Spending Strength

Listen to me, O coastlands, pay attention, you peoples from far away! The LORD called me before I was born, while I was in my mother’s womb he named me. He made my mouth like a sharp sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me away. And he said to me, “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified.”

But I said, “I have labored in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; yet surely my cause is with the LORD, and my reward with my God.”

And now the LORD says, who formed me in the womb to be his servant, to bring Jacob back to him, and that Israel might be gathered to him, for I am honored in the sight of the LORD, and my God has become my strength – he says, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.”

Isaiah 49:1-6, excerpt from Isa 49:1-7, lectionary for January 19, 2020

Another week in one of Isaiah’s ‘servant’ texts. Last week the LORD was the speaker. We read and saw God as if gesturing to an audience, saying, ‘See — my servant!’ (Isa 42:1), then turning and addressing the chosen one directly: ‘I have called you … I have given you’ (Isa 42:6). This week the servant — first spoken of, then spoken to — becomes the speaker: ‘The LORD called me … said to me …’ (Isa 49:1, 3). Not every word is the servant’s own — the LORD is quoted — but the LORD’s words are recited in the voice of the servant, who recalls and repeats words first addressed to him: ‘I will give you as a light to the nations …’.

But whose voice is the servant’s?

I wonder this every week as I read. What license do I have to take the words of scripture as addressed to me, an individual? How can I appropriate them to my own need when they were spoken to and for and gathered by a community of faith? Should I not always search the words of the Bible for the Word of the LORD given to the collective, God’s guidance to the public ‘We’ of the community, persons gathered across space and time, not just the personal ‘I’?

In whose voice — for whose need — should I read? In whose voice does the servant speak? Is the servant a community (‘You are my servant, Israel’)? Is the servant an individual (one formed in the womb to gather Israel in)? How can Israel gather Israel? Perhaps this puzzle is itself a cue to a solution? After all, if the text can so persistently blend and blur the identity of community and individual so that the servant’s identity is more ‘both/and’ than ‘either/or,’ is that not license for me to do the same? To say this text is to me and not only to me. To say I can only understand it to the extent I can read my own life through its lens — and it through my own life. And to say it can only be understood to the extent that it is read and lived in community.

The curve encompassed by this passage is experienced by individuals and by communities: the conviction of failure, of having spent one’s strength to no avail. Is that not an implicit disappointment in the LORD who had called so beguilingly in the first place?

(My mouth made like a sharp sword; my face flint-firm; my stance solid on a sure foundation — Wait! It is wobbling underfoot! I throw out my arms to regain my balance. And I wonder anew.)

Read the arc of it how you will: individual or community. Both pursue calling. Both make decisions about missions and buildings and relationships. Both look up to wonder if they/we/you/I are adrift after all, somehow off-target to the understood goal. Both ask for what has that strength been poured out?

This wobble — the speaker’s worry that labor has been wasted — is where the text turns, the arc sharpens. In v.4 the servant mourns his strength all spent; in v.5 the servant claims God his strength — and in this renewed sense of relationship and possibility (not just God calling the servant ‘mine’ but the servant using the possessive pronoun of God) — comes a new insight. The servant’s fear of failure is borne of mistaking a waypoint for the end goal. The servant Israel has thought in terms of Israel alone. The servant (he/I/you/we) was focused on this particular and mistook it for God’s whole. But the LORD says Oh, Israel is too light a thing — I am sending you to the world. To the world.

Is that the lesson? It is too slight a thing for me to gather just myself (for a community to consolidate just its own existence) — yet even that too-small burden is beyond my capacity. Stop spending my own strength. Spend, instead, the strength of the one who called me and formed me and gave me to go. To the world.

And in being given, and going out, may I find myself (may you find yourself; may we find ourselves) gathered in with all the nations, as God’s salvation reaches the ends of the earth.

Holding Hands

Thus says God, the LORD, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread out the earth and what comes from it, who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it: I am the LORD, I have called you in righteousness, I have taken you by the hand and kept you; I have given you as a covenant to the people, a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness. I am the LORD, that is my name; my glory I give to no other, nor my praise to idols. See, the former things have come to pass, and new things I now declare; before they spring forth, I tell you of them.

Isaiah 42:5-9 (excerpt from Isa 42:1-9, lectionary text for Sunday, January 15, 2020)

My route home from work passes within a few blocks of an elementary school. A florescent-vested crossing guard monitors the six lanes the students need to cross. A woman comes with a small child. They walk hand in hand, step in step. A daughter holds her father’s hand. His grip seems inadequate for her desiring: she takes her other hand and carefully folds her father’s fingers around her own, tightening his clasp. A woman calls to a child who is lagging behind. He is studying the ground — that stick there is very interesting — and shows no conception of the passage of time, the need to get across the road, or of any next thing to be done. She calls again, and holds her arm behind her, hand outstretched, and the child trots up and extends his own and she latches hold of him. He seems still preoccupied with the various excessively interesting details of the world all around, but as her hand takes hold, his own seems also to respond and grasp. She holds him, and he holds her, and the two of them cross.

