As Was His Custom

We’re just back from the south.  South District of the UMC that is.  La Donna and I were doing our roadshow that we’ve been doing since July a year ago.  We taught a course for Mission u last summer titled “The Bible and Human Sexuality.”  And part of the deal is that we would make ourselves available to do some teaching throughout the conference on the same subject.  We’ve been at District UMW (that’s United Methodist Women is case you didn’t know) events, we’ve been in local churches, we’ve been a part of larger events, and we’ve been the only part of the program.  It has been good to do this, we have met some wonderful folks and were able to engage in some serious conversations, necessary conversations in the life of the church.  I’ve loved fulfilling this commitment.  But there are times when I wish I didn’t have to. 

Often it is just before we have to go off and do this again.  There is a part of me that wishes we had said no.  I mean, I have other things to do.  And it is often on a Saturday, usually on a Saturday.  And I have other things on my mind and on my plate on Saturday.  And then sometimes I just don’t want to. You know, right?  I’d rather just be lazy.  Rather just do what I want to do, have a little me time. Don’t I deserve that?  A little me time?  

You’re wagging your heads.  Not saying no, really, so much as saying something like, what a whiner. Am I right?  If you aren’t, you should be.  And maybe I exaggerated a tiny bit.  But there is truth behind the whining.  It is sometimes hard to follow Jesus.  It is hard to keep our commitments.  It is hard to put ourselves out there and do what we know - not what we suspect and wonder about, but what we know Jesus wants us to do.  We sometimes try to act as though knowing God’s will is so hard.  “What should I do here?  I need a sign!”  And yes, there are those moments, those encounters where we aren’t sure.  But really, those are more rare than we like to admit.  Too often we know exactly what Jesus wants us to do.  We just don’t wanna.

Luke 4:14-21 14 Then Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. 15 He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone. 16 When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read, 17 and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written: 18 "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, 19 to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." 20 And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. 21 Then he began to say to them, "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."

We’re talking about our fears this month.  Last week we talked about our fear of the storm, having to acknowledge that we are often not in control of our lives. That things happen, scary things.  And we talked about how to live not shaped by fear but by faith.  This week it’s a different kind of fear.  Not a helpless feeling, but a willful one.  I call it the fear of the call.  We want to follow Jesus, we really do. But sometimes it is hard.  Sometimes it takes more from us than we are willing to give.  Sometimes there are sacrifices involved.  Sometimes it is inconvenient, uncomfortable, not socially acceptable, not cool.  But we want to be like Jesus. 

Luke says that Jesus had to wrestle with how He was going to perform this ministry, what kind of messiah He was going to be.  The time in the wilderness, there at the beginning of Chapter four, was about deciding, wrestling, if you will, with the possibilities in front of him.  Give the people what they want, that was within his power.  Turn this stone into bread, feed them, get to them through their bellies, through their hungers.  Feed them and they’ll follow you anywhere.  No, he says, there is more to it than that.  I want to feed the hungers they forgot they had.  OK, then, show them strength. Flex your muscles, play the power card, the authority card.  People are drawn to power, like bees and honey.  Be strong and they’ll fall at your feet.  No, he says, power is not of this world.  Power belongs to God, we live in humility, we live vulnerable because that’s what living is, risking, letting go, surrendering.  Hmm.  Ok then, go for the sensation, it was whispered in his ear, the miracles, death-defying acts of derring-do.  Folks go for that, give them a show, you’ll have to fight them off with a stick.  No, he says, shaking off these thoughts as he was shaking off his raging hunger there in the wilderness.  No, you can’t live by miracles, you can’t sustain a faith based on miracles.  No, that won’t work.

What’s left?  How will he run this traveling salvation show?  I know what I’ll do, he thought.  And he came back from the mountains, got a drink of water and a slim jim and wandered into the synagogues and town centers.  Word spread, Luke says, and the early reports were positive.  Everyone spoke well of him.  He taught something different, something new but old at the same time.  He taught ancient truths in a new language, as one with authority.  He spoke plainly, but told the stories, he offered a simple truth, but drew it in pictures that seemed familiar to everyone. 

But what was that truth?  What did he teach?  It wasn’t until he strolled home that Luke tells us the essence of his message.  He ambles into the synagogue where he sat as a boy in Sabbath school, reciting lines and repeating answers to old questions, and maybe asking an impertinent question now and again.  They had gotten the news, his reputation preceded him.  So he was invited to teach. Called to the front, he was handed the scroll, Isaiah, the biggest one, heaviest one.  Was told to read. Luke says he looked for the bit he wanted.  This wasn’t an accident, just happened to come in when the lectionary had the right text.  No, he searched for it.  He found the place, after an uncomfortable silence filled the room, and he began to read.  The Spirit of the Lord is upon me.  Well, of course it was.  Luke told us that in verse fourteen!  He was throwing off Spirit sparks wherever he walked.  It surrounded him like a cloud, preceded him like headlights on bright.  The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach.  

Yeah, well, that Isaiah, he was quite a guy.  He had quite a message, didn’t he.  Jesus read it through. And they all sighed contentedly.  Yeah, those were the days, they thought.  When old Isaiah stood there declaring the Word of the Lord.  People took notice, you better believe it.  God was closer then. When people like Isaiah were around.  Proclaiming, setting free, opening eyes.  Saying God is close, real close, pay attention and see.  Those were the days.

Jesus let the scroll roll up in his hand like a window blind and then handed it to the dazed attendant, and then he sat down.  Not because he was done.  That’s what it sounds like to us.  But no, rabbis taught sitting down.  You stand to read, out of respect for the Word.  But then you sit to explain and expound and apply.  You sat down and we had the word for lunch, we chewed it over and approached it from every perspective we could think of.  The historical, what did he mean and what was going on at the time?  The literary, what devices was he using to help them hear and see?  Is this poetry or prose?  The contextual, who were the listeners at the time, how did they hear these words.  The theological, how does this tell us more about God according to thinkers over the years?  They expected a lecture on the text when Jesus sat down.  

