Broken Open
Second Sunday after Easter: April 26, 2009
Psalm 4; Luke 24:13-35
South Congregational Church, Amherst, MA
Caroline K. Meyers, Pastor

I love this story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus.  It has everything a good story ought to have – a little suspense, some interesting plot twists, a moment of revelation … a happy ending.  This story is dear to me for all those things.  But I love it, too, because it has something more – it is one of those stories that tells me something new each time I open up to it.  Perhaps like you, it’s a story I’ve read and heard countless times, but each time I come to this story of those broken hearted disciples on the road, of the risen Christ, of the broken bread and the opened eyes, each encounter with it opens me up more, too.

Years ago I bought a painting at a craft fair.  It’s a watercolor of a brick wall with an open archway in the middle.  There is ivy growing along the bricks, and through the archway you can see glimpses of a garden.  It’s a painting that has always felt like an invitation to me – an open door into a magic place where there just might be more doors to discover, more secret gardens to explore. This Easter story of Jesus – alive again! – and the disciples on the way to Emmaus reminds me of that painting: it’s an open archway that serves as an invitation into something surprisingly more.

So this morning I’d like us to travel down that road to Emmaus together with those earlier disciples, and to see what doorways open up for us on the way.

The gospel passage begins with these words: “Now on that same day.”  That “day” was Sunday, the day of resurrection, the day when the women who had gone to anoint Jesus’ dead body had found the tomb empty, and angels proclaiming that he was alive.  That day was when the women, stunned but hopeful, went to tell the other disciples of their encounter, when Peter went back to the tomb to check out their story for himself, and found the tomb empty, just as the women had said.

So this story begins on a day for the disciples that has already been full and confusing, following a whole week of emotional highs – think Palm Sunday entering Jerusalem – and lows – watching Jesus’ death on the cross, and rolling that stone across his tomb.  As those disciples left Jerusalem for their seven mile journey to Emmaus, you can just imagine the weariness in their hearts.  “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel,” was their refrain as they talked to one another on the way.  Listen to the expression of despair even as they speak of hope: “We had hoped…,” they say.  You get the sense that all hope has gone out of them; all they see now is a brick wall ahead.

And then, a doorway.  As the two disciples are walking along, a stranger appears, and walks with them – a little company for their misery.  The stranger asks what they are talking about, and here comes one of those wonderful little quirks in this story, as the disheartened and blinded disciples say to the stranger: “Are you the only one in Jerusalem who doesn’t know what’s gone on there in the last few days?”  In fact, he may be the only one in Jerusalem who does know, but he doesn’t let on.  “Tell me about it,” the stranger says, and the disciples proceed to tell him their tale of woe.  What a picture: the risen Christ listening to his old friends telling him that he’s dead.  They paint the brick wall in vivid color.

And then the stranger paints a doorway in their picture:  “Listen,” he says, “Look back at all the scriptures you know, from Moses through the prophets.  Hasn’t God been preparing us for the suffering of the Messiah all along, and still promising us something unimaginably glorious on the other side of the suffering?” 

The passage here says that Jesus then interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.  The word “interpreted” can be translated also as “explained” or “expounded,” but I especially like the first definition of the word from the Greek concordance: it means to unfold the meaning.  Think of those notes you and your friends passed to each other under the desks back in school, carefully folded over and over again until they were so small that the teacher wouldn’t notice them, and the excitement you felt unfolding each layer, waiting for the message inside.  Jesus unfolded, opened up each layer of the scriptures to those disciples as they walked, showing them glimpses of gardens they’d never realized were there all along.  No wonder they would say later that evening, “Weren’t our hearts burning within us while he was talking with us on the road, opening the scriptures to us?”

The time on the road must have passed quickly as Jesus spoke to them, for soon the disciples found themselves standing at the doorway of their home, close to suppertime.  Though the stranger would have kept going, the disciples – whose hearts had been lightened as they listened to him speak – invited him to come inside for dinner.  I expect they wanted to hear more of the scriptures and this man’s interpretation.

But when the meal was on the table and the disciples were waiting eagerly for more learning from the book, the stranger instead broke open not the scriptures, but the bread.  As he had on the hillside when feeding the five thousand, as he had in the upper room the night before he died, the stranger took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them.

He had been with them for hours on the road that afternoon.  He had been with them for days, months, perhaps even for years before that fateful Friday just a few days earlier.  And throughout all that time, their eyes were kept from recognizing him.  They just didn’t get it.  But in that one moment, when the risen Christ took the bread, and blessed and broke it and gave it to them, their eyes were opened, and they recognized him – finally, fully, the doorway to their hearts was opened and what was inside was Jesus, the Messiah, the Christ, risen and glorified, alive and present, the bread of life held out for them to receive.  They got it!  Yippee!!

And then, he vanished from their sight.

Great.  Just great.  Finally the disciples see the light, and then the light is gone.  Finally they get a hold of what they’ve been looking for, and it slips through their fingers.  Finally they get it, and it’s gone. 

This part of the story usually makes me a little angry, I have to admit.  I’m a person (as the piles of things around my house will attest to) who likes to hold on to things.  Once I’ve got it, I want to keep it, preferably out where I can see it and occasionally trip over it.  Sometimes I keep those things I’ve got out until they get dusty and dented.  Sometimes – o.k., quite often – I keep my things out where I can see them so long that they become part of the furniture, so much so that I forget they’re even there, and I don’t really even see them anymore.

But the risen Christ doesn’t give the disciples a chance to let their encounter with him get dusty, dented, or taken for granted.  He leaves them in the moment that their eyes and hearts are opened, the steam still rising from the broken bread, their mouths still watering with anticipation of the meal.  He leaves them, in other words, not broken hearted, but broken open, with new eyes, new hearts, a new story to tell.  He leaves them not facing another brick wall, but with an open invitation through another doorway, and with an invitation for them to show others the open door as well.

In the many times I’ve read and heard this story, I think I’ve usually focused on the line: “And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him” as the climax of the story, the high point, what it’s all about.

But this year a new story is emerging from the old one.  As I’ve sat with this story recently, the happy ending, instead of being the moment of recognition for the disciples, is the moment when Jesus vanishes from their sight.  It makes the story of the resurrection not just an encounter that the disciples “got” – so they could put it on the shelf of their memories to collect dust – but rather an encounter that invited them to keep alert for other experiences where the risen Christ just might show up, and transform an ordinary moment into an eternal instant, a glimpse of glory. 

