Category Archives: Biblical Reflection

Storm Walk

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A few years back, some misguided souls saw in the devastation of Katrina the judgement of God. Such storms are not the punishment meted out to the wicked: they are natural disasters that cost the health and lives of God’s beloved children. The difference between the acts of God and devastating storms: what God sends shakes us to our core so that we and our neighbors might live deeper, holier lives. It’s the difference between what gives life and what brings only death. Only our prayers and help should be visited upon anyone caught in any hurricane.

The wind rattles the windows as I write, as it has for the past two days. Rain and fog clothe even the most familiar fences and shrubs in mystery. This old familiar world is a stranger at such times – a storm gift that comes with flickering lights and downed tree limbs.

My son and I went for a storm walk Tuesday- something we’ve done for most of his life when the chance presents itself. This time, we ended up on the pier at Besse Park. High winds and high tide had the water dancing. Stoplights and street lights threw paths of moving light across the water to where we stood. Wind tugged at my clothes. Other than a couple walking their dog, we had the streets of town to ourselves. Even in the middle of this old town, on the edge of a storm no longer a hurricane, the power of wind and rain cannot be denied. Wild beyond any human control or understanding, even with Doppler radar technology.

The storm shakes everything, revealing what sits on a firm foundation and what does not. Dry branches fall, lightweight objects skitter across the yard, and plants without deep roots are upended. What is firmly rooted, what has a solid foundation, holds firm.

I’m not surprised that the Spirit comes like the wind. It shakes my complacent faith and forces me to see what is solid and what is not. It is a wild rushing, something I can’t control. The best I can do: take a walk of faith through it.

Suddenly, a sound like a mighty rushing wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. Acts 2:2

 

 

Blazing a Trail

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I was out the door before 8 this morning, heading down the street in my sweats and sneakers. It’s only my second morning walk since the school buses started picking up kids. As much as I love my summer days, I love this return to the rhythm and pattern of my daily activities. Walking is one of my favorite constants – it keeps me healthy, it lifts my spirits, and it connects me with the town I call home.

This morning, I walked past trash bins on High street and counted more than a dozen cars in the downtown Dunkin’ Donuts’ drive-through line. Engines rumbled, birds chirped, and snatches of songs snuck out of car windows. Then, across the street, I saw the river. Between the old shingled Victorian and the fire station, a dazzling sun made it a fiery yellow path, turning eddies and waves into liquid gold. Even the surrounding marshes caught the light, making reeds sparkle and rocks glow. I never thought I’d walk into something like this.

Stunning. And something I would have missed if I hadn’t been out and about this morning. I am so glad I didn’t miss it. I understand why people describe holy encounters as blazing, blinding light. I just hope I am equally stunned when I happen upon God’s illuminating presence – and that I have enough sense to look for it among the houses and byways of this place I call home.

(Walk of Life, Dire Straits, Brothers In Arms, Warner Brothers,1985)

Eyes To See

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Lord God of our Fathers; God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Lord God of our Mothers; God of Sarah, Leah, and Rebecca; God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ: Open our eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.

Risen Lord, be known to us in the breaking of the Bread.

[Prayer C, Book of Common Prayer. For full prayer, click “prayer C” above.]

Do I have eyes to see the hand of God at work in the world around me? With everything wrong and negative, everything harmful and hurtful reported with detail and (sometimes) relish, it’s easy to miss the good, gracious, and holy that surround me. If I don’t ask for eyes to see, will I miss it? If I miss it, how many will I encourage to miss it as well?

There’s a difference between knee-jerk optimism and a hope and joy that nourishes the soul. The first is dependent on things going well (or on denying when things aren’t going well), the second is laying claim to the presence of God in this creation, whatever the circumstances. Blessing and grace are everywhere, but they aren’t always immediately obvious and they come in unexpected forms and by unexpected paths. That makes sense, though. God is constant but not predictable: wouldn’t God-given blessings be the same?

When my eyes are open to God’s handiwork, I will find solace for my grief and strength to make of it something good. I will admit my mistakes and seek forgiveness; my life will be renewed so that I don’t make the same hurtful mistakes in the future.

What a marvelous truth, what a gracious life is offered to me and everyone else. How can I be anything but grateful?

Straying from the Path

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Again and again, you called us to return. Through prophets and sages you revealed your righteous Law. And in the fullness of time you sent your only Son, born of a woman, to fulfill your Law, to open for us the way of freedom and peace.

 On the Heifer farm in Rutland, Massachusetts, I stood outside the barn with my arms spread wide, part of a human channel leading to the grassy meadow. Thirty of us formed the path to get the goats from barn to grassy meadow in the morning and meadow to sheltering barn in the evening. But there were always a good number of goats who darted off toward the rocks or pig barn. A few even headed for the visitor center, apparently seeing something on the steps or dirt driveway that looked better than a meadow full of grass to eat or a comfortable spot in the barn. Young and old, they strayed off the path that led to food and shelter; young and old, they ran toward things that could hurt them. But they weren’t left wandering into the unknown: they were gently nudged, sometimes even carried, back to green meadows and the rest of the herd.

