Today’s text
Philippians 3:7-11
But what were once my assets I now through Christ Jesus count as losses. Yes, I will go further: because of the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, I count everything else as loss. For him I have accepted the loss of all other things, and look on them all as filth if only I can gain Christ and be given a place in him, with the uprightness I have gained not from the Law, but through faith in Christ, an uprightness from God, based on faith, that I may come to know him and the power of his resurrection, and partake of his sufferings by being molded to the pattern of his death, striving towards the goal of resurrection from the dead.
Reflection
Your world is distraction, my Lord, and your church, your people. It is in the silence of this room that I most know you. In the silence I meet you, O Great and Holy Silence, abiding, waiting, here, always.
It is in this silence that my soul slows and my eyes open. Here I learn to walk slowly, and the pressure to react to a million bombarding stimuli falls away. My soul quiets, and the mind calms.
Then only am I fit for the day, able to be with others, abiding with them in peace, no longer driven by internal frustrations or the demands of others. Then only am I prepared to be human, for I have been with you in the silence where I know your abiding.
Failing this, I lose you--and me, and I am unfit for human contact.
So I come here, counting everything as loss, as garbage, next to what I know here. For I know you here, and that other anxious self dies as I hear you, Great Silence, in the quiet of an abiding love.
May the noise and fury of the days not distract me from you or cause me to lose what you give me here. For you give me your own self. The life of you who are Life grows, emerging from the soil of my soul that I may be the self you are in me.
Rising again and again, until all of me is raised from the dead, and death itself is gone.
Pr. David L. Miller
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
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Thursday, October 02, 2008
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Today’s text
Philippians 3:7-11
But what were once my assets I now through Christ Jesus count as losses. Yes, I will go further: because of the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, I count everything else as loss. For him I have accepted the loss of all other things, and look on them all as filth if only I can gain Christ and be given a place in him, with the uprightness I have gained not from the Law, but through faith in Christ, an uprightness from God, based on faith, that I may come to know him and the power of his resurrection, and partake of his sufferings by being molded to the pattern of his death, striving towards the goal of resurrection from the dead.
Reflection
I cannot deny the power of your resurrection. In some miniscule way, I know it. I say this with resistance flowing through my veins. But say it I must, for your power is more present than my resistance and more persistent.
So I speak: I know the power of your rising, holy Jesus, the power that lifted you alive from the death of the tomb, the power of Being Itself, the power that lives in all that lives, the power that never rests until life overwhelms the emptiness and completes all that is.
I come to this place of prayer, and you lift me again from coldness to joy, from sloth to purpose, from dissipation to vitality, from bondage to freedom, from death to life.
Your power pulses in my blood, and in its rush I know the power of your rising … rising also in me.
How may I stay connected to you, the Infinite Source of resurrection, that life may come to my every death? So many days drag me down into the tomb of fear and mere existence, and I want more. I want the power of your rising bubbling and filling, overflowing and freeing this soul that I may be the joy you intend.
Compared with this blessed freedom, little else matters. So what is your answer, Jesus?
“Come. Come to me,” you say. “Each day. Whatever your condition. Come. Surrender all claims to meaning or significance. Give up the self you think you are. It is illusion. You are only that which you become in the nearness of the love that I am. From eternity you are loved and known, and love attends your every step and indwells your soul, however buried it may be. This love is my present nearness.
“Flee to those places where you know love. Love the small details of your days, attending each with care. You will enter deeply the love that abides, the life that attends your every step.
“And you will know the power of my rising, for that power is love and nothing but love--the one power that alone is stronger than the death you fear.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Philippians 3:7-11
But what were once my assets I now through Christ Jesus count as losses. Yes, I will go further: because of the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, I count everything else as loss. For him I have accepted the loss of all other things, and look on them all as filth if only I can gain Christ and be given a place in him, with the uprightness I have gained not from the Law, but through faith in Christ, an uprightness from God, based on faith, that I may come to know him and the power of his resurrection, and partake of his sufferings by being molded to the pattern of his death, striving towards the goal of resurrection from the dead.
Reflection
I cannot deny the power of your resurrection. In some miniscule way, I know it. I say this with resistance flowing through my veins. But say it I must, for your power is more present than my resistance and more persistent.
So I speak: I know the power of your rising, holy Jesus, the power that lifted you alive from the death of the tomb, the power of Being Itself, the power that lives in all that lives, the power that never rests until life overwhelms the emptiness and completes all that is.
I come to this place of prayer, and you lift me again from coldness to joy, from sloth to purpose, from dissipation to vitality, from bondage to freedom, from death to life.
Your power pulses in my blood, and in its rush I know the power of your rising … rising also in me.
How may I stay connected to you, the Infinite Source of resurrection, that life may come to my every death? So many days drag me down into the tomb of fear and mere existence, and I want more. I want the power of your rising bubbling and filling, overflowing and freeing this soul that I may be the joy you intend.
Compared with this blessed freedom, little else matters. So what is your answer, Jesus?
“Come. Come to me,” you say. “Each day. Whatever your condition. Come. Surrender all claims to meaning or significance. Give up the self you think you are. It is illusion. You are only that which you become in the nearness of the love that I am. From eternity you are loved and known, and love attends your every step and indwells your soul, however buried it may be. This love is my present nearness.
“Flee to those places where you know love. Love the small details of your days, attending each with care. You will enter deeply the love that abides, the life that attends your every step.
“And you will know the power of my rising, for that power is love and nothing but love--the one power that alone is stronger than the death you fear.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Today’s text
Philippians 3:4b-8a
If anyone does claim to rely on them, my claim is better. Circumcised on the eighth day of my life, I was born of the race of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrew parents. In the matter of the Law, I was a Pharisee; as for religious fervor, I was a persecutor of the Church; as for the uprightness embodied in the Law, I was faultless. But what were once my assets I now through Christ Jesus count as losses. Yes, I will go further: because of the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, I count everything else as loss.
Reflection
The words awaken memory, Jesus. You told tales: the pearl of great price, the treasure hidden in a field for which one gives everything to purchase. Such is the value of what you are and bring.
This comes first as intuition and then experience. We hear your words, imagine your face or feel the mysterious something stirred in us by the presence of the love you are. You awaken in us awareness of the Love who is the Father, the One you sought in the quiet hours of your days.
And we know: life is not bread alone. There is bread that feeds forgotten parts of our soul we barely knew were there. There is a Love that plays at the deep heart of things, even in us, beckoning us to come home. It sings for us to come and know, come and rest, come and join the song of Love in time and space. Come and know the Love who dwells hidden within, waiting to be awakened by the Love and who labors in all we touch and see.
Come and feel alive, again or perhaps for the first time. Come and know the joy for which you are intended, for which I made you. So says the Lord, the One I cannot see or imagine, but yet whom I hear beckoning me in every love I have ever known.
Come pray out whatever is in you. Bring it all. It does not matter what. Come and discover the blessed awareness that washes fresh the soul when we find that all else pales before the knowledge of this Christ, this love, this wonder.
Then and only then are we free. In knowing him, the soul is released from bondage to disordered desire and cravings that disturb and burden.
And we know: this Christ, this Love, is the pearl of great price. And it lies hidden within us, never far from us, waiting to be awakened by the slightest invitation of willing souls.
Pr. David L. Miller
Philippians 3:4b-8a
If anyone does claim to rely on them, my claim is better. Circumcised on the eighth day of my life, I was born of the race of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrew parents. In the matter of the Law, I was a Pharisee; as for religious fervor, I was a persecutor of the Church; as for the uprightness embodied in the Law, I was faultless. But what were once my assets I now through Christ Jesus count as losses. Yes, I will go further: because of the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, I count everything else as loss.
Reflection
The words awaken memory, Jesus. You told tales: the pearl of great price, the treasure hidden in a field for which one gives everything to purchase. Such is the value of what you are and bring.
This comes first as intuition and then experience. We hear your words, imagine your face or feel the mysterious something stirred in us by the presence of the love you are. You awaken in us awareness of the Love who is the Father, the One you sought in the quiet hours of your days.
And we know: life is not bread alone. There is bread that feeds forgotten parts of our soul we barely knew were there. There is a Love that plays at the deep heart of things, even in us, beckoning us to come home. It sings for us to come and know, come and rest, come and join the song of Love in time and space. Come and know the Love who dwells hidden within, waiting to be awakened by the Love and who labors in all we touch and see.
Come and feel alive, again or perhaps for the first time. Come and know the joy for which you are intended, for which I made you. So says the Lord, the One I cannot see or imagine, but yet whom I hear beckoning me in every love I have ever known.
Come pray out whatever is in you. Bring it all. It does not matter what. Come and discover the blessed awareness that washes fresh the soul when we find that all else pales before the knowledge of this Christ, this love, this wonder.
Then and only then are we free. In knowing him, the soul is released from bondage to disordered desire and cravings that disturb and burden.
And we know: this Christ, this Love, is the pearl of great price. And it lies hidden within us, never far from us, waiting to be awakened by the slightest invitation of willing souls.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Today’s text
Philippians 2:1-4
So if in Christ there is anything that will move you, any incentive in love, any fellowship in the Spirit, any warmth or sympathy -- I appeal to you, make my joy complete by being of a single mind, one in love, one in heart and one in mind. Nothing is to be done out of jealousy or vanity; instead, out of humility of mind everyone should give preference to others, everyone pursuing not selfish interests but those of others.
Reflection
This is a word out of time, Jesus--out of every time. There has been no time when these words didn’t apply.
