and where there is sadness, joy.

I’ve found joy at funerals and weddings, in McDonald’s and on Mount Washington. It’s the same with sadness; sometimes there’s an obvious reason, but many times it seems to come without one. Yesterday, it came to church.

A son preached about his mother. She suffers from dementia these days. He talked about how she kept and still keeps a spotless house, and how she prepared beautiful meals that she couldn’t enjoy if it didn’t look like the picture in the cookbook. He talked about how she loved her sons, and how she never saw herself as worthy of love as a gift rather than something earned. He talked about her talents and her faults, and how God loved her because of her faults – not in spite of them. With a few dozen words, a son shared joy with the hundred or so people gathered there.

Joy isn’t earned and it doesn’t cost a thing. It can find us at church, on the beach, at the bus stop, and at home. It comes through words and silence, work and play. For reasons known to God alone, it can grow out of our saddest moments.

With Francis, I pray that God brings joy through me today.

Lord, Make me an instrument of Thy Peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console; to be understood, as to understand; to be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

This prayer is attributed to Saint Francis. He was born in 1181 or 1182 into a wealthy family in Assisi, Umbria. He grew up in comfort, turned into a rowdy youth, and eventually looked for glory on the battlefield. His life plan altered when he encountered God. In prayer, he heard God tell him to rebuild the church. He devoted himself to a life of prayer, poverty and service. He is the founder of the Order of Friars Minor (OFM), usually called the Franciscans. He died in 1226 after a life of prayer, poverty, and service. His life, work, and words have inspired countless numbers of people.

where there is darkness, light;

When the sun’s down but it’s still light, I walk to the library to water the learning garden. It takes some time because the hose is in the front yard and the garden is in the back. So I bring my watering can and make ten trips from front to back, bringing water to the hostas, chives, and just sprouting purple beans. Each day, something new appears in the beds – lettuce and spinach shoots, the dahlia unfolding its purple leaves, and weeds appearing fully grown out of nowhere. Peaceful.

But Wednesday got away from me. It was past eight o’clock when I got to the library, and it was dark. The lights in the front made it easy to find the hose, but when I went around the corner I entered full darkness. My feet remembered the path to the back, but it was too dark to see the garden beds, much less the plants in them. I had decided to turn back when the light came on. Triggered when I walked into the back yard, it lit the way for my ten trips. It snapped off right when I left, no longer needed.

Sowing light in the darkness to help others find their way to the garden, to do the work they’ve set out to do. It’s indirect and necessary – not doing the work of others, just providing enough light to avoid the roots and stones that might prevent them from doing it.

Many have shed light for me. With God’s help, may I do the same.

Lord, Make me an instrument of Thy Peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console; to be understood, as to understand; to be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

This prayer is attributed to Saint Francis. He was born in 1181 or 1182 into a wealthy family in Assisi, Umbria. He grew up in comfort, turned into a rowdy youth, and eventually looked for glory on the battlefield. His life plan altered when he encountered God. In prayer, he heard God tell him to rebuild the church. He devoted himself to a life of prayer, poverty and service. He is the founder of the Order of Friars Minor (OFM), usually called the Franciscans. He died in 1226 after a life of prayer, poverty, and service. His life, work, and words have inspired countless numbers of people.

where there is despair, hope;

Imagine More – the “I” in the ABC’s of Life plaque my friend Susan gave me a couple of years back. It means envisioning something deeper. When everything falls apart and the world is a small cell, see with the eyes of the soul something holy beyond the present circumstance. This isn’t optimism – that’s having a cheery vision of the future based on a good present. This is hope: trusting a gracious reality beyond what today indicates.

Despair is seeing nothing beyond today’s meaningless void. It comes on the gray wings of depression for some, through violence and neglect for others, and for no apparent reason for a few. Despair seeps into the lives of the poor and the wealthy, the famous and forgotten, and everyone in between. Despair thrives where Imagine More is missing.

I can’t always see the despair around me, and the despair I can see I cannot change. Only God can lift the veil of despair. Today I pray that my hands act as God’s, sowing hope. May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart lead those in despair to imagine more. May my words and deeds never lead anyone to imagine less. Amen.

where there is doubt, faith;

One of my students at New Brunswick Theological Seminary explained her experience of growing in faith in these words:

Every time I learn more about God and myself, I build a beautiful box to hold onto my ideas and prayers. But every time I get the box built and feel at home with it, God comes along and breaks my box!

