Today’s reading
Philippians 4:4:1-7
“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God that passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:4-7).
Prayer
Come, Lord Jesus. Teach our hearts that we belong to your new age. Convince our souls that we are citizens of a land alien to the one we typically inhabit. We live what we see. The challenges of our days loom large. We see threats to our ability to succeed, to be accepted, to master that corner of the world we need to control to feel safe. And fear immediately follows, shadowing our hearts, sucking our souls dry until they are mere husks, empty of the abundant joy and vitality that is your desire for all you love.
Come, Lord Jesus. Draw us beyond the illusion of our fears into the world of your grace. Lift us from dread and exhaustion into joy and tears. Our being springs from the Ground of Love you are. We are alive with you. Apart from that love we do not exist. You, Abiding Love, surround and envelop us and all life. We dwell in the atmosphere of Holy Presence. You are near.
Fear evaporates like so much morning mist when our souls release their fearful grip and live into into this awareness. Joy fills our frame, and the beauty you have loved into us is released, sparkling in hope-filled faces alive with anticipation. Even in my face. Thank you.
As we await the fullness of your coming to fill all things, I ask again. Come, Lord Jesus, fill us with the awareness of your nearness that we may live in the presence of Everlasting Love, drawing you in with our every breath. Then, truly, we shall live, with joy, beyond our fearful illusions. Amen.
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Thursday, December 07, 2006
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:20-21
“But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that enables him to make all things subject to himself” (Phil. 3:20-21).
Prayer
Come, Lord Jesus transform our bodies. Conform us to your glory. Your glory is clear. You lived transparent to the Loving Mystery you called “Abba, Father,” the infinite source all creation, the fountain of all being, the Living Spring of Love. All you did and are--every act of healing and care, every word of teaching or argument with those who opposed you--conformed in detail to the desire of the Everlasting Love who has haunted us all our days. From your call to enter to your kingdom to your acceptance of your torturous death, you are the face of the Infinite Wonder no eye has seen.
But we have seen you, and seeing you we behold the Loving Mystery who desires to shape our lives and bodies into the image of your eternal beauty. It takes my breath away and scares me. For you reveal a love I don’t and can’t grasp. Your love grasps me and doesn’t let go. It is hungry, discontent and unresting until it fills every empty space where it is not, every corner of every soul that still turns away, clogged by its own fears and preoccupations. You will have all of us, and all of us will be the love you are. But I wonder: What little will be left of my self-absorbed, fear-disfigured life when I, finally, am subject to the love you are?
Still I pray. I must pray, “Come, Lord Jesus.” I know that you do. I look about and see the glory of your hungry, restless love in the lives of your beloved, sometimes even in my own body. Continue to fill us with the divine desire from which your every word flowed like a living spring. Conform our bodies to your own that we might known and shine with the Everlasting Love with whom we cannot live without.
Come, Lord Jesus, our hearts are hungry for you. Amen.
Philippians 3:20-21
“But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that enables him to make all things subject to himself” (Phil. 3:20-21).
Prayer
Come, Lord Jesus transform our bodies. Conform us to your glory. Your glory is clear. You lived transparent to the Loving Mystery you called “Abba, Father,” the infinite source all creation, the fountain of all being, the Living Spring of Love. All you did and are--every act of healing and care, every word of teaching or argument with those who opposed you--conformed in detail to the desire of the Everlasting Love who has haunted us all our days. From your call to enter to your kingdom to your acceptance of your torturous death, you are the face of the Infinite Wonder no eye has seen.
But we have seen you, and seeing you we behold the Loving Mystery who desires to shape our lives and bodies into the image of your eternal beauty. It takes my breath away and scares me. For you reveal a love I don’t and can’t grasp. Your love grasps me and doesn’t let go. It is hungry, discontent and unresting until it fills every empty space where it is not, every corner of every soul that still turns away, clogged by its own fears and preoccupations. You will have all of us, and all of us will be the love you are. But I wonder: What little will be left of my self-absorbed, fear-disfigured life when I, finally, am subject to the love you are?
Still I pray. I must pray, “Come, Lord Jesus.” I know that you do. I look about and see the glory of your hungry, restless love in the lives of your beloved, sometimes even in my own body. Continue to fill us with the divine desire from which your every word flowed like a living spring. Conform our bodies to your own that we might known and shine with the Everlasting Love with whom we cannot live without.
Come, Lord Jesus, our hearts are hungry for you. Amen.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:20-21
“But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that enables him to make all things subject to himself” (Phil. 3:20-21).
Prayer
Come, Lord Jesus. Advent comes again, stirring our longing for a beauty and grace not fully born. Our music assumes a minor key melancholy, the best of it written in the key of yearning. Darkness descends. Earth cools. Snow lately shimmering bright as life now lies a leaden sludge in the gutters. We scurry from door to door before bitter chill chafes our cheeks raw. From task half done, we dash to the next, racing to finish that last paper, prepare for that test, to get this paper off our desks before the holy days, for the most part forgetting that all days are holy.