Recently I learned a new word.  Actually, it’s an old Greek word, but it was new to me: Mystigogia.  It has historically been used to refer to the period after Easter, when those who had gone through catechism during Lent and were baptized on Easter then followed their entry into new Christian life with a period of spiritual formation, meeting in small groups in peoples’ homes, discussing their experiences in community, and – as the word in Greek implies – learning about the mysteries of living as the body of Christ in the world.  The intentional time of mystigogia invited and encouraged the newly baptized – the ones whose eyes had just been opened to recognize Christ – to keep alert for all the experiences of life where Christ was present, to share their experiences with others, and to invite others into the glorious mystery of faith.

This story today is an invitation for us to make this Easter season our own time of “mystigogia,” of keeping our eyes opened and our hearts attuned to all the ways that the risen Christ is present in our lives.  Especially with the impending “brokenness” of our building and the routine to which we’re accustomed, in this season ahead we have the perfect opportunity to “meet Christ on the road,” and to discover Christ’s presence in new and unexpected ways.  Sitting in stacking plastic chairs in an auditorium in the library rather than in church pews that know from years of use the very curvature of our spines, we will get to learn in a different context the mysteries of living together as the body of Christ.  Walking in and out of different doors to worship, we will be alerted to Christ’s presence in a new idiom.  While the common structure of our material life together – the walls, the organ, the windows, the building that has housed us in worship for 185 years – will be “broken” for a time, we have the opportunity to be opened – perhaps for more than just a time – to the way that Christ lives and moves among us.  Let’s look on this upcoming upheaval not simply as an inconvenient mess, but as an invitation to “mystagogia,” a time for spiritual formation in, and for recognizing Christ’s presence in a place we would never have imagined.

The story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus is a story of openings: The disciples opened their conversation on the road to Jesus, and he in turn opened the scriptures to them.  The disciples opened their home to Jesus, and he opened the bread and their eyes to the gift of God in their midst.  Then Jesus vanished, and the disciples ran out the open door to tell their friends that the stone to the door of the tomb had indeed been rolled away, and that Jesus was alive.

I love this story because it tells me something new each time I open up to it.  And the mystery I’m discovering this time around is this: whenever we open up – our hearts, our eyes, our homes, our meals, our building, our accustomed ways of being together – the risen Christ is present, inviting us further through that archway to the glorious gardens on the other side.

Amen.

REAL PEACE

Second Sunday of Easter: April 19, 2009

Psalm 133, Acts 4:32-35, John 20:19-31

South Congregational Church, Amherst, MA

Caroline K. Meyers, Pastor

I’ve said this to you before and I’ll say it again, no doubt, but I love the fact that this text comes up every year in the lectionary on the Sunday immediately after Easter.  It is as if the wise folks who chose the scriptures for each week of the 3-year cycle knew full well that after the incredible experience of the resurrection, there would be folks in every generation who had someissues with it, and would need regular reassurance.  Just like those first disciples “disbelieving for joy,” or huddled in fear, or knocking about wondering just what they were supposed to do now, we have our own Heinz-57-varieties reactions to Jesus’ resurrection.  This story hits us where we live.

So: where are you living right now, and what are you living with?  Whether you consider yourself a doubting Thomas or a repentant Peter or a faithful Mary or a devoted John, where are you on this morning when the risen Christ comes among us and greets us with Peace?  I ask, because all the texts this morning speak to God’s peace coming among God’s people, and it comes to them in the midst of a variety living situations. 

Before we delve into the gospel, let’s look back at our call to worship.  “How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!” it begins.  In beautiful Hebrew poetry, it uses the imagery of oil running over the head and down the beard and robe of Aaron, of rain coursing down mountainsides.   “Yes,” we think as we read this lovely, brief psalm, “How very good and pleasant, how delightful and refreshing, when kindred dwell together in unity!”  And then we think a little harder, and run through the rolodex of our experience, and let reality get a word in edgewise, and consider editing the psalm, just a tad.  “Behold, how good and pleasant it is when kindred live in unity…and how difficult and rare it is to come by!”

In fact, the psalm itself is more a song of hope for peace than a description of its reality.  When the psalmist uses imagery of the oil anointing Aaron’s head and running down his beard to the collar of his robes, the Hebrew may more accurately be translated as the skirt of his robes.  The oil has a long, circuitous, and indirect path to travel before encompassing its subject. The desire is for that good and pleasant anointing oil to cover the body head to toe, but there’s a long way to go before it gets there.

The point is made even more clearly with the image of dew from Mount Hermon issuing forth in rain on Zion.  Without a map, this seems like simple, pleasant nature imagery.  With a map, though, you can see that Mt. Hermon and Mt. Zion are more than 100 miles apart.  Not only that, but when the kingdom of Israel split into two during and after the reign of King Solomon, Mt. Hermon was located in the north part of the northern kingdom of Israel, and Mt. Zion in the southern kingdom of Judah.  “How good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!” says the psalmist, and we begin to realize that his opening line is a cry of painful yearning, of hope for his people’s restored wholeness.  He lives in a divided state, a place where family, ancestry and hope, has split disastrously in two.  This is not an eyewitness account of peace that is, but rather a dream of peace that still might be, coming from a reality of woundedness.

The book of Acts, which is a companion volume to the gospel of Luke, does purport to have eyewitness sources for its account of Jesus’ life and death and resurrection, and for the Spirited spread of the gospel in its fledgling days, months, and years.  The passage we heard earlier describes the young fellowship of believers in a very early stage, perhaps no more than weeks after the Holy Spirit had fired up Jesus’ cowardly disciples and turned them into Christ’s ardent apostles.  Again, here is an idyllic picture of shalom, peace, harmony, of individuals and community transformed by Christ’s Spirit: Listen again:

 “Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles' feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.”   

In 1984, my second year in seminary, I took a wonderful interdisciplinary course on Utopias.  It was co-taught by a professor of literature, an art historian, and a theologian.  We read George Orwell’s 1984 and other books, investigated some of the American Utopian communities of the 1800s, studied the theological and theoretical roots of many utopian plans for people living together in real peace.  The passage from Acts could well have served as the template for countless of these idealistic experimental gatherings: here were people full of selflessness and compassion, willing to forego personal gain for the corporate good, even to the extreme of giving up their entire possessions so that those who were without would benefit.  Here it appears that the gathered church received from each member according to their ability and distributed to each according to their need (which, interestingly enough, is almost a direct quote from Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto). 

