Have you every prayed that God would do something terrible to someone? I haven’t. Not ever. I didn’t think you were supposed to do that. But a few months ago, I was reading Psalm 109 and the author is asking God to do unthinkable things to folks who have lied, accused and attacked him:
Kill him, so his wife is a widow and his his kids to wander around begging for food!
Curse his ancestors and don’t let there be any future generations!
Let the banks and even strangers help themselves to everything he owns!
Make sure no one remembers that he even existed!
It’s one thing to pray and ask God to protect you from your enemies or make them go away. It’s another to petition Him to not only end his life, but make his family miserable, too!
Other prayer requests in the psalms call for horrible things to happen to bad people:
“Break the arm of the evildoer” (Psalm 10:15)
“Break the teeth in their mouth!” (Psalm 58:6)
“Let them be like the snail that dissolves into slime” (Psalm 58:8)
“Terrify them with your hurricane!” (Psalm 83:15)
“Let burning coals fall upon them! Let them be cast into fire.” (Psalm 140:10)
I don’t remember ever learning about this in classes on prayer. Nor do I teach anyone to do that. But these imprecations pour from the hearts of those who brought their petitions or sang songs to the Lord. That is why they are referred to as “imprecatory psalms,” which call for misfortune to happen to an enemy.
I don’t think these psalms show up very often in the propers of the day. Yet they are still very much a part of the inspired Word of God. They are also songs, lyrics that express the emotions and yearnings of God’s people. The authors are laying open their hearts in difficult times, turning to the one who declares, “Vengeance is mine” (Deuteronomy 32:35).
These kinds of psalms reveal our very human, very sinful nature. Sometimes we don’t feel like loving our neighbor, much less our enemy. We cry out for justice. We may not cry out to God, but we expect it from the governing authorities. So much is wrong in this world and we want a fix.
The “fix” isn’t always punishment, though. Sometimes the fix is mercy. Or forgiveness. Or kindness. Or sacrifice. Or redemption. When Jesus came, he brought with him some other options that aren’t as violent. He will take care of our enemies one day. Maybe not today, but one day. Just remember that the real enemy isn’t flesh and blood. The real enemy is spiritual. And He’s already won that victory.
I know it hasn’t been that long. It just feels like it. This is July. It was back in March when we first became concerned in our community. Churches stopped gathering for worship, restaurants closed, doctors cancelled appointment, nursing homes and hospitals restricted visitors, toilet paper flew off supermarket shelves and we started wearing masks.
It’s been four months. We’re worshiping at church, but at a distance. A few can go to restaurants. I’ve caught up on doctor appointments. There’s plenty of toilet paper but hardly any hand soap at the store. More people are wearing masks. And the news is still mostly about Covid-19. It feels like it’s been four years. I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. I wake up every morning to the same news. More people are sick, more people are dying, more people are wearing masks, and more people are angry about wearing masks.
Is there an end in sight? Yesterday I read that most of the research to find a cure or produce a vaccine has yielded little if any results. Those who like to make predictions estimate it will take five to ten years to get past this. If we do at all. It already feels like we’ve been doing it that long.
During a phone conversation today, though, I realized it’s almost been a year since my dad died. A whole year? Already? Those eleven months have flown by. Time is time. It passes at a constant rate. So why is my perception of time so different when applied to different chapters of my life. Why does time sometimes seem so long, like the line to get on the roller coaster, and other times short, like the ride itself? Why do the first hundred miles of a long trip pass quickly, while the last 100 seems to take forever?
Plenty of people have asked that question. How many have come up with an answer? None that I know of. I do know that time passes because I measure it. I watch the clock, I have a schedule, I have events on my calendar and appointments to keep.
Sometimes on my day off, I take off my watch. I don’t worry about the time. And when I do that, time doesn’t bother me, either. On those days I’m never late, I’m never rushed, it’s OK if I have to wait for something or someone. I find that fascinating. It’s like I can step away from time when I need to. I should probably do that more often.
I got invited to a virtual tea party the other day. I joined my grandchildren in Texas for a few moments as I had a cup of coffee and they ate homemade cookies and drank some tea with plenty of milk and sugar. As I watched them enjoy their afternoon snack, I was impressed by how focused they were on the task at hand. 100% of their attention was focused on eating freshly baked snicker-doodles. I sipped my coffee, chatted with my daughter-in-law, took note of a message that popped up on my phone and tried to snap a few screen shots of our long distance time together. For the little ones, though, it was as if nothing else existed except those cookies.
I am jealous of their youthful ability to focus. I think I’ll enlist them to be my productivity coaches! My world is filled with distractions as I try to get things done. I’m often trying to do too many things at one time. I eat while watching TV, clean while listening to music, talk on the phone while watching the dog. Even though preschoolers can have a short attention span, I took away these lessons on focus from that occasion.
Just have one thing in front of you. They had nothing in front of them except two cookies on a paper towel and a cup of tea. No crayons, books or toys. Just the snack. And they enjoyed every bite. It wasn’t till after they were done that we chatted.
Set a time. The tea party was scheduled for 4:30 pm, so that’s what we did. Block out the time. Put your task on the calendar.
