Today’s text
John 2:6-10
There were six stone water jars standing there, meant for the ablutions that are customary among the Jews: each could hold twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to the servants 'Fill the jars with water,' and they filled them to the brim. Then he said to them, 'Draw some out now and take it to the president of the feast. 'They did this; the president tasted the water, and it had turned into wine. Having no idea where it came from -- though the servants who had drawn the water knew -- the president of the feast called the bridegroom and said, 'Everyone serves good wine first and the worse wine when the guests are well wined; but you have kept the best wine till now.'
Reflection
I have known the souls of those who know you, Jesus. They are like water jars you fill, not with water, but with the wine of your life.
This early morning I know that wine also in my soul, as if the veins and arteries that course this body run with the sweet blood of grace that ran through you as you dropped in on wedding feasts.
And yes, you did make the party run crazy. All that wine was not to impress the guests but to ensure human joy did not play out.
You come, Jesus, bearing the intention of God that the wine that makes glad the hearts of human souls might never run dry.
You come to a wedding feast to reveal that, in you, heaven and earth are wed, forever joined. You come to pour the wine of eternity into the narrow confines of our little lives, into the saddest corners of our worlds that the joy of the world we cannot yet imagine might fill our hearts and move our song.
And just maybe, we might learn to dance through sad and difficult days, knowing the sweet wine of your life runs through our being, too.
Truly, it does, and it never ceases to surprise me, filling me with a joy and power that makes me eager for the day, knowing there is good work to do and broken souls to touch.
Funny, too, that when we pour our lives out for another we find there is more in our souls than mere water.
I don’t wonder how it got there.
Pr. David L. Miller
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
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Thursday, January 14, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Today’s text
John 2:1-3
On the third day there was a wedding at Cana in Galilee. The mother of Jesus was there, and Jesus and his disciples had also been invited. And they ran out of wine, since the wine provided for the feast had all been used, and the mother of Jesus said to him, 'They have no wine.'
Reflection
You come, Jesus. You come when the wine of life plays out, and we have no more.
You come when energy is low, and the day feels overwhelming.
You come when there is too little time and too little will.
You come when we wonder if our efforts are worth anything.
You come when we fail and see no reason to try again.
You come when we feel alone and wonder if we will ever be known.
You come when the road is hard and the way feels unending.
You come when we lose our way, and hope is faint.
You come when we hunger for joy, but our souls are cool.
You come when words feel empty and catch in our throat.
You come when life is threatened, and death draws near.
Come here, Jesus, where the wine threatens to play out, where souls mourn their beloved and worry amid disease. Come where weary hearts and worn bodies already bear too much, and life demands more.
Come to us. Pour into our souls the wine of laughter and assurance, the joy of loving companionship, the knowledge that in you heaven is wed to earth, and we need never worry about the wine.
For you will always bring enough, and the feast of heavenly joy will moisten every cheek.
Pr. David. L. Miller
John 2:1-3
On the third day there was a wedding at Cana in Galilee. The mother of Jesus was there, and Jesus and his disciples had also been invited. And they ran out of wine, since the wine provided for the feast had all been used, and the mother of Jesus said to him, 'They have no wine.'
Reflection
You come, Jesus. You come when the wine of life plays out, and we have no more.
You come when energy is low, and the day feels overwhelming.
You come when there is too little time and too little will.
You come when we wonder if our efforts are worth anything.
You come when we fail and see no reason to try again.
You come when we feel alone and wonder if we will ever be known.
You come when the road is hard and the way feels unending.
You come when we lose our way, and hope is faint.
You come when we hunger for joy, but our souls are cool.
You come when words feel empty and catch in our throat.
You come when life is threatened, and death draws near.
Come here, Jesus, where the wine threatens to play out, where souls mourn their beloved and worry amid disease. Come where weary hearts and worn bodies already bear too much, and life demands more.
Come to us. Pour into our souls the wine of laughter and assurance, the joy of loving companionship, the knowledge that in you heaven is wed to earth, and we need never worry about the wine.
For you will always bring enough, and the feast of heavenly joy will moisten every cheek.
Pr. David. L. Miller
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Today’s text
Isaiah 43:1-3a
And now, thus says Yahweh, he who created you, Jacob, who formed you, Israel: Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name, you are mine. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you.
Reflection
My fears confound me, Holy One, leaving unrest in my heart. I see a soul to whom I want (or feel I should) reach out, but other people and duties distract me before I can step into the space of meeting.
I allow it to happen, but only when it involves someone with whom I am less than comfortable because of past conflict or misunderstanding. I know the meeting may prove awkward. We may not know how to speak comfortably with each other. At worse, my overture of conversation may be refused or forcefully resisted.
But the connection between us needs one of us to take the risk, to seek encounter, lest the bonds of human community stretch thin and snap.
Knowing this, I still allow distractions to curb me from the place of my discomfort, the faces of my anxiety.
Mine are small fears in the great sweep of human struggle. They amount to almost nothing, yet they are the minutia that erodes community and fires distrust, as human hearts walk around each other instead of obeying the need of their hearts to understand and be understood.
It’s all about fear, Holy One, and here you speak gently, telling me not to fear. “Do not fear even though awkward and rejecting moments of life fragment your soul and shatter the peace you seek.”
“Do not fear,” you say. “You will walk through deep water, through fires of anger and division, amid threats that you’d rather avoid.
“But nothing is lost. No part of you will be scattered so far that it is beyond my gracious reach. Do not worry about being broken, about resistance and the pain of distrust. Do not fret that your soul will hurt when community is broken, when your overtures are unwelcome or when you are judged wanting or condemned. The waters will not swallow you up.
“I will gather up all the broken pieces of your heart and make you whole. I am the Lord, and nothing is lost to my love; no wounded part of you is lost to my healing.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Isaiah 43:1-3a
And now, thus says Yahweh, he who created you, Jacob, who formed you, Israel: Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name, you are mine. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you.
Reflection
My fears confound me, Holy One, leaving unrest in my heart. I see a soul to whom I want (or feel I should) reach out, but other people and duties distract me before I can step into the space of meeting.
I allow it to happen, but only when it involves someone with whom I am less than comfortable because of past conflict or misunderstanding. I know the meeting may prove awkward. We may not know how to speak comfortably with each other. At worse, my overture of conversation may be refused or forcefully resisted.
But the connection between us needs one of us to take the risk, to seek encounter, lest the bonds of human community stretch thin and snap.
Knowing this, I still allow distractions to curb me from the place of my discomfort, the faces of my anxiety.
Mine are small fears in the great sweep of human struggle. They amount to almost nothing, yet they are the minutia that erodes community and fires distrust, as human hearts walk around each other instead of obeying the need of their hearts to understand and be understood.
It’s all about fear, Holy One, and here you speak gently, telling me not to fear. “Do not fear even though awkward and rejecting moments of life fragment your soul and shatter the peace you seek.”
“Do not fear,” you say. “You will walk through deep water, through fires of anger and division, amid threats that you’d rather avoid.
“But nothing is lost. No part of you will be scattered so far that it is beyond my gracious reach. Do not worry about being broken, about resistance and the pain of distrust. Do not fret that your soul will hurt when community is broken, when your overtures are unwelcome or when you are judged wanting or condemned. The waters will not swallow you up.
“I will gather up all the broken pieces of your heart and make you whole. I am the Lord, and nothing is lost to my love; no wounded part of you is lost to my healing.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Today’s text
Isaiah 43:1-3a
And now, thus says Yahweh, he who created you, Jacob, who formed you, Israel: Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name, you are mine. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you.
Reflection
“You are mine,” you say, your voice more solid than the earth upon which I stand, and I hear your passion Holy One. I feel who you are.
Jealous and possessive is your love for those you cherish, a passion stronger than death, determined that nothing and no one should be lost to you. No soul shall be singed by the fires of life, drowned in woes that overwhelm and sweep us away.
