biblical reflection

An Advent Journey, 2013: Looking for the Light – Day Six

December 6, 2013 By Diana

Paul stood up, paused and took a deep breath, then said, “Fellow Israelites and friends of God, listen. God took a special interest in our ancestors, pulled our people who were beaten down in Egyptian exile to their feet, and led them out of there in grand style. He took good care of them for nearly forty years in that godforsaken wilderness and then, having wiped out seven enemies who stood in the way, gave them the land of Canaan for their very own—a span in all of about 450 years.

“Up to the time of Samuel the prophet, God provided judges to lead them. But then they asked for a king, and God gave them Saul, son of Kish, out of the tribe of Benjamin. After Saul had ruled forty years, God removed him from office and put King David in his place, with this commendation: ‘I’ve searched the land and found this David, son of Jesse. He’s a man whose heart beats to my heart, a man who will do what I tell him.’

“From out of David’s descendants God produced a Savior for Israel, Jesus, exactly as he promised—but only after John had thoroughly alerted the people to his arrival by preparing them for a total life-change. As John was finishing up his work, he said, ‘Did you think I was the One? No, I’m not the One. But the One you’ve been waiting for all these years is just around the corner, about to appear. And I’m about to disappear.’”
Acts 13:16-25 -The Message

What’s the big deal about David’s line?

Sounds to me like this royalty thing
is just plain outta whack.

Who needs a king, anyhow?

Old ideas, out-of-date,
lots of ceremony,
nothing you can put your
hands on,
or wrap your mind around.

Who needs a king anyhow?

Kinda funny that God
takes the misbegotten
dream of ancient Israel
to have a king,
like all the other cool kids,
and turns it on its head
by sending one
direct to Bethlehem.

Kinda cool, too.

Dear Jesus, thank you for being a king-beyond-the-usual, for loving us and choosing your lineage carefully, and coming like a tiny surprise package to change the world. Will you help me to keep changing? To keep looking for ways in which you surprise and upend my expectations? Thank you.

* As an added Advent bonus, I heartily recommend you click on this link and meander over to SheLoves fine post on Random Acts of Advent Kindness. I’m going to try and do this as often as possible and I encourage you all to check it out for yourselves.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, biblical reflection, church year, prayer

An Advent Journey, 2013: Looking for the Light – Day Five

December 5, 2013 By Diana

Give the king your justice, O God,
    and your righteousness to a king’s son.

May he judge your people with righteousness,
    and your poor with justice.
May the mountains yield prosperity for the people,
    and the hills, in righteousness.
May he defend the cause of the poor of the people,
    give deliverance to the needy,
    and crush the oppressor.

May he live while the sun endures,
    and as long as the moon, throughout all generations.
May he be like rain that falls on the mown grass,
    like showers that water the earth.
In his days may righteousness flourish
    and peace abound, until the moon is no more.

Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel,
    who alone does wondrous things.
Blessed be his glorious name forever;
    may his glory fill the whole earth.
Amen and Amen.
Psalm 72:1-7 18-19 – NRSV

A song for a king, written one thousand years before Jesus was born, yet somehow a song for him as well as for David. We are all ‘the needy,’ it seems to me. We need a royal visit, some patronage now and again, someone looking out for our best interests.

Is Jesus that one?

I choose to believe so, even when I’m puzzled by some of the things that happen in this world, that happen to me or the people I love. I surely don’t ‘get it’ much of the time. There are questions without answers, horrors without any visible saving grace, illness and hardship and death.

Even so, I will continue to choose this king, the one who came in squalor and loneliness, the one who doesn’t fit the job description most of us might design for a king.

Maybe that’s because we’ve got it all upside down and backwards. Maybe that’s because we are slow to know that ‘neediness’ can be defined in lots of different ways. Maybe it’s because God is in the business of standing things on their heads.

A king on a cross, that’s our story. With no political power, no financial acumen, no henchmen surrounding him to enforce whatever word he might care to proclaim. Yet he is, indeed, like “showers that water the earth,” bringing refreshment in the midst of drought, and the spring of new life to the trod-upon green.

How can this be? This kingship without the pomp and circumstance?

It’s hard for us to grasp this truth, to release our expectations and look instead for the Humble One, the Broken One, the One who was left to die on the garbage heap outside of town.

