Today’s text
Luke 17:7-10
[Jesus said,] “Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table?’ Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink?’ Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves, we have done only what we ought to have done!’”
Prayer
The words of slaves fill me: “we have done only what we ought to have done.” I sink into the space they create, and peace floods my being. Why, Jesus?
I know; it’s simple: I crave their freedom.
In graced moments, I taste the sweet liberty of expecting nothing, no thanks or praise, no special recognition or reward. It matters not if any one notices or speaks words of respect or appreciation.
None are needed, for I have you. And it is sufficient to know you in the invisible graces of daily duty, even if all that comes is criticism.
This is a strange freedom, one that you alone grant, Jesus. It is the liberty of the flowers that bloom whether or not anyone stops to notice. They do what you fashioned them to do, content to strew your prodigal beauty along the way, unbothered by human passions for significance.
They reveal a way beyond the frustrated cravings of human souls for recognition or affirmation. I long to dwell in this land always, not just make occasional visits.
For there the rare clarity of air fresh and free fills my lungs, even as you fill my heart.
Pr. David L. Miller
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
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Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 17:5-6
The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
Prayer
What do you mean, Jesus? I want to see your face. Do you say this as if your friends--and I--have no faith at all? Or is that a wry grin that flashes across your lips, suggesting that we should stop worrying, since we have what we need?
We read your word and encounter your otherness, often unable to make comfortable sense of you and what you are saying. But most often I cannot hear your heart because I am in the way. I read through eyes clouded with self-concern. I hear through my anxieties about my acceptability, my unlovliness, my intuitive awareness that I am not much.
And that’s just the problem, isn’t it Jesus? I am so busy seeing myself I fail to see you. I am so preoccupied with my paucity that I can’t perceive your immensity. You would soak me to the soul in your boundless ocean of love and grace were I not captive in this capsule of self.
My faith is small, but that is not your concern, is it? Nor is it the point. You would have me see you, know you, allowing my tiny heart to be loved into self-forgetfulness by your great heart. You care not a wit for the size of my faith but with joy and laughter would enlarge my heart to hold more of you, if only: if only I will look at you and not at myself.
So let me look, and looking see, and seeing love, and loving know … you, who are so much larger than my heart.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 17:5-6
The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
Prayer
What do you mean, Jesus? I want to see your face. Do you say this as if your friends--and I--have no faith at all? Or is that a wry grin that flashes across your lips, suggesting that we should stop worrying, since we have what we need?
We read your word and encounter your otherness, often unable to make comfortable sense of you and what you are saying. But most often I cannot hear your heart because I am in the way. I read through eyes clouded with self-concern. I hear through my anxieties about my acceptability, my unlovliness, my intuitive awareness that I am not much.
And that’s just the problem, isn’t it Jesus? I am so busy seeing myself I fail to see you. I am so preoccupied with my paucity that I can’t perceive your immensity. You would soak me to the soul in your boundless ocean of love and grace were I not captive in this capsule of self.
My faith is small, but that is not your concern, is it? Nor is it the point. You would have me see you, know you, allowing my tiny heart to be loved into self-forgetfulness by your great heart. You care not a wit for the size of my faith but with joy and laughter would enlarge my heart to hold more of you, if only: if only I will look at you and not at myself.
So let me look, and looking see, and seeing love, and loving know … you, who are so much larger than my heart.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, October 08, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 17:5-6
The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
Prayer
The morning comes too early, Jesus. The restless night of tossing fogs my mind with fatigue. Each thought comes encased in cloud. It is Monday, and my body cries for sleep.
If I had faith as a grain of mustard seed, would sleep so easily evade me? Would I quietly rest when I lay my head on the pillow? Would my soul release its obsessive frets, assured that your abundance will amply supply no matter what awaits me? Would my sleep then be an act of worship, offering holy praise of your goodness?
Yet, I know, Holy One: I face nothing alone, for even such small faith as mine bears a treasure—You. What is faith but your presence, your Spirit, in the soul turning my eyes toward Home?
You, whom all the world cannot contain, dwell in this anxious soul. Even on my tired days, You grant such faith that I may hear it whisper, “I am enough for you. You have what you need to know me, to love me, to serve me, to rest in my immensity.”
So I will not pray, increase my faith, Dearest One. No, let me attend such faith as dwells in this soul that I may hear you and know that you are always sufficient to the day.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 17:5-6
The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
Prayer
The morning comes too early, Jesus. The restless night of tossing fogs my mind with fatigue. Each thought comes encased in cloud. It is Monday, and my body cries for sleep.
If I had faith as a grain of mustard seed, would sleep so easily evade me? Would I quietly rest when I lay my head on the pillow? Would my soul release its obsessive frets, assured that your abundance will amply supply no matter what awaits me? Would my sleep then be an act of worship, offering holy praise of your goodness?
Yet, I know, Holy One: I face nothing alone, for even such small faith as mine bears a treasure—You. What is faith but your presence, your Spirit, in the soul turning my eyes toward Home?
You, whom all the world cannot contain, dwell in this anxious soul. Even on my tired days, You grant such faith that I may hear it whisper, “I am enough for you. You have what you need to know me, to love me, to serve me, to rest in my immensity.”
So I will not pray, increase my faith, Dearest One. No, let me attend such faith as dwells in this soul that I may hear you and know that you are always sufficient to the day.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, October 05, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:27-31
So he said, “Father, I beg you then to send Lazarus to my father’s house, since I have five brothers, to give them warning so that they do not come to this place of torment too.” Abraham said, “They have Moses and the prophets, let them listen to them.” The rich man replied, “Ah, no, father Abraham, but if someone comes to them from the dead, they will repent.” Then Abraham said to him, “If they will not listen either to Moses or to the prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone should rise from the dead”
Prayer
Not even from the dead? What does it take before our hearts will listen to the voice that speaks life and mercy? The answer is clear enough. We know it well in our personal histories, Jesus: pain. We listen when torments of body and soul attack our flesh, turning over our tidy plans, revealing again that little of life is at our command.