People standing together, forming a path toward what feeds the soul and shelters the spirit – I think it’s a wonderful image for understanding the prophets and saints we find in scripture, tradition, and walking the earth with us. They give us direction and guidance, a path for God’s flock to walk. When we stray, they gently nudge us back home.

I am grateful.

[For full prayer, click Prayer C above.]

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Everything Old is New (Again)

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The thing that has been is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: there is no new thing under the sun. Ecclesiastes 1:9

This is the time of year to clean out the basement, swap the winter wardrobe for summer duds, and get the yard and garden beds set for summer. It’s also the last few weeks of the school year and the return of summer jobs, weekend traffic, and lots of Cape Cod tourists. All these things happen every year, and they’ve been happening around me for decades. The Teacher was right when he wrote there is no new thing under the sun. He was also terribly wrong.

There are seasons and patterns that structure my world. These are reliable, a renewable and dependable foundation that holds my days as I walk this earth. At the same time, it is impossible to repeat anything because everything is in constant motion – planets spin, galaxies are born and die, every living thing moves in one temporal direction. I get second chances to love, to serve, to seek joy or wallow in pain; I cannot go back in time to change decisions and actions. Renewal, transformation, continuation – each surfaces in the unique instances that move from my present into my memory. If I am humble and quiet, I see the grace of each day and give thanks; if I am distracted and forgetful, I can’t see beyond my own immediate wants and needs.

But those thoughts aren’t really that important today. Returning books to the library, I saw a newborn in his mother’s arms. The sage in the corner garden is covered with more buds than I’ve ever seen. My son and I saw seagulls hovering in front of us – a miracle of aviation for the price of some stale bread.

I am so glad that there is no new thing under the sun – there’s so much wonder already.

I’m so glad that everything is happening for the first and only time – today is a once in a lifetime experience.

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Thank you for the world so sweet, Lord. Amen

Photo by Jared Fredrickson

Enter or Shelve?

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It’s a little over a week since Easter – the empty tomb, miraculous appearances, and disbelief transformed into abiding faith. Even Thomas finds his faith after touching the risen Jesus.

My faith starts in a stable, wades in the Jordan, hangs on a cross, and arrives by way of an empty tomb. Year after year, the same journey; every three years, even the same Bible passages. Why do I keep with it?

I don’t think faith can be solved, figured out, or understood enough to box up and store like off season clothes on a dusty closet shelf. It’s not a puzzle to solve or a formula to memorize. It’s not really an “it” at all, as far as I can tell. I can’t hold it in my hand or even see its edges because it holds me. I am living in it, held by it, defined by it. The seasons and scriptures aren’t pieces of a faith puzzle: they are what draws me into God’s embrace. There is no end to where they can take me in this Gospel world.

Faith is entering this God given world and knowing I belong here. Many and varied are the ways for me to find it. I just have to remember I seek to enter a holy world. It’s only when I try to make myself bigger than God’s world that my faith shrinks to something easily shelved with next winter’s clothes…

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A Closer Look

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It’s the second half of Holy Week. Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday stand between me and Easter – the path through the dark woods of my soul. I didn’t grow up in churches that observed these dark days; we went from Palm Sunday to Easter, sometimes with a Wednesday Bible study of the crucifixion, sometimes not. The sanctuary and Sunday school room crosses were always empty: why would anyone put the risen Jesus back on the cross? The resurrection already happened and there was no going back.

I understand why my childhood churches had no crucifixes, and why they emphasized celebration and victory rather than the suffering of Jesus in the garden and the grisly way he died. I can’t say that the people in those churches were any more or less faithful, any kinder or colder – the path of faith runs through all neighborhoods. But I do think something of the human condition was skipped over rather than faced – not about Jesus, but about the rest of humanity. While I hate to admit it, I doubt I’d do any better than the flawed, fragile people who stood by while Jesus died. Most everyone ran away, avoiding the whole scene. A few women and John the beloved disciple managed to stay and hear the final few words from the cross. This reveals more about myself than I usually care to see or admit. I’m no better than anyone else, and I’m just as likely to run away as anyone else. Given the right circumstances, just enough fear for my life, I would betray Jesus, too.

Holy Week isn’t a time to indulge in self loathing: it’s a time to take a long, hard look at myself – faults, strengths, and the whole mixed bag I call my inner and outer life. If I’m honest about what I see, I’ll ask for God to hold my hand as I walk this world. If I’m not, I just might fool myself into thinking I can make the walk alone.

Take my hand, O Lord, and walk with me through these dark days and nights. I need you. Amen.

