"Last Words"--November 29, 2019

"Last Words"--November 29, 2019

"The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit." [Philippians 4:23]

The thing about Jesus is... he always gets the last word.

Last words, or at least the idea of "the last word," often carry along a certain bittersweetness. I think it is the unavoidable heaviness of something final--something that is ending, something that is over.  "Last words" have a way of getting ingrained in our memories because of that, even if we didn't pay attention in the moment to what we said, sometimes in retrospect, we come to see a greater significance to the last thing we said to a dear loved one before they died (whether expectedly or unexpectedly), or the last thing you said on the phone to someone at the end of a watershed moment in their life.  It happens with some frequency in my life as a pastor: the last time I had conversation over lunch with someone, but I didn't know at the time it was the last lunch, or the last good talk; or the last time I would get to visit at someone's house, or the last time someone in hospice care would speak words back to me.  Those final exchanges have a sort of haunting power that way, even if you didn't realize they were "last words" when they were spoken.

Well, these are some last words, too.  These words of Paul's as he concluded his letter to the Philippians are the last words we have of his to this congregation (and because he wrote it from prison, these could have been some of the last words the apostle wrote at all).  And in that sense, Paul's friends in Philippi knew the sheer gravity of what Paul chose to end his letter with.  This was not a place for a throwaway sentence like, "Oh, and by the way, bring my cloak if you come to visit," like we get in other places of the epistles.  And this was not the time to tackle a narrow, specific theological or ethical question.  This was a time for last words that felt like last words--words with a sense of closure, rather than a cliffhanger.

And so it is interesting to me--no, more than that: it is surprisingly hopeful--that Paul's last word also sounds like a beginning.  Literally, this last sentence, "The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit," sounds an awful lot like the way Paul began this same letter, which was, "Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from the Lord Jesus Christ," as soon as he had gotten the return address written down on his scroll.  Paul ends the way he began--and the central thrust in both moments is the graceful presence of Christ with us.    It's almost as if Paul is saying, "Whatever else happens with me--when I am just getting started with you all, and when I have said all I needed to say--Christ will be here with you, and will bring you his grace."  It's almost like Paul is reminding his hearers (and maybe reminding himself) that Christ remains with them, independent of Paul being in the picture or not.  Paul, after all, is writing from far away awaiting trial before the emperor.  He doesn't get to see his friends on a screen like we do in our day when we use FaceTime or Skype or other video messaging services to talk to distant relatives and friends.  It was a one-way conversation, and Paul sent his messages from hundreds of miles away.  And yet, it needed to be said that Christ's presence didn't depend on Paul--Jesus could be in Philippi with the church there just as surely as he could be with Paul in Rome at the same time.  And Jesus didn't need anybody's permission--neither Paul's nor the emperor's--to be with the people in Philippi, and in a hundred other places, too.

So the ending--which is also a beginning--turns out to be a reminder that through it all, Christ is with us, and with us in his characteristically grace-ful way.  Whatever else happens in this day, Christ is here among us now.  Whatever detours or train-wrecks happen in the day, Christ is here.  Whatever times in life things didn't go the way we planned, Christ is present.  Whatever times we were separated from those we held dear, Christ remained.  And for whatever times in this life arise that we are afraid of what is ahead, Christ keeps speaking grace.

Maybe the Philippians especially needed to hear that.

Maybe Paul especially needed to say that.

I suspect we need it, too.  Here we are at another ending-and-beginning, too, because this is the final devotion in this series that we have been calling, "See Christ Here."  This brings to an end the conversation we have been having for the past twelve months, looking to see the presence of Christ in everyday moments and unexpected places, and with this writing, we are now at an end for that year's project.  This is an ending, and these, then, are last words.  But like Paul's to the Philippians, they are words that also make possible a new beginning and a new start.

I'll invite you now to join with me in the new week with the beginning of a whole new series, starting with Advent 2019 (which starts in December) and through the year ahead.  There will be more to share come Monday, but for now, let these last words be the surprisingly hopeful promise of a new beginning as well.  We are at the end of something, but there will be a new start as well.  And regardless of our starts and finishes, Christ remains present--beginning, middle, and end. Christ remains with you, you wherever you are in all of your you-ness, and with me, as well.  Christ remains with us, when we see it and when we don't, when we feel it and when we miss him, when we are actively working alongside of him and when he has to work in spite of us as well.  

Whatever else can be said on this day of endings and beginnings, know this much is true: the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ will be with you.

And that will be enough.

Lord Jesus, be with us, through it all, and through this day.

God in the Sanctuary City--November 26, 2019

God in the Sanctuary City--November 26, 2019

"There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
     the holy habitation of the Most High.
  God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved;
     God will help it when the morning dawns.
 The nations are in an uproar, the kingdoms totter;
     he utters his voice, the earth melts.
 The Lord of hosts is with us;
     the God of Jacob is our refuge." [Psalm 46:4-7]

Lately, the words of this ancient poet have been mingling in my mind with two unlikely collaborators: Billy Joel and a relatively obscure medieval Icelandic hymn-writer named Kolbeinn Tumason.  Yeah--the running playlist in my head is a real grab-bag.

But there's a common thread.  There's a tune of Billy Joel's I have loved for decades, called "And So It Goes."  It's less piano-pounding or storytelling than a lot of Joel's classics, and more like a hymn.  He starts with this simple metaphor:  

"In every heart there is a room, 

 A sanctuary safe and strong,

 To heal the wounds from lovers past,

 Until a new one comes along."

I suppose you can either read that lyric hopefully--as though the next new love in the singer's life will finally be "The One"--or more cynically, as if to say that there is not such thing as "The One," but that we humans just keep living through relationships until they blow up and then wait for someone else to fill that empty space in our lives and do the same thing all over again.  Honestly, I'm not sure which side of that Billy Joel would come down on with that question--maybe it would depend on the day... or the album.

But the image that has been sticking in my head is his image of the heart as a sanctuary, or a stronghold.  It reminds me of a 13th century hymn text called (in the Icelandic) "Heyr Himna Smidur," and which is often translated "Hear, Smith of the Heavens."  It's a prayer to God who is both the "smith of constellations" and yet who cares about the cry of the suffering soul.  And in the second stanza of the hymn (again, in translation), the author calls on God to "drive out every human sorrow from the city of the heart," or "from the heart's keep."  It's again that image of the heart as a fortified place--like an ancient city or a stronghold.