Instead they got a nine word sermon.  “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” That’s it.  Can’t imagine they were thrilled by that.  Of course this passage is about Jesus.  He declared his ministry priorities, his core values.  He trotted out his mission statement, laid it out for all to see and hear.  In your hearing, he said.  Which means that, yes, this is about Jesus, but it is also about you. It’s about me.  We have signed up for something bigger than we knew.  When we decided to be within hearing distance of Jesus we have entered into a whole new world.  A whole new understanding of our own lives and the mission to which we have signed on.  It’s about us as much as it is about Him. Because we claim to hear, we claim to follow.  We may be afraid of the call, afraid we aren’t up to it, afraid it is more than we knew.  But it is about us.  It is about loving as he loved, loving enough to make a difference in the world.  Not just in us, but in the world.  

So how do we get closer to being like Him?  Closer to loving like Him?  We make it a habit.  Jesus went to the synagogue, Luke tells us, as was His custom.  It is just what He did. Maybe we can conquer our fear of following if it just becomes a habit.  We don’t stop to think whether we should follow, we just do.  As is our custom.

Follow Me, He says.  Wouldn’t consider anything else, Lord.  Just wouldn’t.

Shalom, 

Derek

Already Being Swamped

So, how have you been?  Had a good day, week, life?  I’ll bet if you look back there will be that moment, you know what I mean, the moment when it seemed like you were going under, when the waves were high, when the winds were fierce, when the clouds were dark and ominous.  We’ve all had them.  And if you haven’t ... really?  You haven’t?  If you haven’t then just wait.  Sorry to rain on your parade, but just wait.

Over the past week I had heard from three different care-givers at the facility where my Dad is. Three different shifts, the day person, the night person and the weekend person.  They all called me.  Just to say they’ve noticed a difference.  In Dad.  They all loved him.  My Dad is a charmer, always was.  A stubborn pain in the ... family, but a charmer.  One of them told me she really liked my Dad, but didn’t want to marry him.  Because he asked.  Her husband wasn’t in favor.  That’s my Dad.  But they noticed that he wasn’t himself, a decrease, a decline.  I had noticed it too.  It’s hard to describe.  He seemed transparent, as if he was fading away before our eyes.  Dad filled the room, his presence was often overwhelming, loud and friendly, a charmer as I said.  But this person was smaller, indistinct somehow.  Still Dad, in there somewhere.  But then again not.

The doctor came and changed medications, and made some recommendations, one of which, I was told, less than an hour before worship began on Thursday night, was that he was recommending hospice care.  They were to come do an evaluation and see if he meets their criteria for the care they provide.  I love hospice care, the whole idea is a wonderful addition to the medical world, and in my experience the women and men who work for hospice are an amazing group of people whose hearts are large and hands are available, for the patient, for the family for any who need their support.  So, I’m in favor, no, in awe of hospice.  But to hear it prescribed for a member of my family was a different feeling.  A different sound in my ears.  I said, ok, I understand, and went to help lead worship.

Sometimes the storms are on the horizon, far away and while they cause us concern, they don’t really change what we’re doing day by day.  Winds are whipping on the Korean peninsula, clouds are gathering in Charlottesville Virginia.  And we are concerned, maybe even afraid.  We pray for those caught out in those storms.  And when they hit we rise up to help.  But when the storm rages close to home our response is more visceral.  More personal.  We’re rocked to the core by the storms that rage.  And we wonder, as did the disciple of Jesus, whether anyone cares about us and the threats we face.

Mark 4:35-41 35 On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, "Let us go across to the other side." 36 And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. 37 A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. 38 But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" 39 He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Peace! Be still!" Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. 40 He said to them, "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" 41 And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?"

On that day.  What an inauspicious beginning.  Just a day, a day of teaching and healing, a day like many other days in the life of those who said yes to Jesus.  But this was a particularly exhausting day. A tiring day, Jesus wanted to get away.  No elaborate farewells, no ritual good-byes.  He turns to His disciples and says, “let’s blow this pop-stand!”  And off they go.  Get in a boat and they set off. Across the sea.  The lake, not that big really, not like an ocean crossing.  But the geography surrounding this lake make is susceptible to pop up storms.  Out of no where, nothing on the horizon, then - bam - there it is.  You’re in the midst of the storm.

That’s the nature of storms, they just happen.  Sometimes we can look back and see it coming, but most of the time they just come.  Almost as if someone, something was out to get us.  There is a feeling about the storm in this story, that it isn’t just a storm, a natural occurrence, a common happenstance.  There is something bigger here, something malevolent.  When Jesus tells the storm to calm down, he shouts “Peace!  Be Still.”  These are the same words Mark tells us He used to cast out demons.  There translated as “Be quiet!  Come out of her!”  Same words.  This storm, Mark implies, is demonic, evil, needing the hand of a savior.  

We’ve been visited by evil in our town recently.  That evil exists is beyond debate.  It’s not always easy to name it, to identify it in a messy world, a world broken by sin and fear.  But sometimes it is the responsibility of those who claim the name of Christ to identify evil, whether it be in a culture and country so foreign to us as to be almost incomprehensible, or one that is all too familiar and even claiming to be the true face of patriotism and nation.  Like Christ, we sometimes need to stand in the face of the demonic and tell it to be quiet and get out.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  The story isn’t really about the storm.  The storm demands our attention.  It seems the major character, the biggest threat, the loudest voice.  But this isn’t a story about storms.  It’s a story about Jesus.  And a story about faith.  It’s easy to miss it.  We are distracted when we are afraid, we lose hope.  And often one of the first things to go is faith.  Belief in a loving God.  Hope in tomorrow and today.  

That’s why Jesus jumps down the throats of the disciples.  They let go.  “Have you still no faith?” Still?  Just the paragraph before this passage, Mark tells us that Jesus always spoke in parables, in riddles and stories.  People often wandered off confused, uncertain.  It was almost as if Jesus didn’t want to spoon feed people, like he wanted them to come and meet Him halfway.  Take a risk and say I believe, even when I don’t fully understand.  I believe, even as I doubt.  Jesus was ok with doubts. Doubters get a pass from Jesus.  But those who are afraid got a reprimand.  Anyway, the paragraph before the storm starts says that Jesus always spoke in parables, except for the disciples.  To them He explained everything.  Everything?  Everything.  He told them who He was.  He told them what He was about.  He told them what it meant.  Everything.  Have you still no faith?  What else can I do, says Jesus?  What else can I give you?  What other cheat sheets, what other cliff notes?  For heaven’s sake!  