But look we must, and it starts with the simplest of things. The bloom of late roses, the angle of light across a wooden floor, the scent of sweetness on the evening breeze, if you live where I do. Where you are, it might come from the smoke spiraling up the chimney, the glistening of white on every twig, the bracing coldness of the frozen air. Small things, tiny points of light. Reminders that the King of the Universe disguises himself as a helpless newborn, spilled out onto the straw.

King Jesus! We call you that in ways we don’t begin to understand, yet we know them to be true. Remind us again of what royalty really looks like, help us to look for the rain, the moisture poured out in a dry and thirsty land. Help us to see you.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, Beauty, biblical reflection, church year, Encouragement, prayer, Uncategorized

An Advent Journey, 2013: Looking for the Light – Day Four

December 4, 2013 By Diana

Sing, O barren one who did not bear;
burst into song and shout,
you who have not been in labor!
For the children of the desolate woman will be more
than the children of her that is married, says the Lord.
Enlarge the site of your tent,
and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out;
do not hold back; lengthen your cords
and strengthen your stakes.
For you will spread out to the right and to the left,
and your descendants will possess the nations
and will settle the desolate towns.

Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;
do not be discouraged, for you will not suffer disgrace;
for you will forget the shame of your youth,
and the disgrace of your widowhood you will remember no more.
For your Maker is your husband,
the Lord of hosts is his name;
the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer,
the God of the whole earth he is called.
For the Lord has called you
like a wife forsaken and grieved in spirit,
like the wife of a man’s youth when she is cast off,
says your God.
For a brief moment I abandoned you,
but with great compassion I will gather you.
In overflowing wrath for a moment
I hid my face from you,
but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you,
says the Lord, your Redeemer.
This is like the days of Noah to me:

Just as I swore that the waters of Noah
would never again go over the earth,
so I have sworn that I will not be angry with you
and will not rebuke you.
For the mountains may depart
and the hills be removed,
but my steadfast love shall not depart from you,
and my covenant of peace shall not be removed,
says the Lord, who has compassion on you.
Isaiah 54:1-10 -NRSV

The writing in the book of Isaiah reduces me to tears on a regular basis. The cadence and rhythm of the words, the glory of the truths proclaimed, the beauty of the God who loves despite frustration, despite disappointment. The forward thrust of it all is what I cling to, I think. The acknowledgement that things are difficult at times, that shame is alive and well on planet earth, but . . .

The love of God will prevail, the peace of God will sustain, the compassion of God will triumph. These are words to cling to when disasters circle our globe, when despots rule, when unspeakable things happen. These are the words of hope.

Where are you finding hope right now? Where do you see glimmers of light?

I see it in the faces of my family, in the honest searching of my eldest grandsons, the gleeful gaming of the middle boys, the playful willfulness of my youngest granddaughters. I see it in the tired eyes of my son who works far too hard as a hospice doctor, in the creative hospitality of my daughters and daughter-in-law, in the gentle goodness of my sons-in-law, in the faithful commitment of my husband

I see it in the blueness of the sky, I hear it in the birds calling across the yard, in the waves crashing and receding, in the green, green, greenness of every tree and bush.

And I find it in your faces, in your words, in your stories.

I am grateful.

Oh Lord of hope, help us to gather up these glimmers and see your hand at work. Make us ministers of compassion to the hopeless among us, bringers of joy to those who are shamed, and believers in your goodness, no matter what.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, Beauty, biblical reflection, church year, God's gifts, prayer, Uncategorized

The Many Shades of Christmas – A Deeper Family

December 4, 2013 By Diana

Have you ever noticed how many of our favorite carols are written in a minor key? Think about it for a minute . . .

“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”

“In the Bleak Midwinter”

“Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent”

“What Child Is This?”

“Greensleeves”

“I Wonder as I Wander”

“Carol of the Bells”

“Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming”

“Coventry Carol” (“Lullay, Thou Little Tiny Child”)

These are melodically darker-hued songs, offered in a season when we are encouraged on every side to be merry, dang it! And I am more grateful than I can say for the rich texture they bring to these days before Christmas.

Why?

Because there are many pieces of this story that can only be told in a minor key.

Sometimes I think we forget that Jesus came into a broken world, that there were no colored lights, and certainly no tinsel around that hayloft. Yes, yes — the gift of the incarnation is unspeakably good, that babe whose head was cradled by his open-hearted, willing young mother, that babe brought light and hope to us all.