You see all that our human frame suffers, and you shout to the heavens, “This shall not be. They are mine. I have fashioned and made them. I cherish them like a mother her infant child. More.
“Their souls shall not be lost, for I see them whenever they go, and I witness whatever befalls them. Their pains are felt in my divine heart, and I shall bring them back from where they are scattered. I will command the seas to give them up to my hand.
“I will raise them from the places they fall and breathe life into them after every death they suffer. I will gather the scattered fragments of their broken lives and make them whole again.
“For nothing will be lost to me; all they are shall be redeemed. And they will know I am a God of life and love, who cannot forget his own, who remembers the name of his myriad beloved, and who dwells in searching sorrow until all are gathered into my divine embrace.
“For you are mine, and I will not forget or leave you to flounder in the deep waters or to be consumed by threatening fires.
“There is nowhere you shall go; no place you shall fall that I will not be. You are mine, and the love and life that I am is yours.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Isaiah 43:1-3a
And now, thus says Yahweh, he who created you, Jacob, who formed you, Israel: Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name, you are mine. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you. Should you pass through the waters, I shall be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not suffer, and the flame will not burn you.
Reflection
“You are mine,” you say, your voice more solid than the earth upon which I stand, and I hear your passion Holy One. I feel who you are.
Jealous and possessive is your love for those you cherish, a passion stronger than death, determined that nothing and no one should be lost to you. No soul shall be singed by the fires of life, drowned in woes that overwhelm and sweep us away.
You see all that our human frame suffers, and you shout to the heavens, “This shall not be. They are mine. I have fashioned and made them. I cherish them like a mother her infant child. More.
“Their souls shall not be lost, for I see them whenever they go, and I witness whatever befalls them. Their pains are felt in my divine heart, and I shall bring them back from where they are scattered. I will command the seas to give them up to my hand.
“I will raise them from the places they fall and breathe life into them after every death they suffer. I will gather the scattered fragments of their broken lives and make them whole again.
“For nothing will be lost to me; all they are shall be redeemed. And they will know I am a God of life and love, who cannot forget his own, who remembers the name of his myriad beloved, and who dwells in searching sorrow until all are gathered into my divine embrace.
“For you are mine, and I will not forget or leave you to flounder in the deep waters or to be consumed by threatening fires.
“There is nowhere you shall go; no place you shall fall that I will not be. You are mine, and the love and life that I am is yours.”
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Today’s text
Isaiah 43:1
And now, thus says Yahweh, he who created you, Jacob, who formed you, Israel: Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name, you are mine.
Reflection
Do I hear a cry in your voice, Loving Mystery, or is it my cry that falls on the ear?
No, there is but one single cry. It calls out of your great heart and finds its echo in my own soul. Yes, this is what I think, what I feel, what I hear.
“You are mine,” your eternal heart cries out. “I created you; I formed you. Come find your rest in my encircling presence, in the arms of my everlasting embrace which even now holds all time, all space.
“I will that my pain and yours should cease, for I, too, endure sorrow until all my wandering ones are at home, at peace, at rest.”
I hear your cry and feel that pain, knowing it, finally, not as my lonely sorrow, but as the sadness of your great heart, which I, too, feel when my heart feels far from you.
But I am not, for all that is resides in your immensity, encircled by arms of grace in the field of your Spirit’s play, seeking to draw me, the resistant, into the joy of knowing I dwell constantly in the atmosphere of love--of Love, who wants only that I should see and rest at home in this mystery, at peace and whole.
This comes to me in this instant, and an image appears in the mind’s eye: arms vast as the universe itself, no larger, a circle drawing in, ever so slowly, all that is, and I am in that embrace, but so seldom do I look and see the Drawing Love you are.
But right now, I know all this, as you invite me to make my home in you: you, who will cry for me until the day I rest finally and fully in you, who are Love.
Until then, I will know that when my soul grows sad and lonely that it is not my loneliness I feel, but the echo of your own, calling me home, to calm your cry.
Pr. David L. Miller
Isaiah 43:1
And now, thus says Yahweh, he who created you, Jacob, who formed you, Israel: Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name, you are mine.
Reflection
Do I hear a cry in your voice, Loving Mystery, or is it my cry that falls on the ear?
No, there is but one single cry. It calls out of your great heart and finds its echo in my own soul. Yes, this is what I think, what I feel, what I hear.
“You are mine,” your eternal heart cries out. “I created you; I formed you. Come find your rest in my encircling presence, in the arms of my everlasting embrace which even now holds all time, all space.
“I will that my pain and yours should cease, for I, too, endure sorrow until all my wandering ones are at home, at peace, at rest.”
I hear your cry and feel that pain, knowing it, finally, not as my lonely sorrow, but as the sadness of your great heart, which I, too, feel when my heart feels far from you.
But I am not, for all that is resides in your immensity, encircled by arms of grace in the field of your Spirit’s play, seeking to draw me, the resistant, into the joy of knowing I dwell constantly in the atmosphere of love--of Love, who wants only that I should see and rest at home in this mystery, at peace and whole.
This comes to me in this instant, and an image appears in the mind’s eye: arms vast as the universe itself, no larger, a circle drawing in, ever so slowly, all that is, and I am in that embrace, but so seldom do I look and see the Drawing Love you are.
But right now, I know all this, as you invite me to make my home in you: you, who will cry for me until the day I rest finally and fully in you, who are Love.
Until then, I will know that when my soul grows sad and lonely that it is not my loneliness I feel, but the echo of your own, calling me home, to calm your cry.
Pr. David L. Miller
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Today’s text
Matthew 2:9-11
Having listened to what the king had to say, they set out. And suddenly the star they had seen rising went forward and halted over the place where the child was. The sight of the star filled them with delight, and going into the house they saw the child with his mother Mary, and falling to their knees they did him homage. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.
Reflection
I see these Magi, their camels tripping down gulches where the spring rains run. The beasts struggle up the other side. Their riders tip precariously to the side, holding tight lest they fall into the ancient sand, which cares nothing for them or their search.
It is beastly ride. No sensible person would do it without a good reason, and to the average eye they have no cause sufficient to call them from the firelight warmth of their homes, which are more comfortable than most.
But they press on, mile after unsmiling mile, bearing gifts of gold and whatnot, not knowing what they’ll find at the end of their trek, or even if it will have an end. I am unimpressed by their gifts but quite moved by their hope and dignity.
These are not modern souls, tempted to believe the lie that life is aimless confusion, just one thing after another. Just getting through the day--or their years--as unscathed as possible by their worst fears, this holds no appeal for them. They want more.
They believe there is more. An infinitesimal spark within suggests that existence has a plot and a purpose. Their long years of study have not been able to identify the source of this intuition or expose it as a lie.
So they search, believing that by watching the ancient stars through predictable courses they may catch glimpses of that plot and purpose. They believe that it is worth the work and the interminable waiting as they scan the dark skies where new things seldom appear.
Until now. And they go, following this light.
But what do they find? Arriving, they give reverence and gifts to the child, but what is here? A king? A ruler supreme? All they see is a child and a couple of impoverished parents.
The child can say nothing, and the parents have nothing to say. So … the Magi return to their homes and studies to watch the sky and wait to see what will become of this child whose light they followed.
Their life of hoping, waiting and watching continues. But they believe they have glimpsed something of that plot and purpose their hearts know they must find and follow, lest they grow old and despairing.
They have glimpsed something deep, something new of which they do not know the ending.
They are just like me, My Lord. Just like me. We glimpse the light of your nearness, but what will happen to this light I cannot yet see, only hope and believe.
So I watch and wait with the Magi’s faith, walking in the light I have seen, hoping and believing there is much more to come.
