Today’s text
Luke 5:8-11
When Simon Peter saw this he fell at the knees of Jesus saying, 'Leave me, Lord; I am a sinful man.' For he and all his companions were completely awestruck at the catch they had made; so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were Simon's partners. But Jesus said to Simon, 'Do not be afraid; from now on it is people you will be catching. Then, bringing their boats back to land they left everything and followed him.
Reflection
At the end, what do I want to have done? Who do I want to have followed?
When all my time here is memory and few moments of earth’s sweet air remain for me, what do I want to be able to say, “This I have given? This I have thought. This I have loved. This I present to you, Jesus.”
They left everything and followed you, these few fishermen. Perhaps I should feel shame in the face of such self-giving, for I give so little. But I do not. Nor do I believe you want such feelings, despite the guilt your followers stir in themselves for no good purpose.
Joy and desire color my heart, not guilt or shame. I want the joy of giving each act and word, each hour and day to the love you are. And I want to do it mindfully, aware and present to each moment.
I want to rise above unconscious living, little thinking of how this moment can be lived in and for you. I want my mind to leave everything else to follow you so that in each moment, this is all that matters.
Yes, I know: I want a life beyond those lived by your first friends, this Simon, James and John. They were unconscious most of the time, and they followed you not knowing, not being aware of much of anything, except that being with you was better than being without you.
But they left everything to follow, and this stirs joy and desire in me to do the same in my own way and time. For I am little different from them, slightly more conscious, I suppose.
But I, too, know that being with you is better than being without you. And each time my mind wanders away to thoughts and motives other than your love, it enters a netherworld so monochrome and draining compared to the bright joy of knowing you near.
So keep calling to me when I wander. Call me from my meandering thoughts, my wild hare impulses, my self-indulgent narcissism and self-important posturing.
Call me to leave them all, even if you must call me a million times and more. I will keep leaving them, again and again, until the day I when all here is done for me, and I can say, “This I have done; you, I have loved.”
Pr. David L. Miller
http://prayingthemystery.blogspot.com/
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Friday, February 05, 2010
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Today’s text
Luke 5:8-11
When Simon Peter saw this he fell at the knees of Jesus saying, 'Leave me, Lord; I am a sinful man.' For he and all his companions were completely awestruck at the catch they had made; so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were Simon's partners. But Jesus said to Simon, 'Do not be afraid; from now on it is people you will be catching. Then, bringing their boats back to land they left everything and followed him.
Reflection
A first act of courage is here, the first steps from a mind of fear to … well, they didn’t know. They did not know where they were going or what might happen. They had not idea what was just beginning.
But as they left their boats the way of fear was ending for them. This journey would take the rest of their lives and then some.
It’s that way for all of us, Jesus. You invite us beyond the mind of fear to a new mind, a new consciousness, a new way of seeing and being. Uneducated fishermen take their early steps on this way by being intrigued or amazed enough to follow you into the unknown.
They wanted to be near whatever you had, to hear whatever you might say, to see whatever you might do and to know whoever you are … because being with you was better than being anywhere without you.
This much they knew … and little else. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was following, being with you.
In your presence the fear, the anxiety, the dead clay that weighs our spirits all fall away, as we find, to our amazement, that we are children of God’s abundant delight, whom the Father favors with grace everlasting and inexhaustible.
You knew this, Jesus. And when this awareness sinks into our minds, into our being and bearing, other souls feel lighter and more alive in our presence, captured by the life that is you.
Fill me with all that you are. Grant me your own mind, Jesus, that with the Christ mind I may live beyond my fears and with such joy that hearts may be warmed by your nearness, even in the likes of me.
I know; it’s a journey. You don’t arrive all at once. It takes a lifetime and then some. But today, may I take a few steps on the way.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 5:8-11
When Simon Peter saw this he fell at the knees of Jesus saying, 'Leave me, Lord; I am a sinful man.' For he and all his companions were completely awestruck at the catch they had made; so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were Simon's partners. But Jesus said to Simon, 'Do not be afraid; from now on it is people you will be catching. Then, bringing their boats back to land they left everything and followed him.
