Today’s text
John 1:6-8
This was the witness of John, when the Jews sent to him priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, 'Who are you?' He declared, he did not deny but declared, 'I am not the Christ.' So they asked, 'Then are you Elijah?' He replied, 'I am not.' 'Are you the Prophet?' He answered, 'No.' So they said to him, 'Who are you? We must take back an answer to those who sent us. What have you to say about yourself?' So he said, 'I am, as Isaiah prophesied: A voice of one that cries in the desert: Prepare a way for the Lord. Make his paths straight!'
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus.
Come and don’t delay. I am not ready, but don’t let that stop you.
I need time to prepare to receive you. I need silence. I need much less activity than the breathless pace recent days has required.
I need to stare into a candle and listen to music whose very sound pleads for your presence. Then I will know my own longing and offer it to you as fitting prayer. Then I will be ready.
Preparing is not about purity but praying our need. Your love abides even when we live far from awareness of who we are and what we need. You were born into our world never again to be dislodged from your abiding.
I do not need to pray for you to come, for you are the God who comes in every moment of every place with a love that overwhelms and consoles, heals hearts and makes whole.
Yet, I pray for you to come. I suppose my prayer is really that I may enter the love that comes in every moment.
So keep coming, Lord Jesus. Come and greet me when I least expect it, when I am busy and on the run, when I am uncertain and don’t know what to say, when I am unprepared and feel insecure and inadequate, when I am angry and unforgiving, when there just isn’t enough time, when I am feeling my frailty and the demands are too much for me.
Come and don’t delay. I need you more than I can say.
Come Lord Jesus, even as you come to me in these poor words.
Pr. David L. Miller
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
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Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Today’s text
John 1:6-8
A man came, sent by God. His name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness to the light, so that everyone might believe through him. He was not the light, he was to bear witness to the light.
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. Let me see your light that my darkness may flee.
It is easy to lose sight of you in the heat of the day. Work needs to be done. Challenges arise. People can be difficult. Patience grows short.
Words and emotions flood the mind and flow from the mouth, speaking nothing of your peace.
Darkness is in me. I fight it well when I am well prepared. But most often my darkness catches me off-guard, springing to life in unexpected ways and with startling speed. I am little aware until the deeds of darkness are my regret--and the wound of another.
But when I see you, when I rest in your love, when the brilliant whiteness of your unceasing goodness envelops me, all darkness flees.
So here I am again, sitting before you, calling your name, asking to see the light that shines from your face down every dark alley of creation. It pries open the heart and chases every shadow from the hall, until the light of an eternal loving fills each corner.
Yes, then mercy replaces every dark thought, and my eyes embrace all that I see with kindness. And everywhere I look I see reflections of your brilliant shining.
Come, Lord Jesus. Let me be and see your light.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 1:6-8
A man came, sent by God. His name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness to the light, so that everyone might believe through him. He was not the light, he was to bear witness to the light.
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. Let me see your light that my darkness may flee.
It is easy to lose sight of you in the heat of the day. Work needs to be done. Challenges arise. People can be difficult. Patience grows short.
Words and emotions flood the mind and flow from the mouth, speaking nothing of your peace.
Darkness is in me. I fight it well when I am well prepared. But most often my darkness catches me off-guard, springing to life in unexpected ways and with startling speed. I am little aware until the deeds of darkness are my regret--and the wound of another.
But when I see you, when I rest in your love, when the brilliant whiteness of your unceasing goodness envelops me, all darkness flees.
So here I am again, sitting before you, calling your name, asking to see the light that shines from your face down every dark alley of creation. It pries open the heart and chases every shadow from the hall, until the light of an eternal loving fills each corner.
Yes, then mercy replaces every dark thought, and my eyes embrace all that I see with kindness. And everywhere I look I see reflections of your brilliant shining.
Come, Lord Jesus. Let me be and see your light.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, December 08, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Today’s text
John 1:6-8
A man came, sent by God. His name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness to the light, so that everyone might believe through him. He was not the light, he was to bear witness to the light.
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. Shine your light in our darkness that we might believe you are light indeed.
Precious moments and people have lit out lives with the sweet joy of loving presence. But all that is human fades and flees. The people are grass, the prophet says. The grass withers, the flowers fade. We know it too well.
But you are the light of the world, not one among many. You are the One for whom every heart longs, yes, every heart, even those who dismiss you and turn away into a world that is nothing more than what they see at the moment.
But you have opened my eyes to see that there is more, a source and an end to every beauty my eyes witness, to every love my life has known, to every grace that shines even in darkest of places.
You, blessed Jesus, are the source and end of the beauty and life for which we long. So come to us now and wrest our hearts from cold winter’s grip. Warm us in the light of a love which withers not and fades never.
Come, Lord Jesus. Shine your light in our darkness.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 1:6-8
A man came, sent by God. His name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness to the light, so that everyone might believe through him. He was not the light, he was to bear witness to the light.
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. Shine your light in our darkness that we might believe you are light indeed.
Precious moments and people have lit out lives with the sweet joy of loving presence. But all that is human fades and flees. The people are grass, the prophet says. The grass withers, the flowers fade. We know it too well.
But you are the light of the world, not one among many. You are the One for whom every heart longs, yes, every heart, even those who dismiss you and turn away into a world that is nothing more than what they see at the moment.
But you have opened my eyes to see that there is more, a source and an end to every beauty my eyes witness, to every love my life has known, to every grace that shines even in darkest of places.
You, blessed Jesus, are the source and end of the beauty and life for which we long. So come to us now and wrest our hearts from cold winter’s grip. Warm us in the light of a love which withers not and fades never.
Come, Lord Jesus. Shine your light in our darkness.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Today’s text
Mark 1:4-8
John the Baptist was in the desert, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. All Judaea and all the people of Jerusalem made their way to him, and as they were baptized by him in the river Jordan they confessed their sins. John wore a garment of camel-skin, and he lived on locusts and wild honey. In the course of his preaching he said, 'After me is coming someone who is more powerful than me, and I am not fit to kneel down and undo the strap of his sandals. I have baptized you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.'
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. Pour your Spirit into my hesitant heart.
My soul fears its failures and knows its weaknesses. I equally fear the freedom you bring to all on whom you pour your Spirit.
Do I really want to live freely, giving myself fully to those you have given me to love, serving without reserve those you have placed in my care?
I know this soul of mine. For all my impulsiveness, my heart holds back from those with whom I do not feel the ease of acceptance, those with whom I disagree, those who may look on me with doubt or suspicion.
It is typically human, I know. But my old wounds require a wall of protection that is exactly what your Spirit would strip from me, exposing my heart to hearts I do not know and have not yet learned to trust.
You invite me to trust you more than measures I use to cushion myself from the pains of leading and loving, from the vulnerability of opening my heart beyond its comfort zone.
But entering such vulnerability and encountering my weakness is exactly what I must do if I am to be human, human the way that you are, human the way you intend for all who love you.
So come, Lord Jesus. Fill me with the Love that is your Spirit. Then, knowing the Love you are, I will know there is nothing to fear … but missing you.
Come, Lord Jesus. Pour your Spirit into my hesitant heart.
Pr. David L. Miller
Mark 1:4-8
John the Baptist was in the desert, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. All Judaea and all the people of Jerusalem made their way to him, and as they were baptized by him in the river Jordan they confessed their sins. John wore a garment of camel-skin, and he lived on locusts and wild honey. In the course of his preaching he said, 'After me is coming someone who is more powerful than me, and I am not fit to kneel down and undo the strap of his sandals. I have baptized you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.'
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. Pour your Spirit into my hesitant heart.
My soul fears its failures and knows its weaknesses. I equally fear the freedom you bring to all on whom you pour your Spirit.
Do I really want to live freely, giving myself fully to those you have given me to love, serving without reserve those you have placed in my care?
I know this soul of mine. For all my impulsiveness, my heart holds back from those with whom I do not feel the ease of acceptance, those with whom I disagree, those who may look on me with doubt or suspicion.
It is typically human, I know. But my old wounds require a wall of protection that is exactly what your Spirit would strip from me, exposing my heart to hearts I do not know and have not yet learned to trust.