Paul looks at the congregation in Philippi and urges them to unity of mind and heart. Seek to be one in love through humility, setting aside selfish interests to care for the interests of others, the interest of the entire body of believers.
I have less an idea about what might have divided the ancient Greek community at Philippi than what divides us.
We approach life as consumers, Jesus. We believe and act as if it the world should serve us, our needs, our wants, our comforts. We go to a store or café so long as it serves us as we please. When it does not, we go elsewhere. There are plenty of other options.
There is no incentive to stay, to seek understanding or reconciliation. It is easier to leave. What matters is getting what you want.
This attitude shapes our entire consciousness. It is an attitude of privilege, arrogance and irresponsibility.
Our culture, our way of life forms us. It does its own kind of spiritual formation into the spirit of consumerism in which what matters is me, my wants and getting them fulfilled in when and where I please.
Nothing could be further from your Spirit, Jesus. Nothing could be further from the spirit of worship and community.
In Christian community, you move us beyond consideration of our own needs Jesus. When we worship it is your glory not our comfort that take central place. If it is not, then who are we worshiping? And if we cannot look beyond ourselves to others, how is communal life and joy possible?
Move us beyond the evil spirit of our age and culture, Jesus. Teach us contentment. Show us the needs of other souls, and reveal your desire to join us in your body, with a single heart and will--to love and serve you and each other in your name.
In you, we are not consumers, but receivers of your generosity that your goodness may flow through us.
Our ways breed criticism and conflict, competition and anger. Your way brings unity and joy. So teach us your way.
Pr. David L. Miller
Philippians 2:1-4
So if in Christ there is anything that will move you, any incentive in love, any fellowship in the Spirit, any warmth or sympathy -- I appeal to you, make my joy complete by being of a single mind, one in love, one in heart and one in mind. Nothing is to be done out of jealousy or vanity; instead, out of humility of mind everyone should give preference to others, everyone pursuing not selfish interests but those of others.
Reflection
This is a word out of time, Jesus--out of every time. There has been no time when these words didn’t apply.
Paul looks at the congregation in Philippi and urges them to unity of mind and heart. Seek to be one in love through humility, setting aside selfish interests to care for the interests of others, the interest of the entire body of believers.
I have less an idea about what might have divided the ancient Greek community at Philippi than what divides us.
We approach life as consumers, Jesus. We believe and act as if it the world should serve us, our needs, our wants, our comforts. We go to a store or café so long as it serves us as we please. When it does not, we go elsewhere. There are plenty of other options.
There is no incentive to stay, to seek understanding or reconciliation. It is easier to leave. What matters is getting what you want.
This attitude shapes our entire consciousness. It is an attitude of privilege, arrogance and irresponsibility.
Our culture, our way of life forms us. It does its own kind of spiritual formation into the spirit of consumerism in which what matters is me, my wants and getting them fulfilled in when and where I please.
Nothing could be further from your Spirit, Jesus. Nothing could be further from the spirit of worship and community.
In Christian community, you move us beyond consideration of our own needs Jesus. When we worship it is your glory not our comfort that take central place. If it is not, then who are we worshiping? And if we cannot look beyond ourselves to others, how is communal life and joy possible?
Move us beyond the evil spirit of our age and culture, Jesus. Teach us contentment. Show us the needs of other souls, and reveal your desire to join us in your body, with a single heart and will--to love and serve you and each other in your name.
In you, we are not consumers, but receivers of your generosity that your goodness may flow through us.
Our ways breed criticism and conflict, competition and anger. Your way brings unity and joy. So teach us your way.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, September 22, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Today’s text
Philippians 2:1-4
So if in Christ there is anything that will move you, any incentive in love, any fellowship in the Spirit, any warmth or sympathy -- I appeal to you, make my joy complete by being of a single mind, one in love, one in heart and one in mind. Nothing is to be done out of jealousy or vanity; instead, out of humility of mind everyone should give preference to others, everyone pursuing not selfish interests but those of others.
Reflection
Just what is there in you that moves me, Jesus? What might move me to true community of mind and heart?
It’s silly, I know, and bad art, too. But there is that old painting that hung above the piano in the basement of St. Paul’s Lutheran, when I was a boy in Sunday school. You sit atop a hill, chin lifted a bit, gazing into the distance.
You are at peace, and I always imagined your soul rested in harmony with the One you always called, ‘Father.’ You were one with that One, and whatever is in that One flowed ceaselessly through you--whatever love or mystery, whatever peace or purpose, whatever mercy or mission.
You would steal away just to sit and be with that One that you might know who you are. And in those moments, the stream of divinity within you broadened and deepened so that there was no separation between you and the Father. You were one.
And I looked on from my Sunday school chair, divided from other the classes by the green curtains and by my thoughts, which transported me far away to a place more wonderful and alive than the drab, gray basement.
The painting reminds me of all the times you stole away from your friends to sit in silence and prayer with the Loving Mystery, the Father.
It still moves me. Many of your other acts also move me, Jesus. But today I am taken with that kitschy old painting, which probably went into the junk heap long ago. There was nothing about it much worth saving, except its impression on a young boy’s heart.
And that endures, moving me all these decades later, and inviting me into the silence where I am with you, communing with the Great Silence who is love--and who flows, however, haltingly, though this troubled soul, too.
I seek your silence today, Jesus, that my soul may rest and remember who I am. Grant me sweet oneness with the One I, too, bear.
Pr. David L. Miller
Philippians 2:1-4
So if in Christ there is anything that will move you, any incentive in love, any fellowship in the Spirit, any warmth or sympathy -- I appeal to you, make my joy complete by being of a single mind, one in love, one in heart and one in mind. Nothing is to be done out of jealousy or vanity; instead, out of humility of mind everyone should give preference to others, everyone pursuing not selfish interests but those of others.
Reflection
Just what is there in you that moves me, Jesus? What might move me to true community of mind and heart?
It’s silly, I know, and bad art, too. But there is that old painting that hung above the piano in the basement of St. Paul’s Lutheran, when I was a boy in Sunday school. You sit atop a hill, chin lifted a bit, gazing into the distance.
You are at peace, and I always imagined your soul rested in harmony with the One you always called, ‘Father.’ You were one with that One, and whatever is in that One flowed ceaselessly through you--whatever love or mystery, whatever peace or purpose, whatever mercy or mission.
You would steal away just to sit and be with that One that you might know who you are. And in those moments, the stream of divinity within you broadened and deepened so that there was no separation between you and the Father. You were one.
And I looked on from my Sunday school chair, divided from other the classes by the green curtains and by my thoughts, which transported me far away to a place more wonderful and alive than the drab, gray basement.
The painting reminds me of all the times you stole away from your friends to sit in silence and prayer with the Loving Mystery, the Father.
It still moves me. Many of your other acts also move me, Jesus. But today I am taken with that kitschy old painting, which probably went into the junk heap long ago. There was nothing about it much worth saving, except its impression on a young boy’s heart.
And that endures, moving me all these decades later, and inviting me into the silence where I am with you, communing with the Great Silence who is love--and who flows, however, haltingly, though this troubled soul, too.
I seek your silence today, Jesus, that my soul may rest and remember who I am. Grant me sweet oneness with the One I, too, bear.
Pr. David L. Miller
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
I am grateful for a privilege often given to pastors. I get to sit and listen to other human hearts: to their pain and frustration, to their confusion and mistakes, to their unexpected joys and triumphs, to confessions of their fears and failures, their sins and great blessings.
It’s a privilege because in the listening I am moved to a generosity that is usually beyond me. In listening, I am aware of others’ humanity.
They are vulnerable and needy. They are confused and often a great mystery to themselves. They make bad decisions and suffer for them. They are strong and suddenly weak. They are in control of themselves on moment and weeping the next. They know exactly what they want and are clueless about what is happening to them.
They are human and flawed and just like me. No different. And sitting with them I am moved by the beauty of their spirit and their struggle to live.
Listening, I become I aware that I love this person before me, even though a few minutes before I knew nothing about them, sometimes not even their name.
I begin to see them with a gentleness and compassion that wants only the best for them, only life in its fullness, only beauty and joy, clarity and conviction about how beloved they are of God, and about what they are to do and be.
It’s a common experience for me, and common for almost anyone who has ever listened deeply into another human soul and discovered the beauty of its humanity.
Listening, we see with eyes of compassion. And for a few moments, we see as God sees. We feel as God feels. We are lifted above the evil eye of our fears and judgments of others. And in a moment of purest freedom, we become the generosity of God.
Our souls grow large, embracing, magnanimous. We see as God sees.
How does God see? It’s like this:
A landowner calls his workers in at the end of the day. They are day laborers, barely making enough each day to get by. Those who worked only an hour or so get paid. Those who worked half a day are paid the same. And those who sweat through the heat of the long day get the same amount.
The story is irritating, infuriating, unfair. It is just as upsetting as the co-worker who glides into his desk at 10:45 and glibly looks for coffee, unaware and uncaring that colleagues have had to do his work. At the end of the week, he takes credit for the success of the project. And everyone else in the office gives him the evil eye.
God sees like the land owner. He sees people who need to work, to feed their families, to know the dignity of meaningful labor. But God’s vision is far removed from human concerns for justice and fair play. The Holy One appears arbitrary, even arrogant: “It’s my money, and I can do with it as I please.”
There is no concern for fairness here. Our lives appear to be in the hands of an arbitrary power that cares nothing about how we see things, exercising divine power in ways uncontrolled by our standards.
