Surrender

One of my neighbors has stuck a pole with a white flag on it in the snow bank in front of his house. That pile of snow must be at least eight feet high. We live in a frozen, lunar-like landscape. Cars creep out of driveways and intersections, unable to see what might be coming. Pedestrians walk with tiny, mincing steps over icy paths. The wind blows through the trees and makes a brittle, tinkling sound as it rustles ice-coated branches and twigs. Buildings are falling in from the weight of the snow and ice. We have never had winter like this. Schedules are disrupted, school vacation is cancelled, it is cold all the time. We are all ready to surrender. But I remember that I planted garlic in the fall, and it is waiting somewhere under all the snow to sprout. The daffodil and tulip bulbs are there, too. And the chipmunks, in hiding now, but resting up to wreak havoc on the lawn and eat the bird seed and burrow under the walkway. Everything green is on hold, but it is there nonetheless. W just have to have faith: “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).

Meanwhile, more snow is forecast for tomorrow…..

Another kind of jet lag

There is a form of jet lag that does not involve time zones. It is what happens when you hurl yourself from one climate to another. Your watch stays the same but everything else is out of sync. I got on a plane in the middle of winter. The snow was piled up higher than my head in places. Everything was a brittle and blinding white. A few hours later, I stepped into summer. The air was warm, and I was surrounded by green -- soft, lush green. Instead of bare brown limbs, there were palm trees overhead, and flowers blooming, orchids being sold by the side of the road, fountains playing like music. It was as much a shock to my system as crossing into another time zone. And in a way it was just that: crossing from one season to another. So I have let my frozen bones soak up the warm. When I step off the plane, it will be maybe almost 20 degrees, and there will be no palm trees….

The Safe Way

What a tragic irony that the terrible shootings in Arizona occurred at a place named the Safeway. It makes me wonder where the safe way is for any of us. When a routine trip to the grocery store or an interest in meeting a congressperson turns deadly, we have all lost our way. I don’t know if the political rhetoric or the images of cross hairs contributed to what happened, but I do know that unbalanced individuals cannot process meaning and intent in the same way as others. And as others have noted, the two things that could have prevented this horror – strong mental health referral and treatment, and reasonable gun laws – are unlikely actions in our America today. In the midst of the weeping, where is the will?

Praying in the Produce Aisle

Grocery shopping can be a chore: something on the weekly to-do list, necessary but not especially rewarding or exciting. I suspect it is safe to say that most folks don’t approach this task as an occasion for prayer -- but perhaps we should.

The next time you are in the produce aisle, take some time to reflect on the bounty before you. Even a regular grocery store will have at least six varieties of apples, maybe eight different lettuces, five kinds of tomatoes. Kale comes in two or three forms, each one colorful and interesting; there are red, yellow, orange, and green sweet peppers, and small fiery chiles. For relatively small amounts of money, we can have the fruits of someone else's labor in unimaginable array.

When I am in a hurry, tired, stressed, it is easy to miss the extraordinary beauty and abundance in this ordinary place. But instead of mentally griping about the high prices or the hassle, I am trying instead to engage my shopping chores with a sense of gratitude and thanksgiving. I am trying to be mindful of the care and provision that God makes for all creation, understanding that as pure grace, and rejoicing.

And I am also reminding myself of those unable to partake of the bounty because they are poor, disabled, ill; because there is no real grocery story in their neighborhood; because they have to ride a bus to shop. I am reminding myself to offer prayers prayers of intercession on behalf of the hungry in my own area and then concentrating on putting those intercessions into action.

And finally, I think that produce aisle might also be a call to repentance. There is enough food in the world so no one has to go hungry and yet people are still starving to death. The problem is not lack of food, but lack of will. Might we repent of our self-focus and turn our skill and ability to repairing the structures that keep the hungry from being fed?

Physicist Brian Swimme writes about the creation of the universe as “a titanic bestowal, a stupendous quantum of free energy given forth from the bottomless vaults of generosity.” All that gift is played out in microcosm right there in the midst of the squash and the celery and the peppers. Let us pray that we may be part of realizing that overflowing abundance.

