Matthew 4:18 - 22
As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will send you out to fish for people.” At once they left their nets and followed him.
Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him.
This short, simple passage has long held my attention. It has been a significant text in my own wilderness wanderings as I've sought direction for my life. I don't always hear clear guidance for the next part of my journey, but I seem to always be buoyed in knowing that Jesus continues to seek me out and bid me to follow him.
And I'm continually challenged by the immediacy of the response to his invitation. "At once" these men left what they were doing . . . my own discipleship is most often much more hesitant and stuttering. For me, that's what happens when I stay too much in my head and close out my heart and soul.
For today, though, there is something else that catches my eye for prayer. Of all the significant things going on in the text, I'm drawn most to the work and the relationships.
Jesus entered the lives of these men in the course of their daily work, that is, what they did day after day. And I notice that in the context of their daily work, he gave them a different way of doing their work, or a different nuance for their work: He made them fishers of people . . . or at least he invited them to fish for people. It was a variation on their chosen vocation. Jesus gave them a way to live out their vocations, only in a way that was a bit out of the mainstream, a way that was counter to conventional wisdom.
He also came to them in the midst of human relationships . . . notice all the references to siblings and parents in the text. Jesus invited them to a holiness or a life-stance that was not divorced from ordinary relationships, but rather which was lived out in the context of ordinary, human relationships. Life with God may not remove us from family and friends as much as it gives us a different way to be in relationship with them.
Both of these items seem significant, both work and relationship. God's call or invitation does not necessarily come in the lofty air of retreat or the beautiful chorus of the stirring hymn or anthem. It does not need to come in the moving sermon or in the confluence of events that are working out in our favor. Rather, in the ordinariness of daily work and relationship God comes.
Most any of us can be moved by the beautiful sunset, the awesome vista, the proverbial handwriting across the sky; but, it takes a depth of vision and a more practiced seeing and listening to come to that same soul-stirring in our everyday work or in the midst of common relationships.
So these are my questions for the day:
If I listened to how God were inviting me in the midst of my daily work, what would I hear?
If I listened to what God is saying to me through my near relationships (spouse, children, parents, siblings, close friends), what would I hear?
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Tuesday of the First Week of Advent -- November 29, 2011
Luke 10:21 - 24
At that time Jesus, full of joy through the Holy Spirit, said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure.
“All things have been committed to me by my Father. No one knows who the Son is except the Father, and no one knows who the Father is except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.”
Then he turned to his disciples and said privately, “Blessed are the eyes that see what you see. For I tell you that many prophets and kings wanted to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it.”
I think of the times when I've seen or heard something that seemed fresh or new to me . . . something that seemed like a brand new insight, a new awakening, or a deeper connection to something I had been longing for.
Often in the aftermath, I realize that the awareness or the awakening had been knocking at my door for a long time, and that I had merely been asleep every other time it had appeared at my door. It was not a matter of the slowness of God's revelation, but a matter of my inability (or unwillingness) to listen or to see.
I have come to see that the world is alive with God, "charged with the grandeur of God," as Hopkins said. But my capacity to see is distorted or stunted or in some way deficient. So time after time, I have to be invited to see and to hear. My lens gets foggy, dusty, and I must clean out the system in order to fully participate in what may already be there.
The desire to see and the longing to hear is not enough. I have to put myself in a position to see and to hear. I have to ask God to help me cultivate in my heart an openness, to be trained in attentiveness, so that when God speaks or shows, I am able to hear or see.
When I am able to hear and see, then I can respond.
At that time Jesus, full of joy through the Holy Spirit, said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure.
“All things have been committed to me by my Father. No one knows who the Son is except the Father, and no one knows who the Father is except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.”
Then he turned to his disciples and said privately, “Blessed are the eyes that see what you see. For I tell you that many prophets and kings wanted to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it.”
I think of the times when I've seen or heard something that seemed fresh or new to me . . . something that seemed like a brand new insight, a new awakening, or a deeper connection to something I had been longing for.
Often in the aftermath, I realize that the awareness or the awakening had been knocking at my door for a long time, and that I had merely been asleep every other time it had appeared at my door. It was not a matter of the slowness of God's revelation, but a matter of my inability (or unwillingness) to listen or to see.
I have come to see that the world is alive with God, "charged with the grandeur of God," as Hopkins said. But my capacity to see is distorted or stunted or in some way deficient. So time after time, I have to be invited to see and to hear. My lens gets foggy, dusty, and I must clean out the system in order to fully participate in what may already be there.