At the end of the story they are in awe.  “Who is this?” they said.  Even the winds and waves obey Him!  Who is this.  They’d never seen anything like this before.  Jesus had never stilled a storm before.  Never stopped a wind gust, never smoothed out a wave.  It’s no wonder that it never occurred to them to ask Jesus to do such a thing.  They had no idea that this was in His tool box.  And frankly, if they had gently awakened Jesus and said, “Um, it’s pretty wild out here, anything you can do?” He probably would have smiled and then given them that “watch this” look and brought them to safety.

The problem is they don’t ask Him to do anything.  Did you notice that?  They don’t say, in Mark’s version of the story anyway, we need help here.  No, what they say is infinitely more offensive to Him.  It is evidence that they have been dozing through disciple class, minds wandering as Jesus patiently walked them through His history and His mission.  Worse than that, they miss the class motto, the mission statement, the center of everything.  They forgot the most famous verse in all of the Gospels: For God so loved the world ....  So loved.  Don’t you care?  They shouted that in their fear.  They lost their grip on the main truth about Christ.  Don’t you care?  You might as well shout at the birds in the air – Don’t you fly?  Or shout at the rain drops passing by their noses – Don’t you fall?  Or shake their fists at the sun and ask – Don’t you shine?  Don’t you care?  Of course He cares. That’s why He’s there sleeping on a cushion because He is exhausted from caring for everyone and everywhere.  Of course He cares.  

But in their panic, in their fear, they forgot.  They lost their grip on Him and thought only of their own lives.  Their boat was already swamped, and they gave up.  On life, on hope, on Him.  They gave up.  Have you still no faith? It’s easy to forget in the midst of the storm.  Forget to hold on to Him. Not because He’ll still every storm, but that He’ll stand with you in the swamped boat, in the crashing waves.  He cares, and that is everything in the midst of the storm.

I got the call from the hospice agency on Friday, to say they had evaluated Dad and he does meet their criteria.  Once I sign some forms they’ll get to work.  They will care.  I got that call in the ER of Community South where I had taken La Donna for severe pain in the abdomen.  Turns out her gall bladder will need to be removed.  The boat was already swamped.  But we’ll persevere.  Because He cares.  And we’ll learn to not ask what’s next!

Shalom, 

Derek 

To Know the Love

August 5th this weekend.  It falls between the worship times here at Southport.  And yet is an auspicious day on our personal family calendar. ” It was on August 5 1994, after an anxious nine month wait (yeah, funny isn’t it?), La Donna and I drove to Chicago O’Hare airport to pick up Kim Myung Hoon, a nine month old with bright eyes and a ready smile, and as if by magic turned him into Rhys Edmund Myung-hoon Weber.  Who is now 23 going on ancient and somewhat embarrassed to be the center of such attention.  Gotcha Day.  Every August 5th.

It’s Gotcha Day.  Not like a birthday, but then sort of.  A rebirth day.  A day of becoming a family. That little life from halfway around the planet changed our lives in an instant.  Filled a gap we didn’t even know we had.  Turned us upside down, or right side up with a simple smile and a reach from the hands that held him on that long flight from South Korea to our hands.  To our hearts.  

An odd moment in the process was when we met with the judge to formalize the adoption.  The legalese was stunning, to say the least.  But one phrase stood out in my mind over all the others. Whereas - it’s always whereas for the legal profession - whereas over time they learned to love him ... I almost said, excuse me, but no.  No there was no over time thing here.  It was an instant.  In the terminal at O’Hare airport, standing at the gate (yes, you used to be able to go clear to the gate in those days.  Watch the plane land, waiting anxiously for all the passengers to disembark and then set eyes on the child who will be, who was your child), in an instant he was mine.  He was ours, we were his.  Family.  Just like that.  We didn’t need to learn to love.  We needed to learn to live with him, still doing that frankly, because it changes all the time it seems.  We needed to learn how to express that love, how to respond to that love.  But the love itself was a gift.  A moment of grace that came from somewhere, Someone else.

Ephesians 3:14-21  For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, 15 from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name. 16 I pray that, according to the riches of his glory, he may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit, 17 and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love. 18 I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, 19 and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. 20 Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, 21 to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.

For this reason, Paul writes.  OK, one little aside here - there is some considerable debate about whether this letter was written by Paul or not.  We do know that not all the texts in the New Testament that carry Paul’s name were actually written by Paul.  We know that plagiarism as a concept didn’t exist at the time of the writing of the documents of the Bible.  We also know that it was a common practice to attribute a letter or a sermon to someone famous in order to get more people to read it.  No one would have considered that odd in those days.  So, one of the questions that biblical scholarship needs to help answer for us is whether the documents we have were actually written by the persons whose names are on them.  It is important for us to know from a historical point of view.  It is good to know how the bible came to be as we have it.  It is important for us to understand that the words that we value so much came about through a community process, that the Spirit inspired a wide range of folks over a long period of time.  We need to understand that the words we read are a part of a lived experience, not some abstract truth that we were handed from above. The historical critical process is one of the tools the church can use to examine our foundational documents.  So, you need to know, and I need to be honest enough to admit, that there is some debate as to whether Paul wrote these words or not.  And to be honest, I’m not sure.

On the other hand, I’m not sure it matters all that much.  If we view the bible as a community project anyway, then who actually put pen to paper (or some ancient world equivalent) doesn’t really matter. I have no doubt that if Paul didn’t write this letter, then he certainly influenced it.  It is his words and his thoughts that appear throughout these verses.  Which is why I am happy to use the short hand and talk about what Paul said.