We reach for good things for ourselves and families. We build foundations for living upon what we are given by circumstances of birth, talent and our good work. We celebrate our occasions--birthdays and anniversaries, new babies, graduations and promotions, seldom thinking that the next day, the next hour, the taste of our salty tears may turn bitter.
Then we are ready to listen to a voice far beyond ours to learn life again, or for the first time. Jesus, I am forever learning life again … and again. How many times must I relearn what makes for life?
And what, Jesus, would the dead tell us if we had ears to hear? Would they remind that all flesh is grass? Would they say that the Holy One created time and space as an arena for mercy? Or maybe they’d tell us, “Listen to the pain of your heart, and you will know every heart. Your pain separates life from the illusions you try to live. It frees you to hear the One you most need.”
That’s the way the dead speak to me, Jesus, as do you, who are the living and the dead and the risen again.
So let me not move far from the pains of my failures and weaknesses, Jesus. Let me live in gratitude for each of them, for they are the wings that fly me to you.
Great Mercy, hear my prayer.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:27-31
So he said, “Father, I beg you then to send Lazarus to my father’s house, since I have five brothers, to give them warning so that they do not come to this place of torment too.” Abraham said, “They have Moses and the prophets, let them listen to them.” The rich man replied, “Ah, no, father Abraham, but if someone comes to them from the dead, they will repent.” Then Abraham said to him, “If they will not listen either to Moses or to the prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone should rise from the dead”
Prayer
Not even from the dead? What does it take before our hearts will listen to the voice that speaks life and mercy? The answer is clear enough. We know it well in our personal histories, Jesus: pain. We listen when torments of body and soul attack our flesh, turning over our tidy plans, revealing again that little of life is at our command.
We reach for good things for ourselves and families. We build foundations for living upon what we are given by circumstances of birth, talent and our good work. We celebrate our occasions--birthdays and anniversaries, new babies, graduations and promotions, seldom thinking that the next day, the next hour, the taste of our salty tears may turn bitter.
Then we are ready to listen to a voice far beyond ours to learn life again, or for the first time. Jesus, I am forever learning life again … and again. How many times must I relearn what makes for life?
And what, Jesus, would the dead tell us if we had ears to hear? Would they remind that all flesh is grass? Would they say that the Holy One created time and space as an arena for mercy? Or maybe they’d tell us, “Listen to the pain of your heart, and you will know every heart. Your pain separates life from the illusions you try to live. It frees you to hear the One you most need.”
That’s the way the dead speak to me, Jesus, as do you, who are the living and the dead and the risen again.
So let me not move far from the pains of my failures and weaknesses, Jesus. Let me live in gratitude for each of them, for they are the wings that fly me to you.
Great Mercy, hear my prayer.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:23-29
In Hades, where [the rich man] was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.” But Abraham said, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us. He said, “Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come to this place of torment.” Abraham replied, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.”
Prayer
Where, Merciful One, do prophets cry out, calling us beyond prudence to passion for your holy reign? Your voice is present in all the Earth. You never leave us without voices that love you and your blessed future far more than personal victory, far beyond the fading joys fashioned by human hands.
Helps us to hear the voices of your prophets, the abused child or spouse, the hungry deprived of bread and simplest human decency, the souls who invite us beyond every violence of hand and speech into which so much of our conversation degenerates.
Even the cries of our own souls are your prophets, Inescapable One. They whisper deep truth in our unguarded moments, telling us … again … that all we consume cannot fill the empty ache that is your insistent voice. You call to us at that unreachable point of our souls where your holy desire and our deepest need for real bread speak with a single voice.
You never leave yourself without a voice, Holy One. Moses and a multitude of prophets speak what your love gives and requires. Close my busy lips that I may hear. I make too much noise. I fear losing you amid the clamor. Call to me in silence.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:23-29
In Hades, where [the rich man] was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.” But Abraham said, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us. He said, “Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come to this place of torment.” Abraham replied, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.”
Prayer
Where, Merciful One, do prophets cry out, calling us beyond prudence to passion for your holy reign? Your voice is present in all the Earth. You never leave us without voices that love you and your blessed future far more than personal victory, far beyond the fading joys fashioned by human hands.
Helps us to hear the voices of your prophets, the abused child or spouse, the hungry deprived of bread and simplest human decency, the souls who invite us beyond every violence of hand and speech into which so much of our conversation degenerates.
Even the cries of our own souls are your prophets, Inescapable One. They whisper deep truth in our unguarded moments, telling us … again … that all we consume cannot fill the empty ache that is your insistent voice. You call to us at that unreachable point of our souls where your holy desire and our deepest need for real bread speak with a single voice.
You never leave yourself without a voice, Holy One. Moses and a multitude of prophets speak what your love gives and requires. Close my busy lips that I may hear. I make too much noise. I fear losing you amid the clamor. Call to me in silence.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:23-26
In Hades, where [the rich man] was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.” But Abraham said, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.”
Prayer
Is there never a passing over, Jesus? Did you not pass from Earth to Hell before entering the Sublime, descending first to crush death and eternal bondage, freeing our first parents that all the daughters and sons of Eve might dwell with you? The icon on the wall shows you tramping death under foot, trashing the front gate of Hell and revealing it for the rickety shanty that it is.
I want even the rich man to know salvation, to pass over from eternal separation to dwell with you, making humble repentance for failing to love Lazarus at the gate. Can it yet be? Or will the divisions that torture earth do so through eternity? Is it impossible even for you to cross the chasm?
My faith says, ‘no.’
