Thursday, April 17, 2008

Today’s text

John 14:5-11

Thomas said, 'Lord, we do not know where you are going, so how can we know the way?' Jesus said: I am the Way; I am Truth and Life. No one can come to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father too. From this moment you know him and have seen him. Philip said, 'Lord, show us the Father and then we shall be satisfied.' Jesus said to him, ‘Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? 'Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father, so how can you say, "Show us the Father"? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? What I say to you I do not speak of my own accord: it is the Father, living in me, who is doing his works. You must believe me when I say that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; or at least believe it on the evidence of these works. I am.

Prayer

Many ways beckon, Jesus. They promise to make us real, alive and significant, at least in our own eyes. There is the way of knowledge in which we wrap ourselves in words and concepts imagining we can tame reality to our categories.

There is the way of accomplishment in which we consider ourselves more worthy than others, admiring (as we do) the distance between us and those who have and thus are less.

There is the way of experience in which we pretend to be more real by what we have seen, done and absorbed into memory. There are even ways of claiming our pain to separate and hold ourselves above others, as if pain and finitude were not great levelers of all humanity.

There are not enough words to name all the ways we quest for that elusive life where we finally we become real and the anxious whispers of our emptiness are silenced.

Then there is your way, Jesus. You dwell as one with the Loving Mystery for whom we have no good name. You live in utter dependence on a love human flesh cannot command, partaking and sharing a wealth beyond all human endeavor.

You live knowing that all that belongs to this Loving Mystery is yours, and to this One you belong. In this fullness, you act and speak and give what is yours. And you tell me that you are the way, bidding me to trust, to believe and to live in the fullness you share.

May I dwell in your way, my Brother. Only then will my heart become so generous that I will finally be real, beyond this shadow.

Pr. David L. Miller

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Today’s text

John 14:1-3

Do not let your hearts be troubled. You trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father's house there are many places to live in; otherwise I would have told you. I am going now to prepare a place for you, and after I have gone and prepared you a place, I shall return to take you to myself, so that you may be with me where I am.

Prayer

I am in the basement again, Jesus. Sitting here, fingers poised for any the least word you might give me. Are you here?

You want me to be with you where you are. And I am richly consoled by this thought. The warmth of a love beyond my own races through me, whispering reassurance that my faith is not in vain. It tells me that I am not alone and never will be.

I am here with you. And always will be.

Your promise is for now and ever. You come again and again to take us to yourself, the place of our great belonging. And you come even now to me. Thank you. My early morning heart requires your nearness. I am not myself apart from you.

But I ask: Come also to those whose faces trouble my own. They lose themselves as disease strips ability and memory away, leaving but the husk of the fullness that once was theirs … and ours.

I don’t know how you might come to them this day, taking them into the heart of your nearness. We who love them would be consoled to see and know how such blessing happens, especially for those who have forgotten how to hope and those who can no longer name their beloved.

But most often we neither see nor know. So with tears of wild hope we trust your promise that they, too, shall be with you where you are. This day and ever.

And we know that this place is grace beyond all human measure.

Pr. David L. Miller

Monday, April 14, 2008

Today’s text

John 14:1-3

Do not let your hearts be troubled. You trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father's house there are many places to live in; otherwise I would have told you. I am going now to prepare a place for you, and after I have gone and prepared you a place, I shall return to take you to myself, so that you may be with me where I am.

Prayer

The morning comes. Foggy consciousness clears as the shower stings the body to life. Too soon the day’s demands crowd the mind, making it an inhospitable place even for its own resident, me.

You speak of a dwelling place, Jesus, which you prepare for us that we may be with you. You seem to point to a time well ahead and a realm more exalted than the mundane round of daily duty.

But my morning need moves me to hear you afresh. In the house of the All Loving One there are many rooms where we may live. And I would live in one here and now.

I want, no, I need my soul to be a hospitable dwelling where the mind can rest at peace even as it grapples to order the day as see to life’s labors. I need this soul to be a place of welcome for me and for all I encounter in the coming hours.

So I ask: Can you make of me a fit dwelling place for human habitation? Will you clear out the anxious rush, the fears and grudges, the insecurities and prejudices that I may dwell even now in the house of the All Loving?

For I would dwell with you. Only so do am I a place where I and others may truly live.