One For The Blog

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As far as I know, I was the only bartender who went to Princeton Seminary in the ’90’s. Either no one else had tended bar, or no one else would admit to it. It’s too bad, in either case: my time behind the bar gave me admission to the inner and outer lives of so many people. I have no idea how many secrets they told me – fears, hopes, embarrassments, family troubles, and a handful of come-to-Jesus stories. All these treasures given to me in exchange for a Beefeater, a Bud, a Cabernet, and a tip.

Grandpa Pete drank himself to death, so my parents didn’t have alcohol in the house much – just a glass of wine on Thanksgiving, a New Year’s toast, and a six pack when relatives came over to paint, paper, or repair. My husband and I enjoy wine and beer at home and the occasional mixed drink in a restaurant, but we aren’t exactly heavy hitters. We’ve both seen too many lives ruined by excessive drinking to tip the bottle too often. In moderation, alcohol loosens tongues, encourages self-disclosure, and is a sure sign of hospitality; in excess, alcohol is an excuse for verbal abuse, physical intimidation, and violence – the power of fermentation.

I enjoy having a glass of wine while I make dinner. I treasure the times my husband and I lingered at the table after dinner, splitting the last glass of rioja by candlelight. Wine in hand, I delve deeper into the grace of the moment, and I’m more aware of the wonders of food and companionship. It’s not a necessity, but it’s surely a nicety.

There’s truth in wine (In vino, veritas). Jesus shared wine with his closest friends and his betrayer, and the coming of the Holy Spirit looked to all the world like a bunch of early morning drunks. It’s a marvelous thing to let loose and see the world through more appreciative eyes. It’s a terrible thing to drink away reality and excuse cruelty with a bottle. Hidden compassion and undercover violence are both given out with that drink. Which one do I choose?

Lord, keep watch over me. Amen.

Hospitality On A Plate

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I don’t watch Master Chef any more. It’s not that I don’t love a good cooking competition. It isn’t the quality of the cooking, the expertise of the chefs, or the contestants. I just got sick of the yelling, the swearing, the demeaning comments, and the this-isn’t-me-chef-I-can-do-much-better groveling. Not just one of the judges, but all of them reacted to failed dishes as if the cook created the fiasco just to insult their palates. Tears, shame, anger. All over a culinary attempt gone awry. The meanness of it all killed the entertainment value of it for me.

I’ve worked in many restaurants over the years, and worked with many chefs and cooks. Swearing doesn’t bother me, and I don’t find the off-color humor insulting – it’s just the culinary environment (and I’ve got quite a colorful vocabulary myself). But there’s a difference between this kind of back and forth among the staff and what goes on in front of the camera: the one is hospitable, the other destructive. Both end in fantastic food on a plate, but one nourishes the soul while the other shreds it.

Eating and drinking are necessary, life-sustaining daily acts. Preparing a special meal or enjoying one at a favorite restaurant is meant to be a gift of nourishment and hospitality. Nowhere do I see this truth in the judges and their treatment of the home chefs. Perhaps it’s really there, just edited out to increase the drama and ratings. Perhaps honest advice and criticism without an insult wouldn’t get good ratings. Perhaps it’s all just part of the media game. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But something’s gotten lost.

In many cultures, hospitality toward family, friends, and strangers is a sacred practice. In scripture, being hospitable to anyone who sits at the table was considered a faithful act. Who knew what angels we might entertain, disguises as strangers?

Angels or not, I don’t want my zeal for producing a delicious meal to turn a life-sustaining activity into the soul’s punishment.

Gracious God, make my heart hospitable and my table the same. Amen.

That Scent in the Air

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Burnt peanut butter cookies. Butter drenched English muffins. Cinnamon sugar toast. Each of these has a distinct aroma, and each one evokes a very specific memory from my childhood. The cookies: me at five, pressing a sugared fork on dough, baking with my mother. English muffins: me at four and six, having mid-morning snack in my grandmother’s warm kitchen. Cinnamon toast: having breakfast with my sister and brother before walking to my first grade classroom.

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I’m not the only one who has such aromatic memories. When I made peanut butter cookies in the church kitchen one morning, slightly burning the bottoms, several people stopped by, drawn by the scent in the air and their own memories – a taste of childhood long since left behind and a recollection of someone who loved them, long since passed on.

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There’s a grace that’s hard to explain in the gift of food and the loving hospitality of another. I feel it every time cinnamon hits a buttered toast and every time I take a loaf of bread out of the oven. It’s life-sustaining, being food and all, but it’s also soul-sustaining, being so wrapped up in the loving care given to me and the loving care I offer others along with the plates and glasses.

Is that why Jesus invited himself over for dinner at the houses of those who most needed someone to accept their love and hospitality? Is it why he sat at table with his beloved disciples before his crucifixion? Was breakfast by the sea more than fresh fish with friends?Could it be that Jesus wants me to catch the scent of holiness whenever I offer and accept food?

Perhaps the kingdom of heaven is the kitchen – it would explain why everyone always gathers there, regardless of the home or host.

Dear Lord, be present to me this day in the breaking of bread, the warmth of the oven, and the scent of soup simmering. Amen.

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