Come, Lord Jesus. The world is too much with us: death haunts Darfur, murder stalks Baghdad, the way of peace escapes the wisdom of the learned and powerful, the homeless freeze on our streets, disease hunts down our families and e-mail refuses even a moment’s respite from life’s demands and tragedies. The digital highway hurries in with news of friends. Their eagerly awaited child, loved with full hearts before drawing a breath of life’s sweet air, dies in utero. Hopes dash. Darkness descends. Earth cools.
But we hope, and we hope in you. So come Lord Jesus. We do not await your blessed appearance as those who do not know you. You once came, revealing as finite fact the face of the Infinite Wonder who draws us ever to you. You made it clear: this death-haunted Earth and we are loved with an everlasting love by the One who is Everlasting Love. You will subject all that is to the love you are are. We hunger for that.
So come, Lord Jesus. We hope as those who know you. For the hope that animates our hearts, the love bubbling in us for your word and world, the great “no” that speaks in our souls at the sight of all that destroys and disfigures earth and all you love, these tell us that you come even now, already subjecting our lives to your love. May we so live today. Come, Lord Jesus, finish what have started. Amen.
Philippians 3:20-21
“But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that enables him to make all things subject to himself” (Phil. 3:20-21).
Prayer
Come, Lord Jesus. Advent comes again, stirring our longing for a beauty and grace not fully born. Our music assumes a minor key melancholy, the best of it written in the key of yearning. Darkness descends. Earth cools. Snow lately shimmering bright as life now lies a leaden sludge in the gutters. We scurry from door to door before bitter chill chafes our cheeks raw. From task half done, we dash to the next, racing to finish that last paper, prepare for that test, to get this paper off our desks before the holy days, for the most part forgetting that all days are holy.
Come, Lord Jesus. The world is too much with us: death haunts Darfur, murder stalks Baghdad, the way of peace escapes the wisdom of the learned and powerful, the homeless freeze on our streets, disease hunts down our families and e-mail refuses even a moment’s respite from life’s demands and tragedies. The digital highway hurries in with news of friends. Their eagerly awaited child, loved with full hearts before drawing a breath of life’s sweet air, dies in utero. Hopes dash. Darkness descends. Earth cools.
But we hope, and we hope in you. So come Lord Jesus. We do not await your blessed appearance as those who do not know you. You once came, revealing as finite fact the face of the Infinite Wonder who draws us ever to you. You made it clear: this death-haunted Earth and we are loved with an everlasting love by the One who is Everlasting Love. You will subject all that is to the love you are are. We hunger for that.
So come, Lord Jesus. We hope as those who know you. For the hope that animates our hearts, the love bubbling in us for your word and world, the great “no” that speaks in our souls at the sight of all that destroys and disfigures earth and all you love, these tell us that you come even now, already subjecting our lives to your love. May we so live today. Come, Lord Jesus, finish what have started. Amen.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Monday, December 4, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:17-21
“Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have seen in us. For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ ... . But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that enables him to make all things subject to himself” (Phil. 3:17-18a, 20-21).
Prayer
You are purest of heart, Holy One, for truly you will only one thing: the fulfillment of your love in all that is and in me. Thank you. I wake chanting those two words. Thank you for making me one again. You reveal your desire in Benjamin, my one-year-old grandson. He wakes each day, brushes sleep from his eyes, smiles and laughs at the wonder of being alive. He wakes up laughing, joy dancing in his fiery black eyes.
I wake, and consciousness comes accompanied by two words, “thank you.” But for what and from where? For the crazy givenness of my own life? For the graces of relationships that daily surround me with the beauty of your holy future? Yes, surely. But mostly for the startling assurance bubbling from the deep well of my soul, springing from that invisible point where your Spirit and mine meet. A living spring flows from that convergence, an undeniable awareness that I belong to you, to the holy future from which you come to make all things new.
My morning gratitude comes unbidden by conscious willing. It is the natural effluence of a soul that knows itself already being subject to You, whose joy is to subject all the whirling elements of the universe to your loving desire. You subject my soul to your own divine heart, transforming me with all creation into the body of your glory. Your glory, my Lord Christ, is to reveal the loving joy of the One who is Love itself.
We await your final advent when you will subject all things to your desire. Then, all that is and the fullness of our souls will glisten with your glory, even as the eyes of my Benjamin. Until then may our lives grow ever more transparent to the glory and joy of your unquenchable loving. Amen.
Philippians 3:17-21
“Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have seen in us. For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ ... . But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that enables him to make all things subject to himself” (Phil. 3:17-18a, 20-21).
Prayer
You are purest of heart, Holy One, for truly you will only one thing: the fulfillment of your love in all that is and in me. Thank you. I wake chanting those two words. Thank you for making me one again. You reveal your desire in Benjamin, my one-year-old grandson. He wakes each day, brushes sleep from his eyes, smiles and laughs at the wonder of being alive. He wakes up laughing, joy dancing in his fiery black eyes.