For this reason, Paul writes.  What’s the reason?  Well, he spends the first part of the letter explaining the reason.  It is because of the immeasurable grace of God.  Because in that grace all are welcome, all are included.  All.  And for Paul all means all.  Some of the rest of them had to struggle with all. Surely not gentiles, they said, surely not pagans, surely not enemies, surely not those whose lives are just way too different from ours, who don’t speak our language, who don’t dress like we do, think like we do, work like we do.  Not all, surely.  No, says Paul, all means all.  And for this reason I fall to my knees in awe of God.

And, he says, I pray.  For more.  More of this grace freely offered.  More of the love that staggers the imagination.  Give us more.  Give us strength.  That’s first on his list.  Strength in the inner being. Strong hearts, strong souls.  He wants us strong at the core of our being.  Knowing that we are subject to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, he wants us strong where it counts.  We pray for bad things to go away, or not come to us.  Paul prays that we have the strength to stand when the bad things come.  He prays that we might have power.

That power comes from the Spirit.  It comes from the Christ who dwells in us.  Because we are in process.  As you are being rooted and grounded in love.  We receive the capacity to love by grace.  It is a gift.  Boom.  Instant.  Like a new life awaiting you in an airport terminal.  But, it takes time to learn to live that life of love.  It takes effort.  It takes moving forward and falling back.  It takes success and failure to learn to live a life of love.  We have to rock the vehicle, back and forth in order to break free of the rut we find ourselves in from time to time.  We are being rooted and grounded in love.  Being rooted.  We’re not done.  As soon as we think we are done, as soon as we think we’ve got it, we’ve lost it.  Hold on to the Christ who dwells within.

So we can know.  That’s why we contemplate Christ.  That’s why we study His life, listen to His words, weep at His example, rejoice at His blessing.  So that we can know.  Know what?  Know what is unknowable.  Know what is beyond knowing.  The breadth and width and height and depth. ...Um ... of what?  Of Him.  Of His love.  Paul wants us to know that which surpasses knowledge.  If your head isn’t spinning yet, then go back and read it again.  Paul prays that we are to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.  And this knowing of the unknowable, or maybe better, this knowing that we didn’t come to on our own, but was given to us like a child in an airport, allows us to be filled up.

That’s what happened that first Gotcha Day all those years ago.  I was filled up.  We were filled up. With love and joy and happiness.  With concerns and worries and needs to be met.  Filled up with that which keeps us going, which pushes us to go further, to go deeper.  It’s a commitment, certainly.  A new way of living, of being, of loving.  Paul calls it being filled with all the fullness of God.  Blessing and possibility, and suffering and hurt too.  God doesn’t call us to an easy life, but a full life.  A deep life.  A life that struggles with how to love, but also driven by the certainty that loving is a better way to live.  Even if we don’t always know how it is going to work out.

But that’s OK.  Not knowing is OK.  Because there is One who knows.  And our vision is limited, so we’ll trust in the One who sees more.  And can work what seem like miracles every day.  Far more than all we ask or imagine, because we don’t know how to ask or imagine.  We’ll just love.  Together. That’s the other important secret of this passage.  All the yous are plural.  We do this better together, this learning to love thing, this living in hope thing, this being filled with all the fullness thing.  We do it, we know it, we experience it better together.  All y’all.  Us all.  Now that’s worthy of a doxology, right Paul?  “Now to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”  Amen.

Shalom, 

Derek

Are Any Among You Suffering?

A siren broke the relative Saturday morning silence as I sat down to write.  Close enough to be heard, far enough to be uncertain of direction or even of kind.  Was it an ambulance racing to someone’s home where a fall had taken place?  Where a sudden malady has struck?  Was it a fire truck hurrying to salvage a house before it was consumed in fast moving flames?  Or to rescue a child who tried to climb through a fence that seemed wide enough at first, but then wasn’t?  Or was it the police? Heading to the scene, of an accident, or a crime, or both?

Our little town has been rocked by an accident that became a crime in a matter of seconds.  A car, out of control, driving recklessly, managed to careen over a curb, crash through a fence, and land in a yard, resting on its roof.  An office came upon the scene, climbed out of his squad car and stooped to look in the upside-down windows to see who was hurt and how he could help.  Then one of the occupants pointed a gun in the officer’s face and shot him, point blank.  

This was Thursday, worship night at Southport UMC.  I had been home preparing and then headed out to go back to church for the evening worship experience.  I left home around three, worship was at six that evening.  I found my way from the house to the church blocked from multiple directions.  I had to take a circuitous route to finally get there, much later than I figured, wondering what in the world was going on.  School had just started down here, so I thought it was quite a disruption for the first day of school.  

By the time I got to the office I asked the staff what was going on, and they told me what they knew. To an outsider like me, Southport is a part of Indianapolis, it’s a big city.  To those who grew up here, or who have made their home here for many years, it is its own thing, its own community.  The officer killed turned out to be someone we knew.  Not just a uniform on a big force.  He was in our church recently because one of the kids in the day care pulled an alarm, and though we called and said it was nothing to worry about, they said they had to check.  So they came and walked around. Took care of us.  Even though they didn’t need to.  They checked, stooped down to look in to see who they could help.

That evening I was approached by one of our worshipers who told me she was struggling.  She said that in 2015 she retired from the police force after twenty-one years of service.  She had heard that another officer, one in an accident earlier in the week, had died that day.  Then the shooting in Southport.  She was feeling cut off from the community of which she had been a part for so long. She was feeling unmoored in a dangerous world, drifting alone and hurting.  She scrambled for something, anything.  She said, “could we ... pray ... about all of this?”

James 5:13-18 Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. 14 Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. 15 The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. 16 Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. 17 Elijah was a human being like us, and he prayed fervently that it might not rain, and for three years and six months it did not rain on the earth. 18 Then he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain and the earth yielded its harvest.

Worship is about God, not really about our needs.  Yet there was nothing more of God that night than to pray.  I set the sermon aside for a while and we just prayed.  We put ourselves in God’s hands in those moments and leaned into that embrace.  We poured out our sadness and our fear.  We offered up the uncertainty of a world of such suffering and such cruelty.  We admitted our anger and frustration and cried out for justice even as we were hoping for mercy and for grace.  