‘I have taken you by the hand,’ the LORD says. My own hand opens. I study it as if seeing it anew. ‘I have taken you by the hand.’ Called, yes — that’s a church word for vocation. Called and righteousness and keeping and covenant. All church words. But not only — not even first — words for use in a sanctuary on Sunday. Words for everyday. Words for crossing the street. Calling. Taking hold.

The LORD calls and not only stretches out his arm, extends his hand for my own to hold (the parent not looking behind but waiting for — expecting — the feel of the smaller hand inserted into her own), but the LORD takes hold of my hand. The LORD grasps. The LORD holds on to me. Do I need to carefully curl God’s fingers more closely around my own fist or is God’s clasp already close enough for comfort and strength? How do I feel God’s hand holding mine? How do I reach to hold on to God’s?

Looking at my own hand, my own palm. Fingers curl sightly inward when my hand is at rest; forming a slight hollow, a curve, within it. I stretch out my arm and reach and grasp my Bible with my hand. I feel the texture of the cover, the slight heft of its whole within the curve of my palm. Jesus was handed the scroll and unrolled it (Luke 4:17). Jesus held God’s word in his hand. I hold God’s word in my hand. I open and touch the smoothness of the page with my finger. Let my eyes rest, again, on the tiny black type. I am reaching for God’s own outstretched hand. I am taking hold. I am held and kept and pulled along (that little boy!) into God’s next new thing.

‘I am the LORD,’ God declares. ‘My glory I give to no other,’ God proclaims. But my hand I give to yours, God promises. And you, God says, I give to the work that we shall do together: open eyes, invite light. Hold my hand. It’s time to cross.

Arise, shine…

Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.

For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples;

but the LORD will arise upon you, and his glory will appear over you.

Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.

Lift up your eyes and look around;

they all gather together, they come to you;

your sons shall come from far away, and your daughters shall be carried on their nurses’ arms.

Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice,

because the abundance of the sea shall be brought to you, the wealth of the nations shall come to you.

Isa 60:1-5; from Isa 60:1-7, lectionary for Sunday, Jan 5, 2020

This has been a burdened season — not without its moments of connection, even joy — but overall heavy. Nor did the turn of old year into new do much to lift the weight of it. Our daughter re-capped the past few days: Jan. 1 ‘Happy New Year!’; Jan. 2 ‘Australia’s burning’; Jan. 3 ‘World War III’s begun.’ The specter of international conflict seems to be solidifying as we watch. National news reports more racial and anti-Semitic violence. Nor let us forget presidential impeachment voted but not yet (if ever?) tried.

I spend New Year’s Day in the Isaiah text. I just read it, first. Read it with my eyes. Form the words with my lips. Try to hear them in my mind. The first line sings to me in choral crescendo — I can see the singers increasing their volume, lifting voices and shoulders and faces in joy. The first line sings to me celebration. And maybe, I think, that is right. All those singers rejoicing in the season, in the Christ Child born, in the Magi coming, in the gifts presented. ‘Arise, shine!’ the singers sing with heady energy — already risen, already aglow — as if what they sing is the lyric of their own shining delight. As if they sing to share their gladness, to invite others — me — into it: you, too, may know; you, too, may rise as we do! But that is not the prophet’s lyric. The song is not of joy-attained, the chorus of the already-glad inviting me to listen, even perhaps to sing along. The song is of joy-promised.

‘Arise, shine,’ the prophet urges a woman. The imperatives are singular, feminine. The ‘you’ throughout the text (‘the LORD has risen upon you’; ‘your light’; ‘your eyes’; ‘your sons’) is grammatically the same: singular, feminine. The woman addressed is not yet risen, nor yet shining — else she would not have to be summoned to it. The woman addressed is aware of the darkness. She needs news of the light.

‘Lift up your eyes and look around’ the prophet urges. Now my mental picture changes. No longer the choir triumphant (perhaps a bit smug in its own gladness?) but a woman weighted with grief. Her shoulders are slumped. Her head is bowed. What she sees is the ground. Within the book of Isaiah, it is ground that’s been trampled by war. Within the book of Isaiah, it is ground to which some survivors have returned but found that the dear-claimed earth did not bring forth for them new and abundant life but remained a patch of briars from which hard-scrabble living had to be wrested. Within the book of Isaiah, it is ground over which the community itself squabbles, hacks itself into divisions, re-opens injuries already suffered, revives the cut of the expected future lost. This is the one to whom the lyric is addressed. This woman with her burden so heavy that her body is bowed under it. Within the book of Isaiah, she is Zion, the holy city, the daughter-people. Outside of it, she is any of us weighted and aching, all of us waiting in the dark.

‘Arise, shine. … Lift up your eyes and look around.’ The lost future grieved is returning to you — not in the same form as before (the sons and daughters, so grown they are!) — but a future sprung new.

‘Arise, shine’ — it is possible, not of your own light, but of the LORD’s. God’s glory risen (60:1). God’s glory soon to appear (60:2). There’s a tension between the tenses — has the LORD’s glory already come or is it yet to be? Yes, the text says. The tension recurs in v.4: ‘they all gather together’ is already to be seen; even as the coming and being carried is yet to be. Maybe that paradox of disparate tenses is what draws the woman in and on towards the possibility of joy: ‘you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice’ (v.5) — the action couched as yet incomplete, but promised sure. And because of that promise, of the interplay of already and not-yet, the woman to whom the whole is sung can see and hear and know the pattern well enough to anticipate and live its next turn. Rounding back to the beginning of the text, she can get up and she can shine because shining already is, because now she can see the dawn even before the sun has risen above the horizon.