God does not see as I see. God does not judge as we judge. God sees only through the eyes of infinite generosity.
Jesus irritating parable is about how differently God sees the world. God is not a bean counter. We all count bean in one way or another, keeping track, keeping score, seeing who is up or down, right or wrong, winning or losing.
God sees only one way: through the eyes of ultimate goodness, through the heart of unmerited and immeasurable generosity.
Those who insist on counting beans give the evil, envious, accusatory eye to the unfairness of all these see and encounter.
And they never discover how they are seen. They cannot know exactly how much they are loved. They cannot know the One who is Love and nothing but Love. They cannot know a generosity beyond imagination.
But we can see as God sees. Well, we can begin. And enter joy.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
I am grateful for a privilege often given to pastors. I get to sit and listen to other human hearts: to their pain and frustration, to their confusion and mistakes, to their unexpected joys and triumphs, to confessions of their fears and failures, their sins and great blessings.
It’s a privilege because in the listening I am moved to a generosity that is usually beyond me. In listening, I am aware of others’ humanity.
They are vulnerable and needy. They are confused and often a great mystery to themselves. They make bad decisions and suffer for them. They are strong and suddenly weak. They are in control of themselves on moment and weeping the next. They know exactly what they want and are clueless about what is happening to them.
They are human and flawed and just like me. No different. And sitting with them I am moved by the beauty of their spirit and their struggle to live.
Listening, I become I aware that I love this person before me, even though a few minutes before I knew nothing about them, sometimes not even their name.
I begin to see them with a gentleness and compassion that wants only the best for them, only life in its fullness, only beauty and joy, clarity and conviction about how beloved they are of God, and about what they are to do and be.
It’s a common experience for me, and common for almost anyone who has ever listened deeply into another human soul and discovered the beauty of its humanity.
Listening, we see with eyes of compassion. And for a few moments, we see as God sees. We feel as God feels. We are lifted above the evil eye of our fears and judgments of others. And in a moment of purest freedom, we become the generosity of God.
Our souls grow large, embracing, magnanimous. We see as God sees.
How does God see? It’s like this:
A landowner calls his workers in at the end of the day. They are day laborers, barely making enough each day to get by. Those who worked only an hour or so get paid. Those who worked half a day are paid the same. And those who sweat through the heat of the long day get the same amount.
The story is irritating, infuriating, unfair. It is just as upsetting as the co-worker who glides into his desk at 10:45 and glibly looks for coffee, unaware and uncaring that colleagues have had to do his work. At the end of the week, he takes credit for the success of the project. And everyone else in the office gives him the evil eye.
God sees like the land owner. He sees people who need to work, to feed their families, to know the dignity of meaningful labor. But God’s vision is far removed from human concerns for justice and fair play. The Holy One appears arbitrary, even arrogant: “It’s my money, and I can do with it as I please.”
There is no concern for fairness here. Our lives appear to be in the hands of an arbitrary power that cares nothing about how we see things, exercising divine power in ways uncontrolled by our standards.
God does not see as I see. God does not judge as we judge. God sees only through the eyes of infinite generosity.
Jesus irritating parable is about how differently God sees the world. God is not a bean counter. We all count bean in one way or another, keeping track, keeping score, seeing who is up or down, right or wrong, winning or losing.
God sees only one way: through the eyes of ultimate goodness, through the heart of unmerited and immeasurable generosity.
Those who insist on counting beans give the evil, envious, accusatory eye to the unfairness of all these see and encounter.
And they never discover how they are seen. They cannot know exactly how much they are loved. They cannot know the One who is Love and nothing but Love. They cannot know a generosity beyond imagination.
But we can see as God sees. Well, we can begin. And enter joy.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
There is no way to make your story kind or just, Jesus. If God is like the owner of the vineyard, then God is far removed from human concerns for justice and fair play. The Holy One appears arbitrary, even arrogant: “It’s mine, and I can do with it as I please.”
There is no hint of concern for normal standards of fairness, only for the contractual agreement: “You agreed to one denarius. Take your money and go.”
So what are we to do with this? Are our lives in the hands of an arbitrary power that cares nothing for how we see or feel about things?
Looking at you, Jesus, that seems about right. The Loving Mystery doesn’t much care about how we see or feel about things, exercising the divine power in ways uncontrolled by our standards.
Looking at you, Jesus, I see that may be the best news I ever hear.
You come and give to the good and evil alike. You pour yourself out for the life of the undeserving. You touch and heal with no concern for who you are touching, untouched by how the good and discerning judge you and the unrighteous for whom you seemed to shower such care.
You have no concern whatsoever for my ideas about fairness. Your divine mercy marches always to the beat of a drummer I cannot hear, or just barely in rare moments when my heart opens to the possibility that it is unspeakable grace not human judgment that will finally rule the world.
And me.
So explode my judgment with your generosity and teach me to live without counting what I or others have, what is fair or right. Teach me to live with but one question: What would your generosity do?
The rest of the world might think I have lost my mind, but you’ll smile.
So let me make you smile.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
There is no way to make your story kind or just, Jesus. If God is like the owner of the vineyard, then God is far removed from human concerns for justice and fair play. The Holy One appears arbitrary, even arrogant: “It’s mine, and I can do with it as I please.”
There is no hint of concern for normal standards of fairness, only for the contractual agreement: “You agreed to one denarius. Take your money and go.”
So what are we to do with this? Are our lives in the hands of an arbitrary power that cares nothing for how we see or feel about things?
Looking at you, Jesus, that seems about right. The Loving Mystery doesn’t much care about how we see or feel about things, exercising the divine power in ways uncontrolled by our standards.
Looking at you, Jesus, I see that may be the best news I ever hear.
You come and give to the good and evil alike. You pour yourself out for the life of the undeserving. You touch and heal with no concern for who you are touching, untouched by how the good and discerning judge you and the unrighteous for whom you seemed to shower such care.
You have no concern whatsoever for my ideas about fairness. Your divine mercy marches always to the beat of a drummer I cannot hear, or just barely in rare moments when my heart opens to the possibility that it is unspeakable grace not human judgment that will finally rule the world.
And me.
So explode my judgment with your generosity and teach me to live without counting what I or others have, what is fair or right. Teach me to live with but one question: What would your generosity do?
The rest of the world might think I have lost my mind, but you’ll smile.
So let me make you smile.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
I don’t know if I have ever heard a better reason to love what I do, Jesus, and to do what I love.
I don’t think the laborers loved their work. Perhaps this is little more than a romantic ideal, but when I love what I am doing, I surrender to it. I am there, one with the task. The totality of attention is given to one thing alone. No part of mind and heart stands back admiring what I see or imagining how others are looking at me.
My reward is the simple joy of doing, of feeling the miracle of my body finding the rhythm and flow in which body becomes one with the task. Freedom is found through absorption in the moment, the only time any of us really have.
Time disappears for a time. The past fades away; the future fails to distract. I am here, now, absorbed, given, surrendered, no part of me left over to be somewhere else.
In that moment, external reward doesn’t matter. It holds no allure. No: it ceases to exist, for I have the reward of pure givenness to motion of hand and mind.
Sure, the spell breaks soon enough, too soon, fracturing the unity of past and future in the present moment. And concerns about getting paid, paying the bills and how others see me intrude into consciousness.
But I emerge from the moment of oneness aware of the truth: The soul’s satisfaction lies not in any external reward but in the joy of giving oneself to the labor of the hour. So better find something you love in which one can lose yourself--and discover you are.
This is the way of joy in the Lord’s vineyard.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
I don’t know if I have ever heard a better reason to love what I do, Jesus, and to do what I love.
I don’t think the laborers loved their work. Perhaps this is little more than a romantic ideal, but when I love what I am doing, I surrender to it. I am there, one with the task. The totality of attention is given to one thing alone. No part of mind and heart stands back admiring what I see or imagining how others are looking at me.
My reward is the simple joy of doing, of feeling the miracle of my body finding the rhythm and flow in which body becomes one with the task. Freedom is found through absorption in the moment, the only time any of us really have.
Time disappears for a time. The past fades away; the future fails to distract. I am here, now, absorbed, given, surrendered, no part of me left over to be somewhere else.
In that moment, external reward doesn’t matter. It holds no allure. No: it ceases to exist, for I have the reward of pure givenness to motion of hand and mind.
Sure, the spell breaks soon enough, too soon, fracturing the unity of past and future in the present moment. And concerns about getting paid, paying the bills and how others see me intrude into consciousness.
But I emerge from the moment of oneness aware of the truth: The soul’s satisfaction lies not in any external reward but in the joy of giving oneself to the labor of the hour. So better find something you love in which one can lose yourself--and discover you are.
This is the way of joy in the Lord’s vineyard.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, September 15, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
You obviously never had to deal with labor laws, Jesus, or an office full of bean counters. And we all count beans one way or another.
Few things raise our hackles so much as the co-worker who glides into the office hours after others have been at their work--and then leaves with the rest at the close of the day. Their lackadaisical tack toward their tasks is salt in the wound of our labor.
I know, Jesus: This parable appears to have in mind those Gentile believers who came late to the kingdom and its work, long after the Jews and the first believers had struggled in the heat of the day. So maybe this has nothing to do with the irritating and irresponsible work habits of our colleagues.
Maybe it’s this simple: We are welcomed into full participation in labors and joys of your kingdom no matter when and where we enter it.
Maybe the point is that you don’t judge the way we do. Maybe your unjust story shakes us from the bean counting ways we normally think.