Pr. David L. Miller

Friday, April 11, 2008

Today’s text

John 10:7-10

Jesus spoke to them again: In all truth I tell you, I am the gate of the sheepfold. All who have come before me are thieves and bandits, but the sheep took no notice of them. I am the gate. Anyone who enters through me will be safe: such a one will go in and out and will find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I have come so that they may have life and have it to the full.

Prayer

I rise again, my Friend. I have rested secure in your heart. Thank you.

Yesterday brought more joy than expected. Far more. Today will bring tears of remembrance and sober awareness of our human state. Again we will find that the power of our love (so mighty) cannot prevent tragedy and the passing of golden days we wanted never to end.

I pass through you into this day. I acknowledge your nearness as I walk through the gate of early morning into a world less calm and embracing than this quiet cell where I raise my heart to you.

I wish I could say I passed into every day this way. I don’t. But today I do, hearing you say that, no matter what befalls, I walk into fields of promise where I will find nurture. Pasture, you call it.

And as you do a thousand images of the rolling hills of Northwest Illinois come into view. And I am there on the land that made me much of what I am. Thank you for this too.

But it is not the land for which I most thank you or the gifts it continues to give me. I most thank you for your abiding. I thank you that I may pass into every new day through you, hearing your voice telling me that it is for abundance you come.

And it is the abundance of your divine heart that I will find on all the fields of my life, as I enter each day through you.

Pr. David L. Miller

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Today’s text

John 10:1-5

[Jesus said] 'In all truth I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold through the gate, but climbs in some other way, is a thief and a bandit. He who enters through the gate is the shepherd of the flock; the gatekeeper lets him in, the sheep hear his voice, one by one he calls his own sheep and leads them out. When he has brought out all those that are his, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow because they know his voice. They will never follow a stranger, but will run away from him because they do not recognize the voice of strangers.'

Prayer

I am moved, dear Friend, by this most intimate familiarity. You call us by name, one by one. You know us. You want us. You desire our presence, our nearness, our following.

And we, blessed to hear you, draw near because we know the sound of your voice. We know you. We want to be with you, for here we are safe. Regardless what befalls us, we are safely enrapt in a love eternal and true.

Jesus, the timbre of your words creates a gracious circle of divine love. And we dwell at the center of that circle, knowing: No one who dwells within that gentle space shall ever be in death’s clutches. Not now. Not ever. You promised.

I know what it is to hear a voice I love, a voice that loves me. My whole being settles into a holy space where I know what you intend every human soul to know. The heart finds its home.

So today I see myself and my beloved at the center of that holy circle, and I listen to your voice calling our names. One by one. And I know: we are safe in a love we shall never fathom.

Pr. David L. Miller

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Today’s text

John 10:1-5

[Jesus said] 'In all truth I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold through the gate, but climbs in some other way, is a thief and a bandit. He who enters through the gate is the shepherd of the flock; the gatekeeper lets him in, the sheep hear his voice, one by one he calls his own sheep and leads them out. When he has brought out all those that are his, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow because they know his voice. They will never follow a stranger, but will run away from him because they do not recognize the voice of strangers.'

Prayer

How is that we know the voice of the shepherd, Jesus, your voice? What gives it away? And why do many not recognize your voice as the resounding of Deep calling to deep?

Perhaps the answer to the riddle is right there. Dwelling far from the deep cry of their own souls, their hearts do not resonate at the sight of you as mine does.

There is no self-congratulation in those words, Jesus, only gratitude. The reality that something in me actually can and does hear you is a mystery well beyond my comprehension.

But this I know: When I hear of you, when I look at you, Deep does in fact call to deep. It is as if there is a space in me that only you fit … or fill, and in knowing you I become whole, no longer needing something I cannot name.

So I long to hear your voice, not voices merely speaking about you. That’s no substitute for you.

I am made for you. You made me for yourself. And I wonder: Are you, too, more whole when I am at home in your heart and not off wandering in far places? I often think so.

Please consider that no disrespect. I have no desire to diminish the confounding wonder you are to me. I am simply aware that you seem to want me as much as I need you.

Pr. David L. Miller

Friday, April 4, 2008

Today’s text

Luke 24:28-35

When they drew near to the village to which they were going, [Jesus] made as if to go on; but they pressed him to stay with them saying, 'It is nearly evening, and the day is almost over.' So he went in to stay with them. Now while he was with them at table, he took the bread and said the blessing; then he broke it and handed it to them. And their eyes were opened and they recognized him; but he had vanished from their sight. Then they said to each other, 'Did not our hearts burn within us as he talked to us on the road and explained the scriptures to us?' They set out that instant and returned to Jerusalem. There they found the Eleven assembled together with their companions, who said to them, 'The Lord has indeed risen and has appeared to Simon.' Then they told their story of what had happened on the road and how they had recognized him at the breaking of bread.