Sometimes I forget that ancient cities were primarily defined, not by their sports franchises or skyscrapers, but for the defense they offered inside fortifications, bulwarks, walls, and ramparts.  People today like to complain about cities for being crowded and congested, or even crime-infested, or for being overflowing with ornery people pushing and shoving their way through traffic, but in the ancient (or even medieval) mind, the city was an image of refuge.  Cities were safe places because when an invading army came, you could safely live inside its defenses and outlast the besieging enemy.  Cities were places you went, not just for the cosmopolitan commerce, but because you could be relatively safe from outside attack once you were inside.  

On top of that, there were a number of cities set aside in the Torah as "cities of refuge" or sanctuary, where people could go if they had accidentally committed a serious crime like manslaughter and start a new life.  There were apparently no other requirements or conditions for finding refuge in one of those cities, other than that you were in need of a place to start over.  It is interesting to me that, for as much as we may associate the Old Testament with a bloody "eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth" kind of retaliatory justice, how much the Torah itself actually makes surprisingly merciful provisions for bad situations like this--that you could simply present yourself at one of these "cities of refuge" and they would take you in, no questions asked, so you would not have to fear someone seeking vengeance coming after you.  It is one more image of the city as a place of safety rather than of fear, and of sanctuary rather than anxiety--all of it right from the Bible.

And so it strikes me that the ancient psalmist describes God dwelling among the people in a city, and seeing that as an image of refuge, of safety, and of relief.  God is in the city--with the people--and therefore, they don't have to be afraid, even when there are scary things going on outside the fortifications.  The nations may rage outside, but within the gates of the city, there is sanctuary for those who are afraid.  The angry enemy seeking revenge may be off in the distance, but you can find a home and a new beginning in the city of refuge.

No wonder the ancient people of Israel and Judah thought of the city as an image of comfort and safety.  God was there, welcoming the weary and defending the fearful.

Well all of that brings me back to Billy Joel and the old Icelandic hymn, too.  We don't live in walled fortresses anymore, because we don't live in an era of medieval threats like horse-mounted armies or battering rams anymore.  Those kinds of defenses are not practically useful anymore, but the idea of finding refuge in God, of taking comfort in God's presence, still has staying power.  And I rather think that the psalmist would be OK with us making that move--of saying that God isn't limited to literal cities or physical fortresses, but that as God dwells in our hearts, there is a refuge within us there, too.  God still creates cities of refuge and sanctuary within each heart--yours and mine--and gives us strength from the inside out when it feels like everything around us is swirling around in chaos and anger.

So Billy Joel is on to something when he sings that "in every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong."  But the most he seems to be able to hope for is that some new lover will "come along" to fill the empty space of that sanctuary.  But maybe that's not enough to hope for--with all due respect to the Piano Man.  Maybe the right prayer is more like the voice of "Heyr Himna Smidur," that calls out to God to cast out sorrow from the "city of the heart," and to be our refuge by being right there in the midst of the darkness with us.

The psalmist seems to point us in that direction, too.  God isn't just the one we rely on "on the rebound" in between lovers, like Billy Joel suggests, but God is the one who hallows the sanctuary space within us and strengthens our hearts like a fortified city, so that we can face whatever else is going on outside.

That's ultimately the promise that keeps me going--that for whatever things are going around outside, that the living God is with us, making even our own hearts into cities of refuge and sanctuary.  God doesn't fill in the empty space in your heart or mine--no, that room needs to be held sacred and sturdy for the times we'll need to find refuge there when it feels like the rest of the world is falling apart or beating down the door.  But there inside that space, the living God speaks the words, "Be still, and know that I am God," and makes us able to endure.

Thanks be to the God who is here among us now, creating a refuge in our ribcages, and setting up a home within the city of the human heart.

Lord God, be our refuge today--for whatever we have been running from.  Lord God, be our stronghold today--for whatever we have been afraid of.

Nowhere to Run--November 25, 2019

Nowhere to Run--November 25, 2019

"Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?

 If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

 If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

 even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.

 If I say, 'Surely the darkness shall cover me,

 and the light around me become night,'

 even the darkness is not dark to you;

 the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you." [Psalm 139:7-12]

You don't usually think of the phrase "nowhere to run" as a hopeful sentiment.  But for the psalmist, it is exactly the good news he needs.  There is nowhere he--or you, or I--can go where God isn't already.

And notice just how far the ancient poet is willing to push that thought.  He doesn't just cover the limits of the map in terms of east or west ("the wings of the morning" suggest the direction of the sunrise, and "the farthest limits of the sea" would have been the great western boundary).  The psalmist sees God in locations that aren't locatable with Google Maps, too.  "If I ascend to heaven, you are there," he says--which we might assume is a given, because, you know, it's heaven.  But the rest of that thought is a bit surprising:  "if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there."  Sheol is the Hebrew name for the realm of the dead--it's not really "hell" the way later theologians would imagine fire, brimstone, and red-jump-suited devils with pitchforks.  It's more like just the "underworld," where the dead are--all of the dead.  But even there, God is present.

So the psalmist dares to claim that God is even there in the grave, even in death, even in the empty space carved out by grief like a cavern in the heart.  There is no place about which God squeamishly says, "Oooh, I can't go there." There is no point at which God turns back.  There is no location too profane, too dangerous, too un-spiritual, or too hostile, for God to go.

And therefore, wherever your day or mine takes you, the living God is present already.

Today begins a week in which many will travel--sometimes to distant places, sometimes close by but to see family who are distant in other ways.  Some will make their ways back home uncertain if they will be truly welcome at the table, and others dread the conflicts brewing under the surface of small talk and sweet potatoes.  Some will be at tables while their hearts are distant, lost in that empty cavern where grief lives, missing someone who is not at the table this year.  Some will mourn while they fake a smile as they see the fracturing of families into different branches that all go their separate ways.  Like all holidays, Thanksgiving has an unavoidable bittersweetness that way.  

But wherever the week takes us, God is there already.  For certain in the happy moments, but just as surely in the tearful ones.... and in the ones that bring the difficult mix of joy and sorrow at the same time.  

Whether your week takes you east to the wings of the morning, westward to the farthest limits of the sea, or to the wistful chamber of grief as you remember the faces and chairs of those who are at their rest now, the unshakeable promise of the Scriptures is that God is already there... going with you through the journey, and all the way home.