There is no place where you are not. There is no darkness beyond your reach; nowhere you will not bring eternal freedom that all that is restless may rest in you. Lazarus and the rich man may yet find reconciliation in a love larger than human apathy and more exquisite than human pain. They, too, shall celebrate the unfathomable. You.
But the celebration need not wait. For today we may enter, again, that larger love you are and ever shall be, a love that opens eyes to know the places you invite us to join the dance of your loving in time and space. Today, Lord Jesus, let me join your dance with Lazarus at the gate.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:23-26
In Hades, where [the rich man] was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.” But Abraham said, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.”
Prayer
Is there never a passing over, Jesus? Did you not pass from Earth to Hell before entering the Sublime, descending first to crush death and eternal bondage, freeing our first parents that all the daughters and sons of Eve might dwell with you? The icon on the wall shows you tramping death under foot, trashing the front gate of Hell and revealing it for the rickety shanty that it is.
I want even the rich man to know salvation, to pass over from eternal separation to dwell with you, making humble repentance for failing to love Lazarus at the gate. Can it yet be? Or will the divisions that torture earth do so through eternity? Is it impossible even for you to cross the chasm?
My faith says, ‘no.’
There is no place where you are not. There is no darkness beyond your reach; nowhere you will not bring eternal freedom that all that is restless may rest in you. Lazarus and the rich man may yet find reconciliation in a love larger than human apathy and more exquisite than human pain. They, too, shall celebrate the unfathomable. You.
But the celebration need not wait. For today we may enter, again, that larger love you are and ever shall be, a love that opens eyes to know the places you invite us to join the dance of your loving in time and space. Today, Lord Jesus, let me join your dance with Lazarus at the gate.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:19-25
There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died, and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.”
Prayer
When do we see, Jesus? What opens our eyes? And to what?
Our blinkered eyes see with crystal clarity when we are consumed by distress, Jesus. Pain and desire sharpen our vision. Quickly, we focus on what we need--or want--to assuage our discomfort. We view surrounding faces through lenses that perceive only what they can do to quell the pulsing insistence of anguish or greed. We see what they can for us.
But do we see the other, the throbbing bundle of needs and fears, hopes and humanity they are? Can we imagine that we may be your answer the unspoken cries of their heart? Can we value them not for what they do for us but for the circle of compassion into which we may enter with them, giving and receiving, sharing the profundity of human neediness and making flesh the miracle of mercy?
How do I see, Jesus? Do the souls of women and men exist only to cool the flames of my body and soul? Or do I see my need and theirs as a holy invitation through which you draw me into common heart, where we might share a common mercy and yearning for the peace of God, your peace, Jesus?
Help me to see beyond my needs to your hope, Jesus. In the needs of others, help us to hear your invitation to a world of mercy.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:19-25
There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died, and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.”
Prayer
When do we see, Jesus? What opens our eyes? And to what?
Our blinkered eyes see with crystal clarity when we are consumed by distress, Jesus. Pain and desire sharpen our vision. Quickly, we focus on what we need--or want--to assuage our discomfort. We view surrounding faces through lenses that perceive only what they can do to quell the pulsing insistence of anguish or greed. We see what they can for us.
But do we see the other, the throbbing bundle of needs and fears, hopes and humanity they are? Can we imagine that we may be your answer the unspoken cries of their heart? Can we value them not for what they do for us but for the circle of compassion into which we may enter with them, giving and receiving, sharing the profundity of human neediness and making flesh the miracle of mercy?
How do I see, Jesus? Do the souls of women and men exist only to cool the flames of my body and soul? Or do I see my need and theirs as a holy invitation through which you draw me into common heart, where we might share a common mercy and yearning for the peace of God, your peace, Jesus?
Help me to see beyond my needs to your hope, Jesus. In the needs of others, help us to hear your invitation to a world of mercy.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, October 01, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:19-22
There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died, and was buried.
Prayer
They both died, Jesus. Filthy rich or dirt poor—the same end claims both.
How shall we live when everywhere we turn we look into the eyes of the dying? Regardless of our circumstances, we carry the seeds of Adam’s disease so deep in our flesh no medicine of ours can hunt it down and kill the death that kills us.
From the earliest days of our breathing, we know the time is short. We know the clock ticks without pause or care, inexorably counting out our moments. So we must get on with it; much is missed if we dally. The day must be lived to the fullest lest we face our end bearing a mountain of regret.
So what shall we do, Jesus? Make sure we get ours? Or might we remind ourselves that every person we meet today will come to the same end as we? Will such sobriety remind us that anything less than mercy is profanity? That anything other than compassion disfigures time and poisons the day?
Help me remember, Jesus. I forget so quickly when passions of anger and fear drive me. Help me remember that all are flesh, like me. And my may heart dwell in compassion … for the dying. Just like your heart, Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:19-22
There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died, and was buried.
Prayer
They both died, Jesus. Filthy rich or dirt poor—the same end claims both.
How shall we live when everywhere we turn we look into the eyes of the dying? Regardless of our circumstances, we carry the seeds of Adam’s disease so deep in our flesh no medicine of ours can hunt it down and kill the death that kills us.
From the earliest days of our breathing, we know the time is short. We know the clock ticks without pause or care, inexorably counting out our moments. So we must get on with it; much is missed if we dally. The day must be lived to the fullest lest we face our end bearing a mountain of regret.
So what shall we do, Jesus? Make sure we get ours? Or might we remind ourselves that every person we meet today will come to the same end as we? Will such sobriety remind us that anything less than mercy is profanity? That anything other than compassion disfigures time and poisons the day?
Help me remember, Jesus. I forget so quickly when passions of anger and fear drive me. Help me remember that all are flesh, like me. And my may heart dwell in compassion … for the dying. Just like your heart, Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, September 28, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:1-6, 8
Then was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
We should thank you for this difficult story, Holy One, though it is hard to do. Most of us wouldn’t miss it had faithful scribes not preserved it for us to trip over. The tripping is good for us, or so we tell ourselves.
