Today’s text
John 3:13-14
As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.
Reflection
It is almost seven years ago now. I was in New York City in the wounded aftermath of September 11, 2001, when terrorists crashed planes into World Trade Center towers in New York.
During the days, I traveled with the bishop of the Metropolitan New York synod. We visited congregations, prayed with the mourners, hugged cops and fire fighters, and listened to stories, hundreds of stories of brutality and beauty.
At night, I went to Union Square, in lower Manhattan. I always waited until after dark when 10,000 candles and more twinkled in the darkness.
Silent souls walked the paths of the block-long park. They came singly or in pairs, holding each other in the darkness.
They stopped every few feet to read the handbills attached to every tree along the walk. They knelt to read others by the light of flickering votive candles in the gathered darkness.
Thousands processed in a silence fraught with pain and hope, fear and sorrow. And I walked and watched and waited with them each night. I never spoke to even one of them. Yet, I was one with them, knowing a unity with human souls that can be shared only in moments of wordless wonder or senseless pain.
Long scrolls of paper stretched along the sidewalks almost the entire length of the park. The scrolls were filled prayers, blessings and words of comfort, often from the Bible. Grieving hands scrawled out their pain and memories of those they feared were cremated and mixed with the incinerated concrete dust that coated every tree, deck and window frame.
Literally thousands of handbills covered tree trunks, walls and fences in the park. Each handbill bore a single face, most often a young, fresh face, of someone missing. Each sheet carried the description and last known whereabouts of someone’s beloved.
I remember one handbill I captured in a photo. It had the picture of a bright, young woman. ‘WE MISS YOU!’ It read across the top. Beneath the picture was a name: ‘Mary Lou Hague, WTC 2 -- 89th floor, 26 yrs. old, 5’6”/125 lbs.’
At the bottom of the handbill were a name and a number to call. Two votive candles burned on the ground just beneath it.
We all passed by in the darkness, gazing at the images and reading the messages and prayers of wounded souls.
What struck me then and now is the absence of anger in the words we read. There were no calls for revenge and retaliation. The rhetoric of war and words of violence were totally absent.
Those who posted the handbills and wrote on the scrolls lifted up their pain and their hope, their sorrow and their blessings. They lifted up loss and love for all to see. And we who walked by were drawn in, our hearts captured by what we saw.
We became part of a great prayer, a holy hunger for healing and peace. No one here wanted war. Gentleness and care passed among us as we brushed by each other in the dark. We all felt how fragile life is, and we handled each other with care.
We had seen what cold-hearted hatred can do, and we wanted no part of it. We gazed into the love and beauty of the faces and words on those handbills, and we became love on which on which we looked.
“As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:14,15).
What does God lift up? What is held up before our eyes?
God holds up Jesus, a dying man, who loves his own and loves them to the end. God lifts up the one we call the Son of God, the face of God, the holy presence of God. And what is held up is not am image of strength or power, not an ensign of anger or retaliation against those who hate.
God holds up the image of self-sacrificing love--of pain, not strength; of giving, not taking; of seeking to convert not to destroy or diminish the enemy.
Look upon this suffering love. It will convert your heart from your angry ways. This one will show you what violence of hand and word can do. And we have all done, received and know that violence. We have been crushed and had our wholeness destroyed by criticisms, carelessness and hastiness of loveless words and deeds.
Look on this one whom God raises up and know two things: The great destruction of anger and hatred; and the unceasing giving of God, who loves even the enemies of God … and you. And always will.
Pr. David L. Miller
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
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Saturday, September 13, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Today’s text
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
I wish we lived up to our confession, Jesus. You come not to judge but to save. But so many who represent you to the world are angry. They are possessed by the need to be right--and to judge those who differ in thought or action.
For them you are a high platform from which they look down upon others, sinners and heretics, the uncommitted and the unbelievers, the ignorant and confused. This is not a disease of the right or the left, the conservative or the liberal. All have sinned. Me too.
I wonder what it is about your words and being that is so hard to understand? You come not to judge but to save. You are a platform for nothing and no one. Your feet are planted firmly in the soil of this earth where you look the human mess in the eye.
And you don’t blink. You invite, asking no one to clean up their act before addressing you. You blanch at no proclamation of unbelief, nor at proud confessions of debauchery and destruction. You continue to invite the souls of the arrogant and broken alike.
“Come. I give life. I am here not to judge but to save.” And salvation is knowing you.
That is what most bothers me about the religiously self-righteous, Jesus. They show little evidence of having spent much time with you. There are few signs that they have stood beside you, their feet planted firmly in the dust, looking human souls in the eye with the compassion of your gaze.
I weary of the false conflicts we, your church, create in your name, Jesus. The conservative denounce the liberal for loose morals and fuzzy thought. The liberals denounce the conservative for want of concern for the poor and broken. They criticize each other for various forms of self-righteousness. Those with theological or liturgical knowledge lift their noses toward the less tutored as if they were an inferior sub-species. Knowledge puffs up; love builds up.