I wake, and consciousness comes accompanied by two words, “thank you.” But for what and from where? For the crazy givenness of my own life? For the graces of relationships that daily surround me with the beauty of your holy future? Yes, surely. But mostly for the startling assurance bubbling from the deep well of my soul, springing from that invisible point where your Spirit and mine meet. A living spring flows from that convergence, an undeniable awareness that I belong to you, to the holy future from which you come to make all things new.
My morning gratitude comes unbidden by conscious willing. It is the natural effluence of a soul that knows itself already being subject to You, whose joy is to subject all the whirling elements of the universe to your loving desire. You subject my soul to your own divine heart, transforming me with all creation into the body of your glory. Your glory, my Lord Christ, is to reveal the loving joy of the One who is Love itself.
We await your final advent when you will subject all things to your desire. Then, all that is and the fullness of our souls will glisten with your glory, even as the eyes of my Benjamin. Until then may our lives grow ever more transparent to the glory and joy of your unquenchable loving. Amen.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Friday, December 1, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:17-20
“Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have seen in us. For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ; I have often told you of them, and now I tell you even with tears. Their end is destruction; their god is the belly; and their glory is in their shame; their minds are set on earthly things. But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ” (Phil. 3:17-20).
Prayer
The seasons change. Snow blankets the ground. Northern gusts fashion shimmering art of exacting detail on every limb and fragile sprig that frames the street. Earth transforms, again, offering a fresh gallery of creative joy. Great oak boughs groan beneath the weight of glistening glory. Pairs of perfectly coated crab apple trees stand sentry at the back corners of the fence. Every delicate twig glistens as in a snow globe, perfect, no detail unattended by the painters hand. The birch splays its arms high and white above, a visual alleluia to whatever Creator imagined this.
And I wonder, Dearest Friend: Do you take creative joy in this wonder through which thousands trudge their way to daily duties? Despite the struggles it creates for us, your wondrous Earth moves me to gratitude without my choosing or willing it. It appears full grown in my soul. I merely drink in what little I can perceive about me.
Such gratitude is your your Spirit taking possession of my own, moving me to praise you for this stark and brutal beauty, and for the wonder that creation should exist at all. You move me into joy that there is something and not nothing. But my most profound gratitude is for a heart to see it and to love you for all your joyous creating, ever ongoing.
On a snowy morning, this heart of joy and love for you tells me that I am not alien to you. This heart is of your making. In my mortal flesh, you whisper assurance that you, Joyful Contriver, Master of the Snow, create in us minds for wonder and hearts to name you who are beyond all naming. And yet, we know you so well through your most exquisite creation, our brother Jesus, the beauty of your face, the face of our everlasting future, the future of all you so gladly contrive. Amen.
Philippians 3:17-20
“Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have seen in us. For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ; I have often told you of them, and now I tell you even with tears. Their end is destruction; their god is the belly; and their glory is in their shame; their minds are set on earthly things. But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ” (Phil. 3:17-20).
Prayer
The seasons change. Snow blankets the ground. Northern gusts fashion shimmering art of exacting detail on every limb and fragile sprig that frames the street. Earth transforms, again, offering a fresh gallery of creative joy. Great oak boughs groan beneath the weight of glistening glory. Pairs of perfectly coated crab apple trees stand sentry at the back corners of the fence. Every delicate twig glistens as in a snow globe, perfect, no detail unattended by the painters hand. The birch splays its arms high and white above, a visual alleluia to whatever Creator imagined this.
And I wonder, Dearest Friend: Do you take creative joy in this wonder through which thousands trudge their way to daily duties? Despite the struggles it creates for us, your wondrous Earth moves me to gratitude without my choosing or willing it. It appears full grown in my soul. I merely drink in what little I can perceive about me.
Such gratitude is your your Spirit taking possession of my own, moving me to praise you for this stark and brutal beauty, and for the wonder that creation should exist at all. You move me into joy that there is something and not nothing. But my most profound gratitude is for a heart to see it and to love you for all your joyous creating, ever ongoing.
On a snowy morning, this heart of joy and love for you tells me that I am not alien to you. This heart is of your making. In my mortal flesh, you whisper assurance that you, Joyful Contriver, Master of the Snow, create in us minds for wonder and hearts to name you who are beyond all naming. And yet, we know you so well through your most exquisite creation, our brother Jesus, the beauty of your face, the face of our everlasting future, the future of all you so gladly contrive. Amen.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:16
“Only let us hold fast to what we have attained” (Phil. 3: 16).
Prayer
Who holds whom, Loving Mystery? I hold close the lightness of being I know on days like this. Today, the dense clouds of unknowing roll thin, and through murky obscurity I begin to see with eyes not of head but heart. Your presence is everywhere I look. I move through the banal spaces of my life and daily labors certain that I am enveloped in a divine milieu. The love you are holds everything fast and ever-so gently. We move through you as through an enveloping cloud that embraces all reality, misting all that is—and me—with undeniable gladness.