Maybe we are intended to think less about ourselves and more about you--and the joy you seem to get from drawing more and more souls into your work of life. Maybe you want us to share that joy.
Maybe you take equal delight in the work of the guy who cleans the floor as you do in the bishop, the professor or the orator who moves many hearts on Sunday.
Maybe. I won’t pretend to have real understanding, except of one thing: You are a generosity beyond what my heart and mind can comprehend. And for that I am most thankful.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 20:1-15
'Now the kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner going out at daybreak to hire workers for his vineyard. He made an agreement with the workers for one denarius a day and sent them to his vineyard. Going out at about the third hour he saw others standing idle in the market place and said to them, "You go to my vineyard too and I will give you a fair wage." So they went. At about the sixth hour and again at about the ninth hour, he went out and did the same. Then at about the eleventh hour he went out and found more men standing around, and he said to them, "Why have you been standing here idle all day?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You go into my vineyard too." In the evening, the owner of the vineyard said to his bailiff, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, starting with the last arrivals and ending with the first." So those who were hired at about the eleventh hour came forward and received one denarius each. When the first came, they expected to get more, but they too received one denarius each. They took it, but grumbled at the landowner saying, "The men who came last have done only one hour, and you have treated them the same as us, though we have done a heavy day's work in all the heat." He answered one of them and said, "My friend, I am not being unjust to you; did we not agree on one denarius? Take your earnings and go. I choose to pay the lastcomer as much as I pay you. Have I no right to do what I like with my own? Why should you be envious because I am generous?"
Reflection
You obviously never had to deal with labor laws, Jesus, or an office full of bean counters. And we all count beans one way or another.
Few things raise our hackles so much as the co-worker who glides into the office hours after others have been at their work--and then leaves with the rest at the close of the day. Their lackadaisical tack toward their tasks is salt in the wound of our labor.
I know, Jesus: This parable appears to have in mind those Gentile believers who came late to the kingdom and its work, long after the Jews and the first believers had struggled in the heat of the day. So maybe this has nothing to do with the irritating and irresponsible work habits of our colleagues.
Maybe it’s this simple: We are welcomed into full participation in labors and joys of your kingdom no matter when and where we enter it.
Maybe the point is that you don’t judge the way we do. Maybe your unjust story shakes us from the bean counting ways we normally think.
Maybe we are intended to think less about ourselves and more about you--and the joy you seem to get from drawing more and more souls into your work of life. Maybe you want us to share that joy.
Maybe you take equal delight in the work of the guy who cleans the floor as you do in the bishop, the professor or the orator who moves many hearts on Sunday.
Maybe. I won’t pretend to have real understanding, except of one thing: You are a generosity beyond what my heart and mind can comprehend. And for that I am most thankful.
Pr. David L. Miller
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Today’s text
John 3:13-14
As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.
Reflection
It is almost seven years ago now. I was in New York City in the wounded aftermath of September 11, 2001, when terrorists crashed planes into World Trade Center towers in New York.
During the days, I traveled with the bishop of the Metropolitan New York synod. We visited congregations, prayed with the mourners, hugged cops and fire fighters, and listened to stories, hundreds of stories of brutality and beauty.
At night, I went to Union Square, in lower Manhattan. I always waited until after dark when 10,000 candles and more twinkled in the darkness.
Silent souls walked the paths of the block-long park. They came singly or in pairs, holding each other in the darkness.
They stopped every few feet to read the handbills attached to every tree along the walk. They knelt to read others by the light of flickering votive candles in the gathered darkness.
Thousands processed in a silence fraught with pain and hope, fear and sorrow. And I walked and watched and waited with them each night. I never spoke to even one of them. Yet, I was one with them, knowing a unity with human souls that can be shared only in moments of wordless wonder or senseless pain.
Long scrolls of paper stretched along the sidewalks almost the entire length of the park. The scrolls were filled prayers, blessings and words of comfort, often from the Bible. Grieving hands scrawled out their pain and memories of those they feared were cremated and mixed with the incinerated concrete dust that coated every tree, deck and window frame.
Literally thousands of handbills covered tree trunks, walls and fences in the park. Each handbill bore a single face, most often a young, fresh face, of someone missing. Each sheet carried the description and last known whereabouts of someone’s beloved.
I remember one handbill I captured in a photo. It had the picture of a bright, young woman. ‘WE MISS YOU!’ It read across the top. Beneath the picture was a name: ‘Mary Lou Hague, WTC 2 -- 89th floor, 26 yrs. old, 5’6”/125 lbs.’
At the bottom of the handbill were a name and a number to call. Two votive candles burned on the ground just beneath it.
We all passed by in the darkness, gazing at the images and reading the messages and prayers of wounded souls.
What struck me then and now is the absence of anger in the words we read. There were no calls for revenge and retaliation. The rhetoric of war and words of violence were totally absent.
Those who posted the handbills and wrote on the scrolls lifted up their pain and their hope, their sorrow and their blessings. They lifted up loss and love for all to see. And we who walked by were drawn in, our hearts captured by what we saw.
We became part of a great prayer, a holy hunger for healing and peace. No one here wanted war. Gentleness and care passed among us as we brushed by each other in the dark. We all felt how fragile life is, and we handled each other with care.
We had seen what cold-hearted hatred can do, and we wanted no part of it. We gazed into the love and beauty of the faces and words on those handbills, and we became love on which on which we looked.
“As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:14,15).
What does God lift up? What is held up before our eyes?
God holds up Jesus, a dying man, who loves his own and loves them to the end. God lifts up the one we call the Son of God, the face of God, the holy presence of God. And what is held up is not am image of strength or power, not an ensign of anger or retaliation against those who hate.
God holds up the image of self-sacrificing love--of pain, not strength; of giving, not taking; of seeking to convert not to destroy or diminish the enemy.
Look upon this suffering love. It will convert your heart from your angry ways. This one will show you what violence of hand and word can do. And we have all done, received and know that violence. We have been crushed and had our wholeness destroyed by criticisms, carelessness and hastiness of loveless words and deeds.
Look on this one whom God raises up and know two things: The great destruction of anger and hatred; and the unceasing giving of God, who loves even the enemies of God … and you. And always will.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:13-14
As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.
Reflection
It is almost seven years ago now. I was in New York City in the wounded aftermath of September 11, 2001, when terrorists crashed planes into World Trade Center towers in New York.
During the days, I traveled with the bishop of the Metropolitan New York synod. We visited congregations, prayed with the mourners, hugged cops and fire fighters, and listened to stories, hundreds of stories of brutality and beauty.
At night, I went to Union Square, in lower Manhattan. I always waited until after dark when 10,000 candles and more twinkled in the darkness.
Silent souls walked the paths of the block-long park. They came singly or in pairs, holding each other in the darkness.
They stopped every few feet to read the handbills attached to every tree along the walk. They knelt to read others by the light of flickering votive candles in the gathered darkness.
Thousands processed in a silence fraught with pain and hope, fear and sorrow. And I walked and watched and waited with them each night. I never spoke to even one of them. Yet, I was one with them, knowing a unity with human souls that can be shared only in moments of wordless wonder or senseless pain.
Long scrolls of paper stretched along the sidewalks almost the entire length of the park. The scrolls were filled prayers, blessings and words of comfort, often from the Bible. Grieving hands scrawled out their pain and memories of those they feared were cremated and mixed with the incinerated concrete dust that coated every tree, deck and window frame.
Literally thousands of handbills covered tree trunks, walls and fences in the park. Each handbill bore a single face, most often a young, fresh face, of someone missing. Each sheet carried the description and last known whereabouts of someone’s beloved.
I remember one handbill I captured in a photo. It had the picture of a bright, young woman. ‘WE MISS YOU!’ It read across the top. Beneath the picture was a name: ‘Mary Lou Hague, WTC 2 -- 89th floor, 26 yrs. old, 5’6”/125 lbs.’
At the bottom of the handbill were a name and a number to call. Two votive candles burned on the ground just beneath it.
We all passed by in the darkness, gazing at the images and reading the messages and prayers of wounded souls.
What struck me then and now is the absence of anger in the words we read. There were no calls for revenge and retaliation. The rhetoric of war and words of violence were totally absent.
Those who posted the handbills and wrote on the scrolls lifted up their pain and their hope, their sorrow and their blessings. They lifted up loss and love for all to see. And we who walked by were drawn in, our hearts captured by what we saw.
We became part of a great prayer, a holy hunger for healing and peace. No one here wanted war. Gentleness and care passed among us as we brushed by each other in the dark. We all felt how fragile life is, and we handled each other with care.
We had seen what cold-hearted hatred can do, and we wanted no part of it. We gazed into the love and beauty of the faces and words on those handbills, and we became love on which on which we looked.
“As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:14,15).
What does God lift up? What is held up before our eyes?
God holds up Jesus, a dying man, who loves his own and loves them to the end. God lifts up the one we call the Son of God, the face of God, the holy presence of God. And what is held up is not am image of strength or power, not an ensign of anger or retaliation against those who hate.
God holds up the image of self-sacrificing love--of pain, not strength; of giving, not taking; of seeking to convert not to destroy or diminish the enemy.
Look upon this suffering love. It will convert your heart from your angry ways. This one will show you what violence of hand and word can do. And we have all done, received and know that violence. We have been crushed and had our wholeness destroyed by criticisms, carelessness and hastiness of loveless words and deeds.
