Failure and the peace that transcends understanding

 “My peace I give to you…”

--John 14:27

 

At this time of year we enter into something schools call: graduation season.  This is that time of year when speeches are made and there is too much talk of achievements and goals and the glorious future that awaits all those graduating seniors. Yesterday I attended a graduation ceremony and in less than an hour, I think I heard the phrase: change the world come out of the mouths of three different speakers.  Of course, it is certainly possible, even likely perhaps, that one or two of the graduates who will walk across the countless graduation stages this month will do something, someday, that changes the world (or some corner of the world). Why shouldn't they? And, of course, it sounds encouraging and hopeful, something to aspire to. I guess.

But, my favorite advice to seniors at this time of year is this:  Failure is always an option. 

I mean that on a couple of levels. One, failure actually is possible. Always. No matter how prepared we are.  No matter how hard or long we study or practice or rehearse… failure is always a possibility. And, secondly, failure may even be a worthwhile choice… if we aren’t prepared to go forward.  In this context, I also like to point out to my students that their librarian (me) barely passed high school and mostly due to the fact that he barely ever showed up.  Which, I also like to point out, has lead to me being stuck in high school for the rest of my life!  In the immortal words of Charles Barkley—I am not a role model.

And yet… recently I learned a lesson about failure that  I can’t seem to let go of.  

I lead a Rosary at school every Thursday during the break time.  This involves sending out an email reminder the day before, and arranging to have my library covered while I go to the chapel.  Not a lot of responsibilities there, but sometimes even that can overwhelm me.  A couple of weeks back, I woke up, shut off my alarm and immediately realized: it was Thursday and I had forgotten to send out the email, and had forgotten to get someone to cover the library for me.  It was 5 am, there was still time… but, my first thought was that no one had come to the Rosary the past few weeks. I had been alone in the chapel.  So, I began considering simply letting it drop. Who would notice? Who would even care?

By the time I was headed to school, I was feeling guilty and quite defeated. The voice in my head was reminding me of all those emails teachers get every day asking for help, another meeting, another duty. They certainly didn’t need another email from me. And especially not at this late hour. I was certain that I wouldn’t be leading a rosary that day. In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether I should just give up.  I have been doing this Rosary thing at school for over 20 years now. There had been some good years, but of late—not so much.  Perhaps the real problem had nothing to do with organizational skills, perhaps the real problem was me. My personality, my goofiness, my reluctance to use a calendar! I had tried. And I had failed. Maybe it was time to let this thing die, so someone else could start over and do it better.

 

I was feeling pretty low when I got to school that morning, but for some reason—instead of just letting go, the first thing I did was open my computer and send out the Rosary email.  I still didn’t have coverage for the library, but at least I had sent out the reminder. It was kind of like a Hail Mary pass! So to speak. But, in a way, it was kind of hypocritical. I think I was more concerned about how it would look to my co-workers if I didn’t send out the Rosary email.  But…  You know how every once in a while those passes get caught…  It feels like a miracle. Time is running out. In desperation, the quarterback hurls the ball into the air—as high and far as he can.  And somehow it falls right into the outstretched hands of the receiver—mid-stride—and sprinting across the goal line where… Well... Enough football.

 

But, that is kind of what happened to me.  Almost like a miracle, (like Billy “Whiteshoes” Johnson popping up in the midst of a bunch of Pittsburg defenders) at the last minute, a volunteer walks in and asks if I have anything I need her to do. Sadly, for a moment, I considered telling her no. But, instead I asked her to watch the library while I went to the chapel.

 

And that is when the real strangeness began.  I walked into the chapel and there was a teacher already praying. Someone I had never seen in there before.  She smiled at me as I sat down and said she had come early because she had to go to a meeting.  I guess I looked a bit stunned or frazzled, because she looked at me with a tenderness I cannot explain and asked how I was—as if she really wanted to know.  Anyway, suddenly I was telling her about my life, my worries, my daughter’s health, our family struggles and… and with a kindness and sincerity I cannot explain, she listened and offered words of comfort and consolation. Even thanking me for making the rosary available to the school every week, telling me what an important gift that was.  As we talked, a student came in. Again, someone I had never seen in there before. When she did, the teacher stood to leave.  She assured me that she would be joining me again. 