Reflection
A first act of courage is here, the first steps from a mind of fear to … well, they didn’t know. They did not know where they were going or what might happen. They had not idea what was just beginning.
But as they left their boats the way of fear was ending for them. This journey would take the rest of their lives and then some.
It’s that way for all of us, Jesus. You invite us beyond the mind of fear to a new mind, a new consciousness, a new way of seeing and being. Uneducated fishermen take their early steps on this way by being intrigued or amazed enough to follow you into the unknown.
They wanted to be near whatever you had, to hear whatever you might say, to see whatever you might do and to know whoever you are … because being with you was better than being anywhere without you.
This much they knew … and little else. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was following, being with you.
In your presence the fear, the anxiety, the dead clay that weighs our spirits all fall away, as we find, to our amazement, that we are children of God’s abundant delight, whom the Father favors with grace everlasting and inexhaustible.
You knew this, Jesus. And when this awareness sinks into our minds, into our being and bearing, other souls feel lighter and more alive in our presence, captured by the life that is you.
Fill me with all that you are. Grant me your own mind, Jesus, that with the Christ mind I may live beyond my fears and with such joy that hearts may be warmed by your nearness, even in the likes of me.
I know; it’s a journey. You don’t arrive all at once. It takes a lifetime and then some. But today, may I take a few steps on the way.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Today’s text
Luke 5:3-10
When he had finished speaking he said to Simon, 'Put out into deep water and pay out your nets for a catch.' Simon replied, 'Master, we worked hard all night long and caught nothing, but if you say so, I will pay out the nets.' And when they had done this they netted such a huge number of fish that their nets began to tear, so they signaled to their companions in the other boat to come and help them; when these came, they filled both boats to sinking point. When Simon Peter saw this he fell at the knees of Jesus saying, 'Leave me, Lord; I am a sinful man.' For he and all his companions were completely awestruck at the catch they had made; so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were Simon's partners. But Jesus said to Simon, 'Do not be afraid; from now on it is people you will be catching.'
Reflection
“Do not be afraid.” How many times do those words appear on your lips, Jesus? How many times in all of Scripture?
It is as if this were the central truth we must know. Forget all else. Remember this: There is no reason for fear.
Life is uncontrollable. Unexpected and painful things will happen. Friends will forget and betray you. Work once meaningful will drain your soul. Youth, health and strength will fade. Threats from without and within will come.
But don’t worry. Don’t be afraid. All you are and all you have, all you hope and all you fear rests in the infinite abundance of the Father’s heart. Know this, and fear is gone.
There is such a contrast between you, Jesus, and those who surround you. Anxious crowds push nearer to hear, and you take to a boat. The fishermen doubt anything good can happen after a long night’s labor gains nothing. But you quietly direct them to deep water.
Amazed, they struggle at the nets to gather the catch. You stand silently in the background, watching. I wonder, do you smile at the startling abundance they haul in?
Peter confesses his unworthiness and the discomfort of being in your presence, a presence he cannot possibly understand. His eyes are fixed squarely on himself.
Wrong place. Everyone in the story dwells in the wrong place. Their hearts rest in their emptiness, their need, their inadequacy, their anxiety about having and being enough. Little wonder they are amazed when abundance appears.
But you are not surprised, Jesus. No amazement appears on your face or in your voice. You dwell in perfect peace, knowing the infinite abundance of the divine heart is always enough … and always will be.
