Today’s text
John 15:15,16
I shall no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know the master's business; I call you friends, because I have made known to you everything I have learnt from my Father. You did not choose me, no, I chose you; and I commissioned you to go out and to bear fruit, fruit that will last; so that the Father will give you anything you ask him in my name.
Reflection
I live too much of my life far from this knowledge. The words here invite a confidence and purpose far beyond the frequent uncertainties of my soul.
Oh, of you I am quite certain, Jesus. I have no real doubts, but of myself I have little except for uncertainty, not knowing what I am to do, uncertain of who I really am, hesitating when I should step forward and lead, ever doubting that what I do is helpful, well-informed or in any way useful.
But here you commission me to go, to bear fruit, to reveal the depth of God as those depths are revealed in the love that intimately passes between you, Jesus, and the One you call Father. You dwell in intimate sharing with that One, and you invite me to do the same with you, so that the knowledge I have is not second-hand, but immediate and … certain.
Is it there, in this certainty of knowing you, that our steps find the surety and resolve that filled you during your earthly ministry? Is it there that I find the equanimity and assurance to live with confidence, knowing that you are my friend, and will be even when I am not much of a friend to you?
I want this confident joy, which is had only by knowing you, only by having you reveal in me the love you are, only by knowing the mystery of what you awaken in me when I feel enveloped by you.
Then, I am known, and I know. I know you know me. And I know I am chosen by Love, for Love, to Love, and it doesn’t really matter where I am or what I am doing. For your friendship fills me, and I know what to do and how to live, no matter where I am or where I go.
Pr. David L. Miller
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
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Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Today’s text
John 15:9-11
I have loved you just as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love. If you keep my commandments you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my own joy may be in you and your joy be complete.
Reflection
Your commandment is that we abide in you, Jesus, abide with you in the arms of the Eternal One. You call that Mystery ‘Father’ and know him as love, but your words are no more adequate to the Mystery than are mine.
Your command is that we seek in every space the face of that Love, to look upon every story as a holy story, a story where you are, where love labors, where the central struggle is to live fully.
Every story is the story of a struggle to come fully alive amid all that prevents it, even though what prevents it is usually we ourselves, in one way or another.
Every one is the story of the struggle of life with death, of love with ego. Yes, ego, for it is ego that moves me to withdraw into a self-protective shell. It is fearful ego that narrows vision to mere narcissism so that I can see only what immediately affects me.
It is ego that keeps me from seeing the stories and struggles of life to live in the souls of others. And not seeing them, my soul remains unmoved by the loving desire for life in abundance that is there. I fail to see their hunger for joy, for freedom and love.
You command me to remain, to abide in you. But how and where …if not to seek vision of your loving longing amid all of life, and especially where the struggle is most intense?
Pr. David L. Miller
John 15:9-11
I have loved you just as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love. If you keep my commandments you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my own joy may be in you and your joy be complete.
Reflection
Your commandment is that we abide in you, Jesus, abide with you in the arms of the Eternal One. You call that Mystery ‘Father’ and know him as love, but your words are no more adequate to the Mystery than are mine.
Your command is that we seek in every space the face of that Love, to look upon every story as a holy story, a story where you are, where love labors, where the central struggle is to live fully.
Every story is the story of a struggle to come fully alive amid all that prevents it, even though what prevents it is usually we ourselves, in one way or another.
Every one is the story of the struggle of life with death, of love with ego. Yes, ego, for it is ego that moves me to withdraw into a self-protective shell. It is fearful ego that narrows vision to mere narcissism so that I can see only what immediately affects me.
It is ego that keeps me from seeing the stories and struggles of life to live in the souls of others. And not seeing them, my soul remains unmoved by the loving desire for life in abundance that is there. I fail to see their hunger for joy, for freedom and love.
You command me to remain, to abide in you. But how and where …if not to seek vision of your loving longing amid all of life, and especially where the struggle is most intense?
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, May 08, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Today’s text
John 15:1-5
I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that bears no fruit he cuts away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes to make it bear even more. You are clean already, by means of the word that I have spoken to you. Remain in me, as I in you. As a branch cannot bear fruit all by itself, unless it remains part of the vine, neither can you unless you remain in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, with me in him, bears fruit in plenty; for cut off from me you can do nothing.Reflection
You are the vine, O Christ. Through you flows the life of the infinite and eternal, the substance of the Father, the nectar of being and truth.
Apart from you we are, indeed, cut off, cut off from the source of our being, cut off from ourselves, cut off from the peace and unity that is our truest rest, cut off from our home.
Cut off from you we restless and searching, disconnected from the life and peace, the calm and rest, the vitality and purpose for which we hunger.
We hunger for the flow of life through our bodies. No mere knowing of mind will do.
We long for the experience of being filled and carried along in the flow of life coursing through body and soul, bearing us with joy into our days, filling us with assurance and certainty that we are born on by love.
It is love, then, that fills our hearts and strengthens our arms, our resolve. It is love that courses through the vine--and our bodies, truest joy and purpose filling and carrying us into tomorrow with unflagging hope.
How I hunger for this awareness, for you. How I wish I could make this experience happen just by willing it. It is the experience of being alive. Anything less won’t do; it can never satisfy the soul. The soul knows: I am made for more.
So I will seek to be humble and human, knowing the life flowing through the vine is not mine to order or control. It is the living life blood of Eternity’s love, a love which called me into being and presses to fill me--if I would but stay connected to the vine, the artery of every blessing, the Source of life that is life.
Let me humbly cleave as tightly to you as I can and wait for your life blood to fill me again … that I may live.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 15:1-5
I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that bears no fruit he cuts away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes to make it bear even more. You are clean already, by means of the word that I have spoken to you. Remain in me, as I in you. As a branch cannot bear fruit all by itself, unless it remains part of the vine, neither can you unless you remain in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, with me in him, bears fruit in plenty; for cut off from me you can do nothing.Reflection
You are the vine, O Christ. Through you flows the life of the infinite and eternal, the substance of the Father, the nectar of being and truth.
Apart from you we are, indeed, cut off, cut off from the source of our being, cut off from ourselves, cut off from the peace and unity that is our truest rest, cut off from our home.
Cut off from you we restless and searching, disconnected from the life and peace, the calm and rest, the vitality and purpose for which we hunger.
We hunger for the flow of life through our bodies. No mere knowing of mind will do.
We long for the experience of being filled and carried along in the flow of life coursing through body and soul, bearing us with joy into our days, filling us with assurance and certainty that we are born on by love.
It is love, then, that fills our hearts and strengthens our arms, our resolve. It is love that courses through the vine--and our bodies, truest joy and purpose filling and carrying us into tomorrow with unflagging hope.
How I hunger for this awareness, for you. How I wish I could make this experience happen just by willing it. It is the experience of being alive. Anything less won’t do; it can never satisfy the soul. The soul knows: I am made for more.
So I will seek to be humble and human, knowing the life flowing through the vine is not mine to order or control. It is the living life blood of Eternity’s love, a love which called me into being and presses to fill me--if I would but stay connected to the vine, the artery of every blessing, the Source of life that is life.
Let me humbly cleave as tightly to you as I can and wait for your life blood to fill me again … that I may live.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, April 24, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 24:45-48
He then opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, "So it is written that the Christ would suffer and on the third day rise from the dead, and that, in his name, repentance for the forgiveness of sins would be preached to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses to this.”
Reflection
We are witnesses, Jesus. We are those who have heard the proclamation going out to the ends of the earth. Our faith witnesses to the fact of that proclamation.
But it is being a witness to your resurrection that we most want, and to understand how it is written that you would suffer, die and rise.
All the Scriptures that speak of God’s suffering servant, the rejected witness of God’s righteousness are veiled to many eyes, and to mine, I suppose. Some of those ancient prophecies seem to apply to the nation of Israel, some to an individual who is present or one to come in the near future.
Yet, you treat those ancient words as applying to you, coming to the fullness of their meaning in your ministry, your witness, your death and resurrection.
And I believe you: the full intention of God to forgive and save, to love and make whole is fully realized in you. And that brings me joy, calling down the curtain on my restless search to know ‘what it’s all about.’
It’s all about you, experiencing you, nurturing in my being and in the world the life that I see and know in you, a life of continual turning from all that is not you, a life of knowing a graceful forgiving that is the heart of God.
This is a life of knowing that in each tiny moment of grace it is you that I know, Jesus.