 

When she left, I asked the student if she were there for the Rosary.  She was. When I asked her if there was anyone she needed to pray for, she looked at me and I could see she had been crying.  Hesitantly, she told me it was the first anniversary of her grandmother’s death, and she really needed to pray for her.  As she talked, I could tell that her grandmother had been very important to her. It sounded like she had been the glue that held their family together. And once this young woman began talking about her grandmother, sharing memories and tears, there was a lightness in her eyes that had been missing before. She was still sad, but she no longer seemed hopeless.  In fact, she seemed at peace.  And I guess I was too.

 

And so, there you go: success or failure? I felt like I was a failure. And, in many ways, I guess I was. I’m not good at organizing. Terrible at advertising. At best I am a D- in calendar usage, and definitely an F- when it comes to asking for help and yet… What seemed to me a failure was in fact a blessing. I think God used that teacher and that student to make that lesson quite clear.  He wasn’t asking me to be perfect or to be successful. All that was necessary was the willingness to just keep failing. 

 

The verse at the top of this piece is from John’s Gospel.  Jesus is speaking to His disciples who, a few hours later would scatter in terror and even deny ever knowing Him.  And before night would fall again, Jesus would be hanging on a cross. To the eyes of the world, an utter failure.

 

So, here is my graduation advice:  Don’t worry about success or failure.  Ultimately, that is God’s business.  The fact is, you will never find peace in a resume or a list of achievements. You were not made for success or failure. You were made to be a gift; give yourself away.  And let God do the rest. That is where you will find real peace.

 

Every graduation address needs a couple of memorable quotations.  Here are mine.  The first is from the Irish author Samuel Beckett: Ever tried? Ever failed? Try again. Fail again.  Fail better…

 

And the second is from Mother Teresa: God doesn’t call us to be successful. God calls us to be faithful. 

 

Class of 2022, don’t be afraid to go forth and fail… boldly, when necessary.

 

Taking it personally --thoughts on reading scripture through the lens of Luke 8:10

 “To you is granted to understand

the secrets of the Kingdom of God;

for the rest it remains in parables,

so that they may look but not perceive,

listen but not understand…” (Luke 8:10)

 

 

This verse has often troubled me, because of how exclusive it felt.  The idea that Jesus would intentionally make things obscure, so that some people would “look but not perceive,” felt kind of cruel.  But recently I read this passage and was struck by a new understanding.  Let me know if you think I am crazy (or just plain wrong).  I read this passage the other morning and was caught by the word “you.”  Yep… Sometimes that is all it takes.  Because, for the first time I had the sensation that the “you” Jesus was referring to was me.  Not just me, of course. But anyone reading those words.

 

A little context, first.  In chapter 8 of Luke, Jesus is going through the town and villages teaching in parables.  And it is His disciples who ask Him—why? Why are You teaching in parables?  His answer is the verse above, and it is made when Jesus is alone with them—in private, so to speak. He says it just before He begins to explain the meaning of the parable of the sower: the guy who sows seeds on the rocky, the thorny, and the good soil. 

 

Of course, taking his personally, may sound a little bit ridiculous.  I know these stories were written down almost 2000 years ago, and their authors were often recording events that probably happened 30 to 50+ years before pen was put to paper (or papyrus, or whatever they first used).  So, it is even possible that the persona writing it down only knew these stories, these events, because someone else told them about it.  About Jesus. 

 

What I am trying to say here, is that I understand there is historical context, and a narrative context involved.  And yet, as I read this passage, I realized that in the story Jesus was saying something to His disciples that in reality also applied to me. Off by themselves, the disciples asked Jesus to explain the parable, and He says: I’m going to explain my parable to you, so you can understand it better.  Not everybody will get this lesson, but YOU will.   