You invite me to trust you more than measures I use to cushion myself from the pains of leading and loving, from the vulnerability of opening my heart beyond its comfort zone.
But entering such vulnerability and encountering my weakness is exactly what I must do if I am to be human, human the way that you are, human the way you intend for all who love you.
So come, Lord Jesus. Fill me with the Love that is your Spirit. Then, knowing the Love you are, I will know there is nothing to fear … but missing you.
Come, Lord Jesus. Pour your Spirit into my hesitant heart.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Today’s text
Mark 1:1
The beginning of the gospel about Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It is written in the prophet Isaiah: Look, I am going to send my messenger in front of you to prepare your way before you. A voice of one that cries in the desert: Prepare a way for the Lord, make his paths straight.
Reflection
How shall I prepare, my Lord? Perhaps your name alone is sufficient this morning.
To the Hebrews of old you were the unnamable mystery. I like that more and more as I age. With the years, I understand that I understand less than I’d thought.
And that is okay. I really don’t want to worship a God that I understand, who obeys my expectations and fits my assumptions. Such a one falls far short of the mystery and majesty of your eternity and immeasurable magnitude, you who cast billions of galaxies into dark space for your play.
How dare we try to hang a name on you? Who do we think we are?
I stand gladly with those ancient Hebrews, falling silent each time your unspeakable name should appear in the lines of biblical text or prayer, knowing your real name is too holy, too precious, too incomprehensible to say.
They just called you ‘Lord,’ the One to whom I and all else belongs, the only One to whom worship and reverence properly belongs.
And now it is for you, Lord, that I must prepare, you who are pleased to come to the likes of me. No preparation is proper or adequate for you. So I will sit in the silence before you and savor the name I am permitted to speak: Your are Lord, My Lord.
In you is all happiness and holy purpose, all life and love, so I will clear spaces amid the clamor of living and the clatter of this season to calm my heart and listen to the voice of soul where you speak, to music that invokes your nearness, to the souls of your beloved who bear your presence to my soul.
Bless my preparations, dear Loving and Nameless One; bless and draw near that your love may fill my frame and teach my soul to speak your name, the silent one that only love knows.
Pr. David L. Miller
Mark 1:1
The beginning of the gospel about Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It is written in the prophet Isaiah: Look, I am going to send my messenger in front of you to prepare your way before you. A voice of one that cries in the desert: Prepare a way for the Lord, make his paths straight.
Reflection
How shall I prepare, my Lord? Perhaps your name alone is sufficient this morning.
To the Hebrews of old you were the unnamable mystery. I like that more and more as I age. With the years, I understand that I understand less than I’d thought.
And that is okay. I really don’t want to worship a God that I understand, who obeys my expectations and fits my assumptions. Such a one falls far short of the mystery and majesty of your eternity and immeasurable magnitude, you who cast billions of galaxies into dark space for your play.
How dare we try to hang a name on you? Who do we think we are?
I stand gladly with those ancient Hebrews, falling silent each time your unspeakable name should appear in the lines of biblical text or prayer, knowing your real name is too holy, too precious, too incomprehensible to say.
They just called you ‘Lord,’ the One to whom I and all else belongs, the only One to whom worship and reverence properly belongs.
And now it is for you, Lord, that I must prepare, you who are pleased to come to the likes of me. No preparation is proper or adequate for you. So I will sit in the silence before you and savor the name I am permitted to speak: Your are Lord, My Lord.
In you is all happiness and holy purpose, all life and love, so I will clear spaces amid the clamor of living and the clatter of this season to calm my heart and listen to the voice of soul where you speak, to music that invokes your nearness, to the souls of your beloved who bear your presence to my soul.
Bless my preparations, dear Loving and Nameless One; bless and draw near that your love may fill my frame and teach my soul to speak your name, the silent one that only love knows.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, December 01, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Today’s text
Mark 1:1
The beginning of the gospel about Jesus Christ, the Son of God.
Reflection
Beginning … a word of promise all its own. To begin again, to have one more chance to get it right, life that is, and love; to become what I am intended to be, what my heart knows it wants and needs to be, to enter into the fullness that I sense within.
This my soul craves, but I am still the same old me.
Even now, in prayer, my heart is not pure but divided, the mind racing ahead to work demanding to be done; hurrying ahead I press to write quickly that I might get to the important labors of the day, as if these quiet moments are not.
All the while I miss the truth of this moment. Today is the beginning of entering the fullness of heart and joy you intend for me, Holy Mystery. Each day is the beginning of the good news you are.
Each day, fresh and free, is filled with the possibility of entering that state of grace and joy you hunger to share.
So free me from anxious thoughts about unfinished tasks, old failures that haunt the soul and words I should not have spoken. Free me that this day may be my new beginning, a gateway into the freedom to be what I am, a freedom known only as I know you.
Let me throw off the weight of yesterday and hear the gospel of a love that makes each day a new beginning. I hunger for new beginnings.
Pr. David L. MIller
Mark 1:1
The beginning of the gospel about Jesus Christ, the Son of God.
Reflection
Beginning … a word of promise all its own. To begin again, to have one more chance to get it right, life that is, and love; to become what I am intended to be, what my heart knows it wants and needs to be, to enter into the fullness that I sense within.
This my soul craves, but I am still the same old me.
Even now, in prayer, my heart is not pure but divided, the mind racing ahead to work demanding to be done; hurrying ahead I press to write quickly that I might get to the important labors of the day, as if these quiet moments are not.
All the while I miss the truth of this moment. Today is the beginning of entering the fullness of heart and joy you intend for me, Holy Mystery. Each day is the beginning of the good news you are.
Each day, fresh and free, is filled with the possibility of entering that state of grace and joy you hunger to share.
So free me from anxious thoughts about unfinished tasks, old failures that haunt the soul and words I should not have spoken. Free me that this day may be my new beginning, a gateway into the freedom to be what I am, a freedom known only as I know you.
Let me throw off the weight of yesterday and hear the gospel of a love that makes each day a new beginning. I hunger for new beginnings.
Pr. David L. MIller
Friday, November 21, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 25:38-40
"When did we see you a stranger and make you welcome, lacking clothes and clothe you? When did we find you sick or in prison and go to see you?” And the King will answer, "In truth I tell you, in so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me."
Reflection
The nobility of our call is to tenderly tend the life of God in the world where it is threatened on every hand.
The righteous in Jesus parable, who care for the sick, the imprisoned, the oppressed, don’t see or know the mystery of what they are doing. They do not care just for the troubled, but for the life of God that they bear, the life carried secretly by every child of earth and by all creation.
God does not merely identify with the lost of this earth. The lost--and all of us--are alive with the life that is God; the wondrous love that is in Christ resides at the depth of our being since we are made in God’s own image. That image is love, for God is love.
To care, to give the drink of water to the thirsty, the word of encouragement to those who struggle, the gentle blessing of a human hand to one who is sick or in sorrow, this is to nurture the life of love and hope in their hearts, the life of God.
This life is already there by virtue of their having been fashioned in God’s image but our care waters the tender plant so that it grows into greater abundance, the abundance of the life of Christ seeking unique expression in each created things.
Our care also expresses and nurtures the life of Christ in our mortal lives that we may be the fullness expression of loving hope that we might be.
In such care of the life of God, we find the nobility and joy that God intends. We become human beings.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 25:38-40
"When did we see you a stranger and make you welcome, lacking clothes and clothe you? When did we find you sick or in prison and go to see you?” And the King will answer, "In truth I tell you, in so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me."
Reflection
The nobility of our call is to tenderly tend the life of God in the world where it is threatened on every hand.
The righteous in Jesus parable, who care for the sick, the imprisoned, the oppressed, don’t see or know the mystery of what they are doing. They do not care just for the troubled, but for the life of God that they bear, the life carried secretly by every child of earth and by all creation.
God does not merely identify with the lost of this earth. The lost--and all of us--are alive with the life that is God; the wondrous love that is in Christ resides at the depth of our being since we are made in God’s own image. That image is love, for God is love.
To care, to give the drink of water to the thirsty, the word of encouragement to those who struggle, the gentle blessing of a human hand to one who is sick or in sorrow, this is to nurture the life of love and hope in their hearts, the life of God.