It is you, and there I am a witness to the resurrection of your flesh into my own.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 24:45-48
He then opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, "So it is written that the Christ would suffer and on the third day rise from the dead, and that, in his name, repentance for the forgiveness of sins would be preached to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses to this.”
Reflection
We are witnesses, Jesus. We are those who have heard the proclamation going out to the ends of the earth. Our faith witnesses to the fact of that proclamation.
But it is being a witness to your resurrection that we most want, and to understand how it is written that you would suffer, die and rise.
All the Scriptures that speak of God’s suffering servant, the rejected witness of God’s righteousness are veiled to many eyes, and to mine, I suppose. Some of those ancient prophecies seem to apply to the nation of Israel, some to an individual who is present or one to come in the near future.
Yet, you treat those ancient words as applying to you, coming to the fullness of their meaning in your ministry, your witness, your death and resurrection.
And I believe you: the full intention of God to forgive and save, to love and make whole is fully realized in you. And that brings me joy, calling down the curtain on my restless search to know ‘what it’s all about.’
It’s all about you, experiencing you, nurturing in my being and in the world the life that I see and know in you, a life of continual turning from all that is not you, a life of knowing a graceful forgiving that is the heart of God.
This is a life of knowing that in each tiny moment of grace it is you that I know, Jesus.
It is you, and there I am a witness to the resurrection of your flesh into my own.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 24:36-40
They were still talking about all this when [Jesus] himself stood among them and said to them, 'Peace be with you!' In a state of alarm and fright, they thought they were seeing a ghost. But he said, 'Why are you so agitated, and why are these doubts stirring in your hearts? See by my hands and my feet that it is I myself. Touch me and see for yourselves; a ghost has no flesh and bones as you can see I have. And as he said this he showed them his hands and his feet.
Reflection
You are as wonderfully and tangibly as real as ever, Jesus. Amid the fears of human souls, you come with words of peace in flesh and bone.
Touch for yourselves, you say. And touch we must. For we need to see and know you alive and real and loving us. Failing this, we can barely believe.
But with the touch of risen flesh in eyes of faith we can and know that you live and live here among us, in the flesh and bone of the gathered community of those who love and long for you.
Leading us to constantly question: where do we see your hands and feet? What hands become for us the blessed hands of your blessing for us? Where do we see the suffering love, wounded in faithfulness to the great love of the One whose grace is unending?
What feet carry to us the word or your reality, bearing it into the midst of common days we had imagined forsaken and empty of divine presence?
Surprising is how you sometimes come to us. You come in the guise of those we were ready to reject, those we were prepared to defend ourselves against.
Where we least expect, where we expect condemnation or trouble or rejection, even there you have come to me in flesh and bone and words of peace. And I did not fear. No, my fearing soul instantly was transformed into a singing soul.
I felt alive, truly alive, as alive as you who come in flesh and bone. It is good feel this alive. Very good.
Pr. David L. Miller
Today’s text
Luke 24:36-40
They were still talking about all this when [Jesus] himself stood among them and said to them, 'Peace be with you!' In a state of alarm and fright, they thought they were seeing a ghost. But he said, 'Why are you so agitated, and why are these doubts stirring in your hearts? See by my hands and my feet that it is I myself. Touch me and see for yourselves; a ghost has no flesh and bones as you can see I have. And as he said this he showed them his hands and his feet.
Reflection
You are as wonderfully and tangibly as real as ever, Jesus. Amid the fears of human souls, you come with words of peace in flesh and bone.
Touch for yourselves, you say. And touch we must. For we need to see and know you alive and real and loving us. Failing this, we can barely believe.
But with the touch of risen flesh in eyes of faith we can and know that you live and live here among us, in the flesh and bone of the gathered community of those who love and long for you.
Leading us to constantly question: where do we see your hands and feet? What hands become for us the blessed hands of your blessing for us? Where do we see the suffering love, wounded in faithfulness to the great love of the One whose grace is unending?
What feet carry to us the word or your reality, bearing it into the midst of common days we had imagined forsaken and empty of divine presence?
Surprising is how you sometimes come to us. You come in the guise of those we were ready to reject, those we were prepared to defend ourselves against.
Where we least expect, where we expect condemnation or trouble or rejection, even there you have come to me in flesh and bone and words of peace. And I did not fear. No, my fearing soul instantly was transformed into a singing soul.
I felt alive, truly alive, as alive as you who come in flesh and bone. It is good feel this alive. Very good.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Today’s text
John 20:19-23
In the evening of that same day, the first day of the week, the doors were closed in the room where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews. Jesus came and stood among them. He said to them, 'Peace be with you,' and, after saying this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples were filled with joy at seeing the Lord, and he said to them again, 'Peace be with you. 'As the Father sent me, so am I sending you.' After saying this he breathed on them and said: Receive the Holy Spirit.
Reflection
They saw you, Jesus. They saw you, and were filled with joy.
Such is the source of our joy. It flows from the spring of having seen you alive and yet wounded, knowing from the wounds that it is you on whom we gaze.
So starts the story of Thomas, Doubting Thomas, who is so badly misunderstood and maligned. All he ever wanted was the same experience you offered to your first frightened followers.
Receiving it, he proclaimed you his Lord and God, no, more: the Lord and God of all that is, on his knees giving his heart wholly to you.
But he needed to see and touch and know.
Still we are told: Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe, believing from the testimony of those who did.
And yet, are any of us who believe bereft of seeing? Do we not all need to see … something … of your risen abiding, your fleshly presence, and seeing with eyes informed by faith that you live and transform human souls?
Don’t we have to see your risen life in the wounds of those who given themselves for the sake of the same love that is in you? Without this, can any of us really believe?
And is it not the wounds of those who love you the most convincing witness of all? The wounds of love that eschews physical comfort to love in ways that are real, tangible, touchable … it is this that convinces and convicts the impregnable heart.
And there it is again: our need to see that we may believe that it is your risen wounded love upon which we look.
We need to see it. And you are pleased to give it. So today, may I look on your wounded face in the love of your people and their wounds and know … you live.
This brings me the joy for which I long.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 20:19-23
In the evening of that same day, the first day of the week, the doors were closed in the room where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews. Jesus came and stood among them. He said to them, 'Peace be with you,' and, after saying this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples were filled with joy at seeing the Lord, and he said to them again, 'Peace be with you. 'As the Father sent me, so am I sending you.' After saying this he breathed on them and said: Receive the Holy Spirit.
Reflection
They saw you, Jesus. They saw you, and were filled with joy.
Such is the source of our joy. It flows from the spring of having seen you alive and yet wounded, knowing from the wounds that it is you on whom we gaze.
So starts the story of Thomas, Doubting Thomas, who is so badly misunderstood and maligned. All he ever wanted was the same experience you offered to your first frightened followers.
Receiving it, he proclaimed you his Lord and God, no, more: the Lord and God of all that is, on his knees giving his heart wholly to you.
But he needed to see and touch and know.
Still we are told: Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe, believing from the testimony of those who did.
And yet, are any of us who believe bereft of seeing? Do we not all need to see … something … of your risen abiding, your fleshly presence, and seeing with eyes informed by faith that you live and transform human souls?
Don’t we have to see your risen life in the wounds of those who given themselves for the sake of the same love that is in you? Without this, can any of us really believe?
And is it not the wounds of those who love you the most convincing witness of all? The wounds of love that eschews physical comfort to love in ways that are real, tangible, touchable … it is this that convinces and convicts the impregnable heart.
And there it is again: our need to see that we may believe that it is your risen wounded love upon which we look.
We need to see it. And you are pleased to give it. So today, may I look on your wounded face in the love of your people and their wounds and know … you live.
This brings me the joy for which I long.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, April 10, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Today’s text
John 19:38-42
After this, Joseph of Arimathaea, who was a disciple of Jesus -- though a secret one because he was afraid of the Jews -- asked Pilate to let him remove the body of Jesus. Pilate gave permission, so they came and took it away. Nicodemus came as well -- the same one who had first come to Jesus at night-time -- and he brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and bound it in linen cloths with the spices, following the Jewish burial custom. At the place where he had been crucified there was a garden, and in this garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been buried. Since it was the Jewish Day of Preparation and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.
Reflection
Well, that is that, Close the book. Shut the door. The most remarkable like ever lived is finished. Over. Done. Time to go home and forget it ever happened.
