Today’s reading
Philippians 3:7-9
“Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but one that comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God based on faith” (Phil. 3:7-9).
Prayer
Found in you? Why should those words thoroughly warm me? They immerse my morning soul in a bottomless well of warmth and blessing. I take in the breath of life, and you fill my lungs. I walk across the room, and you envelop every step like the air, parting to let me pass but embracing every pour, encompassing my entire being. I dwell in the environment of you, Living Spirit. Is this what it is to be found in you? To know you as the all-enveloping milieu of my life so that there is no moment of separation from the all-encircling arms of your everlasting embrace?
I am in you. You claim me in the cosmos-enfolding embrace of arms outstretched on the cross, Living One. There you welcome all that I am and all that is. Risen and loose in the world, you seek to draw in and fill all with the fullness you are, and you are the Everlasting More. Count me among the victories you have won in bitter woundedness. Count me among the beloved who want nothing more than to abide your fullness all our days, and at the last to fall asleep in you. You are the home for which I always yearned but never knew.
Except now, in you. In you, I have no thought or worry of righteousness. Dwelling in the space of your life, I know no thought of sin or stain, fault or failure, for all has been overwhelmed, dissolved in an infinite sea of eternal mercy. In you, everything can be surrendered. I can bring all that I am; nothing needs to be hidden or denied. In you, I can lose everything I have. It matters not. For I I dwell in you who are Everlasting Fullness, the Always More. In you there is no loss, only gain.
How can words catch your wonder? How can I praise you for sharing with me the fullness of your risen life? Today, may I bask in the freedom I know only as I dwell in the gracious space of your life. And may the joy that flows from heart, only there, give fitting praise to you who are beyond all praising. Amen.
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
Posts
All Comments
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:4b-8
“If anyone has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I amy gain Christ” (Phil. 3:4b-8).
Prayer
What have I lost for you, Dearest Friend? I wish I knew. The ease of my life sometimes troubles me. Paul surrendered an entire identity, giving up all that provided him power, status and respect. He chose you and was stripped of all that gave him joy and meaning, the respect of his people, accomplishment and status in society.
He chose you, who chose him. That choice led to suffering and deprivation beyond any he might have imagined. But all he lost was so much trash because he knew the surpassing value of knowing you, whose loving purpose surpass all other concerns.
You have this affect on those who love you, those who touch the restless blaze of your divine heart. You, O Living Flame of Love, move your saints to ecstatic lengths of self giving. They transcend narrow concerns of self and safety to surrender themselves to a love that would consume the world. And why not? It has already consumed them. You stir in them the fire you are, and we warm our chill hearts in their burning.
And I? My life is one of relative ease. I indulge my various appetites. I am easily upset when my comfort and expectations are inconvenienced. I grow melancholy when fulfillments of work, relationships or personal respect are disappointed. I live a charmed and pampered life and grow indolent.
But then there are days, and this is one, when your living flame lifts me from languor, igniting a soul fire that burns with your loving purpose to warm all in the fullness of your life. And again I want nothing more than to give myself to that purpose, which alone is worthy of total surrender. Light the fire of your eternal flame in my heart this day that I may love as you love. Amen.
Philippians 3:4b-8
“If anyone has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I amy gain Christ” (Phil. 3:4b-8).
Prayer
What have I lost for you, Dearest Friend? I wish I knew. The ease of my life sometimes troubles me. Paul surrendered an entire identity, giving up all that provided him power, status and respect. He chose you and was stripped of all that gave him joy and meaning, the respect of his people, accomplishment and status in society.
He chose you, who chose him. That choice led to suffering and deprivation beyond any he might have imagined. But all he lost was so much trash because he knew the surpassing value of knowing you, whose loving purpose surpass all other concerns.
You have this affect on those who love you, those who touch the restless blaze of your divine heart. You, O Living Flame of Love, move your saints to ecstatic lengths of self giving. They transcend narrow concerns of self and safety to surrender themselves to a love that would consume the world. And why not? It has already consumed them. You stir in them the fire you are, and we warm our chill hearts in their burning.
And I? My life is one of relative ease. I indulge my various appetites. I am easily upset when my comfort and expectations are inconvenienced. I grow melancholy when fulfillments of work, relationships or personal respect are disappointed. I live a charmed and pampered life and grow indolent.
But then there are days, and this is one, when your living flame lifts me from languor, igniting a soul fire that burns with your loving purpose to warm all in the fullness of your life. And again I want nothing more than to give myself to that purpose, which alone is worthy of total surrender. Light the fire of your eternal flame in my heart this day that I may love as you love. Amen.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:4b-8a
“If anyone has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing knowledge of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” (Phil. 3:4b-8a).
Prayer
I sink into my gray chair, and nothing else matters. Nothing. There is only you and me. You draw me here before I give myself to the duties of the day that you may give yourself to me. For these few minutes I know what Paul knew. For I know you, Blessed Mystery, and knowing you I realize anything I might lose or surrender in the quest to know you does not matter.
All that matters is knowing the Unspeakable Love you are. All that matters is receiving the life you reveal in my brother, Jesus. All that matters is being here where you shape my distorted soul into the image of your love. For a few minutes every morning I know this completely, without confusion or ambiguity. I know what you taught Paul: Knowing Christ matters. All else can be surrendered.
You alone can teach this. My soul can neither grasp nor believe it unless you tutor my heart again and again, for I am a slow learner. And I forget easily. But I thank you. My heart fills with gratitude for your insistent self-giving through my confused and ambivalent years, through days when you wanted to give me you life, and I knew not how to receive.
You have brought me to this time where I have tasted enough, just enough of the love in which you hold the universe--and me--that I know what you are pleased to give all your beloved. I know you, and knowing you nothing else much matters. This day, may I receive you in the places and people through whom you desire to give yourself to me. And may my face and flesh be the places of your self giving, for the life of the world. Amen.
Philippians 3:4b-8a
“If anyone has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing knowledge of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” (Phil. 3:4b-8a).
Prayer
I sink into my gray chair, and nothing else matters. Nothing. There is only you and me. You draw me here before I give myself to the duties of the day that you may give yourself to me. For these few minutes I know what Paul knew. For I know you, Blessed Mystery, and knowing you I realize anything I might lose or surrender in the quest to know you does not matter.
All that matters is knowing the Unspeakable Love you are. All that matters is receiving the life you reveal in my brother, Jesus. All that matters is being here where you shape my distorted soul into the image of your love. For a few minutes every morning I know this completely, without confusion or ambiguity. I know what you taught Paul: Knowing Christ matters. All else can be surrendered.
You alone can teach this. My soul can neither grasp nor believe it unless you tutor my heart again and again, for I am a slow learner. And I forget easily. But I thank you. My heart fills with gratitude for your insistent self-giving through my confused and ambivalent years, through days when you wanted to give me you life, and I knew not how to receive.
You have brought me to this time where I have tasted enough, just enough of the love in which you hold the universe--and me--that I know what you are pleased to give all your beloved. I know you, and knowing you nothing else much matters. This day, may I receive you in the places and people through whom you desire to give yourself to me. And may my face and flesh be the places of your self giving, for the life of the world. Amen.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:1b-4
“For it is we who are the circumcision, who worship in the Spirit of God and boast in Christ Jesus and have no confidence in the flesh--even though I, too, have reason for confidence in the flesh” (Phil. 3:1b-4).
Prayer
I, however, do not, my Inscrutable Friend. I have no reason for boasting. I possess little that should distinguish me or draw attention. My mind is slow, my thoughts pedestrian, my abilities average. And that’s how you seem to like it, or so it seems. Otherwise, why do you so often approve of bringing me low, exposing my weaknesses and letting me taste the dust of my humanity? You leave me laying there until I am convinced of my fragility and my inability to bring consolation to my own soul.
Sometimes it is hard to call you friend, though a good night’s sleep and a time for perspective help. But I wonder: how would you treat me differently were we enemies? How would it be were I not beloved from all eternity? Would you handle my case with different care?