‘Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice’ (v.5) promises the NRSV. The literal Hebrew says your heart — her heart, my heart — will tremble and be opened wide. Grief curls us inward. There is risk to opening an already-aching heart. Hence the trembling perhaps. It comes of hope, of amazement: that this wonder should be! But the text proclaims it is. And I want to see it come. Not to wait until it taps me on my shoulder and bids me rise, but to straighten as I can at the sound of the news, to lift my head and look to the horizon for the light that is coming and the light that has come and the glory appearing, even now.

‘Arise, shine.’

Night Hearts

Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who are of a fearful heart, “Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come and save you.” Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp, the grass shall become reeds and rushes.

Isaiah 35:4-7; excerpt from text for Sunday December 15, 2019, Isaiah 35:1-10

The sound blares, breaking the night. The dark that had come as a comforting unity as soon as I turned off the lamp is split into bits. I find myself standing beside my bed, phone in my hand, bare feet somehow colder than the bare floor, with no conscious recollection of how I went to vertical from prone. It is not good news. It never has been, these calls that come in the dark. This time, at least, I am being told, not summoned. I can return to my bed, which is still warm. I can pull the covers over. I can fall back asleep. Except, of course, I cannot do the last. Not immediately. I am still too aware of my heart’s pounding.

‘Say to those of fearful heart,’ the prophet addresses the people. The opening imperative is plural, ‘You, all of you, say …. ’ The once-removed addressees are plural as well: all of those whose heart is hastening. Those who need the word are multiple, yet they are one in the characterization of their shared heart. It is not in the Hebrew, ‘fearful’: the word used to describe the heart is different than the verb in the command not to fear. Their heart is ’hasty,’ ‘swift,’ ‘rash,’ or ‘impetuous.’ (The alternate glosses come from other verses where the same verb is used.). Their heart is racing. Whether the news come is unexpected or long-dreaded or still only anticipated, not yet here, they find themselves standing in the cold dark, heart pounding, with no clear recollection of how they got there nor a clear vision of what comes next.

The prophet gives them the latter, at least. The prophet promises their God coming with ‘terrible recompense’ to save. Rather, the prophet commands the people (‘You, all of you, say’) to say the word of saving. Not just to save generically, generally, but to ‘save you.’ You plural. You whose heart is racing in apprehension, in reaction, in fear. Be strong. Do not fear. The prophet foretells sight and hearing, leaping with the height and grace of a deer, songs exultant rising to the sky. The promise is wonderfully, deeply embodied — this salvation is not something away from this world but something that transforms our experience of this world, something that transforms the world itself. The desert springs with water. Burning sand becomes a pool. Human and earthly reviving are woven in together, as if each — both — are necessary parts of the exact same whole.

The transformation has not come. Not yet. Nor does the prophet say that it has. Eyes shall be opened; ears shall be unstopped. Shall be so — surely so — just not yet. But even to say it coming marks a change. The prophet previously heard from the LORD regarding the people’s heart and eyes and ears: the heart made fat, or dull, the eyes shut, the ears stopped (Isa 6:10). Some 30 chapters on, that period of incapacity is coming to a close. This heart is not dull, insensitive, unable to respond. This heart pounds, races, in reaction to what has come. The people are becoming again awake. Awake again to know their need. Awake again to given a word of renewal of sight and hearing and dancing and song, the desert itself rejoicing and the dry land made glad. All creation redeemed by its creator. Be strong. Do not fear.

I don’t live in a desert. And, in truth, the awareness of my own heart’s racing is (again) too new for a word of comfort to be heard, for the promise of saving to feel near. But it matters, yet, to know that the word is said, that God’s purpose has turned from one phase to the next. As if I and others might — in time — be turned with it.

I walk on the paved path by the creek. Sometimes, the water seems glass-still. But the water cannot be still. This is a creek, not a pool. Sligo flows to join the Northwest Branch, and together they run into the Anacostia which flows into the Potomac which joins the Chesapeake which itself flows into the ocean. I look, and I see glass rather than motion. But the water cannot be still. There must be motion because this is a creek. I have to stop walking to see it. I have to stop walking and look a long while at the water’s glassy brown color and the leaves floating atop it. Only when I myself have stopped walking and have looked and have fixed my sight on the leaves, then I begin to be able to see: the leaves are moving; I can measure their subtle progress against the bank. But I had to look long to realize it was happening all along. The word of the LORD is told in the motion of the water.

Yes, my heart is pounding. Yours is racing too, for whatever night noise brought you awake, for whatever dread outcome has occurred in actuality or expectation. It is awful. And it is not the end. It begins the summons of the LORD — God speaking to all of us, for none among the people (not even the prophet) have not known that fear, that grief, that ache. So all of us are called by God to strengthen the weak hands, firm the feeble knees, and share the news with all of us — each other — we whose hearts race and flutter and pound in our chests: Be strong, do not fear. The LORD our God is coming to save. The movement is subtle but it is sure. You do not need to sing, not yet. But know that — soon — creation itself shall sing for and with you.