As Luke describes it here, this body of believers truly lived in peace: not a division among them, no gaping wounds, no factions, backbiting, pain, or resentments.  The risen Christ indeed worked great grace within and among them all.  The Spirit that had danced into the open hearts of Jesus’ followers back in Acts chapter 2 had choreographed its holy harmony and spread its gospel like wildfire, and Acts chapter 4 pictures the grand ensemble at its finest.  Utopia reigned.  The kingdom of God made manifest on earth. 

And then Acts chapter 5 begins with the word “but…” and what follows is the cautionary tale of Ananias and his wife Sapphira.  Apparently there were fault lines in the one heart and soul of the believers, and some did hold back a few of their possessions, and within that fledgling church there was lying, and covering up, and fear, and all the other less-than-ideal behaviors that come with being part of any human community, even when than community is the church.  “Behold, how good and pleasant it is when kindred live in unity!”  And how difficult and rare it is to come by!  Even the body of believers closest in time and touch to the risen Christ had their issues with living resurrected lives.  The shimmering vision of peace that Luke describes in Acts chapter 4 is restive beneath its surface.

John’s gospel, on the other hand, describes the anxious uneasiness of the early disciples right out there for all to see.  He says in no uncertain terms that when the risen Christ met them on Easter evening, they were huddled behind locked doors.  They were fearful, and hiding from the religious authorities.  They were divided, too: at least one of them had gone his own way that night, rather than gathering with the community.  No utopian vision here.  This was a body in pain.

It was into the midst of that rattled group of friends that Jesus came, without warning and in spite of locked doors, and spoke those oft-repeated but seldom-grasped words: Peace be with you.  The one who had been unjustly accused, tortured, mocked, killed in the most heinous manner imaginable by the peace-keeping forces of the Pax Romana, and laid to rest in a stone-cold tomb was brought back to life in the world that had so abused and misunderstood him, and the first thing he says to his dumb-struck friends is “Peace.  Peace be with you.”  Amazing.  But perhaps even more amazing is what happened next, as Lutheran Pastor and author Frank Honeycutt describes in a recent issue of Christian Century:

 “Jesus says, ‘Peace be with you’ and then does a rather odd thing (if you ask me) in absolute conjunction with sharing the peace: ‘He showed them his hands and his side,’  Look closely at the story and you’ll notice there is not even a breath separating these comforting words of Jesus and the parading of his scars – his old wounds may be beginning to scab over a bit from the events of the preceding week.  There is something important going on here that connects the peace of Christ with the wounds of Christ.  Jesus stands among them, shows off his palms, hikes up his shirt and lets them take a gander at where the spear went in.  ‘Peace be with you,’ he says, and then his wounds are immediately on display.” 

Honeycutt goes on to ask: “What would happen if we took our cues from Jesus in sharing the peace?”  What indeed? Comically, we’d all sound a little like LBJ showing the press the scar from his gall bladder surgery.  “Peace be with you, Madge, and take a look at my cardiac bypass incision….Peace be with you, Ralph, and let me tell you about losing my job last week… Peace be with you, Lou, I’ve been up all night with my son who’s going through detox… Peace be with you, Pat, I can’t stop worrying about my parents.”

I asked earlier, “Where are you living right now, and what are you living with?”  What if we answered that question honestly as we passed Christ’s peace during worship, rather than being merely polite?  If the peace we share with one another is Christ’s peace, for real, then it is entirely in concert that we recognize our woundedness, right out there in the open.  How good and pleasant it is when kindred stop hiding their brokenness, so they may recognize even more deeply what it is to live together in unity. 

Years ago I led an adult study group called “Sacred Stories” at the church I served in Vermont.  After watching videos of various authors sharing stories of difficult periods in their lives and how those times brought them closer to God, I asked if anyone in the class would be willing to share some stories of their own.  Miraculously, one by one, week by week, each one of the more than a dozen normally taciturn Vermonters who were part of that group talked about where they lived, and what they lived with, and how Christ’s peace had come to them as unexpectedly as it did on that first Easter evening.  One spoke of an abusive father, and how singing “Jesus Loves Me” to herself calmed her fears.  One spoke of her mother’s death.  Another of the loneliness of life on a farm as a child.  Another of his ongoing recovery from alcoholism.  Another of the pain of stretching herself between full-time motherhood and full-time employment.  Another of trying to be a loving and compassionate father to difficult teenagers.  The pain in the room, week after week, was palpable.

But the peace that regularly came upon the folks in that room was more palpable still.  “Peace be with you,” Jesus said to the gathered disciples.  And then he showed them his wounds, and said again: “Peace be with you.”  And then he breathed on them, and said “Receive the Holy Spirit.”  And they did.  And in the sharing of their wounds, in bringing them out from hiding, they found a deeper bond of unity with their neighbors than they had known was possible, and a real peace that truly did pass all understanding.  They found that real peace is not the absence of wounds, but the admission of real pain, and the recognition that Christ is right there in the midst of it, offering the healing presence of God where the wounds are most visible.  True for those living in first century Galilee.  True for those living in 20^th century Vermont.  True for us living in 21^st century Amherst…?

What would happen if we took our cues from Jesus in sharing the peace?  What if we admitted our issues rather than keeping them hidden?   What if we offered the truth of our wounds, and listened to the truth of others’, in the context of Christ’s presence?  We might discover that Easter is real, and that Christ’s redemption, forgiveness, healing, harmony, reconciliation and shalom are not words only, but life-changing realities.  We might find that we are brought to a more genuine unity and a deeper peace than we imagined possible. 

It’s a long way to travel from from head to toe, Hermon to Zion, from brokenness to wholeness, from Pax Romana to Christ’s peace.  But that distance would be significantly shortened if we were willing to admit and share our wounds, hiking up our shirts and letting others see, really see, our pains.  For this is where we live, really.  And when we admit that, then real peace – not surface peace, but real peace – can come in, and breathe on us, and bring us back together.

May it be so.  Amen.