It seems unlikely. You are evenhanded in the inscrutability of your love. You make the sun shine and the rain fall on the good and evil alike, and I, of course, am both. But there is something worse than the pounding rain, terrible in fact: to be left alone. And that is something you refuse to do, and for that I thank you with all my heart. You, O Inscrutable Love, refuse to leave me alone with the illusions and idols I sometimes trust more than you.
So I thank you for tearing me down, for exposing my presumption, for rending my delusions, for showing me my inability to lift my soul from the sorrow into which I fall. It is hard for me to praise you when I find myself with my face in the dust. Time must pass. Prayer must happen. Confession must occur. The heart must hurt. Then slowly life begins to flow again through my veins, as amid tears of relief and joy I realize once more that I am yours and you are mine.
You never leave me to own devices. You show me your love alone suffices. You redeem me from myself. May my confidence ever rest in the love that shines from the blessed face of my brother, Jesus. Amen.
Philippians 3:1b-4
“For it is we who are the circumcision, who worship in the Spirit of God and boast in Christ Jesus and have no confidence in the flesh--even though I, too, have reason for confidence in the flesh” (Phil. 3:1b-4).
Prayer
I, however, do not, my Inscrutable Friend. I have no reason for boasting. I possess little that should distinguish me or draw attention. My mind is slow, my thoughts pedestrian, my abilities average. And that’s how you seem to like it, or so it seems. Otherwise, why do you so often approve of bringing me low, exposing my weaknesses and letting me taste the dust of my humanity? You leave me laying there until I am convinced of my fragility and my inability to bring consolation to my own soul.
Sometimes it is hard to call you friend, though a good night’s sleep and a time for perspective help. But I wonder: how would you treat me differently were we enemies? How would it be were I not beloved from all eternity? Would you handle my case with different care?
It seems unlikely. You are evenhanded in the inscrutability of your love. You make the sun shine and the rain fall on the good and evil alike, and I, of course, am both. But there is something worse than the pounding rain, terrible in fact: to be left alone. And that is something you refuse to do, and for that I thank you with all my heart. You, O Inscrutable Love, refuse to leave me alone with the illusions and idols I sometimes trust more than you.
So I thank you for tearing me down, for exposing my presumption, for rending my delusions, for showing me my inability to lift my soul from the sorrow into which I fall. It is hard for me to praise you when I find myself with my face in the dust. Time must pass. Prayer must happen. Confession must occur. The heart must hurt. Then slowly life begins to flow again through my veins, as amid tears of relief and joy I realize once more that I am yours and you are mine.
You never leave me to own devices. You show me your love alone suffices. You redeem me from myself. May my confidence ever rest in the love that shines from the blessed face of my brother, Jesus. Amen.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Rejoice. I will rejoice for you turn my weakness into blessing. You transpose my failures into victories of grace. You transform my incessant neediness into powerful wings on which I fly to you O Infinite Abundance, there to discover you are all I need.
How many years have I struggled to be what I am not--strong? How long have I fought to deny, to hide, to transcend the crying need and weakness I long ago learned to abhor? So much of my struggle and pain is self imposed, the natural product of denying my own need, my own humanity. From that foul spring flows all manner of sorrow and pain, from self-hatred to manifold failures of courage and compassion.
Late have I learned what should have been clear long ago. Surrender to my needs is surrender to your desire for me. For it is true: You desire me. You desire that I should know you. You desire my nearness. My desire is simply the restless call of your own brooding Spirit.
Could it be? Might all the weakness and neediness I have hidden and denied be the furious flapping of holy wings bearing me home to your embrace? Denying my human heart, I am left alone to my own decrepit devices. But bringing all I am to the infinity of your compassion, my needs and weakness are rendered irrelevant. They do not matter. For all that I lack is overwhelmed by your fullness. All my sorrows evaporate like so much morning mist, burnt off by the everlasting warmth of a love that has delighted in me since the time I was not.
So I will praise and rejoice in you, Loving Mystery, who wears my savior’s face. I will rejoice that in my weakness I know your fullness, in my neediness I know a love in which there is no lack. And I will praise you for making me weak, for in my weakness I discover the magnitude of your divine heart, O Near Immensity. This day I shall name you Boundless Source, for you are always enough for me. Amen.
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Rejoice. I will rejoice for you turn my weakness into blessing. You transpose my failures into victories of grace. You transform my incessant neediness into powerful wings on which I fly to you O Infinite Abundance, there to discover you are all I need.
How many years have I struggled to be what I am not--strong? How long have I fought to deny, to hide, to transcend the crying need and weakness I long ago learned to abhor? So much of my struggle and pain is self imposed, the natural product of denying my own need, my own humanity. From that foul spring flows all manner of sorrow and pain, from self-hatred to manifold failures of courage and compassion.
Late have I learned what should have been clear long ago. Surrender to my needs is surrender to your desire for me. For it is true: You desire me. You desire that I should know you. You desire my nearness. My desire is simply the restless call of your own brooding Spirit.
Could it be? Might all the weakness and neediness I have hidden and denied be the furious flapping of holy wings bearing me home to your embrace? Denying my human heart, I am left alone to my own decrepit devices. But bringing all I am to the infinity of your compassion, my needs and weakness are rendered irrelevant. They do not matter. For all that I lack is overwhelmed by your fullness. All my sorrows evaporate like so much morning mist, burnt off by the everlasting warmth of a love that has delighted in me since the time I was not.
So I will praise and rejoice in you, Loving Mystery, who wears my savior’s face. I will rejoice that in my weakness I know your fullness, in my neediness I know a love in which there is no lack. And I will praise you for making me weak, for in my weakness I discover the magnitude of your divine heart, O Near Immensity. This day I shall name you Boundless Source, for you are always enough for me. Amen.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Thursday, November 9, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Rejoice. But how can I when joy lies behind a locked door for which I haven’t got the key. The dead weight of my clumsy failures hangs on my soul. There is no shaking if off. It surrounds and envelopes me, sinking my soul into gray depths of inevitability where all I touch stirs the anxiety of my inadequacy.
Words spoken and left unspoken haunt me in the night and awaken me from sleep. Internal voices whisper accusations against my weakness of mind. So frequently I fail to speak with power or assurance those treasures of heart and mind you have given. My mind and mouth are poor stewards of your mysteries, again producing stares of confusion and incomprehension as I stumble and stutter what little I know of you. Anxiety fuels torrents of words as I search for the right ones that might invite others into immeasurable depths of your heart.
In the night, I regret every word. I seek justification as though I could part thick clouds of failure and chase off the voices. I cannot. Only you can.
O Holy Listener, my dearest friend, dwelling in the shimmering dark silence of eternity, you know how my failures haunt and cut my heart. You know my failed attempts at self-justification wring every ounce of joy from me. My doomed efforts exile my soul from the land of grace you into which you constantly coax me. I am left to the barren landscapes of perfectionism and other self-justifications where I find no joy.
May I enter now the gracious space where I know you as my Beloved? Will you unlock the door, for you alone hold the key, that I may enter the gracious garden of your delight where I know that you delight in me. There I know the pleasure you take in my poor efforts to share the vision of your love you have given me. You laugh at my errors, amused at my failures, weeping with joy at my hunger to speak your wonder. I ache for that joy.
Laughing One, Eternal Joy, I want all whom I serve to know you and rest in the the Unspeakable Loving Wonder you are. May they have eyes to see and ears to hear you who are ever near. There are days I’m certain you would have chosen better had you called another to this work. But if you insist, I will stumble along. Give me wisdom and words to speak the Loving Mystery you are. Now and again, assure me that even these poor efforts please you. And I will share your laughter. Amen.
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Rejoice. But how can I when joy lies behind a locked door for which I haven’t got the key. The dead weight of my clumsy failures hangs on my soul. There is no shaking if off. It surrounds and envelopes me, sinking my soul into gray depths of inevitability where all I touch stirs the anxiety of my inadequacy.