Root and Branch

A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the LORD shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the LORD. His delight shall be in the fear of the LORD.

Isaiah 11:1-3; excerpt from Isaiah 11:1-10, lectionary text for Sunday Dec. 8, 2019

In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” […] But when he saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism, he said to them, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruit worthy of repentance. Do not presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.

Matthew 3:1-2, 7-10; excerpt from Matthew 3:1-10, lectionary text for Sunday Dec. 8, 2019

When are we in God’s work as a dresser of trees. How far along? That’s what I wonder as I read these two texts together. I am struck by the confluence of images and the dynamic possibilities between. Isaiah writes of a shoot springing from Jesse’s stump, of a new branch growing from old roots. Matthew recounts John the Baptist’s threat that ‘even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees.’ Is God is the middle of hat-racking the bush that out of it a new branch might grow? Or is God rigorously chopping at the very root, cutting down the fruitless tree to burn the wood? Or are these perhaps the very same when: is the ax John describes as lying there at the root, set on the ground for work yet to come, as if this ‘even now’ is not yet the last moment. In which case, what is the next now to anticipate? And what do we do with this one?

To ‘hat-rack.’ A verb I did not know until a few years ago when Paul so extensively chopped back our overgrown holly bush that only bare branches remained, branches looking unusually naked without their usual dress of leaves and berries. Not a leaf was left; nor any twigs. Not even a single leaf. Surely the bush was as good as dead. But it was not so. The sturdily bare branches broke out in bouquet-like clusters of twigs; leaves reappeared, as glossy a green as any of those that had been hacked off; the bush’s life seemed revived.

Jesse’s stump is no shrub, of course. An oak is a tree which is felled, rather than hat-racked. Yet now when I read Isaiah’s text the memory of that hat-racked holly shows through the primary image of the rough-cut stump. I see Jesse’s stump is not desiccated and dead, with the new shoot an unexpected miracle, so much as the tree cut back to allow or encourage that new shoot to appear. The branch is a promise not a surprise. It is springier than the old wood, and a slightly brighter color, and once it appears, the deep green leaves are soon to follow: wisdom and understanding, counsel and might, knowledge and fear of the LORD.

I have always read John the Baptist’s words as a description of God’s wrathful judgment: the ax already set to its work; the tree already being cut down; the end already begun. But this year, I read Matthew’s text in conversation with Isaiah’s, and I realized the ax is ‘lying’ at the root. It is not striking wood. It is not being swung. It is lying there. Waiting. It will be used, John says, to fell the fruit-less trees for burning. It will be used to fell the fruitless trees. So bear fruit, John urges. Yes, John calls the religious leaders ‘viper’s brood.’ Yes, John speaks of wrath and of flame. The gospel is not a gentle text. It is violent in its urgency. ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Bear fruit. Bear fruit. For the kingdom.

Because the shoot from Jesse’s stump has sprung, with the spirit of the LORD upon him. But we are not yet in that peaceable kingdom that the prophet describes. The wolf and the lion do not live peacefully with the lamb and the calf and the little child. We do not even live peacefully with each other. We hurt and destroy ourselves and our world, and the earth is not yet full of the knowledge of the LORD even as the sea levels are rising. Isaiah’s vision may be full of grace when it is read just in itself. But Isaiah’s vision is judgment when it is read against the world, when it is read against we who call ourselves the body of the branch which sprang from Jesse’s stump.

Then I go back to the violence of John the Baptist’s proclamation and hear that the divine dresser of trees is not done. Even now the ax is resting at the root. Maybe it will cut back the fruitless branches for new growth. So that we may do as we can, as we are charged to do. Bear fruit.

The shoot from the stump of Jesse has sprung, the branch has grown out from his roots. The kingdom of heaven has come near. Even now.

Bear fruit.

Homecoming

I was glad when they said to me, "Let us go to the house of the LORD!"
Our feet are standing within your gates, O Jerusalem.
Jerusalem built as a city that is bound firmly together.
To it the tribes go up, the tribes of the LORD, as was decreed for Israel,
to give thanks to the name of the LORD.
For there the thrones for judgment were set up, the thrones of the house of David.
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: "May they prosper who love you.
Peace be within your walls, and security within your towers."
For the sake of my relatives and friends I will say, "Peace be within you."
For the sake of the house of the LORD our God, I will seek your good.

Psalm 122; lectionary text for Sunday December 1, 2019, Advent 1

The first Sunday of Advent. Thanksgiving cooked and eaten and cleared away (and several packets of turkey in the freezer, hurrah). The Advent wreath set round with fresh candles, bright cranberry red. Not the liturgically correct purple or blue, but my husband found the box of tall, unburned candles in the thrift store, the price was right, and their color is festive and pleasing. We lit the first candle last night. Again, not liturgically correct, being the Saturday before rather than the first Sunday of Advent, but the girls (this the collective noun applied to the two young women who are our daughters) were home then, and not now, so we lit that first candle together.

‘I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the LORD!’