You are everywhere, surrounding us—in the refectory, on to the mail room, up the stairs, across the great hallway, through the chapel, in the faces, filling the spaces around and within us. The most mundane duties and common conversations glow with a gentle grace that leaves me more alive for simply having been there. I see: All that is swims in an ocean of Spirit that seeks to soak us to the core with the delight which take in all you love.
I cling to your nearness. I hold fast to what you teach my heart: that you want and delight in me, that you are all love, that you have sought us along all the winding paths we have wandered and always will, that you hunger for our nearness as we do for you, that you have shown us your beauty in the face of my brother Jesus.
Tomorrow may be different. Gladness may flee. Dense clouds of obscurity may hide your face so deeply that I wonder whether today is but illusion. But I will know. Even when my hands are too weak to hold you near, you will hold me fast and always will. Amen.
Philippians 3:16
“Only let us hold fast to what we have attained” (Phil. 3: 16).
Prayer
Who holds whom, Loving Mystery? I hold close the lightness of being I know on days like this. Today, the dense clouds of unknowing roll thin, and through murky obscurity I begin to see with eyes not of head but heart. Your presence is everywhere I look. I move through the banal spaces of my life and daily labors certain that I am enveloped in a divine milieu. The love you are holds everything fast and ever-so gently. We move through you as through an enveloping cloud that embraces all reality, misting all that is—and me—with undeniable gladness.
You are everywhere, surrounding us—in the refectory, on to the mail room, up the stairs, across the great hallway, through the chapel, in the faces, filling the spaces around and within us. The most mundane duties and common conversations glow with a gentle grace that leaves me more alive for simply having been there. I see: All that is swims in an ocean of Spirit that seeks to soak us to the core with the delight which take in all you love.
I cling to your nearness. I hold fast to what you teach my heart: that you want and delight in me, that you are all love, that you have sought us along all the winding paths we have wandered and always will, that you hunger for our nearness as we do for you, that you have shown us your beauty in the face of my brother Jesus.
Tomorrow may be different. Gladness may flee. Dense clouds of obscurity may hide your face so deeply that I wonder whether today is but illusion. But I will know. Even when my hands are too weak to hold you near, you will hold me fast and always will. Amen.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:14-16
“I press on towards the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. Let those of us then who are mature be of the same mind; and if you think differently about anything this, too, God will reveal to you. Only let us hold fast to what we have attained” (Phil. 3:14-16).
Prayer
Give me that gracious turn of mind that is your own, most Courteous Christ. In you all things came to be. All that I see and am was fashioned in you, through you and for you. You hold all things together. You are that gravity of grace that draws together all the whirling elements of this and every universe. Yet, you do not force your love on any. You seek not to dominate my heart but to woo and win it by washing my soul in your beloved delight until I am convinced that all that I have and am is a gift of the good pleasure you take in loving one such as me.
You call me to dwell in the heart of humility. This is easy on days like this, not because my soul is downcast or disgraced but because I taste the fullness of you who are, the living bread of the Eternal Fullness whom I cannot see. Seeing and knowing you, my heart is convinced beyond any possible doubt that my knowledge of you is blessedly partial and incomplete and ever shall be. Most of all, I know your good pleasure. I am enveloped by your abiding and unfailing desire to give yourself to me that I may more fully enter the belovedness in which you have held me for all eternity.
I savor the smallness I know as you encompass me with the fullness of your loving desire, a rather lavish gift for just one life don’t you think? Still, you wrap my smallness in your encompassing wonder, lifting me into the gratitude and praise which is the highest joy a human heart may know.
Thank you, Most Courteous Christ. Give to us all, to our community of faith and learning, that humility of mind and heart that holds the precious gifts we have attained from you, but remains ever aware that you are so much more. Amen.
Philippians 3:14-16
“I press on towards the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. Let those of us then who are mature be of the same mind; and if you think differently about anything this, too, God will reveal to you. Only let us hold fast to what we have attained” (Phil. 3:14-16).
Prayer
Give me that gracious turn of mind that is your own, most Courteous Christ. In you all things came to be. All that I see and am was fashioned in you, through you and for you. You hold all things together. You are that gravity of grace that draws together all the whirling elements of this and every universe. Yet, you do not force your love on any. You seek not to dominate my heart but to woo and win it by washing my soul in your beloved delight until I am convinced that all that I have and am is a gift of the good pleasure you take in loving one such as me.
You call me to dwell in the heart of humility. This is easy on days like this, not because my soul is downcast or disgraced but because I taste the fullness of you who are, the living bread of the Eternal Fullness whom I cannot see. Seeing and knowing you, my heart is convinced beyond any possible doubt that my knowledge of you is blessedly partial and incomplete and ever shall be. Most of all, I know your good pleasure. I am enveloped by your abiding and unfailing desire to give yourself to me that I may more fully enter the belovedness in which you have held me for all eternity.