There is, after all, nowhere to run that God isn't.

Lord God, help us to know your presence in the light moments, the dark moments, and the bittersweet moments, too.  

Being With Jesus--November 22, 2019

Being With Jesus--November 22, 2019

"And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he commanded us. All who obey his commandments abide in him, and he abides in them. And by this we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit that he has given us." [1 John 3:23-24]
Being loved has a way of changing you.

So does loving another in return.

For one, it often affects your geography--it affects where you choose to spend your time because of the one (or ones) with whom you want to spend your time. To put it more plainly, being loved and loving someone back makes you want to be in physical proximity with the beloved. And in a sense, if you want to find out who matters most to you, make a list of the people you allow to determine your geography.

Friends make plans to have coffee together--not in two separate locations, but in the same place at the same time--because they genuinely enjoy with in one another's company. A doe-eyed young couple decides they would rather be with one another than anyone else, and as they promise to be faithful to one another, they come to live in the same place and create a home for the two of them. 

Parents go out of their way to spend time with their children. They do it when their kids are little, of course, playing and reading stories to them.  But they also make the time when their children grow up--holding up their own schedules and calendars in order to be available for their children even when they are adults. It's so basic, so fundamental, that it seems silly almost to even have to say it, but just for the sake of clarity, let's be sure it's said: loving and being loved tends bring people together into one place for more and more of the time, not necessarily with something in particular to do together other than just being together.

The compact but powerful word that John uses for that idea of "being-together-with-the-beloved" is abide. To be loved by God, and for that love to kindle our love for God in response, is to be drawn closer into the presence of God--which is to say, we abide in God. That means acknowledging Christ is present here among us right now. And as John points out, too, for us Christians, that also means we are connected to, and drawn close to, the fullness of God: all three Persons whom we know as Father, Son, and Spirit. To love God the Father will necessarily bring us into relationship with Jesus, and with the Spirit, John says. 

In other words, we will abide with God in all of who God is. Love just has a way of doing that--we allow those we love in to know more and more of us, more deeply and more truly, because we learn to be vulnerable in their presence and know it is safe there. So it is, John says, with us and God. As we are pulled closer in abiding in God, there is no "part" of God that is kept at arm's length from us. It's not that we get to know Jesus, but the Spirit keeps his guard up, refusing to let us in because he's afraid of getting hurt. The whole fullness of God is opened up to us, and vice versa. The more we are drawn further into awareness of God's presence all the time, the more we consciously surrender ourselves and open our lives up to this God. Love just does that to us--we want to be more and more fully present to the One who has loved us. And so we not only consciously choose to spend more time intentionally in the presence of God (we even might say "it is our duty and delight," or "it is indeed right and salutary" for us to do this...), but we come more and more to let our guard down with this God. 

Surely God knows all the facts there are about us already, but as we abide more and more fully in God, we quit resisting and come to bring all of who we are to God intentionally. That, after all, is what prayer really is--bringing as much of myself as possible to God, knowing that God already "knows" what I am about to share anyway, but that I am now doing it with my guard down and my hands open. So anyway, just as we could say with families, spouses, and dear friends, we can say about us and God--love leads us into each other's presence, so that we abide with one another.

But then a second thing happens because of love--we are not just brought near to the ones we love, we are changed by them. We pick up the habits of the ones we love. We learn to speak like them, and their mannerisms and quirks rub off on us. Some of their favorite expressions or words find themselves peppered into our daily speech. And as we learn to live with someone we love, we also learn to live like them as well. In the household, for example, the whole family learns to use the same brand of tissues and toothpaste. You develop patterns for meals together and where the groceries are kept. In a friendship, you develop a shorthand of your own--common experiences and inside jokes--that affect the way you speak to others, too. And beyond that, we are changed, over time, into wanting for the other person the things that they want. We come to wish for their happiness, and so it affects our will, as well. To borrow a line from C. S. Lewis, you don't just look at one another, but you stand side by side and see with world with one another, sharing the same perspective, the same view of life. We come to do the kinds of things our beloved wants us to do--if not all the time, at least increasingly--simply because we love them, and without concern for what it will "get" us. You've seen it in your own life, I'm sure.

Well, John sees that happening for us as we abide in God, too. We are changed by abiding in God. We learn the habits of being like Jesus. We find his way of loving others becomes ours--and that his expansive list of whom to love becomes our list, too. We find the Spirit's way of enfolding and encouraging becomes our own way. We find that we want to do what will bring joy to the Father, not in order to get something from God, but simply because we love God and we want to be a part of bringing God joy. This is why John makes the connection between abiding in God and obeying his commandments. You want to know who is "abiding" in God? Well, take a look at people who seem to have the marks of being around this God--people who have found the way of Jesus and the presence of the Spirit rubbing off on them. You've seen people like this--people who, it seemed, have picked up the very habits and mannerisms of Christ, and who have brought you closer to God, too, so that you, too, could abide more deeply in God's presence and be changed by the encounter.

That's the kind of life John envisions for us--other beloved saints bring us closer to God, so that in God's presence, we will be made into Christ's likeness too, more and more, and then in turn, we become the kind of people whose lives draw others to abide in God's presence. Truth be told, it's an ever-moving, back-and-forth motion, where you help me to know God, and in turn I do the same for you, over and over again in our lives together in community, as the Spirit keeps working on the both of us through each other.

I don't know about you, but I find that kind of life utterly compelling, and I want to be a part of it as much as possible. This is the life we are offered today, we who have been loved by the living God and are invited to abide in Christ's presence, among us already, even on an ordinary Friday.

Lord God, let your love draw us in, so that we will delight in doing your will and love what you command, and in turn be changed by your abiding presence.

Keeping the Empty Empty--November 21, 2019

Keeping the Empty Empty--November 21, 2019

"So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong." [2 Corinthians 12:9b-10]

Jesus isn't spinach.  And none of us is Popeye.

I think sometimes we treat Jesus like we expect him to give us superpowers, or some kind of secret spiritual insights.  Or at least that he'll make us, y'know, "strong"... or "tough"... or somehow measurably "better."  We talk about having Christ in our lives like he is simply a performance-enhancing substance, rather than the abiding presence of a living person.  Popular spirituality likes to quote the verse from Philippians (completely forgetting the context) that says, "I can do all things through him who strengthens me," and sometimes you almost get the impression that some folk believe it means he'll improve your bench-press or your average running speed, or that just pronouncing the word "Jesus" will give you the extra stamina to work your three jobs and make it to your kid's parent-teacher conferences on time with a smile.