Pr. David L. Miller
Matthew 2:9-11
Having listened to what the king had to say, they set out. And suddenly the star they had seen rising went forward and halted over the place where the child was. The sight of the star filled them with delight, and going into the house they saw the child with his mother Mary, and falling to their knees they did him homage. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.
Reflection
I see these Magi, their camels tripping down gulches where the spring rains run. The beasts struggle up the other side. Their riders tip precariously to the side, holding tight lest they fall into the ancient sand, which cares nothing for them or their search.
It is beastly ride. No sensible person would do it without a good reason, and to the average eye they have no cause sufficient to call them from the firelight warmth of their homes, which are more comfortable than most.
But they press on, mile after unsmiling mile, bearing gifts of gold and whatnot, not knowing what they’ll find at the end of their trek, or even if it will have an end. I am unimpressed by their gifts but quite moved by their hope and dignity.
These are not modern souls, tempted to believe the lie that life is aimless confusion, just one thing after another. Just getting through the day--or their years--as unscathed as possible by their worst fears, this holds no appeal for them. They want more.
They believe there is more. An infinitesimal spark within suggests that existence has a plot and a purpose. Their long years of study have not been able to identify the source of this intuition or expose it as a lie.
So they search, believing that by watching the ancient stars through predictable courses they may catch glimpses of that plot and purpose. They believe that it is worth the work and the interminable waiting as they scan the dark skies where new things seldom appear.
Until now. And they go, following this light.
But what do they find? Arriving, they give reverence and gifts to the child, but what is here? A king? A ruler supreme? All they see is a child and a couple of impoverished parents.
The child can say nothing, and the parents have nothing to say. So … the Magi return to their homes and studies to watch the sky and wait to see what will become of this child whose light they followed.
Their life of hoping, waiting and watching continues. But they believe they have glimpsed something of that plot and purpose their hearts know they must find and follow, lest they grow old and despairing.
They have glimpsed something deep, something new of which they do not know the ending.
They are just like me, My Lord. Just like me. We glimpse the light of your nearness, but what will happen to this light I cannot yet see, only hope and believe.
So I watch and wait with the Magi’s faith, walking in the light I have seen, hoping and believing there is much more to come.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 2:9-15
An angel of the Lord stood over them and the glory of the Lord shone round them. They were terrified, but the angel said, 'Do not be afraid. Look, I bring you news of great joy, a joy to be shared by the whole people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. And here is a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.' And all at once with the angel there was a great throng of the hosts of heaven, praising God with the words Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace for those he favors. Now it happened that when the angles had gone from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, 'Let us go to Bethlehem and see this event which the Lord has made known to us.'
Reflection
“Don’t be afraid,” the angel commands.
She (or is it he?) should have saved her breath. The light of God warms the winter night for shepherds on a hillside, and it is fear we most expect.
No command can still their fears … or ours. Go ahead, try. Command yourself not to be afraid. Command the fear of one who is dear to your heart. Tell their fears to go and not return. It does no good. We cannot be talked out of fears.
We can only be loved out of them.
Clueless about what they were doing, the shepherds do exactly this. “Let’s go and see,” they say. They run across frozen fields under the starlight to the old barn to see what is happening.
Join them.
Gather your hopes and fears. Take the ache at the pit of your stomach for something you don’t know how to name. Take the fragmented pieces of your life you can’t put together in way that satisfies your desire for a life that is truly human and happy.
Take your feeling of being lost and needy. Take your restless desire to know a great love that is always sufficient. Take your fears of life and death. Take that sinking feeling that your life will never be what you want and need it to be
Take it all, and go see the child.
The shepherds, confused and shy, slowly draw near, not knowing how close they may come or whether they are welcome.
Stand among them on hesitant feet. Come to the manger. See the child who stirs the hope that the ache in your heart can find healing.
Come and see: In this child, God comes to you. God pours the love of the divine heart into human form, seeking to awaken in you the love that is in the child … for you.
When you know this love you know the One who saves you from all that is not love.
This Love will save you from yourself and all your fears, pouring love on each of your dyings until there is nothing left but life and the angel’s song.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 2:9-15
An angel of the Lord stood over them and the glory of the Lord shone round them. They were terrified, but the angel said, 'Do not be afraid. Look, I bring you news of great joy, a joy to be shared by the whole people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. And here is a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.' And all at once with the angel there was a great throng of the hosts of heaven, praising God with the words Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace for those he favors. Now it happened that when the angles had gone from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, 'Let us go to Bethlehem and see this event which the Lord has made known to us.'
Reflection
“Don’t be afraid,” the angel commands.
She (or is it he?) should have saved her breath. The light of God warms the winter night for shepherds on a hillside, and it is fear we most expect.
No command can still their fears … or ours. Go ahead, try. Command yourself not to be afraid. Command the fear of one who is dear to your heart. Tell their fears to go and not return. It does no good. We cannot be talked out of fears.
We can only be loved out of them.
Clueless about what they were doing, the shepherds do exactly this. “Let’s go and see,” they say. They run across frozen fields under the starlight to the old barn to see what is happening.
Join them.
Gather your hopes and fears. Take the ache at the pit of your stomach for something you don’t know how to name. Take the fragmented pieces of your life you can’t put together in way that satisfies your desire for a life that is truly human and happy.
Take your feeling of being lost and needy. Take your restless desire to know a great love that is always sufficient. Take your fears of life and death. Take that sinking feeling that your life will never be what you want and need it to be
Take it all, and go see the child.
The shepherds, confused and shy, slowly draw near, not knowing how close they may come or whether they are welcome.
Stand among them on hesitant feet. Come to the manger. See the child who stirs the hope that the ache in your heart can find healing.
Come and see: In this child, God comes to you. God pours the love of the divine heart into human form, seeking to awaken in you the love that is in the child … for you.
When you know this love you know the One who saves you from all that is not love.
This Love will save you from yourself and all your fears, pouring love on each of your dyings until there is nothing left but life and the angel’s song.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 2:6-7
Now it happened that, while they were there, the time came for her to have her child, and she gave birth to a son, her first-born. She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger because there was no room for them in the living-space.
Reflection
I see them there, in the back corner of the red barn. A half dozen cattle stamping their feet, impatient to be milked, their necks through the old wooden stanchions, heads reaching and pulling at the hay as they feed.
Their breath hangs in the air, warm and sweet as summer clover. They glance over their thick shoulders as we pass and prepare for the milking.
I am too young to work, so I watch my uncle in the old barn that once was ours before my father got sick and had to surrender this place.
I steal away to the back corner where bales of hay and straw are stacked like a wall and cats climb and sniff, listening for the slightest rustle signaling a mouse burrowing among the bales.
I see them there. The man and the woman, startled at my approach, thinking they were alone in this place. Their eyes wide with apprehension, wondering what has happening to them and whether I will expose their presence.
There is no need for fear, for all I want is to watch, and I am a child, so what threat can I be to their already vulnerable lives? Their eyes return to the worn wooden box where the child lies amid straw pulled from the bales.
The woman takes the child and fusses with the cloths, wrapping the child securely from the cold that filters between the cracks where the barn boards warp and cup.
She swaddles the child, covering every bit of tender flesh but his face, and it is just then that I see.
I see that the approach of God to human flesh evokes no fear or trembling. The Holy One comes, vulnerable and in need of the love only human hearts can provide.
I see the desire of God has nothing to do with parading power or making me feel small or sinful and ugly. The Holy Mystery comes to awaken the love with which we are loved by Him.
God awakens the beauty of heart and care that I may tenderly pick up the child and swaddle this life, feeling the stir of a love that is the same love which moves the Holy One to seek me through the flesh of this child.
This I see, and seeing, I know: none of us know God until we know Him as the child in the manger, seeking to be swaddled and tenderly held in our hearts.