Prayer

The truth of this moment echoes through the ages, my risen Friend. I have sat at tables with friends, a circle of human souls whose hearts were open to share bread and life. As the wine poured, conversation became communion, glistening with a grace ancient and true.

And I knew this is the life you intend. This is the glory of your life. This makes and keeps us human. This moment is shadowed by eternity. And my heart involuntarily gave thanks for the advance view of what you have in mind, what will be when we all share your life.

I know you at such tables, Jesus. I know you beyond word and concept as truest intuition of eternity. And I need to know nothing more, no sermons or instruction, no long words in longer books or symbols in glass, no mediated understandings. For nothing captures the intimate knowing of such moments, nothing but an open heart.

Hearts set afire by you at tables of holy intimacy and eternal generosity: that is what you make of us at your table of feasting, and every table of such blessed generosity and welcome is yours, a glistening moment of startling revelation, eternity in time.

So may it be for us today and every day. For it is there that you smile and say, “Welcome home.”

Pr. David L. Miller

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Today’s text

Luke 24:25-32

Then Jesus said to them, 'You foolish men! So slow to believe all that the prophets have said! Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer before entering into his glory?' Then, starting with Moses and going through all the prophets, he explained to them the passages throughout the scriptures that were about himself. When they drew near to the village to which they were going, he made as if to go on; but they pressed him to stay with them saying, 'It is nearly evening, and the day is almost over.' So he went in to stay with them. Now while he was with them at table, he took the bread and said the blessing; then he broke it and handed it to them. And their eyes were opened and they recognized him; but he had vanished from their sight. Then they said to each other, 'Did not our hearts burn within us as he talked to us on the road and explained the scriptures to us?'

Prayer

Stay with us Jesus. We don’t do very well without you.

A wave of anxiety certainly rushed through your Emmaus friends as you were taking your leave, going your way. I can feel it even now all these centuries later, for I share it. It is mine too.

Stay with us. Don’t leave us. Didn’t our hearts burn when we were with this mysterious stranger. And Jesus, you are always a stranger to us. Who can understand you?

But we do understand the joy of your presence, the bliss of your nearness. We understand the heavy weights of soul that fly away, lighter than air, in moments when we know you as close as our breath.

We know the love that enfolds us, evaporates our fears and bears us back into our worlds brimming with courage and gentleness. This is well known. Saints and martyrs and even schlumps like me have known your risenness, and prayed: Stay with us.

It is a prayer you create and honor, containing everything necessary.

So, my dearest Friend, stay. Stay even when we must take leave from each other. We need you more than we can say.

Pr. David L. Miller

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Today’s text

Luke 24:18-24

Then one of them, called Cleopas, answered him, 'You must be the only person staying in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have been happening there these last few days.' [Jesus] asked, 'What things?' They answered, 'All about Jesus of Nazareth, who showed himself a prophet powerful in action and speech before God and the whole people; and how our chief priests and our leaders handed him over to be sentenced to death, and had him crucified. Our own hope had been that he would be the one to set Israel free. And this is not all: two whole days have now gone by since it all happened; and some women from our group have astounded us: they went to the tomb in the early morning, and when they could not find the body, they came back to tell us they had seen a vision of angels who declared he was alive. Some of our friends went to the tomb and found everything exactly as the women had reported, but of him they saw nothing.'

Prayer

Sad words, Jesus: “Our own hope had been …. Past tense, over and done.

We had hoped that he would set us free. It is hard to know their precise meaning. Did they want you to cast out the Romans occupiers? Establish a new order where everyone would rest secure under their own olive tree and each walk the street in safety and peace?

Two thousand years separate me from them Jesus, but they are barely a breath away. Not even that. They are human as I, and flesh, craving freedom for body and soul. They seek a wide and open space where their hearts might swell and breathe the fullness of this mystery we call life.

It is an old desire, Jesus, as ancient as the everlasting hills. And it finds fulfillment in seeing you. You open that wide space where we might live free as free souls.

Your first friends knew that. They knew the freedom and hope that spring to life in your nearness. It is not surprising that their hearts should leap at a silly tale of angels and resurrection. They had hoped you were the one who brings freedom, even from the final threat all life must face.