This life is already there by virtue of their having been fashioned in God’s image but our care waters the tender plant so that it grows into greater abundance, the abundance of the life of Christ seeking unique expression in each created things.
Our care also expresses and nurtures the life of Christ in our mortal lives that we may be the fullness expression of loving hope that we might be.
In such care of the life of God, we find the nobility and joy that God intends. We become human beings.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
[Note: I have had little time to write or breathe in recent days. But I just completed the reflection below. Written for another purpose, I thought those few of you who read my scribblings might find it useful in your preparations as, too soon, Advent and Christmas come.]
Love your poverty
The grayness of longing settles on my soul this time of year. Perhaps the mid-November grayness naturally works melancholy in the hearts of those of us of northern European descent. The sun gradually disappears for longer portions of the day, and darkness descends on our hearts as much as on the earth. We long for the light to return and scatter the darkness.
Scholars long ago dispelled the idea that we really know what time of year Jesus was born. Biblical historians agree that it wasn’t in the dead of winter, during the shortest days of the year. But I am pleased we celebrate the holy feast at this time.
It is fitting. It comes at the time when I am most likely to feel my poverty, a poverty I have come to love.
The light fades, the face in the mirror, another year on, is bit more worn, and I am reminded that I have no real control over either one. Time moves on without asking whether I approve.
And I don’t approve of what time does to loved ones who fade and fail, to good souls who lose their jobs amid economic uncertainty, or to those who must look at the empty chair at the Christmas dinner table … and remember brighter days.
We all feel our poverty in one way or the other, no matter what our bank statement says. It’s a deep poverty written into the fabric of our lives. None of us willed ourselves into existence. We didn’t give ourselves the mysterious vitality of being, nor can we extend that vitality for a single moment.
Our life, our existence, our breath is ultimately a gift from a source we neither comprehend or control, no matter the ability of our science to describe how things work.
We are poor, all of us. We don’t possess the life within us. It comes and it goes. And we feel the truth when the winter light wanes or at the end of weary days when the limits of our strength are apparent to our aching shoulders, if not also to our minds.
When we are young, typically, we are blissfully unaware of the truth of our poverty. For a while, we are able outrun any awareness of it. We escape. Too bad.
Too bad, for our poverty is not a barrier to the fullness of life. It is a bridge.
It is our poverty that allows us to receive. It is our poverty that allows us to be human and kind. It is our poverty that brings us to the manger in which the Christ is laid.
Those who are full--of themselves or something else--cannot come. They cannot receive. Only those who want the fullness of life and love they know that they do not possess can kneel before him, peer over the manger’s edge and receive the love that does not waver, the life that does not wane in winter’s cold.
So love your poverty. Throw your arms around it, embrace and welcome it as the gift that it is. It will bring you to the One who will always welcome you in all your poverty.
He is the Holy God in the straw who wants you more than you can know.
He is the fullness you do not have. He is the light in every dark night.
Pr. David L. Miller
Love your poverty
The grayness of longing settles on my soul this time of year. Perhaps the mid-November grayness naturally works melancholy in the hearts of those of us of northern European descent. The sun gradually disappears for longer portions of the day, and darkness descends on our hearts as much as on the earth. We long for the light to return and scatter the darkness.
Scholars long ago dispelled the idea that we really know what time of year Jesus was born. Biblical historians agree that it wasn’t in the dead of winter, during the shortest days of the year. But I am pleased we celebrate the holy feast at this time.
It is fitting. It comes at the time when I am most likely to feel my poverty, a poverty I have come to love.
The light fades, the face in the mirror, another year on, is bit more worn, and I am reminded that I have no real control over either one. Time moves on without asking whether I approve.
And I don’t approve of what time does to loved ones who fade and fail, to good souls who lose their jobs amid economic uncertainty, or to those who must look at the empty chair at the Christmas dinner table … and remember brighter days.
We all feel our poverty in one way or the other, no matter what our bank statement says. It’s a deep poverty written into the fabric of our lives. None of us willed ourselves into existence. We didn’t give ourselves the mysterious vitality of being, nor can we extend that vitality for a single moment.
Our life, our existence, our breath is ultimately a gift from a source we neither comprehend or control, no matter the ability of our science to describe how things work.
We are poor, all of us. We don’t possess the life within us. It comes and it goes. And we feel the truth when the winter light wanes or at the end of weary days when the limits of our strength are apparent to our aching shoulders, if not also to our minds.
When we are young, typically, we are blissfully unaware of the truth of our poverty. For a while, we are able outrun any awareness of it. We escape. Too bad.
Too bad, for our poverty is not a barrier to the fullness of life. It is a bridge.
It is our poverty that allows us to receive. It is our poverty that allows us to be human and kind. It is our poverty that brings us to the manger in which the Christ is laid.
Those who are full--of themselves or something else--cannot come. They cannot receive. Only those who want the fullness of life and love they know that they do not possess can kneel before him, peer over the manger’s edge and receive the love that does not waver, the life that does not wane in winter’s cold.
So love your poverty. Throw your arms around it, embrace and welcome it as the gift that it is. It will bring you to the One who will always welcome you in all your poverty.
He is the Holy God in the straw who wants you more than you can know.
He is the fullness you do not have. He is the light in every dark night.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Tuesday, November 12, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 25:23-30
"His master said to him, “Well done, good and trustworthy servant; you have shown you are trustworthy in small things; I will trust you with greater; come and join in your master’s happiness.” Last came forward the man who had the single talent. “Sir,” said he, “I had heard you were a hard man, reaping where you had not sown and gathering where you had not scattered; so I was afraid, and I went off and hid your talent in the ground. Here it is; it was yours, you have it back.” But his master answered him, “You wicked and lazy servant! So you knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I have not scattered? Then, you should have deposited my money with the bankers, and on my return I would have got my money back with interest. So now, take the talent from him and give it to the man who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will be given more, and he will have more than enough; but anyone who has not, will be deprived even of what he has. As for this good-for-nothing servant, throw him into the darkness outside, where there will be weeping and grinding of teeth.”
Reflection
The end is harsh. Are you so harsh as this, Jesus? Is the judgment of human souls as unyielding and unremitting as this?
It contradicts my every image of your mercy. And, yes, I know that is what your parables are wont to do. But it is you who again and again have revealed to this soul your abiding hunger to bring all into your happiness.
You have revealed the immensity of your joy as you stand at the door and welcome all to share in the goodness that has neither beginning nor end, no source but your own divine heart.
How can such mercy and this harshness co-exist? The poor man merely did what fear dictated he must do to protect himself from the master’s hardness. There have been times when I did much the same, guarding myself from the hard judgment of one I feared. This happens in millions of homes and work places every day.
The poor servant ended up not in your happiness but in the outer darkness where the light of your mercy is not known. And this is what I most fear.
It seems that if fear dictates our action, we wind up in the place we flee. We lose what we sought to protect. We land in the darkness instead of the light of your face.
So what shall I do?
“Live,” you say in clearest whisper. “Live. Give yourself to me. Forget your reserve. Hold nothing back.
“There is nothing to fear, except losing me. Throw you heart into the fullness of love’s labor, and you will enter my happiness.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 25:23-30
"His master said to him, “Well done, good and trustworthy servant; you have shown you are trustworthy in small things; I will trust you with greater; come and join in your master’s happiness.” Last came forward the man who had the single talent. “Sir,” said he, “I had heard you were a hard man, reaping where you had not sown and gathering where you had not scattered; so I was afraid, and I went off and hid your talent in the ground. Here it is; it was yours, you have it back.” But his master answered him, “You wicked and lazy servant! So you knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I have not scattered? Then, you should have deposited my money with the bankers, and on my return I would have got my money back with interest. So now, take the talent from him and give it to the man who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will be given more, and he will have more than enough; but anyone who has not, will be deprived even of what he has. As for this good-for-nothing servant, throw him into the darkness outside, where there will be weeping and grinding of teeth.”
Reflection
The end is harsh. Are you so harsh as this, Jesus? Is the judgment of human souls as unyielding and unremitting as this?
It contradicts my every image of your mercy. And, yes, I know that is what your parables are wont to do. But it is you who again and again have revealed to this soul your abiding hunger to bring all into your happiness.
