This morning I opened my prayer book, and there it was, in the Thanksgiving for Baptism for Lent. A prayer I’ve read every day during Lent for the past three years, since I got the new, updated Presbyterian Daily Prayer Book. It read,

O God, we give you thanks
for the mercy you so freely offer us through our baptism—
safe passage through the sea,
justice rolling down like water,
deliverance from sin and death forever.

And there it was. The saving action of Jesus on the cross, connected to the exodus of enslaved people from Egypt, connected to justice for those who were oppressed. And just in time for this Lenten journey we are embarking on together: a deep dive into our understanding of the crucifixion.

Image: Kramskoĭ, Ivan Nikolaevich, 1837-1887. Christ in the Wilderness, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54297 [retrieved January 30, 2021]. Original source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kramskoi_Christ_dans_le_d%C3%A9sert.jpg.

We begin with the shrillest of voices. Blow the shofar, our text says, referring to the ritual ram’s horn used to announce the movements or victories of armies, or maybe the anointing of a king. Blow the shofar, the prophet insists, but not for any of those reasons. “The Day of the Lord” is coming, they announce. “Tremble.”

Following on verses describing an advancing army of locusts, who will run up walls, and darken the moon and the sun, is this threat: God will speak. The Lord will utter the divine voice, and it will be great and terrible—who, in the end, can endure it?

And after this terrifying vision, the voice calms. No longer shrill, it becomes the voice of a mother, entreating a child to be good…

Image: Moyers, Mike. Ash, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57140 [retrieved January 30, 2021]. Original source: Mike Moyers, https://www.mikemoyersfineart.com/.

The month of January was named by the ancient Romans for their god Janus, the god of beginnings and endings. And also the god, therefore, of transitions, gateways, doorways and time. Janus was the god who looked both backwards and forwards, so he was depicted as having two faces, so that he could do both at the same time…

We are looking back, but we are also looking forward. And as we do so, we can look to Simeon and Anna, whose eyes are trained to look for the fullness of the promises of God.

Image: Swanson, John August. Presentation in the Temple, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=56557 [retrieved November 23, 2020]. Original source: www.JohnAugustSwanson.com - copyright 1988 by John August Swanson.

…This has been a year of waiting. Waiting for the Covid crisis to subside, waiting for a vaccine to arrive, waiting for the outcome of the presidential election—and for those of us in this part of New York, for the outcome of a congressional election, too. And now we have entered a season of a different kind of waiting, waiting for the calendar to move to a particular date that will not be moved back, that will come when expected—but which also draws our attention to the other things for which we continue to wait.

The Dutch priest Henri Nouwen gave a lot of thought to this problem, in a meditation called, “Waiting for God.” Nouwen wrote,

In our personal lives, waiting is not a very popular pastime. Waiting is not something we anticipate or experience with great joy and gladness! In fact, most people consider waiting a waste of time. Perhaps this is because the culture in which we live is basically saying, Get going. Do something. Show you are able to make a difference. Don’t just sit there, and wait…

Image: Annunciation by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1849-1850

Where are you finding joy?

I believe it’s possible to find joy in most circumstances. That’s the distinction between joy and happiness. Happiness comes from the outside. It reflects something that happens to us—it’s circumstance-oriented. We’re always happy “about” something or someone. Joy comes from the inside. It is, indeed, down in our hearts. Which means, even when we are not particularly happy, we can still find joy.

Photo P. Raube (c) 2016, all rights reserved.

…In the year 587 BCE, the mighty Babylonian Empire had invaded Jerusalem, and now the holy city was gone. They had demolished the Temple, and now the dwelling place of God on earth was no more. God’s people were either killed or carried off to be strangers in a strange land. This passage contains God’s words, sent through Isaiah, to these people, who have lost everything.

Be comforted, O be comforted, my people…

“White Sheep on a Farm” Photo by kailash kumar from Pexels.

We begin with this aching, desperate plea to God:

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.”