But in and around the lowing of cattle, the bleating of lambs, the exhausted moans of a brand-new mom and the healthy lungs of a newborn — who can forget the cries of the mothers in Ramah, the rumbling threat of Herod, the hurried flight to Egypt, or the sorrowful truth about where that sweet baby hung his beautiful head at the end of his good, good life?

The reality of life on planet earth is that even good news, the best possible news, must be told in the midst of the bad; to get to the light, we have to walk through the dark. To truly live our story, we have to tell all the pieces of it.

So I think it’s important that the sounds of sadness, the echoes of loss, the edges of fear and uncertainty, are carefully and intentionally woven into our celebrations. All the voices in this Story, and in our own stories, cry out to be heard as we move toward the manger and the major key of Christmas Day.

I know that I have lived longer than most of you who are reading this piece. And over the course of this long life, I have experienced loss upon loss, asked question upon question, and listened for the answers in the midst of silence. If there is one thing I’ve learned, one truth that stands at the top of all the truths I know, it is this one: everyone carries a story of brokenness. Everyone.

Please join me over at A Deeper Family today to read more about singing in a minor key in this ‘hap-happiest season of all . . . “

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, Advent, biblical reflection, Christmas, Church, church year, Encouragement, grief, Lament, Music, Spiritual Formation, Waiting

An Advent Journey, 2013: Looking for the Light – Day Three

December 3, 2013 By Diana

God blessed Noah and his sons: He said, “Prosper! Reproduce! Fill the Earth! Every living creature—birds, animals, fish—will fall under your spell and be afraid of you. You’re responsible for them. All living creatures are yours for food; just as I gave you the plants, now I give you everything else. Except for meat with its lifeblood still in it—don’t eat that.

“But your own lifeblood I will avenge; I will avenge it against both animals and other humans.

Whoever sheds human blood,
by humans let his blood be shed,
Because God made humans in his image
reflecting God’s very nature.
You’re here to bear fruit, reproduce,
lavish life on the Earth, live bountifully!”

Then God spoke to Noah and his sons: “I’m setting up my covenant with you including your children who will come after you, along with everything alive around you—birds, farm animals, wild animals—that came out of the ship with you. I’m setting up my covenant with you that never again will everything living be destroyed by floodwaters; no, never again will a flood destroy the Earth.”

God continued, “This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and everything living around you and everyone living after you. I’m putting my rainbow in the clouds, a sign of the covenant between me and the Earth. From now on, when I form a cloud over the Earth and the rainbow appears in the cloud, I’ll remember my covenant between me and you and everything living, that never again will floodwaters destroy all life. When the rainbow appears in the cloud, I’ll see it and remember the eternal covenant between God and everything living, every last living creature on Earth.”

And God said, “This is the sign of the covenant that I’ve set up between me and everything living on the Earth.”

Genesis 9:1-17 -The Message

God begins making promises to us right here in this narrative. We are part of the ‘everything living after you’ — all of us, men and women, old people and children, even the animals are part of this promise, this covenant agreement to never again destroy the whole earth.

I find the story of Noah to be one of the strangest and scariest in all of scripture. It’s within the first eleven chapters of Genesis, what scholars call the pre-history — richly detailed stories handed down from generation to generation, all of them stories about beginnings. Here, in the middle of this collection of ancient tales, we find evidence of God’s care for creation. So very different from the old stories of surrounding cultures, where the gods are either vindictive or petty and care little about human beings. No. The God who chose to reveal divine truth to the people who became the Hebrews is telling us something important here, something real.

Much like yesterday’s psalm, this end of the story of Noah tells us that God is on our side, that God will not forget us, that God binds us together — the divine and the human — in an unbreakable bond. That beautiful bow in the sky is a sign and a seal on that union.

Can we look for rainbows between now and Christmas? Real ones, up in the sky, if we’re so blessed by the weather. But also small bits of color, vibrancy amid the darkness, beauty in the ashes. Because, whether we’re entirely comfortable with it or not, the Noah story is a terrible story, one that should probably never be told to children. There is death and destruction on a grand scale, all at the hands of God.

But . . .

There is also the rainbow, the sign of the promise. That first big promise of good and life-giving things to come, from a God who is mysterious and unsearchable, yet who longs to be in communion with us — human creatures who are slow-witted and prone to destruction.

Us.

