On my bedroom windowsill I have a rock that I found on the shore of Skaneateles Lake during a retreat many years ago. It really looks like a miniature mountain and on an outcropping sits a tiny statue of an owl looking out. The composition is a sign to me of God’s strong, wise and ever-watchful presence, a metaphor like that of today’s psalm that sings: Blessed is the Lord, my rock, my fortress, my stronghold, my deliverer, my shield in whom I trust. (PS 144:1-2).
It’s good to have symbols and metaphors that keep us steady in our faith and help us to trust in the everyday, don’t you think? Where do you find such support?
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In his small book, Praying with the Earth: A Prayerbook for Peace, John Philip Newell writes each morning and evening of the week a prayer for the life of the world. Brief as they are, they are compelling in their depth and intensity, calling out to God with vision and yearning, always capturing quickly and quietly a trust of the God that will never disappoint. Here is what he offers on this – and every – Saturday morning.
I’ve been engaged in a number of conversations lately where the topic has been the need to let go of what we can’t control – like the weather and the march of time (specifically our aging process). This morning I opened Meg Wheatley’s little book, Perseverance, to a page called “Life Is Life” and found there some words worth my time and reflection. Perhaps we can all benefit from her wisdom.
It’s raining again. This week we have had a taste of the destruction that has been rare for us, caused by soaking rains and flash-flooding. It’s as if the earth cannot take any more pain. Having cried too long, her tears now overflow in a mud bath on the streets and structural damage to homes and other buildings near our two rivers and the many outlying creeks. Today the rain feels soft and my desire is to go outside and stand, then walk in it, to listen and accept what is happening, to be washed clean of all distress and the insidious doubt that can invade the soul at times like this.
There are two adjacent ranch-style houses on our road whose owners each planted four trees in a row across their front yard. I have watched them grow over the years and sometimes wonder if it was the desire of the owners to have a lot of shade, to hide from the road or just to satisfy their love of trees. They have seemed to me as they’ve grown like a line of sentinels from one yard to the other. Because I am always driving when I pass them, I really don’t know if they are the same kind of trees; I just admire their beauty and their strength.
Today we have an appearance of those two outspoken disciples, James and John, the sons of Zebedee. We first meet them in the gospel of Matthew as they are with their father preparing their nets for fishing. As with all the others who left what they were doing to follow Jesus, one wonders about the reaction in their family. We never meet the father again but their mother shows up in the gospel of Matthew asking for privilege for her sons (MT 20) and today we have Mark’s rendition of that event (MK 10:32-45) where the brothers speak for themselves. It’s a rather shocking passage but maybe understandable if you consider the haughty behavior of their mother recorded elsewhere. Asking Jesus that they be “seated one at your right and one at your left in your glory” is not at all in keeping with the humility expected of the closest followers of Jesus. Even worse is the fact that Mark pairs that conversation with Jesus telling the Twelve what was going to happen to him in Jerusalem – his suffering, death and resurrection.
It is interesting to me that today’s psalm response from the lectionary is part of 119 – the longest psalm of all in the Bible. Fitting, I thought, after a week away that held so many diverse moments, including childhood memories as well as experiences of new places and events. Commentary says that “each segment of Psalm 119 could be read as a separate voice from individuals praying out of their various perspectives” or “one individual experiencing all the various perspectives that one knows along the path of life.” I’m not sure I have integrated all the impressions, information and feelings of the week as it was so full and far-reaching. One thing I do know is that it provided an opportunity (as most events do if we are awake) for self-reflection and gratitude. Thus, I pray this morning with the psalmist as I return to my blessed “normal” life.
Dawn is breaking. It is 13 degrees Fahrenheit outside and the snow continues to cover the land. The psalmist cries this morning, O Lord, hear my prayer and let my cry come to you. Spring is scheduled to arrive today at 12:15PM EDT – the moment when the sun is directly in line with the equator. “It’s hard to believe,” I say to myself, considering the lack of signs of spring. But then I think of the faith of the psalmist whose trust is in the willingness of God to hear the voice of those in distress. There’s lots of distress in the world today and I am drawn to question the faith quotient of those of us who now send out prayers for better times – myself, I mean.
There is such a strong message in the lectionary readings today of the necessity of trust – and reasons to do so even when our patience is wearing thin. It is the psalm that shakes me awake right at the beginning, declaring: God is our refuge and our strength, an ever present help in distress. Therefore, we fear not, though the earth be shaken and mountains plunge into the depths of the sea. (Ps. 46:2-3)
Sometimes the strangest thoughts bubble up when I’m reading the Scriptures for the day. This year we’re reading Mark and today’s section is the familiar story of the Transfiguration (9:2-10). None of the gospels provides all the details for any story but Mark is especially brief – the first written and shortest gospel. In some cases it’s like reading shorthand. Over the years I’ve become brave enough to try filling in some of the blanks in the stories. I doubt it can hurt; it’s not dogmatic teaching but just conjecture for my own deeper understanding. I think of it as a kind of similar activity to that of movie makers who try to give us pictures to accompany the most visual texts – not always successfully, I might add.