Words spoken and left unspoken haunt me in the night and awaken me from sleep. Internal voices whisper accusations against my weakness of mind. So frequently I fail to speak with power or assurance those treasures of heart and mind you have given. My mind and mouth are poor stewards of your mysteries, again producing stares of confusion and incomprehension as I stumble and stutter what little I know of you. Anxiety fuels torrents of words as I search for the right ones that might invite others into immeasurable depths of your heart.
In the night, I regret every word. I seek justification as though I could part thick clouds of failure and chase off the voices. I cannot. Only you can.
O Holy Listener, my dearest friend, dwelling in the shimmering dark silence of eternity, you know how my failures haunt and cut my heart. You know my failed attempts at self-justification wring every ounce of joy from me. My doomed efforts exile my soul from the land of grace you into which you constantly coax me. I am left to the barren landscapes of perfectionism and other self-justifications where I find no joy.
May I enter now the gracious space where I know you as my Beloved? Will you unlock the door, for you alone hold the key, that I may enter the gracious garden of your delight where I know that you delight in me. There I know the pleasure you take in my poor efforts to share the vision of your love you have given me. You laugh at my errors, amused at my failures, weeping with joy at my hunger to speak your wonder. I ache for that joy.
Laughing One, Eternal Joy, I want all whom I serve to know you and rest in the the Unspeakable Loving Wonder you are. May they have eyes to see and ears to hear you who are ever near. There are days I’m certain you would have chosen better had you called another to this work. But if you insist, I will stumble along. Give me wisdom and words to speak the Loving Mystery you are. Now and again, assure me that even these poor efforts please you. And I will share your laughter. Amen.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Rejoice, in all things rejoice. And why? Because you are, and you are here. And we are in the love whom you are. And nothing can change that. All else is details.
Rejoice, for you, Holy Laughter, awake from the tomb laughing at death’s demise. You, Laughing Christ, are the joy of eternal morning. Your risen face is the dawn of everlasting day, bathing all that is in the light of the One whose name is Everlasting Love. So I will rejoice,
I will rejoice for the risen life you are abides also in me, creating a heart of flesh and mind of humility given to your purpose alone. I will rejoice for you who begin your holy purpose in me will complete it. The love that overflows your divine heart will fill and spill also from the well of my soul. You give me knowledge and expression of you before whom my mind and mouth fall mute. I try to speak the wonder I know of you, but I can say nothing. Every thought and word collapses in a heap before you as my soul attempts to name you are beyond all names. Can you accept my impotent, frustrated silence as the highest praise I can give?
I will rejoice that I dwell amid souls in whom you work for your good pleasure. You give such knowledge and joy, not to me alone but to all. I will rejoice for you draw us into a single body beyond our manifold divisions. You join us that we may share the same mind, the same heart, the same love, the same joyous freedom that shines through all eternity from a failed tomb that could not hold you. You are, and you are here, and we are in your unspeakable love, O Laughing One. Today, let me rejoice. Amen.
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Rejoice, in all things rejoice. And why? Because you are, and you are here. And we are in the love whom you are. And nothing can change that. All else is details.
Rejoice, for you, Holy Laughter, awake from the tomb laughing at death’s demise. You, Laughing Christ, are the joy of eternal morning. Your risen face is the dawn of everlasting day, bathing all that is in the light of the One whose name is Everlasting Love. So I will rejoice,
I will rejoice for the risen life you are abides also in me, creating a heart of flesh and mind of humility given to your purpose alone. I will rejoice for you who begin your holy purpose in me will complete it. The love that overflows your divine heart will fill and spill also from the well of my soul. You give me knowledge and expression of you before whom my mind and mouth fall mute. I try to speak the wonder I know of you, but I can say nothing. Every thought and word collapses in a heap before you as my soul attempts to name you are beyond all names. Can you accept my impotent, frustrated silence as the highest praise I can give?
I will rejoice that I dwell amid souls in whom you work for your good pleasure. You give such knowledge and joy, not to me alone but to all. I will rejoice for you draw us into a single body beyond our manifold divisions. You join us that we may share the same mind, the same heart, the same love, the same joyous freedom that shines through all eternity from a failed tomb that could not hold you. You are, and you are here, and we are in your unspeakable love, O Laughing One. Today, let me rejoice. Amen.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Can I praise my way into your presence? That you are here, always, I do not doubt. I have known it to be true even during my despairing years when the joy of your nearness was beyond my grasp. But on average days like this, when I awake with much to do, I need to know you. I need you like I need my next breath. I need to enter you, O Abiding Presence, that joy may overfill my heart before I throw myself into the day’s tasks.
But today my soul is still, unmoved. I am unable to enter into your abiding though I believe you are as near as the air moving through my lungs. Awaken my soul to the wonder of your infinite nearness. Then I will rejoice with words and stirring of soul that is beyond my capacity to create.
In meantime, I will await moments of exquisite awareness amid the small details of living, with my senses attuned to you, O Far Near One. And even while my soul is still, I will rejoice in love’s triumphs as you give me vision to see.
Praise to you, O Exquisite Nearness. Praise to you: I awake again to a world where you are. Praise to you: You redeem me from lonely isolation, prisons of my own making, and link me to your all-encompassing heart where I am never alone, but tied to the joys and sorrows of all held in the embrace of your care. Praise to you; I am in you, dearest Jesus, in you. I dwell in a love as expansive as the universe and as near as the flesh of a friend. Praise to you; I go my way believing you shall draw me into the exuberant unity of your triune love, O Dancing God, where all things move to the rhythm of your divine heart. Let it be so today. Amen.
Philippians 3:1
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.” (Phil. 3:1).
Prayer
Can I praise my way into your presence? That you are here, always, I do not doubt. I have known it to be true even during my despairing years when the joy of your nearness was beyond my grasp. But on average days like this, when I awake with much to do, I need to know you. I need you like I need my next breath. I need to enter you, O Abiding Presence, that joy may overfill my heart before I throw myself into the day’s tasks.
But today my soul is still, unmoved. I am unable to enter into your abiding though I believe you are as near as the air moving through my lungs. Awaken my soul to the wonder of your infinite nearness. Then I will rejoice with words and stirring of soul that is beyond my capacity to create.
In meantime, I will await moments of exquisite awareness amid the small details of living, with my senses attuned to you, O Far Near One. And even while my soul is still, I will rejoice in love’s triumphs as you give me vision to see.
Praise to you, O Exquisite Nearness. Praise to you: I awake again to a world where you are. Praise to you: You redeem me from lonely isolation, prisons of my own making, and link me to your all-encompassing heart where I am never alone, but tied to the joys and sorrows of all held in the embrace of your care. Praise to you; I am in you, dearest Jesus, in you. I dwell in a love as expansive as the universe and as near as the flesh of a friend. Praise to you; I go my way believing you shall draw me into the exuberant unity of your triune love, O Dancing God, where all things move to the rhythm of your divine heart. Let it be so today. Amen.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Monday, November 6, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:29-30
“Welcome him in the Lord with all joy, and honor such people, because he came close to death for the work of Christ, risking his life to make up for those services that you could not give me.” (Phil. 2:29-30).
Prayer
I lie on my bed and pray. The room is dark, the alarm’s wretched beeping choked off mid-screech. Clumsy hands not yet under my command could not kill it soon enough. I am awake. And already you refuse to let me be. Prayer is on my lips: “Peace to them. Peace be on them all. Give us all peace.” I did not choose to pray or this prayer. It appears fully formed in my mind even as my body begs for a few precious minutes of sweet sleep. But you have determined that time is done.
You, O Eternal Watcher, neither slumber nor sleep. I, on the other hand, need more than you seem to understand. Quite against my will, you awaken me to prayer that for reasons you alone know needs to come from me. So I wake and watch with you over a few of those whom you cherish more than I can know. I lie on my bed and pray: “Peace, your peace be on them all.”