 

And suddenly I heard this message in a new way. I was sitting with my Bible, alone with the Lord. Listening to His words, spending time in His presence (like one of the disciples), and as I read, He began teaching in parable (in stories).  And as I continued reading—the story about Jesus-- He continued to teach, including a special lesson to those who withdraw alone with Him. And in that moment, as I sat there—alone with my Bible—alone with God’s word, I realized: who was He explaining it to?  Me.  He was speaking directly to me. Telling me, I think, that as we read and reread God’s word, more and more of it will become clear to us, the Holy Spirit will reveal more and more of the meaning to us.  As if the real meaning of this strange verse was:  To you who spend time listening to me, who make time to hear and read and contemplate My word, to You it will be given. The Holy Spirit will open your eyes that you can see, that you might perceive, and open your ears that YOU can more fully understand God’s meaning, God’s love. 

 

Does that make sense? 

And I think the real key is, we need to take it personally.  We need to make it personal.  Because, think about it, that’s exactly what Jesus did. 

 

Here it is, Good Friday, a day to remember the hour when Jesus made it all very personal.  When He took up the Cross and went to Calvary—not for some amorphous idea but for you. Personally. And for me, personally. He died to free me from my sins.  It is my belief that He died for all of us, but not as a group.  He died for each and every one of us, individually, and very personally. That doesn’t mean we don’t need church or prayer groups or community. I don’t mean “go it alone.” We need theologians and scholars and ministers and preachers and prayer buddies to help us and guide us and keep us on track. 

 

When Jesus gave His life for you, and for me, He made it very personal.  All I am saying is, this Easter Season when you take up your Bible, why not return the favor. 

 

Hidden in the storm--thoughts on the Gospel from the fifth Sunday of Lent

 “Hidden in the storm, I answered you.”

--Psalm 81:8

 

I’ve been thinking about the Gospel reading from John about the woman caught in adultery.  It was the gospel for last Sunday, and it has been haunting me ever since.  On the surface, it is a frightening story.  A woman is grabbed by a mob, dragged through the streets and thrown to the ground in front of some stranger; where she hears the mob prepare to kill her. But first they are going to ask this stranger what he thinks.  Take a moment and put yourself into the scene.  If you were this woman, what would you be thinking? What would you be doing? Caught up in this horrible storm of anger, rage, jealousy… brutality.  You are helpless and know that there is nothing for you but to scream and plead for mercy but clearly there is no mercy to be had. The mob seeks only your destruction. Or so it seems. Because, as the gospel tells us, they bring the woman to Jesus because they want to put Him to the test. I look at this scene and wonder—if Jesus had given them the “wrong” answer, would they have tried to stone Him as well. Would they have accused Him of a different kind of adultery? Adulterating their law, their faith, their God?

 

But, instead Jesus defuses the situation by refusing to engage in their anger, their wrath; by refusing to become fuel for their storm.  Instead, he grows quiet and kneels down and begins to write on the ground.  I love that we don’t know what He wrote.  I love that the author knew enough to leave that out.  To my eye, that seems a sign of divine literary inspiration.  Of course, over the years, many scholars and saints have considered and proposed possibilities.  I think it was Augustine who suggested that possibly Jesus was writing out the sins of the people standing before Him. That seems as good a guess as any; but I prefer the mystery.

 

For me, the most important element here is the example Jesus gives us of not entering into the argument, of refusing to add fuel to the fire.  He gathers the focus of the crowd away from the woman and onto Himself through His silence and his enigmatic action.  They are—in a way—stunned by the unexpected strangeness of what He does.  And then, instead of debating them, He concedes their point, recommending only a minor stipulation:  Let the one among you who is without sin cast the first stone.

 

Then He returns to His work--writing on the ground.