I see this, and outside the old barn, ancient stars shine on Pea Ridge, half-a-mile across sloping, frozen fields. And the wind through the trees that stand up there sounds like singing.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 2:6-7
Now it happened that, while they were there, the time came for her to have her child, and she gave birth to a son, her first-born. She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger because there was no room for them in the living-space.
Reflection
I see them there, in the back corner of the red barn. A half dozen cattle stamping their feet, impatient to be milked, their necks through the old wooden stanchions, heads reaching and pulling at the hay as they feed.
Their breath hangs in the air, warm and sweet as summer clover. They glance over their thick shoulders as we pass and prepare for the milking.
I am too young to work, so I watch my uncle in the old barn that once was ours before my father got sick and had to surrender this place.
I steal away to the back corner where bales of hay and straw are stacked like a wall and cats climb and sniff, listening for the slightest rustle signaling a mouse burrowing among the bales.
I see them there. The man and the woman, startled at my approach, thinking they were alone in this place. Their eyes wide with apprehension, wondering what has happening to them and whether I will expose their presence.
There is no need for fear, for all I want is to watch, and I am a child, so what threat can I be to their already vulnerable lives? Their eyes return to the worn wooden box where the child lies amid straw pulled from the bales.
The woman takes the child and fusses with the cloths, wrapping the child securely from the cold that filters between the cracks where the barn boards warp and cup.
She swaddles the child, covering every bit of tender flesh but his face, and it is just then that I see.
I see that the approach of God to human flesh evokes no fear or trembling. The Holy One comes, vulnerable and in need of the love only human hearts can provide.
I see the desire of God has nothing to do with parading power or making me feel small or sinful and ugly. The Holy Mystery comes to awaken the love with which we are loved by Him.
God awakens the beauty of heart and care that I may tenderly pick up the child and swaddle this life, feeling the stir of a love that is the same love which moves the Holy One to seek me through the flesh of this child.
This I see, and seeing, I know: none of us know God until we know Him as the child in the manger, seeking to be swaddled and tenderly held in our hearts.
I see this, and outside the old barn, ancient stars shine on Pea Ridge, half-a-mile across sloping, frozen fields. And the wind through the trees that stand up there sounds like singing.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 1:46-49
And Mary said: My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; because he has looked upon the humiliation of his servant. Yes, from now onwards all generations will call me blessed, for the Almighty has done great things for me.
Reflection
Lift my lungs into praise of your wonder, O Lord. Sweep me into the chorus of rejoicing that I might be whole.
My soul languishes in regions of sadness where I know neither you nor my own self. Like Mary, like all humanity, I am whole only in the joy that comes in knowing you, in being swept up in the current of all that your love is doing.
This, I think, is the source of Mary’s praise, of her joy and the fulfillment of her soul, a completion for which my soul longs.
She sees, she knows, she feels within her own womb the goodness of what you are doing, coming in human form to each of us, to all of us. In startled joy, she knows she shares wholly in the greatness of your loving design, the work of love you make known in Jesus, our brother.
Joy is being swept up in you, my Lord. It is knowing that all we are--our soul, mind and the smallest parts of our bodies--are encompassed in your immensity. You are Love itself, Holy Mystery, so joy is being caught up in Love’s own being as it lifts the lowly and illumines the darkest paces of earth and soul.
We do not choose to praise you, my Lord. Praise comes as a precious gift when we, like Mary, are swept up in you, feeling ourselves immersed and encompassed in the liquidity of your life.
How this happens, when and where we cannot easily say, only that it does, and that it happens when we are in you. So we give ourselves to the work of praying and singing and reaching to you. We give ourselves to service, to loving, sharing and giving. For we know these are your works, your places, your haunts.
And we wait with hope for you to come and sweep us away from ourselves and the gray burdens of the day, carrying us to heights of praise where we know you as Holy Wonder and ourselves as blessed beloved.
Pr. David L. Miller
Today’s text
Luke 1:46-49
And Mary said: My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; because he has looked upon the humiliation of his servant. Yes, from now onwards all generations will call me blessed, for the Almighty has done great things for me.
Reflection
Lift my lungs into praise of your wonder, O Lord. Sweep me into the chorus of rejoicing that I might be whole.
My soul languishes in regions of sadness where I know neither you nor my own self. Like Mary, like all humanity, I am whole only in the joy that comes in knowing you, in being swept up in the current of all that your love is doing.
This, I think, is the source of Mary’s praise, of her joy and the fulfillment of her soul, a completion for which my soul longs.
She sees, she knows, she feels within her own womb the goodness of what you are doing, coming in human form to each of us, to all of us. In startled joy, she knows she shares wholly in the greatness of your loving design, the work of love you make known in Jesus, our brother.
Joy is being swept up in you, my Lord. It is knowing that all we are--our soul, mind and the smallest parts of our bodies--are encompassed in your immensity. You are Love itself, Holy Mystery, so joy is being caught up in Love’s own being as it lifts the lowly and illumines the darkest paces of earth and soul.
We do not choose to praise you, my Lord. Praise comes as a precious gift when we, like Mary, are swept up in you, feeling ourselves immersed and encompassed in the liquidity of your life.
How this happens, when and where we cannot easily say, only that it does, and that it happens when we are in you. So we give ourselves to the work of praying and singing and reaching to you. We give ourselves to service, to loving, sharing and giving. For we know these are your works, your places, your haunts.
And we wait with hope for you to come and sweep us away from ourselves and the gray burdens of the day, carrying us to heights of praise where we know you as Holy Wonder and ourselves as blessed beloved.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 1:39-42
Mary set out at that time and went as quickly as she could into the hill country to a town in Judah. She went into Zechariah's house and greeted Elizabeth. Now it happened that as soon as Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, the child leapt in her womb and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. She gave a loud cry and said, 'Of all women you are the most blessed, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.’
Reflection
I know why Elizabeth was filled with joy. It is because you, My Lord, filled Mary. Elizabeth’s heart jumps, to say nothing of the child she carried within her, at the presence of the Presence for which we all long.
Your Presence brings joy even amid gray December when the Western world is alight with happy twinkling that somehow fails to shed the joy for which the heart hungers.
I long for the joy that came so naturally to Elizabeth at Mary’s approach. A great flood of tears and laughter, joy and fulfillment is unleashed in her. She feels your nearness, and that alone--that only--propelled her soul to the heights of human fulfillment.
That’s the way it is in every age. Joy is in your presence. Completion comes as we feel your nearness, as we know you are here for us and always will be.
My fingers try to write my soul into this awareness as I imagine the scene. Elizabeth steps outside her house, her face alight. Her arms quickly open to enfold dearest Mary in love’s embrace, only to find that it is she, herself, who is embraced in ways she can never really understand.
Her life is enfolded into the life of the God who is love. Love’s Presence unleashes in her that flood of joy that is your joy to release in human souls.
So come to us, Lord Jesus. Free our souls from December grayness with the joy that runs like an unfettered river, surging and free, flowing from depths we did not know we possessed.
Let our laughter echo deep from lungs released from bonds of sadness. We, too, want to enfold you in our arms and know exactly what Elizabeth knew. Then we shall be whole.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 1:39-42
Mary set out at that time and went as quickly as she could into the hill country to a town in Judah. She went into Zechariah's house and greeted Elizabeth. Now it happened that as soon as Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, the child leapt in her womb and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. She gave a loud cry and said, 'Of all women you are the most blessed, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.’
Reflection
I know why Elizabeth was filled with joy. It is because you, My Lord, filled Mary. Elizabeth’s heart jumps, to say nothing of the child she carried within her, at the presence of the Presence for which we all long.
Your Presence brings joy even amid gray December when the Western world is alight with happy twinkling that somehow fails to shed the joy for which the heart hungers.