Caiaphas returns to his home to celebrate Passover. Pilate stretches out on his couch for a full meal and drinks more than usual to wash away the awareness that he helped kill an innocent man. But he knows: it wasn’t the first time. And it needed to done, he tells himself.
Joseph of Arimathea and his friends go to the tomb to make it ready … and to lay down their hopes. They clear the cave, brush away the dust and lay out the spices and linens in which to wrap their friend, Jesus.
They fumble with the dead weight of Jesus’ body, turn it, hold it up, wrapping strips of fabric around him. Slowly, his wounds disappear, first his feet and legs, his hands and side, chest and shoulders. Finally his face … the face they had learned to love, even if they seldom understood him.
They carry out their heartbreaking work, laying to rest their fondest hopes, burying, too, the yearning they felt whenever they heard his voice, saw his face or touched his hand.
All is quiet. The crowds have dispersed. The threat to the public order is quelled. The ancient lust for the blood of one’s enemy has been satisfied.
Now is the hour of regret and sorrow, of whispers in the silence, of echoes of what might have been.
That is all we have in the hour of death, as hopes are dashed and memories lie crumpled in a heap. That is all we have.
But it is not all God has.
God has more … and Jesus knows it every step of the way to the cross.
He knows it when he refuses to run from those who come to take his life. He knows it when he insists he must drink the cup God has given him to drink. He knows it when gives his mother to his friend to care for each other. He knows it when he cries in the torment of thirst and pain on the cross. He knows it when he calls out, “It is finished,” and breathes out his Spirit.
And he knows it when he when he stands silent before Pilate, giving him no answer.
“Where are you from?” the Roman governor asks him.
And that is the question. Where is Jesus from? Not here.
Jesus is from the heart of God. He dwelt continually in God’s holy immensity and mercy.
He belongs to the One who is Life. And he knows death is no hindrance, no limitation to the heart of God. The God who made the complexity of human life and joy out of the dust of stars finds no challenge in giving life to the dead.
Jesus knows … because he is from the heart of the Love death does not destroy. He knows with God there is always more, more love, more life.
So Jesus stands silent before his murderers. His silence is not mere resignation. For he knows, it’s only Friday. Sunday’s coming.
The gloom of despair will be lit with the light of everlasting morning. The garden of sorrow will bloom with the fragrance of eternity. Sunday is coming, and God has more.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 19:38-42
After this, Joseph of Arimathaea, who was a disciple of Jesus -- though a secret one because he was afraid of the Jews -- asked Pilate to let him remove the body of Jesus. Pilate gave permission, so they came and took it away. Nicodemus came as well -- the same one who had first come to Jesus at night-time -- and he brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and bound it in linen cloths with the spices, following the Jewish burial custom. At the place where he had been crucified there was a garden, and in this garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been buried. Since it was the Jewish Day of Preparation and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.
Reflection
Well, that is that, Close the book. Shut the door. The most remarkable like ever lived is finished. Over. Done. Time to go home and forget it ever happened.
Caiaphas returns to his home to celebrate Passover. Pilate stretches out on his couch for a full meal and drinks more than usual to wash away the awareness that he helped kill an innocent man. But he knows: it wasn’t the first time. And it needed to done, he tells himself.
Joseph of Arimathea and his friends go to the tomb to make it ready … and to lay down their hopes. They clear the cave, brush away the dust and lay out the spices and linens in which to wrap their friend, Jesus.
They fumble with the dead weight of Jesus’ body, turn it, hold it up, wrapping strips of fabric around him. Slowly, his wounds disappear, first his feet and legs, his hands and side, chest and shoulders. Finally his face … the face they had learned to love, even if they seldom understood him.
They carry out their heartbreaking work, laying to rest their fondest hopes, burying, too, the yearning they felt whenever they heard his voice, saw his face or touched his hand.
All is quiet. The crowds have dispersed. The threat to the public order is quelled. The ancient lust for the blood of one’s enemy has been satisfied.
Now is the hour of regret and sorrow, of whispers in the silence, of echoes of what might have been.
That is all we have in the hour of death, as hopes are dashed and memories lie crumpled in a heap. That is all we have.
But it is not all God has.
God has more … and Jesus knows it every step of the way to the cross.
He knows it when he refuses to run from those who come to take his life. He knows it when he insists he must drink the cup God has given him to drink. He knows it when gives his mother to his friend to care for each other. He knows it when he cries in the torment of thirst and pain on the cross. He knows it when he calls out, “It is finished,” and breathes out his Spirit.
And he knows it when he when he stands silent before Pilate, giving him no answer.
“Where are you from?” the Roman governor asks him.
And that is the question. Where is Jesus from? Not here.
Jesus is from the heart of God. He dwelt continually in God’s holy immensity and mercy.
He belongs to the One who is Life. And he knows death is no hindrance, no limitation to the heart of God. The God who made the complexity of human life and joy out of the dust of stars finds no challenge in giving life to the dead.
Jesus knows … because he is from the heart of the Love death does not destroy. He knows with God there is always more, more love, more life.
So Jesus stands silent before his murderers. His silence is not mere resignation. For he knows, it’s only Friday. Sunday’s coming.
The gloom of despair will be lit with the light of everlasting morning. The garden of sorrow will bloom with the fragrance of eternity. Sunday is coming, and God has more.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Today’s text
John 13:1-5
Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus, knowing that his hour had come to pass from this world to the Father, having loved those who were his in the world, loved them to the end. They were at supper, and the devil had already put it into the mind of Judas Iscariot son of Simon, to betray him. Jesus knew that the Father had put everything into his hands, and that he had come from God and was returning to God, and he got up from table, removed his outer garments and, taking a towel, wrapped it round his waist; he then poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel he was wearing.
Reflection
Jesus knows. The end is near.
The time has come to leave friends he has loved so well.
He knows one he has loved will betray him to those who will destroy him.
He knows he is to die, to suffer, be denounced and destroyed.
He knows he is to glorify God and return to the One whom he calls as Father.
Knowing this, he takes a towel, ties it about his waist, pours water in a basin and
washes the feet of those he loves and loves to the end.
I don’t wonder why. I know.
I see him, kneeling at the feet of human souls he has known and loved.
Much is said of this act of humility. No Jewish slave could be compelled to wash feet even though a slave.
But what moves my heart and the heart of a cynical world is Jesus’ desire.
He knows he will soon leave them.
He knows he soon will no longer be able to touch their flesh, see their smiles or witness their uncomprehending brows.
He knows they will turn from him, every last one, running from him in shame.
Yet knowing this, he wants to touch them, to love them, to wipe the dust from between their toes, to feel his hand on the leathery soles of their worn feet.
He wants to look them in the eye and touch them on more time.
So he kneels before each one after the other, intimately touching, revealing to each the love in which they are held, showing that all he is, all he has done and all he is about to do is for them, for each one, personally.
Watching the water roll from each foot, Jesus dries them with the towel, absorbed,attentive to the task of loving.
Why?
Because he wants to.
He loves his own … and me, to the end.
Three things I don’t understand. No four, I say, are too wonderful for me:
The way of a mother with a child;
The way of the waves on the lake;
The dust of stars in the night sky, and
The desire of God to love us to the end,
to the everlastingness of eternity.
Jesus kneels at the disciples feet, and we see all the way from Mill Street to the
depths of eternity. We see into the incomprehensible heart of God.
We see past our fears and despair to the one truth that is more true than all that troubles and disfigures our lives. More true than fear. More true than cancer. More true than loneliness. More true than our highest joy in happiest moments.
We see the length and breadth, the height and depth of the eternal wonder of God who has loved us since the birth of time when all the morning stars sang together for joy at the delight in which God has always held you.
The desire of God is to give the fullness of divine life and love to you, to me.
Such is clear as Jesus washes feet and the holy intention of God’s self-giving is unmistakable for all with faith to see and receive.
Jesus washes feet, and we see the love God cannot and will not hold inside.
A love that is ever for you.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 13:1-5
Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus, knowing that his hour had come to pass from this world to the Father, having loved those who were his in the world, loved them to the end. They were at supper, and the devil had already put it into the mind of Judas Iscariot son of Simon, to betray him. Jesus knew that the Father had put everything into his hands, and that he had come from God and was returning to God, and he got up from table, removed his outer garments and, taking a towel, wrapped it round his waist; he then poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel he was wearing.
Reflection
Jesus knows. The end is near.
The time has come to leave friends he has loved so well.
He knows one he has loved will betray him to those who will destroy him.
He knows he is to die, to suffer, be denounced and destroyed.