The girls were home by Tuesday dinner. Tuesday night I lay in bed and rehearsed that verse in my mind — silently reciting each word in turn — and heard as I did the voices of the girls earlier in the evening. It was a mental polyphony: the voice of the text with the voices of my grown daughters together looking at a toy catalog which for some reason still arrives in our mail. Why did those voices weave together? Something about homecoming? About being glad in it? To whose gladness is the counterpoint keyed? Is it the gladness of coming home (being welcomed and even, a little, cosseted)? Is it the gladness of welcoming (me in the kitchen so enjoying the sound of their voices rising and falling in conversation that I delay calling them to do dinner chores)? Or is it all these gladnesses themselves coming together as welcomed and welcomer sit down to eat together at the table?

‘I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the LORD!’

Psalm 122 is a ‘psalm of ascents’ according to the superscription. It is a pilgrimage psalm, evoking the gathering of God’s people, all of them together going up to Jerusalem, ascending the city’s heights, entering the house of the LORD. The first verb of the psalm is singular — I was glad, I rejoiced — but the trigger for this personal joy is plural — ‘when they said’ — and its experience is communal — ‘let us go.’ Was the psalmist’s gladness unique or did the whole ascending body share it? Did the gladness rise with the group’s ascent or was it something that they claimed in rote until they reached their goal and stood there, within the gates of Jerusalem, and recognized that the complex of physical sensations — bodies tired, legs aching, feet firmly planted within the gates — included the wild, rising, unreasoning conviction of joy. Pilgrims and city bound firmly together in this intention, in this arrival, in this jubilee.

‘I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the LORD!’

Whose gladness is evoked? Whose welcome is anticipated?

What has this psalm to do with Advent?

The psalmic summons is closely paralleled in the prophetic text: ‘Many peoples shall come and say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD’’ (Isa 2:3). The suggestion of David’s ‘thrones’ (why plural?) and of judgment connects with the other texts assigned for this day (Isa 2:1-4; Matt 24:36-44), echoing the theme of God’s purpose for all God’s creation approaching its intended end of peace and security. ‘I will seek your good,’ the psalmist promises — this promise the culmination of the earlier declaration, ‘Our feet are standing within your gates, O Jerusalem.’ The city as a person, an other with whom speech may be had, an addressee not just an object. The city as a conversation partner. The city and the LORD? God does not speak in this psalm; the psalmist prays but does not explicitly address the prayer to God. Yet God is present throughout: it is the prospect of going up to God’s own home, the singular, unique space in which the LORD condescended to dwell — where God’s name and eyes and heart are forever (1 Kings 9:3) — the occasions that opening profession of joy. Can the psalmist’s delight be any less than the LORD’s?

Tuesday night I wondered at the possible connection of my gladness and God’s. I imagined the LORD working in the kitchen to prepare a table for all the sons and daughters coming home, God’s own heart warmed by the presence and voices of God’s adult children in God’s own house. Then I shied away from my own audacity — it cannot be that. The psalmist sings joy at the anticipation of ascending to the LORD’s house, the joy of entering in, not the joy of inviting in. Now, though, I wonder if the joys are not intertwined after all. The gladness of being welcomed finds an equal measure in the gladness of the welcome given. Hearts reunite in mutual affection, the desire for peace, the intention for each other’s well-being. The Advent promise of arrival is expressed in this anticipation of mutual joy, this the ultimate aim of the judgment referenced in the texts: God’s joy in God’s people; our joy in our LORD.

We extinguish the first Advent candle at the end of dinner. ‘Now the light which was in one place at one time can be in all places and all times,’ one of the girls intones with joking seriousness. The joke is that this is a line from the Godly Play** lessons, and neither girl has been in a Godly Play classroom for years and years, and this is our dinner table and not Sunday School. The seriousness is that ritual embeds itself as deeply as that. And that the words recited are true.

‘I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the LORD!’

I was glad when I realized again that the LORD is coming to be born anew on this God’s own earth. I was glad when I realized again the joy of inviting God to make a home in me and of me, and not just me alone. And — when I feel it entire or when I recite it by rote — I am glad when I realize that through the climb in the company of others, there will come the wild, rising, unreasoning joy of God’s own welcome table, set for all places, and all times, until time ends, and begins again, in the house of the LORD.I was glad when I realized again that the LORD is coming to be born anew on this God’s own earth. I was glad when I realized again the joy of inviting God to make a home of me and not me alone.

** Godly Play: An Imaginative Approach to Religious Education, by Jerome Berryman

The LORD is my shepherd

Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture! says the LORD. Therefore thus says the LORD, the God of Israel, concerning the shepherds who shepherd my people: It is you who have scattered my flock, and have driven them away, and you have not attended to them. So I will attend to you for your evil doings, says the LORD. Then I myself will gather the remnant of my flock out of all the lands where I have driven them, and I will bring them back to their fold, and they shall be fruitful and multiply. I will raise up shepherds over them who will shepherd them, and they shall not fear any longer, or be dismayed, nor shall any be missing, says the LORD.

Jer 23:1-4; excerpt from lectionary text for Nov. 24, Jer 23:1-6.