 

At this point the crowd disappears, dropping their stones and walking away. And Jesus is left alone with the woman, her heart still bursting with fear. And He asks her, Woman, where did everybody go? Is there no one to accuse you?

And she says, No one.

And Jesus replies, Neither do I.  Go and sin no more. 

I love that image of God’s mercy showing up so quietly and so tenderly and so beautifully unexpected.  It reminds me of a verse from Psalm 81:

“Hidden in the storm, I answered you…” (81:8)

In the book of Job the voice of God is literally hidden in the storm; it comes out of the tempest. And in this story from John's gospel we see the presence of God calmly waiting for us in the storm of suffering, the storm of rejection, the storm of confusion. 

Think about it.  We are about to observe Holy Week, Good Friday, the Passion of Jesus, when the whole world came crashing down upon Him. We see it all right there: the storm of the Cross becoming the silence of the tomb…  But, we are blessed to know how the story ends.  

This Easter morning, perhaps you could rise early and step outside into the early morning light; take a moment and just sand there. Listen to the quiet as the day begins, the first hesitant singing of the birds, the stirring of the leaves in the morning breeze; witness the awakening of the world to the Love that does not condemn, the Love that has the power to calm all storms, the Love that died for us that we might live.  As the old hymn says:

 

No storm can shake my inmost calm,

While to that rock I'm clinging.

Since love is lord of heaven and earth

How can I keep from singing?

The cravings of the heart--some thoughts on Psalm 78 and Matthew 20

 “…while the food was still in their mouths…”

 --Psalm 78:30

 

Lately, I have taken to praying the psalms. I pick one and read it over and over again for a while, until I feel like I have prayed it out—I guess.  Or it has prayed me out.  Anyway, the other morning I opened my Bible looking for Psalm 88, which has been on my mind and in my heart for a while now. But instead, I accidentally stumbled into the middle of Psalm 78, one of the longer psalms. I was just about to turn the page and look for my intended, when I was caught by an image so startling that I was hooked, and without my knowing it, suddenly God was reeling me in.

 

Psalm 78 is a psalm of lessons from Israel’s history; recounting the Exodus and the desert wandering, it reminds us of God’s grace and God’s might, but also of Israel’s (and our own) obstinance.  And what caught my eye was that image of Israel, testing God’s patience, by asking constantly for more. God was feeding them manna from Heaven, and yet still the people muttered against Him. Sure, God can call forth streams of water from a rock, and send bread from Heaven, but what about meat?  Can He set a table for us right here in the desert? (cf. 78:19-20).  Yet, when God sends them meat, more meat than they can possibly eat, even as the food is in their mouths, their cravings were still upon them.  Instead of being grateful, and satisfied, their craving for something more, something different filled their hearts. Reading this I was reminded of my own cravings and appetites. How many times have I found myself, finishing a lovely dinner and already thinking about the next thing I want to eat. Not just another plate full of food, but already planning my next meal; even while food is in my mouth, I am already thinking about a snack, or starting to boil water for a cup of tea, and what about a slice of toast with honey! Hey, has anybody seen the box of Graham Crackers? Do we still have any ice-cream? Never mind. I think I’ll just make some popcorn…

Those cravings.  That constant hungering for something more. Something else… I relate to it. How often do I find myself blessed, given everything I need, ever wanted even... And still looking around, craving something more. One more pleasure, one more honor, one more word of praise... Last night as I was writing this reflection with my favorite fountain pen, I found myself wondering about fountain pens and suddenly I was shopping for a new pen... Even as I held in my hand one that I love, I was looking for a new one... Hmmm...  The more things change, the more they stay the same. Or so they say...