May my mind dwell with yours, Jesus. May all your children share your peace.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 5:3-10
When he had finished speaking he said to Simon, 'Put out into deep water and pay out your nets for a catch.' Simon replied, 'Master, we worked hard all night long and caught nothing, but if you say so, I will pay out the nets.' And when they had done this they netted such a huge number of fish that their nets began to tear, so they signaled to their companions in the other boat to come and help them; when these came, they filled both boats to sinking point. When Simon Peter saw this he fell at the knees of Jesus saying, 'Leave me, Lord; I am a sinful man.' For he and all his companions were completely awestruck at the catch they had made; so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were Simon's partners. But Jesus said to Simon, 'Do not be afraid; from now on it is people you will be catching.'
Reflection
“Do not be afraid.” How many times do those words appear on your lips, Jesus? How many times in all of Scripture?
It is as if this were the central truth we must know. Forget all else. Remember this: There is no reason for fear.
Life is uncontrollable. Unexpected and painful things will happen. Friends will forget and betray you. Work once meaningful will drain your soul. Youth, health and strength will fade. Threats from without and within will come.
But don’t worry. Don’t be afraid. All you are and all you have, all you hope and all you fear rests in the infinite abundance of the Father’s heart. Know this, and fear is gone.
There is such a contrast between you, Jesus, and those who surround you. Anxious crowds push nearer to hear, and you take to a boat. The fishermen doubt anything good can happen after a long night’s labor gains nothing. But you quietly direct them to deep water.
Amazed, they struggle at the nets to gather the catch. You stand silently in the background, watching. I wonder, do you smile at the startling abundance they haul in?
Peter confesses his unworthiness and the discomfort of being in your presence, a presence he cannot possibly understand. His eyes are fixed squarely on himself.
Wrong place. Everyone in the story dwells in the wrong place. Their hearts rest in their emptiness, their need, their inadequacy, their anxiety about having and being enough. Little wonder they are amazed when abundance appears.
But you are not surprised, Jesus. No amazement appears on your face or in your voice. You dwell in perfect peace, knowing the infinite abundance of the divine heart is always enough … and always will be.
May my mind dwell with yours, Jesus. May all your children share your peace.
Pr. David L. Miller
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Tuesday, February, 2, 2010
Today’s text
Luke 5:2-6
Jesus got into one of the boats -- it was Simon's -- and asked him to put out a little from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. When he had finished speaking he said to Simon, 'Put out into deep water and pay out your nets for a catch.' Simon replied, 'Master, we worked hard all night long and caught nothing, but if you say so, I will pay out the nets.' And when they had done this they netted such a huge number of fish that their nets began to tear … .
Reflection
“If you say so … .” I doubt Peter’s words were spoken eagerly, as if he were itching to pull at the oars and lug the nets over the gunnels of the boat after a long night of wasted effort. Food and a nap in the heat of the day were far more attractive.
“But if you say so, Jesus, … we’ll do it again.”
That’s what I hear, resistance to hard work that already proved fruitless.
My body feels that on some days, but not today, despite the enervation of energy from my limbs. Perhaps it is an oncoming cold, perhaps just a snowy winter Monday resting heavy on my shoulders.
But despite these aching muscles I remain quietly unwilling to surrender to the voice that says it doesn’t matter, the work, that is--the commitment and effort required to stay faithful to the duties of the day. There are calls to be made, promises to keep, appointments to make, plus letters to write, scattered papers on the desk and yes, prayers for human pains likely to cross my path.
Who knows how many there will be? It’s still early.
The voice that asks, does any of this really matter, never fully goes away. I hear it as I step from the shower and dry my head. But the question doesn’t drag me into its gravity. It lacks power to discourage or stop me from taking the next step into the day.
This has nothing to do with the strength of my will or the courage of my resolve. I learned long ago not to depend too much on those.
I go, stepping into the duties of the day because you, Jesus, tell me to do it all again. Take care of the detail, pray with the people, make the calls and keep the appointments. Throw out the nets because … well, you never know.
Unexpected graces come. You need to be there to catch them.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 5:2-6
Jesus got into one of the boats -- it was Simon's -- and asked him to put out a little from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. When he had finished speaking he said to Simon, 'Put out into deep water and pay out your nets for a catch.' Simon replied, 'Master, we worked hard all night long and caught nothing, but if you say so, I will pay out the nets.' And when they had done this they netted such a huge number of fish that their nets began to tear … .