Is this the prayer you would wring from my tired flesh on a weary Monday? It is the one that comes most naturally with no prompting from me. Perhaps it is of your making. If so, I offer it with thanks that you allow me to be an expression of your Spirit’s brooding over one small province in the infinite project of your ceaseless care.
And then this, ‘honor such people.’ Is this your word for the day: that I should honor those for whom you wring prayer from my lips?
I work among those so enamored of your self-giving that they seek to make it their daily labor. Honor? I honor them because they bear the precious life you are. There are moments when you show me how much better they are than I ever have been or will be. Such knowledge does not diminish my soul but lifts me to praise you for the grace I know among them. I shall honor them for I stand in praise and awe of the life they bear. I will honor them because I love you, a love your own Spirit continues to give, all-too-often against my own will. I will honor them because I know: You wake them too with prayers of peace for your world. They are my brothers and sisters, my mothers and fathers. May we honor each other for the mystery we bear. Amen.
Philippians 2:29-30
“Welcome him in the Lord with all joy, and honor such people, because he came close to death for the work of Christ, risking his life to make up for those services that you could not give me.” (Phil. 2:29-30).
Prayer
I lie on my bed and pray. The room is dark, the alarm’s wretched beeping choked off mid-screech. Clumsy hands not yet under my command could not kill it soon enough. I am awake. And already you refuse to let me be. Prayer is on my lips: “Peace to them. Peace be on them all. Give us all peace.” I did not choose to pray or this prayer. It appears fully formed in my mind even as my body begs for a few precious minutes of sweet sleep. But you have determined that time is done.
You, O Eternal Watcher, neither slumber nor sleep. I, on the other hand, need more than you seem to understand. Quite against my will, you awaken me to prayer that for reasons you alone know needs to come from me. So I wake and watch with you over a few of those whom you cherish more than I can know. I lie on my bed and pray: “Peace, your peace be on them all.”
Is this the prayer you would wring from my tired flesh on a weary Monday? It is the one that comes most naturally with no prompting from me. Perhaps it is of your making. If so, I offer it with thanks that you allow me to be an expression of your Spirit’s brooding over one small province in the infinite project of your ceaseless care.
And then this, ‘honor such people.’ Is this your word for the day: that I should honor those for whom you wring prayer from my lips?
I work among those so enamored of your self-giving that they seek to make it their daily labor. Honor? I honor them because they bear the precious life you are. There are moments when you show me how much better they are than I ever have been or will be. Such knowledge does not diminish my soul but lifts me to praise you for the grace I know among them. I shall honor them for I stand in praise and awe of the life they bear. I will honor them because I love you, a love your own Spirit continues to give, all-too-often against my own will. I will honor them because I know: You wake them too with prayers of peace for your world. They are my brothers and sisters, my mothers and fathers. May we honor each other for the mystery we bear. Amen.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Friday, November 3, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:25-30
“Still, I think it necessary to send to you Epaphroditus--my brother and coworker and fellow soldier, your messenger and minister to my need; for he has been longing for all of you, and has been distressed because you heard that he was ill. He was indeed so ill that he nearly died. But God had mercy on him, and not only on him but on me also, so that I would not have one sorrow after another. I am more eager to send him, therefore, in order that you may rejoice at seeing him again and that I may be less anxious. Welcome him in the Lord with all joy, and honor such people, because he came close to death for the work of Christ, risking his life to make up for those services that you could not give me.” (Phil. 2:25-30).
Prayer
One word, Dearest Friend, you require but a single word to move me into the joyful mystery of your life. The word today: ‘brother.’ I get on a plane and travel to a place unknown to me, to meet familiar faces I have never met. I travel 800 miles to learn new names only to discover I have known them for years.
I come to a new place and find that I never left home. For you have been there long before me, waiting for my plane. The place and souls I meet are homes of your abiding; hence they are my home. The faces are those of my brothers and sisters, my mothers and fathers.
Walking among them, I hear familiar laughter and I know: You are here. And here I belong. I come all this way to discover ... again ... that I can never leave home, for I dwell in the geography of your grace. There is nowhere I have ever traveled where you left me without brothers and sisters. For in each place, I encounter those who bear the wonder of the Love you are. There is nowhere I cannot meet you and know again the home for which my heart has longed since I was small.
Thank you. May these tears of gratitude offer more perfect praise than my words can for this communal sacrament of the love in which you hold us. The tears are your work; the words but tortured attempts to speak a wonder and joy that far transcends mind and understanding.
You join me, you join us, in the harmonious unity of the love that dances at your divine heart. Today, grant me the good pleasure of holy gratitude for the home I find in you, among your beloved people. Amen.
Philippians 2:25-30
“Still, I think it necessary to send to you Epaphroditus--my brother and coworker and fellow soldier, your messenger and minister to my need; for he has been longing for all of you, and has been distressed because you heard that he was ill. He was indeed so ill that he nearly died. But God had mercy on him, and not only on him but on me also, so that I would not have one sorrow after another. I am more eager to send him, therefore, in order that you may rejoice at seeing him again and that I may be less anxious. Welcome him in the Lord with all joy, and honor such people, because he came close to death for the work of Christ, risking his life to make up for those services that you could not give me.” (Phil. 2:25-30).
Prayer
One word, Dearest Friend, you require but a single word to move me into the joyful mystery of your life. The word today: ‘brother.’ I get on a plane and travel to a place unknown to me, to meet familiar faces I have never met. I travel 800 miles to learn new names only to discover I have known them for years.
I come to a new place and find that I never left home. For you have been there long before me, waiting for my plane. The place and souls I meet are homes of your abiding; hence they are my home. The faces are those of my brothers and sisters, my mothers and fathers.
Walking among them, I hear familiar laughter and I know: You are here. And here I belong. I come all this way to discover ... again ... that I can never leave home, for I dwell in the geography of your grace. There is nowhere I have ever traveled where you left me without brothers and sisters. For in each place, I encounter those who bear the wonder of the Love you are. There is nowhere I cannot meet you and know again the home for which my heart has longed since I was small.
Thank you. May these tears of gratitude offer more perfect praise than my words can for this communal sacrament of the love in which you hold us. The tears are your work; the words but tortured attempts to speak a wonder and joy that far transcends mind and understanding.
You join me, you join us, in the harmonious unity of the love that dances at your divine heart. Today, grant me the good pleasure of holy gratitude for the home I find in you, among your beloved people. Amen.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Wednesday, November 1, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:25-28
“Still, I think it necessary to send to you Epaphroditus--my brother and coworker and fellow soldier, your messenger and minister to my need; for he has been longing for all of you, and has been distressed because you heard that he was ill. He was indeed so ill that he nearly died. But God had mercy on him, and not only on him but on me also, so that I would not have one sorrow after another. I am more eager to send him, therefore, in order that you may rejoice at seeing him again and that I may be less anxious” (Phil. 2:25-28).
Prayer
O Hidden Mystery, in the the darkness of our pain you labor to shape us into souls that are truly human, bearing the love that is your image. When the night of our fear and sorrow is impenetrable by human reason or meaning, you see the beauty that is your desire and delight to create in your beloved, in us. Give us the eyes to see or at least the heart to trust when the night is dark.
Your servant, Paul, knew the night of sorrow, loneliness and longing. Friends far off sent a servant, Epaphroditus, to accompany him in imprisonment. Now Paul sends him home to his beloved. Paul knew they hungered for the touch of his hand, the familiarity of his smile, the sound of his laughter, the silent bodily presence of a soul that could have been lost to them in this life.
Paul knew. He knew sorrow and loneliness. He knew what it was to long for missing friends and wonder if ever again he would see those souls to whom he was so joined in your blessed body of love and faith. In his knowing, you shaped the compassion in which he sends Epaphroditus home to arms that have missed him. Paul knew those anxious arms because he knew his anxiety.