He knows he is to glorify God and return to the One whom he calls as Father.
Knowing this, he takes a towel, ties it about his waist, pours water in a basin and
washes the feet of those he loves and loves to the end.
I don’t wonder why. I know.
I see him, kneeling at the feet of human souls he has known and loved.
Much is said of this act of humility. No Jewish slave could be compelled to wash feet even though a slave.
But what moves my heart and the heart of a cynical world is Jesus’ desire.
He knows he will soon leave them.
He knows he soon will no longer be able to touch their flesh, see their smiles or witness their uncomprehending brows.
He knows they will turn from him, every last one, running from him in shame.
Yet knowing this, he wants to touch them, to love them, to wipe the dust from between their toes, to feel his hand on the leathery soles of their worn feet.
He wants to look them in the eye and touch them on more time.
So he kneels before each one after the other, intimately touching, revealing to each the love in which they are held, showing that all he is, all he has done and all he is about to do is for them, for each one, personally.
Watching the water roll from each foot, Jesus dries them with the towel, absorbed,attentive to the task of loving.
Why?
Because he wants to.
He loves his own … and me, to the end.
Three things I don’t understand. No four, I say, are too wonderful for me:
The way of a mother with a child;
The way of the waves on the lake;
The dust of stars in the night sky, and
The desire of God to love us to the end,
to the everlastingness of eternity.
Jesus kneels at the disciples feet, and we see all the way from Mill Street to the
depths of eternity. We see into the incomprehensible heart of God.
We see past our fears and despair to the one truth that is more true than all that troubles and disfigures our lives. More true than fear. More true than cancer. More true than loneliness. More true than our highest joy in happiest moments.
We see the length and breadth, the height and depth of the eternal wonder of God who has loved us since the birth of time when all the morning stars sang together for joy at the delight in which God has always held you.
The desire of God is to give the fullness of divine life and love to you, to me.
Such is clear as Jesus washes feet and the holy intention of God’s self-giving is unmistakable for all with faith to see and receive.
Jesus washes feet, and we see the love God cannot and will not hold inside.
A love that is ever for you.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Today’s text
John 13:12-17
When [Jesus] had washed their feet and put on his outer garments again he went back to the table. 'Do you understand', he said, 'what I have done to you? You call me Master and Lord, and rightly; so I am. If I, then, the Lord and Master, have washed your feet, you must wash each other's feet. I have given you an example so that you may copy what I have done to you. 'In all truth I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, no messenger is greater than the one who sent him. 'Now that you know this, blessed are you if you behave accordingly.'
Reflection
‘Blessed are you.’ It’s music to my ears.
Blessed is no ordinary word, no mere best wishes. It bears the weight of the All-Holy and All-Loving.
To be blessed is to share in the substance of divinity, to participate in the reality of who and what God is. It is intuitively to know that the impulses of one’s own flesh and blood, nerve and muscle, translate the secrets of eternity into sensate knowing.
Touch and feeling, intuition and insight can fill with knowledge of the One who is beyond all knowing
This is all invitation to pick up our respective towels and wash feet where we are, to serve, to give ourselves fully to the tasks of loving.
In the giving, we will be blessed. In the serving, we will know God, not because we serve or are good, but in the very acts of loving service we will touch and taste the heart of the Unknowable God.
That Holy One will be known to us in a dark but savory knowing, a knowing that no words can say, a knowing beyond reducible concept, a knowing akin to knowing one’s own breath. Only closer.
And when we know, we will know what it is to be blessed.
I long for your blessing. I long to taste and touch the mystery of Love Unknowable. My frustrated soul fades to gray depression and immobile self-absorption without the consolation of such blessing.
So what do you do, Jesus? You point me to my daily-ness, to the tasks that need be done, the people who need to be loved and blessed themselves, to a world where souls hurt and fear, get sick and lose battles, laugh and long.
You say nothing, Jesus. You just point in the direction of blessing.
May I know you amid the mess this day. And may my mind find words to say.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 13:12-17
When [Jesus] had washed their feet and put on his outer garments again he went back to the table. 'Do you understand', he said, 'what I have done to you? You call me Master and Lord, and rightly; so I am. If I, then, the Lord and Master, have washed your feet, you must wash each other's feet. I have given you an example so that you may copy what I have done to you. 'In all truth I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, no messenger is greater than the one who sent him. 'Now that you know this, blessed are you if you behave accordingly.'
Reflection
‘Blessed are you.’ It’s music to my ears.
Blessed is no ordinary word, no mere best wishes. It bears the weight of the All-Holy and All-Loving.
To be blessed is to share in the substance of divinity, to participate in the reality of who and what God is. It is intuitively to know that the impulses of one’s own flesh and blood, nerve and muscle, translate the secrets of eternity into sensate knowing.
Touch and feeling, intuition and insight can fill with knowledge of the One who is beyond all knowing
This is all invitation to pick up our respective towels and wash feet where we are, to serve, to give ourselves fully to the tasks of loving.
In the giving, we will be blessed. In the serving, we will know God, not because we serve or are good, but in the very acts of loving service we will touch and taste the heart of the Unknowable God.
That Holy One will be known to us in a dark but savory knowing, a knowing that no words can say, a knowing beyond reducible concept, a knowing akin to knowing one’s own breath. Only closer.
And when we know, we will know what it is to be blessed.
I long for your blessing. I long to taste and touch the mystery of Love Unknowable. My frustrated soul fades to gray depression and immobile self-absorption without the consolation of such blessing.
So what do you do, Jesus? You point me to my daily-ness, to the tasks that need be done, the people who need to be loved and blessed themselves, to a world where souls hurt and fear, get sick and lose battles, laugh and long.
You say nothing, Jesus. You just point in the direction of blessing.
May I know you amid the mess this day. And may my mind find words to say.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, April 06, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Today’s text
John 13:1-5
Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus, knowing that his hour had come to pass from this world to the Father, having loved those who were his in the world, loved them to the end. They were at supper, and the devil had already put it into the mind of Judas Iscariot son of Simon, to betray him. Jesus knew that the Father had put everything into his hands, and that he had come from God and was returning to God, and he got up from table, removed his outer garments and, taking a towel, wrapped it round his waist; he then poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel he was wearing.
Reflection
Some acts play better in silence. Words are not needed. A whispering soundtrack would distract from the simplicity of scene and the echo of one’s own beating heart.
And what do we see, Jesus?
You … a towel about your waist … pouring water in a bowel … kneeling on the floor … washing feet.
It’s an unlikely posture for a messiah, the incarnation of the most high, holy God, or I suppose for anyone of that day who possessed the slightest self-respect.
But I have seen mothers in this posture, many times, wiping off shoes, wiping feet lest they track across a clean kitchen floor.
I have seen paintings that exude an inexhaustible tenderness, showing a mother wash her little girl’s feet. One moved me to tears. Still does. The gentle solicitude of the mother for her child is so great it breaks the heart.
The mother’s heart pours out in tender hands, touching her child, and in her enduring gaze at the child’s feet in her hands. She does not look into the child’s eyes, but at her feet, as if gazing into her eyes would break the tender spell of a sacramental moment.
No, that’s not you, Jesus. It’s a painting. But it leads me to see you, your eyes on your work, holding the dusty foot of one of your followers, intent on serving them, giving yourself, doing for them what your heart requires.
Yes, that is what most moves me.
Your brimming heart moving you to kneel, pour water and wash feet. A humble act, a caring devotion, gentleness in a rough world where every gentleness is a holy sacrament.
An almost final act, this is, revealing a love that bursts the bounds of the heart and demands to be given, shared, acted out in a way no words can express.
So you washed feet. And we see the love not even God can hold within.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 13:1-5
Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus, knowing that his hour had come to pass from this world to the Father, having loved those who were his in the world, loved them to the end. They were at supper, and the devil had already put it into the mind of Judas Iscariot son of Simon, to betray him. Jesus knew that the Father had put everything into his hands, and that he had come from God and was returning to God, and he got up from table, removed his outer garments and, taking a towel, wrapped it round his waist; he then poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel he was wearing.
Reflection
Some acts play better in silence. Words are not needed. A whispering soundtrack would distract from the simplicity of scene and the echo of one’s own beating heart.
And what do we see, Jesus?
You … a towel about your waist … pouring water in a bowel … kneeling on the floor … washing feet.
It’s an unlikely posture for a messiah, the incarnation of the most high, holy God, or I suppose for anyone of that day who possessed the slightest self-respect.