I spent the week coming down with a cold, although I didn’t know it till Friday when it bloomed unmistakably and I realized what had been the problem of the prior days. I also spent the week pondering the ‘wrong’ text — that is, the lectionary text for Sunday November 24. I blamed the calendar mixup on whatever virus had been percolating, decided that the text was scheduled right for my life, and pondered it anyway.

The start of the week, I had been focused on the middle line of this passage, the transition where the LORD commits to shepherd the sheep. Psalm 23 and John 10 are too familiar for me not to read this text in resonance with their rhythms. Nor will I resist the comfort of the LORD God-self being my Good Shepherd, whose voice I know and follow to pastures green and waters still.

Yet by week’s end, it wasn’t just my cold that had bloomed. As national investigations moved to a new phase, the opening verses loomed larger in my mind. Their renewed-to-me prominence sharpened my sense of the shocking premise of the central promise.

Jeremiah is not speaking just of the last kings of Judah in the opening verses. Jeremiah is speaking the LORD’s word against any ‘who builds his house by unrighteousness, and his upper rooms by injustice; who makes his neighbors work for nothing, and does not give them their wages’ (Jer 22:13). The denunciation is scathing. ‘Are you a king because you compete in cedar?’ (22:15). Kingship is not living in a ‘spacious house’ — whether multi-winged and white or cedar-paneled and vermillion-painted (22:14) — but doing justice and righteousness, hearing the cause of the poor and needy (22:16). The word of the LORD is against any who imagines that sheep exist just so that he can be shepherd and does not realize that he is shepherd because there are sheep to herd.

Except that, actually, sheep are gathered and led and watered for the sake of the shepherd. Whatever may have been the wild origin of the family ovine, sheep were domesticated so that humans could benefit from their fleece and their milk and their meat. In that sense, the sheep are meant to benefit the shepherd. The crime of the leaders of Judah is that they imaged that the sheep were meant to benefit them; they did not see that their duty to the nation was their duty to the LORD. ‘My flock,’ the LORD says, ‘sheep of my pasture.’ The flock — the kingdom — is not the possession of its leaders, to use as they see fit. The flock is God’s own. The leaders are merely stewards, charged to husband the flock they hold in trust for the LORD.

What, then, accounts for the LORD’s commitment to shepherd the flock God-self? The reference is relatively slight in this particular passage but recurs elsewhere. God will shepherd God’s flock, seeking the lost, and binding up the injured, and feeding them with justice (Ezek 34:11-16). For whose sake does God do this? To whom are those sheep owed that the LORD — God whose arm rules, whose palm has held the waters and marked the heavens — should lead them so gently, and carry the lambs (Isa 40:10-12)?

It is easy enough to juxtapose the news and the word. The world is still rife with leaders who imagine the position is about power rather than about service, who do not recognize the obligation owed to others. The LORD has a word for that. But that word reveals a puzzle: that the LORD should so dearly desire the proper shepherding of God’s flock as to undertake shepherd work. Does the LORD owe this to God-self? (Far be it from you, the Judge of all the earth, to act unjustly, Abraham argues with God in Gen 18:25; Remember the oath you swore by your own self, Moses reminds the LORD at Sinai in Exod 32:13.). Does the LORD owe it to us, made in God’s own image and likeness, enlivened by the LORD’s own breath (Gen 1:26-27; 2:7)? Or is this but the same obligation, twice-stated: the LORD shepherds the sheep not only because we are God’s own possession but because in some way we are part of God-self, God’s children, first-born and dearly-beloved (Exod 4:22; Hos 11:1; John 1:12). Love the LORD your God with all your heart and mind and soul and strength, God commands (Deut 6:4-5; Mark 12:29-30). Love your neighbor as yourself (Lev. 19:18; Mark 12:31).

Maybe the LORD shepherds us because God loves us as we are to love our neighbors, as God loves God’s own self: with all God’s heart and mind and soul and strength. Maybe the LORD shepherds us as invitation into God’s own love, for the sake of ourselves and of each other and for God’s sake too.

Habakkuk and the Purple Crayon*

The oracle that the prophet Habakkuk saw. O LORD, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you “Violence!” and you will not save? Why do you make me see wrong-doing and look at trouble? Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise. So the law becomes slack and justice never prevails. The wicked surround the righteous– therefore judgment comes forth perverted.

I will stand at my watchpost, and station myself on the rampart; I will keep watch to see what he will say to me, and what he will answer concerning my complaint. Then the LORD answered me and said: Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it. For there is still a vision for the appointed time; it speaks of the end, and does not lie. If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay. Look at the proud! Their spirit is not right in them, but the righteous live by their faith.

Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4; Lectionary Text for Sunday, November 2, 2019

Why write?

I don’t mean why think, or why wonder, or why put those thoughts and wonderings into words. I mean, having managed to word the thoughts, why write the words?

Why ‘write the vision’? Why ‘make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it’?

Sometimes, of course, it’s the writing that forms the thinking. It’s the discipline of putting words on the page (or screen or tablet) that disciplines inchoate imaginings into clear question or answer or insight.