Then we tried to listen to James.  We liked that he was adamant about prayer in all circumstances. That he ends his whole, very task oriented, letter by telling us to pray.  Because we’re sick or because we’re well.  Because we’re suffering or because we’re cheerful.  We should pray.  Pray with the sighs of our hearts, pray with the songs of our souls.  We should pray.  And pray together, call on help when our own prayers seem to be bouncing against the ceiling, lost in the clouds above our heads.  We liked that there are tools to help in our praying.  We can pray with our hands, laying them on those for whom we pray.  We can pray with the oil of anointing.  Not because that makes the prayer better, lubricates the prayer machinery somehow.  But simply because it gives us something to grab hold of as we pray.  Something to do with our hands. We found James helpful for our praying.  Mostly.  Sort of.

Well, there was that bit where we stumbled.  Where we averted our eyes and furrowed our brows. When he seems to confuse praying and sinning.  Or sickness and sin, like our sickness is caused by our sin.  And we know better than that, having been raised in a scientific age.  We know about germs and disease and genetic time bombs, none of which are our fault.  It kind of makes us want to dismiss the whole thing.  OK, maybe in a healthy lifestyle choices kind of way our illnesses can sometimes be the result of our actions and our decisions.  But that isn’t what James is really talking about.  He’s thinking of a more direct correlation, isn’t he?  About divine punishment because of bad decisions, or even thoughts, right?

Or is he?  Is the link we read there not really there?  Is it that we’ve put it there, or those who have gone before us put it there and we can’t get it out of our heads?  What if it isn’t about a correlation, but about an effect?  The effect of illness and the effect of sinfulness is the same, or at least it was in James’s community.  Those who were sick were shunned, quarantined, set aside.  And so it was with those who were found to be sinning.  Just set them aside, excommunicate them.  That was the practice, some historians argue.  And maybe still is in a way.  We just don’t want those people around, those sinners, those unhealthy ones.  And what James is doing is trying to tear down that wall.  Trying to say that even the sick are worth our prayers, worth our time.  They should call the elders of the church, they should call on the community to come and be with them, anoint them, lay hands - yes hands - on them.  Touch.  Inclusion.  Sinners too, says James.  Don’t let bad decisions, bad choices, wrong values, separate us.  Pray for them.  Up close and personal.  Include them, invite them.  Be invited if you’ve separated yourself because you were afraid of what they saw when they looked at you.  Find a way back.  A way to accept the grace that the community wants to pour out on you. Come back and be prayed for.  Prayed over.

Though, we hate to admit it, James seems have more confidence in prayer than we do.  The prayer of faith, he writes.  The prayer of the righteous.  Powerful and effective.  The prayer of faith will save the sick.  Well, we think, sometimes.  We’ve heard of the rare occasion, the unexplained miracle (can any miracle be explained?  Isn’t that part of the definition?) When someone gets well, despite the predictions to the contrary.  James seems to think that is what we should pray for always.  Pray for and hope for and expect.  Sure.  Why not hope for a miracle?  

Yes, we ought to pray for miracles.  But not miracles tied to this life.  Instead we pray for the miracles that bring us home.  James actually doesn’t say that the prayer of faith will heal the sick, but that the prayer will save the sick.  Save them.  Which means inclusion in the Kingdom of God, it means inclusion in the community of faith.  Paul tells us that we were given the ministry of reconciliation. That’s our job, not miracles of healing, but miracles of inclusion, miracles of hospitality.  We are called to tear down the dividing walls and build up the body.

We are called to heal the community and not just the individual.  Or rather, we heal the individual by making sure they know they have a place to belong.  A place that cares for them.  A place that wants them.  A place that honors them when they step into a tragic circumstance for the good of the community at large.  And it seems to me that the way to honor the sacrifice of the officer who stooped to help someone in need is not to call for vengeance, but to continue to stoop ourselves.  Stooping is easy.  Just get on your knees.    

Shalom, 

Derek

Behold the Beauty

For the beauty of the earth, / for the glory of the skies,

It’s a dreary day.  Been raining off and on this week, and hot and humid, my windows are fogging up in the house, not even talking about the car.  And stepping out of the air conditioning makes my glasses fog up too.  Sigh.  Summer, they call it. Great.  It’s hard some days to acknowledge the goodness of this life.  It is hard to see beyond your own discomfort and to look at all the blessings that shower down upon us like the summer rain that comes from nowhere to drench the landscape. Dreary, dreary day.  

/ For the love which from our birth / over and around us lies;  

It’s a lonely kind of feeling.  No one’s out, so the world looks empty.  The familiar seems new and foreign.  It’s easy to question decisions and choices, to wonder if the path you’ve taken - or found yourself on - is really going to get you anywhere, besides a dead end or cul-de-sac.  

/ Lord of all, to thee we raise / this our hymn of grateful praise. 

And you begin to question whether anyone is there.  Anyone who cares, anyone who knows you or wants to.  Anyone worthy of praise.  A dreary day.  We all get them, regardless of what the sun might be doing.  The kind of days when nothing seems good, nothing lifts our hearts, when there is no beauty in the world.  The kind of days that make praying difficult.

For the joy of ear and eye, / for the heart and mind's delight, / for the mystic harmony, / linking sense to sound and sight; / Lord of all, to thee we raise / this our hymn of grateful praise.

We are in the midst of our prayer series.  We talked about the why of praying in week one - to maintain the connection between us and God.  We talked about the how of praying in week two - modeled on the Lord’s Prayer. New week we’ll talk about what happens when we pray - stay tuned for that, you won’t want to miss it.  But this week it’s a little different.  A little harder to pin down. Not so much nuts and bolts, how tos or what fors.  No, this week it is part of the “mystic harmony” that hymn speaks of.  It’s about the mood of our prayers.  The emotions with which we pray.  How do you feel about your prayer life?  Not how effective or how disciplined, but just feeling.  How do you feel when you pray?  