Jesus, your words invite us to take you seriously when our understanding is dark, and our minds find no familiar foot holds to leverage comprehension and buttress faith. We walk into this difficult story and enter a dense darkness that vision and understanding cannot penetrate.
And there you invite us beyond well-worn ways we have trod so often we walk them in our sleep. It is little wonder that souls who have loved you so dearly talk of dark nights and clouds of unknowing, of the hidden God and the negative way beyond where sign posts of sight and sound mark the journey.
The journey into you, Jesus, leads, sooner or later, into the darkness where we walk by naked faith or not at all. There come times when we do not see the way ahead and the way behind is closed to us, when the only choice is to freeze in fear or put one foot ahead of the other in hope that your light and gracious presence will again become sensible to our flesh.
The night can endure for an evening … or for years; it is a darkness of soul some of your great ones endured for decades. I doubt I have the faith for that, but I am glad for them. Their witness invites me deeper into your mystery. They light candles of hope in my soul.
There are days when I know that I know nothing and that nothing is my truest knowledge of you, and humble silence is greatest praise of your unspeakability. But today I will speak.
Praise the Holy and blessed Trinity. Give praise all creation, all the souls of earth lost in the darkness of your understanding. Shout out your praise for the darkness you enter is the embrace of Eternal Wonder.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:1-6, 8
Then was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
We should thank you for this difficult story, Holy One, though it is hard to do. Most of us wouldn’t miss it had faithful scribes not preserved it for us to trip over. The tripping is good for us, or so we tell ourselves.
Jesus, your words invite us to take you seriously when our understanding is dark, and our minds find no familiar foot holds to leverage comprehension and buttress faith. We walk into this difficult story and enter a dense darkness that vision and understanding cannot penetrate.
And there you invite us beyond well-worn ways we have trod so often we walk them in our sleep. It is little wonder that souls who have loved you so dearly talk of dark nights and clouds of unknowing, of the hidden God and the negative way beyond where sign posts of sight and sound mark the journey.
The journey into you, Jesus, leads, sooner or later, into the darkness where we walk by naked faith or not at all. There come times when we do not see the way ahead and the way behind is closed to us, when the only choice is to freeze in fear or put one foot ahead of the other in hope that your light and gracious presence will again become sensible to our flesh.
The night can endure for an evening … or for years; it is a darkness of soul some of your great ones endured for decades. I doubt I have the faith for that, but I am glad for them. Their witness invites me deeper into your mystery. They light candles of hope in my soul.
There are days when I know that I know nothing and that nothing is my truest knowledge of you, and humble silence is greatest praise of your unspeakability. But today I will speak.
Praise the Holy and blessed Trinity. Give praise all creation, all the souls of earth lost in the darkness of your understanding. Shout out your praise for the darkness you enter is the embrace of Eternal Wonder.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:1-6, 8
The Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
Tell me, Jesus, what is the point of comparison here? My mind reels and collapses upon itself in a ruined heap. Shall I look at the dishonest manager or at the master—or both? But then the message moves in such different ways that comprehension escapes me.
The manager is a scoundrel, but he acts with energy and passion when crisis comes. Do you then tell me to act as decisively in response to your words, your presence, your kingdom coming to upset the tidiness of my life?
Or do I look at the master who not only refuses to punish but praises the scoundrel--and imagine that normal standards of justice and order are abolished in your kingdom? I know and believe this, but your words so jar and disorient me that I am left wondering: Is there is anything in my life that must not come unhinged and unglued if I am to belong to you, once and for all, fully and whole?
Or is this your challenge and call to my soul? Must I surrender all that I am, my possessions, my will—my understanding of how life is? Is this strange tale, so resistant to common explanations, a call to acknowledge that you are God and I am not, and that I really know and understand nothing?
In your words, Jesus, I hear your holy prerogative to define reality—to shape who and what I am to be—though I may understand nothing of it and remain utterly in the dark about what you are doing and where you are leading. If so, grant me such faith to surrender all to you, knowing that it is your grace that leads even when all I see contradicts it.
Awaken in me a faith willing to endure the darkness of all understanding.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:1-6, 8
The Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
Tell me, Jesus, what is the point of comparison here? My mind reels and collapses upon itself in a ruined heap. Shall I look at the dishonest manager or at the master—or both? But then the message moves in such different ways that comprehension escapes me.
The manager is a scoundrel, but he acts with energy and passion when crisis comes. Do you then tell me to act as decisively in response to your words, your presence, your kingdom coming to upset the tidiness of my life?
Or do I look at the master who not only refuses to punish but praises the scoundrel--and imagine that normal standards of justice and order are abolished in your kingdom? I know and believe this, but your words so jar and disorient me that I am left wondering: Is there is anything in my life that must not come unhinged and unglued if I am to belong to you, once and for all, fully and whole?
Or is this your challenge and call to my soul? Must I surrender all that I am, my possessions, my will—my understanding of how life is? Is this strange tale, so resistant to common explanations, a call to acknowledge that you are God and I am not, and that I really know and understand nothing?
In your words, Jesus, I hear your holy prerogative to define reality—to shape who and what I am to be—though I may understand nothing of it and remain utterly in the dark about what you are doing and where you are leading. If so, grant me such faith to surrender all to you, knowing that it is your grace that leads even when all I see contradicts it.
Awaken in me a faith willing to endure the darkness of all understanding.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:1-6, 8
Then Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
That you should find anything praiseworthy in dishonest dealing defies our logic, Jesus. But this may be the first sign that we have understood you properly, though we are totally confused and understand nothing at all. For your ways are not ours. Your reign contradicts the protocols that order our lives. And we know we have truly heard you when our dizzy minds implode in the gravity of vertigo.