Let’s look for reminders as we look for the light, shall we?

Unsearchable God, we do not begin to understand all of the ways in which you work in this world. But this much we know — you are a promise-making and a promise-keeping God, a God who longs for us to live and flourish in relationship with you. Thank you.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, Beauty, biblical reflection, church year, daily devo, death, Hard Things, Mystery, Spiritual Formation, Storytelling, Uncategorized

An Advent Journey, 2013: Looking for the Light – Day Two

December 2, 2013 By Diana

If it had not been the Lord who was on our side
—let Israel now say—
if it had not been the Lord who was on our side,
when our enemies attacked us,
then they would have swallowed us up alive,
when their anger was kindled against us;
then the flood would have swept us away,
the torrent would have gone over us;
then over us would have gone
the raging waters.

Blessed be the Lord,
who has not given us
as prey to their teeth.
We have escaped like a bird
from the snare of the fowlers;
the snare is broken,
and we have escaped.
Our help is in the name of the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.
— Psalm 124, NRSV

We wait for the coming,
of the babe,
and of the Christ.
And every coming
is marked by this one thing,
this splendid, unique,
life-changing truth:
freedom.

“the snare is broken,
and we have escaped. . .”
This is the center,
the truth that holds
everything together.

The Lord is on our side.
Who could imagine?
On our side,
come what may,
even when what comes
brings heartache,
pain and fear.

And the truth is also this:
to know the unshackling,
to find the Presence,
there is only one way,
one road,
one thing required:

waiting.

It is in the waiting,
that we are changed,
we are saved,
we are made free.

Hallelujah.
Amen.

Teach us more about waiting, O Lord. We don’t like it, we resist and rebel, but oh! we must learn, we must. Thank you for forming us in this waiting time.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, biblical reflection, church year, daily devo, Encouragement, God's gifts, personal journey, Waiting

An Advent Journey, 2013: Looking for the Light – Day One

December 1, 2013 By Diana

There’s a day coming
when the mountain of God’s House
Will be The Mountain—
solid, towering over all mountains.
All nations will river toward it,
people from all over set out for it.
They’ll say, “Come,
let’s climb God’s Mountain,
go to the House of the God of Jacob.
He’ll show us the way he works
so we can live the way we’re made.”
Zion’s the source of the revelation.
God’s Message comes from Jerusalem.
He’ll settle things fairly between nations.
He’ll make things right between many peoples.
They’ll turn their swords into shovels,
their spears into hoes.
No more will nation fight nation;
they won’t play war anymore.
Come, family of Jacob,
let’s live in the light of God.

Isaiah 2:1-5, The Message

“All nations will river to it. . .”

Can you see it? All of humanity as a living river, ascending the Hill of the Lord to celebrate the Day of the Lord, that day when peace will reign and we will enjoy the richest of mountaintop experiences. If I close my eyes and imagine, I can make it out.

But when I return to my everyday normal, that human river seems further and further away. It feels as though we are always waiting as we live this life. From the mundane to the magnificent – we wait. . . for the dough to rise, for the sun to come out, for the sadness to lift, the questions to be answered, the sky to be rent. Because the truth of it is this: in all our waitings, we want to see Jesus.

Advent marks it out for us, this waiting. It’s a season of expectation, of longing, sometimes, of desperation. The longest night of the year happens during these weeks, ever-increasing hours of darkness punctuate the rhythm of Advent time. As we wait for Jesus to come, I find myself looking for the light, longing for it from the deep places inside my spirit. I wonder if you do, too?

If so, I invite you to ‘live in the light of God’ this Advent, to faithfully look for that light each day — right in the middle of all the hubbub, all the expectations, all the craziness. There will be some days when we’ll have to search hard to see it, but here’s the truth, here’s what I know: the light is always shining. Always. To see it requires attention and intention, a willingness to look with new eyes, and a promise to listen to the heartbeat of your life with hope and expectation. Will you come with me?

God of the Mountaintop and God of our hearts, help us to see the light of your love, even in the midst of shopping, cooking, traveling and w a i t i n g for you to come. Help us to discover you in a new way, an Advent way, as we mark off these days. Amen.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, Beauty, biblical reflection, Christmas, church year, daily devo, Encouragement, Uncategorized, Waiting

Philip or Andrew?