Reflection
“If you say so … .” I doubt Peter’s words were spoken eagerly, as if he were itching to pull at the oars and lug the nets over the gunnels of the boat after a long night of wasted effort. Food and a nap in the heat of the day were far more attractive.
“But if you say so, Jesus, … we’ll do it again.”
That’s what I hear, resistance to hard work that already proved fruitless.
My body feels that on some days, but not today, despite the enervation of energy from my limbs. Perhaps it is an oncoming cold, perhaps just a snowy winter Monday resting heavy on my shoulders.
But despite these aching muscles I remain quietly unwilling to surrender to the voice that says it doesn’t matter, the work, that is--the commitment and effort required to stay faithful to the duties of the day. There are calls to be made, promises to keep, appointments to make, plus letters to write, scattered papers on the desk and yes, prayers for human pains likely to cross my path.
Who knows how many there will be? It’s still early.
The voice that asks, does any of this really matter, never fully goes away. I hear it as I step from the shower and dry my head. But the question doesn’t drag me into its gravity. It lacks power to discourage or stop me from taking the next step into the day.
This has nothing to do with the strength of my will or the courage of my resolve. I learned long ago not to depend too much on those.
I go, stepping into the duties of the day because you, Jesus, tell me to do it all again. Take care of the detail, pray with the people, make the calls and keep the appointments. Throw out the nets because … well, you never know.
Unexpected graces come. You need to be there to catch them.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Reflection
Happiness and Haiti, funerals and politics, Genesis and church chatter come together in unexpected ways.
A couple of years ago, a journalist published a book that lived on my daughter’s shelf until she gave it to me, knowing I was intrigued by the title, The Geography of Bliss. The book is a funny and illuminating read.
The author traveled to a dozen countries to learn why those who live there are so happy--or not. The countries were not picked at random. He chose his destinations after visiting the World Happiness Database (I’m not making this up) in Amsterdam, The Netherlands.
The WHD compiles and compares studies from social scientists across the world, who examine the age-old mystery of what makes for happy contented lives. Countries even receive scores on a 1-10 scale, based on extensive surveying.
In case you’re wondering, the United States is not among the 20 happiest places on Earth. It ranks below places like Costa Rica, Malta, Malaysia, Bhutan and Iceland, way below Iceland.
No surprise there. During my lifetime, Americans have become many times richer, but the divorce rate has tripled, violent crime has quadrupled, the prison population quintupled and mental health disorders like anxiety and depression are much more common, not merely more commonly diagnosed.
This leads to the obvious conclusion that money matters less we imagine. After having enough to satisfy basic human needs, happiness plateaus and having more money makes little difference.
What matters are social and family connections, belonging to a people, a history and a culture that transcends oneself. Trusting others is essential, your neighbors and fellow citizens. Envy is totally toxic, as are unrealistic expectations for personal success and accomplishment.
Happy places allow people to try and fail without shame, providing them freedom to reinvent themselves. They have space for idleness beyond the daily rush. They also inspire an expansive consciousness, the awareness that life is bigger than me and my personal needs.
Summing up his view--and much of this happy, thoughtful book, a public official in the tiny nation of Bhutan said, “Happiness is 100% relational.”
The Bible connects here. Once we move beyond silly arguments about whether the creation stories of Genesis are literal history, the stories speak deep truth about human nature and how we connect with God.
We are created from and for each other, to complete each other. We are fashioned for harmony with the earth and those with whom we share it. Recognize it or not, we are deeply connected, and we find our joy and purpose in the community of those connections.
Little wonder that human happiness is 100% relational. We can’t deny our communal nature or hide it under the myth of the “self-made man” or beneath foolish ideas that suggest that we can live separate lives. We are intimately connected with every other human family with whom we share this planet.