You have revealed the immensity of your joy as you stand at the door and welcome all to share in the goodness that has neither beginning nor end, no source but your own divine heart.
How can such mercy and this harshness co-exist? The poor man merely did what fear dictated he must do to protect himself from the master’s hardness. There have been times when I did much the same, guarding myself from the hard judgment of one I feared. This happens in millions of homes and work places every day.
The poor servant ended up not in your happiness but in the outer darkness where the light of your mercy is not known. And this is what I most fear.
It seems that if fear dictates our action, we wind up in the place we flee. We lose what we sought to protect. We land in the darkness instead of the light of your face.
So what shall I do?
“Live,” you say in clearest whisper. “Live. Give yourself to me. Forget your reserve. Hold nothing back.
“There is nothing to fear, except losing me. Throw you heart into the fullness of love’s labor, and you will enter my happiness.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 25:19-23
"Now a long time afterwards, the master of those servants came back and went through his accounts with them. The man who had received the five talents came forward bringing five more. "Sir," he said, "you entrusted me with five talents; here are five more that I have made." His master said to him, "Well done, good and trustworthy servant; you have shown you are trustworthy in small things; I will trust you with greater; come and join in your master's happiness." Next the man with the two talents came forward. "Sir," he said, "you entrusted me with two talents; here are two more that I have made." His master said to him, "Well done, good and trustworthy servant; you have shown you are trustworthy in small things; I will trust you with greater; come and join in your master's happiness."
Reflection
I wonder, Lord, what would have happened had they used their talents to make more but failed, losing what they had. Would the master have rewarded or banished them?
I know, this is a parable, and it’s intended to shake up how we see things. It is what it is, and it does no good to speculate about what would have happened had someone in the story acted differently. After all, this is a story you have imagined. It is not about actual people.
Except us, of course. It’s about us. So I can’t help but wonder.
It seems you want us to see and live beyond our fears. If so, then failure is an option you will prize. Yes, prize. You prize crashing failure over the failure to crash in the cause of your holy kingdom. Failure means a human soul had sufficient faith and courage to risk for the sake of your righteousness. They cared so much that playing safe was not an option.
And they trusted that you would welcome them even when best efforts crashed around their feet. There is faith and nobility in this, and the profound hope that abundant life is about your love, not about winning and losing, succeeding or failing. These things don’t matter much, despite our anxieties about losing out and the illusions the culture daily dumps on us.
What matters is living and venturing for you, allowing your love to lead me far beyond my fears to give myself and substance in service of that which does not fail or tarnish as the eons pass by.
You invite me to trust and risk, to have faith and take courage, using the days not to ensure my safety but to serve a love beyond all telling. You invite me to know that all will be well, and in all manner of circumstances.
And in my time, you will invite me into that happiness that has neither beginning nor end.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 25:19-23
"Now a long time afterwards, the master of those servants came back and went through his accounts with them. The man who had received the five talents came forward bringing five more. "Sir," he said, "you entrusted me with five talents; here are five more that I have made." His master said to him, "Well done, good and trustworthy servant; you have shown you are trustworthy in small things; I will trust you with greater; come and join in your master's happiness." Next the man with the two talents came forward. "Sir," he said, "you entrusted me with two talents; here are two more that I have made." His master said to him, "Well done, good and trustworthy servant; you have shown you are trustworthy in small things; I will trust you with greater; come and join in your master's happiness."
Reflection
I wonder, Lord, what would have happened had they used their talents to make more but failed, losing what they had. Would the master have rewarded or banished them?
I know, this is a parable, and it’s intended to shake up how we see things. It is what it is, and it does no good to speculate about what would have happened had someone in the story acted differently. After all, this is a story you have imagined. It is not about actual people.
Except us, of course. It’s about us. So I can’t help but wonder.
It seems you want us to see and live beyond our fears. If so, then failure is an option you will prize. Yes, prize. You prize crashing failure over the failure to crash in the cause of your holy kingdom. Failure means a human soul had sufficient faith and courage to risk for the sake of your righteousness. They cared so much that playing safe was not an option.
And they trusted that you would welcome them even when best efforts crashed around their feet. There is faith and nobility in this, and the profound hope that abundant life is about your love, not about winning and losing, succeeding or failing. These things don’t matter much, despite our anxieties about losing out and the illusions the culture daily dumps on us.
What matters is living and venturing for you, allowing your love to lead me far beyond my fears to give myself and substance in service of that which does not fail or tarnish as the eons pass by.
You invite me to trust and risk, to have faith and take courage, using the days not to ensure my safety but to serve a love beyond all telling. You invite me to know that all will be well, and in all manner of circumstances.
And in my time, you will invite me into that happiness that has neither beginning nor end.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, November 10, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 25:14-18
'It is like a man about to go abroad who summoned his servants and entrusted his property to them. To one he gave five talents, to another two, to a third one, each in proportion to his ability. Then he set out on his journey. The man who had received the five talents promptly went and traded with them and made five more. The man who had received two made two more in the same way. But the man who had received one went off and dug a hole in the ground and hid his master's money.
Reflection
I wonder, Lord, why did this fellow give anything to the person who had less ability? Why not send him to work for one of the others who have more ability? Everyone would have been happier, and the outcome would have improved for all involved in the transaction.
I know this a parable and intended to shake up my understanding, but there is injustice here at the start. It’s an injustice of expectation. Did he really expect the person of lesser ability to suddenly change and improve? The situation seems set up for failure, which of course comes in due time.
But I am struck by the actions of the three. Two took a risk, and one did not. Two trusted that something good might come; the other lived in fear. And fear, I know, is the great enemy of the spiritual life, so much so that the best and wisest leaders of human souls often stand before their charges and speak two words: ‘Fear not.’
Pope John Paul II did it again and again. In war times, leaders like FDR repeated such words during times of darkest night. The Dali Lama says the same to his oppressed people. And you, Jesus, speak to us in clearest terms, “Do not be afraid. The One who cares for the sparrow is ever near and sees you, too. And I am with you always.”
One man in the parable was afraid, and fear controlled his action. One was governed by fear and the others by … what? Hope? Courage? Trust? The simple ability to live with risk? What is it that you ask of us?
In the silence of conscience, your answer is clear: “Be not afraid. Use what great or small gift you have in my service. Leave the rest to me.
“And don’t live in fear. You need not. Whatever your outcomes in this life, your life remains in me. All is well.
"Cast your fear to the wind … and act.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Today’s text
Matthew 25:14-18
'It is like a man about to go abroad who summoned his servants and entrusted his property to them. To one he gave five talents, to another two, to a third one, each in proportion to his ability. Then he set out on his journey. The man who had received the five talents promptly went and traded with them and made five more. The man who had received two made two more in the same way. But the man who had received one went off and dug a hole in the ground and hid his master's money.
Reflection
I wonder, Lord, why did this fellow give anything to the person who had less ability? Why not send him to work for one of the others who have more ability? Everyone would have been happier, and the outcome would have improved for all involved in the transaction.
I know this a parable and intended to shake up my understanding, but there is injustice here at the start. It’s an injustice of expectation. Did he really expect the person of lesser ability to suddenly change and improve? The situation seems set up for failure, which of course comes in due time.
But I am struck by the actions of the three. Two took a risk, and one did not. Two trusted that something good might come; the other lived in fear. And fear, I know, is the great enemy of the spiritual life, so much so that the best and wisest leaders of human souls often stand before their charges and speak two words: ‘Fear not.’
Pope John Paul II did it again and again. In war times, leaders like FDR repeated such words during times of darkest night. The Dali Lama says the same to his oppressed people. And you, Jesus, speak to us in clearest terms, “Do not be afraid. The One who cares for the sparrow is ever near and sees you, too. And I am with you always.”
One man in the parable was afraid, and fear controlled his action. One was governed by fear and the others by … what? Hope? Courage? Trust? The simple ability to live with risk? What is it that you ask of us?
In the silence of conscience, your answer is clear: “Be not afraid. Use what great or small gift you have in my service. Leave the rest to me.
“And don’t live in fear. You need not. Whatever your outcomes in this life, your life remains in me. All is well.