You had liberated their hope to fly that high. And mine.

Liberate our hope, dearest Friend. Free our souls to seek you even in the dead places of life where it seems nothing can live.

Open that wide and open space where we might breathe.

Pr. David L. Miller

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Today’s text

Luke 24:13-17

Now that very same day, two of them were on their way to a village called Emmaus, seven miles from Jerusalem, and they were talking together about all that had happened. And it happened that as they were talking together and discussing it, Jesus himself came up and walked by their side; but their eyes were prevented from recognizing him. He said to them, 'What are all these things that you are discussing as you walk along?' They stopped, their faces downcast.

Prayer

Why, my Lord? Why should they be kept from seeing you, the balm for our aching eyes? It is as if you prevented them from seeing. Or is this simply a way of saying they were still unable to see?

It seems clear, though, that they were kept from recognizing you. But if so, you kept them from seeing a presence that could not endure to reveal a presence that will endure to the end of earthly days.

So you kept them in the dark until they should see light. And there they struggled to understand what they had witnessed, your destruction and the collapse of their hopes.

It seems cruel. And my desire is to hurry to the happy end of the story where their eyes are open. But that would be false.

Truth is the waiting, the struggling, the confusion, the wanting. Yes, always the wanting for light to pierce the darkness of our hearts and minds that we may see and know you.

I don’t like the waiting struggle, my Risen Friend. But that is where I live much of my time. It can become a downcast state. Still, I smile, and often, knowing it is you for whom I wait. That is the one knowledge your Emmaus friends did not yet have.

But I do. So I lift my eyes from earth’s sad dust. Soon enough, the time again will be right to see and recognize you. For your risen presence endures to the end of the age and the closing of my tired eyes.

Pr. David L. Miller

Friday, March 28, 2008

Today’s text

John 20:24-29

Thomas, called the Twin, who was one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples said to him, 'We have seen the Lord,' but he answered, 'Unless I can see the holes that the nails made in his hands and can put my finger into the holes they made, and unless I can put my hand into his side, I refuse to believe.' Eight days later the disciples were in the house again and Thomas was with them. The doors were closed, but Jesus came in and stood among them. 'Peace be with you,' he said. Then he spoke to Thomas, 'Put your finger here; look, here are my hands. Give me your hand; put it into my side. Do not be unbelieving any more but believe.' Thomas replied, 'My Lord and my God!' Jesus said to him: You believe because you can see me. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.

Prayer

My Lord, I am Thomas. And it brings me no shame, only joy. I believe because I have seen and continue to see. Is not seeing … something … the source of faith for all us?

There are few of us who would not trade places with Thomas. I want to be the one who touches your ruined hands, who grasps your broken feet and gazes at your side.

I want to see you alive again. I hunger to hear your voice inviting me touch and know. My eyes ache to see the marks of love glorified and be moved, as now, to tears, which praise you in ways my mouth cannot. Thank you for them. They are your gift.

And thank you that, I, like Thomas, have seen you alive. I see the wonder of your resurrection in good and gentle souls who throughout my days have welcomed me to touch their hands and feet, souls and lives. There I touch and taste and know that you are good … and alive.

I keep bumping into a strange, translucent love in odds places and unexpected moments, in friends’ hearts and strangers’ smiles. And each time it fills me with a joy and an unwavering hope that evokes awareness of something that cannot be confined to our time, to any time.

It is the same joy and hope I know when I watch you speaking one word to your friends, “Peace.”

So I see, and believe, and say, “My Lord and My God.”

I am Thomas. And there is no shame in me, only joy.

Pr. David L. Miller

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Today’s text

John 20:19-23

In the evening of that same day, the first day of the week, the doors were closed in the room where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews. Jesus came and stood among them. He said to them, 'Peace be with you,' and, after saying this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples were filled with joy at seeing the Lord, and he said to them again, 'Peace be with you. 'As the Father sent me, so am I sending you.' After saying this he breathed on them and said: Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive anyone's sins, they are forgiven; if you retain anyone's sins, they are retained.

Prayer

I see now what holiness is, my Friend. Many spirits haunt human hearts. We see and feel them: the proud and arrogant, the humble and gentle, the fearful and melancholy, the joyous and generous.