November 17, 2013 By Diana

I am indebted to the fine homiletical work of our pastor Don Johnson for the thrust of this reflection. His sermon this morning was dead on, and so very important. Please read the gospel lesson, the Word of the Lord for the saints in Santa Barbara this morning:

John 6:1-15, NLT

After this, Jesus crossed over to the far side of the Sea of Galilee, also known as the Sea of Tiberias. A huge crowd kept following him wherever he went, because they saw his miraculous signs as he healed the sick. Then Jesus climbed a hill and sat down with his disciples around him. (It was nearly time for the Jewish Passover celebration.) Jesus soon saw a huge crowd of people coming to look for him. Turning to Philip, he asked,“Where can we buy bread to feed all these people?” He was testing Philip, for he already knew what he was going to do.

Philip replied, “Even if we worked for months, we wouldn’t have enough money to feed them!”

Then Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, spoke up. “There’s a young boy here with five barley loaves and two fish. But what good is that with this huge crowd?”

“Tell everyone to sit down,” Jesus said. So they all sat down on the grassy slopes. (The men alone numbered about 5,000.) Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks to God, and distributed them to the people. Afterward he did the same with the fish. And they all ate as much as they wanted. After everyone was full, Jesus told his disciples,“Now gather the leftovers, so that nothing is wasted.” So they picked up the pieces and filled twelve baskets with scraps left by the people who had eaten from the five barley loaves.

When the people saw him do this miraculous sign, they exclaimed, “Surely, he is the Prophet we have been expecting!” When Jesus saw that they were ready to force him to be their king, he slipped away into the hills by himself.

It was hot, dusty, flies and people milling about,
buzzing, buzzing.
Over 5000 folks climbed that hillside with the water view,
oldsters and children, men and women,
seekers and hangers-on —
wondering and wandering and wanting to see
what the rabbi might do,
to hear what he might say.

Jesus was the newest ‘show in town,’ and everyone was curious.
They had seen (or heard) about the healings, the ‘signs,’
and they wanted to see a few for themselves.
So they hoofed it, out into the countryside, hiking up the hill by the lake,
hanging around, waiting for the show to begin.
The star of the show, however, gathered his closest friends and went to
the tippy-top of that hill and . . . what?
Gathered the props for a magic show?
Laid out a careful plan for crowd management?
Discussed what the format for the day should look like?

None of the above.
None of it.
Oh, there is a sign coming —
and a doozy of a sign, too.
And the crowd will be pleased,
so overwhelmingly convinced that Jesus
is the latest hot number,
that they will succumb to mob mentality
and try to force the guy to become
their next Grand Poobah.
(Something which Jesus will have NONE of.)

No. There is no talk of technique or teaching,
there is a simple lesson in faith, told to two particular disciples.
Rather than a story about the crowd.
or even a story about a ‘trick’ or a sign,
this is something else entirely.

This is a story about
contrasting worldviews,
personal invitations,
scarcity and plentitude,
faith and doubt.

This is a story about possibilities
and whether or not those who follow Jesus
are open to them.

This is a story about Philip and Andrew.

And this is a story about giving what we have,
no matter how small it might look to us,
to the gentle, prayerful care of Jesus the Christ,
and then waiting to see
how too little
becomes more than enough.

That is a barley loaf in the pictures above.
Poor people’s bread in 1st century Palestine,
the bare minimum for a day’s calories.
Crumbly and salty, even tasty, when you get used to it,
what a mother might pack for her son
for a picnic by the lake.

A far cry from Philip’s anxious bean-counting,
(“Even if we worked for months, we wouldn’t have enough to feed all these people!”)
and the only small thing that Andrew could dredge up
in his cursory survey of the crowd.
A boy’s lunch basket.
That’s all he had.

And it was more than enough.

Neither Philip nor Andrew could see that more-than-enough
when they looked at that little lunch.
But Andrew had a hunch, just an inkling,
and he wasn’t all that sure about it, either.
But he brought that small bag of food,
and he gave it to Jesus.

What small thing can I bring to the top of that hill today?
What paltry gift can I bring?
Can I take my eyes off of the need that seems to
surround and overwhelm,
and look only at Jesus?
Only at Jesus.

Can I resist the attitude of scarcity that oozes out of Philip,
can I turn away from my proclivity for anxiety rather than trust,
my inclination to look at the crowd rather than at Jesus,
my unholy need to control outcomes
rather than let the Holy-Spirit-power-of-my-Redeemer
have its way with the little, the last, the least and the lost?