I savor the smallness I know as you encompass me with the fullness of your loving desire, a rather lavish gift for just one life don’t you think? Still, you wrap my smallness in your encompassing wonder, lifting me into the gratitude and praise which is the highest joy a human heart may know.
Thank you, Most Courteous Christ. Give to us all, to our community of faith and learning, that humility of mind and heart that holds the precious gifts we have attained from you, but remains ever aware that you are so much more. Amen.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:12-14
“Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on towards the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:12-14).
Prayer
I do not want to forget ... anything. I want to cradle every moment in the unlikely journey that has brought me to this time. I want to remember every face I have ever met, every street I have ever walked, every voice I have ever heard, every town and place I have known. I want to remember them all. Every one of them is place of holy habitation where you waited for me to show up that you might love me and shape me into that image of your mercy that pleases you.
I do not want to forget what lies behind because, despite days of cynicism and moments of despair, I see that I have walked a path of blessing on which all roads led to you. No matter which way I walked and even when I tried to walk away, I arrived at your door. Every step and misstep has been part of journey into you, blessed Christ, who long ago made me your own. Each face and town, each street and sound in some mysterious way are the dark path on which I have walked into the mystery of your dying and rising.
To forget is to lose the places I have known you. It is to sacrifice the grace of gratitude for the ways you have loved me and poured this sparkling hope into my mortal flesh. How can I forget? But I do. Each day more of the journey recedes deeper in mind. It saddens me. For I lose one more place of blessing for which I would praise you, if only I could name it.
But my moments are never lost to you, Timeless Mercy. You hold them all, even as you hold me lest any part of this journey sink into the murky depths of meaninglessness. And I will press on, knowing that you who have made me your own await me on the way. You will shimmer in eyes I have not yet met. You will speak in the grace of voices yet unheard. You will coax me along unfamiliar paths that may reach my home, which was, is and always will be you. Amen.
Philippians 3:12-14
“Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on towards the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:12-14).
Prayer
I do not want to forget ... anything. I want to cradle every moment in the unlikely journey that has brought me to this time. I want to remember every face I have ever met, every street I have ever walked, every voice I have ever heard, every town and place I have known. I want to remember them all. Every one of them is place of holy habitation where you waited for me to show up that you might love me and shape me into that image of your mercy that pleases you.
I do not want to forget what lies behind because, despite days of cynicism and moments of despair, I see that I have walked a path of blessing on which all roads led to you. No matter which way I walked and even when I tried to walk away, I arrived at your door. Every step and misstep has been part of journey into you, blessed Christ, who long ago made me your own. Each face and town, each street and sound in some mysterious way are the dark path on which I have walked into the mystery of your dying and rising.
To forget is to lose the places I have known you. It is to sacrifice the grace of gratitude for the ways you have loved me and poured this sparkling hope into my mortal flesh. How can I forget? But I do. Each day more of the journey recedes deeper in mind. It saddens me. For I lose one more place of blessing for which I would praise you, if only I could name it.
But my moments are never lost to you, Timeless Mercy. You hold them all, even as you hold me lest any part of this journey sink into the murky depths of meaninglessness. And I will press on, knowing that you who have made me your own await me on the way. You will shimmer in eyes I have not yet met. You will speak in the grace of voices yet unheard. You will coax me along unfamiliar paths that may reach my home, which was, is and always will be you. Amen.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:12-14
“Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have already made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:12-14).
Prayer
My life, Dear One, is a rhythm of resting and pressing on. But there is little of the spiritual athlete in me today, perhaps ever. I prefer to rest in the mystery of your love for me, tasting the sweetness of the sacraments you prepare for me: Dixie’s smile, my children’s voices on the phone, the mischief of my grandsons, moody November sunsets, reading gentle souls whose words again remind me that I am not alone. All these and more are sacraments of a holy grace that fills this needy heart of mine. Only in recent years have I allowed myself to rest, to sink into the ocean of your mercy, trusting you will always bear me in your beloved nearness.
But Monday comes. The semester marches inexorably to a close. Insistent voices cry out in consciousness, “Press on. There is work to do, phone calls to make, appointments to keep, people to consult, bills to pay, articles and a sermon to write.” The voices shake my soul from languid currents of re-creation. They consume my consciousness with an insistent staccato that allows no gracious empty spaces in soul or schedule.
I prefer to rest a while longer, but neither the day nor you, it seems, will allow it. And you offer a promise: More. There is more of you to know, to savor, to enter. You are Boundless Life, and the wonder you are is beyond height or depth, length or breadth. You are always more than I think or can imagine, always more than I know or ever can know, more life, more love, more hope, more than any can ever know. No arms are long enough to gather you in. No mind can cast its net wide enough to capture the immeasurable fullness of your life and holy labor in this and every cosmos.