The desire to see and the longing to hear is not enough. I have to put myself in a position to see and to hear. I have to ask God to help me cultivate in my heart an openness, to be trained in attentiveness, so that when God speaks or shows, I am able to hear or see.
When I am able to hear and see, then I can respond.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Monday of the First Week of Advent -- November 28, 2011
Matthew 8:5 - 11
When Jesus had entered Capernaum, a centurion came to him, asking for help. “Lord,” he said, “my servant lies at home paralyzed, suffering terribly.”
Jesus said to him, “Shall I come and heal him?”
The centurion replied, “Lord, I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed. For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and that one, ‘Come,’ and he comes. I say to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.”
When Jesus heard this, he was amazed and said to those following him, “Truly I tell you, I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith. I say to you that many will come from the east and the west, and will take their places at the feast with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven."
What do you think you deserve in the world?
What do you think you deserve from God?
The questions are not easy. Most of us would say one thing with our lives and something different with our lips. Our lives vacillate between the extremes of acting as if we were the center of the universe on one hand, to feeling that we are wretched sinners and completely unworthy of anything good and beautiful on the other. Most of us spend our lives swinging between these two poles.
Jesus offered to act on behalf of the Roman soldier, but the centurion's response betrayed where he was on the worthiness-spectrum at that particular moment. "Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only speak the word and my servant will be healed."
I imagine that what we feel we are worthy of goes mostly unspoken, yet it seasons much of what we do, say, and believe in life.
These words have been with me for years, primarily because every time I stand behind a Communion Table I repeat a variation of them. I was drawn to the words long ago, having heard them in the Mass of the Roman Catholic Church and in the Eucharistic liturgies of the Anglican Church.
I was drawn to the line, though, because as I stand at the Table of Christ I need to be reminded of who I am. I am not worthy to stand behind that Table, nor to hold that Bread and Cup in my hands, nor to take them into my body. . . . But this meal is not about my worthiness. It is not about whether or not I deserve to be there, because I don't deserve to be there any more than the next person deserves to be there.
I say the words to remind myself that I come to Christ by the generous, gracious invitation of God and not on my own merits. I am both worthy of nothing God offers me, and at the same time worthy of everything God offers me.
So at the Communion Table I speak these words: "Lord, we are not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and we shall be healed."
Richard Rohr is fond of saying, "God doesn't love you because you are good; God loves you because God is good."
It's probably important to bring to consciousness what we feel we are worthy of in the world -- just so we can know our inner landscape and the interior pulls that jerk us around.
But at some point, it's totally a waste of time to try to figure out what we are worthy of. The question won't really get us anywhere.
In God, we are both worthy of nothing . . . and worthy of everything . . . and all at the same time. You might want to linger in that mystery for awhile.
When Jesus had entered Capernaum, a centurion came to him, asking for help. “Lord,” he said, “my servant lies at home paralyzed, suffering terribly.”
Jesus said to him, “Shall I come and heal him?”
The centurion replied, “Lord, I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed. For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and that one, ‘Come,’ and he comes. I say to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.”
When Jesus heard this, he was amazed and said to those following him, “Truly I tell you, I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith. I say to you that many will come from the east and the west, and will take their places at the feast with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven."
What do you think you deserve in the world?
What do you think you deserve from God?
The questions are not easy. Most of us would say one thing with our lives and something different with our lips. Our lives vacillate between the extremes of acting as if we were the center of the universe on one hand, to feeling that we are wretched sinners and completely unworthy of anything good and beautiful on the other. Most of us spend our lives swinging between these two poles.
Jesus offered to act on behalf of the Roman soldier, but the centurion's response betrayed where he was on the worthiness-spectrum at that particular moment. "Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only speak the word and my servant will be healed."
I imagine that what we feel we are worthy of goes mostly unspoken, yet it seasons much of what we do, say, and believe in life.
These words have been with me for years, primarily because every time I stand behind a Communion Table I repeat a variation of them. I was drawn to the words long ago, having heard them in the Mass of the Roman Catholic Church and in the Eucharistic liturgies of the Anglican Church.
I was drawn to the line, though, because as I stand at the Table of Christ I need to be reminded of who I am. I am not worthy to stand behind that Table, nor to hold that Bread and Cup in my hands, nor to take them into my body. . . . But this meal is not about my worthiness. It is not about whether or not I deserve to be there, because I don't deserve to be there any more than the next person deserves to be there.
I say the words to remind myself that I come to Christ by the generous, gracious invitation of God and not on my own merits. I am both worthy of nothing God offers me, and at the same time worthy of everything God offers me.