Ah, Jesus. Have mercy on me, a sinner.
Help me to be an Andrew.
Not quite sure, but willing.
Wondering about outcomes,
but handing it over,
no matter how small it looks.

After church,
after lunch,
after a deep breath and a deep sigh,
we piled my 92-year-old mom into our car
and headed 80 miles east toward her 90-year-old sister,
who is dying this week.

When pastor Don asked us to write down the small things we have,
the things that we find when we search our hearts
and our calendars and our commitments,
the things we need to bring to Jesus —
these two were on the top of my list:
my writing
my mother.
And today was a day for my mother.

It was a hard day, a tiring one, filled with confusion
and fear and grief.
It was a day when I had to pray for grace and for patience
every second of every minute of every hour.

I had a hard time looking at Jesus
in the midst of this particular crowd.
I had a hard time sitting down on the grass
and partaking of the bounty that comes
from not enough when it is given over to the Savior.

But there were glimpses.
There was beauty.
There was grace.
My beautiful cousin, looking at her mama with so much love.
My beautiful aunt, rousing just enough
to grab her sister’s hand and cry, “Ruthie! Ruthie! It’s you, it’s you!”
My beautiful mother, having to meet her grief
over and over and over,
as she forgot who the woman in the bed was,
and then remembered when I gently repeated,
“This is Eileen, your sister, your best friend.”
And the beauty of old songs, sweetly sung.
“On a hill far away. . .”
“For God so loved the world. . . “
“Away in a manger. . .”
“I come to the garden alone. . . “
Every word sung by the sisters and the cousins,
every word an offering of love to each other,
and to the God who gives us songs to sing.

Every word, a reminder that when we give it to Jesus,
the little things are more than enough.

An update, late on Tuesday night: my much-loved, delightful, charming, fun-loving Aunt Eileen
moved into the arms of Jesus at 9:46 p.m.
Thanks be to God and peace to her memory.

Offering this small thing to Laura, Michelle, Jen, Jennifer, Ann and Emily this week, grateful for the ways in which they each point me to Jesus and away from the crowd.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, biblical reflection, death, family, God's gifts, grief, Lament, memoir, personal journey, Storytelling, Sunday Reflections, The Journey with Mom, Uncategorized, worship

The Truest Disciple: Reflections on John 12:1-8

November 11, 2013 By Diana

I’m nearing the end of a wonderful online writing class (offered through www.tweetspeakpoetry.com) and for one of our lessons, we were asked to write something in the style of one of our favorite authors. I chose Barbara Brown Taylor, whose sermons are perfection. This small meditation is a very feeble attempt to echo her insightful handing of familiar Bible passages.

“Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.)

Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

It was a party, you know. A dinner party. Because that’s where all the really good things in life happen, right? Sharing a meal with people we love, laughing over a shared glass of wine, telling stories, building memories.

And they were all there, the whole motley crew. The Twelve that followed Jesus up the road and down again. And the three – the siblings, Martha, Mary, Lazarus – who loved Jesus and hosted him time and again.

And this was a special party, truly special. Lazarus had been . . . well, there’s no other way but to put the bald truth out there — Lazarus had been dead.

And then he wasn’t, because Jesus said, ‘Come out.’

But like many parties often do, this one wound down to just three people, three people in the spotlight.

Jesus, because . . . well, he was Jesus, after all.

And Judas, because he asks hard questions and flings accusations.

And Mary.

Mary?

Right here, in the deeply misogynistic world of 1^st century Palestine, the one in the fullest glare of the spotlight, the one truly faithful disciple turns out to be . . . a woman.

All the guys are there — the crusty fisherman, the bickering brothers, the tax collector, the one who sat under the fig tree. And they’ve all been there for the last three years, covered in dust, sprinkled with Galilean water, living the daily ins and outs of the Jesus life.

Yet somehow, they missed it. They missed the point of it all, the thrust of their mission, the terrifying end of the story they didn’t even know they were telling.

But Mary?

Mary gets it. She is so full of the glorious, heartbreaking truth that it literally pours forth from her body. She comes to the end of the dining couch, where Jesus is reclining by the table. She bends down, breaks open a wildly expensive vial of fragrant oil, and pours it over his feet, loosing her hair to rub it right into the cracks and crevices, scandalizing everyone in the room except the one she came to anoint.