Sunday of the Baptism of Christ

“Water, Wind, and Fire”

Psalm 29

Matthew 3:1-17

Baptism is always a special occasion in the church. Some churches prepare those who are being baptized all through Lent and then the baptism itself takes place as soon as Easter morning arrives. Some churches gather on a beach or at a river. Some pour the water into ancient stone fonts where generations of the faithful have been baptized. In churches that baptize infants, as we do, the baptism of a little one is an especially tender moment - usually.

I remember a baptism in a church I attended years ago of a little girl, maybe two years old. She was truly a child of the church – both her parents were elders; her grandfather was a retired minister; she had been in worship almost since the day she was born. Her baptism was a special day for everyone there. She was in a new dress, hair brushed, looking like an angel sitting with mom and dad in the pew. But when it was time for them to gather at the font, she refused to budge. No amount of coaxing could get her out of her seat. In the face of her loud protests - NO, NO – the minister finally cupped the water in her hands and carried it to the little girl in the pew, letting it drip down on that shining hair as she said the ancient words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

We all knew the little girl and knew that she was a head-strong two year old, but I have wondered since then if she had a more primal understanding of what was about to happen than perhaps the rest of us. After all, the traditional baptismal liturgy speaks of our being baptized into the death of Jesus Christ. It reminds us of God almost giving up on humankind and destroying our evil in the waters of the flood. Baptism embraces the suffering of Jesus on the cross when his side was pierced and water and blood flowed out. In baptism we are buried with Christ in his death.

Baptism is rejecting sin, renouncing evil, and repenting of our old ways. It is not sweetness and lace and antique christening gowns but an altogether different and potentially terrifying experience –terrifying because it involves the complete destruction of an old way of life.

This is what John meant when he began to baptize with a call for repentance. We often think of repentance as feeling sorry for our sins, a kind of holy regret. That is certainly part of it, but the real meaning is much more expansive. The Greek word for repentance is metanoia and its literal meaning is to turn around, to do an about face. It means to change your mind, not just in the sense of making a different decision but also in the sense of changing the way you think, the way you live, who you are.

Baptism calls us out of our comfortable place, and it seems to me and perfectly normal reaction to want to stay put, to say NO, NO. That’s human nature, isn’t it? Change is hard. It is hard, and it is painful, because it always involves some form of destruction.

That is probably why we often prefer the status quo, even if we don’t necessarily like the way things are. You know the old saying: better the devil you know than the one you don’t know. But the truth of the matter is that it is often the devil we know instead of the God we are afraid to know.

And into our unknowing, God’s voice enters, clearing the space for something new to happen. This voice of God, as the psalmist wrote, is powerful and majestic, flashing with fire, shaking the wilderness, stripping the forest bare, thundering over mighty waters.

The record of scripture bears witness to the power of God’s voice. Think of the watery chaos at the beginning of time when God’s voice brought life and order out of wild nothingness. And then God’s voice came again, in 40 days of rain and a great flood that destroyed evil from the face of the earth. The Israelites stood on the banks of the sea and watched their Egyptian enemies destroyed and understood themselves transformed from slaves into God’s chosen ones. And Jesus came to the Jordan and God’s voice thundered over the waters again, changing everything.

That same voice, that same God, also speaks to us, with power and might and glory, entering the wilderness of our own lives like a whirlwind, uprooting and shattering all the evil that has taken hold. In the waters of baptism, through the wind and fire of the Holy Spirit, we are created anew, changed, transformed into God’s chosen people, God’s own beloved.

This is the ultimate manifestation of God’s grace but it is not a cheap grace. Perhaps the poet/preacher John Donne captured some of the nature of God’s costly grace when he wrote these words:

Batter my heart, three person’d God; for you as yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;

that I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee, and bend your force to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

God transforms our lives with a love as powerful as water, wind and fire. That transformation is not always easy. But in the midst of the destruction of the old, the breaking, blowing and burning that clear a space for God’s newness, it is important to claim God’s presence with us and for us, not against us.