INTO THE UNKNOWN - FAITHING
Second Sunday in Lent - March 8, 2009
Mark 8:31-38; Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16
South Congregational Church, Amherst, MA
Caroline K. Meyers, Pastor
Suzan Young, Appalachia Service Project volunteer

(note: this was done as a dialogue sermon.  the first voice is inidicated in plain text; the second in italics.  The two of us speaking were in Kentucky for two days the previous weekend.)

If you’d told us a year ago that we’d be driving down a winding Kentucky Road with sketchy directions and no decent map to follow, following a pizza truck whose driver we’d run into at a gas station, and heading toward a town of less than 300 people to spend the weekend on sleeping bags with two dozen strangers with whom we’d enjoy getting muddy, cold, sore, and drenched to the skin, we’d have laughed.  Just like Abraham and Sarah.  But there we were, taking wrong turn after wrong turn, until finally, up one last, narrow, almost 90 degree hill, we found the Center where the training would occur.  All day Friday we heard from veteran workers about the mission and experience of ASP, Appalachia Service Project.  We tried to picture what it would be like bringing 15 other church members, ages 15 to 75, into this new territory.  We didn’t sleep much that night.  The next morning we set out in our small groups, each with a truck full of tools, for “a place that I will show you.” 

During Lent this year we are exploring the idea of what it means to be pilgrims, travelers, on the road with Jesus.  During this 40-day season, we’re trying to listen more intently for God’s voice, learning to pay attention to where it is inviting, leading and calling us to go.  Whether that pilgrimage involves passage from one physical location to another, or is “only” a movement within our own hearts, we are seeking to journey deeper into relationship with God, ourselves, and all those other wandering souls that God loves so much.  Our journeys might take us to the Appalachian Mountains, or the Himalayas, or no further than our armchair; but wherever we go on these holy treks, we trust God’s hand to lead us into the unknown way ahead.

When we look at the scriptures, we realize that there have been countless generations of pilgrims who have walked this road ahead of us.  So perhaps we will find firmer footing since their feet have trod this ground before.

Abraham is one of the first of our pilgrim ancestors.  And these were his traveling instructions: “Go.  Leave your home, your territory, and your family.  Go, to a place that I will show you.”

Honestly, this does not sound like much to go on.  Both the destination and the directions to get there are vague, at best.  And not even a pizza truck to follow!  You can imagine the questions that rattled in him: What might be waiting out there in the great unknown?  How will I know when I get there?  What if there are wrong turns along the way; how far off the track might I go before turning around and getting back on the right road?  And just why am I going in the first place???

“Go.  Leave your home, your territory, and your family.  Go, and I’ll show you along the way where you are going.  Go, and I will bless you and multiply you, and I will make you a blessing, a great blessing, to others.”

Well, Abram may have thought: I’m going to be blessed, and to be a blessing.  That certainly clarifies things!

Imagine a valley so steep that there’s not 100 yards of level space between the mountains – not enough space for a football field. There’s a narrow gravel road no wider than a driveway snaking its way up between the mountains. All along both sides of that road homes are defiantly built – with little or no foundation – atop the heavy mud-clay soil. In the lowest point of the valley a brook is gurgling along – not 100 feet from the road. We were sent to a location between the brook and the road.  The ground was pitched about 35-40 degrees from the road to the brook and on the opposite side of the brook the mountain rose almost straight up.

There were two outbuildings – a shed and an outhouse, as well as a dog house with a dog on a very short chain. Across the road was a fenced in area with a chicken coop and some chickens clinging to the side of the mountain.  Directly behind the home and literally on top of it, was a second home – a modified trailer. Two cement steps that seemed like they should belong to the trailer were shifting precariously in the mud – clinging to nothing, leading nowhere. There was no grass, only the bare mud-clay soil.

Apprehension rose as we were greeted by these sights, and smells, and we weren’t sure we were prepared for what might lie ahead.   That sense was heightened by the weather - the day was dreary and cold – the upper 30’s with a strong chance of rain.

Abram was 75 years old when he first heard God’s initial call promising him a new land, the blessing of children, and the assurance that through his obedience all the peoples of the earth would also be blessed.  This first call of God to Abram is found in Genesis, chapter 12, the first 3 verses.  And then verse 4 begins, simply, “So Abram went…”  He went into the unknown, taking his immediate family and the family of his nephew, Lot.  Not knowing what might lie ahead, Abram and his small entourage packed up their belongings and headed for – literally – God-knows-where. 

We don’t know how old Peter was when Jesus called him from the lakeshore to follow him.  We do know from the gospels that he was a fisherman, and married.  We also read in the gospels that he, like Abram, left immediately when he heard Jesus’ say “Follow me.”  He did not know where that following would lead.  But something in the voice of Jesus caused him to put down the nets he knew so well and move into the unknown.

In Genesis passage we heard earlier, Abram had traveled a good many years since he first was called to pack up and move.  For 25 years he had heard God’s promises, promises of a settled home and the pitter patter of little feet to fill it and descendants as many as the stars.  Over the past quarter century, he had taken lots of wrong turns while trying to make those promises come true on his own, none of which had worked.  And yet again in today’s reading, God reiterates the absurd promise that Abram, now 99, and his wife Sarai, not too far behind, would soon be parents.  No wonder the two old-timers laughed!  But God even changed their names as witness to that promise, calling them to keep going into the ever-more ridiculous unknown, trusting a future in God’s hands.

In the passage from Mark, Peter had also been walking with Jesus for some time.  He had followed him through thick and thin, through powerful healings and miraculous meals.   And on this day, he had finally come to see Jesus for who he really was – and had said so right out loud: “You are the Christ!” Peter declared, so glad that he finally got it!  Now, after all this time, he knew exactly where they were headed: the Christ would come to overthrow the oppressive rulers of Israel, and they would again be free.  But then Jesus started talking about how he must go through great suffering, and rejection, and death.  This was not the path Peter expected to follow.  This was not the game plan he’d mapped out.  This was not the way the Christ was supposed to go…was it?  This was new territory…and just as absurd and impossible for Peter to fathom as it was for Abraham to imagine a child of his own.