A dishonest manager uses wealth not his own to ingratiate himself. He makes friends by giving away another’s property so they will help him when soon he is unemployed. The holy reign of God is like this, Jesus?
All the manager understood was that his time was up; he had to act decisively to save himself--now. It was time to burn his bridges, knowing the future could never be like the past.
Is this what made him shrewd, Jesus? Is this why you praise this scoundrel, because he knew the time?
Maybe. But if so, then may I be as shrewd as he, knowing that your holy reign has appeared, breaking the old protocols which ordered my life, shattering them when your resurrection exploded death and left it in tatters. A new time has come, and the unconquerable love I see in you is the face of the future and truest beauty in the present.
Tune my ear to the melody of your future that I might sing the songs of tomorrow.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:1-6, 8
Then Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
That you should find anything praiseworthy in dishonest dealing defies our logic, Jesus. But this may be the first sign that we have understood you properly, though we are totally confused and understand nothing at all. For your ways are not ours. Your reign contradicts the protocols that order our lives. And we know we have truly heard you when our dizzy minds implode in the gravity of vertigo.
A dishonest manager uses wealth not his own to ingratiate himself. He makes friends by giving away another’s property so they will help him when soon he is unemployed. The holy reign of God is like this, Jesus?
All the manager understood was that his time was up; he had to act decisively to save himself--now. It was time to burn his bridges, knowing the future could never be like the past.
Is this what made him shrewd, Jesus? Is this why you praise this scoundrel, because he knew the time?
Maybe. But if so, then may I be as shrewd as he, knowing that your holy reign has appeared, breaking the old protocols which ordered my life, shattering them when your resurrection exploded death and left it in tatters. A new time has come, and the unconquerable love I see in you is the face of the future and truest beauty in the present.
Tune my ear to the melody of your future that I might sing the songs of tomorrow.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, September 24, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 16:1-6, 8
The Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
So quickly I identify with the dishonest steward, Jesus. The reason is as immediate and inescapable as my own body. I am well familiar with the rush of anxiety streaming through his veins as I scramble to fulfill what of this ministry I am capable, much of the time carefully calculating what is required for survival.
Yet my love of you does not wane, and it will not. I dwell in the knowing smile that crosses your face as I survey the jumbled clamor of my service. I bump and jolt along from one emergency to the next, one tight deadline to an impossible one, one improvisation to another, one struggling heart to the pains of others, and so it goes.
On I go, with little more than my wits, a smattering of knowledge and a smidgen of experience--and your love that refuses to let me go. You smile on my efforts even as I have smiled at the stumbling first steps of my grandsons. I understand them. My lurching about in your service, Jesus, is little different from their maturing efforts, only they learn more quickly than I do.
But if you can show kindness to the despicable who shrewdly seek to serve your glory—even while protecting themselves, then may your face continue to shine on me. And grant assurance that even my jumbled efforts please and serve the intention of love in which you hold all that is.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 16:1-6, 8
The Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me in their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take you bill, sit quickly, and make it fifty.’ … And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly ….”
Prayer
So quickly I identify with the dishonest steward, Jesus. The reason is as immediate and inescapable as my own body. I am well familiar with the rush of anxiety streaming through his veins as I scramble to fulfill what of this ministry I am capable, much of the time carefully calculating what is required for survival.
Yet my love of you does not wane, and it will not. I dwell in the knowing smile that crosses your face as I survey the jumbled clamor of my service. I bump and jolt along from one emergency to the next, one tight deadline to an impossible one, one improvisation to another, one struggling heart to the pains of others, and so it goes.
On I go, with little more than my wits, a smattering of knowledge and a smidgen of experience--and your love that refuses to let me go. You smile on my efforts even as I have smiled at the stumbling first steps of my grandsons. I understand them. My lurching about in your service, Jesus, is little different from their maturing efforts, only they learn more quickly than I do.
But if you can show kindness to the despicable who shrewdly seek to serve your glory—even while protecting themselves, then may your face continue to shine on me. And grant assurance that even my jumbled efforts please and serve the intention of love in which you hold all that is.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, September 21, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 15:8-10
[Jesus said:] “Or what women having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy in presence of God over one sinner who repents.”
Prayer
I long to be this beauty, Holy Laughter. I have stood on the outside looking in for much too long.
It is not enough for me just to see your beauty, though it is holiest sacrament, capturing sacred moments with word and image. I thought it was, but I was wrong, again. Nothing new there.
Transcendent joy lights the face of the woman, her tiny coin clutched fast in hand. But I see such joy not just in her, Jesus. I savor it in all who surrender to Love Itself, seeking to enfold their beloved, utterly given to the soul’s most needful search. They glisten with the purity of your heart, your search, your love, your joy.
And through them you have found me, again, just like a thousand times before.
But it is no longer enough to see, describe and celebrate. It is time to enter the transparency of sacred joy that illumines the heart that I, too, may glow with the discovery of my heart’s delight. Unashamed, unabashed, utterly given, surrendered in joy to the Joy who finds me on my wandering way.
Thank you. Light my heart; dissolve my fears. Let me shine with the beauty of that joy that you take in me and in all the lost you somehow manage to find, despite our most determined efforts.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 15:8-10
[Jesus said:] “Or what women having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy in presence of God over one sinner who repents.”
Prayer
I long to be this beauty, Holy Laughter. I have stood on the outside looking in for much too long.
It is not enough for me just to see your beauty, though it is holiest sacrament, capturing sacred moments with word and image. I thought it was, but I was wrong, again. Nothing new there.
Transcendent joy lights the face of the woman, her tiny coin clutched fast in hand. But I see such joy not just in her, Jesus. I savor it in all who surrender to Love Itself, seeking to enfold their beloved, utterly given to the soul’s most needful search. They glisten with the purity of your heart, your search, your love, your joy.