But I have seen mothers in this posture, many times, wiping off shoes, wiping feet lest they track across a clean kitchen floor.
I have seen paintings that exude an inexhaustible tenderness, showing a mother wash her little girl’s feet. One moved me to tears. Still does. The gentle solicitude of the mother for her child is so great it breaks the heart.
The mother’s heart pours out in tender hands, touching her child, and in her enduring gaze at the child’s feet in her hands. She does not look into the child’s eyes, but at her feet, as if gazing into her eyes would break the tender spell of a sacramental moment.
No, that’s not you, Jesus. It’s a painting. But it leads me to see you, your eyes on your work, holding the dusty foot of one of your followers, intent on serving them, giving yourself, doing for them what your heart requires.
Yes, that is what most moves me.
Your brimming heart moving you to kneel, pour water and wash feet. A humble act, a caring devotion, gentleness in a rough world where every gentleness is a holy sacrament.
An almost final act, this is, revealing a love that bursts the bounds of the heart and demands to be given, shared, acted out in a way no words can express.
So you washed feet. And we see the love not even God can hold within.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, April 03, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Today’s text
Mark 11:7-11
Then they took the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on its back, and he mounted it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. And those who went in front and those who followed were all shouting, 'Hosanna! Blessed is he who is coming in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of David our father! Hosanna in the highest heavens!' He entered Jerusalem and went into the Temple; and when he had surveyed it all, as it was late by now, he went out to Bethany with the Twelve.
Reflection
I want to linger here … and not go forward for a good while, for I know what comes next. A promising and happy entry into the city will not be well received by those whose control and privilege is threatened by you, Jesus.
Leaders who depend upon Roman largess for their comfort will not want an up-country prophet to blow into town and upset the tenuous order that allows them to live in anxious peace with occupiers from far away Rome.
They want things quiet so those legions don’t get twitchy and start sharpening their swords and swinging at things.
And your approach is politically dangerous, Jesus, regardless the humble donkey on which you ride and the peaceful greenery they wave at your entry into Jerusalem.
For the rabble crowd acclaims you son of David, a warrior king, who made the land safe from foreign occupiers, chasing out would be conquerors.
And it’s true: You come to upset the status quo. Anyone who comes in the Lord’s name is not utterly peaceful in intent.
To arrive in the Lord’s name means other lords get nervous. They begin talking to their troops about the necessity of breaking a few heads as a deterrent against forces that are a threat to the state, i.e. to them.
And you are a threat, Jesus. You are a threat to all the lords who pretend their power must be honored and their decisions must be followed. You are a threat to all the lords who rule the nations and our souls.
For you undermine the finality of their authority in the name of the One who is Lord and God. You reveal the way of the one Lord and call all others into question, insisting that we serve that One alone.
This is all quite upsetting, since we like some of the lords we serve instead of you. So we understand why your enemies opposed you and wanted to kill you.
But you remained true to the one Lord, whose rule is so different from those who muster swords to discourage or destroy perceived threats. You come humbly to bring the peace of God to the heart of our darkness that we may unlearn our anxious, warring ways.
So come, Lord Jesus. Let us see where you way leads. And though it leads to the cross, may we, as you, love the world, friend and enemy that your kingdom may come.
Pr. David L. Miller
Mark 11:7-11
Then they took the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on its back, and he mounted it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. And those who went in front and those who followed were all shouting, 'Hosanna! Blessed is he who is coming in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of David our father! Hosanna in the highest heavens!' He entered Jerusalem and went into the Temple; and when he had surveyed it all, as it was late by now, he went out to Bethany with the Twelve.
Reflection
I want to linger here … and not go forward for a good while, for I know what comes next. A promising and happy entry into the city will not be well received by those whose control and privilege is threatened by you, Jesus.
Leaders who depend upon Roman largess for their comfort will not want an up-country prophet to blow into town and upset the tenuous order that allows them to live in anxious peace with occupiers from far away Rome.
They want things quiet so those legions don’t get twitchy and start sharpening their swords and swinging at things.
And your approach is politically dangerous, Jesus, regardless the humble donkey on which you ride and the peaceful greenery they wave at your entry into Jerusalem.
For the rabble crowd acclaims you son of David, a warrior king, who made the land safe from foreign occupiers, chasing out would be conquerors.
And it’s true: You come to upset the status quo. Anyone who comes in the Lord’s name is not utterly peaceful in intent.
To arrive in the Lord’s name means other lords get nervous. They begin talking to their troops about the necessity of breaking a few heads as a deterrent against forces that are a threat to the state, i.e. to them.
And you are a threat, Jesus. You are a threat to all the lords who pretend their power must be honored and their decisions must be followed. You are a threat to all the lords who rule the nations and our souls.
For you undermine the finality of their authority in the name of the One who is Lord and God. You reveal the way of the one Lord and call all others into question, insisting that we serve that One alone.
This is all quite upsetting, since we like some of the lords we serve instead of you. So we understand why your enemies opposed you and wanted to kill you.
But you remained true to the one Lord, whose rule is so different from those who muster swords to discourage or destroy perceived threats. You come humbly to bring the peace of God to the heart of our darkness that we may unlearn our anxious, warring ways.
So come, Lord Jesus. Let us see where you way leads. And though it leads to the cross, may we, as you, love the world, friend and enemy that your kingdom may come.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Today’s text
Mark 11:7-11
Then they took the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on its back, and he mounted it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. And those who went in front and those who followed were all shouting, 'Hosanna! Blessed is he who is coming in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of David our father! Hosanna in the highest heavens!' He entered Jerusalem and went into the Temple; and when he had surveyed it all, as it was late by now, he went out to Bethany with the Twelve.
Reflection
You come, Lord Jesus, arriving in Jerusalem in the Lord’s name, mounted on a donkey, and people wave branches, not swords or shields.
There are no signets of power or dominating force. You do not ride high, on a horse decked in armor, and the palm fronds and tree branches they wave are not clubs or weapons but emblems of praise and ecstatic welcome.
They throw their cloaks in the dirt path before you, their lowliness conferring great dignity upon you. But it is their words that most draw me, Jesus.
‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’
You come in the name of the most high holy mystery, the hidden wonder, the eternal God. That’s what they say, and you do nothing to deny it or dissuade them.
You just come, mounted on a beast of burden, while happy crowds wave signs of peace, hailing a new kind of kingdom (and king) and hoping that it just might be true. They have seen quite enough of the dominating and the kinds of kingdoms they bring.
But there is nothing of dominating force about you. Even the beast you ride can’t hurt a fly. You ride close to the ground, where people live and hope and die. And you come in the Lord’s name.
The Lord, the most high God, whom you represent, my Jesus, is apparently not interested lording over us, the small and dusty, who live close to the ground as we work out our little lives.
You come in peace, welcoming the joyous gestures of eager hearts who have learned that fullness of life and joy are not produced by the mighty and self-important. They are not brought by power or domination or great accomplishment.
They are the gift of the One who comes gently, humbly, revealing the divine heart of peace and seeking the peace of our hearts.
Blessed are you, Jesus. You come in the name of the Lord.
Pr. David L. Miller
Mark 11:7-11
Then they took the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on its back, and he mounted it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others greenery which they had cut in the fields. And those who went in front and those who followed were all shouting, 'Hosanna! Blessed is he who is coming in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of David our father! Hosanna in the highest heavens!' He entered Jerusalem and went into the Temple; and when he had surveyed it all, as it was late by now, he went out to Bethany with the Twelve.
Reflection
You come, Lord Jesus, arriving in Jerusalem in the Lord’s name, mounted on a donkey, and people wave branches, not swords or shields.
There are no signets of power or dominating force. You do not ride high, on a horse decked in armor, and the palm fronds and tree branches they wave are not clubs or weapons but emblems of praise and ecstatic welcome.
They throw their cloaks in the dirt path before you, their lowliness conferring great dignity upon you. But it is their words that most draw me, Jesus.
‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’
You come in the name of the most high holy mystery, the hidden wonder, the eternal God. That’s what they say, and you do nothing to deny it or dissuade them.
You just come, mounted on a beast of burden, while happy crowds wave signs of peace, hailing a new kind of kingdom (and king) and hoping that it just might be true. They have seen quite enough of the dominating and the kinds of kingdoms they bring.
But there is nothing of dominating force about you. Even the beast you ride can’t hurt a fly. You ride close to the ground, where people live and hope and die. And you come in the Lord’s name.