It is a tragic truth that every day someone somewhere in the world will suffer from a terrible disaster -- flood, fire, tornado. Sometimes we speak of these as “acts of God” but I think it is more accurate to call them acts of nature. I do not believe that God punishes people by sending tragedies like the floods in Pakistan, hurricane Katrina, fires in California, or the December tornadoes in Missouri. But I do believe that God is at work in those terrible situations in ways we cannot fathom. I have been struck time and time again by television interviews of people standing in the midst of the destruction of everything they have known – houses burnt down, flooded out or blown apart, neighborhoods and livelihoods destroyed, surrounded by damage and injury and loss. And over and over again, they all say the same kind of thing: “We have lost all our stuff but we still have each other. And that is all that matters.” It is as though the destruction around them has given them a new sense of priorities, has shown them what is truly important.

I do not want to minimize or trivialize the awful suffering that accompanies disaster and loss. But it may be that this is a powerful metaphor for how God works in our day-to-day lives – destroying those accumulations that distract us from what is really important, destroying those things that keep us from seeing love.

This is not easy. Change never is. But here is another thing to remember about how God works. God is always with us, no matter what. God has claimed us as God’s own children. We are God’s beloved.

And God’s word to us, God’s voice, coming through the prophet Isaiah, is still trustworthy and true:

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire, you shall not be burned and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God…. You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.” (Isaiah 43:1b-3a, 4a)

In the chaos of our lives, in the wilderness of our souls, in the midst of destruction and despair and desperation, God is with us. Through the water, wind and fire of baptism, God’s voice descends on us like a blessing, and everything is changed. Nothing will ever be the same, except God’s eternal love.

(c) Martha C. Highsmith

Snow Day

It is January in New England. We should not be surprised that it is snowing, but we are. Somehow we traipse through winter thinking that we are in control and so we do not expect the disruptions of weather. Well, it has snowed, traffic has been snarled, events have been cancelled. And the world is beautiful. This snow is soft and fluffy, and it is piled on tree branches and bird feeders and porch rails. The snow muffles noise, and the usual sounds of hurrying are mostly silenced. People are out shoveling or pulling sleds, or inside with hot chocolate. And part of what is beautiful about the snow is that it makes us pause. A snow day – when you are in the right place – is a blessing. A snow day is a way for us to obey the holy command: “Be still.” Perhaps we ought to declare a snow day for the soul every now and then, regardless of the climate.

Godly whiffs....

A conversation in an old book, between a vicar and a young woman, told in her words:

“How the intelligent young do fight shy of the mention of God! It makes them feel both bored and superior.”

I tried to explain: “Well, once you stop believing in an old gentleman with a beard …. It’s only the word God, you know – it makes such a conventional noise.”

“It’s merely shorthand for where we come from, where we’re going, and what it’s all about.”

“And do religious people find out what it’s all about? Do they really get the answer to the riddle?”

“They get just a whiff of an answer sometimes. …..If an – well, unreligious person, needed consolation from religion, I’d advise him or her to sit in an empty church. Sit, not kneel. And listen, not pray. Prayer’s a very tricky business.”

“Goodness, is it?”

“Well, for inexperienced pray-ers it sometimes is. You see, they’re apt to think of God as a slot-machine. If nothing comes out they say ‘I knew dashed well it was empty’ – when the whole secret of prayer is knowing the machine is full.”

“But how can one know?”

“By filling it oneself.”

“With faith?”

“With faith. I expect you find that another boring word. And I warn you this slot-machine metaphor is going to break down at any moment. But if ever you’re feeling very unhappy…. well, try sitting in an empty church.”

“And listening for a whiff?”

We both laughed and then he said that it was just as reasonable to talk of smelling or tasting God as of seeing or hearing Him. “If one ever has any luck, one will know with all one’s senses – and none of them. Probably as good a way as any of describing it is that we shall ‘come over all queer.’”

“But haven’t you already?”

He sighed and said the whiffs were few and far between. “But the memory of them everlasting,” he added softly.

from I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith, pp 234-5

At the Mall

I usually try to avoid going to the mall to shop during the days before Christmas. This year, I needed one thing that I could only buy there so off I went. After about 20 minutes or so, I found a parking spot and entered the fray. The mall was full of folks, some old men sitting on the communal couches, waiting with packages piled around them, teenagers roving in groups, some smiling and laughing but most wandering around with blank stares. As I joined the crowd, I had the unbidden thought: “What in the world would Jesus think of all this – all this consumerism and stress and lost expressions?” And then almost immediately, I heard in my heart these words of scripture: “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matthew 9.36). And it was all right, there in the mall, in the midst of the mess of Christmas. God was with us: Emmanuel.