Tell me, O Craftsman of Compassion, did you look on this and smile? Did you take delight knowing your divine desire had found fulfillment? You worked in Paul’s dark night to create the light of your eternal day, a light that glows in the lives of your beloved.
Create in me that compassion that glows with the light of your life. And give me the heart to trust that you labor in the darkness to bring your holy purpose to light even in the weakness of my flesh. Amen.
Philippians 2:25-28
“Still, I think it necessary to send to you Epaphroditus--my brother and coworker and fellow soldier, your messenger and minister to my need; for he has been longing for all of you, and has been distressed because you heard that he was ill. He was indeed so ill that he nearly died. But God had mercy on him, and not only on him but on me also, so that I would not have one sorrow after another. I am more eager to send him, therefore, in order that you may rejoice at seeing him again and that I may be less anxious” (Phil. 2:25-28).
Prayer
O Hidden Mystery, in the the darkness of our pain you labor to shape us into souls that are truly human, bearing the love that is your image. When the night of our fear and sorrow is impenetrable by human reason or meaning, you see the beauty that is your desire and delight to create in your beloved, in us. Give us the eyes to see or at least the heart to trust when the night is dark.
Your servant, Paul, knew the night of sorrow, loneliness and longing. Friends far off sent a servant, Epaphroditus, to accompany him in imprisonment. Now Paul sends him home to his beloved. Paul knew they hungered for the touch of his hand, the familiarity of his smile, the sound of his laughter, the silent bodily presence of a soul that could have been lost to them in this life.
Paul knew. He knew sorrow and loneliness. He knew what it was to long for missing friends and wonder if ever again he would see those souls to whom he was so joined in your blessed body of love and faith. In his knowing, you shaped the compassion in which he sends Epaphroditus home to arms that have missed him. Paul knew those anxious arms because he knew his anxiety.
Tell me, O Craftsman of Compassion, did you look on this and smile? Did you take delight knowing your divine desire had found fulfillment? You worked in Paul’s dark night to create the light of your eternal day, a light that glows in the lives of your beloved.
Create in me that compassion that glows with the light of your life. And give me the heart to trust that you labor in the darkness to bring your holy purpose to light even in the weakness of my flesh. Amen.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:19-24
“I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you soon, so that I may be cheered by news of you. I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned for your welfare. All of them are seeking their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ. But Timothy’s worth you know, like a son with a father he has served with me in the work of the gospel. I hope therefore to send him as soon as I see how things go for me. For I trust in the Lord that I will also come soon” (Phil. 2:19-24).
Prayer
He trusted, but did his hope see fruition? Did Paul again hold in his arms those dear to him? Was he able to take their faces in his hands and peer into eyes and souls for whom he had longed? Did he know this joy for which all our souls long?
I have seen such scenes in some of the world’s most tortured places, Dearest Friend, Sudan, Somalia, Rwanda, Ethiopia. It is one of the great gifts you have given me. Souls who imagined their beloved were lost to them in war, by displacement or starvation, catch sight of each other again. Frozen a moment in perplexity and disbelief, suddenly they realize their fondest hopes are fulfilled. Some ran into each others arms. Others stood weeping, holding their faces in their hands, wiping away the tears only to make sure that their joy was not illusion. Some faced each other, hands caressing and tracing the contour of their beloved’s cheek.
Scenes of homecoming, these were, even when most knew they would never again see the homes they were forced to flee. The moment was a sacrament, a sacred bearer of that final reunion when all these souls, faces aglow, still bearing the scars of war and deprivation, enter the eternal mercy in which you will hold all that is ... and me.
But even on sacramental days of reunion there were others, some who had also trusted in you, who turned again and again, sorting through the crowd, not finding the faces of their longing. Lonely hunters, they searched for souls--husbands and wives, daughters and sons--still missing, forever missing, who lay beneath the sod of some killing field.
“I trust in the Lord that in will come soon.” You give us the privilege of loving connection with others in the Love you are. Sometimes this love is joy beyond speaking, and our hopes are fulfilled in reunions and homecomings that bear the mark of your eternal promise. Sometimes this loves breaks our hearts. And fondest desires for the arms of our beloved must await a yet greater day. Grant us, O Eternal Home, a sure and certain hope for that final unity into which you will join all things. Grant that our hearts should know that there are none forever missing to you. Amen
Philippians 2:19-24
“I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you soon, so that I may be cheered by news of you. I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned for your welfare. All of them are seeking their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ. But Timothy’s worth you know, like a son with a father he has served with me in the work of the gospel. I hope therefore to send him as soon as I see how things go for me. For I trust in the Lord that I will also come soon” (Phil. 2:19-24).
Prayer
He trusted, but did his hope see fruition? Did Paul again hold in his arms those dear to him? Was he able to take their faces in his hands and peer into eyes and souls for whom he had longed? Did he know this joy for which all our souls long?
I have seen such scenes in some of the world’s most tortured places, Dearest Friend, Sudan, Somalia, Rwanda, Ethiopia. It is one of the great gifts you have given me. Souls who imagined their beloved were lost to them in war, by displacement or starvation, catch sight of each other again. Frozen a moment in perplexity and disbelief, suddenly they realize their fondest hopes are fulfilled. Some ran into each others arms. Others stood weeping, holding their faces in their hands, wiping away the tears only to make sure that their joy was not illusion. Some faced each other, hands caressing and tracing the contour of their beloved’s cheek.
Scenes of homecoming, these were, even when most knew they would never again see the homes they were forced to flee. The moment was a sacrament, a sacred bearer of that final reunion when all these souls, faces aglow, still bearing the scars of war and deprivation, enter the eternal mercy in which you will hold all that is ... and me.
But even on sacramental days of reunion there were others, some who had also trusted in you, who turned again and again, sorting through the crowd, not finding the faces of their longing. Lonely hunters, they searched for souls--husbands and wives, daughters and sons--still missing, forever missing, who lay beneath the sod of some killing field.
“I trust in the Lord that in will come soon.” You give us the privilege of loving connection with others in the Love you are. Sometimes this love is joy beyond speaking, and our hopes are fulfilled in reunions and homecomings that bear the mark of your eternal promise. Sometimes this loves breaks our hearts. And fondest desires for the arms of our beloved must await a yet greater day. Grant us, O Eternal Home, a sure and certain hope for that final unity into which you will join all things. Grant that our hearts should know that there are none forever missing to you. Amen
Monday, October 30, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:19-24
“I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you soon, so that I may be cheered by news of you. I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned for your welfare. All of them are seeking their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ. But Timothy’s worth you know, like a son with a father he has served with me in the work of the gospel. I hope therefore to send him as soon as I see how things go for me. For I trust in the Lord that I will also come soon” (Phil. 2:19-24).
Prayer
Blessed are you, O Inimitable Contriver. You weave the tendrils of the real into a single texture binding us tightly to each other and all that is. Every fiber of the creation connects with every other, making separate life an illusion.
Separated from those we love, we hunger to see, to touch, to hear news of the beloved. But tell me: Does it really help? Does it help Paul to hear of those he cannot touch because of the chains that imprison him? He hungers for words that will bear him up, fill him with hope and joy--with assurance that, just perhaps, all is well in spite of his circumstances.
Why should hearing news of those to whom we have given our heart make such a difference when our circumstances remain unaffected by their fortunes? Yet, it does. Our hearts soar when we know our beloved are blessed, thriving, even when our prospects continue to trouble. We are lifted and relieved of the limitations of current struggles.
We don’t choose this. This is how you fashion our flesh in your own inimitable image. We are made for sharing, not for some illusion of splendid isolation. And you fulfill your image in us, binding us heart-to-heart, flesh to sinew in the body of sharing you are, dear Christ.