And what was God’s reaction to Israel's carping and craving?  According to the psalmist, with food still in their mouths and the cravings still in their heart, God’s wrath descended upon Israel, “slaughtering their strongest men…” (78:31). And, for some reason, as I read that, it struck me as full of meaning. Not just a statement of historic truth, but symbolic of something much more profound.  What does it mean to have your strongest men destroyed?  Paradoxically, I heard in this verse, not something fearful, but God’s grace. I heard in it an invitation. God takes away Israel’s strongest men, and by doing so He takes away their earthly power, their pride, their sense of security and independence.  By doing this, God makes Israel even more dependent on Him.  On God’s providence, and God’s grace. 

 

So, I began my day with this unexpected scene from Psalm 78, planted in my heart.  But, things really go interesting when we were watching Mass on-line and I heard the Gospel story about the mother of John and James asking Jesus to grant her sons a special place in His Kingdom, and their eagerness to drink the chalice that Jesus will drink (Mt. 20:20-28) .  We also hear how the other disciples are upset about this request.  And suddenly I realized: it’s the same story!  Here they are, James and John and all the disciples not just being fed manna from Heaven or piles of quail, but living with Jesus every day, walking with God, being fed by His Holy presence daily. The Lord is right there with them—the bread of life, so to speak, still in their mouths—and yet they crave more. More glory. More honor.  And it isn’t just James and John (or their mother). At one point all the disciples are arguing over who is most important.  Craving more… More significance.

 

And how does Jesus respond?  He takes away their security and power. He demands that they let go of, that they destroy, their strongest men; that they turn away from earthly glory and power and significance; lower themselves, become less, become like slaves.  Their egos, their pride, their craving for significance in the eyes of the world, their strongest men, must be slaughtered.

 

But Jesus called them to him and said, ‘You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.’ (Matthew 20:25-28)

 

The lesson of Lent is to learn to let go of our cravings, and to be rid of our ‘strong men,” to let ourselves rest in the Love of God. And be fed by the real bread of Heaven…

 

Thy will be done.

Rest, renew and reconnect--Leviticus 26 and our need for a Sabbath

 “…Then the country will indeed observe its Sabbath,
all the while it lies deserted…”
(Leviticus 26::34)

 Leviticus 26 tells of blessings and curses.  If Israel lives according to God’s commandments, they will be blessed and fruitful and live in peace, “go to sleep with no one to frighten you.” (Lev 26:6).  But if they don’t listen to God, if they turn from His path, reject God’s laws and “detest My customs…” they will be subjected to terror, sickness and infirmity. (26:14-16)  And, they will become so desperate that they will even eat the flesh of their own children and be so filled with fear they will take flight at the “sound of a falling leaf” and flee even when no one is pursuing them (26:29-37).  But in the midst of all this horror, flight and destruction, something that stood out to me was this strange statement about the land being given its Sabbath.  That observation is strange.  Why would God refer to the land observing its Sabbath?

 

To my ear, I hear an affirmation of God’s love and of His truthfulness. I hear the message that the Sabbath isn’t something we are to treat as optional.  Regardless of how we feel about it or choose to react to it, there will be a Sabbath for the land.  It isn’t just a recommendation or even a regulation; it is a fact.  Because God says it, it is an actuality. God’s Word isn’t an opinion or a preference, it is truth.  We need the Sabbath, because we were made that way. And our creator is simply reminding us that even if we don’t choose to honor the necessity of a Sabbath, it will come; whether we like it or not.

 

And, of course, science and nature have repeatedly shown us the importance of a “Sabbath,” of a period of rest.  Land that is over worked and exhausted becomes barren and useless. People who are overworked and exhausted become anxious and fearful, unfocused and fruitless. Rest, renewal, these are necessities, non-negotiables.