I long for the joy that came so naturally to Elizabeth at Mary’s approach. A great flood of tears and laughter, joy and fulfillment is unleashed in her. She feels your nearness, and that alone--that only--propelled her soul to the heights of human fulfillment.
That’s the way it is in every age. Joy is in your presence. Completion comes as we feel your nearness, as we know you are here for us and always will be.
My fingers try to write my soul into this awareness as I imagine the scene. Elizabeth steps outside her house, her face alight. Her arms quickly open to enfold dearest Mary in love’s embrace, only to find that it is she, herself, who is embraced in ways she can never really understand.
Her life is enfolded into the life of the God who is love. Love’s Presence unleashes in her that flood of joy that is your joy to release in human souls.
So come to us, Lord Jesus. Free our souls from December grayness with the joy that runs like an unfettered river, surging and free, flowing from depths we did not know we possessed.
Let our laughter echo deep from lungs released from bonds of sadness. We, too, want to enfold you in our arms and know exactly what Elizabeth knew. Then we shall be whole.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 3:16-17
John declared before them all, 'I baptize you with water, but someone is coming, who is more powerful than me, and I am not fit to undo the strap of his sandals; he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fan is in his hand, to clear his threshing-floor and to gather the wheat into his barn; but the chaff he will burn in a fire that will never go out.'
Reflection
Sometimes you don’t get what you expect. Sometimes it’s better.
John seemed to expect a larger version of himself. What came was of a different order altogether, not a fiery prophet railing at sin but an enigmatic mystic who spoke intimately of the Father and invited souls to see the rule of forever in the work of his hands and the sound of his voice.
Some heard. Some couldn’t imagine the kingdom of God was anything like a guy who ate with chippies and Roman collaborators and gave hell to those who tried to protect the eroding moral order with God’s ancient law.
If this is a winnowing out of the unholy and unworthy, it cut in a different direction than anyone expected. Those who were in were out; those who were up were down, and those who were cocksure of themselves ended up looking into the little circle around Jesus, excluded by their own lack of heart.
It was heart more than anything else that Jesus called for. Those who could love--and see their want of love--found repentance and entrance into a circle of grace where the rule of forever is taken in with every breath.
And John is right: no one is worthy of untying the sandals of this Jesus for whom we wait and long. But it doesn’t matter. Jesus isn’t much into bowing and scraping.
He invites us near to share his Spirit, the Spirit that made the day and fashioned the sun and loved you and all creation into being.
Catch a bit of that, and you know what fire is.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 3:16-17
John declared before them all, 'I baptize you with water, but someone is coming, who is more powerful than me, and I am not fit to undo the strap of his sandals; he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fan is in his hand, to clear his threshing-floor and to gather the wheat into his barn; but the chaff he will burn in a fire that will never go out.'
Reflection
Sometimes you don’t get what you expect. Sometimes it’s better.
John seemed to expect a larger version of himself. What came was of a different order altogether, not a fiery prophet railing at sin but an enigmatic mystic who spoke intimately of the Father and invited souls to see the rule of forever in the work of his hands and the sound of his voice.
Some heard. Some couldn’t imagine the kingdom of God was anything like a guy who ate with chippies and Roman collaborators and gave hell to those who tried to protect the eroding moral order with God’s ancient law.
If this is a winnowing out of the unholy and unworthy, it cut in a different direction than anyone expected. Those who were in were out; those who were up were down, and those who were cocksure of themselves ended up looking into the little circle around Jesus, excluded by their own lack of heart.
It was heart more than anything else that Jesus called for. Those who could love--and see their want of love--found repentance and entrance into a circle of grace where the rule of forever is taken in with every breath.
And John is right: no one is worthy of untying the sandals of this Jesus for whom we wait and long. But it doesn’t matter. Jesus isn’t much into bowing and scraping.
He invites us near to share his Spirit, the Spirit that made the day and fashioned the sun and loved you and all creation into being.
Catch a bit of that, and you know what fire is.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 3:15
A feeling of expectancy had grown among the people, who were beginning to wonder whether John might be the Christ … .
Reflection
That expectancy is your gift, Holy One. I have lived without it on far too many days, and I want no more of those. But today this is of no concern. Expectancy is natural as a sunrise on new snow, fresh as December’s bracing cold.
I know that you are its source, and I can name the means through which you invigorate my old soul. Again, yesterday, you placed in my way real souls bearing the pain of their existence.
I am not thankful for their pain but for the courage with which they name it, the vulnerability that let them share it, the beauty of tenderness with which they feel their sorrows, the gentleness with which they care for their beloved, and the hope which brought them to seek elusive healing.
For those things I stand straight and praise you for the wonder of human souls and the privilege of caring for them. They invite me to what is most real in life, what is most important and to you.
For we discover you as sit and listen, finding beauty and life, care and love amid broken hearts and shattered fragments of life. Conversations certainly don’t start there, but you always seem to appear, bringing laughter amid tears and gratitude for the small joys of being human. That laughter wipes all hopelessness from the horizon.
For all of it, thank you, but especially for the expectancy already awake in my early morning soul on days like this. Having known you yesterday I anticipate meeting you again, today.
I have no idea where or in whom, so come Lord Jesus, surprise me.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 3:15
A feeling of expectancy had grown among the people, who were beginning to wonder whether John might be the Christ … .
Reflection
That expectancy is your gift, Holy One. I have lived without it on far too many days, and I want no more of those. But today this is of no concern. Expectancy is natural as a sunrise on new snow, fresh as December’s bracing cold.
I know that you are its source, and I can name the means through which you invigorate my old soul. Again, yesterday, you placed in my way real souls bearing the pain of their existence.
I am not thankful for their pain but for the courage with which they name it, the vulnerability that let them share it, the beauty of tenderness with which they feel their sorrows, the gentleness with which they care for their beloved, and the hope which brought them to seek elusive healing.
For those things I stand straight and praise you for the wonder of human souls and the privilege of caring for them. They invite me to what is most real in life, what is most important and to you.
For we discover you as sit and listen, finding beauty and life, care and love amid broken hearts and shattered fragments of life. Conversations certainly don’t start there, but you always seem to appear, bringing laughter amid tears and gratitude for the small joys of being human. That laughter wipes all hopelessness from the horizon.
For all of it, thank you, but especially for the expectancy already awake in my early morning soul on days like this. Having known you yesterday I anticipate meeting you again, today.
I have no idea where or in whom, so come Lord Jesus, surprise me.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Today's text
Luke 3:8
Produce fruit in keeping with repentance, and do not start telling yourselves, "We have Abraham as our father," because, I tell you, God can raise Children for Abraham from these stones.
Reflection
The fruit you seek is the flow of your generosity and justice through the confines of our narrow lives.
Our inherent self-concern clogs the arteries of grace so that little reaches through us to the heart of need that always surrounds. Then there are moments when I just don’t want to be bothered.
A man pushes a card or a paper in my hand as I walk a busy street. My soul, heart and conscience tell me to stop; block the flow of pedestrians in the intersection. Take the card and give the man a couple of dollars. He’s homeless, or at least says he’s doing this for the homeless.
Who is to know? I doubt it’s a scam. He looks homeless. But then … is it?
The question passes through my mind in an instant. I push the card back into his hand and cross the street, trying to convince myself that this is a poor way to help the homeless. I give to other things, I think to myself.
All true. But my heart accuses me, allowing me no rest. And this morning my mind resists thinking about these words of John the Baptizer, as he calls me to do the works of a changed heart, a heart that belongs to the infinite generosity and immeasurable mercy of God--to you, Holy One, whom I need as much as my next breath.
The reasons for my uneasy conscience are obvious. The man with his cards reminds me (again) of my failure to be human. A street scene lasting less than three seconds rips away my civilized façade, revealing the underlying selfishness that refuses mere inconvenience. I rush on to the next comfortable place that will welcome me, one of many that make my life so much easier than that of a guy selling cards on a December street corner.