Whatever I have known of you, however small or great, there is more of you to make my own, more that you are infinitely pleased to give… and to give me. Thank you. Thank you for refusing to let me rest with what is, with what I have known of you. Pull me on even against my willing that I may press deeper into the mystery of you, who are all love and life. Amen.
Philippians 3:12-14
“Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have already made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:12-14).
Prayer
My life, Dear One, is a rhythm of resting and pressing on. But there is little of the spiritual athlete in me today, perhaps ever. I prefer to rest in the mystery of your love for me, tasting the sweetness of the sacraments you prepare for me: Dixie’s smile, my children’s voices on the phone, the mischief of my grandsons, moody November sunsets, reading gentle souls whose words again remind me that I am not alone. All these and more are sacraments of a holy grace that fills this needy heart of mine. Only in recent years have I allowed myself to rest, to sink into the ocean of your mercy, trusting you will always bear me in your beloved nearness.
But Monday comes. The semester marches inexorably to a close. Insistent voices cry out in consciousness, “Press on. There is work to do, phone calls to make, appointments to keep, people to consult, bills to pay, articles and a sermon to write.” The voices shake my soul from languid currents of re-creation. They consume my consciousness with an insistent staccato that allows no gracious empty spaces in soul or schedule.
I prefer to rest a while longer, but neither the day nor you, it seems, will allow it. And you offer a promise: More. There is more of you to know, to savor, to enter. You are Boundless Life, and the wonder you are is beyond height or depth, length or breadth. You are always more than I think or can imagine, always more than I know or ever can know, more life, more love, more hope, more than any can ever know. No arms are long enough to gather you in. No mind can cast its net wide enough to capture the immeasurable fullness of your life and holy labor in this and every cosmos.
Whatever I have known of you, however small or great, there is more of you to make my own, more that you are infinitely pleased to give… and to give me. Thank you. Thank you for refusing to let me rest with what is, with what I have known of you. Pull me on even against my willing that I may press deeper into the mystery of you, who are all love and life. Amen.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:10-11
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:10-11).
Prayer
For what shall I thank you, Dearest Friend? More than anything I want to thank you for what I have lost. But I am not sure that I can. Seventeen months ago, I stepped with willing ambivalence from a place that loved and hated me, where I knew success and favor, abuse and distrust, respect and status, accomplishment, adventure and joy. I left because the place no longer fit. Neither places nor souls remain static, and your Spirit within my spirit seemed to call for fresh expression.
But saying ‘thank you’ for the grief of losing something to which you have surrendered your heart is beyond human capacity. At least it’s beyond me. Only the miracle of your grace can move my lips to this most improbable gesture of gratitude. These two small words, ‘thank you,’ choke and die in my throat unless you, Patient Friend, teach my heart the surpassing value and joy of gifts that could never have been received without first losing.
My heart is still learning. But I have begun to know a gratitude that was not in me before, and for this I say, “thank you.” Thank you that ‘good byes’ opened the door into the great paschal mystery of your life, where losing becomes finding and dying is the gateway to graces I could not have known without releasing my grip a way of life I had loved. With patience and insistent love, you have taught my heart to embrace this mystery again, and in deeper ways.
I know this lesson isn’t fully learned. That will come only in eternity. But even now the power of your resurrection appears in the flesh and blood of my living and loving. With joy and great laughter, you have dragged my unwilling heart into your resurrection, freeing me to speak two words, “thank you.” I savor these words and the freedom of heart from which they come. They are a preliminary morsel of a yet greater feast. Amen.
Philippians 3:10-11
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:10-11).
Prayer
For what shall I thank you, Dearest Friend? More than anything I want to thank you for what I have lost. But I am not sure that I can. Seventeen months ago, I stepped with willing ambivalence from a place that loved and hated me, where I knew success and favor, abuse and distrust, respect and status, accomplishment, adventure and joy. I left because the place no longer fit. Neither places nor souls remain static, and your Spirit within my spirit seemed to call for fresh expression.
But saying ‘thank you’ for the grief of losing something to which you have surrendered your heart is beyond human capacity. At least it’s beyond me. Only the miracle of your grace can move my lips to this most improbable gesture of gratitude. These two small words, ‘thank you,’ choke and die in my throat unless you, Patient Friend, teach my heart the surpassing value and joy of gifts that could never have been received without first losing.
My heart is still learning. But I have begun to know a gratitude that was not in me before, and for this I say, “thank you.” Thank you that ‘good byes’ opened the door into the great paschal mystery of your life, where losing becomes finding and dying is the gateway to graces I could not have known without releasing my grip a way of life I had loved. With patience and insistent love, you have taught my heart to embrace this mystery again, and in deeper ways.
I know this lesson isn’t fully learned. That will come only in eternity. But even now the power of your resurrection appears in the flesh and blood of my living and loving. With joy and great laughter, you have dragged my unwilling heart into your resurrection, freeing me to speak two words, “thank you.” I savor these words and the freedom of heart from which they come. They are a preliminary morsel of a yet greater feast. Amen.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:10-11
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:10-11).
