Mornings on the porch
“He will be a
sanctuary,
a stumbling
block...
a snare and a
trap...
over which many
will stumble
and be broken...”
--Isaiah 8:14-15
This is a fascinating image from early in Isaiah, and it seems oddly discordant. In context, it is part of the prophet’s marching orders—his message for Israel and the people of Jerusalem. But what does it mean? How can the same God be both a sanctuary and a stumbling block? A place of safety and a snare –a trap? And why?
I’m wondering if this message has something to say to us of God’s love and our free will. Perhaps even something about how we might experience a blessing as a stumbling block... For instance, this morning I woke early—before the sun—and after feeding the cats and setting out my leftover coffee from the night before, I went out to meet the sunrise. I had a wonderful breezy walk around the park, greeted a few neighbors, petted a couple of dogs, but the drifting clouds and the gray sky kept the sunrise hidden. Oh well... At home, I warmed up my coffee and went out on the porch with my record player and put on Ernest Tubb’s Greatest Hits. Listening to his plaintive voice promising to “get along somehow...” I thought about writing a poem or maybe I should be reading my morning Bible chapters or... and then I noticed all the leaves under my chair and around my feet and remembered my promise to my wife the night before that I would sweep the porch in the morning.
But what about my coffee? I just warmed it up... And what about that poem... If I don't write it, who will? Or all that reading I was wanting to do? I could always sweep the porch afterwards; after I write or read or drink or make a fresh pot of coffee and a batch of muffins and turn the record over and listen to the other side and... And besides that, there will always be more leaves; didn’t the weather man say it’s supposed to be windy all weekend? So many “good” reasons to put off that sweeping--at least for a while-- to wait until later... But... I promised.
And so, instead, I found the broom and got to work—going at it with as much care and skill as a 65 year old poet/librarian can muster. As I worked I found two reactions tussling inside of me. One was a faint sense of embitterment –fear really—that I was wasting valuable time. I should be doing something important, like writing! Or meditating! Or reading the Bible. Anything but sullenly sweeping up leaves that would only be blown back before lunch!
But another voice inside me said: You promised. Keep your word. Sweep the porch and listen to the sound of the broom on the concrete and the cries of the birds and the singing of the Texas Troubadours. Let that be your meditation. Let that be your comfort and let it become your poem and your prayer... Rest in it; in the work and in the peace that comes from doing it. Of being true to yourself and to the one you love. Rest in the grace that flows from serving another, the grace of God’s self-giving love. The love that flows through even the simplest work when done for the sake of another, flows not just out of us, but through us and flows from the original source (and sanctuary) of all Love...
When love calls us, it can be a sanctuary and a comfort, but it can also feel like a snare or a trap. The call of love to die to self, to give up your own plans for the sake of another doesn't change, but how we encounter it... That is up to us. It’s a choice we all must make.
To paraphrase Joshua 24... As for me and my porch, I know which one we will choose.