The home we were sent to work on was “neat as a pin” when we went in and were introduced to the family.  A crackling pot-bellied stove kept the low-ceilinged room warm and cozy.  The residents of the home were Lily, her son Adam, and his wife Linda.  Lily was dressed in a long jumper and t-shirt, with her hair done up in a bun. She had a shy smile – she was missing her two front teeth – and a soft voice, and often seemed overwhelmed by our presence.  Linda and Adam, although more animated than Lily, were also somewhat shy. Linda was dressed in a long denim skirt, a shirt and bulky sweater. Linda had a gentle laugh and a quick smile. Adam appeared to be the clown of the family. And then there were the dogs, Buddy and LuLu who live in the house, Hootch on the short chain outside, another dog in a kennel and a beagle wandering around. And chickens – lots of chickens.  

Our tasks were to prime a newly sided exterior wall; prime and paint the fascia boards for the gutters; cut and hang siding as trim for the peak; and hang the gutters.  There were fascia boards that had not been nailed down securely and one area where the soffit had pulled away from the eave and needed to be repaired before we could start work on the gutter.  ASP is about making homes warmer, drier, and safer.  Clearly, whatever we could do that day would be an improvement on Lily, Adam, & Linda’s home, though it would be only a small fraction of what was needed. 

The extent of that need became clearer still as the day went on and we went about our work, with a lot of fits and starts and some – hmmm – personality issues among the crew members.  (Sometimes God picks traveling companions for us that we would not necessarily have chosen for ourselves!)   On one side of the home was a pile of lumber over a sheet of tin which was covered by mud. There was an overwhelmingly strong odor of sewerage coming from it: perhaps the location for a previous outhouse.  The current outhouse, apparently still in use, was along the back of the house.  Not far from there was an old abandoned well. The “well house” was rotted out, the bucket and rope non-existent. All that remained was the concrete block base and a gaping black hole to nothingness.  And running across the narrow path of earth between the brook and the back of Lily’s home were garden hoses and a bright orange outdoor extension cord.  A water pump was in the brook, apparently the family’s sole source of water, even with the runoff and seepage from the outhouse so nearby.  We learned later that day that because this is an area where hills are common and town sewer services are not, many families “straight pipe” their waste; meaning that they send raw sewerage directly into the streams and brooks, making any of the water unfit for human consumption. 

Our project that day was but a drop in the bucket.  But a drop nonetheless.  The average budget for an ASP project is $433. It’s amazing what can be done with $433 and a few people willing to step out in faith.  

“Jesus called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”  Following God’s calling out into the unknown is not without suffering, much as Peter – and we – would like to deny that.  At age 99, Abraham was circumcised to show his owning of the covenant with God.  Sarah went through pregnancy and giving birth when she was 90.  Trusting in God’s crazy promises meant they would know intimately what it was to give up their lives…and a year later, in Isaac’s birth, to find their lives again, transformed.

Faith is often something we think about having, holding onto, as if it were a possession.  But really it is better described as a verb.  Abraham and Sarah faithed.  They trusted God and let that trust move them out into the unknown.  They didn’t know what they’d find. They took wrong turns again and again.  They didn’t know how long it would take to get there or what suffering would be theirs along the way.  But they faithed; they put their journeying in the hands of the God who had promised to be with them, to bless them, and to make them a blessing to others.  This Lent, this year, this life…may that be so for us as well.

It had started to rain in earnest, cold and steady, while we were painting.  Some of us were perched precariously on ladders, watching our work drizzle down into the clay.  It was wet, and cold, and our efforts seemed almost fruitless.  Suddenly, there was a loud squawking from one of the hens on the porch.  Adam excitedly exclaimed that the hen was laying. He went over and nudged the hen aside, cupping the egg carefully in his hands.  With great pride and joy he brought it over for us to see, holding it out like the blessing it was.  “You can’t get them fresher than this.” 

Amen.

Amen. 

PREVIEWS OF COMING ATTRACTIONS
Last Sunday after Epiphany/Transfiguration – February 22, 2009
2 Kings 2:1-14; Mark 9:29-39
South Congregational Church, Amherst, MA
Caroline K. Meyers, Pastor

As the earth tilts on its axis and spins us slowly toward Spring, the church calendar is turning too.  Today is the last Sunday in the season of Epiphany, and in the lectionary each year at this time that means we hear the story of Jesus’ Transfiguration.  Tuesday night we’ll close out the season with our traditionally festive pancake supper before entering the more somber days of Lent, which begins the next day with Ash Wednesday.  I know that many of us are simply chomping at the bit for Spring to arrive, and Easter with it.  But before we rush headlong into the season that is still to come, I want us to hear again this story of Jesus’ shining transfigured presence, and to treasure the gift of this season that is still, very briefly, with us. 

I wonder if you remember all the way back to the beginning of Epiphany.  Early in January, we celebrated God’s self-revealing to a group of curious wandering sages.  They followed a star, having studied the skies and the stories of their meaning throughout their lives.  They looked for a king, and what they found when the star stopped over a shack in the tiny town of Bethlehem was a baby.  But not just any baby; what they saw in this child was nothing less than the full presence of the God of the universe, shining and present and promising.  It was a moment of revelation; an epiphany; a sudden and unique recognition of the presence of God. 

You might remember that back at the beginning of this season I mentioned some other moments of epiphany that one or more of us may have experienced, moments that either immediately or over time made us aware of God’s awesome and unmistakable presence.  Well, here we are at the far end of that season of Epiphany, the last Sunday before Lent, and again we’re given the opportunity to think about when such moments occur and what they might mean for us as we live and grow in faith.

About 20 years ago, Life magazine carried a photograph of a man who had just been released from captivity after being held hostage for many months.  The picture captured his face at the moment he got off the plane onto U.S. soil, and his 5-year-old daughter had jumped into his arms.  It was a face I will never forget, full of the pain of the past, the relief of release, and just about bursting with a love that would not let go.  I wasn’t sure whether to cry or to laugh when I saw the photograph; I think I did both.

About the same time that picture was published, I had my own reunion.  I was living in Northampton at the time, and had flown back to Michigan for the wedding of some friends.  When I got off the plane and into the airport I was met by the clown group from the church where I had worked in Portage.  There they all were, in full regalia, causing some very interesting stares from people waiting for their suitcases on the baggage carousel!  They escorted me back to the church and there, to my surprise and delight, they had prepared to share with me a communion celebration, as only a group of clowns could do.  I was overcome with laughter and tears both, amid an overwhelming sense of God’s presence.