Look on this one whom God raises up and know two things: The great destruction of anger and hatred; and the unceasing giving of God, who loves even the enemies of God … and you. And always will.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Today’s text
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
I wish we lived up to our confession, Jesus. You come not to judge but to save. But so many who represent you to the world are angry. They are possessed by the need to be right--and to judge those who differ in thought or action.
For them you are a high platform from which they look down upon others, sinners and heretics, the uncommitted and the unbelievers, the ignorant and confused. This is not a disease of the right or the left, the conservative or the liberal. All have sinned. Me too.
I wonder what it is about your words and being that is so hard to understand? You come not to judge but to save. You are a platform for nothing and no one. Your feet are planted firmly in the soil of this earth where you look the human mess in the eye.
And you don’t blink. You invite, asking no one to clean up their act before addressing you. You blanch at no proclamation of unbelief, nor at proud confessions of debauchery and destruction. You continue to invite the souls of the arrogant and broken alike.
“Come. I give life. I am here not to judge but to save.” And salvation is knowing you.
That is what most bothers me about the religiously self-righteous, Jesus. They show little evidence of having spent much time with you. There are few signs that they have stood beside you, their feet planted firmly in the dust, looking human souls in the eye with the compassion of your gaze.
I weary of the false conflicts we, your church, create in your name, Jesus. The conservative denounce the liberal for loose morals and fuzzy thought. The liberals denounce the conservative for want of concern for the poor and broken. They criticize each other for various forms of self-righteousness. Those with theological or liturgical knowledge lift their noses toward the less tutored as if they were an inferior sub-species. Knowledge puffs up; love builds up.
So when do we look each other through the eyes of the one who comes not to judge but to save?
More than anything, we need to stand beside you and see anew. Let us seek the silence where we may hear your whisper, “I come not to judge but to save.” Only then will we see.
Save us from ourselves, Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
I wish we lived up to our confession, Jesus. You come not to judge but to save. But so many who represent you to the world are angry. They are possessed by the need to be right--and to judge those who differ in thought or action.
For them you are a high platform from which they look down upon others, sinners and heretics, the uncommitted and the unbelievers, the ignorant and confused. This is not a disease of the right or the left, the conservative or the liberal. All have sinned. Me too.
I wonder what it is about your words and being that is so hard to understand? You come not to judge but to save. You are a platform for nothing and no one. Your feet are planted firmly in the soil of this earth where you look the human mess in the eye.
And you don’t blink. You invite, asking no one to clean up their act before addressing you. You blanch at no proclamation of unbelief, nor at proud confessions of debauchery and destruction. You continue to invite the souls of the arrogant and broken alike.
“Come. I give life. I am here not to judge but to save.” And salvation is knowing you.
That is what most bothers me about the religiously self-righteous, Jesus. They show little evidence of having spent much time with you. There are few signs that they have stood beside you, their feet planted firmly in the dust, looking human souls in the eye with the compassion of your gaze.
I weary of the false conflicts we, your church, create in your name, Jesus. The conservative denounce the liberal for loose morals and fuzzy thought. The liberals denounce the conservative for want of concern for the poor and broken. They criticize each other for various forms of self-righteousness. Those with theological or liturgical knowledge lift their noses toward the less tutored as if they were an inferior sub-species. Knowledge puffs up; love builds up.
So when do we look each other through the eyes of the one who comes not to judge but to save?
More than anything, we need to stand beside you and see anew. Let us seek the silence where we may hear your whisper, “I come not to judge but to save.” Only then will we see.
Save us from ourselves, Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Today’s text
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
What does it mean to believe in you, Jesus? This is the way of eternal life, and I don’t want to miss it. I crave life that is not like the last swallow in the glass, not like spring streams that dry and fail in desert sands.
Everything we touch fails us, sooner or later. Our souls grow accustomed to disappointment. But despite broken promises, beyond the sinking awareness that what I want is always beyond my straining fingers, there is this desire that refuses to leave.
I am moved by desire for life that does not fail, for a fullness that will not wane or disappoint. I long for life that goes on, a life in which I tingle with the savory presence of love surrounding, enveloping, lifting me into the awareness of that for which I have no name.
And I want that now, tomorrow, the next day, without end. I want never-waning awareness of that surrounding mystery that even yesterday enveloped my being. I basked in its embrace and grew light as air. Gravity was gone. I was there, present only to this one moment, needing, wanting, nothing but this presence, this awareness.
And then the magic passed, leaving more alive than before but not alive enough, not to satisfy the undeniable desire that is always there for life eternal.
But for a moment, in the presence of another’s prayer for me--and mine for them--eternity was now, and my desire found its fulfillment--and its source. For what is the desire for eternity, if not the voice of eternity speaking from the depth of a mortal soul a soul who knows he is intended for more? For you.
And in rarest moments I know you, the One I want.
So what is to believe in you, Jesus? Is it to believe that you are the way to this life eternal, a means to an end? I don’t think so.
I think you are this life. This life was in you, pouring through you at every moment of your breathing, except maybe in your feeling of abandonment on the cross.
I think believing in you is believing in the life that was and is in you--and in us, too, however partially and obscured it may be in our lives. I think believing in you is putting ourselves in the places where we are most likely to get swept away in the love you are, knowing there the eternity for which our hearts hunger.
Thanks for moments of holy knowing.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
What does it mean to believe in you, Jesus? This is the way of eternal life, and I don’t want to miss it. I crave life that is not like the last swallow in the glass, not like spring streams that dry and fail in desert sands.
Everything we touch fails us, sooner or later. Our souls grow accustomed to disappointment. But despite broken promises, beyond the sinking awareness that what I want is always beyond my straining fingers, there is this desire that refuses to leave.
I am moved by desire for life that does not fail, for a fullness that will not wane or disappoint. I long for life that goes on, a life in which I tingle with the savory presence of love surrounding, enveloping, lifting me into the awareness of that for which I have no name.
And I want that now, tomorrow, the next day, without end. I want never-waning awareness of that surrounding mystery that even yesterday enveloped my being. I basked in its embrace and grew light as air. Gravity was gone. I was there, present only to this one moment, needing, wanting, nothing but this presence, this awareness.
And then the magic passed, leaving more alive than before but not alive enough, not to satisfy the undeniable desire that is always there for life eternal.
But for a moment, in the presence of another’s prayer for me--and mine for them--eternity was now, and my desire found its fulfillment--and its source. For what is the desire for eternity, if not the voice of eternity speaking from the depth of a mortal soul a soul who knows he is intended for more? For you.
And in rarest moments I know you, the One I want.
So what is to believe in you, Jesus? Is it to believe that you are the way to this life eternal, a means to an end? I don’t think so.
I think you are this life. This life was in you, pouring through you at every moment of your breathing, except maybe in your feeling of abandonment on the cross.
I think believing in you is believing in the life that was and is in you--and in us, too, however partially and obscured it may be in our lives. I think believing in you is putting ourselves in the places where we are most likely to get swept away in the love you are, knowing there the eternity for which our hearts hunger.
Thanks for moments of holy knowing.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Today’s text
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
You are lifted up as an ensign to the world, Jesus. This symbol is as ancient as it is mysterious.
Moses lifts his makeshift snake in the desert, holding it before the people of Israel who are tormented by snakes biting them. The biting snakes are the result of God’s anger at the Israel’s whining distrust.
This little fits my image of the Holy One you reveal, Jesus. There is nothing in you that suggests you send snakes to strike those who displease you. You bear the face of a mercy wrapped in mercy hidden in mercy. Penetrate deeply as we may, we find nothing but mercy.
And this is good news, indeed, because I hate snakes.
But the symbol confuses me. Why should looking up in hope at the thing that is killing you bring deliverance and salvation? The very notion feels fraught with magical ideas modern minds refuse to embrace.
And yet, we still hold up ensigns to which we look in hope for salvation from what kills us. We hold up images of success in work or play or school, in gaining money or security.
There are a host of ensigns of promised salvation to which we look--a nice home, a good car, a trophy relationship, images of ourselves and our self-respect. During election years, the American flag is held high as an ensign or salvation. Political parties wave it to signify pride and strength, determination to stand fast against enemies and to advance a privileged way of life. We look up to it in hope for salvation from our fears of all that threatens.
So maybe the idea of Moses holding up the serpent in the desert is not so far removed from modern consciousness. We hold up our own ensigns in hope that they will bring salvation.
The sharp contrast is that ensigns we hold up tend to speak of power over others, of strength and security, of wealth and privilege amid a world of want. They promise security from our fears. But you Jesus, hanging on your cross, reflect all that we fear, death, rejection, destruction. There is nothing in you that suggests the impenetrable shield of protection we seek in the ensigns of personal and national success.
Still, you speak. “Look here,” you say. “Look at the death and destruction you most fear. This shall not hold you, not anymore than it can hold me.”
This is why we hold you up, Jesus, a dying (and risen) man. For, none of the other things we hold up can make … and keep that promise.
And none of the others move us beyond self-protection to the needs of your world.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:13-17
No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of man; as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so must the Son of man be lifted up so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. For this is how God loved the world: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but so that through him the world might be saved.
Reflection
You are lifted up as an ensign to the world, Jesus. This symbol is as ancient as it is mysterious.
Moses lifts his makeshift snake in the desert, holding it before the people of Israel who are tormented by snakes biting them. The biting snakes are the result of God’s anger at the Israel’s whining distrust.
This little fits my image of the Holy One you reveal, Jesus. There is nothing in you that suggests you send snakes to strike those who displease you. You bear the face of a mercy wrapped in mercy hidden in mercy. Penetrate deeply as we may, we find nothing but mercy.