You give the Holy Spirit, granting your beloved authority to forgive sins or retain them. But the desire of your holiness is clear. You hunger to release me into freedom. The Spirit that is Holy sets human hearts free to live. She enlarges the life in our lungs, and I have seen and known it.

It is a holy and precious thing to release a human soul from the weight of shame and guilt. I have looked them in the eye, Jesus, and spoken: Your sins are forgiven, full and free.

The words are powerful. They have effect.

Lightness of being enters the room where unholy heaviness just reigned. The soul straightens up and draws the fullness of breath into constricted lungs. They suck it in, unable to get enough. Their tight face relaxes. A small smile replaces the frown lately there and expands across their face. They are alive again, truly, and free.

You see this, Jesus, and smile. This is holy. This is the breath the Spirit breathes. Holiness is this human soul, fully alive. And holiness is the Spirit that seeks fullness of life and being for all you love.

Breathe this Spirit in us that we may be … and make free. Then we truly will glorify your risen name.

Pr. David L. Miller

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Today’s text

John 20:19-23

In the evening of that same day, the first day of the week, the doors were closed in the room where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews. Jesus came and stood among them. He said to them, 'Peace be with you,' and, after saying this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples were filled with joy at seeing the Lord, and he said to them again, 'Peace be with you. 'As the Father sent me, so am I sending you.' After saying this he breathed on them and said: Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive anyone's sins, they are forgiven; if you retain anyone's sins, they are retained.

Prayer

I do not know why we are not more proud of our wounds. We, too, have scarred hands, injured sides and broken hearts. We hide them mostly; fearing people will see our pain and know our weakness. Vulnerable we are, and we all know it. Yet, we hide.

But here you stand, Jesus, exposing the marks of your weakness. And there is no shame in you, no hiding. You offer your broken body as gift. And so it is, a gift of love.

Your ruined hands and gaping side are love’s wounds, won in the bitter battle of love with all that is not. You love much, so you suffer much. That’s the way it is for us, too, Jesus. It’s the human state.

Not even your resurrection removes your wounds. They remain, transfigured, but still there. Marks of love glorified, each speaking the compassion you are. They cannot be wiped clean without destroying your identity, your truth, the healing you bear.

And you shall bear your wounds through all eternity. And we? Our wounds move us to you for healing. Heal them, Jesus, but let love’s wounds remain. They are the best part of me.

Pr. David L. Miller

Monday, March 24, 2008

Today’s text

John 20:18-20

So Mary of Magdala told the disciples, 'I have seen the Lord,' and that he had said these things to her. In the evening of that same day, the first day of the week, the doors were closed in the room where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews. Jesus came and stood among them. He said to them, 'Peace be with you,' and, after saying this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples were filled with joy at seeing the Lord,

Prayer

You speak, Risen One, and the word is that for which our hearts pine: ‘Peace.’

Stillness fills the soul as I sit and listen to your voice: ‘Peace be with you.’

The quiet timbre of the word echoes through corridors of the mind. It exorcises the fevered rancor of daily living, emptying the noise, clearing space to be, just to be, setting all at rest.

And I sink into your words: Peace. Peace be with me. Peace be with me.

Peace: over and again, repeating your first risen word as the secret knowledge you impart to the soul. Peace: freeing me to humbly be that which you have made, neither more than less. The soul quiets, at rest.

Freedom comes at the sound of your voice bearing the first and most central word you would have me hear and know well: Peace.

You create in me this quiet space where I dwell at rest with you, where I can welcome all you love, where our joy together may abound.

So let me ever hear your first risen word.

Pr. David L. Miller

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Today’s text

John 20:9-16

But Mary was standing outside near the tomb, weeping. Then, as she wept, she stooped to look inside, and saw two angels in white sitting where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head, the other at the feet. They said, 'Woman, why are you weeping?' 'They have taken my Lord away,' she replied, 'and I don't know where they have put him.' As she said this she turned round and saw standing there, though she did not realize that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, 'Woman, why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?' Supposing him to be the gardener, she said, 'Sir, if you have taken him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will go and remove him.' Jesus said, 'Mary!' She turned round then and said to him in Hebrew, 'Rabbuni!'-which means Master.

Prayer

‘I do not know where they have put him.’

No longer do they put you anywhere, Jesus. There is no where you can be put. You go where you please to all that you love, and you love all. It is your risen pleasure to go to all and in all places to appear in heart-rending surprise.

My heart cries with Mary, searching for you and not finding, only to be found by you, and then to cry again at the mystery of your risen nearness.