I know, an odd question.  Maybe not even that important.  Yet, we are emotional creatures, often driven by feelings rather than will.  So, if we are indeed to surrender all to God, maybe we need to surrender our emotions too.  And what better place to examine our emotions before God than looking to the Psalms.  A panoply of emotional outpourings.  Nothing is held back in those poems, hymns of praise and lament, of confidence and of fear, of faith and doubt.  

Psalm 27:1-14 The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? 2 When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh-- my adversaries and foes-- they shall stumble and fall. 3 Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident. 

4 One thing I asked of the LORD, that will I seek after: to live in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the LORD, and to inquire in his temple. 5 For he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble; he will conceal me under the cover of his tent; he will set me high on a rock. 6 Now my head is lifted up above my enemies all around me, and I will offer in his tent sacrifices with shouts of joy; I will sing and make melody to the LORD. 

7 Hear, O LORD, when I cry aloud, be gracious to me and answer me! 8 "Come," my heart says, "seek his face!" Your face, LORD, do I seek. 9 Do not hide your face from me. Do not turn your servant away in anger, you who have been my help. Do not cast me off, do not forsake me, O God of my salvation! 10 If my father and mother forsake me, the LORD will take me up. 11 Teach me your way, O LORD, and lead me on a level path because of my enemies. 12 Do not give me up to the will of my adversaries, for false witnesses have risen against me, and they are breathing out violence. 

13 I believe that I shall see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. 14 Wait for the LORD; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the LORD!

You can’t help but wonder if David was bi-polar.  He’s on top of the world one moment, and in the pit in the next.  He’s confident here and there and shouting for help, imagining the worst in the next.  I think that maybe there is something wrong with him.  He obviously suffers from being human.  And yet, and this is what makes David a man after God’s own heart, he brings it all to the throne of God. David doesn’t hold back, doesn’t hide his emotions, doesn’t wait until he is in a proper frame of mind before he offers up his praises to God.  He wouldn’t know a proper frame of mind if it invited him to dinner and a movie.  He just brings himself.  All of himself.  The only self he’s got.  The self of certainty and the self of doubt.  The self he’s proud of and the self he ought to be embarrassed about. It’s all prayer material.  All worship attitude.  All of it.  All of him.

How do you feel about your prayer life?  Not , do you think you do it well, or do you think you do it enough.  But how to you feel while you pray?  Do you bring your feelings into it?  That’s the question of the day.  Like David do you bring your whole self into the prayer moment? Offer up whatever is churning around inside of you, not even sure what it is or what’s going on in there, but it is real, it is raw, it is you.  All you. The you that is alive.  Hurting sometimes, joyous sometimes, but alive.  It is the living part of you that God wants you to bring to worship, to offer up in prayer.  You life, on a platter.  Hand it over and see what happens to it.

David knows what he wants to have happen.  And he shares it with us.  Verse four.  One thing I asked, one thing I seek after.  One thing.  Which is actually three things.  Or three parts of the one thing.  I want, he says, to live in God’s house all the time.  Every day.  Take me now Lord!  Is this a death wish?  A going to heaven hope?  No, its about being alive.  I want to live every day with God guiding me, with God claiming me, with the eyes of God and the hope of God and the confidence of God at work in me.  

And if I live alive, David claims there are things that happen in me.  My perspective changes.  My eyes are opened.  I can behold the beauty of the Lord.  No, it isn’t God’s Instagram account with all God’s selfies posted hourly.  But being able to see beyond the dreariness of the day and find beauty in spite of the darkness.  To dwell in the house of the Lord is to see the beauty of creation, to see the glory of every face created in the image of God.  It is to acknowledge God’s presence in everything and the preciousness of the world in which we live.  

As wonderful as beholding the beauty is, there is more, David claims.  Dwelling in the house of the Lord all your days also allows you to inquire.  Oh, good.  What?  Exactly!  It’s about questions.  It’s about knowledge.  Dwelling in the house of the Lord is a reminder that there is always more to learn. It keeps us from the thinking that we know all we need to know.  It opens us up to possibilities.  To more, to learn and to grow.  

What a beautiful day, right?  Even on our worst days, there is beauty.  That’s what our faith says. Even when we can’t see it, be trust that it is there.  And the more we worship, the more we pray, the more we are able to see that beauty, So, bring your whole self, your real self, your hurting and rejoicing self and lay it at the feet of the One who gives us life.  The One who loves us at our most unlovable and makes us worthy by grace.  Behold the beauty of the Lord.  Even in you.

For thyself, best Gift Divine, / to the world so freely given, / for that great, great love of thine, / peace on earth, and joy in heaven: / Lord of all, to thee we raise / this our hymn of grateful praise.   

Shalom, 

Derek

Whenever

Grumpy old man alert!  I never liked the “whatever” language fad.  I don’t know if it is still in to say “whatever” in response to every comment. I hear it occasionally.  But still, I grumble.  It’s a disengaging word.  A disconnecting word.  An attempt to imply that nothing matters, nothing is of significance.  I just don’t like it.  But then, I’ve been known to utter it myself from time to time. When nothing makes sense, when there seems to be no solution, when frustrated beyond measure. Whatever.  It’s a good word to use, at times.  Better than swearing, I suppose.  Better than getting angry and lashing out.  Whatever.  Useful, perhaps, in some settings, once in a while, a little bit.  Sort of.  Whatever.

But I want to propose a different word.  Similar, but different.  Whenever.  I know, it doesn’t fit the context.  It isn’t as dismissive, as cynical as a good “whatever” can be.  But go with me here. Whenever.  It has that attitude, don’t you think?  It presents a similar sort of cavalier mindset, but on a whole different level. Whenever.  And the best part?  It’s biblical!