Occasionally, the narcissistic walls that keep us from seeing these connections crumble. Earthquakes do this. Pictures from Haiti move us in ways we can neither understand nor deny, as we witness faces of suffering and recognize those faces as our own.
So we care, we act, we give, becoming more human and, dare I say it, happier, having fulfilled in our bodies the humanity and communal connection God fashioned in our depths.
This is why two funerals I recently led were happier places than the American political marketplace. At the funerals, we remembered, cried and laughed together. We felt the sinews of love, struggle and history that bind us together. Amid sorrow, there was joy as we experienced those connections--and our connection with God.
This is so different from American politics where the reality that we are all in this together is daily ripped asunder by tactics of denunciation and excoriation.
Different, too, were the circles of conversation that continued longer than normal in the narthex last Sunday. Serious exchanges and laughter spiced the air. People shared news of illnesses and treatment, of family visits and children’s activities, of hopes and anxieties for the coming week.
Connections were savored and nurtured, and we were happier and more human for it. In some not-so-hidden way, the kingdom of God’s delight was real.
Pr. David L. Miller
Happiness and Haiti, funerals and politics, Genesis and church chatter come together in unexpected ways.
A couple of years ago, a journalist published a book that lived on my daughter’s shelf until she gave it to me, knowing I was intrigued by the title, The Geography of Bliss. The book is a funny and illuminating read.
The author traveled to a dozen countries to learn why those who live there are so happy--or not. The countries were not picked at random. He chose his destinations after visiting the World Happiness Database (I’m not making this up) in Amsterdam, The Netherlands.
The WHD compiles and compares studies from social scientists across the world, who examine the age-old mystery of what makes for happy contented lives. Countries even receive scores on a 1-10 scale, based on extensive surveying.
In case you’re wondering, the United States is not among the 20 happiest places on Earth. It ranks below places like Costa Rica, Malta, Malaysia, Bhutan and Iceland, way below Iceland.
No surprise there. During my lifetime, Americans have become many times richer, but the divorce rate has tripled, violent crime has quadrupled, the prison population quintupled and mental health disorders like anxiety and depression are much more common, not merely more commonly diagnosed.
This leads to the obvious conclusion that money matters less we imagine. After having enough to satisfy basic human needs, happiness plateaus and having more money makes little difference.
What matters are social and family connections, belonging to a people, a history and a culture that transcends oneself. Trusting others is essential, your neighbors and fellow citizens. Envy is totally toxic, as are unrealistic expectations for personal success and accomplishment.
Happy places allow people to try and fail without shame, providing them freedom to reinvent themselves. They have space for idleness beyond the daily rush. They also inspire an expansive consciousness, the awareness that life is bigger than me and my personal needs.
Summing up his view--and much of this happy, thoughtful book, a public official in the tiny nation of Bhutan said, “Happiness is 100% relational.”
The Bible connects here. Once we move beyond silly arguments about whether the creation stories of Genesis are literal history, the stories speak deep truth about human nature and how we connect with God.
We are created from and for each other, to complete each other. We are fashioned for harmony with the earth and those with whom we share it. Recognize it or not, we are deeply connected, and we find our joy and purpose in the community of those connections.
Little wonder that human happiness is 100% relational. We can’t deny our communal nature or hide it under the myth of the “self-made man” or beneath foolish ideas that suggest that we can live separate lives. We are intimately connected with every other human family with whom we share this planet.
Occasionally, the narcissistic walls that keep us from seeing these connections crumble. Earthquakes do this. Pictures from Haiti move us in ways we can neither understand nor deny, as we witness faces of suffering and recognize those faces as our own.
So we care, we act, we give, becoming more human and, dare I say it, happier, having fulfilled in our bodies the humanity and communal connection God fashioned in our depths.
This is why two funerals I recently led were happier places than the American political marketplace. At the funerals, we remembered, cried and laughed together. We felt the sinews of love, struggle and history that bind us together. Amid sorrow, there was joy as we experienced those connections--and our connection with God.