You weave us together, never dropping a stitch, linking us with invisible tendrils of connection that the blessing of our beloved blesses us, the flourishing of another cheers us. Lifting us beyond gray prison walls of the isolated self, you enlarge our lives. You release us from the despair of detachment to ride currents of blessing and bear the burdens of human deprivation with those to whom you bind us. This is how we discover what it is is to be human, what it is to reveal the image of your divine wonder. Today, cheer me with news and move me to pray through the lives of all those others with whom you connect me in you. Amen.
Philippians 2:19-24
“I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you soon, so that I may be cheered by news of you. I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned for your welfare. All of them are seeking their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ. But Timothy’s worth you know, like a son with a father he has served with me in the work of the gospel. I hope therefore to send him as soon as I see how things go for me. For I trust in the Lord that I will also come soon” (Phil. 2:19-24).
Prayer
Blessed are you, O Inimitable Contriver. You weave the tendrils of the real into a single texture binding us tightly to each other and all that is. Every fiber of the creation connects with every other, making separate life an illusion.
Separated from those we love, we hunger to see, to touch, to hear news of the beloved. But tell me: Does it really help? Does it help Paul to hear of those he cannot touch because of the chains that imprison him? He hungers for words that will bear him up, fill him with hope and joy--with assurance that, just perhaps, all is well in spite of his circumstances.
Why should hearing news of those to whom we have given our heart make such a difference when our circumstances remain unaffected by their fortunes? Yet, it does. Our hearts soar when we know our beloved are blessed, thriving, even when our prospects continue to trouble. We are lifted and relieved of the limitations of current struggles.
We don’t choose this. This is how you fashion our flesh in your own inimitable image. We are made for sharing, not for some illusion of splendid isolation. And you fulfill your image in us, binding us heart-to-heart, flesh to sinew in the body of sharing you are, dear Christ.
You weave us together, never dropping a stitch, linking us with invisible tendrils of connection that the blessing of our beloved blesses us, the flourishing of another cheers us. Lifting us beyond gray prison walls of the isolated self, you enlarge our lives. You release us from the despair of detachment to ride currents of blessing and bear the burdens of human deprivation with those to whom you bind us. This is how we discover what it is is to be human, what it is to reveal the image of your divine wonder. Today, cheer me with news and move me to pray through the lives of all those others with whom you connect me in you. Amen.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Friday, October 26, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:19-24
“I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you soon, so that I may be cheered by news of you. I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned for your welfare” (Phil. 2:19-20).
Prayer
I hear the cry in Paul’s voice. It transports into depths of inescapable longing. You make us so needy, O Inexhaustible Wonder. You make us so vulnerable, so weak. You are Eternal Abundance, dwelling in boundless fullness of the Fullness you are. But you create us to need and to need so much more than bread. You fashion our flesh that we crave the smile and touch, the tear and silent presence of souls as vulnerable as we.
Have I said ‘thank you’ for that recently? I need. And I fly on the wings of my need into the arms of your eternal mercy--and into the presence of souls whose smiles and hugs are holy sacraments of an unspeakable grace, a grace you privilege us to bear and receive. Had you made me less needy, would I know you as well, or the beauty you fashion in the flesh of human souls?
Blessed be the needy; they shall be full of the Fullness you are. Blessed are you, Loving Mystery, for making me need. Blessed are we whom you have joined in a communion of souls who ache for the care and companionship we alone can give each other. Our sharing reveals the eternal generosity of your divine heart, the mystery of your triune nature. In our need, we know you, and know we need nothing more. Amen
Philippians 2:19-24
“I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you soon, so that I may be cheered by news of you. I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned for your welfare” (Phil. 2:19-20).
Prayer
I hear the cry in Paul’s voice. It transports into depths of inescapable longing. You make us so needy, O Inexhaustible Wonder. You make us so vulnerable, so weak. You are Eternal Abundance, dwelling in boundless fullness of the Fullness you are. But you create us to need and to need so much more than bread. You fashion our flesh that we crave the smile and touch, the tear and silent presence of souls as vulnerable as we.
Have I said ‘thank you’ for that recently? I need. And I fly on the wings of my need into the arms of your eternal mercy--and into the presence of souls whose smiles and hugs are holy sacraments of an unspeakable grace, a grace you privilege us to bear and receive. Had you made me less needy, would I know you as well, or the beauty you fashion in the flesh of human souls?
Blessed be the needy; they shall be full of the Fullness you are. Blessed are you, Loving Mystery, for making me need. Blessed are we whom you have joined in a communion of souls who ache for the care and companionship we alone can give each other. Our sharing reveals the eternal generosity of your divine heart, the mystery of your triune nature. In our need, we know you, and know we need nothing more. Amen
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain. But even if I am being poured out as a libation over the sacrifice and offering of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you--and in the same way you also must be glad and rejoice with me” (Phil. 2:14-18).
Prayer
My care is too small so, too, my joy. I know: they are connected, dearest Lord of Laughter. Where there is great care gladness can grow into holy celebration. Should I come to greater care for the growth in grace, beauty and stature of those whom you have placed in my hands, my tiny heart would burst. You would expand my soul’s capacity to encompass the joy you surely know in the fullness of life your your Spirit inspires in these your beloved. I hunger to enter into the blessed laughter of your life.
But sharing your gladness invites the peril of pain from disappointment, abuse, failure, rejection, even destruction. All this you risked and received in your incarnation, and to this you invite all who would come after you. And you offer it with a smile on your blessed face. For you know: the risk is the gate of wonder and gladness. It is entry into the joy of seeing life abundant not only in one’s own flesh but in the lives of those whose souls and faith you, in holy madness, entrust to me and all called to pastoral ministry.
Your servant, Paul, surely took the risk, Pouring out his life for your beloved ones, he entered a gladness whose source is the impenetrable mystery of your divine life, where losing becomes gaining, giving becomes receiving and dying is the gate to startling and unexpected life.
So teach me, my brother, First-born of Eternal Laughter, blessed face of Perpetual Gladness. Such are my morning names for you, however inadequate. Teach me the joy of giving my soul to the souls of those to whom you have given me. In the growth of your life in them, may I enter your gladness. May they all truly know you, and may this be my truest joy. Amen
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain. But even if I am being poured out as a libation over the sacrifice and offering of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you--and in the same way you also must be glad and rejoice with me” (Phil. 2:14-18).
Prayer
My care is too small so, too, my joy. I know: they are connected, dearest Lord of Laughter. Where there is great care gladness can grow into holy celebration. Should I come to greater care for the growth in grace, beauty and stature of those whom you have placed in my hands, my tiny heart would burst. You would expand my soul’s capacity to encompass the joy you surely know in the fullness of life your your Spirit inspires in these your beloved. I hunger to enter into the blessed laughter of your life.
But sharing your gladness invites the peril of pain from disappointment, abuse, failure, rejection, even destruction. All this you risked and received in your incarnation, and to this you invite all who would come after you. And you offer it with a smile on your blessed face. For you know: the risk is the gate of wonder and gladness. It is entry into the joy of seeing life abundant not only in one’s own flesh but in the lives of those whose souls and faith you, in holy madness, entrust to me and all called to pastoral ministry.
Your servant, Paul, surely took the risk, Pouring out his life for your beloved ones, he entered a gladness whose source is the impenetrable mystery of your divine life, where losing becomes gaining, giving becomes receiving and dying is the gate to startling and unexpected life.
So teach me, my brother, First-born of Eternal Laughter, blessed face of Perpetual Gladness. Such are my morning names for you, however inadequate. Teach me the joy of giving my soul to the souls of those to whom you have given me. In the growth of your life in them, may I enter your gladness. May they all truly know you, and may this be my truest joy. Amen
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain. But even if I am being poured out as a libation over the sacrifice and offering of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you--and in the same way you also must be glad and rejoice with me” (Phil. 2:14-18).