But what of those other times? What when you’ve already wandered around the neighborhood murmuring aloud, rehearsing the wondering variously and thoroughly? When you don’t need the writing as aid to thinking, why write? What is gained, or changed, when the vision is written? The spoken word is powerful, of course, but it dissipates. The vibrations hang on the air long enough to hit the ear, and then they are gone. The word lingers in memory, maybe, but memory is a chancy thing. It shifts. It loses. And it doesn’t always remember what it has lost.

‘Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it.’

What is this vision that Habakkuk is to write? Is it anything more than the phrase ‘the end’? Is it the rest of chapter 2? Might ‘the vision’ be the prophetic book itself which, after all, refers to itself as ‘the oracle’ (or ‘burden’) that the prophet ‘saw.’ So many words of sight and observation then follow: ‘Why do you make me see wrong-doing and look at trouble?’ the prophet cries out to the LORD. ‘I will keep watch to see what he will say to me,’ the prophet speaks, as if to himself. Having seen the slackness of the law, the perversion of justice, the prophet sets himself to watch for the LORD.

Maybe Habakkuk writes the vision because he cannot not know what he views without putting it to words. Maybe Habakkuk writes the vision to fix what he sees, to resist the possibility of time dulling the gaze, shifting the vision in a sort of incremental creep. No, this is not the law, Habakkuk protests, this is slackness. No, this is not justice, Habakkuk writes, but its perversion.

‘Write the vision…’ Inscribe it on a tablet. Put it outside yourself. Make it a material thing. Turn it over and around in your hands, look at it from all sides, then hand it along to the appointed time to come.

Maybe Habakkuk writes the vision because I cannot see what he has seen without reading his words.

I read his vision writ plain, and the ‘I’ inscribed on the tablet becomes the reading me. Habakkuk’s sight becomes my own. No, this is not the law, I protest, this is slackness. No, this is not justice, I proclaim, but its perversion. I ascend to the rampart that Habakkuk’s pen has inscribed. Habakkuk’s pen has written this watchpost into being. The lines of his script pile up like stones hewn and stacked into a tower. My legs ache with the climb. I put my hands on the stone ledge and lean forward to look out the window and down. I have a different perspective from up here. What lies at the base shows smaller but also more clearly. Then I lift my head and gaze at the horizon. I watch for the LORD. I expect an answer. I will wait to see what word comes.

There is still a vision. I will see it. Take in my hand the tablet on which it is written so plain that a runner can read it, so lasting that another can climb it. Write it anew, build it into being, and hand it again along.

* Apologies to Crockett Johnson’s Harold and the Purple Crayon (1955)

The Eaten Years

O children of Zion, be glad and rejoice in the LORD your God; for he has given the early rain for your vindication, he has poured down for you abundant rain, the early and the later rain, as before. The threshing floors shall be full of grain, the vats shall overflow with wine and oil. I will repay you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten, the hopper, the destroyer, and the cutter, my great army, which I sent against you. You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise the name of the LORD your God, who has dealt wondrously with you. And my people shall never again be put to shame. You shall know that I am in the midst of Israel, and that I, the LORD, am your God and there is no other. And my people shall never again be put to shame.

Joel 2:23-28, excerpt from Joel 2:23-32, lectionary text for Sunday October 27, 2019

I’ve been spending the week in this text, yet only now, as I open my computer and paste the biblical passage into a file in order to write electronically some of what I’ve already written in my journal, do I realize I’d mis-read, or mis-remembered, the line that has rung in my head these past days.

‘I will repay you for the years consumed,’ was the line I had recalled.

A literal consumption within the book of Joel, of course: the crops all eaten by a plague of locusts (1:4), the destruction and ensuing famine lamented in detail in the verses that follow. I was going to mention the locusts, of course, duty-bound to make plain the book-context of the particular line. But here, they already are. The hopper, the destroyer, the cutter, eating the years. It was the eating that had hooked my mind, the image of years consumed — the implication of years wasted, with no growth to show for the time.

The text — the mis-remembered line — is in my mind as Paul and I go to the boat. Clouds hang low, but rain isn’t due in till later. We will try. Pack the lunch, make the drive, stow the bags aboard. Paul starts the outboard as I stand ready to cast off the bow lines. Is that a tiny drop of water on my neck? I wonder as Paul straightens and says in disgust, ‘Is it raining?…’. We stare at the water. It is dotted with circular ripples. Rain. We’re still for a moment. Frustrated. Why do we even try? Do we just go home? The drops are tiny, the fall light. Don’t read them as the day’s refusal of our plans. Pull on windbreakers, cast off lines, and enter upon the water. The sky is overcast and the light dull, but the water gleams — a strange silvery shining. Hoist the mainsail, pull out the jib, set a course. The breeze is steady and out of the northeast so we sail straight down the river and out its mouth into the Bay. Out past the fish trap, far enough out to see Thomas Point Light, and across to Bloody Point, and both ends of the Bay Bridge. This isn’t productive time, I think, but it is not a waste. It is a grounding. A re-grounding of self and soul. Water and wind and the light glinting so wonderfully weird.

We have to tack back when it is time. Criss-crossing the wind in wide angles in order to return from whence we came. The breeze is slighter when we regain our own river. The pace of our passage slows. The wind is shaped by the land, flows in odd currents. We tack across to make a mark, and even as we do, the wind direction shifts, so that we find ourselves sailing back downriver, losing the distance we had gained. A short loss, really, lasting only the necessary angle till we could tack back again, resume our progress towards the goal of home.