And through them you have found me, again, just like a thousand times before.
But it is no longer enough to see, describe and celebrate. It is time to enter the transparency of sacred joy that illumines the heart that I, too, may glow with the discovery of my heart’s delight. Unashamed, unabashed, utterly given, surrendered in joy to the Joy who finds me on my wandering way.
Thank you. Light my heart; dissolve my fears. Let me shine with the beauty of that joy that you take in me and in all the lost you somehow manage to find, despite our most determined efforts.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 15:8-10
[Jesus said:] “Or what women having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy in presence of God over one sinner who repents.”
Prayer
I saw her eyes, Jesus. Eternity appeared in an instant in the warmth of her ebony smile as she reached for her son, 13 or so, as peace was passed, person to person. Worshipers shuffled to greet familiar faces, unaware that the beauty of forever had just transformed a tiny sanctuary on 75th street into the gate of heaven.
These were mother’s eyes, delighting in a child her arms sought to enfold in the joy of your peace. I reached my hand to her, but I was blessedly invisible until those arms had completed their sacred mission, making flesh that love that refuses to turn right or left from the face of the beloved.
And then I didn’t want to take her hand. I wanted nothing that would break the rapture of beholding the beauty of such blessed sacrament. I wanted only to look at her—and know again that I dwell in a world haunted by Holy Presence.
It is enough for me, Jesus. Seeing her, I need nothing more. For I see you in the delight of her eyes and the reach of her arms, a beauty that refuses to fade though all else may pass.
I do not know why beauty moves me so; I only know that you are in it. And for today, that’s enough.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 15:8-10
[Jesus said:] “Or what women having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy in presence of God over one sinner who repents.”
Prayer
I saw her eyes, Jesus. Eternity appeared in an instant in the warmth of her ebony smile as she reached for her son, 13 or so, as peace was passed, person to person. Worshipers shuffled to greet familiar faces, unaware that the beauty of forever had just transformed a tiny sanctuary on 75th street into the gate of heaven.
These were mother’s eyes, delighting in a child her arms sought to enfold in the joy of your peace. I reached my hand to her, but I was blessedly invisible until those arms had completed their sacred mission, making flesh that love that refuses to turn right or left from the face of the beloved.
And then I didn’t want to take her hand. I wanted nothing that would break the rapture of beholding the beauty of such blessed sacrament. I wanted only to look at her—and know again that I dwell in a world haunted by Holy Presence.
It is enough for me, Jesus. Seeing her, I need nothing more. For I see you in the delight of her eyes and the reach of her arms, a beauty that refuses to fade though all else may pass.
I do not know why beauty moves me so; I only know that you are in it. And for today, that’s enough.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 15:1-5
“Now all the tax- collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus] And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So he told them this parable: “Which of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the other ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it. When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices.”
Prayer
You words transport me a world away, Jesus. I remember the day in Kaya, Sudan. It is a long time now, but in my heart it happened on my last breath, an indelible image in that inmost hall of heart where I cherish all that keeps me human.
Refugees marched out of the bush in a long, serpentine column, covering the warm tan dust of the road side to side. An emaciated man wielding a cross led the column into town as they sang. And how they sang. He punctuated every beat, jabbing his cross of broken sticks as high as he might into the deep blue heavens in defiant ecstasy of death itself.
Around the bend they came, survivors of genocide and brutalities unspeakable, having lost, abandoned and buried too many on the way. They came looking for the lost--seeking children, parents, neighbors, family and friends--knowing their hearts would likely break again.
But for some came the joy of daybreak. They cupped beloved cheeks in their hands, tracing fingers across the smiles and brows of souls for whom they’d all but surrendered hope. A din of weeping rose to the seat of your mercy, Jesus, the sweetest praise heard anywhere on earth that day. And I watched, swept up in the melodies of heaven, giving thanks that I might witness a joy that has no name.
And none will do, dear Friend, for this is the joy of your divine heart, captured in single moment, enduring for eternity, where all that is lost is found at last.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 15:1-5
“Now all the tax- collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus] And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So he told them this parable: “Which of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the other ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it. When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices.”
Prayer
You words transport me a world away, Jesus. I remember the day in Kaya, Sudan. It is a long time now, but in my heart it happened on my last breath, an indelible image in that inmost hall of heart where I cherish all that keeps me human.
Refugees marched out of the bush in a long, serpentine column, covering the warm tan dust of the road side to side. An emaciated man wielding a cross led the column into town as they sang. And how they sang. He punctuated every beat, jabbing his cross of broken sticks as high as he might into the deep blue heavens in defiant ecstasy of death itself.
Around the bend they came, survivors of genocide and brutalities unspeakable, having lost, abandoned and buried too many on the way. They came looking for the lost--seeking children, parents, neighbors, family and friends--knowing their hearts would likely break again.
But for some came the joy of daybreak. They cupped beloved cheeks in their hands, tracing fingers across the smiles and brows of souls for whom they’d all but surrendered hope. A din of weeping rose to the seat of your mercy, Jesus, the sweetest praise heard anywhere on earth that day. And I watched, swept up in the melodies of heaven, giving thanks that I might witness a joy that has no name.
And none will do, dear Friend, for this is the joy of your divine heart, captured in single moment, enduring for eternity, where all that is lost is found at last.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, September 17, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 15:1-5
“Now all the tax- collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus] And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So he told them this parable: “Which of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the other ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it. When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices.”
Prayer
Cool autumn days descend. I return home in summer’s fading light and see him. A grey stone figure keeps watch by the fireplace where he has waited all summer long, watching for my return. His stands on the coarse red brick near the hearth: a small shepherd, his eyes turned down, bearing a lamb across his shoulders, heading home, I suppose, with the lost that has been found. And his face, Jesus, is yours.