‘Who are you looking for?’ You ask.

I look for you, dearest Friend. I look for you in every face and on dreariest days. I look for you, thirsty for your presence. But you already abide in risen nearness in the depths of my confused soul. Your risen life plays in every face I see and every street I walk.

You are the source of my searching, the love that burns my soul fanning my thirst for More: more love, more presence, more of whatever you are in risen glory.

For you live. There just is no killing you, not now. For you are the life of eternity, searching dusty corridors of soul and unknown corners of the cosmos to break our hearts again. And you do, for you are that love that holds nothing back and holds all things together.

And you are risen.

I have no words on this Easter Day to give voice to the wonder of your life, nor for the surprise that you should appear also to me, here and now.

Accept my poor praise, the emblem of a grateful soul.

Pr. David L. Miller

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Today’s text

John 19:38-42

Joseph of Arimathaea, who was a disciple of Jesus--though a secret one because he was afraid of the Jews--asked Pilate to let him remove the body of Jesus. Pilate gave permission, so they came and took it away. Nicodemus came as well-the same one who had first come to Jesus at night-time-and he brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and bound it in linen cloths with the spices, following the Jewish burial custom. At the place where he had been crucified there was a garden, and in this garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been buried. Since it was the Jewish Day of Preparation and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

Prayer

My heart breaks as I see them, Jesus. They make ready the place to lay you. They clean the cave, brush away the dust and lay out the spices and linens in which to wrap you.

They fumble with the dead weight of your body, turning it, holding you up, reaching under and around, winding the fabric about your form. Slowly your wounds disappear, your feet and legs, hands and side, chest and shoulders and then your face, the face they had learned to love, even though they never really understood you.

How could they? How can anyone? We don’t understand a love that loves to the end.

I understand only that I love them--and you--as they carry out their heart breaking work, laying to rest their fondest hopes, burying, too, the inexplicable yearning they knew in you presence.

Dead, now, all of it: you, the hopes for that kingdom not of this world, the unrequited longing you awakened in their depths. Dead and gone. Laid to rest. Surrendered to the dust.

All is quiet. The crowds have dispersed. Ancient blood lust has been satisfied. Now is the hour of regret and sorrow--and whispers in the silence.

That is all we have in the hour death, as hopes are dashed and blessed memories lie a crumpled in a heap on earth’s tired crust.

But, My Lord, it is not all you have.

So we wait in the stillness, daring to imagine that the garden of your tomb will bloom with everlasting tomorrow.

Pr. David L. Miller

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Today’s text

John 19:5-11

Jesus then came out wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Pilate said, 'Here is the man.' When they saw him, the chief priests and the guards shouted, 'Crucify him! Crucify him!' Pilate said, 'Take him yourselves and crucify him: I find no case against him.' The Jews replied, 'We have a Law, and according to that Law he ought to be put to death, because he has claimed to be Son of God.' When Pilate heard them say this his fears increased. Re-entering the Praetorium, he said to Jesus, 'Where do you come from?' But Jesus made no answer. Pilate then said to him, 'Are you refusing to speak to me? Surely you know I have power to release you and I have power to crucify you?' Jesus replied, 'You would have no power over me at all if it had not been given you from above; that is why the man who handed me over to you has the greater guilt.

Prayer

You are not from here, Jesus. You don’t act like we act. You don’t answer to powers that threaten to crush you. You don’t quail in fear. You refuse to speak until it suits you and the wild, holy purpose on which your soul is fixed.

That never leaves you. You never forget or lose track of who you are and what you are for. So you stand there, silent, making the powerful wait for your time, your pleasure, your voice.

And in silence we know: You are not from here. Your being naturally flows from a place we seldom visit, a region we do not inhabit. But you dwell there, and everything you now do reveals the realm of your abiding.

So tell me, where do you come from? Pilate’s question is mine for I, too, stand amazed. You stand in silent possession of your own soul, so unlike me. I want to know the place from which you come. For I wish to dwell there too.

So where are you from? Where do you dwell? Tell us.

But your words were always clear. You dwell in the bosom of the Loving Mystery. You come from God and now go to God. That Loving One is in you and you are enrapt in that Blest Mystery. This you know with silent certainty.

So go your ugly, brutal way, Jesus, ripped by the hands of hate. And with every word and act, with every silent knowing, show us where you are from, and we shall know the life you offer.