 

Yes, we can reject it, treat it as something to be avoided, as an imposition to be ignored, overcome, defeated even. Which is the path our world seems to have chosen, especially the Western world.  But look what this approach has brought us: anxiety, exhaustion and insatiable appetites.  And 24/7 work weeks…

 

Not respecting the importance and the truth of who and what we are, of our need for rest, we have made ourselves into creatures bent on constant consumption, seeking always more and more, another cup of coffee (black and bitter like my heart), another handful of popcorn, one more gluten free chocolate chip cookie to help me stay awake while I watch one more episode of Agatha Raisin before I change over to some 30 Rock re-runs; always more money, more pleasure, more food, more treasure, and always needing more and more energy to feed our endless activity, to run our bigger and better cars and homes and offices and technologies.  We hunger constantly for more, treating rest as something for the weak, the underachiever. And this hunger quite literally has us eating our children, not their flesh but their lives, their futures. We use up and pollute the water supplies, the farmland, even the air we breathe.  We fill up every inch of land with concrete and buildings, bigger houses to store all the stuff we have, so much that it can’t even fit it all in our rooms or on our shelves. We rent storage units so we can hold onto the stuff we can’t even remember we own.  All the while acquiring and acquiring more….

It seems to me that God isn’t saying to Israel: Be good, or I will slap your hand.  Instead, I think God is telling them (and us) that this is how the world works: all of creation needs rest. Needs a Sabbath. If we live by His statutes and laws, we find peace and harmony—because we are living in harmony with our very being, with the world. That is reality.

 

And, if we don’t live in the real world, then we will live in a fantasy where even the sound of a falling leaf will send us running in terror. And where we find ourselves so anxious and desperate and afraid, that we might do anything to escape from it, and from what it does to us.

 

Living a fantasy means having no real security, no firm foundation. Nothing you can depend upon. It is like building a house on sand. Every new breeze, every whim that passes, shakes your very foundation.  Every leaf that falls starts you running…

 

We were made vulnerable and insufficient. We need rest and we need each other.

Today, make time for rest and renewal. Take a nap. Play a game. Drink a cup of tea and tell someone your dreams.  Call up a friend or a family member and tell them you love them. Or ask them about their week, and really listen.  Rest in the sound of their voice, and the telling of their tale.

Rest, renew… and reconnect

And…Love without borders.

Following Jesus into the

“My heart is moved with pity…”

--Mark 8:2

 

I have been thinking about this gospel passage quite a bit lately.  It has woven itself into everything else I am reading: scripture, novels, poetry, everything. This little nugget is found in Mark’s version of the feeding of the 4000 (Mk 8:1-10).  In the past, I have always focused on the 7 loaves and the few fish, or the sudden miraculous abundance, baskets full of leftovers; but I don’t think I had ever stopped to consider that important detail revealed by Jesus.  I guess I mostly just glossed over it, as I rushed headlong into the familiarity of the miracle.

 

But, for some reason this time I was stopped by that phrase: My heart is moved with pity.  Jesus looks out at the crowd that has followed him, a mass of people who have followed him for three days.  They have come with Him so far that they cannot go back home without risk of collapsing. And, as the disciples point out: they are in a deserted place. There is no where to send for supplies, no Uber-Eats to call for take-out (for 4000).

 

In my prayer, I looked out at that crowd, hungry, tired, and yet still clinging to this strange Rabbi who spoke with such authority, and love.  The first person I saw in my mind was a woman with three children. They were huddled together.  One of the children was pulling at her robe, wanting only to be held, to be comforted, perhaps to be nursed. The other two sat at her feet drawing in the dirt, trying to entertain each other.  The mother looked at the children and back at Jesus.  She was beginning to wonder what she would do. They were too far from home to go back, but her small supply of food (perhaps bread and cheese and olives) was gone. She was beginning to doubt herself, to wonder if she’d made a horrible mistake. Why hadn’t she brought more food? Why hadn’t she just stayed home where they would be safe and secure?

 

And then I looked again and saw an old man sitting by himself on a rock.  No one spoke to him. He was staring at the ground, feeling lost, out of place.  He too was growing hungry and beginning to doubt his choice.  Always alone, ignored, even avoided by others, the old man had heard in the young preacher an invitation to come and follow; to become part of a community—he thought. But even here no one seemed to notice him. And he felt foolish, and out of place. The others were families, friends, seemed to all know someone here. But he was still alone.