So at the Communion Table I speak these words: "Lord, we are not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and we shall be healed."
Richard Rohr is fond of saying, "God doesn't love you because you are good; God loves you because God is good."
It's probably important to bring to consciousness what we feel we are worthy of in the world -- just so we can know our inner landscape and the interior pulls that jerk us around.
But at some point, it's totally a waste of time to try to figure out what we are worthy of. The question won't really get us anywhere.
In God, we are both worthy of nothing . . . and worthy of everything . . . and all at the same time. You might want to linger in that mystery for awhile.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
The First Sunday of Advent -- November 27, 2011
Mark 13:33 - 37
Be on guard! Be alert! You do not know when that time will come. It’s like a man going away: He leaves his house and puts his servants in charge, each with an assigned task, and tells the one at the door to keep watch.
“Therefore keep watch because you do not know when the owner of the house will come back—whether in the evening, or at midnight, or when the rooster crows, or at dawn. If he comes suddenly, do not let him find you sleeping. What I say to you, I say to everyone: ‘Watch!’”
You cannot read this passage for the First Sunday of Advent and not be jolted by Jesus' calls to alertness, watchfulness and wakefulness. "Take heed!" he says.
"Stay alert!"
"Don't go to sleep!"
The repetition itself catches my attention. Jesus obviously was well aware of the human tendency to drift mindlessly, without aim and intention. How easy it is to fall into the rut of tearing pages off the calendar, watching the days slide by without an awareness of God, ourselves, or others. I sleepwalk.
In my prayer, the passage invites me to consider where I am sleeping. In what ways am I merely passing time, trying to get through one thing in order to give attention to the next?
I realize, for instance, that I can look forward to a certain event on my calendar so much that I miss the days leading up to the event. Sometimes it's a vacation or a particularly significant retreat or an opportunity to hear a certain speaker . . . I get so focused on the thing I'm looking forward to, that other days become pages on a calendar that are ripped aside in order to speed along the days. And those are days that will never be returned to me. It's one significant way I sleepwalk.
My work can be that way, also. I can invest most of my attention in teaching a class or leading a retreat or being with a small group . . . and miss other things that are going on around me. And sometimes the work events are not even that exciting and energizing, but I find myself lunging from one to the next, laying aside what I've just completed in order to race toward the next thing. To me it feels like survival, not alertness.
In this text for the first day of Advent, I hear an invitation to wake up, to be alert. I hear God inviting me, at least for this Advent season, to stay awake.
And I'm asking God to show me what spiritual practices or disciplines I can carry through this season that will serve to help me stay alert.
Be on guard! Be alert! You do not know when that time will come. It’s like a man going away: He leaves his house and puts his servants in charge, each with an assigned task, and tells the one at the door to keep watch.
“Therefore keep watch because you do not know when the owner of the house will come back—whether in the evening, or at midnight, or when the rooster crows, or at dawn. If he comes suddenly, do not let him find you sleeping. What I say to you, I say to everyone: ‘Watch!’”
You cannot read this passage for the First Sunday of Advent and not be jolted by Jesus' calls to alertness, watchfulness and wakefulness. "Take heed!" he says.
"Stay alert!"
"Don't go to sleep!"
The repetition itself catches my attention. Jesus obviously was well aware of the human tendency to drift mindlessly, without aim and intention. How easy it is to fall into the rut of tearing pages off the calendar, watching the days slide by without an awareness of God, ourselves, or others. I sleepwalk.
In my prayer, the passage invites me to consider where I am sleeping. In what ways am I merely passing time, trying to get through one thing in order to give attention to the next?
I realize, for instance, that I can look forward to a certain event on my calendar so much that I miss the days leading up to the event. Sometimes it's a vacation or a particularly significant retreat or an opportunity to hear a certain speaker . . . I get so focused on the thing I'm looking forward to, that other days become pages on a calendar that are ripped aside in order to speed along the days. And those are days that will never be returned to me. It's one significant way I sleepwalk.
My work can be that way, also. I can invest most of my attention in teaching a class or leading a retreat or being with a small group . . . and miss other things that are going on around me. And sometimes the work events are not even that exciting and energizing, but I find myself lunging from one to the next, laying aside what I've just completed in order to race toward the next thing. To me it feels like survival, not alertness.
In this text for the first day of Advent, I hear an invitation to wake up, to be alert. I hear God inviting me, at least for this Advent season, to stay awake.