It’s one of the best descriptions of growing up in faith I’ve ever heard, and I think of it often. When I get comfortable with my version of self, world, and God, God comes along and breaks my box. My beautiful box is shattered by the grace of God when God, world, and self cannot fit inside it. What’s too small and tight cracks open, giving my faith the breathing room I didn’t even know it needed.

I’ve known teachers and pastors who like to shake people up by dropping verbal bombs to shatter people’s notions of who God is and how the world works. I’ve known others who won’t say anything that might make anyone uncomfortable, afraid to make anyone question their idea of God and self. The first break beautiful boxes without thought, the second cover those boxes in bubble wrap.

It’s not my job to break the beautiful boxes people create, and it’s not my job to keep those boxes whole and safe. My job is to remember that God holds all things fast, and to remind others of this truth. I have no doubt that God will break the beautiful boxes in due time – when it’s an act of grace and love, not a violation.

Lord,

Make me an instrument of Thy Peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy. O Divine Master, Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console; to be understood, as to understand; to be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

This prayer is attributed to Saint Francis. He was born in 1181 or 1182 into a wealthy family in Assisi, Umbria. He grew up in comfort, turned into a rowdy youth, and eventually looked for glory on the battlefield. His life plan altered when he encountered God. In prayer, he heard God tell him to rebuild the church. He devoted himself to a life of prayer, poverty and service. He is the founder of the Order of Friars Minor (OFM), usually called the Franciscans. He died in 1226 after a life of prayer, poverty, and service. His life, work, and words have inspired countless numbers of people.

where there is injury, pardon;

Less than an hour’s drive away, a jury is deciding between life in prison and death for a man in his early twenties. Two years back, he and his brother set bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, killing several people and wounding many more. For the past several weeks, his face has been a constant presence on screens as well as in print. With the pictures come comments and questions: is he remorseful? is he as human as everyone else? does he deserve to die for what he’s done?

News anchors and reporters talk about closure for the families and friends of those who lost their lives or their health at the end of the marathon. First they said that a verdict in the trial might bring closure, but now it’s linked to the life or death decision that the jury will give. When that’s over, they will move on to another phase: closure when the death sentence is carried out or when he’s confined to a small space for decades. It won’t ever be dropped, really. If another bomb goes off anywhere in the world, the questions and comments will return; whenever the marathon is run in Boston, they will come up again. There is no end to the focus, this rehashing of a tragic event.

Grave injury as been done, and nothing can change that. It shouldn’t be denied or taken lightly. Guilt and innocence, reckoning and responsibility come with such acts. But the unending focus on injury won’t change history and it won’t help anyone find peace or closure. At some point, even this injury must be allowed to recede from center stage. I think that’s what pardon is – the willingness to let someone who has done harm move past it so that all those who were harmed can do the same. Without this, aren’t we all still standing at the finish line, bombs falling endlessly?

Make me an instrument of Thy peace;

I took up the violin at fourteen when a friend found a forgotten instrument and a bow in his grandmother’s attic. Twenty-five dollars for new strings and a sound post, mineral oil and some polishing got the violin in working order. I bought a beginners music book, took up the violin and bow, and began learning how to play.

Anyone who plays violin (or lives with someone learning to play) soon learns that producing a pleasant tone, even just a single note, isn’t easy and doesn’t happen quickly. Drawing the bow across the string with just the right tension requires practice and an ear to know when the note sounds right. It isn’t something that can be learned in theory: it’s a practical learning, requiring time and intentional devotion. The difference between music and noise is playing, listening, playing, listening, playing, and so on. Every day builds on the every other day. Bringing a Bach Sonata to life through the violin’s four strings takes only a few minutes, but it’s years in the making. There is no shortcut.

When I pray to be an instrument of God’s peace, I’m asking for years of devotion and work because I don’t know how. Becoming an instrument of peace requires actively playing my part, listening for God’s voice, playing my part, listening to my neighbor, playing my part. When God grants peace through who I am and what I do, it may seem like a gift from out of the blue. More likely, it was years in the making. No shortcut, but the work of a lifetime. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.