But the text still in my head. Time consumed, eaten, wasted. That stretch sailing backwards not waste really, but adjustment in response to circumstance — the wind shifting even as we were shifting course. But there was the surprise and slight dismay of finding ourselves for that moment going in an unanticipated, unintended direction. Years eaten, non-productive, lost. Lost to circumstances (the wind shifting mid-tack), lost to negligence, lost to fault.

Yet maybe only non-productive within a particular window, and that window too small to accurately reflect the whole. That tack is but a short stretch, and even that wrong way takes us across at an angle that allows return. I cannot see what the end point of any particular angle may be, so I must remember that the sail is not over. The story is still unfolding. Even the becalmed stretches (so frustrating at times — the resentment of being powerless to command the wind only slightly tempered by awareness that we have a motor, after all) — even these not ‘waste’; it is only that their end is unknown.

Conversations with friends. Conversations in community. How to measure productivity in maternity or scholarship or ministry outreach? How to measure the return on investment of time and energy and funds? Society’s gauge does not capture the whole.

The book of Joel is not really depicting this sort of ‘waste,’ I know. The locusts were sent in judgment, the loss real and the loss deserved. The issue in Joel is divine punishment tempered in response to repentant plea, turning over into grace that stretches so wide as to heal the land, restore the harvest, refill the granaries — and the empty bellies. ‘You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied.’ ‘My people shall never again be put to shame.’ That line — that promise — repeated. It matters that much. ‘My people shall never again be put to shame.’

The years were eaten. Their emptiness was shame. Now widen the frame. That was then. This is now. The story continues to unroll. The eaten years are wondrously repaid. The shame of their emptiness is entirely removed. And maybe — maybe — what had seemed a gap, a waste, a tack backwards that was unintended and undesired, proves to be a key re-angling of the route that allows passage forward, and home.

The LORD promises this and more: I am in your midst. Be glad. Rejoice. Praise God.

Reading Writing

The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah.It will not be like the covenant that I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt–a covenant that they broke, though I was their husband, says the LORD.But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the LORD,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.

Jeremiah 31:31-34 (excerpt from lectionary text for Sunday, October 20, 2019: Jeremiah 31:27-34)

How many cashmere sweaters does it take to fill a hole in the soul?

This is a trick question. Cashmere does not fill the hole. Cashmere covers it over, hiding it from sight and perhaps, for a little while, from mind. There is comfort in that. Passing comfort, to be sure, but no less real while it lasts. My curser hovers over the ‘Buy now’ button. No. I will not buy. Though the price has dropped. Does that make it all right? How to read the signs? My friend is a pastoral counselor and an indefatigable knitter. If anyone can give me advice about the spiritual dilemma that is cashmere it is she.

How to read the signs? She takes the question seriously, at least. And (ever the good counselor!) does not give me an answer. She nods recognition as I voice what I already realize. It’s not really about the hole in my wardrobe (a mulberry-red cardigan would be useful). I know. By hearing me trace over the lines I’d already noticed, she’s made them plainer, easier for me to read, harder for me to avoid seeing.

Why all this about reading? What does this have to do with Jeremiah, anyway, that fifth century prophet speaking protest and pain at the end of the nation, in the name of the LORD? What does this have to do with this word of a new covenant coming?

Notice the particular newness that is promised. The covenant is not new in content, nor even new in being written. The newness is the direct locus of the writing: the heart.

God has written the covenant before. God’s own finger wrote two stone tablets at Sinai (Exod 31:18; Deut 9:10). And after those first tablets were smashed in response to the people’s sin, after Moses had pleaded and God had resolved to restore relationship with the people, then God wrote the covenant a second time. This time, God wrote on two stone tablets he commanded Moses to carve, in a process of divine-human cooperation (Exod 34:1-4; Deut 10:1-5).

Is the new writing another instance of the same cooperation? Moses provided the stone. I provide the heart. God provides the writing.

Then here as before, the writing does not end the process but begins it. Keep these words in your heart, Moses had said. Write them and recite them and wear them and talk about them (Deut 6:4-9). Writing is written to be read. Inscription is not itself the goal but the means towards knowing God, loving God with all our heart and soul and might (Deut 6:4). God promises to short-cut the process, writing directly on the waiting heart, yet in support of that same goal: ‘know the LORD.’ I learn God by reading God’s writing.

So, what is God writing on my heart, in my life? How to read the lines that sometimes seem so faintly limned? Look. Listen. Ponder. Pray. And ask not just my own soul but inquire of others’ visions and voices. God does not write to end the process but to bring it further towards completion.

Don’t try to cover over the hole. Plumb it. Realize, even, that it’s not a hollow, all the way through, but a channel. It is the path of a diamond-point pen inscribing God’s will for my life, God’s love for my being. God writes so that I may read and, reading, may know the LORD.

So, read what God is writing. Read even (especially) the words cut most sharply and deeply in my heart. Read carefully. Read closely. Read in company. Read life to have life. Abundantly.