We treat Jesus, in other words, like we think he is a spiritual vitamin--like the can of spinach Popeye would swallow in a single gulp to power up his muscles so he could save his darling Olive Oyl.  And I think part of what we are assuming there is that Christ can't abide things... or people... that are weak somehow to just remain... you know, weak.  We assume that if Jesus is going to show up, he will get rid of what is weak and change us--as though the weakness itself is unacceptable.  And so, like mild-mannered Clark Kent becoming Superman with a swiping of eyeglasses, or like Prince Adam becoming He-Man (there's a dated 1980s pop culture reference for you!), we imagine that when Jesus' presence shows up in our lives, it will mean that he will get rid of our weaknesses, because we assume they are bad.  Perhaps the "power" he brings will wear off if we haven't prayed hard enough, or it will evaporate after so much time, but we somehow seem to think that Jesus' job is to get rid of weakness rather than to work through it.

But that's not the promise.  And that's not how Paul sees things from his own life.  This whole passage is about Paul having to change his expectations.  He had prayed for Jesus to come and take away the malady, the weakness, the "thorn in the flesh," the empty feeling inside, only to have the Lord respond by saying, basically, "No."  As in, "No, I'm not taking away the weakness or filling the empty space, but I am present in a surprising and powerful way through your weakness."  That means Paul stayed weak, stayed empty, stayed with the thorn in his side... and yet that Christ was with him through the struggle.  There is no spinach-for-Popeye moment where Jesus makes his muscles grow so that Paul can punch Bluto.  Instead the presence of Christ is more powerful and visible when it comes through Paul's weakness, rather than vanquishing or banishing it.

And to be clear, this is how the presence of Christ is for us as well.   Instead of being just some spiritual pick-me-up to pull us out of the dark cloud, Christ is the one who walks with us through the darkness... while it is still dark.  Instead of imagining that our empty fuel tanks need some spiritual product named "Jesus" to show up like spinach for Popeye to fill us back up, perhaps it is more that we are empty like the body of an acoustic guitar, and that the empty space, rather than being a weakness, is actually the conduit for the music.  And in our quest to "be strong" or "have power" or "be filled," we are missing the point of God's greatest, most grace-filled power.  Christ is present with us, not in order to tell us that our weakness or emptiness was unacceptable until he fills it in or juices us up, but to be with us in our weaknesses and empty places as they are, and through them to do what brawn and bulk cannot.

The same Paul who wrote here about discovering Christ's presence in our weakness (rather than getting rid of our weakness as if it is unworthy of him) would say a few sentences later, "I will most gladly spend and be spent for you.  If I love you more, am I to be loved less?"  I think there is something profoundly beautiful about that thought.  Paul has come to a point where he is no longer seeking to have his empty places filled back in, or his weaknesses shored up.  He sees now that the whole point of life in Christ is to give yourself away--and therefore that the emptiness is an asset to be held open, like the sound chamber of a guitar, rather than filled in with something else.  He sees now that the weakness he had been so afraid of is actually a gift of grace.

This is how Christ is present with us day by day--in our weakness, rather than getting rid of it, flowing through our empty places, rather than filling them back in.  So much of our lives is spent believing that we are unacceptable because of our weak places, or that we will only know Jesus' presence once we get rid of the things we see as flaws and foibles.  But Jesus has been saying all along, "I am here right now--with you, just as you are--and that will be enough."

Indeed.  Jesus is enough.  He always has been.

Lord Jesus, we lift up to you the things we thought were not good enough for you to use: our weakness and empty places.  Let us see your presence and surprising power right there in the midst of them.

A Whisper in the Noise--November 20, 2019

A Whisper in the Noise--November 20, 2019

[Jesus said:] "...they will arrest you and persecute you; they will hand you over to synagogues and prisons, and you will be brought before kings and governors because of my name. This will give you an opportunity to testify. So make up your mind not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to contradict." [Luke 21:12-15]

I am tired of the constant deluge of rottenness around. No, not just tired--I am wearied by it.  I am wearied, some days almost to the point of exhaustion, just of the dissonant chorus of voices that runs, non-stop, like a grating hum in the background all the time, selling a vision of a way of life that runs counter to the way of Jesus.  

It is a constant angry babbling, and it is punctuated by bursts of hatred, of self-centeredness, of endless avarice, and of arrogant bragging.  

It is the noise of the unending news cycle, reminding me how to keep track of the days by where the latest mass shooting was (Monday's was a Walmart in Oklahoma; Sunday's was in a Hmong neighborhood in Fresno).  

It is the din of pundits and politicians on the radio and TV, tying themselves up in knots as they bend over backwards to say the opposite of the thing they said yesterday, and telling us to forget that we ever heard anything different.

It is the dull roar of angry voices demonizing whatever group of people they see as "the other," and casting "those people" as the enemy.

It is the unnerving shouting of TV preachers and Respectable Religious folks posturing for attention and clamoring for positions of prestige and influence, but sounding less and less like the message of Jesus of Nazareth the more they talk.

I don't know about you, but that constant racket of noise in the background of life sometimes feels overwhelming, and I am just about exhausted by it.  I am no longer surprised by it, but it still wearies me.  And sometimes it is just so tempting to turn it all off and look away--to ignore the news reports of body counts, or to just give caring about the shouting-matches between the talking heads with a nihilistic shrug to say, "It doesn't matter who wins this debate anyway."  It is tempting, too, to feel like our only options in response to all that noise are either to shout even more loudly and angrily, or to give into apathy and say nothing.

Sometimes, we can even feel like the question forming on our lips is a defeated, "In the face of all this, what's the point of even trying?"  And maybe we struggle to come up with a solid answer to that unspoken question.

And yet, over against that daily babel sound, there is this whisper of a voice that says to us--to you and to me--"You are my witnesses in the midst of this.  I will give you words.  I am here with you now."  It is the voice of Jesus, who has promised to give us wisdom to share when it feels like the world around us has lost its mind, and an authentic word to speak when it feels like the world around us has sold its soul.