The Lord, the most high God, whom you represent, my Jesus, is apparently not interested lording over us, the small and dusty, who live close to the ground as we work out our little lives.
You come in peace, welcoming the joyous gestures of eager hearts who have learned that fullness of life and joy are not produced by the mighty and self-important. They are not brought by power or domination or great accomplishment.
They are the gift of the One who comes gently, humbly, revealing the divine heart of peace and seeking the peace of our hearts.
Blessed are you, Jesus. You come in the name of the Lord.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Today’s text
Mark 11:1-6
When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, close by the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples and said to them, 'Go to the village facing you, and as you enter it you will at once find a tethered colt that no one has yet ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone says to you, "What are you doing?" say, "The Master needs it and will send it back here at once." They went off and found a colt tethered near a door in the open street. As they untied it, some men standing there said, 'What are you doing, untying that colt?' They gave the answer Jesus had told them, and the men let them go.
Reflection
‘The master needs it.’
Sometimes you seem so large, Jesus. You speak and what you say is done. You make a request and soon receive what you ask.
You were always in possession of yourself, knowing what you wanted and what kind of statement you desired to make with each action. Even here, you make a command and your will is carried out. Your words open the door to your desire with simple immediacy.
Everything you have I seem to lack. I have little control over myself, and my emotions scurry about like scared chickens, running in every direction at once. Every direction, that is, but the one I most need at this and every moment.
I need my heart to stay on you with the same single-mindedness with which you sought to reveal the holy kingdom of God.
But what here do you invite us to know, other than your single-minded focus?
For no reason, I think of the colt, new, never ridden that will carry your weight into the city where people of no particular importance will welcome you with glad shouts.
I wish the beast had human consciousness to know that it carried the only human soul as gentle as first daylight, a soul through which flows the substance of God into this world.
Gentle beast, you carried the center of universe, the secret of eternity, the face of the Everlasting Mystery. But you know nothing; you just bear the weight of your burden without complaint or urgency, trudging slowly toward the city with the wonder of God on your back.
You knew nothing, but I am a little jealous. I would have loved to have felt Jesus’ weight leaning on me, his hand patting my back, urging me onward.
Sounds silly. But it’s true. Perhaps it is just a prayer to know and feel you near.
And I dare to believe that if I bear my load quietly and listen closely I just may be blessed to feel the weight of your presence.
Call it the hope of the beast.
Pr. David L. Miller
Mark 11:1-6
When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, close by the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples and said to them, 'Go to the village facing you, and as you enter it you will at once find a tethered colt that no one has yet ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone says to you, "What are you doing?" say, "The Master needs it and will send it back here at once." They went off and found a colt tethered near a door in the open street. As they untied it, some men standing there said, 'What are you doing, untying that colt?' They gave the answer Jesus had told them, and the men let them go.
Reflection
‘The master needs it.’
Sometimes you seem so large, Jesus. You speak and what you say is done. You make a request and soon receive what you ask.
You were always in possession of yourself, knowing what you wanted and what kind of statement you desired to make with each action. Even here, you make a command and your will is carried out. Your words open the door to your desire with simple immediacy.
Everything you have I seem to lack. I have little control over myself, and my emotions scurry about like scared chickens, running in every direction at once. Every direction, that is, but the one I most need at this and every moment.
I need my heart to stay on you with the same single-mindedness with which you sought to reveal the holy kingdom of God.
But what here do you invite us to know, other than your single-minded focus?
For no reason, I think of the colt, new, never ridden that will carry your weight into the city where people of no particular importance will welcome you with glad shouts.
I wish the beast had human consciousness to know that it carried the only human soul as gentle as first daylight, a soul through which flows the substance of God into this world.
Gentle beast, you carried the center of universe, the secret of eternity, the face of the Everlasting Mystery. But you know nothing; you just bear the weight of your burden without complaint or urgency, trudging slowly toward the city with the wonder of God on your back.
You knew nothing, but I am a little jealous. I would have loved to have felt Jesus’ weight leaning on me, his hand patting my back, urging me onward.
Sounds silly. But it’s true. Perhaps it is just a prayer to know and feel you near.
And I dare to believe that if I bear my load quietly and listen closely I just may be blessed to feel the weight of your presence.
Call it the hope of the beast.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Today’s text
John 12:26-28
[Jesus said] Whoever serves me, must follow me, and my servant will be with me wherever I am. If anyone serves me, my Father will honor him. Now my soul is troubled. What shall I say: Father, save me from this hour? But it is for this very reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name! A voice came from heaven, 'I have glorified it, and I will again glorify it.'
Reflection
Yes, you do glorify your name, even in us, and we have so little to do with it.
You call us to follow you into the tiny details of living. There, you urge us to give our hands and attention to small tasks of caring that make common life possible: making meals, getting the paper work done, looking after family members, cleaning up the mess on the floor, talking to an angry or distressed friend or colleague whose trouble always appears at the most inconvenient times.
Often, we feel more is being asked of us than is right or fair--and much more than is comfortable for our schedules and desire for a little peace and quiet.
But in the midst of our days, if we are blessed, we may notice that we are giving and loving a couple of inches beyond our natural capabilities or intentions.
You take us beyond ourselves through the little commitments you move us to make, commitments to be helpful and human. Through them, you make us more human than we had intended.
You move us to give ourselves beyond what we prefer. And there you are glorified. For you are the giving that knows no ending, and you draw us to give as you give, to love as you love, surprising us that some inkling of holiness should appear in us through our grudging surrender to tasks that must done, though we prefer that someone else would do them.
When we open our lives but a crack to you, you insist on sanctifying us in spite of ourselves. Or maybe that is just the way it works for me. But I don’t think so. Even my brother, Jesus, was troubled by the way of cross. He, too, wanted another way.
But it is the challenges of our lives that move us beyond ourselves to glorify you by becoming part of the great giving of life and love that you are, O Holy Mystery.
So glorify your name … in us. We will resist it. But there is a beauty you insist that we bear. And it is your own.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 12:26-28
[Jesus said] Whoever serves me, must follow me, and my servant will be with me wherever I am. If anyone serves me, my Father will honor him. Now my soul is troubled. What shall I say: Father, save me from this hour? But it is for this very reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name! A voice came from heaven, 'I have glorified it, and I will again glorify it.'
Reflection
Yes, you do glorify your name, even in us, and we have so little to do with it.
You call us to follow you into the tiny details of living. There, you urge us to give our hands and attention to small tasks of caring that make common life possible: making meals, getting the paper work done, looking after family members, cleaning up the mess on the floor, talking to an angry or distressed friend or colleague whose trouble always appears at the most inconvenient times.
Often, we feel more is being asked of us than is right or fair--and much more than is comfortable for our schedules and desire for a little peace and quiet.
But in the midst of our days, if we are blessed, we may notice that we are giving and loving a couple of inches beyond our natural capabilities or intentions.
You take us beyond ourselves through the little commitments you move us to make, commitments to be helpful and human. Through them, you make us more human than we had intended.
You move us to give ourselves beyond what we prefer. And there you are glorified. For you are the giving that knows no ending, and you draw us to give as you give, to love as you love, surprising us that some inkling of holiness should appear in us through our grudging surrender to tasks that must done, though we prefer that someone else would do them.
When we open our lives but a crack to you, you insist on sanctifying us in spite of ourselves. Or maybe that is just the way it works for me. But I don’t think so. Even my brother, Jesus, was troubled by the way of cross. He, too, wanted another way.
But it is the challenges of our lives that move us beyond ourselves to glorify you by becoming part of the great giving of life and love that you are, O Holy Mystery.
So glorify your name … in us. We will resist it. But there is a beauty you insist that we bear. And it is your own.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Today’s text
John 3:18-21
And the judgment is this: though the light has come into the world people have preferred darkness to the light because their deeds were evil. And indeed, everybody who does wrong hates the light and avoids it, to prevent his actions from being shown up; but whoever does the truth comes out into the light, so that what he is doing may plainly appear as done in God.
Reflection
What is the light we flee, Jesus? Or the darkness we prefer?
You appear in the world as a gift of love from the Holy Mystery who can’t stand to watch the world destroy itself. God loves and that love appears most fully, in pristine clarity, in you who welcome and forgive and reveal the darkness of our souls.
For it is the light of holiness, the glow of ultimate goodness that reveals how curved in we are upon ourselves, seeing little of and caring less for that which does not directly touch our flesh.