 

And then I looked at Jesus and I saw him speaking to one of the disciples, telling them: My heart is moved with pity for the people.

 

And in those words I sensed something new, sensed the tenderness of God’s care for His creation.  He looks at us and feels pity for us, for our struggles, our hungers, our fears, our failings. He doesn’t look at us with judgment or even sighs of exasperation.  Even in our most desperate and dreadful moments He looks at us with love, and with mercy, and with pity.

 

But there was something else that I sensed in this passage from Mark, something from the broader context of the story.  Jesus has lead the people out into the wilderness, far from their homes and their neighbors, from their family and friends, from all their support groups (so to speak).  And I remembered the call to Abram:

“The Lord said to Abram:

Leave your country, your kindred and your father’s house,

and go to the land I will show you… And I shall bless you…

And make of you a blessing…” (Genesis 12:1-2)

 

It is a call to leave behind all those things of the world that seem to make us safe and secure and to let God lead us to a place where we may feel like strangers, but in that place, that may feel so deserted and desolate, so lonely even, we are promised that we will become a blessing. 

 

But, the key is, we have to let God lead.  In Mark’s Gospel, the people have followed Jesus for 3 days.  They have come to a place of vulnerability, a place where many of them may have looked around and felt—helpless, lost. Uncertain even which direction would take them home.  But by remaining with Jesus, they found themselves blessed, and found themselves becoming a blessing.

 

I like to imagine that the old man in my meditation was handed a basket and began walking among the people passing out bread. And that at some point he came to the woman with three children and seeing she needed help, set down his basket and took one of the children in his arms. Holding the child, he watched as the woman took bread and broke it and fed her littlest. And as he stood there, the other child took his hand and pulled him down to show him a picture she’d drawn in the dirt.And the old man smiled, because he felt needed.

 

“My heart is moved with pity…” I hear in Jesus's words a reassurance that we are never alone.  Even when we feel most vulnerable, most lost, most hungry for whatever it is we lack, we are never alone.  God is right there with us, watching over us, tenderly, and with such love, such care.  He knows our needs even before we ask, and longs to fill us with good things, blessing, even to overflowing, that we might overflow with blessings to those around us.

 

Nothing can escape the heat of God's Love

 “But who can detect his own failings?”

--Psalm 19:12

 

The thing that continues to catch my attention in this psalm is the epic simile of the sun coming forth from a tent like a bridegroom from a chamber to run like a champion his course.  That image always catches my eye. It is so visual and so fascinating to me.  The sun comes forth from a tent, like a bridegroom coming from a chamber who is like a champion delighting in a course to be run. This is an epic simile involving another simile…  And those images: the sun having a tent, the bridegroom having a special chamber, and the champion eager to run.  So simple and so clear and so memorable. Plus, it makes me think about the ancient people who wrote the psalms.   What kind of champions did they have back then? Did the Hebrew people have their own kind of Olympics? And what kind of chamber or pavilion or secret room did the bridegroom come out of… I think we know why he was filled with delight… but, it is an image our modern culture associates more with the bride than the groom.  For me, it is just a very memorable image; it feels almost Homeric.  One can imagine Odysseus or Hector being described like this, perhaps Apollo, or Athena.  So, despite the fact that I have read this psalm 19 or 20 times now, I still pause and ponder this little 2 stanza section (19:4-6).  Perhaps it is the last line of these 2 stanzas that really stops me in my tracks. The psalmist circles back to the original image of the sun and writes:

 

“…And nothing can escape its heat.” (19:6)

 