I am reminded by these words of Jesus from late in the Gospel of Luke that Jesus' promise to be among us now is not merely a sentimental thing, or a warm and fuzzy feeling.  Jesus promises to be with us right here and now because he knows we'll need it.  We'll need it to keep our sanity in times that feel deeply troubled, and we'll need it to speak a different message--what the book of Hebrews calls "a better word"--than the angry and anxious and fearful cacophony around us.  Jesus' promises to be with us to give us words, because he has appointed us to be witnesses to another way--his way.

Jesus reminds his followers, even in the late days of his earthly ministry, that he is commissioning us to be a sort of counter-cultural witness.  We will be the minority report that can both tell the emperor when he is wearing no clothes and also can speak of the amazing grace of God that clothes us in the righteousness of Christ.  We will be the voices who say a firm but loving "No!" to the transactional thinking of the world's powerful, in which everything is reducible to "I do X for you, and you do Y for me in return," and who speak instead about God's economy of grace.  We will be ones who risk being rejected, who risk being called "losers," who risk getting lumped in with whatever group is being cast as "the other."  This is what Jesus calls his followers to do and to be--in other words, we are called to be an alternative to the endless noise in the background from all those other sources.

And to do that, Jesus has promised to be with us--in order that he can whisper to us a different message than the yelling and posturing on our screens and speakers.  Honestly, we need nothing less than his presence, because without him, we will just fall back into the same fearful and selfish shouting of everybody else. We are good at that by nature.  But Jesus enables us to be an alternative.

Today, we are given a calling--we do not have permission simply to stick our heads in the sand, nor do we have authorization to answer immature and petty yelling with more of the same.  We are called to speak the good news that there is an alternative to the wearying flood of the world's messages, and we are called to listen for Jesus (rather than our own inventions of what we would like Jesus to have said) to know what the alternative is.

Before you give up, just pause. Just hold on for a moment.  Don't throw the radio or tv against a wall when the voices that drive you crazy are at it again.  Listen, but over their noise, listen for the whisper of Jesus who, like the Creator in the beginning, speaks a word that makes new worlds come into existence.  Listen for Jesus, who will give us a wisdom to answer the noise of this moment.

And dare trust that he will speak.

Speak, Lord Jesus, your wisdom to answer the nonsense of the day and times in which we live, and give us the grace to be your witnesses and your counter-cultural option for the world which you yet love.  Touch our ears to hear you whisper.

Doesn't Jesus Care?--November 19, 2019

"Doesn't Jesus Care?"--November 19, 2019

“A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. 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?’” [Mark 4:37-38]
You only ask a question that begins, “Do you not care…?” when you expect the answer to be "Yes!"--in other words, when you expect that the person you are asking really does, in fact, care.

You don’t dare ask a question like that of a stranger—you know that the teenager bagging your groceries really doesn’t care about your emotional problems, and that the person behind you in line at Wal-Mart isn’t really interested in your hopes and dreams. You don’t ask “Don’t you care…?” of someone when you don’t have a reasonable expectation that they will answer, “Yes! Of course I care!” It hurts too badly to ask it and have your hopes disappointed. (I think this is why the “Don’t you care…?” questions are so telling when asked between spouses who are going through struggles in their relationship—you would expect the other person to say, “Of course, I care about…” and if they do not, things are very grave.) 

You only ask “Don’t you care…?” when you at least hope that the other person does care. Otherwise, it is a question asked when, as the song puts it poignantly, “we’re only here to witness the remains of love exhumed.” It is not a question to ask lightly, because it is a gamble to ask it. What if—and you almost dread to even thinking about this possibility—the answer comes back, “No, I don’t care… not anymore…”? And yet, it is a question that deeply wants, maybe even longs, for there to be a “yes” in reply. And it is a question that expects and hopes for that yes to come.

We have to hear the question of the disciples with that kind of intensity. “Teacher, don’t you care that we are perishing?” It is a question asked with hope and faith underneath it. The disciples have come to trust in this Jesus, and they have come to believe that he really is looking out for them. Asking Jesus “Don’t you care” carries the assumption with it that Jesus should care, and has cared in the past, and can be expected to care into the future. It seems like a question of doubt, but really it is a question of faith. To ask Jesus, “Do you not care…?” is a way of telling Jesus you have trusted him to care thus far—it is asking Jesus to be who Jesus has always been for you in the past.  And it recognizes that Jesus is there in the boat with you now.  You don't ask a question like, "Don't you care?" to someone who is never around or won't make time for you anymore--their absence already gives you the answer that they don't.  But someone who shows up--who is present with you as you go through the storms and struggles--there is a person already showing you that they care.

That's why it's such a big deal that Jesus is already in the boat with the storm-tossed disciples.  His presence in the boat is already a sign that indeed he does care.  His willingness to bear their angry, hurt, and fearful question is evidence he cares even before he does a thing to still the storm.

In a way, the most faithful prayers of God’s people for millennia have begun with some version of, "Don't you care...?" “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” asks the psalmist, and he asks it because he has expected and trusted that God was there for him. Jesus, too, asked that question from the cross. Whatever suffering or fear he is going through, whatever storms the psalmist is facing, he had trusted that the living God would be there with him and would go through the danger alongside him. In a way, when we feel like God doesn’t care, and that feeling bothers us, it is a sign to us that we are still deeply trusting and expecting God to come through for us.

This is a big part of why it’s better to be honestly angry at God, or at least upset at God, when you find your life taking on water, than to pretend the troubles are not there, or to give up hope. As the saying goes, you can’t be mad at someone you don’t believe exists. At least being mad at God is a sign that deep down, you still believe not only that God is there but that God should care about your situation. Even our angriest prayers, uttered with clenched fists at the sky, are still signs we believe God is there and that God should be moved to respond to our hurts. And that’s exactly right—God is there, and God is moved, even aggrieved, over our hurts. The psalmist says that God collects our tears in a bottle, after all. The psalmist says, “Precious in the sight of God is the death of his saints.” We are taught by the writers of the Bible to count on God caring about our sorrows. So when we go through storms like the disciples did, it may be the most faithful question we can ask to call out, “Lord, don’t you care…?” Like I say, asking it is a sign that you really expect the answer to be “Yes!”