"Cast your fear to the wind … and act.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 21:6-13
But at midnight there was a cry, "Look! The bridegroom! Go out and meet him." Then all those wedding attendants woke up and trimmed their lamps, and the foolish ones said to the sensible ones, "Give us some of your oil: our lamps are going out." But they replied, "There may not be enough for us and for you; you had better go to those who sell it and buy some for yourselves." They had gone off to buy it when the bridegroom arrived. Those who were ready went in with him to the wedding hall and the door was closed. The other attendants arrived later. "Lord, Lord," they said, "open the door for us." But he replied, "In truth I tell you, I do not know you. So stay awake, because you do not know either the day or the hour."
Reflection
My Lord, are you really so ungracious that you would close the door to those who seek you? I am sobered by the finality of your refusal, and the chilling words: ‘I do not know you.’
But you do. You know me, and you have known me even when I have chosen not to know you. You know me when my heart wanders in far countries of forgetfulness, lost in anxieties over my life, unable to find my way back to the center of my soul where you abide, waiting for my return.
You know me even when I have fallen asleep in mad pursuits of eager ego, as I to make myself what I am not, as if I could convince others of my significance when I knew the truth that I am a nothing, a sham, except when I abide in your love.
You know me then, too, and so I come, knocking again on the door, begging you to open. And you do. Even now I enter that place where I know you in honest prayer.
So what am I to do with the harsh finality of your parable? Perhaps I might take it as warning that there is a falling asleep from which one may not wake, a terrible loss of your presence.
I have felt that loss, Jesus. We all have. Such loss can be permanent, you seem to say. So stay awake.
A warning, yet an invitation. You always invite, don’t you? And this one is to the holy nearness of that love who cannot be contained, to your unending celebration.
If your warning sounds harsh, even your harshness is born of love, your love for those who might be lost, breaking your own divine heart. Your words are born in love for me and for all you cherish that we may feast with you.
For you do, indeed, come, and will do so to bring to completion all you have started.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 21:6-13
But at midnight there was a cry, "Look! The bridegroom! Go out and meet him." Then all those wedding attendants woke up and trimmed their lamps, and the foolish ones said to the sensible ones, "Give us some of your oil: our lamps are going out." But they replied, "There may not be enough for us and for you; you had better go to those who sell it and buy some for yourselves." They had gone off to buy it when the bridegroom arrived. Those who were ready went in with him to the wedding hall and the door was closed. The other attendants arrived later. "Lord, Lord," they said, "open the door for us." But he replied, "In truth I tell you, I do not know you. So stay awake, because you do not know either the day or the hour."
Reflection
My Lord, are you really so ungracious that you would close the door to those who seek you? I am sobered by the finality of your refusal, and the chilling words: ‘I do not know you.’
But you do. You know me, and you have known me even when I have chosen not to know you. You know me when my heart wanders in far countries of forgetfulness, lost in anxieties over my life, unable to find my way back to the center of my soul where you abide, waiting for my return.
You know me even when I have fallen asleep in mad pursuits of eager ego, as I to make myself what I am not, as if I could convince others of my significance when I knew the truth that I am a nothing, a sham, except when I abide in your love.
You know me then, too, and so I come, knocking again on the door, begging you to open. And you do. Even now I enter that place where I know you in honest prayer.
So what am I to do with the harsh finality of your parable? Perhaps I might take it as warning that there is a falling asleep from which one may not wake, a terrible loss of your presence.
I have felt that loss, Jesus. We all have. Such loss can be permanent, you seem to say. So stay awake.
A warning, yet an invitation. You always invite, don’t you? And this one is to the holy nearness of that love who cannot be contained, to your unending celebration.
If your warning sounds harsh, even your harshness is born of love, your love for those who might be lost, breaking your own divine heart. Your words are born in love for me and for all you cherish that we may feast with you.
For you do, indeed, come, and will do so to bring to completion all you have started.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, November 03, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 21:1-5
'Then the kingdom of Heaven will be like this: Ten wedding attendants took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish and five were sensible: the foolish ones, though they took their lamps, took no oil with them, whereas the sensible ones took flasks of oil as well as their lamps. The bridegroom was late, and they all grew drowsy and fell asleep.
Reflection
Do we ever really know what we will need over the course of a long journey? No. Well, then, how about for a week? Or maybe a day?
Truth is, Jesus, I seldom know what I will need to have done by the end of the week, to say nothing of a month or a year. The usual duties I know about, but unforeseen challenges will arise and contingencies will occur over which I have no control.
I wouldn’t have it any other way. The surprises force me to respond, to think on my feet, to meet and deal with more people than I otherwise would have. Not always easy or pleasant, but this enriches me more often than not. I am more alive for it, and almost always more loving.
So what am I to do with this little tale of yours about wise and foolish attendants, some who go prepared for a long wait and others not? And all fall asleep during the long wait.
The punch line is apparent before one gets half way through the story: be prepared, stay awake. Things may not develop as you imagined, so bring more than you think you need.
And what do we need? There’s the rub. We are never quite sure. So how do we stay prepared, awake, ready for your arrival? For that is the point: you come, Jesus. Will we be awake to receive you and enter the party of your presence?
Early believers in you struggled to stay awake when your final appearance was delayed longer than they had imagined. Here we sit 20 centuries later still waiting for your arrival--or not.
I pay little, make that no attention to prophecies that your final coming draws near. Those who make such predictions, whipping up excitement about the ‘last times,’ all sound crazed or silly to me. How can they know? And maybe this biblical language about the end is all symbol and metaphor taken far too literally.
Thousands of self-proclaimed prophets have arisen with messages about the end of time during the past 20 centuries. None of them knew a thing.
And they all missed the point as far as I am concerned. The party of your presence is now. Despite the suffering and struggle of this and every age, we live in the time of your constant coming. And we’d all see and know it if our souls were half awake to the miracle of the daily.
If we were, we’d attend to your nearness in the mystery of souls nearest our own, in the love and joy that is apparent in the most mundane moments, in the struggle to be and remain a human being instead of a mere consumer of goods and people for our ends. We might then see the mystery of your uncreated love in smiles well known to us.
But this requires staying awake to what is right in front of us, which I think, Jesus your your point.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 21:1-5
'Then the kingdom of Heaven will be like this: Ten wedding attendants took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish and five were sensible: the foolish ones, though they took their lamps, took no oil with them, whereas the sensible ones took flasks of oil as well as their lamps. The bridegroom was late, and they all grew drowsy and fell asleep.
Reflection
Do we ever really know what we will need over the course of a long journey? No. Well, then, how about for a week? Or maybe a day?
Truth is, Jesus, I seldom know what I will need to have done by the end of the week, to say nothing of a month or a year. The usual duties I know about, but unforeseen challenges will arise and contingencies will occur over which I have no control.
I wouldn’t have it any other way. The surprises force me to respond, to think on my feet, to meet and deal with more people than I otherwise would have. Not always easy or pleasant, but this enriches me more often than not. I am more alive for it, and almost always more loving.
So what am I to do with this little tale of yours about wise and foolish attendants, some who go prepared for a long wait and others not? And all fall asleep during the long wait.
The punch line is apparent before one gets half way through the story: be prepared, stay awake. Things may not develop as you imagined, so bring more than you think you need.
And what do we need? There’s the rub. We are never quite sure. So how do we stay prepared, awake, ready for your arrival? For that is the point: you come, Jesus. Will we be awake to receive you and enter the party of your presence?
Early believers in you struggled to stay awake when your final appearance was delayed longer than they had imagined. Here we sit 20 centuries later still waiting for your arrival--or not.
I pay little, make that no attention to prophecies that your final coming draws near. Those who make such predictions, whipping up excitement about the ‘last times,’ all sound crazed or silly to me. How can they know? And maybe this biblical language about the end is all symbol and metaphor taken far too literally.
Thousands of self-proclaimed prophets have arisen with messages about the end of time during the past 20 centuries. None of them knew a thing.
And they all missed the point as far as I am concerned. The party of your presence is now. Despite the suffering and struggle of this and every age, we live in the time of your constant coming. And we’d all see and know it if our souls were half awake to the miracle of the daily.