Christmas Eve

Through the Eyes of the Infant

Luke 2:1-20

This is one of the most beautiful nights of the year. We gather here to listen to this ancient story and we see the stable in our mind’s eye: Mary robed in blue looking peaceful and serene, Joseph standing by worried and protective, and the baby lying in a manger, fat and smiling and wrapped in sparkling white clothes.

That is our picture but it wasn’t that way at all. We are so used to the story that we miss its shocking reality. The child of God, this child who was God, came into the world in a place of muck and manure. When he opened his newborn eyes, he saw a rough stable, dimly lit at best, full of animals and their accumulated dirt and dust. The one who labored to bring him into the world was a poor unmarried peasant girl and his first visitors were common laborers, not accepted in polite society. Everything that baby laid his eyes on spoke of a world of bone-crushing hard work, struggles to survive, poverty and powerlessness.

And yet for all this hardship, that little baby saw love: the love of his earthly parents; the worship of the shepherds; even the much-maligned innkeeper who had provided a place, however crude, for him to be born. That little baby saw love and he was love, and maybe that is why we dress him up and clean up the stable and make Mary look beautiful in our manger scenes. After all God’s love is beautiful, isn’t it? And we want this most powerful sign of that love coming into the world to be beautiful too.

But the true beauty of God’s love, the great power of Christmas, is that God sees us as we really are – muck and all – and loves us anyway. And we understand the miracle of that love all the better because it comes to us, not as a king or an army or a judge, but as a baby.

We have little children in our family now, including a brand new baby. When F… arrived last month, his was a well-attended birth in a spotlessly clean place with expert medical care to ensure his safe arrival. There were no shepherds who came to visit, at least as far as I know, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the angels were singing because his birth was no less a miracle then the one we celebrate tonight.

Our new baby’s cousin just turned two years old. She has been hearing stories about the baby Jesus and paying close attention to these accounts of the young woman who brought forth her first-born son. W… has put two and two together and has come to the conclusion that new baby boy in our family must be the baby Jesus.

It is a sweet little confusion, isn’t it? Or at least that was my first reaction. But the more I’ve thought about it, I am reminded of the words of the palmist, “out of the mouths of babes and infants.” I think the two-year-old is on to something.

Just as Jesus was the son of God, the child of God, so is every baby born into this world. Every child is holy, and every child lays claim to our love and care just as the baby Jesus does. We are all made in the image of God, after all, and that godliness can seem stronger and clearer when we are fresh and new. Somehow as the years pile up, we make mistakes, act unkindly, live selfishly, we sin, and it becomes harder to see the image of God in each other. But it is still present – in all of us – no matter how young or how old. We are all children of God, with a holy DNA that shapes who we are and how we are to live. In this sense, W… is right about her new-born cousin. And it is true for all the rest of us too. We aren’t Jesus, but we are created to be Christ-like.

Imagine for a moment what the world would be like if we lived as though this were really true. It would change our behavior, I think, it would change everything, because we would all want to be seen as good and holy in the eyes of the infant and we would all see the world through that infant’s eyes.

……..

There is an old story about a poor monastery somewhere, struggling to survive. No one was interested in being a monk anymore and there were only five old men left, trying to carry on and hold things together. At his wit’s end, one day the leader of the monastery, Brother David, went to visit the wise man who lived in the forest. He told his sad tale of the once beautiful monastery, with many brothers tending to the poor and doing good works – now falling down and about to come to an end. He begged the wise man for advice. But the wise old man had no easy answer to give. Instead he said to the old monk: “The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you."

Brother David returned to the monastery without the help they had hoped for. He told his brothers what the wise old man had said, but none of them could figure out what it meant. “The Messiah is one of you.” So they went on with their daily business, doing the best they could, but they kept wondering about this. How could the Messiah be one of them? And if it was true, then which one?

