“Repent and believe the gospel!”
“The kingdom of God has come near.”
“The time has come.”

These are your words, Lord Jesus.
The words you spoke as you ventured out into active ministry,
leaving one kind of wilderness for another.
Leaving the wilderness of temptation and triumph,
entering the wilderness
of weariness,
of walking dusty highways and byways,
of wearing your heart on your sleeve so that all could see
who you were
and what you were about.
And as you began that part of your wilderness journey,
that journey that would take you to the garden,
to the high court,
to the hilltop outside the city,
to the cross…
as you began your ministry journey,
you shouted to all who would hear:
the time is now,
the good news is now,
the reign of God is now.

And at the same time,
you also demanded something of those who would hear.
You commanded —
for the verbs are most definitely in the imperative voice —
you commanded two things:
repentance
and
belief.
Maybe that’s because you knew that those two things
are the very hardest two things that we human creatures could ever be asked to do.

Repent – admit we’re wrong,
more than wrong –
admit that we’re broken beyond fixing,
that we do and say and think dreadful things about
one another
and about you,
that we follow our addictive desires,
or indulge in our malicious talk,
or greedily hoard
our resources,
our gifts,
our blessing,
our love
from people who need them,
from you who command and deserve them.

Believe – firmly grasp,
hold onto without equivocation,
allow to infiltrate our every waking thought and action —
believe the good news
believe the gospel,
believe that you are near,
that you love us without measure,
without merit on our part,
without end.

Two tough things for us.
In fact, outside of your goodness and grace,
two impossible things for us.
For it is only by the movement of your Holy Spirit within us
that we can do either one of them.

So today, on this first Sunday in Lent,
on this first Sunday of the month,
on this Sunday when we gather around your table, around the table of our Lord,
we humbly seek that grace,
we humbly thank you for that grace,
we humbly ask you to fill us again with
the power,
the strength,
the energy,
the commitment,
that only you can provide.

Help us to be your repentant people,
truly and deeply sorry for the wrongs that we do,
truly and deeply committed to turning away from those wrongs,
and facing, once again, in the direction of right and truth and life and love.
And help us to be your believing people,
filled with child-like trust in
your goodness,
your faithfulness,
your presence,
your salvation,
your abiding commitment to love us, just as we are,
and then to shape us into what we can be….
people who look more and more like Jesus.
In whose name we pray,
Amen.

“Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”
The boy Samuel said those words to you, O God,
waiting in the darkness of the tabernacle,
and he truly did not have a clue what he was saying,
he did not know what kind of God you are.
Samuel was young,
but he was willing,
he was obedient,
he was pliable,
he was teachable.

“You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.”
The psalmist said those words to you, O God,
from the depths of his inmost thoughts and reflections.
Maybe he did have a clue,
maybe he did understand something about the powerful truth
that when you call us,
when you speak to us,
when you nudge us,
when you show us that you know us,
that’s a fearful and wonderful thing.
The psalmist was older and far more experienced than Samuel,
yet he, too, seems
willing,
obedient,
pliable,
teachable.

“Come and see.”
Philip said those words to Nathaniel,
standing there under the fig tree.
He said those words about you, Jesus.
Come and see what you are all about,
see what you can do,
hear what you can say,
watch – and maybe even experience –
how you can take a life
and turn it around,
upside down,
and inside out.
Philip and Nathaniel were in-between – young adults,
and they, too, show themselves to be
willing,
obedient,
pliable,
teachable.

That’s who we need to be, Lord,
no matter where we are,
no matter what our age.
Will you help us?
Will you remind us that we, too, are invited to
be with you,
to ‘come and see,’
to ‘come and be known,’
to ‘listen’ to your voice.

Help us to truly grasp what it means
to be seen by you,
as Nathaniel was;
to be spoken to by you,
as Samuel was,
to be known by you,
as the psalmist was.

Wherever we find ourselves in the week ahead,
whatever our hands find to do,
whomever we encounter,
LORD:
renew in us your strong call on our lives,
your call to
a life of worship,
a life of service,
a life of joy – even in the midst of sorrow,
a life of beauty and excellence –
even in the midst of:
exams and schoolwork,
sometimes messy family relationships,
continuing recovery and adjustment from the fire,
chronically frail health,
discouragement,
uncertain futures,
disappointment,
sorrow
and grief.

In the midst of it all,
may we be so centered in your call to us
that our lives are unmistakably marked by
willingness,
obedience,
pliability,
teachability.

And we are bold this morning to ask the same thing for our leaders:
for our new president,
for our new national leaders,
in whatever capacity they may serve,
for our state officials,
and our city council;
for our church council,
for our staff,
for our congregation.

Bless us with your presence,
bless us with your voice,
And give us ears to hear and eyes to see
for Jesus’ sake. Amen.

“I’m finding myself at a loss for words…”
so the song goes.
And it’s true.
I am at a loss –
a loss for words
a loss for sighs
a loss even for groans.
So I think I’ll be quiet for a while.

If I am quiet – which is difficult for me…
if I am quiet, I just might find the words…
or I just might hear the words:
The words that I need to say,
the words that I need to hear.

So, I’ll start by asking for a little help…
….to be quiet.
To be still.
To be.

Help! Please…

I’ll try breathing in,
and breathing out.
Breathing in the newness of this day
and of this year.
Breathing out the old…
the old sorrows,
the old regrets,
the old patterns that can too easily cause me to lose my way.

How long has it been, Lord?
How long has it been since I’ve been truly still in your presence?
Still enough to hear my heart beating.
Still enough to feel my body settle,
Still enough to let go of…
what worries me,
what drives me,
what irritates me,
what excites me,
what distracts me,
what upsets me,
what consumes me?

Forgive me, Lord, for holding on so tightly,
to everything, and everyone else in my life,
and for neglecting the “one thing that is needed,”
as you so kindly described it to Martha, that
busy,
helpful,
over-worked,
over-tired,
over-committed-to-the-point-of-distraction sister,
that dear disciple whom you loved.

Thank you that you love me, too.
Thank you that you love my brothers and sisters,
so many of whom are a lot like me,
a lot like Martha.

And help us to make room for the Mary in us –
that part of us who stops to listen as well as talk,
who stops, completely guilt-free, every once in a while,
who loves to learn by sitting and watching
as well as by working and doing.

It’s a new year, a new beginning, a fresh start.
Thank you for this small space to enjoy that newness,
thank you for a piece of silence, however fleeting,
in which to remember again…
who you are,
who I am,
what is really important in this life I’ve been given.

For life is indeed a gift –
even when it’s hard,
even when it’s filled with loss,
even when it’s confusing,
even when it’s overwhelming,
even when it’s scary,
even when it seems too short.

Life is a gift, filled with wonder as well as regret,
with simple joys as well as complicated problems,
with sweetness as well as sadness,
with beautiful, heart-stopping, life-saving moments,
moments that glisten and glimmer against the darkness without.
Moments that help me keep things in perspective.
Thank you for it all. Thank you for life.
Help me to live it well.
For Jesus’ sake. Amen.