This is so different from American politics where the reality that we are all in this together is daily ripped asunder by tactics of denunciation and excoriation.
Different, too, were the circles of conversation that continued longer than normal in the narthex last Sunday. Serious exchanges and laughter spiced the air. People shared news of illnesses and treatment, of family visits and children’s activities, of hopes and anxieties for the coming week.
Connections were savored and nurtured, and we were happier and more human for it. In some not-so-hidden way, the kingdom of God’s delight was real.
Pr. David L. Miller
Friday, January 22, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Today’s text
Luke 4:18-19
The spirit of the Lord is on me, for he has anointed me to bring the good news to the afflicted. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives, sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free to proclaim a year of favor from the Lord.
Reflection
Today, I want to be free. Everyday I want to be free, but I am free only on some days. And recently, they have been too few.
So I come again and listen to the voice of freedom, and I hear your desire, singular it is: to set captive souls free from every bondage that prevents true humanness.
I am well acquainted with bondage. In recent days, my impatience with long meetings, human pettiness, administrative minutia and my own limitations of time and grace have made me less than a reasonable soul.
Perhaps I should ask for forgiveness for ways in which my anger has owned me, but I know forgiveness is already there for the taking. And I take it.
Plus, my soul is less bound by guilt than by my own perfectionism and my insistence that life should be lived as much as possible from the center of one’s soul, from the grace and beauty that is there.
That comes easily when I listen and talk to souls, seeking their good, when I pray and speak of the Loving Mystery you are, Holy One. But it disappears behind a thick gray cloud of frustration and melancholy when the big picture of life and grace gets lost in a dense cloud of detail.
So what is my captivity? Dealing with the detail? Shutting off my soul when the minutia and pettiness comes? Or perhaps it is my secret belief that I should not have to (and do not want to) deal with the nuts and bolts of the machinery that makes life … and congregations run?
Frankly, I can’t name my own bondage at this moment, but I am freer just for acknowledging this. I sense the center of my soul that has been lost to me in recent days. And the love I feel there--yours and mine--frees me to live with the joy of freedom that is your desire for me. And mine. Thank you.
Let me live this day from the heart.
Pr. David L. Miller
Luke 4:18-19
The spirit of the Lord is on me, for he has anointed me to bring the good news to the afflicted. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives, sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free to proclaim a year of favor from the Lord.
Reflection
Today, I want to be free. Everyday I want to be free, but I am free only on some days. And recently, they have been too few.
So I come again and listen to the voice of freedom, and I hear your desire, singular it is: to set captive souls free from every bondage that prevents true humanness.
I am well acquainted with bondage. In recent days, my impatience with long meetings, human pettiness, administrative minutia and my own limitations of time and grace have made me less than a reasonable soul.
Perhaps I should ask for forgiveness for ways in which my anger has owned me, but I know forgiveness is already there for the taking. And I take it.
Plus, my soul is less bound by guilt than by my own perfectionism and my insistence that life should be lived as much as possible from the center of one’s soul, from the grace and beauty that is there.
That comes easily when I listen and talk to souls, seeking their good, when I pray and speak of the Loving Mystery you are, Holy One. But it disappears behind a thick gray cloud of frustration and melancholy when the big picture of life and grace gets lost in a dense cloud of detail.
So what is my captivity? Dealing with the detail? Shutting off my soul when the minutia and pettiness comes? Or perhaps it is my secret belief that I should not have to (and do not want to) deal with the nuts and bolts of the machinery that makes life … and congregations run?
Frankly, I can’t name my own bondage at this moment, but I am freer just for acknowledging this. I sense the center of my soul that has been lost to me in recent days. And the love I feel there--yours and mine--frees me to live with the joy of freedom that is your desire for me. And mine. Thank you.
Let me live this day from the heart.