It couldn’t be Brother Peter, could it? He was always in a bad mood before he had his second cup of coffee. It couldn’t be Brother James; he was forever falling asleep during prayers. It certainly wasn’t Brother John who would often go for a walk and get so distracted he would forget to do his work, which annoyed all the others. And Brother Luke scorched the oatmeal every single morning; he meant well but he just wasn’t very attentive. He didn’t seem likely to be the Messiah. And Brother David was a good and holy man, yes, but he was very, very old and that didn’t seem like one that God would choose to be the Messiah.

On the other hand, the monks had lived faithful and prayerful lives for a long time, and they knew that God often does surprising things. They knew that God could work through grumpy folks and distracted folks, and those who were tired or old or slow or inattentive. Maybe, just maybe, one of them really was the Messiah.

A curious thing began to happen at the old monastery. The way they saw each other and even the way they saw their own selves began to change. They began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off-off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

The whole place changed. Nearby neighbors and travelers from far away who stopped to rest at the monastery saw the change. Something special was happening and people began to want to be part of it. New brothers joined the old ones, the monastery grew, and its good works were a blessing to all. And all because they saw themselves and each other as the Messiah, as Christ-like, all because they saw through the eyes of the infant.

………

I do not know how the Messiah is present here tonight, but I do know that Christ is among us and within us and we, too, are God’s own children.

So this Christmas, may we see the world through the eyes of the infant, looking on each other as Jesus did, with compassion and love and forgiveness. And may we remember that we are all precious are in God’s eyes, even with our own faults and failings. Because just as the baby was born in the stable all those years ago, so Jesus still comes in the midst of the dirt and decay, the muck and mess of our own lives, looks on us with love, and watches over us all our days.

And when we see with the eyes of the infant, when we love as Jesus did, and live as the children of God that we are, we can change the world. And that is the true beauty of Christmas.

Amen.

28th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Refugees, All of Us

Jeremiah 29: 1, 4-7

Luke 17: 11-19

Our world is filled with refugees. The floods in Pakistan this summer left over 20% of that nation completely under water, including 17 million acres of the most fertile farmland. Twenty million people or more have been forced from their homes. Many of those will never be able to return. The devastation is beyond our comprehension. In Rwanda and the Sudan, Afghanistan and Iraq, it is war that has forced people to flee, leaving behind everything, trying to find a place of safety. In our own hemisphere, thousands of people in Haiti are still living in tents, if they have even that much shelter.

Yes, our world is filled with refugees. The physical toll and the emotional upheaval are awful. A million or more personal tragedies play themselves out every day, and for the most part we are protected from that. If we are forced from our homes, it is usually temporary – the power goes out or something like that. We don’t face the kind of hardships that so many others deal with every day of their lives. But I do think we experience our own kind of dislocation. Rather than physical, it is a kind of spiritual dislocation.

If you grew up in another time and place as I did, you were at home in a world where faith was central to life. On Sunday, people went to church; before meals and at bedtime they prayed; during the week they read the bible and did their best to act as it instructed. But we don’t live there anymore. We find ourselves in a very different kind of world. In a way, we have been exiled in place. Physically we have stayed put, but spiritually we have been moved away from God. Forces in our world beyond our control have pushed us to another way of life.

Those forces are, for the most part, not natural disasters or civil war. Instead they are things like a cultural fascination with material goods; the constant presence of technology that has the effect of distracting us from the present moment; economic disasters that require us to uproot our families in order to find work; illness that sends us into the land of medicine, and – take it from one who has been there -- that is indeed a foreign country.

It takes a lot of energy to live in exile, to live as refugees, and one reason for that is grief. Exile is a place of loss. Those in exile mourn a way of life that no longer exists except as a distant memory. They long to return to that place of familiarity, of home, but also know somehow that it will never be possible.

When God spoke through the prophet Jeremiah to a people in exile, God spoke to their loss and their grief, to their dislocation. And the surprising word of God to those exiles came as a set of radical commands: “Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce; marry and raise children; encourage your children to marry and raise children.” In other words: “Settle down and settle in, put down roots, be fully and completely where you are, live your life in this place.”

These commands must have come like a splash of ice-cold water thrown in the faces of broken-hearted people who were longing for a return to their home in Jerusalem. God said, in essence, stop looking back. This is the life you have; start living it.