And this is good news, indeed, because I hate snakes.
But the symbol confuses me. Why should looking up in hope at the thing that is killing you bring deliverance and salvation? The very notion feels fraught with magical ideas modern minds refuse to embrace.
And yet, we still hold up ensigns to which we look in hope for salvation from what kills us. We hold up images of success in work or play or school, in gaining money or security.
There are a host of ensigns of promised salvation to which we look--a nice home, a good car, a trophy relationship, images of ourselves and our self-respect. During election years, the American flag is held high as an ensign or salvation. Political parties wave it to signify pride and strength, determination to stand fast against enemies and to advance a privileged way of life. We look up to it in hope for salvation from our fears of all that threatens.
So maybe the idea of Moses holding up the serpent in the desert is not so far removed from modern consciousness. We hold up our own ensigns in hope that they will bring salvation.
The sharp contrast is that ensigns we hold up tend to speak of power over others, of strength and security, of wealth and privilege amid a world of want. They promise security from our fears. But you Jesus, hanging on your cross, reflect all that we fear, death, rejection, destruction. There is nothing in you that suggests the impenetrable shield of protection we seek in the ensigns of personal and national success.
Still, you speak. “Look here,” you say. “Look at the death and destruction you most fear. This shall not hold you, not anymore than it can hold me.”
This is why we hold you up, Jesus, a dying (and risen) man. For, none of the other things we hold up can make … and keep that promise.
And none of the others move us beyond self-protection to the needs of your world.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, September 05, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Today's text
Matthew 18:15-20
If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone, between your two selves. If he listens to you, you have won back your brother. If he does not listen, take one or two others along with you: whatever the misdemeanour, the evidence of two or three witnesses is required to sustain the charge. But if he refuses to listen to these, report it to the community; and if he refuses to listen to the community, treat him like a gentile or a tax collector. 'In truth I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. 'In truth I tell you once again, if two of you on earth agree to ask anything at all, it will be granted to you by my Father in heaven. For where two or three meet in my name, I am there among them.'
Reflection
These verses read like legal directives for policing and keeping good order in the community. You can find them used exactly this way in many congregational constitutions.
Jesus says: when someone in the church does you or others wrong go speak to them. Go privately. If they don’t listen, take two or three others from the church with you and talk to the person again. This emphasizes the seriousness of the trouble. But it also protects the accused from false and exaggerated claims.
If reconciliation and peace still cannot be worked out, take the matter to the whole church. If the person is wrong and refuses to make things right, treat him like an outsider, gentile, a tax collector. And we all know how Jesus treated them.
He reached out to them. He sought their hearts. He forgave them. They were among those for whom he showed greatest concern and forbearance.
Jesus did not seek to throw anyone out. Mutual correction in the church is not for the purpose of making anyone grovel. Jesus has one desire: to make peace, to restore unity, to nurture harmony so that joy abounds in the community of faith.
Jesus concern is different from ours. He moves our feet in a direction opposite our normal path. Go to the one who has wronged you, he says. Speak with them.
More often, we retreat to our corners when we feel wronged or are upset. In our disagreements, we seek those we believe will agree with us, who will not question us, if keep peace in the family.
We go to our personal ‘amen’ corners where others will solemnly nod their heads in agreement and say, ‘Yes, you are right to be offended. This is wrong, outrageous, unthinkable. You’re right to be angry.’
We don’t want perspective. We don’t want our friends to correct our understanding at this point. We want someone to tell us that we are right and the one who troubles us is wrong or stupid or both.
You can think of dozens of examples of this. It’s typical human behavior, not just for individuals but for all kinds of groups, political parties and even nations. Take the recent political conventions, Democrat and Republican, for example.
But Jesus doesn’t give a wit about our self-righteous claims or our need to feel superior to others. These things only fracture relationships and create division in our homes, our schools, our neighborhoods, our nation and our churches.
Jesus sends us to each other to make and nurture peace, promising always to be with us, no matter what.
Jesus wants our congregations, indeed the entire Christian church (to say nothing of the cosmos itself) to experience his presence in the forgiving love, the gentle care, the humble self-giving, the kindness of mercy that we share in our relationships with each other. He wants us to know his nearness in the harmony of human souls within this fellowship.
Where two or three gather in my name, I am there, Jesus says. Our divisions, hard-heartedness and harsh judgments obscure his presence among us, diluting our experience of his love.
So he calls us beyond our fear, beyond our wounds, beyond our self-righteousness, beyond our need to look down upon others. He calls us to make peace, to forgive and be forgiven. So that as we gather, we will know his presence that our hearts may soar.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 18:15-20
If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone, between your two selves. If he listens to you, you have won back your brother. If he does not listen, take one or two others along with you: whatever the misdemeanour, the evidence of two or three witnesses is required to sustain the charge. But if he refuses to listen to these, report it to the community; and if he refuses to listen to the community, treat him like a gentile or a tax collector. 'In truth I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. 'In truth I tell you once again, if two of you on earth agree to ask anything at all, it will be granted to you by my Father in heaven. For where two or three meet in my name, I am there among them.'
Reflection
These verses read like legal directives for policing and keeping good order in the community. You can find them used exactly this way in many congregational constitutions.
Jesus says: when someone in the church does you or others wrong go speak to them. Go privately. If they don’t listen, take two or three others from the church with you and talk to the person again. This emphasizes the seriousness of the trouble. But it also protects the accused from false and exaggerated claims.
If reconciliation and peace still cannot be worked out, take the matter to the whole church. If the person is wrong and refuses to make things right, treat him like an outsider, gentile, a tax collector. And we all know how Jesus treated them.
He reached out to them. He sought their hearts. He forgave them. They were among those for whom he showed greatest concern and forbearance.
Jesus did not seek to throw anyone out. Mutual correction in the church is not for the purpose of making anyone grovel. Jesus has one desire: to make peace, to restore unity, to nurture harmony so that joy abounds in the community of faith.
Jesus concern is different from ours. He moves our feet in a direction opposite our normal path. Go to the one who has wronged you, he says. Speak with them.
More often, we retreat to our corners when we feel wronged or are upset. In our disagreements, we seek those we believe will agree with us, who will not question us, if keep peace in the family.
We go to our personal ‘amen’ corners where others will solemnly nod their heads in agreement and say, ‘Yes, you are right to be offended. This is wrong, outrageous, unthinkable. You’re right to be angry.’
We don’t want perspective. We don’t want our friends to correct our understanding at this point. We want someone to tell us that we are right and the one who troubles us is wrong or stupid or both.
You can think of dozens of examples of this. It’s typical human behavior, not just for individuals but for all kinds of groups, political parties and even nations. Take the recent political conventions, Democrat and Republican, for example.
But Jesus doesn’t give a wit about our self-righteous claims or our need to feel superior to others. These things only fracture relationships and create division in our homes, our schools, our neighborhoods, our nation and our churches.
Jesus sends us to each other to make and nurture peace, promising always to be with us, no matter what.
Jesus wants our congregations, indeed the entire Christian church (to say nothing of the cosmos itself) to experience his presence in the forgiving love, the gentle care, the humble self-giving, the kindness of mercy that we share in our relationships with each other. He wants us to know his nearness in the harmony of human souls within this fellowship.
Where two or three gather in my name, I am there, Jesus says. Our divisions, hard-heartedness and harsh judgments obscure his presence among us, diluting our experience of his love.
So he calls us beyond our fear, beyond our wounds, beyond our self-righteousness, beyond our need to look down upon others. He calls us to make peace, to forgive and be forgiven. So that as we gather, we will know his presence that our hearts may soar.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Tuesday, September 3, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 18:15-17
[Jesus said]: 'If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone, between your two selves. If he listens to you, you have won back your brother. If he does not listen, take one or two others along with you: whatever the misdemeanor, the evidence of two or three witnesses is required to sustain the charge. But if he refuses to listen to these, report it to the community; and if he refuses to listen to the community, treat him like a gentile or a tax collector.'
Prayer
You come to make peace, Jesus, but wherever you appear conflict comes. I suppose we should expect that. Sparks fly whenever the truly good and holy appears. The things of God are inevitably opposed by that which is not truly good and holy. And our world is not wholly given to you, nor are we. So, we resist you.
In your church, we seek a haven, a safe space in which we may know love surpassing. We hope that here, in this place, the pettiness and anxieties, the small-mindedness and self-seeking that wounds our souls and mars human community will not sting our flesh. No, at least not here.
We seek a generosity of spirit in your church, Jesus, a place where the big-heartedness of your divine soul might prevail in our heart and more: in the words and actions of all who gather around you. But our hope is a romantic dream. We yearn for a place of your peace, only to be frustrated by the sin and the criticism of cramped hearts, including our own.
Our sin cuts us off, excommunicates our own souls from the living community of your shared grace.
Still, you call us to open-hearted generosity, a fullness of spirit reflecting your own love, a largess that showers good on the righteous and unrighteous alike. You make no distinction, somehow loving all.
Our chief sin is here: we do not love all. We don’t love ourselves all that well. And we are not very good at loving those with whom we share your table of grace, your own body and blood. Receiving your great generosity, we fail to extend the same.
If there is anything for which we need to correct each other, Jesus, surely it is this.