You love and you love to the end of your breath Jesus, giving yourself for the friends you gather. In this light so much of who we are and what we do appears as the pettiness that it is.
But you mince no words: You call it darkness. And on a deep level we prefer our darkness. Maybe it is easier. Maybe we have been so self-centric for so long it is hard to imagine even the possibility of changing, let alone actually doing so.
Maybe we see our lives as little fortresses that must be tended and carefully protected; hence we protect and tend our little gardens, hiding beyond high walls of ego defenses, making sure we are well, but avoiding the vulnerability of loving relationships for which you made us.
And maybe we just don’t think anyone or anything can be trusted with anything as precious as ‘my life.’
Whatever words capture the truth, it is true that we dwell in darkness and self-protection, avoiding the voices in our soul that beg us to open our hearts and give, and love and be vulnerable.
Being exposed to that much light is scary.
Still, you invite us into the light, there to know of ourselves what you know: that we are loved, completely, and in that love we could truly live, if we could only creep from our darkness.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:18-21
And the judgment is this: though the light has come into the world people have preferred darkness to the light because their deeds were evil. And indeed, everybody who does wrong hates the light and avoids it, to prevent his actions from being shown up; but whoever does the truth comes out into the light, so that what he is doing may plainly appear as done in God.
Reflection
What is the light we flee, Jesus? Or the darkness we prefer?
You appear in the world as a gift of love from the Holy Mystery who can’t stand to watch the world destroy itself. God loves and that love appears most fully, in pristine clarity, in you who welcome and forgive and reveal the darkness of our souls.
For it is the light of holiness, the glow of ultimate goodness that reveals how curved in we are upon ourselves, seeing little of and caring less for that which does not directly touch our flesh.
You love and you love to the end of your breath Jesus, giving yourself for the friends you gather. In this light so much of who we are and what we do appears as the pettiness that it is.
But you mince no words: You call it darkness. And on a deep level we prefer our darkness. Maybe it is easier. Maybe we have been so self-centric for so long it is hard to imagine even the possibility of changing, let alone actually doing so.
Maybe we see our lives as little fortresses that must be tended and carefully protected; hence we protect and tend our little gardens, hiding beyond high walls of ego defenses, making sure we are well, but avoiding the vulnerability of loving relationships for which you made us.
And maybe we just don’t think anyone or anything can be trusted with anything as precious as ‘my life.’
Whatever words capture the truth, it is true that we dwell in darkness and self-protection, avoiding the voices in our soul that beg us to open our hearts and give, and love and be vulnerable.
Being exposed to that much light is scary.
Still, you invite us into the light, there to know of ourselves what you know: that we are loved, completely, and in that love we could truly live, if we could only creep from our darkness.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Today’s text
John 3:15-18
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. No one who believes in him will be judged; but whoever does not believe is judged already, because that person does not believe in the Name of God's only Son.
Reflection
No one who believes shall be judged. And yet we judge ourselves and each other all the time.
But you, O God, do not judge me. You do not hold me up to the light and look closely at the lines and creases of my life, the imperfections that we both know are there.
This is not your way. Those who believe into Jesus dwell in an unfailing environment of grace, a bubble of blessing in which you seek to envelop our every pore.
Our lives know the ordinary bumps and bruises of living amid the unruliness of chance, of human emotion and action, of sickness and health. Sometimes those bumps are not ordinary at all, but truly frightening and destructive, or they fall heavy on our hearts.
Yet even then, we dwell in the land of the Son. We may struggle and fail, we may hold little strength or power; heaviness of spirit may grind us down, and circumstances may whisper that we have no worth. But we can look into the eyes of all this and more. And shout: ‘no judgment!’
None.
You judge us worthy of love and care, worth dieing for, treasured to the end of our days and to the eternity of time.
Our life’s struggle is to surrender our judgments of ourselves to your judgment--and to dismiss others judgments of our value altogether.
For you do no judge us based on our human frailties and wrong doing. You see us dwelling in the air of Christ’s love, struggling, yes, to breathe in the fresh, lightness of non-judgment.
Teach us to breathe the freshness of this air that our judgments and condemnations, our self-loathing and hatreds may end. We would walk unencumbered into the lightness of being you intend.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:15-18
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. No one who believes in him will be judged; but whoever does not believe is judged already, because that person does not believe in the Name of God's only Son.
Reflection
No one who believes shall be judged. And yet we judge ourselves and each other all the time.
But you, O God, do not judge me. You do not hold me up to the light and look closely at the lines and creases of my life, the imperfections that we both know are there.
This is not your way. Those who believe into Jesus dwell in an unfailing environment of grace, a bubble of blessing in which you seek to envelop our every pore.
Our lives know the ordinary bumps and bruises of living amid the unruliness of chance, of human emotion and action, of sickness and health. Sometimes those bumps are not ordinary at all, but truly frightening and destructive, or they fall heavy on our hearts.
Yet even then, we dwell in the land of the Son. We may struggle and fail, we may hold little strength or power; heaviness of spirit may grind us down, and circumstances may whisper that we have no worth. But we can look into the eyes of all this and more. And shout: ‘no judgment!’
None.
You judge us worthy of love and care, worth dieing for, treasured to the end of our days and to the eternity of time.
Our life’s struggle is to surrender our judgments of ourselves to your judgment--and to dismiss others judgments of our value altogether.
For you do no judge us based on our human frailties and wrong doing. You see us dwelling in the air of Christ’s love, struggling, yes, to breathe in the fresh, lightness of non-judgment.
Teach us to breathe the freshness of this air that our judgments and condemnations, our self-loathing and hatreds may end. We would walk unencumbered into the lightness of being you intend.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, March 16, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Today’s text
John 3:14-17
[Jesus said] 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.
Reflection
Everyone who believes … will have life. But this belief is not merely affirming statements about Jesus, who he is or what he does.
It is a believing into, a believing into what he does and gives. Believing into Jesus is a movement of heart, mind and body.
We give ourselves over to a way of seeing and being, Jesus’ way. He is lifted up like Moses’ snake in the desert, a fearful symbol of death and destruction. Surely no one wants to be bitten by the snake or end up as Jesus on a cross, an instrument of execution.
But we are invited to ‘believe into’ this way, to see in Jesus’ destruction God’s ultimate sign of love and life. Giving ourselves to it means cleaving to this sign, holding it fast even when it seems we are being torn apart by destructive forces in our lives.
It is hoping against every whisper of hopelessness that as Jesus rose from destruction to new life, we too shall find life out of the ashes of every trial and terror, every destruction and loss, even that of life itself.
Believing in Jesus is living trust that the one who is lifted up on the cross now lives to lift us from each valley into the fullness of God’s love and life.
We look at the sign of the cross and make it on ourselves, knowing Jesus way is and always will be our own.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 3:14-17
[Jesus said] 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.
Reflection
Everyone who believes … will have life. But this belief is not merely affirming statements about Jesus, who he is or what he does.
It is a believing into, a believing into what he does and gives. Believing into Jesus is a movement of heart, mind and body.
We give ourselves over to a way of seeing and being, Jesus’ way. He is lifted up like Moses’ snake in the desert, a fearful symbol of death and destruction. Surely no one wants to be bitten by the snake or end up as Jesus on a cross, an instrument of execution.
But we are invited to ‘believe into’ this way, to see in Jesus’ destruction God’s ultimate sign of love and life. Giving ourselves to it means cleaving to this sign, holding it fast even when it seems we are being torn apart by destructive forces in our lives.
It is hoping against every whisper of hopelessness that as Jesus rose from destruction to new life, we too shall find life out of the ashes of every trial and terror, every destruction and loss, even that of life itself.
Believing in Jesus is living trust that the one who is lifted up on the cross now lives to lift us from each valley into the fullness of God’s love and life.
We look at the sign of the cross and make it on ourselves, knowing Jesus way is and always will be our own.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Today’s text
John 2:18-22
The Jews intervened and said, 'What sign can you show us that you should act like this?' Jesus answered, 'Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.' The Jews replied, 'It has taken forty-six years to build this Temple: are you going to raise it up again in three days?' But he was speaking of the Temple that was his body, and when Jesus rose from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the scripture and what he had said.
Reflection
They remembered, and so should we.
We should remember that the life Jesus bears, the life we bear, cannot be confined to a tomb. It bursts free from every prison, even that of death, to illumine life with the color of eternity.
It has always been so.