Prayer
“You shine like stars.” I hear not Paul’s voice but yours, dearest Friend. You speak tenderly not only to my soul but to the souls of those among whom I live and serve and from whom I daily receive. “You shine like stars. Do you not see it? You are alive with the life I am. For I dwell in the depth of your desire to know me, to love me, to be the love whom I am. You walk about shining with a life not your own, if only you would stop and see and share it, speaking no longer from your fears but from the depth of my love as you have known it, and which you bear.”
I see my brother. I see that our life is not a competition to get what we think we need. The life you give is a communion in the shining of God, a sharing in the glow of divine glory in world. We share in the splashing forth of the resplendence rushing eternally from your face. Your divine splendor, expressed in your healing of the broken, your feeding of the hungry, your mercy on the denied and abused, lights human souls with a love that lifts us above our fears and the walls of self-interest into the self-giving you are.
“You shine like stars,” you say again. “Do not be disturbed my light in another is different or seems brighter than your own. All this shining blesses me. It blesses you. So help them shine.” And I see. It is your desire that we shine with your love that your grace may be the more, your incarnation larger that all might see and savor you. Seeing you blesses me. Your desire is that I may see and share the blessing and joy of dwelling in the presence of love larger than any human flesh can produce.
Today, let me see my life not as a competition by as communion in the glory of your life as you shine in the lives and limbs of all you love. Thank you for the constancy of your love for me. Only in your love can my soul live. Only in you am I me. Amen.
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain. But even if I am being poured out as a libation over the sacrifice and offering of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you--and in the same way you also must be glad and rejoice with me” (Phil. 2:14-18).
Prayer
“You shine like stars.” I hear not Paul’s voice but yours, dearest Friend. You speak tenderly not only to my soul but to the souls of those among whom I live and serve and from whom I daily receive. “You shine like stars. Do you not see it? You are alive with the life I am. For I dwell in the depth of your desire to know me, to love me, to be the love whom I am. You walk about shining with a life not your own, if only you would stop and see and share it, speaking no longer from your fears but from the depth of my love as you have known it, and which you bear.”
I see my brother. I see that our life is not a competition to get what we think we need. The life you give is a communion in the shining of God, a sharing in the glow of divine glory in world. We share in the splashing forth of the resplendence rushing eternally from your face. Your divine splendor, expressed in your healing of the broken, your feeding of the hungry, your mercy on the denied and abused, lights human souls with a love that lifts us above our fears and the walls of self-interest into the self-giving you are.
“You shine like stars,” you say again. “Do not be disturbed my light in another is different or seems brighter than your own. All this shining blesses me. It blesses you. So help them shine.” And I see. It is your desire that we shine with your love that your grace may be the more, your incarnation larger that all might see and savor you. Seeing you blesses me. Your desire is that I may see and share the blessing and joy of dwelling in the presence of love larger than any human flesh can produce.
Today, let me see my life not as a competition by as communion in the glory of your life as you shine in the lives and limbs of all you love. Thank you for the constancy of your love for me. Only in your love can my soul live. Only in you am I me. Amen.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain. But even if I am being poured out as a libation over the sacrifice and offering of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you--and in the same way you also must be glad and rejoice with me” (Phil. 2:14-18).
Prayer
My stomach churns at the passion and vulnerability I hear in Paul’s words. The depth of his care marks a surrender to the Spirit’s call. It subjects him to immense pain and disappointment, emotions against which I do my best to protect myself. To love is know pain. To love greatly is to know great pain from the struggle and need of the beloved, pain you can neither stop or control.
Paul risks great pain. Passionately poured out for the faith and souls of those he loves, their failure to live in Christian witness would mean his failure, his loss, his collapse. It is not enough for him to name Christ among them with whatever power and persuasion he possesses, and then walk away. Not nearly. All is vanity unless they live in faith, in gentle peace and unity in the Spirit of the One Love that won’t let him go.
So different from my ways. Failures of grace and love within your holy church make me want to walk away, troubled, depressed, wounded, wanting only to distance myself from the disappointment of again not finding the incarnation of your love my soul most needs. So I seek to tell my little stories, make my witness and press on.
But it is not enough. Do I care enough to struggle, to suffer pain, to subject myself to the risk of running in vain so that my efforts amount to nothing? Is this really your call, to invest so heavily in the souls and faith of those I serve that their murmuring, their failures to live in the peace of your Spirit, their turning from the depth of soul’s commitment you would work in them becomes my pain, my sorrow, my grief?
If so, I haven’t the reserves for this kind of life. I cannot do it, not without you. Be with me my blessed brother. Grant me my measure of the Spirit in which you loved all the way to the cross. Maybe then I will know Paul’s passion and participate in the Love you are. Amen.
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain. But even if I am being poured out as a libation over the sacrifice and offering of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you--and in the same way you also must be glad and rejoice with me” (Phil. 2:14-18).
Prayer
My stomach churns at the passion and vulnerability I hear in Paul’s words. The depth of his care marks a surrender to the Spirit’s call. It subjects him to immense pain and disappointment, emotions against which I do my best to protect myself. To love is know pain. To love greatly is to know great pain from the struggle and need of the beloved, pain you can neither stop or control.
Paul risks great pain. Passionately poured out for the faith and souls of those he loves, their failure to live in Christian witness would mean his failure, his loss, his collapse. It is not enough for him to name Christ among them with whatever power and persuasion he possesses, and then walk away. Not nearly. All is vanity unless they live in faith, in gentle peace and unity in the Spirit of the One Love that won’t let him go.
So different from my ways. Failures of grace and love within your holy church make me want to walk away, troubled, depressed, wounded, wanting only to distance myself from the disappointment of again not finding the incarnation of your love my soul most needs. So I seek to tell my little stories, make my witness and press on.
But it is not enough. Do I care enough to struggle, to suffer pain, to subject myself to the risk of running in vain so that my efforts amount to nothing? Is this really your call, to invest so heavily in the souls and faith of those I serve that their murmuring, their failures to live in the peace of your Spirit, their turning from the depth of soul’s commitment you would work in them becomes my pain, my sorrow, my grief?
If so, I haven’t the reserves for this kind of life. I cannot do it, not without you. Be with me my blessed brother. Grant me my measure of the Spirit in which you loved all the way to the cross. Maybe then I will know Paul’s passion and participate in the Love you are. Amen.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain” (Phil. 2:14-16).
Prayer
I have seen you, O Gracious Vision. I have seen you shine in human faces alight with a glory beyond human capacity. Names and faces, manifestations of your eternal beauty, ever ancient, ever new, appear in the mind’s eye. They “shine like stars in the world.”
I see Magdalena praying at hospital beds, weathered hands folded, her brittle skin an ancient papyrus on which I can read every indignity she ever suffered, every child she mourned, every neighbor’s sorrow she absorbed as her own. It was never enough. Her folded hands and tender heart bore the weight of human woe until she had so completed your sufferings she could carry no more—and fell asleep in you. And we all rejoiced to have known her, silently giving thanks to have witnessed a glory more than human.
I see Eilert, dying with words of gratitude and blessing on his lips, blessing me and all he loved. I see George forgiving more than I can imagine, the glistening black eyes of his blessed and murdered Christina, shining from the little photo on his lapel. The love alight in those eyes shines, too, in George’s weary hope that violent death will claim no more, a hope he holds as a shield against all likelihood and despair.
There are so many more, O Ancient Beauty, in whose luster I have seen the light of eternity. Far too many to name. Each shines like the sun, some now in the intimacy of your eternal embrace, and all of them in me—exciting my heart and illumining my imagination to the beauty you are pleased to reveal in your saints, and in me.
For such stars in the world I give you thanks. Thanks, too, for eyes to see your beauty. Today, may I live so closely to you that the beauty you are may appear also in the contours of my face, in a way pleasing to your divine mercy. Amen.
Philippians 2:14-18
“Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world. It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain” (Phil. 2:14-16).