And I'm asking God to show me what spiritual practices or disciplines I can carry through this season that will serve to help me stay alert.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Advent Dawns . . . Daily Reflections Begin Tomorrow
I notice that my life follows definite rhythms, not always predictable, but always moving, changing, shaping in different ways.
I've come to think of them as the seasons of my life. Certain seasons in my work, for instance, have a rhythm in which I experience either more or less energy, depending on the season.
My health follows a particular rhythm. In times of poor health or chemotherapy treatments, I have less energy and I'm able to engage a bit less in the rigors of daily work.
I've learned that if I can identify the season in which I find myself, it will help me to enter into it and move through it in ways that are life-giving and freeing. I have learned this lesson the hard way. I spend many years resisting seasons in which I found myself. I was convinced that life should be always "upward and onward," getting better and better, ever fluorescent, flowering and prospering. That's not reality, but I was convinced that life should be lived that way.
When I began entering into the seasonality of life, I realized that each season has its own energy, its own pace, its own needs. For instance, if you think in terms of literal seasons, winter has a different energy than summer and fall. Spring has a different energy than fall or winter. There are things appropriate to one season that may not be appropriate to another.
So a huge part of knowing myself, or "noticing my own life," is to identify where I am at any given moment, and to allow myself to be in that place as honestly and faithfully as possible. It is freeing for me to let myself be where I am, rather than trying to force myself into another place or another pattern that is not appropriate to the moment.
Some of my personal seasons move around the Church calendar. In my background as an evangelical Baptist, I did not honor the movements of the Church year much. I've discovered through the years, though, that there is tremendous energy in my life's movement in unison with the rhythm of the wider Church.
So Sunday, November 27 begins the season of Advent. It is a season of color, of patience and waiting, and of preparation. Its disciplines are helpful for me, and always seem to fit the season of my soul.
I realized last week, as I was going through the routine of breaking in a new journal, that it would begin primarily with my Advent journey for 2011. There was something significant in that for me . . . looking at a book of 196 pages, all blank, with lines awaiting me. Who knows what will make it to those pages? But some of the first things to appear there will be prayer and reflection from this season of Advent.
At this website I'll offer brief thoughts on the daily Scripture readings for Advent beginning tomorrow, the First Sunday of Advent. I'll try to keep them brief and make them relevant, though brief is not my forte, and I often miss relevant.
I invite you to join me here over the next five weeks as we explore the season of Advent together.
I've come to think of them as the seasons of my life. Certain seasons in my work, for instance, have a rhythm in which I experience either more or less energy, depending on the season.
My health follows a particular rhythm. In times of poor health or chemotherapy treatments, I have less energy and I'm able to engage a bit less in the rigors of daily work.
I've learned that if I can identify the season in which I find myself, it will help me to enter into it and move through it in ways that are life-giving and freeing. I have learned this lesson the hard way. I spend many years resisting seasons in which I found myself. I was convinced that life should be always "upward and onward," getting better and better, ever fluorescent, flowering and prospering. That's not reality, but I was convinced that life should be lived that way.
When I began entering into the seasonality of life, I realized that each season has its own energy, its own pace, its own needs. For instance, if you think in terms of literal seasons, winter has a different energy than summer and fall. Spring has a different energy than fall or winter. There are things appropriate to one season that may not be appropriate to another.
So a huge part of knowing myself, or "noticing my own life," is to identify where I am at any given moment, and to allow myself to be in that place as honestly and faithfully as possible. It is freeing for me to let myself be where I am, rather than trying to force myself into another place or another pattern that is not appropriate to the moment.
Some of my personal seasons move around the Church calendar. In my background as an evangelical Baptist, I did not honor the movements of the Church year much. I've discovered through the years, though, that there is tremendous energy in my life's movement in unison with the rhythm of the wider Church.
So Sunday, November 27 begins the season of Advent. It is a season of color, of patience and waiting, and of preparation. Its disciplines are helpful for me, and always seem to fit the season of my soul.
I realized last week, as I was going through the routine of breaking in a new journal, that it would begin primarily with my Advent journey for 2011. There was something significant in that for me . . . looking at a book of 196 pages, all blank, with lines awaiting me. Who knows what will make it to those pages? But some of the first things to appear there will be prayer and reflection from this season of Advent.
At this website I'll offer brief thoughts on the daily Scripture readings for Advent beginning tomorrow, the First Sunday of Advent. I'll try to keep them brief and make them relevant, though brief is not my forte, and I often miss relevant.
I invite you to join me here over the next five weeks as we explore the season of Advent together.
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