The difference between us asking that question of another human being in a strained relationship and us asking that question of God is that God really won’t let us down by saying, “No, I don’t care…” Others might well let us down. Others might not prove worthy of our trust. Others maybe should say, “I care…” but they fail us. Others may say, "Well, I used to care, but now I have new priorities in my life and I just can't make the time for you anymore." The living God does not. Jesus does not. 

The disciples, of course, will see that as the story continues, but so often in our lives, we feel like we are paused right at this instant in the story, and that all we can see is Jesus sleeping in the boat. Sometimes we cannot see to the end of the story, when the storm is calmed and Jesus has been with us all along. And yet even in those moments while the boat is still taking on water, we trust that Jesus is here and should care… and indeed that he will answer us with the “Yes!” we have been longing for. So, if you or I are in one of those moments of doubt and anger, okay, fair enough. Let us at least trust Jesus enough to ask our question, and wait with open ears for his answer. It seems like quite a risk to speak the words, “Don’t you care, Lord?” 

But wait for him to answer. Then we will see.

Lord Jesus, when it seems like you are asleep in the back of the boat, let us bring our questions to you, and let us see you answer them faithfully. Let us know your deep love and care for us always.

A Tangle of Flags--November 18, 2019

"A Tangle of Flags"--November 18, 2019

"...Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God.  Or do you suppose it is for nothing that the scripture says, 'God yearns jealously for the spirit that he has made to dwell in us'? But he gives all the more grace; therefore it says, 'God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble.' Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded." [James 4:4-8]

I saw something rather telling along my morning drive to work the other day, something up on a flagpole.  Two somethings, actually, but neither was waving despite the brisk November breeze.

The residents at this particular house along the highway had two flags on their flagpole, but they had become entangled with each other. The one on top was clearly an American flag--I could at least make out the stripes. But the second was so close to the first that somehow the two had gotten wrapped up in each such that neither could flap in the dawn's early light. The other, slightly lower, flag was blue with white letters, but you couldn't read any of the text because of the entanglement.  

That meant neither flag was doing what it was meant to do. Neither could fly. The American flag was practically hamstrung by the lower flag which wrapped around it, and the lower flag was illegible because it had gotten itself caught in the top flag.  Whatever its message, it was unreadable, which strikes me as rather self-defeating.

Well, this observation took all of fifteen seconds in real time as I drove past, but the image has been percolating for me ever since.  This is simply what happens when you fly two flags from your pole--whether literally or metaphorically.  The tangle of banners, star-spangled or otherwise, is exactly what James has in mind when he talks about being "double-minded."  Essentially, when we try to live with competing allegiances in our lives, we end up doing neither very well.  When we SAY that God is our first priority, for example, but then fly a second, third, fourth, or fifth flag on the same pole underneath, we should expect the all to get tangled up with each other.  It's not just the lower flags that won't fly well, but they just might get wrapped up in whatever we INTEND to be our top priority, too.  At some point, the different entities in our lives vying for our attention, time, affections, donations, and loyalty will be in competition with one another--all trying to catch the same breeze, but snagging each other as they try to wave.  And instead we end up with a tangle instead of a banner blowing in the breeze.

James pulls no punches about just how stark the contrast is: ultimately the question for him is whether God's flag--and God's alone--will be flying from our flagpoles.  Trying to have both God and anything else as our top allegiance is a recipe for disaster, and honestly, anything that gets a second spot on the pole is just inviting a mess with the first.  James simplifies all the many voices around us into one catch-all, "the world."  And he doesn't mean that Christians should retreat into the desert or shun all their non-church-going friends and acquaintances, so much as he means that ultimately we have to be prepared to choose what--and who--matters most to us in life.  Much like Jesus himself notes that you can't serve two masters, but will eventually give way to serving one over the other, James says that in the end you can't fly two flags in life.  

What's especially tricky in all of that is that most of the things we think we can run up the flagpole don't look wicked or evil on face value.  And maybe on their own they're not--but when they compete for the spot at the top of the flagpole, they become problems.  So your job is a lovely and fine thing--it is indeed good to do something useful and productive with your labor and skills.  But when "my job" becomes the driving force in life, it has really become "my god."  When my want list gets top billing, it has become my idol.  When my bank account or my car or that vacation I'm saving up for becomes most important in my life, it has a way of getting my allegiance even if I say I want God to be first in my life.  Same thing with how I spend my free time, what I do in my social life, who gets my minutes, and what I spend my energy on.  Even if I tell myself all those other things are secondary to God, if I put them way up close to the top of the flagpole, they'll crowd out God's flag on top, and they'll all get tangled up with each other.  And then, nothing will wave in the wind.

This, I think, is really the problem for so many of us churchgoing folks.  We know the Sunday School answer is to put God first in our lives, but we have been fooled into thinking that that's just a matter of saying we are putting God first, while we then go about business as usual with everything else. We assume that as long as we SAY God is our first priority, then there must be room on the flagpole for the American Dream right below that, and maybe the Cookie Cutter Family Life with a spouse, and 2.5 kids right after that, and then allegiances to political leaders, our 401(k), and that promotion at work along down the line, too.  

We were told we could chase after all of it--and we could have it all!--as long as we said that we were putting God as the top flag on the pole first.  We were lied to.

What James challenges us to see, instead, is that every day, and every moment, is a choice about whether we recognize the presence of God, or we push God aside in the pursuit of some grand "Something Else."  When James says, "Draw near to God, and God will draw near to you," he's not suggesting that there's any place in the universe that is "distant" from God.  But rather, like the sound of a person speaking to you on the other side of the room, you can choose whether you will grant them your undivided attention, or whether you will drown them out with the buzzing on your phone, the noises from your laptop, and the sound the talking heads yelling at each other on television.  When you give someone half-hearted attention, they will eventually take your cue and stop trying to get your attention at all, and the conversation will just fall silent--not as punishment or passive-aggressiveness, but simply as the natural consequence of your divided attention.  On the other hand, when you give someone else your undivided attention, you find that they engage you more and more and more in the conversation.  James says that God is much the same: always in the room with us, but willing to risk being rejected by folks who won't muster enough focus to give God their undivided attention.  James simply dares us to see the One who is already in the room trying to have a conversation with us... and to let God have our whole selves, whole hearts, and whole minds.

The question to ask today is simply this: what am I flying on the flagpole of my life?  If my answer is plural, I should be prepared that all of them will get tangled, and none of them will catch the wind.  