So when do we look each other through the eyes of the one who comes not to judge but to save?
More than anything, we need to stand beside you and see anew. Let us seek the silence where we may hear your whisper, “I come not to judge but to save.” Only then will we see.
Save us from ourselves, Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
I wish we lived up to our confession, Jesus. You come not to judge but to save. But so many who represent you to the world are angry. They are possessed by the need to be right--and to judge those who differ in thought or action.
For them you are a high platform from which they look down upon others, sinners and heretics, the uncommitted and the unbelievers, the ignorant and confused. This is not a disease of the right or the left, the conservative or the liberal. All have sinned. Me too.
I wonder what it is about your words and being that is so hard to understand? You come not to judge but to save. You are a platform for nothing and no one. Your feet are planted firmly in the soil of this earth where you look the human mess in the eye.
And you don’t blink. You invite, asking no one to clean up their act before addressing you. You blanch at no proclamation of unbelief, nor at proud confessions of debauchery and destruction. You continue to invite the souls of the arrogant and broken alike.
“Come. I give life. I am here not to judge but to save.” And salvation is knowing you.
That is what most bothers me about the religiously self-righteous, Jesus. They show little evidence of having spent much time with you. There are few signs that they have stood beside you, their feet planted firmly in the dust, looking human souls in the eye with the compassion of your gaze.
I weary of the false conflicts we, your church, create in your name, Jesus. The conservative denounce the liberal for loose morals and fuzzy thought. The liberals denounce the conservative for want of concern for the poor and broken. They criticize each other for various forms of self-righteousness. Those with theological or liturgical knowledge lift their noses toward the less tutored as if they were an inferior sub-species. Knowledge puffs up; love builds up.
So when do we look each other through the eyes of the one who comes not to judge but to save?
More than anything, we need to stand beside you and see anew. Let us seek the silence where we may hear your whisper, “I come not to judge but to save.” Only then will we see.
Save us from ourselves, Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Today’s text
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
What does it mean to believe in you, Jesus? This is the way of eternal life, and I don’t want to miss it. I crave life that is not like the last swallow in the glass, not like spring streams that dry and fail in desert sands.
Everything we touch fails us, sooner or later. Our souls grow accustomed to disappointment. But despite broken promises, beyond the sinking awareness that what I want is always beyond my straining fingers, there is this desire that refuses to leave.
I am moved by desire for life that does not fail, for a fullness that will not wane or disappoint. I long for life that goes on, a life in which I tingle with the savory presence of love surrounding, enveloping, lifting me into the awareness of that for which I have no name.
And I want that now, tomorrow, the next day, without end. I want never-waning awareness of that surrounding mystery that even yesterday enveloped my being. I basked in its embrace and grew light as air. Gravity was gone. I was there, present only to this one moment, needing, wanting, nothing but this presence, this awareness.
And then the magic passed, leaving more alive than before but not alive enough, not to satisfy the undeniable desire that is always there for life eternal.
But for a moment, in the presence of another’s prayer for me--and mine for them--eternity was now, and my desire found its fulfillment--and its source. For what is the desire for eternity, if not the voice of eternity speaking from the depth of a mortal soul a soul who knows he is intended for more? For you.
And in rarest moments I know you, the One I want.
So what is to believe in you, Jesus? Is it to believe that you are the way to this life eternal, a means to an end? I don’t think so.
I think you are this life. This life was in you, pouring through you at every moment of your breathing, except maybe in your feeling of abandonment on the cross.
I think believing in you is believing in the life that was and is in you--and in us, too, however partially and obscured it may be in our lives. I think believing in you is putting ourselves in the places where we are most likely to get swept away in the love you are, knowing there the eternity for which our hearts hunger.
Thanks for moments of holy knowing.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
What does it mean to believe in you, Jesus? This is the way of eternal life, and I don’t want to miss it. I crave life that is not like the last swallow in the glass, not like spring streams that dry and fail in desert sands.
Everything we touch fails us, sooner or later. Our souls grow accustomed to disappointment. But despite broken promises, beyond the sinking awareness that what I want is always beyond my straining fingers, there is this desire that refuses to leave.
I am moved by desire for life that does not fail, for a fullness that will not wane or disappoint. I long for life that goes on, a life in which I tingle with the savory presence of love surrounding, enveloping, lifting me into the awareness of that for which I have no name.
And I want that now, tomorrow, the next day, without end. I want never-waning awareness of that surrounding mystery that even yesterday enveloped my being. I basked in its embrace and grew light as air. Gravity was gone. I was there, present only to this one moment, needing, wanting, nothing but this presence, this awareness.
And then the magic passed, leaving more alive than before but not alive enough, not to satisfy the undeniable desire that is always there for life eternal.