Certainly you’ve had your share of moments such as these: when you don’t know whether to laugh or cry, to shout with joy or keep holy silence.  You cannot capture such “epiphanal” experiences adequately in words or in pictures; instead, they are moments that capture you.

It was a moment such as that when Elisha, disciple and apprentice of the prophet Elijah, saw his master taken up into the heavens in a fiery chariot, and we’ve heard such stories from the scriptures throughout the Sundays of Epiphany.  It happened when Jesus came up out of the waters of the Jordan, and when the boy Samuel heard his name called in the night, and when Jonah understood that there was nowhere he could run that God wouldn’t find him…all these moments that have come to us throughout this season have been “aha!” instances, when God’s presence has been revealed without a shadow of a doubt.

And it was a moment such as that for Peter and James and John when, out for a mountain-hike with their teacher and friend Jesus, they suddenly saw him shining like a lighthouse, and talking with none other than Moses and Elijah, their heroes of the faith.  Peter in particular didn’t know whether to laugh with excitement or cry with fear, whether to shout for joy or shut his mouth in awe.  In that moment the disciples had a glimpse of the heavenly Christ they hoped for, shining in the earthly Jesus they thought they already knew.

Max Lucado, as I’ve mentioned before, calls these “eternal instants.”  They are, in other words, epiphanies, manifestations of the divine, and it is especially appropriate for us to remember these stories today, as we close out this season when we are reminded of the many ways that God is manifested to us, whether in vulnerable humanity or divine glory, in moments ordinary or sublime, in sudden confrontations or gradual unfolding realization.

We may call these manifestations of God in our own lives “eternal instants” or “epiphanies” or something else entirely.  Recently, I’ve come to think about them as “previews of coming attractions.”

If you’ve been to a movie lately, you’ll know that when the lights in the theater go down you will be treated to these previews (scads of them these days), which give you the highlights of other films “coming soon to a theatre near you.”  They are intended to catch your attention so you’ll want to line up on the sidewalk when the movie comes to town, or run to the store as soon as the video is out.  Their purpose is not just to catch your fancy right then and there; rather, it is to whet your appetite for more, to invite you to the real thing.

Epiphanies, when and however we experience them, are intended for the same purpose.  They are previews of coming attractions: God’s way of giving us a glimpse of the true wholeness to which we are called, so that we might know there is more and better that is offered, and so that we might yearn for the real thing.

So, that hug of reunion between father and child was not just a picture perfect opportunity for a photo-journalist, it was a glimpse of the welcome that God has waiting for each of us when we are released from our own captivities.  The communion I shared with a bunch of clowns was not just a feast among friends, it was a foretaste of the banquet that God has prepared for all those ragged silly folk who respond to the invitation. 

Today’s scriptures give us other previews.  The fiery chariot ascending with Elijah was not just a vision, but a way for Elisha to recognize the power of God that would come to rest on him as he picked up the mantle of Elijah’s prophetic authority.

And that day on the mountainside with Peter and James and John – Jesus didn’t just ask them along to give them a cheap thrill.  His transfiguration was a preview of the resurrection, a glimpse of what God had in store for Jesus, the beloved, and for his followers on the other side of the cross.  Jesus had alluded to his death on the cross six days earlier, and Peter in particular could not begin to handle that news; it had rattled him to his core.  So for Peter in particular, this glimpse of Jesus’ transfigured glory, of his shining life beyond his foreshadowed death, was truly a gift, a revelation.  But perhaps not the gift he thought it was.

There is a story told of a young boy who lived far out in the country around the turn of the century.  He was 12 years old and had never seen a circus, though it was his heart’s desire.  He’d read about the circus, heard about it, dreamed about it for years, and longed to see one with his own eyes.  One day he noticed a poster in town that the circus was coming, and his heart leaped with joy.  He ran home to ask his father if he could go.  Though the family was poor, his father sensed how important this was to the boy, and promised him that if he gave some extra help in the household chores before then, he could go.

On circus day the boy’s chores were done early, and the father gave him a dollar bill: the most money the boy had ever held in his hand.  The father sent him on his way, cautioning him to be careful.  As the boy got closer to town, he saw people lining the streets.  Inching his way to the front of the crowd, he saw coming up the street the circus parade.  It was the grandest spectacle he had ever seen: exotic animals in cages, bands playing, twirlers and acrobats and jugglers and magicians.

After it had all passed by, there came a clown in baggy pants and floppy shoes and brightly painted face, bringing up the rear.  The clown greeted people along the street, with a wave or a handshake or a pat on the head.  When the clown came by where the boy was standing, the boy reached into his pocket, took out his precious dollar bill, and handed it to the clown with a smile lighting up his face from ear to ear.

Then he turned around and went home. 

What happened?  The boy thought he had seen the circus.  He had seen the preview, and didn’t realize there was more to come, an even more spectacular performance awaiting him under the big top.

As the gospel tells the story of Jesus’ Transfiguration, it appears that Peter reacted the same way, responding as though this “mountaintop experience” was, in fact, the big moment, the ultimate performance.  No wonder he wanted to hold on to the experience, to build booths, to capture it in time.   He thought this was the experience he’d been waiting for, Jesus’ greatest moment. 

When we are presented with such moments of epiphany, what happens?  All too often, I expect, we do what Peter did.  We try to box them up and bronze them, thinking that they’re the ultimate performance.  As often as not, we look at the high moments of our lives as ends in themselves, rather than as ways that God is trying to show us the greater reality that is still in store. 

It’s always been a bit mystifying to me why Jesus told Peter and the others not to talk about their experience as they were coming down the mountain.  But I wonder whether it wasn’t Jesus’ way of encouraging them to take the time to recognize that transforming moment for what it truly was – a preview only – rather than talking about it as if it were the main attraction.  He didn’t want them to get distracted by that shining moment; he wanted instead for them to look forward to the true light that was still to come on the other side of darkness.

When we get an invitation to a party, we don’t say “Wow, what a great invitation.  I think I’ll frame it.”  No, we get ready to go to the party.  When we see a movie preview, we don’t say, “Hey, where can I get a copy of that trailer?  I’d like it for my collection.”  Instead, we look forward to seeing the movie itself.