The people must have known somehow that the life they longed to return to no longer existed, if in fact it ever had. In exile, you know, we tend to idealize the past. Things were so much better back in the old days. Well, the old days had their own share of problems. And to become consumed in the present by a longing for things to be the way they once were is to lose sight of the way things are in the here and now. The other temptation in exile is to hope only for the future, to put things on hold and wait for life to get better.

But God calls the exiles to what one holy person has described as the sacrament of the present moment. The sacrament of the present moment is an attitude of heart that sees everything as holy, everything as sacred, and sees all that is present as holy and sacred. To live in the past, longing for a way of life that no longer exists, is to miss the blessing of today. To reach forward to a future that does not yet exist, always hoping for a time when things will be better, is also to miss the blessing of today. In fact, traditional Judaism sees that as arrogance — like picking God's pocket, taking that which does not yet belong to us.

It is easy for us to become consumed by the past or obsessed with the future because we are finite creatures, and we are bound by time. But there is another dimension to time, akin to the sacrament of the present moment, and that is what Paul Tillich called the “Eternal Now.” He wrote:

People who are never aware of this dimension lose the possibility of resting in the present. …. They are held by the past and cannot separate themselves from it, or they escape towards the future, unable to rest in the present.

This Eternal Now that Paul Tillich spoke of is where God dwells, and if we would dwell with God, that is how we must approach our lives as well. In the place of exile, when we find ourselves feeling like refugees from the present, it is easy to live in the past or long for the future. But instead, God tells us to build houses and plant gardens, to put down roots and settle in, to see the inherent blessing where we are and how we are.

And there is one more radical command from God: “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray for it, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.” In other words, it is not enough just to be where we are. We have to bind ourselves in prayer and practice to the well-being of our present location in time and space.

This congregation does seek the welfare of the city where God has sent you. You engage in ministry and social justice; you feed the hungry; you reach out to the poor and homeless; the very presence of this building in the heart of the city serves as a kind of physical testimony to Christ’s presence here. I think you know that we all benefit from a city that is vibrant, diverse, lively, and safe. You know that and you work for that outcome, for the welfare of this city.

But I think God might be challenging us to see our city as larger than Hartford. In reality, we live in a global city. The world is our neighborhood. And from our own place of spiritual dislocation, we are to seek the welfare of the world, to pray for it, to practice peace and justice and compassion with and for all peoples.

The floods in Pakistan drown our neighbors. The wars in Africa wound our children. The earthquakes in Haiti uproot our sisters and brothers. If the welfare of the world is in jeopardy, so is our own.

This may not be where we wanted to find ourselves. It is hard to put your energy into caring for others when you are worried about your own survival. And you do have to worry about that, if you are to be a responsible human being. Some here are concerned with the survival of this church; others are dealing with physical or financial survival; some with spiritual survival. But all of us probably experience some sense of dislocation; all of us are refugees of one kind or another. And here is the good news about our own exile. Sometimes it takes this dislocation to help us see what God is doing.

Jesus once encountered a group of exiles, ten lepers forced out of their homes, exiled from society, refugees on the move with no place to go. They cried out to him for mercy, for help. And he answered them with healing. But only one came back to say thank you. And that one was a Samaritan, the one who experienced a double dislocation – from his leprosy and his status as a religious outsider.

Maybe that dislocation prevented him from taking for granted Jesus’ intervention. Maybe his losses had attuned his heart to gratitude at the unexpected gift. Maybe he had lived with hardship so long he had given up thinking he deserved anything better, so the healing came as pure grace. The others, as they were healed, went back to the priest, and, implied in that action, returned to their old way of life. But the Samaritan did not. He turned instead to Jesus, with praise and thanksgiving, with a new understanding of the healing, saving power of faith.

There is blessing in exile. There is help and healing and home for refugees. Sometimes we are in a position to offer those gifts of God to others who are in need, and sometimes we ourselves are the ones in need. Either way, we are called to seek the welfare of our world, to be at home in our dislocation, and to give thanks to God for all God’s gifts.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in the time of trouble, in the time of now.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

(c) Martha C. Highsmith