So come to us, Jesus. Send us human hearts, generous spirits, to correct and call us home to the generosity of spirit that is in you. Only then will we find the place of peace for which our souls rightly long.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 18:15-17
[Jesus said]: 'If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone, between your two selves. If he listens to you, you have won back your brother. If he does not listen, take one or two others along with you: whatever the misdemeanor, the evidence of two or three witnesses is required to sustain the charge. But if he refuses to listen to these, report it to the community; and if he refuses to listen to the community, treat him like a gentile or a tax collector.'
Prayer
You come to make peace, Jesus, but wherever you appear conflict comes. I suppose we should expect that. Sparks fly whenever the truly good and holy appears. The things of God are inevitably opposed by that which is not truly good and holy. And our world is not wholly given to you, nor are we. So, we resist you.
In your church, we seek a haven, a safe space in which we may know love surpassing. We hope that here, in this place, the pettiness and anxieties, the small-mindedness and self-seeking that wounds our souls and mars human community will not sting our flesh. No, at least not here.
We seek a generosity of spirit in your church, Jesus, a place where the big-heartedness of your divine soul might prevail in our heart and more: in the words and actions of all who gather around you. But our hope is a romantic dream. We yearn for a place of your peace, only to be frustrated by the sin and the criticism of cramped hearts, including our own.
Our sin cuts us off, excommunicates our own souls from the living community of your shared grace.
Still, you call us to open-hearted generosity, a fullness of spirit reflecting your own love, a largess that showers good on the righteous and unrighteous alike. You make no distinction, somehow loving all.
Our chief sin is here: we do not love all. We don’t love ourselves all that well. And we are not very good at loving those with whom we share your table of grace, your own body and blood. Receiving your great generosity, we fail to extend the same.
If there is anything for which we need to correct each other, Jesus, surely it is this.
So come to us, Jesus. Send us human hearts, generous spirits, to correct and call us home to the generosity of spirit that is in you. Only then will we find the place of peace for which our souls rightly long.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Monday, September 2, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 18:15-17
'If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone, between your two selves. If he listens to you, you have won back your brother. If he does not listen, take one or two others along with you: whatever the misdemeanor, the evidence of two or three witnesses is required to sustain the charge. But if he refuses to listen to these, report it to the community; and if he refuses to listen to the community, treat him like a gentile or a tax collector.
Prayer
This sounds harsh. But listening to Jesus’ words again I see that he offers a way more gentle and righteous than our normal ways. Far more.
His concern is entirely different than that which defines most of our conflicts. He moves our feet in a direction opposite that of our normal paths. Most often, we are amazed, disgusted or indignant when others treat us unfairly.
‘How could they do this?’
‘How could they say that about me?’
We flee to a safe corner where we know people will listen to our complaint as we pour out tales of personal slights, unfair treatment and woe. We seek sympathy and nodding heads that affirm that we are right to be offended.
That’s what we really want: affirmation that we are right and another is wrong or stupid. It feeds our self-righteousness and sense of superiority. We can look down on our offender surrounded by our personal ‘amen’ corner.
We know this pattern. It is as old as the human race and repeated millions of times daily in every language of earth.
But Jesus directs back to the one who troubles, insults or offends us. Jesus is not one wit concerned with satisfying self-righteousness or our sense of superiority. These only fracture relationships and erode real community. They miss the mark of truly human living as much or more than many of the slights and injustices we suffer.
Jesus sends us to our offender to make peace. And he promises always to be there, present in the heart of our effort to live in harmony. He sends us back to the place where our souls might find healing, not merely affirmation.
Jesus, you seek peace for our wounded souls. Your will is that we experience a seamless garment of communal wholeness, where we live in harmony with each other. Teach our hearts your way that our crusty souls may soften.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 18:15-17
'If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone, between your two selves. If he listens to you, you have won back your brother. If he does not listen, take one or two others along with you: whatever the misdemeanor, the evidence of two or three witnesses is required to sustain the charge. But if he refuses to listen to these, report it to the community; and if he refuses to listen to the community, treat him like a gentile or a tax collector.
Prayer
This sounds harsh. But listening to Jesus’ words again I see that he offers a way more gentle and righteous than our normal ways. Far more.
His concern is entirely different than that which defines most of our conflicts. He moves our feet in a direction opposite that of our normal paths. Most often, we are amazed, disgusted or indignant when others treat us unfairly.
‘How could they do this?’
‘How could they say that about me?’
We flee to a safe corner where we know people will listen to our complaint as we pour out tales of personal slights, unfair treatment and woe. We seek sympathy and nodding heads that affirm that we are right to be offended.
That’s what we really want: affirmation that we are right and another is wrong or stupid. It feeds our self-righteousness and sense of superiority. We can look down on our offender surrounded by our personal ‘amen’ corner.
We know this pattern. It is as old as the human race and repeated millions of times daily in every language of earth.
But Jesus directs back to the one who troubles, insults or offends us. Jesus is not one wit concerned with satisfying self-righteousness or our sense of superiority. These only fracture relationships and erode real community. They miss the mark of truly human living as much or more than many of the slights and injustices we suffer.
Jesus sends us to our offender to make peace. And he promises always to be there, present in the heart of our effort to live in harmony. He sends us back to the place where our souls might find healing, not merely affirmation.
Jesus, you seek peace for our wounded souls. Your will is that we experience a seamless garment of communal wholeness, where we live in harmony with each other. Teach our hearts your way that our crusty souls may soften.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, August 29, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Today's text
Matthew 16:24-25
Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me. Anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it.
I have lived long enough to know the need of the heart to be given away.
When I was young, I succumbed to the temptation to believe that everything was about me--my education, my growth, my development, my choices, my freedom, my vocation, my success, my reputation.
But somewhere in the midst of living a blessed thing happens, a discovery comes. You realize that there is something more important than you. You realize that what happens to someone else is more important to you than what happens to yourself.
It is then, only then, that we begin to become truly human, truly reflecting the image of God.
I look at my relationships. Where do I find truest joy? Where is my heart most warmed? Where does deepest satisfaction appear?
It’s obvious. My children, my grandchildren, seeing my wife’s smile, a smile I am pledged to treasure and nurture as long as I live.
In these relationships, I am most willing and able to give, to surrender self-interest for the sake of others. I am willing to risk myself. That reflex to protect my honor, my status, to insist on my way, weakens and wanes.
For my heart knows: What happens to them is more important to me than what happens to me. I feel no loss in this. I am not diminished in any way.
In giving, I gain. In losing myself for them, I become more alive. In surrendering to their need, I know more joy, not less. My heart grows. My soul swells. I feel the abundance of life, the freshness of living, finally, as a human being.
This is the way God’s love works in us. This is the way of Jesus, the paschal mystery that leads ever from death to life.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 16:24-25
Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me. Anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it.
I have lived long enough to know the need of the heart to be given away.
When I was young, I succumbed to the temptation to believe that everything was about me--my education, my growth, my development, my choices, my freedom, my vocation, my success, my reputation.
But somewhere in the midst of living a blessed thing happens, a discovery comes. You realize that there is something more important than you. You realize that what happens to someone else is more important to you than what happens to yourself.
It is then, only then, that we begin to become truly human, truly reflecting the image of God.
I look at my relationships. Where do I find truest joy? Where is my heart most warmed? Where does deepest satisfaction appear?
It’s obvious. My children, my grandchildren, seeing my wife’s smile, a smile I am pledged to treasure and nurture as long as I live.
In these relationships, I am most willing and able to give, to surrender self-interest for the sake of others. I am willing to risk myself. That reflex to protect my honor, my status, to insist on my way, weakens and wanes.
For my heart knows: What happens to them is more important to me than what happens to me. I feel no loss in this. I am not diminished in any way.
In giving, I gain. In losing myself for them, I become more alive. In surrendering to their need, I know more joy, not less. My heart grows. My soul swells. I feel the abundance of life, the freshness of living, finally, as a human being.
This is the way God’s love works in us. This is the way of Jesus, the paschal mystery that leads ever from death to life.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 16:24-26
Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me. Anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it. What, then, will anyone gain by winning the whole world and forfeiting his life? Or what can anyone offer in exchange for his life?’
Prayer
What is real? What is not? We have it confused, entirely turned about. We think the real is the person we are, the position we possess, the reputation we have assembled, the identity we have crafted, the successes we have achieved, the possessions we have gathered. And we rightly care for all these things. We need them.
But all these things are temporary, ephemeral forms that will pass away. Health, too, is too soon lost; appearance fades with our hard won reputations at work, school and business. All this is passing, though we treat them as the most real things in our lives.
But the real is the solid, the enduring, that which time and fate can’t take away, that which does not corrode or rust. The real is the eternal.
The things that occupy most of our lives are passing forms, not lasting reality. We seek our lives, our meaning, our security, our assurance of heart in those things certain to fail us.
But life is in one truth alone--the enduring and unfailing, the immeasurable mercy we feel in the presence of unfailing love. We awake each morning because the One who is life is delighted to share the mysterious substance of that life is with us.
This is eternity’s act of unsought generosity. Life is given. We feel it in our bones and blood. We are aware that we are--and that we are here, alive. We are here because of realities over which we have no control, about which we made no decision. We are gifted with life, the life of Life’s Source, eternal and abundant. It throbs through our arteries. It fills us with joy and exaltation in moments of gratitude when we feel most vital and alive.
This is awareness of the real. It yields a flood of gratitude and joy. Sit in this awareness a moment and one knows: we bear something true, lasting and eternal, something that is not merely a passing form.
Jesus invites us to look beyond the passing forms we confuse with real life and see the love and mercy freely flowing from his hands and heart. It is evident in his words and acts of healing mercy.