Oh, say, in your heart, does God's banner still wave?  That really depends on what we have tried to run up the pole at the same time, too.

Lord God, give us whole hearts, rather than divided selves. Let us love you with uncontested allegiance.

Who Connects Us--November 15, 2019

Who Connects Us—November 15, 2019

“Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, To the saints who are in Ephesus and are faithful in Christ Jesus: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.” [Ephesians 1:1-2]
Go to a family reunion or a wedding—or, I suppose if you have a dark streak, a funeral—and you will see a strange ritual re-enacted time and again. It’s the well-intentioned but often clumsy attempts people make trying to find out how they are each connected to the rest of the people in the room.

“How do you know the bride and the groom?” is one of those inelegant questions that gets lobbed across the awkward round tables at the reception, asked between people who don’t know each other from Adam but who have been thrown together to eat their stuffed chicken breasts over small talk. Or it’s, “Whose side of the family are you on?” Or even just, “Help me out—who are you?” You might get a perplexed look from the other person, as you each try naming people to whom you have some connection, like you are fishing for a coincidence: “Do you know Mary Louise? No? How about Uncle Frank? Oh, you know him from work—well, I’m a second-cousin, twice-removed.” Sometimes you end up with a look of delighted surprise to discover you have other overlapping social circles, too: “Honey, did you hear this? Bob and Cynthia used to live on Oak Street, too—they must have moved there just a few years after we moved away! What a small world!” Something like that.

It really is rather lovely to think that you could draw lines between each person in the banquet hall and some central figures who make them all connected somehow. Sort of a living human spider-web, with all the guests connected in some way to some distant matriarch and patriarch of a family, or to a bride and a groom, or to the deceased. If you really would try and sit each one down to ask why they are there, they will eventually identify themselves in terms of how they are related to those central people. “I’m the oldest great-granddaughter of Millicent and Henry,” or “I used to be the college roommate of the bride,” or “Matilda was my favorite aunt.” We define ourselves in those moments, not by our jobs or our bank accounts or our sports teams, but by relationship to a common central person. And no matter how different everybody in the party is from one another, they all are there because they are connected to someone at the center.

That’s how it is for us, the motley crew that is the church. We are a pretty strange collection of people from all walks of life, all nationalities, all tax-brackets, and all sorts of histories. And it’s like we have all found ourselves at this party and start to look around the room wondering what could possibly have brought this peculiar collection of people together. So we start to ask around: “What’s your connection to this shindig?” “Help me out—who are you?” And the answers start to come back with a common theme.

“I’m Paul, an apostle of Christ.”

“I’m from Ephesus—I’m one of the saints of Christ Jesus.”

“I’m a follower of Christ, too!”

“Say, I belong to Christ, too!”

And what do you know?—we have found our common connection. It is Christ who brings us together. It is Christ--here among us now, still, who connects us. It is Christ who defines us. When you are at a reunion or a reception, you let yourself be defined, even if just for an afternoon or an evening, by your relationship to the people or person at the center of the party. But for the followers of Jesus, this becomes a lifetime thing. Who we are is answered by whose we are. And we belong to Christ.

That’s where we start. That’s how we answer, “Who are you, really?” Not first and foremost by our jobs, our significant others, our houses, our political party, our demographics, our body-mass-index, or our income level, but in terms of Christ. We belong to him. And together with the rest of the strange bunch Jesus has drawn to himself, we are here at the party caught up in delighted surprise to see how far and wide his reach extends.

Lord Jesus, allow us today to define ourselves by our relationship to you before all else.

Jesus on the Sofa--November 14, 2019

Jesus on the Sofa--November 14, 2019

[Jesus said:] "Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them." [John 14:23]

Jesus makes a surprising promise we don't often think about: he says he's coming to crash on our couches and sleep on our sofas.  

That sounds a little bit backwards--and maybe a little undignified--for the eternal Son of God, doesn't it?  We are used to hearing the promise of Christianity phrased in the other direction, aren't we?  You know, the bit about us going to be where Jesus is?  The promise of a heavenly dwelling, because "in my Father's house are many mansions" and all that?  Isn't that in the Bible, too?

Well, yes, of course.  In fact, it's just a few short paragraphs before this sentence on Jesus' lips about him coming over to dwell where we are.  And while some translations may go for the more accurate (but less-glamorous-sounding) "many dwelling places" or "many rooms" instead of "mansions," either way, we are probably pretty used to the idea of "going to heaven" in order to be with God, not that God would come and stay with us.  And yet, here it is, right out of Jesus' mouth: he's coming to stay at your place... and he's bringing his Dad, too.

So much of the way Christianity has been packaged and marketed (I'm sorry to use those words, but that's how we've treated it) is to sell the gospel as a "ticket to heaven," as though the primary promise of Jesus is that after we die he will take us Somewhere Else to be with God.  But Jesus himself in John's Gospel doesn't seem satisfied with only a post-mortem relocation project for us.  He is insistent that even here and now, he is here among us, and that both he and the Father are making their home where we are.  Yeah--right in the messy kitchens, cluttered floors, disheveled bedrooms, and blanket-strewn sofas of your house and mine.  And God doesn't seem to blush at the idea of crashing at your place or mine.  Jesus seems to think this is the most natural thing in the world to expect from a God who loves us with reckless abandon.

To be honest, I think a lot of folks who seem uninterested in Christianity have been soured on the Gospel because somewhere along the way, someone framed it for them only in terms of what happens after death.  I remember years ago, there was a billboard on the road I took to our church body's synod office, proudly declaring that "Jesus is your ticket to heaven" and that you didn't want to die without him, or else you wouldn't get into the club.  And again, while it's true that Jesus does promise his followers that we'll be welcome to move into his "Father's house" where there are many rooms, Jesus has also been clear that he has more in mind than just waiting for us to die so he can scoop us up.  

I think we are so used to the idea that the gospel is only about us going "up to heaven" because we imagine that God is too holy to reside among us here in the nastiness, sinfulness, and crookedness of where we live.  We assume God can't--or won't--come and crash on our sofas because it is not a respectable place for a deity to be. We figure that God should be, you know, somewhere full of golden light and angelic choirs, rather than the dismal greys of our November skies and the loud sound of talking heads on TV shouting at each other in shirts and ties.  