But for a moment, in the presence of another’s prayer for me--and mine for them--eternity was now, and my desire found its fulfillment--and its source. For what is the desire for eternity, if not the voice of eternity speaking from the depth of a mortal soul a soul who knows he is intended for more? For you.
And in rarest moments I know you, the One I want.
So what is to believe in you, Jesus? Is it to believe that you are the way to this life eternal, a means to an end? I don’t think so.
I think you are this life. This life was in you, pouring through you at every moment of your breathing, except maybe in your feeling of abandonment on the cross.
I think believing in you is believing in the life that was and is in you--and in us, too, however partially and obscured it may be in our lives. I think believing in you is putting ourselves in the places where we are most likely to get swept away in the love you are, knowing there the eternity for which our hearts hunger.
Thanks for moments of holy knowing.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Today’s text
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
You are lifted up as an ensign to the world, Jesus. This symbol is as ancient as it is mysterious.
Moses lifts his makeshift snake in the desert, holding it before the people of Israel who are tormented by snakes biting them. The biting snakes are the result of God’s anger at the Israel’s whining distrust.
This little fits my image of the Holy One you reveal, Jesus. There is nothing in you that suggests you send snakes to strike those who displease you. You bear the face of a mercy wrapped in mercy hidden in mercy. Penetrate deeply as we may, we find nothing but mercy.
And this is good news, indeed, because I hate snakes.
But the symbol confuses me. Why should looking up in hope at the thing that is killing you bring deliverance and salvation? The very notion feels fraught with magical ideas modern minds refuse to embrace.
And yet, we still hold up ensigns to which we look in hope for salvation from what kills us. We hold up images of success in work or play or school, in gaining money or security.
There are a host of ensigns of promised salvation to which we look--a nice home, a good car, a trophy relationship, images of ourselves and our self-respect. During election years, the American flag is held high as an ensign or salvation. Political parties wave it to signify pride and strength, determination to stand fast against enemies and to advance a privileged way of life. We look up to it in hope for salvation from our fears of all that threatens.
So maybe the idea of Moses holding up the serpent in the desert is not so far removed from modern consciousness. We hold up our own ensigns in hope that they will bring salvation.
The sharp contrast is that ensigns we hold up tend to speak of power over others, of strength and security, of wealth and privilege amid a world of want. They promise security from our fears. But you Jesus, hanging on your cross, reflect all that we fear, death, rejection, destruction. There is nothing in you that suggests the impenetrable shield of protection we seek in the ensigns of personal and national success.
Still, you speak. “Look here,” you say. “Look at the death and destruction you most fear. This shall not hold you, not anymore than it can hold me.”
This is why we hold you up, Jesus, a dying (and risen) man. For, none of the other things we hold up can make … and keep that promise.
And none of the others move us beyond self-protection to the needs of your world.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
You are lifted up as an ensign to the world, Jesus. This symbol is as ancient as it is mysterious.
Moses lifts his makeshift snake in the desert, holding it before the people of Israel who are tormented by snakes biting them. The biting snakes are the result of God’s anger at the Israel’s whining distrust.
This little fits my image of the Holy One you reveal, Jesus. There is nothing in you that suggests you send snakes to strike those who displease you. You bear the face of a mercy wrapped in mercy hidden in mercy. Penetrate deeply as we may, we find nothing but mercy.
And this is good news, indeed, because I hate snakes.
But the symbol confuses me. Why should looking up in hope at the thing that is killing you bring deliverance and salvation? The very notion feels fraught with magical ideas modern minds refuse to embrace.
And yet, we still hold up ensigns to which we look in hope for salvation from what kills us. We hold up images of success in work or play or school, in gaining money or security.
There are a host of ensigns of promised salvation to which we look--a nice home, a good car, a trophy relationship, images of ourselves and our self-respect. During election years, the American flag is held high as an ensign or salvation. Political parties wave it to signify pride and strength, determination to stand fast against enemies and to advance a privileged way of life. We look up to it in hope for salvation from our fears of all that threatens.
So maybe the idea of Moses holding up the serpent in the desert is not so far removed from modern consciousness. We hold up our own ensigns in hope that they will bring salvation.
The sharp contrast is that ensigns we hold up tend to speak of power over others, of strength and security, of wealth and privilege amid a world of want. They promise security from our fears. But you Jesus, hanging on your cross, reflect all that we fear, death, rejection, destruction. There is nothing in you that suggests the impenetrable shield of protection we seek in the ensigns of personal and national success.
Still, you speak. “Look here,” you say. “Look at the death and destruction you most fear. This shall not hold you, not anymore than it can hold me.”
This is why we hold you up, Jesus, a dying (and risen) man. For, none of the other things we hold up can make … and keep that promise.
And none of the others move us beyond self-protection to the needs of your world.
Pr. David L. Miller
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