But when we experience one of these eternal instants, these epiphanies of God, these glimpses of God’s full and shining presence – what do we do?  We run for the camera to capture it on film, or we try to frame it in words.  We treat the moment as if that were the end, as if that were God’s final statement, and not (just) a whisper of what is yet to be, a foretaste of the feast still to come.

This season of Epiphany we have been treated to all sorts of visions, moments, glimpses of glory, and it is good to savor them and to bask in their glow.  But it is just as vital to remember that they are not simply ends in themselves.  Rather, they are granted us that we might trust their promise of the even greater glory into which Christ invites us, a glory that can only be truly known on the other side of the cross.  There is a circus, a reunion, a banquet, a resurrection that still awaits us in God’s realm.  The scattered moments of wonder, holiness, and delight that we experience as “eternal instants” are not the end of the road.  They are signposts pointing the way.  They are previews of the coming attraction.  They are invitations to what God has in store for us, intended to whet our appetites for more, to strengthen us for the journey ahead, and to get us ready for the real party still to come. 

The Transfiguration isn’t God’s last word; it’s just the poster telling us to get ready for what is still ahead.  The clown at the end of the parade isn’t waving good-bye, but is beckoning us to follow.  This shining moment is given so that we might see that there is more and better yet to come…and we’re invited to take part.

May it be so.   Amen.

FIGHTING FATIGUE

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany – February 8, 2009

Isaiah 40:21-31, Mark 1:29-39

South Congregational Church, Amherst, MA

Caroline K. Meyers, Pastor

Garrison Keillor usually begins his monologues on “A Prairie Home Companion” each week with the words: “Well, it has been a quiet week here in Lake Woebegon.”  I toyed with the idea of starting this morning’s sermon with a variation of that familiar opening, “Well, it has been a tiring week here in South Amherst.”  I wonder if you’ve felt the same? 

Tired.  Tired of winter, of snow, of cold.  Tired from shoveling, from stacking wood, from mopping floors full of salty boot tracks.  Tired from being up with the kids all night.  Tired of being sick.  Tired from music rehearsals, sports practice, homework, tests, long-term projects, and learning to drive.  And that’s just the physical fatigue.  Then there’s the emotional and spiritual fatigue that comes from worrying about budgets, paychecks, job losses, mortgage payments, investment depletions, corporate bailouts, continued news of economic uncertainty, and all those other things over which we have no control.  We’re tired because it takes so much energy to juggle home and work and kids and volunteering and parents and friends.  We’re tired from trying to keep up a smiling face when we’ve got a crying heart.  We’re tired of so many people making demands on our time.  We’re tired of saying yes. We’re tired of saying no.  We’re tired of not having answers.  We’re tired of trying to be all things to all people.  Does any of this sound familiar?

It may come as a surprise that that phrase “being all things to all people” has its origin in the scriptures. It comes from a passage in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, where he is defending his ministry among them.  He reminds them that his work has all been for the sake of the gospel, for the sharing of the good news of God’s sacrificial and transformative grace in Christ.  And in order to get that good news across to the many populations among whom he traveled, Paul says, he adapted his approach depending on who he was with at the time, whether Jews or Gentiles, recent believers or more seasoned followers. 

And so he writes to the church at Corinth: “To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though I myself am not under the law) so that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law) so that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some.”

“I have become all things to all people.”  There it is: the challenge to many of us, especially some of us Christians, who tend to read this as though it means “I’m supposed to do everything everybody else wants, no matter how tired it makes me, no matter how far it tries my muscles or my spirit, no matter whether it is convenient or useful or even good.  I should be all things to all people and do whatever they ask.”  No wonder we’re exhausted!

Here’s the good news, friends: That’s not what it means.  And a more in-depth look at Paul’s life will attest to that fact.  Here was a man who traveled thousands of miles, by ship, by foot, by wagon cart, in an era when most people stayed all their lives within a very short distance from home.  He preached the gospel wherever he went, and he made tents to support himself, though he accepted monetary support from some congregations to help him bring the gospel to other locations.  He was beaten, imprisoned, thrown out of cities, shipwrecked, and at least once had to escape from a city by being lowered out of the town walls in a basket.  And when he wasn’t preaching, making tents, traveling on foot, or packing his bags for the next trip, he kept up correspondence with congregations and individuals in many of the places where he had already planted churches, from Galatia in the East to Rome in the West.  Talk about a tiring existence!

And yet, he never tells us in his letters how sore his back or his feet or his soul were at the end of any day.  His letters are full of passion, enthusiasm, and energy that sometimes fairly leaps off the page. Where did that come from? 

“Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength,” Isaiah writes.  Paul had learned, often through trials, to wait on the Lord.  Not as in to stand around tapping his feet waiting for the Lord to act, but as in being an attentive and diligent servant, waiting for his Lord’s word, and working to act on it.  And all that habit of waiting on God had engendered in Paul a trust in God’s grace, God’s providence, and – perhaps most importantly – God’s purpose for him.  Paul knew in his heart of hearts that his calling in life was to share the gospel.  And having that sense of clear purpose, and of God’s presence through all the trials that went along with fulfilling that purpose, continually renewed Paul’s strength.  Paul’s body may have been beaten and fatigued, but his spirit was continually connected to the source of renewal.

The line we often forget in his letter to the Corinthians is this: “I do it all for the sake of the gospel.” Becoming all things to all people was not, for Paul, about doing whatever those people asked, but about doing what God asked of him in order to reach those people.  At the end of his litany of the many different populations to whom he has brought the gospel, he says, “I have become all things to all peopleso that I might by all means save some.”  He wasn’t doing it to make a name for himself, or to get people to like him.  He did what he did, and gathered strength for the doing of it, because he knew who he was and what he was called to do.  Paul knew his God-given purpose through attentive waiting on the Lord, which “gives strength to the weary, and power to the faint.”

Jesus also knew what it was like to be pulled in many directions, and to have a sea of people making demands on his time and energy.  And yet somehow he never seemed to be tired of it all, never got “burnt out,” as we say today.  Our list of things to do may seem endless, but listen to what was asked of Jesus in just one day.

In the passage we heard from Mark, Jesus had been teaching in the synagogue, then he went to Simon and Andrew’s house and cured their mother.  After supper there, he cured some more people – not just a handful, but a multitude.  “They brought to him ALL who were sick or possessed with demons.  And the WHOLE CITY was gathered around the door.  And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons…” And the next day, rather than taking a day off, he headed out into the neighboring towns throughout Galilee, proclaiming his message in their synagogues, and casting out more demons still.