Pr. David L. Miller

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Today’s text

John 19:1-5

Pilate then had Jesus taken away and scourged; and after this, the soldiers twisted some thorns into a crown and put it on his head and dressed him in a purple robe. They kept coming up to him and saying, 'Hail, king of the Jews!' and slapping him in the face. Pilate came outside again and said to them, 'Look, I am going to bring him out to you to let you see that I find no case against him.' Jesus then came out wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Pilate said, 'Here is the man.'

Prayer

Here is the man.

What do I see as you stand there, Jesus? Is your head up or down? Hanging down, I’m sure. I have seen human beings who have been beaten. Their heads always hang. Their eyes linger on the soil of earth to which they have been reduced.

They wear sadness like an old coat; unmitigated melancholy droops from their shoulders. Their lives are but a burden to born. Joy has left. Vitality has fled. They squirm in the rough grip of a malevolence they neither understand nor control. Life is a passion to be endured, not a gift to embrace.

That is how you look to me, Jesus. You are as clear to me as my fingers on the keys. You are the man, and tears mark my sadness over the many you resemble. You suffer the passion of human souls who want only to live, but cannot enter the silent promise of the goodness they once felt in their flesh.

You are the man, every man, every woman, creation itself in travail. Beaten and bloodied. Discounted and disparaged. Far separated from those dear who treasured your smile, your nearness. Gripped by hands that care nothing for you. Yet, standing among and with us all. And standing there you bring the revelation of Eternity to wordless fulfillment.

Thank you for the love that stirs my soul as I see you descending the depths of human sorrow. Thank you for the realization that I love you, a love awakened by the beauty of all you have allowed me to see in you.

Grant that we should never fail to see the mystery of divine beauty in the pains you suffer. For then our souls would be dead. And we want to live.

Pr. David L. Miller

Friday, March 14, 2008

Today’s text

Matthew 21:6-11

So the disciples went and did as Jesus had told them. They brought the donkey and the colt, then they laid their cloaks on their backs and he took his seat on them. Great crowds of people spread their cloaks on the road, while others were cutting branches from the trees and spreading them in his path. The crowds who went in front of him and those who followed were all shouting: Hosanna to the son of David! Blessed is he who is coming in the name of the Lord! And when he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil as people asked, 'Who is this?' and the crowds answered, 'This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.'

Prayer

I look. I watch. And desire is awakened. To be with them, bowing down, spreading my coat on the road before you with dozens of denizens of this all-too-human race: There I am, in my place of belonging.

Bowing in humble reverence before your approach, I find myself, my heart, my home. And the soul grows quiet, needing nothing.

The scene reduces me to truest identity: one soul among many, humbly offering such small service, a silent act of humble worship filled whole by the sum of all that I am.

Bending down on the road, crumpled coat at my feet, I would smooth out the wrinkles that it may lay even and low as you pass, feeling nothing but greatest honor and joy that you should tread on my coat, the sacred emblem of a soul who loves you. And needs you.

Receive my worship; hear my silent praise as I stand dumb in wonder at the glory you are. For my soul does not ask who you are. I know. And there is no knowledge more blessed.

Pr. David L. Miller

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Today’s text

Matthew 21:6-9

So the disciples went and did as Jesus had told them. They brought the donkey and the colt, then they laid their cloaks on their backs and he took his seat on them. Great crowds of people spread their cloaks on the road, while others were cutting branches from the trees and spreading them in his path. The crowds who went in front of him and those who followed were all shouting: Hosanna to the son of David! Blessed is he who is coming in the name of the Lord!

Prayer

Yes, most blessed. My heart clambers for you. For you my spirit cries out with a voice vast as the sky. My silent heart restlessly calls in the morning, stirred by the craving of a thousand ages, speaking the desire as everlasting as the ancient hills you walked.

Come.

Come, you who bear the name of the Lord. Come bearing the secret source and resting place of the world’s anxious soul. Come convince our hearts that you want to come to us, to me, to be for us that secret someone without whom we cannot truly live.

Come.

Come and quiet the primeval protests of our souls insisting, as they do, that there must be more, something, someone who can answer the incessant question for which we have no words.

Come.

Come and free us from the agitation of our unsatisfied searching. Come, and our hearts will fly open and call out with a voice vast as the sky, ‘Hosanna. You do come, and to us. Let us see you, and know ourselves for the first time.’

Come, Hosanna, love us with that love only eternity knows.

Pr. David L. Miller