It is no wonder God shows such favor to the poor. On city streets, their souls may be better or at least more accessible and honest than our own.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 3:8
Produce fruit in keeping with repentance, and do not start telling yourselves, "We have Abraham as our father," because, I tell you, God can raise Children for Abraham from these stones.
Reflection
The fruit you seek is the flow of your generosity and justice through the confines of our narrow lives.
Our inherent self-concern clogs the arteries of grace so that little reaches through us to the heart of need that always surrounds. Then there are moments when I just don’t want to be bothered.
A man pushes a card or a paper in my hand as I walk a busy street. My soul, heart and conscience tell me to stop; block the flow of pedestrians in the intersection. Take the card and give the man a couple of dollars. He’s homeless, or at least says he’s doing this for the homeless.
Who is to know? I doubt it’s a scam. He looks homeless. But then … is it?
The question passes through my mind in an instant. I push the card back into his hand and cross the street, trying to convince myself that this is a poor way to help the homeless. I give to other things, I think to myself.
All true. But my heart accuses me, allowing me no rest. And this morning my mind resists thinking about these words of John the Baptizer, as he calls me to do the works of a changed heart, a heart that belongs to the infinite generosity and immeasurable mercy of God--to you, Holy One, whom I need as much as my next breath.
The reasons for my uneasy conscience are obvious. The man with his cards reminds me (again) of my failure to be human. A street scene lasting less than three seconds rips away my civilized façade, revealing the underlying selfishness that refuses mere inconvenience. I rush on to the next comfortable place that will welcome me, one of many that make my life so much easier than that of a guy selling cards on a December street corner.
It is no wonder God shows such favor to the poor. On city streets, their souls may be better or at least more accessible and honest than our own.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Today’s text
Luke 3:1-3
In the fifteenth year of Tiberius Caesar's reign, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judaea, Herod tetrarch of Galilee, his brother Philip tetrarch of the territories of Ituraea and Trachonitis, Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene, and while the high-priesthood was held by Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John the son of Zechariah, in the desert. He went through the whole Jordan area proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins ... .
Reflection
So it is, Holy One, while important people go about essential business of state, fulfilling the tedious demands of office, demanding due reverence to their position while making the rest of us aware of their significance to the social order, you come.
You come where and when you will, paying little attention to those to whom the population looks for assurance about what the markets will do or what bill will soon be enacted into law for the benefit, mostly, of those with power.
You pay no attention to power as we know it. You come in the desert places where human power is at its limit, where significance of place and position doesn’t matter, where nature reveals that we are nothing but flesh and blood and need.
You come where we have nothing of which to boast, nothing that lifts us above the common run of humanity, where our mortality is undeniable.
You come where we are most likely to listen, to hear and hunger for a voice beyond the cry of advertisers drumming up false needs and spurious wants. You come where we know our souls are far from the home, where our dis-ease moves us to seek a place, a word, a Presence for which we have longed, but seldom, if ever, entered.
You draw us to desert places where who we think we are and what we have done doesn’t matter, where we can acknowledge that the clothes in which we wrap ourselves, hiding our real faces, are illusory.
There your word comes to us, as to John, revealing again what (on some level) we already knew: that we need, and our need cries from depths we cannot deny.
We need the love you are, if we are ever to be free and full, if ever we are to be our truest selves. So lead us into desert places, and speak to us.
We hunger for your voice to touch the places we hide.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 3:1-3
In the fifteenth year of Tiberius Caesar's reign, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judaea, Herod tetrarch of Galilee, his brother Philip tetrarch of the territories of Ituraea and Trachonitis, Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene, and while the high-priesthood was held by Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John the son of Zechariah, in the desert. He went through the whole Jordan area proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins ... .
Reflection
So it is, Holy One, while important people go about essential business of state, fulfilling the tedious demands of office, demanding due reverence to their position while making the rest of us aware of their significance to the social order, you come.
You come where and when you will, paying little attention to those to whom the population looks for assurance about what the markets will do or what bill will soon be enacted into law for the benefit, mostly, of those with power.
You pay no attention to power as we know it. You come in the desert places where human power is at its limit, where significance of place and position doesn’t matter, where nature reveals that we are nothing but flesh and blood and need.
You come where we have nothing of which to boast, nothing that lifts us above the common run of humanity, where our mortality is undeniable.
You come where we are most likely to listen, to hear and hunger for a voice beyond the cry of advertisers drumming up false needs and spurious wants. You come where we know our souls are far from the home, where our dis-ease moves us to seek a place, a word, a Presence for which we have longed, but seldom, if ever, entered.
You draw us to desert places where who we think we are and what we have done doesn’t matter, where we can acknowledge that the clothes in which we wrap ourselves, hiding our real faces, are illusory.
There your word comes to us, as to John, revealing again what (on some level) we already knew: that we need, and our need cries from depths we cannot deny.
We need the love you are, if we are ever to be free and full, if ever we are to be our truest selves. So lead us into desert places, and speak to us.
We hunger for your voice to touch the places we hide.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, November 27, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Today’s text
1 Thessalonians 3:12-13
May the Lord increase and enrich your love for each other and for all, so that it matches ours for you. And may he so confirm your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless in the sight of our God and Father when our Lord Jesus comes with all his holy ones.
Reflection
The only holiness we have is the love that you wring from our stingy souls. And wring is the correct word, as we cling with death grip to our puny self-respect and the carefully tended masks that hide the need we fear to name.
I grow more insular each year, more drawn into myself, protecting my thoughts and anxieties, yet continually more needing the simplicity of connection, accepting friendships where all that matters is transparent humanity.
I long for moments of discovery when the beauty of a human heart shines through the bruises and wounds apathetic life inflicts on our fragile souls. And fragile, they are, easily lost to apathy or anger, to old wounds and suspicious bitterness born of too little love and too much living.
We hunger for the sacrament of safe space, for space in which false faces fade and masks are put away, and we risk needing and being needed. We need to become children again, unashamed of our want.
It is then that joy surprises us as we taste the happy communion for which you made us Holy One, a joy in which the love we know and share streams from the depth of eternity.
Most times we arrive at this grace only after denials of our needs are stripped away, when failed attempts to fill the hole in our hearts have proved futile, when you reveal (again) to our recalcitrance that we cannot be human except through surrender to need and love.
In that surrender we know you; even those who say they don’t believe know you, though they do not know how to name you.
But then neither do I. Who can name you?
For you are the Love that has left this wound, this need for Love in our hearts, and you are the Love that alone can heal us. Every love is a sacrament of the Love you are.
And loving is our only holiness, a share in the mystery of your life.
So let it be.
Pr. David L. Miller
Today’s text
1 Thessalonians 3:12-13
May the Lord increase and enrich your love for each other and for all, so that it matches ours for you. And may he so confirm your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless in the sight of our God and Father when our Lord Jesus comes with all his holy ones.
Reflection
The only holiness we have is the love that you wring from our stingy souls. And wring is the correct word, as we cling with death grip to our puny self-respect and the carefully tended masks that hide the need we fear to name.
I grow more insular each year, more drawn into myself, protecting my thoughts and anxieties, yet continually more needing the simplicity of connection, accepting friendships where all that matters is transparent humanity.
I long for moments of discovery when the beauty of a human heart shines through the bruises and wounds apathetic life inflicts on our fragile souls. And fragile, they are, easily lost to apathy or anger, to old wounds and suspicious bitterness born of too little love and too much living.
We hunger for the sacrament of safe space, for space in which false faces fade and masks are put away, and we risk needing and being needed. We need to become children again, unashamed of our want.
It is then that joy surprises us as we taste the happy communion for which you made us Holy One, a joy in which the love we know and share streams from the depth of eternity.