Or maybe we squirm over the idea of Jesus crashing at our place because it seems to make him so... helpless... so needy.  And we don't like the idea of a God who chooses to come as the vulnerable one seeking shelter, or the one asking for a room for the night.  We have a hard time admitting that God often chooses to appear as the one at the door dependent, as the old movie line goes, "on the kindness of strangers."  But that is exactly how Jesus talks here, isn't it?  God isn't just the dignified host, opening the doors of heaven to us... but God is the guest who shows up at your door asking to sleep on the couch.  God is the friend who comes over to stay with you in order to be with you for whatever challenge you are dealing with.  God is the one who comes over to your house in order to drive you to the hospital for your surgery, or who sits at your side to wait with you for the terrible phone call you are expecting.  

We have a way of picturing God as the gatekeeper, stopping us at some heavenly checkpoint to see if we have merited a spot inside the Heavenly Country by carrying our Jesus paperwork.  But here Jesus turns it all around and says that he and the Father are crashing at your place tonight.  

What will that do to your way of seeing the world today? What will that do to the way you see your life, your house, and the path you take today?  These are the places where God chooses to be found.  Jesus says he's coming to make his home with you today, to face the struggles of this life with you and me here and now. 

We better get our futons ready, I guess.

Lord Jesus, come and dwell with us.  Make your home among us, and make us no longer afraid to let you into this mess of our daily lives.

Believing and Knowing--November 13, 2019

Believing and Knowing--November 13, 2019

"God abides in those who confess that Jesus is the Son of God, and they abide in God. So we have known and believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them." [1 John 4:15-16]

Being loved is a funny thing, isn't it? Sometimes it is the surest thing in the world, the kind of thing you know with utter and unflinching certainty deep in your bones, that you are loved by someone else (or Someone else, as the case may be). And sometimes it is an act of faith to trust that you really are beloved. It may not feel like it for a time--or at least the reminders and signs may not feel as clear--and yet you trust, whether you've got butterflies in your stomach over it or not, or have that giddy high of knowing you matter to someone else, that you are indeed loved. So if someone asked us, "Do you know you are loved, or do you believe you are loved, which is it?" we would probably have to say, if were seeking to be honest, "It's both."

There's a well-worn old story/joke about a long-married couple in which the wife asks her husband of many years, "How come you never tell me you love me anymore?" And the husband says back to her, "Honey, I told you back on our wedding day that I loved you. I'll let you know if there are any changes." It's a caricature of what happens in marriages, of course, so it's a bit of an exaggeration, but there it is pretty clear that it can be very much an act of faith to trust that you are still loved if the other person hasn't made it clear to you for a while.

Or, it might not be that the one who loves is at fault, or not doing "enough." Sometimes you just go through a grey period where the routines and frustrations of life just cloud out the feeling of being loved, and you just still rely on trust that you really are loved, even if the other things in the day stifle the warm and fuzzy emotion of it. But whatever the reasons and whatever the complicating factors, it really can be an act of faith to be loved--it is an act of trusting that, even if you don't particularly feel loved or lovely or worthy of it, you really are loved. On the days when the fleeting feeling of it isn't there, we trust the promises made to us. We trust that people mean it when they say it to us that we are loved. We trust that their past actions of care and concern still have force and still carry their weight. Maybe not with quite the extreme of the married couple in the joke, but we really do lean on the words of the past and the track record others have established with us and we trust that it stays the same, even if we haven't heard it or don't feel it on a particular day. Those are just part of the slings and arrows of human connections--with dear friends, with spouses, with children and parents, it is just the way it is that sometimes we know with a certainty reinforced by our emotions that we are loved, and sometimes we take it on faith.

John says the same about us and God as well. We "know" and we "believe" that God loves us. And maybe it is very similar to how we deal with being loved by other people in our lives, too. There are some days when we cannot help but know that we are awash in the deep love of God, days when we find ourselves brimming with a confidence that God is good and God is being faithful to us. They may or may not be the days when things are going well or easily, too. We might be certain of God's love on the day when the kids are well behaved and the sun is shining, but we might also have an overriding peace that assures us of God's love in the midst of crisis, and our ability to keep an even keel when it feels like everything is shifting underneath us can be a way of knowing we are loved by God. So yes, there are some times when we know we are loved, and we can point to a long list of blessings received and hope in our spirits that confirms it. There are times, in other words, where our experience, our feelings, and our situation would all reinforce for us the assurance that we are loved by God.

And then there are days when we take it on faith. There are days when it feels like we pray against a closed sky, like we are uncertain whether we are being heard, like the news of God's love for us even with all our failures, sins, and disappointments sounds too good to be true. There are days when the whole promise of Christianity--of a God who dies on a cross for us and with us and rises from the dead to give us life, all out of divine love--sounds like maybe it is too far-fetched to be anything more than a fable or wishful thinking. There are days, and maybe they often coincide with the days we have trouble knowing we are loved by others, too, when a lot of things seem to cloud out the light we were basking in the day before, and we don't feel very loved by God. People can argue with us until we are blue in the face and insist that we are, but on some of those days, we just don't feel it. And so it is hard to say we know it.

John, however, reminds us that on those days, we trust in and have come to believe it anyway. We dare to trust the promise that God abides with us--that Christ is here among us now--even when can't sense it like a warm and fuzzy feeling. We lean on the witness of other people around us who will tell us that the love of God is real and not too good to be true. We lean on the faith of others and trust that God's promises hold water even if our emotions at the moment don't line up with that truth. We trust that we are loved even when we don't feel it, because we have come to know that love and being loved are much more than flighty, fleeting emotions--love is the commitment to give oneself away regardless of how you feel about it at the moment, and indeed precisely when it doesn't feel very good or even downright hurts, to do that kind of giving. And so we trust that even when we don't feel it or want to see the evidence around us, we really are loved by God after all. We believe it and can know it on those days because we look to Jesus, John says. We look to the lengths God has gone through to be with us and to rescue us, and we lean on that story. We let others tell us, "Someone who dies on a cross for you doesn't hate you--you are beloved!" And we dare to believe it, leaning on God's past faithfulness and trusting that it carries us through this day, too.

Lord God, let us know you love us. And with such assurance, send us out to be bearers of your love for everyone else who crosses our path today. We pray it in the name of Jesus, who is our living reminder of your love, and whose story anchors us when we cannot trust our own emotions.