What was it? What caused that cry to go up? What caused that prophet to give voice to a sense that nothing less would do—that the very presence of God on earth was required. NOW.

Photo: P. Raube, (c) 2014, all rights reserved.

Hungering for normalcy. On November 22, in the Year of Our Lord 2020, I would say we are all hungering for something that feels like normalcy.

In this year in which a pandemic has swept the world, and is not done with us yet… in this year in which we have seen perhaps the most contentious, conflict-ridden presidential election in most of our lifetimes… in this year in which I pray most of us will not gather for Thanksgiving with large groups, but will, instead, stay close to home in our safe and small pods of people … in this year in which, my heart breaks to say it, we will not, for the sake of one another’s lives, be gathering in our sanctuary to sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful”…

We are all hungering for something… anything… approaching normalcy…

Image: “Safety Net,” (c) Hannah Garrity and A Sanctified Art, used with permission.

I used to think that love was simple.
You would know when you know,
What was meant, would be.
But I fell in love
And it’s not that easy.
It’s compromise and identity,
Mountains and valleys,
Apologies and memories,
Imbalance, recentering.
It turns out, "
Love took reimagining.

This poem may be familiar to those of you who’ve had a chance to read, reflect, and do some of the work in the Study Journal for our stewardship season. We have been reflecting on our money stories. The Rev. Sarah Are begins the poem with words about love—falling in love, which can be so easy, and then, doing the work of love, which can be so hard. Compromise and identity; mountains and valleys, apologies and memories. Imbalance. Recentering. Reimagining.

In a way, scripture tells us a great and grand love story. God chooses to create for no discernible reason, but then seems to fall in love with the creatures wrought by the Divine Hand. And together they learn—it seems to me—compromise and identity. (I mean, God forgives, and forgives, and forgives.) Mountains on which the law is received and valleys that need to be raised so that God might come again in rescue. Apologies. Memories.

And through it all, God teaches God’s human creations how to imagine, and then reimagine what it is to be a people. A covenant people. A people of law, and a people of love…

Image: “Jubilee,” (c) Lauren Wright Pittman and A Sanctified Art, used with permission.

The act of “releasing” is an essential component of every faith journey. To take a step forward means to release some aspect of the past. To embrace the overwhelming, abundant grace of God is to release the shame or self-hatred that tells us we deserve only condemnation. To forgive someone is to release our need to change the past.

What do you need to release today?

Image: “Finding Release,” (c) Lauren Wright Pittman and A Sanctified Art, used with Permission.

You may or may not know this: Jesus talks more about money than he talks about anything else. More than he talks about prayer. More than he talks about the Kingdom of God. More than he talks about his crucifixion, or discipleship. And that’s because money stories are spiritual stories. Both show what we place at the center of our lives. For where our treasure is, there our heart will be also…

Image: “Enough,” (c) Hannah Garrity and A Sanctified Art, used with permission.

Does God have a strategy here—kind of a, “go big or go home” opening gambit? Perhaps a “show your big moves in hopes no further action will be necessary” approach? I wonder… Pharaoh’s heart remains hardened.

He will not be moved—though no one can survive without water for long. He will not budge—though the people he’s supposed to care for are suffering. He will not change—though the power of the God of Israel confronts him with this dreadful sight.

And that’s where our passage ends: with Pharaoh unraveling God’s plans for justice and restoration. With Moses’ plans unraveling, too.

And—let’s be honest. This kind of impasse seems to describe much of history. God creating human beings for one kind of existence, and humans, being human, going off on another path entirely. Or, humans choosing the path that will bring the most pain, the most harm, the most devastation.

Image: (c) A Sanctified Art, used with permission

There’s a saying, that humans plan, and God laughs. I don’t believe God laughs at us, though I can certainly imagine a divine eye roll. My perspective is; we plan, and we hope and pray that God works with and through those plans.

Moses’ parents brought a baby into a world filled with danger. Then, they created a desperate plan for his safety, one that depended on their trust that God would take a hand in the situation.