Most times we arrive at this grace only after denials of our needs are stripped away, when failed attempts to fill the hole in our hearts have proved futile, when you reveal (again) to our recalcitrance that we cannot be human except through surrender to need and love.
In that surrender we know you; even those who say they don’t believe know you, though they do not know how to name you.
But then neither do I. Who can name you?
For you are the Love that has left this wound, this need for Love in our hearts, and you are the Love that alone can heal us. Every love is a sacrament of the Love you are.
And loving is our only holiness, a share in the mystery of your life.
So let it be.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Today’s text
Jeremiah 33:14-16
Look, the days are coming, Yahweh declares, when I shall fulfill the promise of happiness I made to the House of Israel and the House of Judah: In those days and at that time, I shall make an upright Branch grow for David, who will do what is just and upright in the country. In those days Judah will triumph and Israel live in safety. And this is the name the city will be called: Yahweh-is-our-Saving-Justice."
Reflection
May the day come soon.
I understand why those who first heard Jeremiah’s words hungered for victory and safety. They lived under the heel of bitter oppression. Past ravages by sworn enemies put their fears on hair-trigger alert. It was a terrible way to live, always watching, anxiously anticipating the worst.
They wanted triumph, even revenge on the oppressor. I understand the urge, even as I reject it because it only creates more of the same. The ugly cycle of oppression, struggle, restoration and renewed oppression constantly repeats itself in human history and in our own personal histories.
The struggle draws the best and worst from our souls. The beauty of those who sacrifice for the liberation of others moves tears at the human capacity to give. But the tendency of the liberated to oppress once they have power moves astonishment at our forgetful idiocy: “How quickly we forget. Will we ever learn?”
So the prophet’s words do not move hunger for triumph over enemies far or near, Holy One. There is no blood lust in my soul these days, only sad longing for the day you promise, a day when you will be our saving justice.
So come and save us from ourselves. Save us from our angers, our myopic self-interest, our need to be right, our denunciations of others, our bitterness over slights and rejections and especially our failure to feel in our bones that that all of life, all of humanity, is one intricately connected family.
Transform our hearts so that we t know that the Love you are is life’s only justice, intended for all. May our hearts hunger for your justice and become your salvation, ending the ugly cycle that runs through all history and the depth of our hearts.
Save us from ourselves that we may become as you are.
Pr. David L. Miller
Today’s text
Jeremiah 33:14-16
Look, the days are coming, Yahweh declares, when I shall fulfill the promise of happiness I made to the House of Israel and the House of Judah: In those days and at that time, I shall make an upright Branch grow for David, who will do what is just and upright in the country. In those days Judah will triumph and Israel live in safety. And this is the name the city will be called: Yahweh-is-our-Saving-Justice."
Reflection
May the day come soon.
I understand why those who first heard Jeremiah’s words hungered for victory and safety. They lived under the heel of bitter oppression. Past ravages by sworn enemies put their fears on hair-trigger alert. It was a terrible way to live, always watching, anxiously anticipating the worst.
They wanted triumph, even revenge on the oppressor. I understand the urge, even as I reject it because it only creates more of the same. The ugly cycle of oppression, struggle, restoration and renewed oppression constantly repeats itself in human history and in our own personal histories.
The struggle draws the best and worst from our souls. The beauty of those who sacrifice for the liberation of others moves tears at the human capacity to give. But the tendency of the liberated to oppress once they have power moves astonishment at our forgetful idiocy: “How quickly we forget. Will we ever learn?”
So the prophet’s words do not move hunger for triumph over enemies far or near, Holy One. There is no blood lust in my soul these days, only sad longing for the day you promise, a day when you will be our saving justice.
So come and save us from ourselves. Save us from our angers, our myopic self-interest, our need to be right, our denunciations of others, our bitterness over slights and rejections and especially our failure to feel in our bones that that all of life, all of humanity, is one intricately connected family.
Transform our hearts so that we t know that the Love you are is life’s only justice, intended for all. May our hearts hunger for your justice and become your salvation, ending the ugly cycle that runs through all history and the depth of our hearts.
Save us from ourselves that we may become as you are.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Today’s text
Jeremiah 33:14-16
Look, the days are coming, Yahweh declares, when I shall fulfill the promise of happiness I made to the House of Israel and the House of Judah: In those days and at that time, I shall make an upright Branch grow for David, who will do what is just and upright in the country. In those days Judah will triumph and Israel live in safety. And this is the name the city will be called: Yahweh-is-our-Saving-Justice."
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. You are the righteous branch who grows from King David’s line. You are the fulfillment of promise and not of God’s promise alone. You fulfill the longing prophetic words stir in our hearts long centuries after their origin.
And we have such longing. We hunger to see, hear and be blessed by one who wills what you will, Loving Mystery, who loves what you love, who is pure in heart, fully given to your eternal desire.
We long to know Jesus, our brother who is truly your child, given solely to you. Seeing him, we know you and the life and the happiness for which we are intended.
So turn my heart from the distractions in which I delight. Turn my eyes to Jesus that I may see a life always guided by your eternal desire.
Let me see in him the beauty for which I hunger, for it is only in seeing and knowing that beauty also within myself that happiness comes, with truest humanity and the peaceful assurance that, finally, I have arrived home.
Pr. David L. Miller
Jeremiah 33:14-16
Look, the days are coming, Yahweh declares, when I shall fulfill the promise of happiness I made to the House of Israel and the House of Judah: In those days and at that time, I shall make an upright Branch grow for David, who will do what is just and upright in the country. In those days Judah will triumph and Israel live in safety. And this is the name the city will be called: Yahweh-is-our-Saving-Justice."
Reflection
Come, Lord Jesus. You are the righteous branch who grows from King David’s line. You are the fulfillment of promise and not of God’s promise alone. You fulfill the longing prophetic words stir in our hearts long centuries after their origin.
And we have such longing. We hunger to see, hear and be blessed by one who wills what you will, Loving Mystery, who loves what you love, who is pure in heart, fully given to your eternal desire.
We long to know Jesus, our brother who is truly your child, given solely to you. Seeing him, we know you and the life and the happiness for which we are intended.
So turn my heart from the distractions in which I delight. Turn my eyes to Jesus that I may see a life always guided by your eternal desire.
Let me see in him the beauty for which I hunger, for it is only in seeing and knowing that beauty also within myself that happiness comes, with truest humanity and the peaceful assurance that, finally, I have arrived home.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Today’s text
1 Peter 1:8-9
You have not seen him, yet you love him; and still without seeing him you believe in him and so are already filled with a joy so glorious that it cannot be described; and you are sure of the goal of your faith, that is, the salvation of your souls.
Reflection
The soul seems like such an inconsequential reality. Some doubt that it is a reality at all. It’s an illusion, a puff of smoke, a fleeting intuition that one is more than mere molecules that chemistry and biology can explain.
But I often come to my day badly in need of being saved. My soul is sour, not hopeful; my orientation is towards things small and petty, the every day wrangling of getting a few things done before surrendering to the clock. Nothing in me soars, hopes or expects to taste the greatness of being alive, of knowing wonder, of feeling moved by love, beauty, laughter or tears.
Cynicism reigns on such days. Life fades to gray. Happiness is a mere diversion from the conflicts, disappointments and the anxieties that rush through consciousness at warp speed, soon to be replaced by others, too many of which set up shop and stay for a while, souring the spirit.
But salvation does appear, sometimes from out of nowhere, when I least expect. It is then that all this fades, and life takes on color and again. Consolation fills gray desolate places, and vision lifts to see life and possibilities not there moments before.
The heart, the soul grows full of gratitude and rich with generosity. It is then that I know the goal of my faith, your goal Holy One, to bring all that is and all of me--all the time--into this wholeness of life where grace reigns and the heart is sure that this salvation, once tasted, will come full come.