Prayer
I have seen you, O Gracious Vision. I have seen you shine in human faces alight with a glory beyond human capacity. Names and faces, manifestations of your eternal beauty, ever ancient, ever new, appear in the mind’s eye. They “shine like stars in the world.”
I see Magdalena praying at hospital beds, weathered hands folded, her brittle skin an ancient papyrus on which I can read every indignity she ever suffered, every child she mourned, every neighbor’s sorrow she absorbed as her own. It was never enough. Her folded hands and tender heart bore the weight of human woe until she had so completed your sufferings she could carry no more—and fell asleep in you. And we all rejoiced to have known her, silently giving thanks to have witnessed a glory more than human.
I see Eilert, dying with words of gratitude and blessing on his lips, blessing me and all he loved. I see George forgiving more than I can imagine, the glistening black eyes of his blessed and murdered Christina, shining from the little photo on his lapel. The love alight in those eyes shines, too, in George’s weary hope that violent death will claim no more, a hope he holds as a shield against all likelihood and despair.
There are so many more, O Ancient Beauty, in whose luster I have seen the light of eternity. Far too many to name. Each shines like the sun, some now in the intimacy of your eternal embrace, and all of them in me—exciting my heart and illumining my imagination to the beauty you are pleased to reveal in your saints, and in me.
For such stars in the world I give you thanks. Thanks, too, for eyes to see your beauty. Today, may I live so closely to you that the beauty you are may appear also in the contours of my face, in a way pleasing to your divine mercy. Amen.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:12-13
“Therefore, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed me, not only in my presence, but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you to will and work for his good pleasure” (Phil. 2:12-13).
Prayer
Do you experience joy, Holy One? You work for your good pleasure in me, in every fallen leaf on October days and in the restless energies of the universe. Each pulses with the life you breathe, conspiring to turn each leaf into nutrient and soil to seed a million tomorrows on this tiny, out-of-the-way planet. Does this bring joy to your divine heart?
Do you look at all the wonder you make, all in which you work, and take pleasure in it, inhaling joy even as I draw in the crisp, autumnal air until my lungs ache? I want only that my flesh should hold more of the ocean of life that envelops me as certainly as your embrace. I breathe in, drawing joy in every breath. And I want more. I want more.
Are you like that, wanting more, more life, more joy, more abundance, more of all in which you take pleasure? I like to think so. I like to think that my constant desire for more—more joy, more life, more love, more of you, is the presence of the Spirit you are. The restless desire for more is but a taste of your hunger to give life, to pour your joy into us that we may stand in awe-struck wonder at the unlikely fact that life is.
But perhaps not so unlikely. From the beginning, your one work has been to love the world—and me—into life, in spite of our determined resistance. Every act of creation, every body and soul Jesus healed, every soul you have released from bondage in this and every age speaks to me of your joy. Every time I cry to you and know again the love in which I was made, the love in which you hold me, voices your delight: “My pleasure is life and giving it. This is my joy.”
I want to share your joy, the good pleasure you surely must know in making beautiful things and loving them into life. I can imagine no greater privilege. Even as the sun rests low, invite me again into the eternal joy of your holy labor. Amen.
Philippians 2:12-13
“Therefore, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed me, not only in my presence, but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you to will and work for his good pleasure” (Phil. 2:12-13).
Prayer
Do you experience joy, Holy One? You work for your good pleasure in me, in every fallen leaf on October days and in the restless energies of the universe. Each pulses with the life you breathe, conspiring to turn each leaf into nutrient and soil to seed a million tomorrows on this tiny, out-of-the-way planet. Does this bring joy to your divine heart?
Do you look at all the wonder you make, all in which you work, and take pleasure in it, inhaling joy even as I draw in the crisp, autumnal air until my lungs ache? I want only that my flesh should hold more of the ocean of life that envelops me as certainly as your embrace. I breathe in, drawing joy in every breath. And I want more. I want more.
Are you like that, wanting more, more life, more joy, more abundance, more of all in which you take pleasure? I like to think so. I like to think that my constant desire for more—more joy, more life, more love, more of you, is the presence of the Spirit you are. The restless desire for more is but a taste of your hunger to give life, to pour your joy into us that we may stand in awe-struck wonder at the unlikely fact that life is.
But perhaps not so unlikely. From the beginning, your one work has been to love the world—and me—into life, in spite of our determined resistance. Every act of creation, every body and soul Jesus healed, every soul you have released from bondage in this and every age speaks to me of your joy. Every time I cry to you and know again the love in which I was made, the love in which you hold me, voices your delight: “My pleasure is life and giving it. This is my joy.”
I want to share your joy, the good pleasure you surely must know in making beautiful things and loving them into life. I can imagine no greater privilege. Even as the sun rests low, invite me again into the eternal joy of your holy labor. Amen.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 2:12-13
“Therefore, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed me, not only in my presence, but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you to will and work for his good pleasure” (Phil. 2:12-13).
Prayer
“My beloved”... the words echo another day, long before, when you, my brother, Jesus, stood in the stream, and John the Baptist poured water over you. There you stood, a flesh and blood human being, immersed in the swirling muddy waters of mortal existence. You stood there, the flesh of God’s desire to stand among fallen and frazzled humanity, sharing our plight and confusion, our pain and pleasure, leaving nothing out, taking it all into the immensity of the your divine heart. You stood there, a perfect icon of the singular generosity of God.
There you stood in the mud, and the voice of the Loving Mystery spoke, calling you ‘beloved son.’ And here your servant, Paul, uses the same blessing to name others whom you also have loved since before the birth of time: “my beloved.”
Your grace and blessing is twofold. The first is the blessing of being named “beloved:” cherished, loved, wanted, delighted in. The second grace is greater: that of blessing another human soul with the name you give me and all whom you love: “my beloved.”
Tell me, what is the source of such grace and blessing, if not the boundless spring of your divine heart? You hold us in your belovedness. You call us “beloved.” You enlarge our sin-shriveled hearts, making them spacious and large, with room for others that we may share your joy. And that? The joy of sharing the holy sacrament of naming another hungry soul, “my beloved,” passing along the grace that you, O Loving Mystery, has pronounced over me, and over all this frazzled, fallen mess of a world, all of it, “my beloved.”
Today, let me never forget your name for me. Grant me the joy of sharing this, your singular grace, with another needy soul who is, indeed, beloved of God from all eternity. Amen.
Philippians 2:12-13
“Therefore, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed me, not only in my presence, but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you to will and work for his good pleasure” (Phil. 2:12-13).
Prayer
“My beloved”... the words echo another day, long before, when you, my brother, Jesus, stood in the stream, and John the Baptist poured water over you. There you stood, a flesh and blood human being, immersed in the swirling muddy waters of mortal existence. You stood there, the flesh of God’s desire to stand among fallen and frazzled humanity, sharing our plight and confusion, our pain and pleasure, leaving nothing out, taking it all into the immensity of the your divine heart. You stood there, a perfect icon of the singular generosity of God.
There you stood in the mud, and the voice of the Loving Mystery spoke, calling you ‘beloved son.’ And here your servant, Paul, uses the same blessing to name others whom you also have loved since before the birth of time: “my beloved.”
Your grace and blessing is twofold. The first is the blessing of being named “beloved:” cherished, loved, wanted, delighted in. The second grace is greater: that of blessing another human soul with the name you give me and all whom you love: “my beloved.”
Tell me, what is the source of such grace and blessing, if not the boundless spring of your divine heart? You hold us in your belovedness. You call us “beloved.” You enlarge our sin-shriveled hearts, making them spacious and large, with room for others that we may share your joy. And that? The joy of sharing the holy sacrament of naming another hungry soul, “my beloved,” passing along the grace that you, O Loving Mystery, has pronounced over me, and over all this frazzled, fallen mess of a world, all of it, “my beloved.”
Today, let me never forget your name for me. Grant me the joy of sharing this, your singular grace, with another needy soul who is, indeed, beloved of God from all eternity. Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)