The body, our flesh, is no prison to be escaped but has become the temple of the Holy, the place of divine meeting.
Our ears and eyes can behold the beauty of holiness and the holiness of the One who is Beauty itself in the joy of children and the generosity of hearts that are truly human.
Jesus shows the way. He dwelt in constant intimacy with the Life that was in him, the Life that is before all time, the Life that is the breathing presence of God. His words and hands moved at the impulses of the One in whose heart he abided without a moment’s separation.
And Jesus invites us into this way, the way of abiding, of resting and knowing the Heart who offers eager to welcome to each of us. Come home to the Love who has always known and ever wanted you.
Come home and rest in the Life that seeks to breathe in you, through you, and move your soul into a grand spaciousness where you know true freedom and the tension in your chest is no more.
The Life who is God dwelt in Jesus, and in all who know and love his way. Temples of the Eternal One are they … are we, bearing that Life that does not die.
Remember.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 2:18-22
The Jews intervened and said, 'What sign can you show us that you should act like this?' Jesus answered, 'Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.' The Jews replied, 'It has taken forty-six years to build this Temple: are you going to raise it up again in three days?' But he was speaking of the Temple that was his body, and when Jesus rose from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the scripture and what he had said.
Reflection
They remembered, and so should we.
We should remember that the life Jesus bears, the life we bear, cannot be confined to a tomb. It bursts free from every prison, even that of death, to illumine life with the color of eternity.
It has always been so.
The body, our flesh, is no prison to be escaped but has become the temple of the Holy, the place of divine meeting.
Our ears and eyes can behold the beauty of holiness and the holiness of the One who is Beauty itself in the joy of children and the generosity of hearts that are truly human.
Jesus shows the way. He dwelt in constant intimacy with the Life that was in him, the Life that is before all time, the Life that is the breathing presence of God. His words and hands moved at the impulses of the One in whose heart he abided without a moment’s separation.
And Jesus invites us into this way, the way of abiding, of resting and knowing the Heart who offers eager to welcome to each of us. Come home to the Love who has always known and ever wanted you.
Come home and rest in the Life that seeks to breathe in you, through you, and move your soul into a grand spaciousness where you know true freedom and the tension in your chest is no more.
The Life who is God dwelt in Jesus, and in all who know and love his way. Temples of the Eternal One are they … are we, bearing that Life that does not die.
Remember.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Today’s text
John 2:18-21
The Jews intervened and said, 'What sign can you show us that you should act like this?' Jesus answered, 'Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.' The Jews replied, 'It has taken forty-six years to build this Temple: are you going to raise it up again in three days?' But he was speaking of the Temple that was his body.
Reflection
And here is the change Jesus brings. No more is relationship with God one more version of let’s make a deal. No more do we engage in the commerce of something for something, giving to get.
Nor shall we imagine the Holy One is attached to any one place or people or activity, as if the Holy Mystery who is God can be nailed down or confined by human constraints, definitions and desires.
The mystery of God is known in the body of Jesus, dwelling there, being known, felt and see there. And if there, then in our bodies, too.
His human body is a temple, the place of God’s abiding, the point of divine meeting where we may encounter the One who infinitely transcends every body, but can be known in any and all of them.
Jesus body bore the eternal life who is God, a life that raised him up from the dead dust of the grave, all of him, his body, his whole person.
The Life he bore can not be destroyed, for the God who creates universes and human souls out of star dust can not be contained by a trifle like physical death.
It raises up all who bear this life. Their bodies (our bodies) are temples of divine dwelling, the dwelling of the Most High.
So there is always hope, always. And beauty can abound even in the most unlikely souls.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 2:18-21
The Jews intervened and said, 'What sign can you show us that you should act like this?' Jesus answered, 'Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.' The Jews replied, 'It has taken forty-six years to build this Temple: are you going to raise it up again in three days?' But he was speaking of the Temple that was his body.
Reflection
And here is the change Jesus brings. No more is relationship with God one more version of let’s make a deal. No more do we engage in the commerce of something for something, giving to get.
Nor shall we imagine the Holy One is attached to any one place or people or activity, as if the Holy Mystery who is God can be nailed down or confined by human constraints, definitions and desires.
The mystery of God is known in the body of Jesus, dwelling there, being known, felt and see there. And if there, then in our bodies, too.
His human body is a temple, the place of God’s abiding, the point of divine meeting where we may encounter the One who infinitely transcends every body, but can be known in any and all of them.
Jesus body bore the eternal life who is God, a life that raised him up from the dead dust of the grave, all of him, his body, his whole person.
The Life he bore can not be destroyed, for the God who creates universes and human souls out of star dust can not be contained by a trifle like physical death.
It raises up all who bear this life. Their bodies (our bodies) are temples of divine dwelling, the dwelling of the Most High.
So there is always hope, always. And beauty can abound even in the most unlikely souls.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Today’s text
John 2:13-16
When the time of the Jewish Passover was near Jesus went up to Jerusalem, and in the Temple he found people selling cattle and sheep and doves, and the money changers sitting there. Making a whip out of cord, he drove them all out of the Temple, sheep and cattle as well, scattered the money changers' coins, knocked their tables over and said to the dove sellers, 'Take all this out of here and stop using my Father's house as a market.'
Reflection
Today, we would send Jesus to an anger-management class. At least that would have been part of his sentence for disrupting trade.
The temple was, indeed, a place of trade. People bought and sold birds and animals intended for sacrifice in the temple precincts as those coming to the temple sought atonement with God for their sins.
The system of sacrifice had long since been established by divine decree. Jesus was interfering in holy work, or so it seemed to those in charge and, likely, many others.
We can imagine there was underhanded dealing and overcharging happening, and that is why Jesus flew off the handle. He was objecting to dishonesty and injustice, taking advantage of those who came to make sacrifice and find peace.
But something more appears is at work. He was about to affect a sweeping change in how people thought about worship … and God.
Worship required no sacrifice to change God’s mind or to give God something (a sacrifice) so that God will give us something (forgiveness, a blessing). God is no deal maker, and that’s what people do in markets, or at least in the temple marketplace: they make deals.
Something for something.
God gives the blessings of life to all and the grace of forgiven life, free and full, freely, for nothing, to any who seek and hunger for God’s gifts.
No sacrifice is required, no giving up of something to get something. God is not in the deal-making business.
God gives out of an infinite abundance of love and unending generosity. No deals necessary or wanted. The desire and attempt to make deals with God reveal that we don’t get it.
We don’t get God, who is as unlike our deal-making ways as night is from day.
No need to pay God off, for the Holy One is a deep river of generosity flowing from an ever-abundant source to the hearts of all who can simply receive.
Pr. David L. Miller
John 2:13-16
When the time of the Jewish Passover was near Jesus went up to Jerusalem, and in the Temple he found people selling cattle and sheep and doves, and the money changers sitting there. Making a whip out of cord, he drove them all out of the Temple, sheep and cattle as well, scattered the money changers' coins, knocked their tables over and said to the dove sellers, 'Take all this out of here and stop using my Father's house as a market.'
Reflection
Today, we would send Jesus to an anger-management class. At least that would have been part of his sentence for disrupting trade.
The temple was, indeed, a place of trade. People bought and sold birds and animals intended for sacrifice in the temple precincts as those coming to the temple sought atonement with God for their sins.
The system of sacrifice had long since been established by divine decree. Jesus was interfering in holy work, or so it seemed to those in charge and, likely, many others.
We can imagine there was underhanded dealing and overcharging happening, and that is why Jesus flew off the handle. He was objecting to dishonesty and injustice, taking advantage of those who came to make sacrifice and find peace.
But something more appears is at work. He was about to affect a sweeping change in how people thought about worship … and God.
Worship required no sacrifice to change God’s mind or to give God something (a sacrifice) so that God will give us something (forgiveness, a blessing). God is no deal maker, and that’s what people do in markets, or at least in the temple marketplace: they make deals.
Something for something.
God gives the blessings of life to all and the grace of forgiven life, free and full, freely, for nothing, to any who seek and hunger for God’s gifts.
No sacrifice is required, no giving up of something to get something. God is not in the deal-making business.
God gives out of an infinite abundance of love and unending generosity. No deals necessary or wanted. The desire and attempt to make deals with God reveal that we don’t get it.
We don’t get God, who is as unlike our deal-making ways as night is from day.
No need to pay God off, for the Holy One is a deep river of generosity flowing from an ever-abundant source to the hearts of all who can simply receive.
Pr. David L. Miller
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