With fall in my senses bearing a threat of early frost, the whiteness of my head signals that winter will come soon, too soon, to me too. And I light a votive candle at the shepherd’s feet. My heart swells with sweetest desire, an exquisite simple yeaning for you, Jesus.
I want the shepherd. I want the one who bears the world’s weight in loving embrace and carries it all the way home. For I want to come home, all of me wants to come home. A lost piece of my heart hungers to be carried to a place of final arrival where there is no need to look for another, for hoping has become healing.
There’s a word for this, Jesus: human. We yearn to rest in that love that draws us on until, at last, we arrive home, possessing whole the sweet substance of our yeaning. And it shall be. For our yearning is the resonance of your own.
At the heart of the universe, stands a shepherd whose desire carries us to that eternal belonging where all glows with belovedness and the shepherd’s joy is full. So we light our candles and hope.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 15:1-5
“Now all the tax- collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus] And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So he told them this parable: “Which of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the other ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it. When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices.”
Prayer
Cool autumn days descend. I return home in summer’s fading light and see him. A grey stone figure keeps watch by the fireplace where he has waited all summer long, watching for my return. His stands on the coarse red brick near the hearth: a small shepherd, his eyes turned down, bearing a lamb across his shoulders, heading home, I suppose, with the lost that has been found. And his face, Jesus, is yours.
With fall in my senses bearing a threat of early frost, the whiteness of my head signals that winter will come soon, too soon, to me too. And I light a votive candle at the shepherd’s feet. My heart swells with sweetest desire, an exquisite simple yeaning for you, Jesus.
I want the shepherd. I want the one who bears the world’s weight in loving embrace and carries it all the way home. For I want to come home, all of me wants to come home. A lost piece of my heart hungers to be carried to a place of final arrival where there is no need to look for another, for hoping has become healing.
There’s a word for this, Jesus: human. We yearn to rest in that love that draws us on until, at last, we arrive home, possessing whole the sweet substance of our yeaning. And it shall be. For our yearning is the resonance of your own.
At the heart of the universe, stands a shepherd whose desire carries us to that eternal belonging where all glows with belovedness and the shepherd’s joy is full. So we light our candles and hope.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 14:33
“So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.”
Prayer
This should be a somber song, Jesus, but I hear your words and smile, and I wonder: Do you, too, wear a wry grin as you speak them? You should.
I am possessed by desires and needs, wants and compulsions all of which leave me in anxious bondage. I wake in the wee hours wondering: how will I get my work done? How can I redeem my clumsy failures of speech and leadership? Why did say that” How could I forget this? Is there anything in me worth sharing?
I cannot keep this melancholy soul afloat when night demons cackle. They stir a restless sea of anxiety over status and ego, affirmation and failure, revealing again that I am possessed by what some lost part of me imagines is required to justify this life.
And you come along, Jesus, telling me to give it all up. Little wonder that your words make me smile. You invite me to drop what is in my hands that I may embrace you, and find, finally, the day break of love eternal before which my melancholy flies and night demons flee.
May this smile give you praise all the day long.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 14:33
“So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.”
Prayer
This should be a somber song, Jesus, but I hear your words and smile, and I wonder: Do you, too, wear a wry grin as you speak them? You should.
I am possessed by desires and needs, wants and compulsions all of which leave me in anxious bondage. I wake in the wee hours wondering: how will I get my work done? How can I redeem my clumsy failures of speech and leadership? Why did say that” How could I forget this? Is there anything in me worth sharing?
I cannot keep this melancholy soul afloat when night demons cackle. They stir a restless sea of anxiety over status and ego, affirmation and failure, revealing again that I am possessed by what some lost part of me imagines is required to justify this life.
And you come along, Jesus, telling me to give it all up. Little wonder that your words make me smile. You invite me to drop what is in my hands that I may embrace you, and find, finally, the day break of love eternal before which my melancholy flies and night demons flee.
May this smile give you praise all the day long.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 14:28-30
“For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, “This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.”
Prayer
You trick us, Jesus, and your words are not fair. How can we count the cost of following you? We cannot read the future. Our eyes are too weak to penetrate time. The cost of serving you can never be counted in advance.
We have no advance warning system to alert us how breathtakingly difficult life can become. We possess no cup capable of measuring our sweat or tears in advance. We do not know what scenes we will be forced to watch or what suffering our mortal bodies will bear before we are done. Already I carry a host of images that break my heart, and I know there are more to come. Just what? Who can know?
Perhaps that is blessing. If we knew … could we live … now?
But I fear my questions miss the mark. It doesn’t seem to matter to you how hard or how much struggle will test our strength. For, there is no bait and switch with you, Jesus. You ask for all, for my life, from the beginning, so does it matter what is to come? Either I enter the struggle to give all--whatever comes--or I refuse it.
I entered that struggle long ago. That foundation was laid by loving souls who moved me to love you. Now, in the midst of life, I don’t know if I am a capable of finishing what they started decades past. I understand the weakness of human resolve all too well--and trust it thoroughly, especially my own.
I know neither the future nor my own strength, Jesus. But I do know you. And it is you, not me, who completes the tower. So take my fear and weakness, my uncertainty and questions, and melt them all in the heat of your love. That will be enough for me.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 14:28-30
“For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, “This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.”
Prayer
You trick us, Jesus, and your words are not fair. How can we count the cost of following you? We cannot read the future. Our eyes are too weak to penetrate time. The cost of serving you can never be counted in advance.
We have no advance warning system to alert us how breathtakingly difficult life can become. We possess no cup capable of measuring our sweat or tears in advance. We do not know what scenes we will be forced to watch or what suffering our mortal bodies will bear before we are done. Already I carry a host of images that break my heart, and I know there are more to come. Just what? Who can know?
Perhaps that is blessing. If we knew … could we live … now?