Now, if I had been Jesus, after an evening of teaching, healing, and casting out demons, and knowing that I was going to head out the following day to do more of the same, I would probably have slept in. Get that beauty sleep to make sure I’m peppy the next day.

But not Jesus; he didn’t seek sleep to keep up his strength.  Instead, he sought God and asked for God’s strength.  He knew it was his spirit that needed renewal, and not just his body.  Rather than sleeping in that morning, Jesus went out and prayed.  When I was reading these scriptures the other day, a phrase jumped out at me that I’m certain I’d never been aware of before.  Listen again: “In the morning, while it was still very dark, Jesus got up and went out to a deserted place, where he prayed.”  Jesus got up before the sun rose, while the others were still snoring away, and took time with God.  There was so much on his agenda that he had to seek God’s help to accomplish it all, and to do so without weariness, fatigue, bitterness, or resentment.  He prayed to keep connected to the source of his strength, his self-understanding, and his purpose.  He prayed to be reminded of who he was, where he came from, and where he was going.  He prayed because his life was tiring, and he did not want to grow weary in fulfilling his call. 

It is said of John Wesley that, in his days of itinerant preaching, the more work he had to do the earlier he got up…not to jump right into the work, but to take more time in prayer.  It was his time with God first thing in the morning that gave him the strength and grace to go out and share God’s Word.  Prayer was not just one more “to-do” to check off his list, but an essential life-line, the foundation of his day.

Perhaps you’ve heard a poem that begins something like this: “When I woke up last morning, I jumped right into the day.  I had so much to accomplish, I didn’t have time to pray.”  The poem goes on to say how the day began to unravel from the very start; plans went awry, feelings got hurt, connections were missed, and God was forgotten in the midst of all that exhausting busy-ness.  The last verse of the poem says this: “When I woke up this morning, I jumped right into the day.  I have so much to accomplish, I had to take time to pray.” 

Prayer is often hard, but is not meant to be drudgery.  It is a joy, a life-line, an opening of the connective pathway to THE source of compassion and strength.  Prayer is how we are reminded of who we are, and where we came from, and where we are being called to go.  Prayer re-focuses us, so that we can recognize when we’re trying too hard to be all things to all people in ways that have nothing at all to do with the gospel. When we wait on the Lord – which is to say, when we take time – no, when we maketime – to be attentive in God’s presence, then no matter how our spirits are stretched and taxed and tried, we will – we will – have our strength renewed.

Some of us are very good at regular intentional prayer, at setting aside time with God during the day for re-alignment of our spiritual muscles and refreshment of our depleted souls.  Some of us, on the other hand, are not.  We hardly know where to start. 

Here’s a suggestion: start small.  When you start a new exercise program to combat physical lethargy and fatigue, you don’t start out with a 3-hour workout every day.  You need to build up your stamina, your ability to sustain the work and the breath required.  So, too, with prayer.  It takes practice to quiet our spirits, to listen attentively for God’s voice, to notice the places where our seeking is met by God’s renewing presence, where our weariness is lifted by God’s strength, where our questions about who we are find God’s answers of purpose and meaning and truth.  Start small in prayer, and if you can’t find your own words, borrow someone else’s for a while.  

I keep on the wall of my office a copy of the prayer that’s printed in the beginning of today’s order of worship.  Known within the Orthodox Christian community as “The Morning Prayer of Philaret of Moscow,” it was often used in our worship in Mercer Island, where the Pastor had formerly been a priest in the Russian Orthodox Church.  Because I keep it right on the wall in front of my desk, however, I hardly ever notice it.  But in the midst of this particularly tiring week, I rediscovered it, and it has provided wonderful grounding, focus, and direction in these past days.   If you find yourself fatigued beyond words and need a way to start small in prayer, this isn’t a bad beginning.  Take it home and put it on your bathroom mirror, perhaps, where it can be a very tangible symbol that prayer is intended to remind you both of who you are, and who you are called to be.  And then see if the words don’t re-call you to the source of your strength during the weary hours and busy schedules and difficult trials of the day. 

“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is,” Mary Oliver writes in her wonderful poem entitled “The Summer Day,” and continues: “I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, 
which is what I have been doing all day.”  If you are so fatigued, so tired, so soul-weary and spirit-parched that even a patch of printed words on your bathroom mirror is too much to imagine, then try Oliver’s posture of prayer: Stop where you are, kneel down, and pay attention.  Be idle and know yourself blessed.  We don’t know how Jesus prayed when he went out early in the morning, before the sun rose up, but I can imagine him doing exactly as Oliver describes: listening to the sounds of a world still dark, kneeling down, shifting his heart into idle so that he could know again that he was blessed not for what he might accomplish before people’s eyes, but for who he was in God’s eyes.  And in the doingof that prayer, in the silent kneeling blessed attentiveness, Jesus heard again God’s still small voice calling him, and found his strength renewed for following that call.

Are you tired?  Are you trying too hard to be all things to all people?  Are you depleted by worry or busy-ness or uncertainty?   Good news, friends: you are not alone.  The source of all strength and compassion is as near as your next breath, and waiting for you to kneel down and notice.  

Let us pray: 

O Lord, grant me to greet the coming day in peace, help me in all things to rely upon Your holy will.  In every hour of the day reveal Your will to me.  Bless my dealings with all who surround me.  Teach me to treat all that comes to me throughout the day with peace of soul and with firm conviction that Your will governs all.  In all my deeds and words, guide my thoughts and feelings.  In unforeseen events, let me not forget that all are sent by You.  Teach me to act firmly and wisely, without embittering or embarrassing others.  Give me strength to bear the fatigue of the coming day with all that it shall bring.  Direct my will, teach me to pray, and Yourself, pray in me.   Amen.

 THE SUMMER DAY  by Mary Oliver 

Who made the world? 
Who made the swan, and the black bear? 
Who made the grasshopper? 
This grasshopper, I mean— 
the one who has flung herself out of the grass, 
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, 
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— 
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. 
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. 
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. 
I don't know exactly what a prayer is. 
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down 
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, 
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, 
which is what I have been doing all day. 
Tell me, what else should I have done? 
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? 
Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
with your one wild and precious life?