Psalm 19 is a psalm of God’s glory, a song of how that glory is revealed.  It starts by reminding us that the glory of God is revealed in all of creation, through all of creation. And that God’s creation declares His glory, even in the silence of a moonless night, or the stillness of an empty street, the quiet stirrings of mist rising from a field at dawn or the migration of clouds on a summer afternoon. God’s glory is present, is always being declared, by the grass, by the mist, by the clouds, by the shadows crossing your lawn, by the birds singing in the trees and by the silences, the stillness, even the darkness.  This declaration is followed by the epic simile and that terrifyingly powerful statement against ignorance: “Nothing can escape its heat…”

 

That statement implies that God’s glory is inescapable, like the heat of the sun.  We might hide in the shade, we might run inside and turn on the AC, but we haven’t escaped, we cannot escape it.  We know the heat is out there, and we know that it is why we are inside sipping ice-tea and snuggled on the couch under a blanket while the air-conditioning blasts a nice chilly 64 degrees.  Yet, as the psalmist says: Just like there is no escape from the truth that it is hot out there, there is no escape from the truth of God’s glory.  Of course, to the psalmist, this is a good thing.  He is assuring us that it is true and we just have to open our eyes and our hearts to see it, to know it, to have creation itself affirm it for us.

 

But there are two more things attached to this idea, of God’s inescapable glory.  First there is that simile—comparing the declaration of God’s glory to the sun’s heat; asserting that both are inescapable.  That is a truth we can run away from all we want, but our denial or our running away doesn’t change the fact that it is true. At least that is what the psalmist says, and I agree.  But then that image of the sun’s heat, that also catches my eye.  And I ask myself: what is God’s glory? It is His very being. And what is God’s being? Well, scripture tells us: God is love.  And so, what I hear in this is: the glory of God is God’s Love. And nothing can escape from that. 

 

And I believe that is true, too.  And so I push a little harder against the text, the Word of God, and ask God to open my eyes that I can read it more clearly, to open my ears that I can hear His message more completely, and to open my heart that I will be filled with His glory—His love—the love that is always found in His word.  And I ask myself: what does this image of God’s inescapable love tell me about God? About our relationship to God?  I think one thing I am hearing is this:  we cannot escape from God’s love.  No matter who we are, no matter what we do; we cannot escape from God’s love.  That seems to me a powerful clue to the truth of sin and the importance of God’s law (cf. 19: 7-14).  What I hear is this: if God’s love is inescapable, then that tells us something surprisingly clear about Heaven and Hell.  They are both within God’s love, manifestations of God’s burning love.  And it is our choice what we make of God’s love.  If we seek God, if we shape our souls to long for the warmth of God’s love, then to enter into that love will be heaven. It will be everything we ever wanted and so much more.  If we train our souls to turn away from God’s love, if we seek to hide from it, then entering into the fullness of God’s love will feel like the flames of Hell.  It is our soul's desire that makes of it Heaven or Hell.  BUT… think about how hard it is sometimes to get yourself off the couch and go outside on a particularly hot afternoon; sometimes we need to prepare ourselves, get ourselves ready for the brightness of the sun, the heat of the day.  Sometimes just stepping out into the light can be blinding and feel oppressive.  I wonder if that is what God’s laws are for. Are they recommendations and practices, kind of an exercise regime, to help us prepare our souls for grace? Stretching our spiritual muscles and opening our sometimes hardened hearts, stirring within us a desire for God's love?  The psalmist tells us that the law of the Lord refreshes the soul, brings joy to the heart, and light to our eyes. It is sweeter than honey and more valuable than gold.  Okay… what if we take God at His word and let ourselves be formed by the Love of God, sweeter than honey, light for our eyes, joy for our hearts.  What if we opened that door by taking just one of God’s laws and saying—this is one I will be shaped by.  Any of them. You could start with the 10 commandments, or perhaps you want to start somewhere a little more familiar to some of us: the sermon on the mount.  Me, I’m thinking about one of Jesus’s more humbling statements:  Judge not, lest ye be judged…  I think that is a place where my prideful heart might need a little reforming.  And yet, as the psalmist also says: Who among us can detect his own failings?       

Certainly not me...  But that doesn't mean I should stop trying.