But I fear my questions miss the mark. It doesn’t seem to matter to you how hard or how much struggle will test our strength. For, there is no bait and switch with you, Jesus. You ask for all, for my life, from the beginning, so does it matter what is to come? Either I enter the struggle to give all--whatever comes--or I refuse it.
I entered that struggle long ago. That foundation was laid by loving souls who moved me to love you. Now, in the midst of life, I don’t know if I am a capable of finishing what they started decades past. I understand the weakness of human resolve all too well--and trust it thoroughly, especially my own.
I know neither the future nor my own strength, Jesus. But I do know you. And it is you, not me, who completes the tower. So take my fear and weakness, my uncertainty and questions, and melt them all in the heat of your love. That will be enough for me.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 14:27
“Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
Prayer
What is this cross I am to carry, Jesus? Do I know; will I ever? And why do I feel care slipping from my soul?
I have never believed that you call us to soul killing labor or lonely isolation that drains us of the spark of joy. Surely, struggle marks our life in you, since your ways are not ours. And it takes a lifetime of struggle to know them; even then we know next to nothing.
But I have long thought that even the crosses we carry, in their own way, stir faith, hope and love in us--and joy, that joy in giving and serving we know in moments when we are truly alive and vibrant. Such life is your desire for us.
I hunger for this buoyancy because joy slips through my fingers and my heart languors. But I wonder: is this yearning for elusive joy an avoidance of the labor to which you call me? Or is it a holy whisper telling me I am going the wrong way--that the cross that drains care from my soul is not mine to bear? I just don’t know.
All I know is that I need you, your presence, your nearness, your tenderness, your help my brother. Without you, I can carry nothing, certainly not the cross of divine love for the world that you bore in and out of troubled days.
Grant us clear vision of how we may best follow you, Jesus. And let our hearts drink the joy of your nearness, especially when we lose our way and lonely questions close upon us.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 14:27
“Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
Prayer
What is this cross I am to carry, Jesus? Do I know; will I ever? And why do I feel care slipping from my soul?
I have never believed that you call us to soul killing labor or lonely isolation that drains us of the spark of joy. Surely, struggle marks our life in you, since your ways are not ours. And it takes a lifetime of struggle to know them; even then we know next to nothing.
But I have long thought that even the crosses we carry, in their own way, stir faith, hope and love in us--and joy, that joy in giving and serving we know in moments when we are truly alive and vibrant. Such life is your desire for us.
I hunger for this buoyancy because joy slips through my fingers and my heart languors. But I wonder: is this yearning for elusive joy an avoidance of the labor to which you call me? Or is it a holy whisper telling me I am going the wrong way--that the cross that drains care from my soul is not mine to bear? I just don’t know.
All I know is that I need you, your presence, your nearness, your tenderness, your help my brother. Without you, I can carry nothing, certainly not the cross of divine love for the world that you bore in and out of troubled days.
Grant us clear vision of how we may best follow you, Jesus. And let our hearts drink the joy of your nearness, especially when we lose our way and lonely questions close upon us.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, September 10, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
Today’s text
Luke 14:25-27
Now large crowds were traveling with [Jesus]; and he turned and said to them, “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
Prayer
You certainly know how to thin out a crowd, Jesus. Who can listen to this and want you? Many must have withdrawn from your side. Others, too enthralled with you to leave, surely scratched their skulls raw wondering if you meant it, and if so, how?
Is this a case of pedagogical exaggeration? I guess. But this takes the sting away too easily, glibly passing over the oddness I have always felt about you.
Loving you makes us odd, or at least it always has such effect on me. I hold fast the outrageous claim that you live, and live incarnate in the lives of all who love. I confess you as Lord of my and all life, believing that our lives do not belong to us but are to be lived faithfully in your service.
And I do this in a culture that celebrates the “cult of me,” worshiping king ego, sacrificing soul, substance even children to the fashionable whim of the moment with little thought of what endures. So much of it leaves me cold, a chill revealing the very good news that my heart belongs to a world that makes me strange in this one that so frequently lacks loving reverence for life.
So permit me to odd again, Jesus. For, I don’t find your words strange at all; arresting certainly, but beneath their surface flows the current of freedom carrying us to love what is Love and to find our home in what endures.
Fill our senses with the world of grace you bring, Jesus, that we may be the full expression your love intends in us. Freed and unhindered by the judgments of others, we will focus solely on what love and grace require. Strange it is, that any should find this odd.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 14:25-27
Now large crowds were traveling with [Jesus]; and he turned and said to them, “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
Prayer
You certainly know how to thin out a crowd, Jesus. Who can listen to this and want you? Many must have withdrawn from your side. Others, too enthralled with you to leave, surely scratched their skulls raw wondering if you meant it, and if so, how?
Is this a case of pedagogical exaggeration? I guess. But this takes the sting away too easily, glibly passing over the oddness I have always felt about you.
Loving you makes us odd, or at least it always has such effect on me. I hold fast the outrageous claim that you live, and live incarnate in the lives of all who love. I confess you as Lord of my and all life, believing that our lives do not belong to us but are to be lived faithfully in your service.
And I do this in a culture that celebrates the “cult of me,” worshiping king ego, sacrificing soul, substance even children to the fashionable whim of the moment with little thought of what endures. So much of it leaves me cold, a chill revealing the very good news that my heart belongs to a world that makes me strange in this one that so frequently lacks loving reverence for life.
So permit me to odd again, Jesus. For, I don’t find your words strange at all; arresting certainly, but beneath their surface flows the current of freedom carrying us to love what is Love and to find our home in what endures.
Fill our senses with the world of grace you bring, Jesus, that we may be the full expression your love intends in us. Freed and unhindered by the judgments of others, we will focus solely on what love and grace require. Strange it is, that any should find this odd.
Pr. David L. Miller
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