Matthew 6:5-15 5 "And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. 6 But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. 7 "When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard because of their many words. 8 Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. 9 "Pray then in this way: Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. 10 Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. 11 Give us this day our daily bread. 12 And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. 13 And do not bring us to the time of trial, but rescue us from the evil one. 14 For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; 15 but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

Matthew says that Jesus put this prayer in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount.  His Summa Theologica, if you will.  His final paper for Professor Schubert Ogden’s Christian Theology class. (Excuse me, I just had flash backs and chills running up and down my spine.)  This prayer, implied in the placement, is the definition of what it means to be a follower of Christ.  If we claim this prayer – and the warnings surrounding it – if we pray this prayer, no, if we live this prayer, then we will be followers.  

Luke says a similar thing with the placement of the prayer.  In chapter 11, the disciples approach Jesus and say, “teach us to pray.”  Some commentators say that they weren’t looking for a lesson on prayer, but for a prayer that they could keep in their pockets, a prayer that would identify them as His followers.  It was a secret handshake, a code phrase that would identify who was in and who was out.  

Well, maybe.  Maybe it was a sign of the followers. Or maybe it was a plea.  They saw him in prayer. They knew that He didn’t do anything without praying about it first.  Whenever.  That He began every day in prayer, that He ended every night on His knees before the One He called Father.  Maybe they were hoping it was in the technique.  If we just knew how, if we had the formula then we could get as much out of spending time in prayer as He does.  All we get is sleepy.  So, they asked him and He gave him this prayer.  Whenever you pray.

Whether it was in response to a question, or a part of His thesis, here it is.  A simple prayer that we remember and recite and say so often we’ve stopped listening to it.  Stopped realizing that we are tearing down the world as we know it and building up one more like the one God intended.  Stopped noticing that we are making a commitment in this prayer, that we are aligning our priorities with the Kingdom.  Stopped understanding that we were putting ourselves in a place farther down the line than we are used to wanting.  Stopped admitting that this prayer that we pray in our sleep sometimes is admission of failure, of brokenness, of the great need for a savior.  This prayer shakes the foundations of the world whenever we pray it.  And we often yawn our way through it.  Ho hum, here we go again ... Our Father ... 

Our - a sense of community, we’re a part of something bigger than ourselves, bigger than we can see with our eyes, something we can only grasp through faith.  Our - it’s not just me and my needs and my hurts and my wanting to be fed, to be filled, to be blessed.  Our - it’s about us together, with friends and family, but also the stranger and the enemy, the ones who don’t look like us and think like us, the ones we enjoy and the ones we hide from.  Our - we are joining a community, a movement when we pray this prayer, we can’t escape with thinking it is an editorial we that really means just me.  No, that won’t work any more.  Our - we’re in this together.  With the one who called us children.  Our Father.

Our Father - no matter how well our earthly fathers measured up to this ideal, no matter how well we who are called father fill those shoes, we are told to call on the Father, the father of the fatherless, the One who wants to gather us like a mother hen gathers her chicks.  Our Father – this isn’t some distant, unapproachable, incomprehensible, nameless power of the universe, “use the force Luke!” No this is personal, this is intimate, this is the One who knows you.  Jesus’ instructions say don’t try to dazzle with words, don’t try to pull the wool over the divine eyes by flattery, the Father knows us already, knows our needs, knows our hurts, even the ones we hide from the world, hide from ourselves, we are known.  Already known, and yet loved.  Still loved.  The Father, who loves like a Mother, knows and still claims, still calls, still wants to hear from us.  

But wait, it all sounds so conditional, a trade off, do this then that happens.  At least that comes out at the end.  If you forgive then you will be forgiven, if you don’t then you won’t.  So there!  Take that!! Conditional?  So, in the end we are bargaining with God?  Better shape up, better measure up, or else. Or is Jesus giving us a truth here, not a law?  Is He trying to help us understand that we are indeed a community even as He and the Father are a community that we call Trinity?  That just like He and the Father are one, we are one in the spirit with God and with each other.  And if we refuse to live in community, then we won’t have access to the fullness of grace.  That if we hold ourselves apart, wish vengeance on those who have wronged us, look down at those not worthy of us, turn away from the one who needs us, then we can’t – not because God withholds it some how, but because we can’t – experience grace for ourselves.  Because we are not in a grace receptive position.  The same walls we build to keep the riff raff out, the same shells we create to keep us from crossing paths with undesirables, keep us from receiving what God longs to give us; forgiveness, grace and wholeness.  

Our prayers tear down those walls.  Real prayers, prayers of humility that are directed toward God and not the people around us.  Jesus isn’t saying that we can’t pray in public anymore.  How could we be the community of “our Father” if there was no such thing as corporate prayer?  But He is saying stay focused on God.  Pour out your heart to God, not on saying a prayer to impress.  

Teach us to pray.  So He does.  And perhaps the most important point of all is hidden in the way Jesus talks about prayer.  You notice?  He doesn’t say if you’re going to pray.  He doesn’t say if this seems like a good idea.  He doesn’t say if you’ve tried everything else.  No, the only if is the condition of our hearts.  But he says over and over, whenever.  Whenever you pray.  There is an expectation here. When, not if, when you are praying, He says.  Whenever.  Kind of like, whenever you breathe. Whenever your heart beats.  Whenever you pray.  Whenever. 

Shalom, 

Derek 

Beloved, Pray for Me

Starting over.  A fresh start, a new start, a reboot.  Lots of good in such an idea, such a possibility.  On the other hand you can’t help but mourn what used to be.  The familiar was ... just that, familiar.  This new thing is scary, lonely, new.  So, which is it?  Which will we embrace, which will we encounter? Good or bad, happy or sad, gain or loss?  Both?  Maybe both.  Some of both, that’s how life works you know.  Take the bad with the good, they say.  Take it all and turn it into something positive, someone powerful, something transforming for us and everyone else around us, everyone we encounter.  Yeah, that’s the ticket, that’s the brass ring to grab for.  Make lemonade.  

Except that recipe always escapes me.  Just when it need it.  Just when biting down on the sourest of lemons and I need to think of sweetness and light, it escapes me.  And I’m stuck with the sourness. At least that is how it seems to happen to me more often than I’d care to admit.  My memory isn’t good enough to look for the light in the midst of the darkness, the hope in the midst of despair.  I mean sometimes I can do it.  But other times, the worst times, I just can’t. 