Prayer
I sat with a soul I love, Incarnate Joy, and in his smile and sincere seeking I saw you. But how is that sitting with one of your own I suddenly discover that I am in the presence of holiness. One moment I notice nothing but pleasant conversation, the next I am silently thanking you that I am alive, that I am here, that I am privileged to listen to another soul in whose words I hear you speaking? How does this happen? It is as impenetrable to me as the mystery you are. How ever it happens, thank you. It is your gift of breath to my soul.
I enter another mode of being when I know myself in this inexplicable love that is your presence here among us. It is then I know the power of your resurrection, not in fullness but in its certainty and certainly in in the flesh and blood of the present moment. I know: the tomb that held your crucified body was a failed project.
You are loose in the world and sitting on my couch, bringing tears of gratitude to my eyes. I look this soul in the eyes and see you. And I know he hasn’t any idea that he walks around with the glint of eternal dawn in his eyes. He knows the joy of those blessed to bear your eternity in their mortality. But he hasn’t a clue what is clear to any who enjoy the privilege of listening not to his words but to the heart from which they flow, a living stream of resurrected life. He should be my teacher. Indeed, he is.
You, O Living Light of Eternal Glory, shape us both. You grant to each of us the particular incarnation of your resurrected life that pleases your loving purpose. You sit across from me, shining with a simplicity of heart and desire born of a love which invites any who see it to come home and rest in your presence. And to me, you give eyes to see the power of your resurrected beauty. May I see you again. You take my breath away. Amen.
Philippians 3:10-11
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:10-11).
Prayer
I sat with a soul I love, Incarnate Joy, and in his smile and sincere seeking I saw you. But how is that sitting with one of your own I suddenly discover that I am in the presence of holiness. One moment I notice nothing but pleasant conversation, the next I am silently thanking you that I am alive, that I am here, that I am privileged to listen to another soul in whose words I hear you speaking? How does this happen? It is as impenetrable to me as the mystery you are. How ever it happens, thank you. It is your gift of breath to my soul.
I enter another mode of being when I know myself in this inexplicable love that is your presence here among us. It is then I know the power of your resurrection, not in fullness but in its certainty and certainly in in the flesh and blood of the present moment. I know: the tomb that held your crucified body was a failed project.
You are loose in the world and sitting on my couch, bringing tears of gratitude to my eyes. I look this soul in the eyes and see you. And I know he hasn’t any idea that he walks around with the glint of eternal dawn in his eyes. He knows the joy of those blessed to bear your eternity in their mortality. But he hasn’t a clue what is clear to any who enjoy the privilege of listening not to his words but to the heart from which they flow, a living stream of resurrected life. He should be my teacher. Indeed, he is.
You, O Living Light of Eternal Glory, shape us both. You grant to each of us the particular incarnation of your resurrected life that pleases your loving purpose. You sit across from me, shining with a simplicity of heart and desire born of a love which invites any who see it to come home and rest in your presence. And to me, you give eyes to see the power of your resurrected beauty. May I see you again. You take my breath away. Amen.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:8b-11
“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. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:8b-11).
Prayer
I have no righteousness of my own, Faithful One. I have no pretensions. You strip them all away. I know: I sin. I fall. I am driven by anxieties born of unfaith, restless lusts and ancient anger you have not yet loved out of me. When I try to make some name for myself my feet of clay again crumble, and I collapse at your feet, seeking a life and joy I cannot provide myself. And you? You are constant and unfailing, my certain morning companion who greets me in thin gray light. “Welcome,” you say each day. “I am. I am here. I am what you need. I am your righteousness.”
But is that what I need? I suppose so. My sin is already before me, and it is still early. But there is no hiding from you. You know this idea, righteousness, has never been able to grasp this soul or move me into the world of your wonder. I find it impersonal. It seems to hold you at a distance. It leaves me cold.
But you do not leave me cold. You draw me into your embrace. You welcome me into a holy space where what is yours is mine. You fulfill your desire to give me the fullness of life and intimacy with that Loving Mystery you called ‘Father,” during the days of your earthly ministry.
You, risen Christ, give me your own relationship with this Holy Mystery. You invite me into that intimacy you shared with Holy Wonder when you crept from your bed in the wee hours to sit in heart silence, speaking to the One whose name is Unspeakable. You draw me in this holy space of knowing this Love Beyond All Telling.
But there I know no thought of sin or stain or righteousness for I am in you. I live and breathe in a clear and open space where all sin and disordered desire are gone, and all thoughts of righteousness are irrelevant. They evaporate, absorbed in the morning light of paradise dawn. For I am in you, knowing the life you are. If this is what your righteousness is, if this is how you set things right, count me in. Amen.
Philippians 3:8b-11
“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. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:8b-11).