If we were, we’d attend to your nearness in the mystery of souls nearest our own, in the love and joy that is apparent in the most mundane moments, in the struggle to be and remain a human being instead of a mere consumer of goods and people for our ends. We might then see the mystery of your uncreated love in smiles well known to us.
But this requires staying awake to what is right in front of us, which I think, Jesus your your point.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 5:6
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for uprightness: they shall have their fill.
Reflection
I have stopped running this morning, Jesus. I have not been running from you. Just running. Just busy. My mind and hands have been full of work that is done for you, planning and organizing, teaching and sharing, counseling and supporting.
Most of it makes me smile; you, too, I hope. But this morning I have no place to which I need run, and tears are quickly in my eyes.
My soul finds an open space to breathe. My heart opens, and a hunger fills the inmost parts of my body. But even while feeling this, my hunger is satisfied, at least in part, by the presence of love and longing.
It’s a strange awareness. I have known it many times before but am never quite able to understand it. At the same moment, I feel both hunger and satisfaction, both wanting and fullness, desire and the presence of what is desired.
I hunger, yet am filled. I am filled, but I want more.
Is this what it is to know you, Loving Mystery? To hunger for you who are always more than I can hold or know, even while holding within the mystery of a love that reaches out from the bottom of my soul to the uttermost regions of the reality that I know I can never possess?
Words break down here. At least mine do. I am pleased I can describe even this much, this little.
Let my amazement and confusion be my morning praise of you who dwell within and ever beyond me.
For you are the longing and the fullness. You are both. And this life of mine is caught up in you, so that hunger and fullness, longing and love will mark my days. And on my very best days I will know it and thank you for it.
Thank you for this day, this open space in which you can reveal to me the mystery of my life and of your love. I know I will never be satisfied, but fill me as best I can be filled with the wonder of your life.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 5:6
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for uprightness: they shall have their fill.
Reflection
I have stopped running this morning, Jesus. I have not been running from you. Just running. Just busy. My mind and hands have been full of work that is done for you, planning and organizing, teaching and sharing, counseling and supporting.
Most of it makes me smile; you, too, I hope. But this morning I have no place to which I need run, and tears are quickly in my eyes.
My soul finds an open space to breathe. My heart opens, and a hunger fills the inmost parts of my body. But even while feeling this, my hunger is satisfied, at least in part, by the presence of love and longing.
It’s a strange awareness. I have known it many times before but am never quite able to understand it. At the same moment, I feel both hunger and satisfaction, both wanting and fullness, desire and the presence of what is desired.
I hunger, yet am filled. I am filled, but I want more.
Is this what it is to know you, Loving Mystery? To hunger for you who are always more than I can hold or know, even while holding within the mystery of a love that reaches out from the bottom of my soul to the uttermost regions of the reality that I know I can never possess?
Words break down here. At least mine do. I am pleased I can describe even this much, this little.
Let my amazement and confusion be my morning praise of you who dwell within and ever beyond me.
For you are the longing and the fullness. You are both. And this life of mine is caught up in you, so that hunger and fullness, longing and love will mark my days. And on my very best days I will know it and thank you for it.
Thank you for this day, this open space in which you can reveal to me the mystery of my life and of your love. I know I will never be satisfied, but fill me as best I can be filled with the wonder of your life.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, October 27, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 5:1-5
Seeing the crowds, [Jesus] went onto the mountain. And when he was seated his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak. This is what he taught them: How blessed are the poor in spirit: the kingdom of Heaven is theirs. Blessed are the gentle: they shall have the earth as inheritance. Blessed are those who mourn: they shall be comforted.
Reflection
Blessed are we, indeed, my Lord, when we live with lowly spirits, not filled with arrogance or presumption.
Blessed are we, for then our eyes shall see all that is and all we are as holy gift from the One who freely fills our lungs with the breath of life.
Then our hearts will dwell in joy in continual awareness of the gift of life.
Then our lips will give thanks for each small joy of the day.
Then our souls bask in the constant loving nearness of the One who makes the sun to shine on just and unjust alike.
Then our fingers will not count what we have and compare it to that of others, as if life consists in having, not loving.
Then our hands shall use all that we have as tools to tend your world with care--and to be given over to others when we are done.
Then our minds shall be convinced that life and joy rests in knowing you, the great giver and lover of all you have made, of all life, of our lives.
Then our anxious egos shall fly from the urge to defend themselves from assaults to our dignity, as if our tiny selves were isolated fortresses in a hostile land.
Then we shall make our home in the environment of your grace, where your kindness is known and ever near.
Blessed are we, my great and gracious Friend, when we live with lowly spirits, for then our hearts are ready to receive every gift of love.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 5:1-5
Seeing the crowds, [Jesus] went onto the mountain. And when he was seated his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak. This is what he taught them: How blessed are the poor in spirit: the kingdom of Heaven is theirs. Blessed are the gentle: they shall have the earth as inheritance. Blessed are those who mourn: they shall be comforted.
Reflection
Blessed are we, indeed, my Lord, when we live with lowly spirits, not filled with arrogance or presumption.
Blessed are we, for then our eyes shall see all that is and all we are as holy gift from the One who freely fills our lungs with the breath of life.
Then our hearts will dwell in joy in continual awareness of the gift of life.
Then our lips will give thanks for each small joy of the day.
Then our souls bask in the constant loving nearness of the One who makes the sun to shine on just and unjust alike.
Then our fingers will not count what we have and compare it to that of others, as if life consists in having, not loving.
Then our hands shall use all that we have as tools to tend your world with care--and to be given over to others when we are done.
Then our minds shall be convinced that life and joy rests in knowing you, the great giver and lover of all you have made, of all life, of our lives.
Then our anxious egos shall fly from the urge to defend themselves from assaults to our dignity, as if our tiny selves were isolated fortresses in a hostile land.
Then we shall make our home in the environment of your grace, where your kindness is known and ever near.
Blessed are we, my great and gracious Friend, when we live with lowly spirits, for then our hearts are ready to receive every gift of love.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Today’s text
John 8:31-36
To the Jews who believed in him Jesus said: If you make my word your home you will indeed be my disciples; you will come to know the truth, and the truth will set you free. They answered, 'We are descended from Abraham and we have never been the slaves of anyone; what do you mean, "You will be set free.’ Jesus replied: In all truth I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave. Now a slave has no permanent standing in the household, but a son belongs to it for ever. So if the Son sets you free, you will indeed be free.
Reflection
Freedom is about space, isn’t it Jesus? We want space in which to move without restriction, space in which to think and feel and gain our bearings, space where we might find and be who we are.
The pressure of time and demands to do what needs doing fill every space some days. There is no time to stop, to look, to listen--and hence, to choose one’s way from depth of heart, instead of from the heat of the moment.
The urgency of the moment leaves no room for anything else, no room to breathe, so we live on the surface of life, not from our depths.
This is not freedom. It is the bondage of necessity. It reduces us to what we do, so that we are no longer human beings.
I long for freedom from the urgent. But is this the bondage and freedom of which you speak, my Friend?
You would free me from bondage to sin. And sin? Sin is living without awareness of love, the love that you are.
Some days, sin is living so fast that I lose touch with the center of my being where I know you, where I know you are love, where I know I am loved, where I feel the texture of the beauty I bear within as it hungers for expression.
Living too fast is a kind of sin, Jesus. It is sin because I live out of touch with the center of my soul where I most know you.
It is in knowing you, making my home in you, that freedom comes. Sometimes it comes all at once. Other times I struggle to return to the center of my soul, and I must wait for your appearance, for the bursting forth of the fountain of love you are in this soul.
But my language betrays me. For you are already there, waiting within, inviting me to return home to center of my soul. You are there, waiting to open a wide space in my soul that I may breathe the fresh air of freedom from all that oppresses the soul.
So I here I am again, dear Friend. Let your love surround and fill me. Then I’ll be free.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 8:31-36
To the Jews who believed in him Jesus said: If you make my word your home you will indeed be my disciples; you will come to know the truth, and the truth will set you free. They answered, 'We are descended from Abraham and we have never been the slaves of anyone; what do you mean, "You will be set free.’ Jesus replied: In all truth I tell you, everyone who commits sin is a slave. Now a slave has no permanent standing in the household, but a son belongs to it for ever. So if the Son sets you free, you will indeed be free.