‘Know this,’ he says. ‘This love is the real, the true, the eternal. It is the Infinite Source from which you come. You will find out who you are only here, seeing and receiving, sharing and playing in this grace. You will find eternity here. Everything else passes away, but not this.’
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 16:24-26
Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me. Anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it. What, then, will anyone gain by winning the whole world and forfeiting his life? Or what can anyone offer in exchange for his life?’
Prayer
What is real? What is not? We have it confused, entirely turned about. We think the real is the person we are, the position we possess, the reputation we have assembled, the identity we have crafted, the successes we have achieved, the possessions we have gathered. And we rightly care for all these things. We need them.
But all these things are temporary, ephemeral forms that will pass away. Health, too, is too soon lost; appearance fades with our hard won reputations at work, school and business. All this is passing, though we treat them as the most real things in our lives.
But the real is the solid, the enduring, that which time and fate can’t take away, that which does not corrode or rust. The real is the eternal.
The things that occupy most of our lives are passing forms, not lasting reality. We seek our lives, our meaning, our security, our assurance of heart in those things certain to fail us.
But life is in one truth alone--the enduring and unfailing, the immeasurable mercy we feel in the presence of unfailing love. We awake each morning because the One who is life is delighted to share the mysterious substance of that life is with us.
This is eternity’s act of unsought generosity. Life is given. We feel it in our bones and blood. We are aware that we are--and that we are here, alive. We are here because of realities over which we have no control, about which we made no decision. We are gifted with life, the life of Life’s Source, eternal and abundant. It throbs through our arteries. It fills us with joy and exaltation in moments of gratitude when we feel most vital and alive.
This is awareness of the real. It yields a flood of gratitude and joy. Sit in this awareness a moment and one knows: we bear something true, lasting and eternal, something that is not merely a passing form.
Jesus invites us to look beyond the passing forms we confuse with real life and see the love and mercy freely flowing from his hands and heart. It is evident in his words and acts of healing mercy.
‘Know this,’ he says. ‘This love is the real, the true, the eternal. It is the Infinite Source from which you come. You will find out who you are only here, seeing and receiving, sharing and playing in this grace. You will find eternity here. Everything else passes away, but not this.’
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 16:23-24
Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me. Anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it.’
Prayer
How could we ever know? The life that I think is mine is not.
We know--or think we know--who and what we are. We see what we look like, the face in the mirror, also what we own, objects that are important to us. We can name the people who are significant in our lives. We can list many of our good traits, strengths and successes, and we likely can produce a longer list of our frailties and failures.
We identify ourselves with all these things in one way or another. We are tall or short, a good athlete or uncoordinated, smart or slow on the uptake, successful in our work or struggling to get by. All these things and others we might mention tell us who we are.
So we hold onto these identifications, protecting them like a child fiercely clutching his favorite toy. We feel diminished when we lose any or all of those things which we identify, whether our belongings, our job, our health, our friends, our status or reputations.
This is a lie, Jesus says. Worse, it is the way of death, of never knowing who you really are, of failing to find the beauty of God’s life that seeks to shine in you.
We find our life by releasing those things we grasp to which we cling to give ourselves meaning and substance. Jesus invites us to another way, a way of caring for what we are and have but without all the grasping. We are not to identify with what we have or have accomplished, nor shall we identify ourselves with our failures or faults. These are not our identity, our life.
Our life lies hidden in his immeasurable love around and in us. Resting in that love, feeling its nudging within us, a bud of life pushing through the hard crust of anxious ego, we find our life, our joy, our beauty. No, we find the beauty of God’s life within us, struggling to emerge into the light of day through the flesh and blood of our lives.
Little wonder that some of the greatest beauty we ever see is in the lives of those who are dieing. Some of them cease identifying with what they own or have done and a greater beauty and love appears in them. They become more transparent to the true life within them.
In losing what we think we are, what we identify with, we find life that truly is life. Jesus, pry open our hands that we might stop clutching what we think we are and rest, finally, in the love that surrounds us and lies dormant within our souls.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 16:23-24
Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me. Anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it.’
Prayer
How could we ever know? The life that I think is mine is not.
We know--or think we know--who and what we are. We see what we look like, the face in the mirror, also what we own, objects that are important to us. We can name the people who are significant in our lives. We can list many of our good traits, strengths and successes, and we likely can produce a longer list of our frailties and failures.
We identify ourselves with all these things in one way or another. We are tall or short, a good athlete or uncoordinated, smart or slow on the uptake, successful in our work or struggling to get by. All these things and others we might mention tell us who we are.
So we hold onto these identifications, protecting them like a child fiercely clutching his favorite toy. We feel diminished when we lose any or all of those things which we identify, whether our belongings, our job, our health, our friends, our status or reputations.
This is a lie, Jesus says. Worse, it is the way of death, of never knowing who you really are, of failing to find the beauty of God’s life that seeks to shine in you.
We find our life by releasing those things we grasp to which we cling to give ourselves meaning and substance. Jesus invites us to another way, a way of caring for what we are and have but without all the grasping. We are not to identify with what we have or have accomplished, nor shall we identify ourselves with our failures or faults. These are not our identity, our life.
Our life lies hidden in his immeasurable love around and in us. Resting in that love, feeling its nudging within us, a bud of life pushing through the hard crust of anxious ego, we find our life, our joy, our beauty. No, we find the beauty of God’s life within us, struggling to emerge into the light of day through the flesh and blood of our lives.
Little wonder that some of the greatest beauty we ever see is in the lives of those who are dieing. Some of them cease identifying with what they own or have done and a greater beauty and love appears in them. They become more transparent to the true life within them.
In losing what we think we are, what we identify with, we find life that truly is life. Jesus, pry open our hands that we might stop clutching what we think we are and rest, finally, in the love that surrounds us and lies dormant within our souls.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 16:21-23
From then onwards Jesus began to make it clear to his disciples that he was destined to go to Jerusalem and suffer grievously at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes and to be put to death and to be raised up on the third day. Then, taking him aside, Peter started to rebuke him. 'Heaven preserve you, Lord,' he said, 'this must not happen to you.' But he turned and said to Peter, 'Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle in my path, because you are thinking not as God thinks but as human beings do.' Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me.
Prayer
Jesus invites us beyond instinct, beyond what is natural and easy to what is true and breathing. Natural is as natural does: we hold back. We protect ourselves from danger, from emotional hurt.
Entering a new situation, few of us naturally throw ourselves into new relationships or duties. We hesitate. We walk with great care and are self-protective. This is safer than allowing oneself to be open and vulnerable. You don’t know what you are getting into, who you will meet and what challenges await, so the best part of wisdom is to go slow.
Fair enough, but the natural tendency to go easily, to refuse risk and vulnerability soon becomes a way of death. We hold fast to what we are, crouching behind a hard shield to ward off threats to our self, our way of being and living. We grasp what is so tightly that it is impossible to release one’s grip and let go.
Our grip is so tight about the here and now we can’t open our hearts to the invitation of the future, to fresh gifts, to new ways to being, to invitations to a future that doesn’t have to be like the past. It can be more, and so can we. No matter what.
‘Renounce yourself,’ Jesus invites. ‘Surrender to me,’ he says. ‘Relinquish what you are that you may follow and know me, not holding onto what you have been. Open heart and mind to what I will bring. Quit holding your breath that you may inhale the fresh air of my future.’
The way of truth and life is the way of our breath. We breathe in; we breathe out. We receive; we give up what we have received. To hold what is … is death, not breath.
So we meet the day with open heart and mind, praying, ‘Jesus, what will you give me today? What will you show me? I surrender what I have been for what your life-giving way will yet make of me.’
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 16:21-23
From then onwards Jesus began to make it clear to his disciples that he was destined to go to Jerusalem and suffer grievously at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes and to be put to death and to be raised up on the third day. Then, taking him aside, Peter started to rebuke him. 'Heaven preserve you, Lord,' he said, 'this must not happen to you.' But he turned and said to Peter, 'Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle in my path, because you are thinking not as God thinks but as human beings do.' Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me.
Prayer
Jesus invites us beyond instinct, beyond what is natural and easy to what is true and breathing. Natural is as natural does: we hold back. We protect ourselves from danger, from emotional hurt.
Entering a new situation, few of us naturally throw ourselves into new relationships or duties. We hesitate. We walk with great care and are self-protective. This is safer than allowing oneself to be open and vulnerable. You don’t know what you are getting into, who you will meet and what challenges await, so the best part of wisdom is to go slow.
Fair enough, but the natural tendency to go easily, to refuse risk and vulnerability soon becomes a way of death. We hold fast to what we are, crouching behind a hard shield to ward off threats to our self, our way of being and living. We grasp what is so tightly that it is impossible to release one’s grip and let go.
Our grip is so tight about the here and now we can’t open our hearts to the invitation of the future, to fresh gifts, to new ways to being, to invitations to a future that doesn’t have to be like the past. It can be more, and so can we. No matter what.
‘Renounce yourself,’ Jesus invites. ‘Surrender to me,’ he says. ‘Relinquish what you are that you may follow and know me, not holding onto what you have been. Open heart and mind to what I will bring. Quit holding your breath that you may inhale the fresh air of my future.’
The way of truth and life is the way of our breath. We breathe in; we breathe out. We receive; we give up what we have received. To hold what is … is death, not breath.
So we meet the day with open heart and mind, praying, ‘Jesus, what will you give me today? What will you show me? I surrender what I have been for what your life-giving way will yet make of me.’
Pr. David L. Miller
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