Because, you see, she had been paying attention. Like that other Mary, she was ‘pondering these things in her heart,’ listening with care. As Judas snarled, Jesus calmed the storm: “Leave her alone . . . this perfume has been stashed away just for today, to prepare me for . . . my burial.”

Even here, on the eve of his own brutal death, Jesus insists on changing up the rules for acceptable behavior. He shuts down what we might call the ‘churchy’ attitude, the self-righteous platitudes, and he elevates the simple but loving actions of a contemplative woman.

What we do and why and how we do it — that’s what counts. It’s not so much what we say or even what we believe — it’s what we do. Because the take-home truth is this: the surest sign of a true disciple is the delicious aroma that permeates every corner of the house.

Every corner.

In the midst of a hard and tiring week, I’m thankful tonight for
the stories of scripture,
the gentle care of health aides where our moms live,
the sunshine sparkling on the water,
a 91 degree swimming pool for therapy on unhappy tendons,
CPK salads for dinner.

Joining this with Michelle and Jen, Ann & Jennifer this week:

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Confession, daily devo, giving, God's gifts, hope, preaching, Sermons/Homilies, Wonderings in the World

31 Days of Giving Permission . . . TO READ, READ, READ #3

October 29, 2013 By Diana

This marks the 3rd Tuesday since I first offered permission to read, read, read. On each of those days, I have offered a book review for you to consider. Today’s entry was written by a friend and former neighbor and it is lovely.

I think I need to put a disclaimer on this review, right up front: I know Carolyn Weber and I love her. And for some reason, she chose to talk about me in this book. I knew about it ahead of time, even read a chapter or two before publication, but I was still surprised to see my name, right there.

So, that’s out of the way, okay? And the truth of that first paragraph has absolutely NOTHING to do with what I’m about to say, just so we’re all straight about that.

And here’s what I’m saying: if you like intelligent, lovely, sometimes funny, sometimes achingly honest writing, then this is a book that should go on the top of your stack. This second volume of personal reflections (coming on the heels of the beautiful conversion narrative of “Surprised by Oxford”) picks up her story several years later than the end of volume one. If you’re expecting (or hoping for) descriptions about courtship and wedding, and blissful early years of marriage and teaching, they are not here.

What is here is the story of a transition time in her life, a scary tale of later-in-life pregnancy, labor and delivery, a decision to leave academia and move back to her hometown in Canada, taking a gigantic leap of faith to start over again. It’s a beautiful story, beautifully told. It’s also filled with hard truths, exhaustion, anxiety, disappointment and challenge. And she weaves all of it together with biblical reflection and the ongoing work of the Spirit in the life of a disciple.

Each chapter begins with a life story — a hospital delivery room, journal-writing as therapy, reaching out for help when illness strikes, sitting with a friend for tea, a trip to the beach with her children, a sabbatical move, hiking a mountain trail, a season of struggle in her marriage, a hoped-for new pregnancy and its complications, a prayer walk. And each personal story flows gently into reflection on a biblical story. It’s an interesting amalgam, this memoir/devotional, and I like it very much. Very much, indeed.

Carolyn Weber is a force to be reckoned with, offering a keen intellect, fascinating life experience, and a heart longing after God with every word she writes. I commend this book to you with no hesitation.

Herewith some gems you might enjoy:

“Irreverence begins in not paying attention. And yet, I think, it can also stem from counting too often and too closely. The eternal cannot be insisted into a measurement.” – pg. 61

“Throughout the day, the clock ticks, and I tick with it. A ticking bomb. Sometimes, I am successful at being calm, at being present. At being attentive to the children, the husband, the paperwork, the household chores, the friends, the family, the many gifts, even in demands, around me. But often I am not. I am harried and hurried. I keep time with adrenaline rather than with affection. I multitask and fret and race and miss: there is a rush in the rush, and in doing so, I forget to breathe, the breathing so central to running a race, to giving birth, to inspiring others, to living life itself. . .” pg. 147-148

“Scripture, prayer and fellowship show us, again and again, how we live the heart of the metaphor into the very most real. As a literature professor, I have come to admire how God uses even the most skeptical of secular minds to expose the most sacred of truths; nothing lies beyond the glimmer of his salvation, not even cynicism, which I find to be a shocking grace, in and of itself.” – pg. 157