Prayer
I have no righteousness of my own, Faithful One. I have no pretensions. You strip them all away. I know: I sin. I fall. I am driven by anxieties born of unfaith, restless lusts and ancient anger you have not yet loved out of me. When I try to make some name for myself my feet of clay again crumble, and I collapse at your feet, seeking a life and joy I cannot provide myself. And you? You are constant and unfailing, my certain morning companion who greets me in thin gray light. “Welcome,” you say each day. “I am. I am here. I am what you need. I am your righteousness.”
But is that what I need? I suppose so. My sin is already before me, and it is still early. But there is no hiding from you. You know this idea, righteousness, has never been able to grasp this soul or move me into the world of your wonder. I find it impersonal. It seems to hold you at a distance. It leaves me cold.
But you do not leave me cold. You draw me into your embrace. You welcome me into a holy space where what is yours is mine. You fulfill your desire to give me the fullness of life and intimacy with that Loving Mystery you called ‘Father,” during the days of your earthly ministry.
You, risen Christ, give me your own relationship with this Holy Mystery. You invite me into that intimacy you shared with Holy Wonder when you crept from your bed in the wee hours to sit in heart silence, speaking to the One whose name is Unspeakable. You draw me in this holy space of knowing this Love Beyond All Telling.
But there I know no thought of sin or stain or righteousness for I am in you. I live and breathe in a clear and open space where all sin and disordered desire are gone, and all thoughts of righteousness are irrelevant. They evaporate, absorbed in the morning light of paradise dawn. For I am in you, knowing the life you are. If this is what your righteousness is, if this is how you set things right, count me in. Amen.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Today’s reading
Philippians 3:10-11
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:10-11).
Prayer
I hear the cry of the everlasting hills, and I know: I am not alone. I have many sisters and brothers. The Earth is my brother. The ancient desire of every stony outcrop on this rock hurtling through space is to know you. The trees in the yard are my sisters. They strain to the heavens, stretching for the Infinite Source of life, singing your praise in dazzling delight before falling asleep to wait again the resurrection spring.
Your servant, Paul, too, is my brother. The everlasting cry of all life, which he voices, long ago took residence in my soul. It possesses me with insatiable hunger that only you can satisfy. I want to know you, the life you are. I want to enter the fullness of resurrection so that death’s power--the fear that distorts and disfigures my life, that so tenaciously clings to my heart--may evaporate like the morning mist. I long to breathe the sweet, fresh dawn of everlasting day.
I hunger for that day when every brother and sister of earth, who have been so badly denied the mercy that is your desire for every soul and every hamlet, breathes the gentle air of eternity, newly free from the ravenous prowl of death and despair that daily haunts them body and soul.
But entry into your fullness, Risen One, knows only one road: to share your struggle to love the world beyond its hatreds and violence, beyond the deadly logic of self-protective power and retribution, beyond calculating self-interest and chilly apathy. You invite us into your holy labor of loving the world to life, where the only ethic is to love as you love, giving life, your life, for friend and foe alike, where our prayer belongs as much to those who hate us as to our most dearly beloved.
This is the struggle of Life for life, the struggle of you who are Life with all that destroys and disfigures the beauty of what you continue to create. This is where I seek to be found, despite my fears, sharing your suffering, so that with this world so beloved to you, I, too, may enter into the desire of the everlasting hills. Amen.
Philippians 3:10-11
“I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I might attain the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:10-11).
Prayer
I hear the cry of the everlasting hills, and I know: I am not alone. I have many sisters and brothers. The Earth is my brother. The ancient desire of every stony outcrop on this rock hurtling through space is to know you. The trees in the yard are my sisters. They strain to the heavens, stretching for the Infinite Source of life, singing your praise in dazzling delight before falling asleep to wait again the resurrection spring.
Your servant, Paul, too, is my brother. The everlasting cry of all life, which he voices, long ago took residence in my soul. It possesses me with insatiable hunger that only you can satisfy. I want to know you, the life you are. I want to enter the fullness of resurrection so that death’s power--the fear that distorts and disfigures my life, that so tenaciously clings to my heart--may evaporate like the morning mist. I long to breathe the sweet, fresh dawn of everlasting day.
I hunger for that day when every brother and sister of earth, who have been so badly denied the mercy that is your desire for every soul and every hamlet, breathes the gentle air of eternity, newly free from the ravenous prowl of death and despair that daily haunts them body and soul.
But entry into your fullness, Risen One, knows only one road: to share your struggle to love the world beyond its hatreds and violence, beyond the deadly logic of self-protective power and retribution, beyond calculating self-interest and chilly apathy. You invite us into your holy labor of loving the world to life, where the only ethic is to love as you love, giving life, your life, for friend and foe alike, where our prayer belongs as much to those who hate us as to our most dearly beloved.
This is the struggle of Life for life, the struggle of you who are Life with all that destroys and disfigures the beauty of what you continue to create. This is where I seek to be found, despite my fears, sharing your suffering, so that with this world so beloved to you, I, too, may enter into the desire of the everlasting hills. Amen.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Thursday, November 16, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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