Pr. David L. Miller
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Today’s text
Luke 4:18-19
The spirit of the Lord is on me, for he has anointed me to bring the good news to the afflicted. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives, sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free to proclaim a year of favor from the Lord.
Reflection
Listening to your words, Jesus, I no longer see you in ancient Palestine. I see a hilltop in Haiti with a crowd seeking you, flowing, scrambling up the steep side to get close.
They are the afflicted, and like the afflicted of every age their hearts--to say nothing of their stomachs--move them to seek food that fills the anxiety of emptiness, the emptiness of body and spirit.
Empty they are, lacking food and medicine for broken bodies and balm for souls that may well live out their earthly lives in perpetual grief for the destruction of their city, the death of loved ones and the obliteration of hope.
They want what I want: to feel alive. They want to know the exhilaration of truly living, no longer weighted to earth by sorrow and fear.
They want to feel the surge of joy and love in their depths that makes them eager for the day.
They want to live beyond the grief of today and the dread of tomorrow, knowing that Love is near, that Love will come, that Love surrounds and enfolds even the horrors of devastated cities and the cry of broken children. And I believe that you do, Holy One.
I don’t know why the earth shudders and kills a multitude in a moment. I don’t know why the sun doesn’t grow dark and weep in abject sorrow at the destruction of human life that happens every day on this planet.
I have no adequate answers for my own questions, let alone those of others.
I simply know the lilt of heart that happens when I hear you, Jesus, telling me that you come to set captive hearts free, liberating us from all that binds us from living in hope and joy.
That’s why crowds sought you. They wanted to live. Me, too.
I want this life for those whose lives are unimaginable to me, lives that must stumble amid the rubble of places like Port au Prince. Let love and the passion of care surround them all, Lord Jesus. Release their souls from the anxiety of emptiness and the dread of tomorrow.
Free their captive souls--and mine, that we all might live. We all want to live, which is why we seek you, Jesus, from ancient times to hilltops in Haiti.
Pr. David L. Miller
Today’s text
Luke 4:18-19
The spirit of the Lord is on me, for he has anointed me to bring the good news to the afflicted. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives, sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free to proclaim a year of favor from the Lord.
Reflection
Listening to your words, Jesus, I no longer see you in ancient Palestine. I see a hilltop in Haiti with a crowd seeking you, flowing, scrambling up the steep side to get close.
They are the afflicted, and like the afflicted of every age their hearts--to say nothing of their stomachs--move them to seek food that fills the anxiety of emptiness, the emptiness of body and spirit.
Empty they are, lacking food and medicine for broken bodies and balm for souls that may well live out their earthly lives in perpetual grief for the destruction of their city, the death of loved ones and the obliteration of hope.
They want what I want: to feel alive. They want to know the exhilaration of truly living, no longer weighted to earth by sorrow and fear.
They want to feel the surge of joy and love in their depths that makes them eager for the day.
They want to live beyond the grief of today and the dread of tomorrow, knowing that Love is near, that Love will come, that Love surrounds and enfolds even the horrors of devastated cities and the cry of broken children. And I believe that you do, Holy One.
I don’t know why the earth shudders and kills a multitude in a moment. I don’t know why the sun doesn’t grow dark and weep in abject sorrow at the destruction of human life that happens every day on this planet.
I have no adequate answers for my own questions, let alone those of others.
I simply know the lilt of heart that happens when I hear you, Jesus, telling me that you come to set captive hearts free, liberating us from all that binds us from living in hope and joy.
That’s why crowds sought you. They wanted to live. Me, too.
I want this life for those whose lives are unimaginable to me, lives that must stumble amid the rubble of places like Port au Prince. Let love and the passion of care surround them all, Lord Jesus. Release their souls from the anxiety of emptiness and the dread of tomorrow.
Free their captive souls--and mine, that we all might live. We all want to live, which is why we seek you, Jesus, from ancient times to hilltops in Haiti.
Pr. David L. Miller
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
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
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
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
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