in the face of the steer
I heard the story yesterday, Lord, of a church in Turkey where every adult member recently received threatening phone calls. If they didn’t renounce Christ and raise their children in Islam, said the caller, they would be killed. How little things have changed since Paul walked those same roads! I can only imagine the fear they must feel for themselves and their families today. Give them courage.
This morning, Jesus, I’m also considering how you must have felt as you descended into Jerusalem to begin what we call Holy Week. You knew what the week would bring. Did you have no fear? When you prayed in the Garden before they came to take you, did you have no fear?
I ask these questions because I know that I have fear in my life and I want you to tell me it’s okay to be afraid. I want you to tell me that my faith is not weak if I experience fear. I’m afraid of moving forward sometimes, afraid of taking a chance. I’m afraid to take a stand or to speak what needs to be said. I’m afraid to pursue the gifts you’ve placed within me.
So, too often, Lord, I stand facing the steer. Frozen. I’m afraid I will be gored by the horns of my opposition or the hurtful words of others or the shame of failure. I’m afraid I will be trampled and hurt beneath the feet of those who disagree or want to criticize. Sometimes I convince myself that I shouldn’t move forward if a steer stands in the way. I tell myself that is God’s way of telling me “no.” Truthfully, it is nothing more than an excuse to allow my fear to reign.
In the Garden, Jesus, you faced the cross, yet you pressed on saying, “Not my will by yours.” Paul faced imprisonment and beatings, yet he was not detoured from his purpose. Christians around the world who face persecution have continued to pursue their faith despite the consequences. I believe you and saints throughout the ages have experienced fear, Lord. You understand what I feel today. Yet now I see that faith is not allowing the fear to reign. Faith is pursuing the will of God in the midst of fear. Teach me today to walk in faith even in the face of the steer. Amen.
dwarfed by the prairie
In the middle of the prairie, Lord, I am dwarfed–dwarfed by the ocean of prairie grass that separate me from civilization, dwarfed by the distant mountain islands that speckle the horizon, dwarfed by the vast sky endless above me, dwarfed by the elephant clouds constantly changing character.
Your prairie reminds me of my smallness and of your largeness, that I am the created and you are the creator. Sometimes I try to ponder the extent of your creation–the depths of the oceans, the height of the mountains, the distance between planets and stars, the minuteness of molecules. I cannot fathom the mysteries. It seems that I’m only able to comprehend small segments of your majesty at any one time and can never grasp all of it at once.
Standing in the prairie I’m aware of distance and space and that you are a God beyond distance and space. I’m aware of details like a single blade of grass and understand that you are a God of detail, numbering even the hairs on my head. Do you know how many blades of grass are in this field, Lord? Do you know their height and width? How many rocks are there on the mountain and what do each of them weigh? How many molecules of moisture cling to each other in the clouds? Only you know these things, Lord.
I stand in awe at who you are, Lord. And I kneel in humility knowing who I am. Amen.
distorted reflections
I marvel at your beauty, Lord, and want so desperately to reflect it in my own life. Yet, no matter how hard I try, my reflections are imperfect. They appear distorted, blurred, and undefined. I think it’s possible for others to see glimpses of you in me, but the overall picture they get is perverted. I do you no justice. The reflections of you that others see in me often misrepresent your perfection. In those instances I have failed you.
How can I reflect you more purely, more truly? It seems impossible because your character is too complex and my mirror is too cloudy. When I look at you I see the miracle of varied colors, shapes, and textures. I see shadows and light, mystery and truth. I see depth and height I cannot relay in my limited flat surface. Then your Spirit blows and you are in motion–turning, waving, bending, sparkling in the light. How can I ever capture such grace?
To reflect you flawlessly, Lord, I have to remain perfectly still, silent in your presence. Instead, I rush on with my life, rippling and churning the surface, disturbing the silt of life into a hazy cloud. I pick up debris along the way. Garbage sometimes floats on the surface for all to see. Sometimes it simply mixes with the mud hidden deep. The result is a wavering, distorted reflection–only a glimpse of perfect grace.
If I reflect you most clearly when I calm my spirit and let go of the rush of the day, remind me to humble myself in silence before you. If I reflect you most honestly when my life is free of debris and sin, accept my confession so that my life may be pure and clean. Amen.
sitting on a bench
I saw a homeless woman sitting on a park bench early one more morning, Lord. A piece of cardboard beneath her protected her from the snow. An old blanket draped over her shoulders covered layers of tattered clothes. She sat silent and still as if waiting for a bus. Except no bus passed by that deep in the park. She stared ahead unmoving, unblinking. I realized she was waiting for nothing but the passing of time and for the warming sun. On another day–a brighter, warmer day–others sit on that same bench. In the course of a day or a week, mothers watching their playing children, business men taking a lunch break, or tourists resting their weary legs may all sit on that same bench
Each life that stops by the bench carries his or her own individual successes and failures, dreams and despondencies. Each, in the largeness of creation, not only share a resting spot, but the sameness of their humanity. Each struggles with purpose and meaning, with faith and doubt. Too often, Jesus, I want to see myself as different from the masses. I want to believe that I’m somehow more human, above the pettiness of other lives. I’m unwilling to see myself in others.
I want to believe that I could never be the homeless woman sitting in the snow, that I am of greater value. I deceive myself into believing I always play the part of the protagonist or the hero. But then you remind me of all I have in common with that woman on the bench–fears, loneliness, hopes, dreams (real and shattered), faith, and love. You remind me that I am often the one that needs a hero to save me, and at times I play the role of antagonist collecting shame like it’s some prized possession of which I cannot get enough.
When I consider humankind, Jesus, I can’t help but wonder as have others before me, “What is man that you are mindful of him?” Yet you are far more than simply mindful of us. You became us. You joined us on the snowy bench. You felt the cold of a winter wind and the chill of helplessness. You experienced rejection that the homeless and disinfranchised experience everyday. Who am I to believe I am above that kind of love or in anyway better than others? I, too, must learn to embrace the common bond I share with your human creations. Perhaps then I can learn to love as you love.
Today, help me humbly accept my common bond with the failures of humanity. May I join the homeless, the weary, and the lonely on the bench. May I sit patiently in the snow with them waiting for the warming sun. Amen.
like a lone tree
Some days, Lord, I feel like a lone tree standing on a deserted plain. I fight with the prairie grass for the drops of moisture to keep me alive. I bend beneath the constant gale-force winds that try to unroot me. The occasional passerby barely notices my unmajestic form. I am alone.
I wish for different circumstances. Why didn’t you plant me in good rich earth along a flowing creek.? There, my roots would find constant life. Why didn’t you place me on a mountain side protected from the winds? I could have grown tall and beautiful. Why didn’t you establish me in a busy park where families would enjoy my shade? I could have had purpose.
Lord, I know that when I stop longing for somewhere else I can see where I am; I can embrace where you’ve sown my seed. I see the golden prairie grass dance in the breeze. I see the most majestic sunrises and sunsets the world has known. My roots go deep and I am unmoved in even the most powerful storm. I watch the jack rabbits dart, the hawks float, and the buffalo roam. I am not alone. I am in the presence of God. Amen.