Reflection
Freedom is about space, isn’t it Jesus? We want space in which to move without restriction, space in which to think and feel and gain our bearings, space where we might find and be who we are.
The pressure of time and demands to do what needs doing fill every space some days. There is no time to stop, to look, to listen--and hence, to choose one’s way from depth of heart, instead of from the heat of the moment.
The urgency of the moment leaves no room for anything else, no room to breathe, so we live on the surface of life, not from our depths.
This is not freedom. It is the bondage of necessity. It reduces us to what we do, so that we are no longer human beings.
I long for freedom from the urgent. But is this the bondage and freedom of which you speak, my Friend?
You would free me from bondage to sin. And sin? Sin is living without awareness of love, the love that you are.
Some days, sin is living so fast that I lose touch with the center of my being where I know you, where I know you are love, where I know I am loved, where I feel the texture of the beauty I bear within as it hungers for expression.
Living too fast is a kind of sin, Jesus. It is sin because I live out of touch with the center of my soul where I most know you.
It is in knowing you, making my home in you, that freedom comes. Sometimes it comes all at once. Other times I struggle to return to the center of my soul, and I must wait for your appearance, for the bursting forth of the fountain of love you are in this soul.
But my language betrays me. For you are already there, waiting within, inviting me to return home to center of my soul. You are there, waiting to open a wide space in my soul that I may breathe the fresh air of freedom from all that oppresses the soul.
So I here I am again, dear Friend. Let your love surround and fill me. Then I’ll be free.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Today’s text
John 8:31-32
To the Jews who believed in him Jesus said: If you make my word your home you will indeed be my disciples; you will come to know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
Reflection
And what truth will we know, Jesus? The truth that makes free.
That’s not how we think of truth. Truth is fearful for us. We cringe when someone says they are going to tell us the truth.
Too often, voices of truth tell us what we don’t want to know: things didn’t turn out well; the house needs expensive repair; there’s not enough money; the surgery wasn’t successful; we are sicker than we thought; someone has died.
The truth always holds threat for us. That’s the way it is for beings that are mortal and frail--and who know it.
We do not possess perfect control over what will happen to us today, let alone over other powers that affect us. We don’t control what can and does happen to our beloved, and often we can’t do a thing to help them when we most want to do so.
Even the hidden processes of our own bodies are beyond our reach. And one day they will betray us and stop our breath before we have figured out exactly how to be human.
And that’s another truth. We don’t really know. Oh, we try. We make best efforts, sometimes. But the task of becoming a human being takes a lifetime of concerted focus. And our focus wavers, and sometimes is just so easy to be less than a truly human being.
And that’s the truth.
So how can it be, my dearest Friend, that your truth sets free when so many other truths merely attest my bondage?
You don’t answer, telling me how. Your answer is where. Make your home in me, you say. Make your home in a love that knows your every bondage. Make your home here. Fear will cease; freedom will come.
Freedom comes as our souls are convinced that we rest in a love that never wavers or wanes, a love that never falters or fails, a love that will be there--knowable--on the very best and worst days of our life.
And far beyond.
So let me know this truth, dear Friend. When I know it I become almost human.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 8:31-32
To the Jews who believed in him Jesus said: If you make my word your home you will indeed be my disciples; you will come to know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
Reflection
And what truth will we know, Jesus? The truth that makes free.
That’s not how we think of truth. Truth is fearful for us. We cringe when someone says they are going to tell us the truth.
Too often, voices of truth tell us what we don’t want to know: things didn’t turn out well; the house needs expensive repair; there’s not enough money; the surgery wasn’t successful; we are sicker than we thought; someone has died.
The truth always holds threat for us. That’s the way it is for beings that are mortal and frail--and who know it.
We do not possess perfect control over what will happen to us today, let alone over other powers that affect us. We don’t control what can and does happen to our beloved, and often we can’t do a thing to help them when we most want to do so.
Even the hidden processes of our own bodies are beyond our reach. And one day they will betray us and stop our breath before we have figured out exactly how to be human.
And that’s another truth. We don’t really know. Oh, we try. We make best efforts, sometimes. But the task of becoming a human being takes a lifetime of concerted focus. And our focus wavers, and sometimes is just so easy to be less than a truly human being.
And that’s the truth.
So how can it be, my dearest Friend, that your truth sets free when so many other truths merely attest my bondage?
You don’t answer, telling me how. Your answer is where. Make your home in me, you say. Make your home in a love that knows your every bondage. Make your home here. Fear will cease; freedom will come.
Freedom comes as our souls are convinced that we rest in a love that never wavers or wanes, a love that never falters or fails, a love that will be there--knowable--on the very best and worst days of our life.
And far beyond.
So let me know this truth, dear Friend. When I know it I become almost human.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, October 20, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Today’s text
John 8:31-32
To the Jews who believed in him Jesus said: 'If you make my word your home you will indeed be my disciples; you will come to know the truth, and the truth will set you free.'
Reflection
The heart makes its home, somewhere. This has always been true, Jesus. There is always a place where our hearts try to make their beds.
The list of possible places is far too long to recount, dear Friend. I haven’t the energy to discover and list all the places in which my heart has sought its home.
For years, no, decades, my heart sought its home in the impressions I made on others, trying out one façade or another. Why should I think that I could make myself more real by impressing others with insights or art, acts of courage or adventure, by appearing more caring or committed than I really am?
I don’t know, but I did. It’s crazy.
For reasons lost in childhood, hidden in my genes or in the tragedy of human fallenness, I imagined my reality was dependent upon the opinions of others--as if one’s real life resides in the impressions one can create in their minds.
It’s an illusion of course, and it enslaves millions. We recognize it when something points it out to us, but most of the time we are powerless to free ourselves from its grasp.
We go on trying to make ourselves what we are not, convincing others we are more real, intelligent, accomplished or important than we are--and fighting off slights to our self-respect and inflated egos. But all the time we know our secrets--and become less real with every word and action calculated for its affect on others.
There are innumerable ways we fashion homes in which to dwell--power, influence, wealth, status, intelligence, accomplishment or experience. We use them all to feather our psychic nests, as if we could settle in and feel at rest, at peace, at home, at last.
But ultimately, we cannot. They all fail us in one way or another, sooner or later. And the illusions we project drain us of energy until our life force is spent.
But you offer another way, dear Friend. Rest and home reside in you. You invite us to make our homes in your word, your truth, your reality, there to find the freedom of soul you alone give, the freedom that rests in your love alone.
The thought of it warms my heart. And my mind and body releases the tight grip I keep on myself and my public identity.
So this is freedom.
If so, let me make my home in your word, in your truth--in you. For beyond the ways and places I have sought to make a home for my heart, you are the place where I am truly welcome and finally free.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 8:31-32
To the Jews who believed in him Jesus said: 'If you make my word your home you will indeed be my disciples; you will come to know the truth, and the truth will set you free.'
Reflection
The heart makes its home, somewhere. This has always been true, Jesus. There is always a place where our hearts try to make their beds.
The list of possible places is far too long to recount, dear Friend. I haven’t the energy to discover and list all the places in which my heart has sought its home.
For years, no, decades, my heart sought its home in the impressions I made on others, trying out one façade or another. Why should I think that I could make myself more real by impressing others with insights or art, acts of courage or adventure, by appearing more caring or committed than I really am?
I don’t know, but I did. It’s crazy.
For reasons lost in childhood, hidden in my genes or in the tragedy of human fallenness, I imagined my reality was dependent upon the opinions of others--as if one’s real life resides in the impressions one can create in their minds.
It’s an illusion of course, and it enslaves millions. We recognize it when something points it out to us, but most of the time we are powerless to free ourselves from its grasp.
We go on trying to make ourselves what we are not, convincing others we are more real, intelligent, accomplished or important than we are--and fighting off slights to our self-respect and inflated egos. But all the time we know our secrets--and become less real with every word and action calculated for its affect on others.
There are innumerable ways we fashion homes in which to dwell--power, influence, wealth, status, intelligence, accomplishment or experience. We use them all to feather our psychic nests, as if we could settle in and feel at rest, at peace, at home, at last.