The good news here is that I’m not the only cook in the kitchen.  I’m not the only stirrer of lemon juice and sugar.  The best place to start any new thing is with prayer.  Prayer based in panic perhaps, in the fears of the unknown or the self-doubts and sense of inadequacy.  Prayer based in confidence and hope, on the other hand, in the joy and excitement of a new beginning, a new hope.  Doesn’t matter really which it is.  As long as it’s real.  As long at it’s you.  Prayer is the perfect place to start. It is ultimately the reminder that we’re not in charge.  It is the opportunity to put everything, our lives, our hopes and fears, our doubts and our confidence, not in our own hands, but in the hands of the One who is faithful.

1 Thessalonians 5:12-25 But we appeal to you, brothers and sisters, to respect those who labor among you, and have charge of you in the Lord and admonish you; 13 esteem them very highly in love because of their work. Be at peace among yourselves. 14 And we urge you, beloved, to admonish the idlers, encourage the faint hearted, help the weak, be patient with all of them. 15 See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. 16 Rejoice always, 17 pray without ceasing, 18 give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. 19 Do not quench the Spirit. 20 Do not despise the words of prophets, 21 but test everything; hold fast to what is good; 22 abstain from every form of evil. 23 May the God of peace himself sanctify you entirely; and may your spirit and soul and body be kept sound and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 24 The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this. 25 Beloved, pray for us. 

I’m starting my ministry here in Southport with prayer.  An admission that on my own I can do nothing.  An invitation to partner with the community of faith in this place and to tap into the Source of all power, the means by which anything good might happen in this place, at this time.  I’m starting with a conversation about prayer.  So that we can both pray and talk about praying.  Which oddly enough is the same thing.  When we pray we are talking about what it is that is on our hearts, on our minds.  It is a conversation with the Creator of the universe.  Who, we’ve been told, is powerfully interested in us, in our hearts, in the depths of our souls.  Prayer is a conversation with God and with one another.  To pray is to talk about praying, and to talk about praying is to pray.  And it is, says Paul in our passage this week, as necessary as breathing.  As important and never ceasing as our heartbeat.  

First Thessalonians is considered to be the first book of the New Testament written.  This is where Paul chose to begin his ministry of writing.  And some of the first words that got written down were about this conversation we’re supposed to be having with God, but also with each other.  There is a whole lot in this passage, most of which we are simply going to set aside for another time.  So that we can concentrate on the one part, the conversation.  One small verse, “pray without ceasing.”

How does that work exactly?  Can we actually pray without ceasing?  Do our lips move constantly like some entranced shaman muttering an incantation, do we mumble under our breath as we go about the business of our day, forever disconnected from everything but the conduit of prayer to God? Well, of course not.  Well, then, what in the world did he mean?  

Look at the list.  It’s like a lot of Paul’s lists.  Complete.  Daunting.  Yet, exciting at the same time. It’s like he hints at a life that we have only barely tasted.  Rejoice always, he says, like that was even within the realm of possibility for us normal human beings.  Give thanks in all circumstances.  All? Did you really mean all, Paul?  Maybe you meant all good circumstances.  Maybe you meant all holy ones, all Sunday morning ones.  Maybe you meant ... But no, you said all circumstances. Incomprehensible.  Do not quench the Spirit.  Well, that sounds good, living at the level of spiritual excitement, power and glory, all the time.  Can’t imagine it, but yeah, let it happen.  I wouldn’t quench it, I wouldn’t pull back from that.  Unless there were other things I needed to do, you know.  I mean, it’s fine for a while, but really now.  Do not despise the words of the prophets.  What?  Those guys?  Come on!  Test everything, hold fast to what is good, abstain from every kind of evil.  Well, of course.  As a general rule, that’s pretty good.  That’s what we all want to do, plan to do, intend.  All of us.  All the time.  Except ... when it is necessary to look at the greater good and allow a smaller ... well ... you know.  Right?  

Frankly, it’s beyond us.  All of it, not just the praying without ceasing.  I mean that’s impossible, we admit that.  But the rest of it is just as impossible, just as outrageous.  On our best days we might get close, for a while, a short time, in specific situations, grading on a curve, close, kinda.  But, our best days are few and far between sometimes.  It’s just simply beyond us.  We might as well give up.  But before you do, take another look at the list.  The whole list.  Paul wraps it up, as he does so often, with a doxology, an expression of praise.  But it is more than praise.  It is a promise.  Take a look.

23 May the God of peace himself sanctify you entirely; and may your spirit and soul and body be kept sound and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 24 The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this. 

It isn’t up to us.  God will do this.  God’s Spirit, God’s grace, God’s love will be at work in us.  We are being sanctified.  It’s a process, we’re on the way.  Surrendering ourselves, bit by bit, inch by inch, until we hand our whole selves over to the One who is faithful.  The One, the only One who will take what we give and make it holy.  Make it precious.  

That’s what prayer is, in essence.  It isn’t asking for stuff.  It isn’t following a ritualized pattern of magic words that will, by our own efforts, turn us into something better than we would be otherwise. It is throwing ourselves into the arms of the One who loves us as we are, who accepts us and claims us and then loves us too much to leave us as we are.  Prayer is throwing ourselves into the arms of the One who will take out our hearts of stone and replace them with hearts of flesh, knowing all the while that we will suffer because of that love infusion, but in that suffering we will truly be alive.  Truly alive. Like we always wanted.  Like we hoped for.  Like we prayed for.

But then, I added another short verse.  Most will stop at verse twenty four.  That finishes the theology, the exhortation.  The rest is just extra, just salutations and closings, the rest is just ... necessary. Beloved, pray for us.  Here’s real treat.  Even the praying we don’t have to do on our own.  The gift we were given is that we can pray for one another.  We can lift one another up.  We can lower one another through the ceiling into the very presence of the One who heals.  Beloved, and we pray for one another because of love.  Beloved, pray for us.  Not a last resort, but a gift of power and grace. Beloved, pray ... for us.  Please?  

The best place to start.  Shall we pray?

Shalom, 

Derek