I wake this day again in need of being saved. I suppose that’s pretty much true everyday. When one learns a melancholy spirit as a child, the notion of soul, this inevitable orientation toward life that shapes and colors all one sees, seems natural as breathing.
What is less automatic is living in the love that lifts the soul to song. That one must receive as a gift you can never control but only look for and be ready to receive when it appears.
So today I look and wait to taste again the salvation I need.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
1 Peter 1:8-9
You have not seen him, yet you love him; and still without seeing him you believe in him and so are already filled with a joy so glorious that it cannot be described; and you are sure of the goal of your faith, that is, the salvation of your souls.
Reflection
The soul seems like such an inconsequential reality. Some doubt that it is a reality at all. It’s an illusion, a puff of smoke, a fleeting intuition that one is more than mere molecules that chemistry and biology can explain.
But I often come to my day badly in need of being saved. My soul is sour, not hopeful; my orientation is towards things small and petty, the every day wrangling of getting a few things done before surrendering to the clock. Nothing in me soars, hopes or expects to taste the greatness of being alive, of knowing wonder, of feeling moved by love, beauty, laughter or tears.
Cynicism reigns on such days. Life fades to gray. Happiness is a mere diversion from the conflicts, disappointments and the anxieties that rush through consciousness at warp speed, soon to be replaced by others, too many of which set up shop and stay for a while, souring the spirit.
But salvation does appear, sometimes from out of nowhere, when I least expect. It is then that all this fades, and life takes on color and again. Consolation fills gray desolate places, and vision lifts to see life and possibilities not there moments before.
The heart, the soul grows full of gratitude and rich with generosity. It is then that I know the goal of my faith, your goal Holy One, to bring all that is and all of me--all the time--into this wholeness of life where grace reigns and the heart is sure that this salvation, once tasted, will come full come.
I wake this day again in need of being saved. I suppose that’s pretty much true everyday. When one learns a melancholy spirit as a child, the notion of soul, this inevitable orientation toward life that shapes and colors all one sees, seems natural as breathing.
What is less automatic is living in the love that lifts the soul to song. That one must receive as a gift you can never control but only look for and be ready to receive when it appears.
So today I look and wait to taste again the salvation I need.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Today’s text
1 Peter 1:8-9
You have not seen him, yet you love him; and still without seeing him you believe in him and so are already filled with a joy so glorious that it cannot be described; and you are sure of the goal of your faith, that is, the salvation of your souls.
Reflection
But I have seen you, Jesus.
I live in 21st century North America, not first century Palestine. I have not walked down dusty roads as did the privileged and fearful few who were your friends and followers.
I have not touched the literal flesh of your hand, watched the contour of your cheek when you smiled or reacted to the familiar timbre of your voice when happy or sad, angry or determined.
None of that lies within my experience.
But my stomach turns at the sound of these words, for I believe I have seen. I cannot read these words about not seeing without feeling false.
The scenes of your ministry are vivid enough in my imagination to provide moments of awareness in which I know, however partially, what it was like to walk with you, to be frightened by and for you, to bask in the warmth of your welcome and even to be corrected for my foolish fears and lack of care.
I have also seen your soul in the souls of people from more than one or two places and cultures, and I marvel at the vision, the willingness to bear pain, the hope and joy I have witnessed.
I believe you live because I have seen how you stir life and care even in souls who aren’t quite sure what to make of you.
You are not absent. You are not separate from the souls of men and women but dwell at depths unsearchable, and your presence streams out of us when the dams that block your way wear down.
I have seen your beauty, and it saves my soul each time I see it. It stirs your life in me, and I become a little more alive.
So I don’t want to hear about not seeing you. That is neither my perspective nor experience.
Instead, I will simply thank you for giving me enough vision to see what I need to see, and to know that it is you whom I see amid the faces.
Pr. David L. Miller
Today’s text
1 Peter 1:8-9
You have not seen him, yet you love him; and still without seeing him you believe in him and so are already filled with a joy so glorious that it cannot be described; and you are sure of the goal of your faith, that is, the salvation of your souls.
Reflection
But I have seen you, Jesus.
I live in 21st century North America, not first century Palestine. I have not walked down dusty roads as did the privileged and fearful few who were your friends and followers.
I have not touched the literal flesh of your hand, watched the contour of your cheek when you smiled or reacted to the familiar timbre of your voice when happy or sad, angry or determined.
None of that lies within my experience.
But my stomach turns at the sound of these words, for I believe I have seen. I cannot read these words about not seeing without feeling false.
The scenes of your ministry are vivid enough in my imagination to provide moments of awareness in which I know, however partially, what it was like to walk with you, to be frightened by and for you, to bask in the warmth of your welcome and even to be corrected for my foolish fears and lack of care.
I have also seen your soul in the souls of people from more than one or two places and cultures, and I marvel at the vision, the willingness to bear pain, the hope and joy I have witnessed.
I believe you live because I have seen how you stir life and care even in souls who aren’t quite sure what to make of you.
You are not absent. You are not separate from the souls of men and women but dwell at depths unsearchable, and your presence streams out of us when the dams that block your way wear down.
I have seen your beauty, and it saves my soul each time I see it. It stirs your life in me, and I become a little more alive.
So I don’t want to hear about not seeing you. That is neither my perspective nor experience.
Instead, I will simply thank you for giving me enough vision to see what I need to see, and to know that it is you whom I see amid the faces.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Today’s text
1 Peter 1:6-7
This is a great joy to you, even though for a short time yet you must bear all sorts of trials; so that the worth of your faith, more valuable than gold, which is perishable even if it has been tested by fire, may be proved -- to your praise and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.
Reflection
What is the worth of our faith? What proves its value and praises you, dear Friend?
I have often seen the faith of souls who did not crumble under hardship. They kept hoping and looking for signs of your redeeming presence well beyond the limits of normal human patience.
Perhaps this is a primary proof of faith’s great value. We hope when no one and nothing else gives reason for hope. We look for the enduring presence of love when grief, loss or threat fill our senses.
Our souls lift to the future’s unseen, unknown hills, trusting that something, someone--You--will be there and we will know it, even though your nearness is not felt in the here and now.
Our faith brings with it an endurance, buoyancy, a sly wait-and-see smile that intuitively knows you are God, and you are not done.
It stands ready to break out in joy, with a heart that “knew all along” that you would answer with a love that constantly labors beyond the limits of our vision.
Today, well everyday, I need this faith, my Lord. It awakens in me a giddy joy quick to laugh and willing to wait and see what you yet will do.
That laughter is prayer of greatest praise for you, Loving Mystery. So today, let me laugh.
Pr. David L. Miller
1 Peter 1:6-7
This is a great joy to you, even though for a short time yet you must bear all sorts of trials; so that the worth of your faith, more valuable than gold, which is perishable even if it has been tested by fire, may be proved -- to your praise and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.
Reflection
What is the worth of our faith? What proves its value and praises you, dear Friend?
I have often seen the faith of souls who did not crumble under hardship. They kept hoping and looking for signs of your redeeming presence well beyond the limits of normal human patience.
Perhaps this is a primary proof of faith’s great value. We hope when no one and nothing else gives reason for hope. We look for the enduring presence of love when grief, loss or threat fill our senses.
Our souls lift to the future’s unseen, unknown hills, trusting that something, someone--You--will be there and we will know it, even though your nearness is not felt in the here and now.
Our faith brings with it an endurance, buoyancy, a sly wait-and-see smile that intuitively knows you are God, and you are not done.
It stands ready to break out in joy, with a heart that “knew all along” that you would answer with a love that constantly labors beyond the limits of our vision.
Today, well everyday, I need this faith, my Lord. It awakens in me a giddy joy quick to laugh and willing to wait and see what you yet will do.
That laughter is prayer of greatest praise for you, Loving Mystery. So today, let me laugh.
Pr. David L. Miller
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