially the people in this choir. We had created something incredible together over the last few years. I didn’t know yet… What happens when people move across the country? Do these kinds of friendships continue, or was I throwing that away?
I wasn’t ready to leave my church community. I had such a rich sense of belonging, and the people there had gotten me through so much. I didn’t know yet… What happens when people move across the country? Will I miss them too much? And will I miss out too much?
During a break in rehearsals, I departed for some time alone. I was infuriated about having to make these choices, potentially about losing so much. With deep frustration, I walked a pathway that was becoming increasingly familiar to me. It was a paved but often cracked, small road with gorgeous trees lining either side. Those trees with their vivid, green leaves lined the entire walkway until about a mile down the road, where everything opened up.
I had discovered this pathway about a week before and walked it many times since. The first time, I didn’t expect the opening, though each successive time was stunning in its own way. The shift was this: This road of trees suddenly opened to unexpected views. The Alps were in the distance on right, and a large, expansive field of wildflowers was on the left.
On this day, I think I was less interested in these, at least initially. I just wanted to be alone. So I walked and huffed. Then I turned left and stood in front of that field of wildflowers.
And I don’t know how to explain this, but something shifted, and I had an experience that felt very transcendent right there in the mundane moment of it all. And how to tell this story? Because in one sense, nothing happened, at least externally. There was no great miracle. Nothing fell from the sky. No supernatural action took place before my eyes.
But something happened internally. And it felt deeply spiritual. And I felt the presence of what I would call God, yet how do I name or describe what that means? Above all, I felt a sudden knowing. No voice fell from the sky, but if there would have been one, it would have said this:
There are people in Texas you have to meet, and without them, you will not fully be yourself.
Standing there, that is what I felt and quite suddenly, deeply knew. Something in me then rested in that knowledge, and the anger faded away. I trusted that it would be okay, even a gift to the ones I loved now, for me to become more fully who I was called to become. I knew that was calling me to Texas. I knew that was taking me to particular people in Texas.
And so I went.
When I lived in Texas, I thought of this experience many times. I even told the story a few times too. But I believe all of this resounded most strongly with me when I returned to Texas after the next move, which was to California.
At age 30, seven years after that experience in a field, I flew from Pasadena, California to Austin, Texas, returning for my ordination service. It would be held in a congregation where I did end up meeting an enormous amount of formative people in community.
One night before the service, I was alone in the upper loft of the house where we were staying with friends. I thought about all of this again. Then I wept with gratitude. It was overwhelming… I realized that the very next day, the church would be filled with people present to participate in ordaining me, and with the exception of two loves ones, to a person, the sanctuary would be filled with people I did not know until I made that move to Texas.
Having known them for years now, these were the kinds of people I could not imagine myself not-knowing. Every single person, and all the people collectively… It seemed that they were the fulfillment of that vision, the people I needed to know, the people with whom I would grow more deeply into myself… now with a myriad of names attached.
This was a deep, rich love with names, stories, and commitments attached.
Whatever transcendence is… whomever that Beyond-Presence is… surely, this calls us toward a deep, rich love with names, stories, and commitments attached.
And sometimes, the calling is for our benefit.
Are you on the run?
Are you struggling?
Are you grappling with inner conflict — with God? with neighbors? with yourself?
God keeps journeying with you. God will keep that call resounding. What will it take to stop your running? What will it take to turn around and follow this calling into fullness? The belly of a giant fish? Something less dramatic (I hope)? This story? This community? This worship service? This sermon? Things that will happen later today?
Image description: A person is running, and the surroundings are blurry and distorted. Public domain image.
All people in this world have needs that are particular to themselves. Every person.
And
All people and all communities have unique and particular strengths to share. Every person, every community.
I’m not sure if we can ever truly run from need, because need is one of the most honest and real things about us all. But we definitely try. There may be a number of reasons for this. Among them, we’ve internalized lot of cultural narratives about individualism, self-sufficiency, and the belief that we must produce and earn love and belonging. (Psst, those are myths. Dangerous myths).
But those cultural narratives take form in our thoughts and feelings…
“I’m a burden.”
“I’m too much.”
“I don’t want to over-ask.”
“I don’t want to trouble.”
“They’re going to get tired of me.”
Soon we’re speaking narratives about ourselves, and we run from our need and from one another.
But here is something that is truer than true. I will even speak it as testimony because I keep discovering it to be so: Interdependence is an immeasurable gift.
These days, I’m acutely aware of my need of it, and how sacred it is to receive community care.
This pushes up against so many dominant, American cultural narratives.
I am community-dependent. We are community-dependent.
These days, I keep saying these sentences to myself, because they are freeing, necessary, and beautiful.
Smuggling Grace 