But ultimately, we cannot. They all fail us in one way or another, sooner or later. And the illusions we project drain us of energy until our life force is spent.
But you offer another way, dear Friend. Rest and home reside in you. You invite us to make our homes in your word, your truth, your reality, there to find the freedom of soul you alone give, the freedom that rests in your love alone.
The thought of it warms my heart. And my mind and body releases the tight grip I keep on myself and my public identity.
So this is freedom.
If so, let me make my home in your word, in your truth--in you. For beyond the ways and places I have sought to make a home for my heart, you are the place where I am truly welcome and finally free.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 22:15-22
Then the Pharisees went away to work out between them how to trap him in what he said. And they sent their disciples to him, together with some Herodians, to say, 'Master, we know that you are an honest man and teach the way of God in all honesty, and that you are not afraid of anyone, because human rank means nothing to you. Give us your opinion, then. Is it permissible to pay taxes to Caesar or not?' But Jesus was aware of their malice and replied, 'You hypocrites! Why are you putting me to the test? Show me the money you pay the tax with.' They handed him a denarius, and he said, 'Whose portrait is this? Whose title?' They replied, 'Caesar's.' Then he said to them, 'Very well, pay Caesar what belongs to Caesar -- and God what belongs to God.'
Reflection
Your question is so obvious this morning, dearest Friend--and so personal. To whom do I belong? To whom or what is my heart given?
Am I given to you?
I should be, for I am yours. I have loved you since before I much knew you. And you have loved me since before my creation. You were present then, making me in the image of your wisdom and purpose, your joy and desire. And my joy is found only in giving myself to the purpose and desire you formed in this soul that is me.
Yet, I have been holding myself back. My heart is not ready to be fully given to your purpose, your way. It resists surrendering to love as you love, to risk as you risk, fully engaging the souls around me.
I think it is fear that holds me back, although I feel no dread and little anxiety in these days. But I know that loving makes one vulnerable, and in these days I crave safety. (But I always have). So, I wall off parts of my heart, sharing them rarely and only with just a few, or one.
It is easier to stand back and look at things from a distance, disconnected from what is really happening.
It’s a reflex. Human, certainly. And it reflects recent years of feeling abused and misunderstood.
But my awareness of the state of my soul also reveals discontent. I do not have the joy I crave. I want more, that more that I can have only by loving and giving, surrendering my heart even where it resists.
Give to God what belongs to God, you say. I haven’t been. But I know that I need to. My soul’s satisfaction is found in no other way but this surrender.
So today, dearest Friend, let me give my whole heart to the souls and tasks you have placed in my care.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 22:15-22
Then the Pharisees went away to work out between them how to trap him in what he said. And they sent their disciples to him, together with some Herodians, to say, 'Master, we know that you are an honest man and teach the way of God in all honesty, and that you are not afraid of anyone, because human rank means nothing to you. Give us your opinion, then. Is it permissible to pay taxes to Caesar or not?' But Jesus was aware of their malice and replied, 'You hypocrites! Why are you putting me to the test? Show me the money you pay the tax with.' They handed him a denarius, and he said, 'Whose portrait is this? Whose title?' They replied, 'Caesar's.' Then he said to them, 'Very well, pay Caesar what belongs to Caesar -- and God what belongs to God.'
Reflection
Your question is so obvious this morning, dearest Friend--and so personal. To whom do I belong? To whom or what is my heart given?
Am I given to you?
I should be, for I am yours. I have loved you since before I much knew you. And you have loved me since before my creation. You were present then, making me in the image of your wisdom and purpose, your joy and desire. And my joy is found only in giving myself to the purpose and desire you formed in this soul that is me.
Yet, I have been holding myself back. My heart is not ready to be fully given to your purpose, your way. It resists surrendering to love as you love, to risk as you risk, fully engaging the souls around me.
I think it is fear that holds me back, although I feel no dread and little anxiety in these days. But I know that loving makes one vulnerable, and in these days I crave safety. (But I always have). So, I wall off parts of my heart, sharing them rarely and only with just a few, or one.
It is easier to stand back and look at things from a distance, disconnected from what is really happening.
It’s a reflex. Human, certainly. And it reflects recent years of feeling abused and misunderstood.
But my awareness of the state of my soul also reveals discontent. I do not have the joy I crave. I want more, that more that I can have only by loving and giving, surrendering my heart even where it resists.
Give to God what belongs to God, you say. I haven’t been. But I know that I need to. My soul’s satisfaction is found in no other way but this surrender.
So today, dearest Friend, let me give my whole heart to the souls and tasks you have placed in my care.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Today’s text
Matthew 22:15-22
Then the Pharisees went away to work out between them how to trap him in what he said. And they sent their disciples to him, together with some Herodians, to say, 'Master, we know that you are an honest man and teach the way of God in all honesty, and that you are not afraid of anyone, because human rank means nothing to you. Give us your opinion, then. Is it permissible to pay taxes to Caesar or not?' But Jesus was aware of their malice and replied, 'You hypocrites! Why are you putting me to the test? Show me the money you pay the tax with.' They handed him a denarius, and he said, 'Whose portrait is this? Whose title?' They replied, 'Caesar's.' Then he said to them, 'Very well, pay Caesar what belongs to Caesar -- and God what belongs to God.'
Reflection
What belongs to you, my Lord? Or should I say who belongs to you? The Earth is yours and its fullness, and today I wonder about all faces that seldom appear on the front page The hungry, the forgotten, the refugee, the homeless.
I think of those I met in refugee camps and death watches in starving places. I see the children whose haunted faces reflected the horrors of which this world is so terribly capable. Their young eyes knew almost nothing other than hunger and war.
Forbid their faces from fading from my mind, for they belong to you, too. And what is that to me?
Give to God what belongs to God? I cannot give them to you. They are already yours, their names and faces are not hidden from you. You cannot forget them, even when I do.
They are yours, and you would tend them like a loving mother, like a father holding them safe in your shadow. And I belong to you, too.
So your command is clear: Give to God what is God’s. My life is yours, the breath in my lungs, the strength of hand and mind--all of it, yours.
Give them to me, you say. Give them to my holy purpose. And that? Life, full and abundant, generous and overflowing, just like your heart, Holy One.
May I give myself to you with the same generosity that you give yourself to me and all you love. Then, maybe then, my heart will truly be given to you, knowing the freedom for which I long, no longer the frustration of being bound within myself.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 22:15-22
Then the Pharisees went away to work out between them how to trap him in what he said. And they sent their disciples to him, together with some Herodians, to say, 'Master, we know that you are an honest man and teach the way of God in all honesty, and that you are not afraid of anyone, because human rank means nothing to you. Give us your opinion, then. Is it permissible to pay taxes to Caesar or not?' But Jesus was aware of their malice and replied, 'You hypocrites! Why are you putting me to the test? Show me the money you pay the tax with.' They handed him a denarius, and he said, 'Whose portrait is this? Whose title?' They replied, 'Caesar's.' Then he said to them, 'Very well, pay Caesar what belongs to Caesar -- and God what belongs to God.'
Reflection
What belongs to you, my Lord? Or should I say who belongs to you? The Earth is yours and its fullness, and today I wonder about all faces that seldom appear on the front page The hungry, the forgotten, the refugee, the homeless.
I think of those I met in refugee camps and death watches in starving places. I see the children whose haunted faces reflected the horrors of which this world is so terribly capable. Their young eyes knew almost nothing other than hunger and war.
Forbid their faces from fading from my mind, for they belong to you, too. And what is that to me?
Give to God what belongs to God? I cannot give them to you. They are already yours, their names and faces are not hidden from you. You cannot forget them, even when I do.
They are yours, and you would tend them like a loving mother, like a father holding them safe in your shadow. And I belong to you, too.
So your command is clear: Give to God what is God’s. My life is yours, the breath in my lungs, the strength of hand and mind--all of it, yours.
Give them to me, you say. Give them to my holy purpose. And that? Life, full and abundant, generous and overflowing, just like your heart, Holy One.
May I give myself to you with the same generosity that you give yourself to me and all you love. Then, maybe then, my heart will truly be given to you, knowing the freedom for which I long, no longer the frustration of being bound within myself.
Pr. David L. Miller
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