Moses’ big sister seems to have concocted a spur-of-the-moment plan for what to do if someone discovered her brother, and decided to take him home—maybe Moses’ mother whispered that part of the plan in her ear.

I wonder what the Princess’ plan was?

Image: (c) A Sanctified Art, used with permission.

Can we imagine what it felt like to lose this place of worship? I think we can. We can, because we know what it is, many of us, to be away from our own sanctuary. We know what it is to miss it and long for it, and to have no way of knowing when we will be able to be in there, together, again.

So Jeremiah sends a letter to these heartbroken people who don’t feel they have any way to truly worship God, and perhaps, even, to process that loss. How can they sing—sing the Lord’s song—in a foreign land?

Image: (c) A Sanctified Art, used with permission.

In modern terms, “the four horsemen of the apocalypse” have shown up in all kinds of places. Shortly before Christmas in 1996, I saw this tabloid while standing in the check-out line at Wegman’s, and I knew it was a keeper. (Tabloids generally are on the side of scaring you to death.)

They’ve shown up elsewhere, though, and I find this appearance fascinating and helpful. They’ve shown up in the work of clinical Psychologist John Gottman, an expert in human relationships, especially intimate ones.

Gottman has something he calls “the love lab.” It’s basically an apartment. Couples who are struggling with their relationship stay in the lab for 48 to 72 hours, and all their conversations are recorded. By the end of their stay, Gottman can predict with something like 98% accuracy whether their marriage will make it, or whether their relationship is unraveling. He predicts this based on the presence or absence of four dynamics in their interactions. He calls these, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse of relationships. The Four Horsemen are always a sign of death, destruction. Their appearance in communication reveals a brokenness that can lead to the death of the relationship…

Image: Eugene Delacroix, Horse Frightened by a Storm, 1824. Courtesy of Wikiart.org

And this goes on—Job’s friends accusing him, Job defending himself. He stands firm. He has not sinned. He has done nothing to deserve any of this. For 24 chapters this goes on, and Job will not budge. And we know he’s right.

And we know his story is a true story. We look around us and we see its truth in the stories of family and friends, in the stories of strangers. We see good people suffering. We have been their witnesses.

And the question remains: Why? We ask this question when we see the suffering of strangers. We ask it when we see the suffering of those we love. We ask it when we suffer ourselves. And when there is no answer, we struggle to make sense of it….

Image: A Sanctified Art, used with permission.

For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another. ~Romans 12:4-5

Image: Riverside Cemetery, Endicott, NY . P. Raube, 2014

Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.
~Romans 13:8

Image: P. Raube, (c) 2020.

Every time I read those words of Jesus, I cringe. How can it be? It hurts to hear him speak like this.

But this is tribalism. Tribes? They can function for good: they can help you to know who you can consider family. They can be a source of strength, identity, pride. But tribalism? That is no longer about what is good and strong. That is about who’s in and who’s out. Who we care about and who we consider expendable. For whom we will rush in, and who we will pass on by. Whose lives matter, and whose lives don’t…

Image: Juan de Flandes, “The Canaanite Woman asks for healing for her daughter” (ca. 1500), from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55921 [retrieved August 1, 2020]. Original source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Juan_de_Flandes_-_Christ_and_the_Canaanite_Woman_-_WGA12050.jpg.

In this morning’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew, we continue with the text, picking up right after Jesus’ enormous, extravagant picnic of last week. Jesus is, finally, taking the time he needs after everything that has happened. The death of John the Baptist. His own grief and, yes, fear, unrelieved as he continues to pour out his energies and compassion in healing all those who come in need, and then, feeding them, too.

But immediately after that, Jesus knows he has reached his limits.

I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that, if Jesus has limits, so do we. Generosity and compassion are beautiful and a part of our calling, but so is sacred Sabbath, holy rest, and time in prayer and connection with the One who made and who called us in the first place.

Jesus has reached his limits, and so he climbs a mountain to pray. (I know)…

Image: Jesus Walks on Water by Ivan Aivazovsky (1888), Public Domain, courtesy of Wikiart.