Have a goal. Know what you need to get accomplished. Eat two cookies. Drink one cup of tea. For me it might be writing a certain number of words or making a certain number of phone calls or making a lesson plan.
When you’re done, you’re done. When the cookies are gone, it’s time to play. Or color. Or build legos. Finish one task, then move on to the next.
Be in the moment. They savored every bite and sip. They had just one thing to do: enjoy the snack!
I don’t know how many articles and books I’ve read about focus and productivity. I’ve learned a lot from many sources. But lately, I’ve learned even more from the little people in my life!
As a parish pastor, the majority of my conversations contain some reference to God. Lately, the majority also include information, comments and opinions about the Covid-19 pandemic. And many of the folks I talk with want to know if there’s a connection between the two.
Some interpret the millions of positive tests as a sign of the end, since biblical images of the end times includes pestilence. Some view the virus as punitive, God’s judgment on an ungodly world. Still others see it is a call to repentance, urging unfaithful people to turn back to God.
I’m extremely cautious about trying to connect the dots between current events and the actions of God. I remember a few guys in the Old Testament who tried to figure out what God was up to. Job and his friends thought they had all the answers. Boy were they wrong!
At the beginning of the book of Job, God grants Satan permission to test Job’s faith. Satan thinks Job is only faithful because he is blessed. Take away the good stuff, and Job will fold. He’ll curse God to HIs face. God says, “OK. Give it your best shot.” Job suffers the loss of his house, all his livestock and his house. In response, Job went to church. He worshiped God.
Satan raises the stakes. If you take away Job’s health, Job will curse God to His face. God says, “He’s all yours. Just don’t kill him.” Job breaks out in sores all over his body. He is miserable. Yet he still doesn’t say one bad thing about God.
Three friends come to sit with Job, and for the first week, no one says much. But then they all begin to offer explanations as to why Job is suffering as he is. Their theories don’t sound that bad.
Job must have done something to deserve this. God must be disciplining Job. Get your act together and God will once again bless you.
That theory makes sense to me. If you get caught speeding, you get a ticket. Pay the fine, go to traffic school, drive more carefully in the future. Case closed.
Job’s not buying their diagnosis. His big question is, “What did I do wrong?” He follows up by asking, “What did I do to deserve this?” He my not be perfect, but did Job really deserve so much misery? And finally he wonders, “If I’m that bad, why doesn’t God save himself a lot of trouble and just let me die?”
Job’s words make sense, too. At the very beginning of this book, wasn’t God just boasting about what a good guy Job was? Surely there must be others that needed discipline a lot more than someone like Job. Job makes a good point when he points out many despicable people that aren’t being disciplined. It just doesn’t add up.
In the end, they are all wrong. They have no idea what they are talking about. Every attempt to explain God and how things work is misinformed. They are oblivious to what is happening in the spiritual realm.
I am very aware that I am not aware of everything God is up to. For me to speculate about God’s judgment on some and not others is far above my pay grade. My best guesses about the end would be ridiculous. All I know for sure is what God has told me in His Word. I know I deserve to punished for my sins. I know I’m not punished because Jesus was crucified for my sins. I know I’m going to die one day. I know I’ll be resurrected one day.
Those truths get me through good days and bad days, health and illnesses, hurricanes and beach days, unexpected bills and unexpected blessings. What is God up to on days like that? Who knows?
A few months ago I swallowed my pride and apologized to someone because I had hurt their feelings. I said “I am sorry,” and they replied, “I accept your apology.” I was relieved to hear that and we were able to move on.
Thinking back to that moment, though, I believe there is a difference between saying, “I accept your apology,” and “I forgive you.” Accepting my apology simply receives my admission of guilt but gives nothing in return. But when someone says, “I forgive you,” they have given me a priceless gift.
Forgiveness is costly. God’s forgiveness costs the life of Jesus on the cross. After our confession, the words of absolution, “I forgive you all your sins,” are His precious gift to us. “Apology accepted” would leave me wondering how God felt about all this. Forgiveness, on the other hand, leaves no doubt. We’re good!
In a similar way, when I say, “Thank you,” I mostly hear the reply, “No problem.” When I get a “You’re welcome,” I do a double take. “No problem” simply receives your gratitude as if it were no big deal. I simple “You’re welcome” raises the value of your appreciation.
Maybe it’s not a big deal. But since that moment, I have consciously and deliberately said, “I forgive you” and “You’re welcome.” In a time when I am more likely to hear impatient, angry and abusive words, I want people to know I value and appreciate them.
My vicarage congregation Berea Lutheran Church on E. Oliver Street, Baltimore, MD with our house in the background. Photo is from 1985
I’ve wanted to and needed to write this post for a while, but just had way too many thoughts and questions running through my head.
Racial justice is a big deal. It has been for a long time. I instinctively want to deny any trace of racism in my thoughts, attitudes, words and actions. I want to claim that I do not treat anyone differently because of the color of their skin. But I know that’s not true. I may not even be aware that I am doing it. But I know I am not immune from it.
I grew up in a suburb of Philadelphia knowing few people of color. Communities just to the east and west of ours were very different, but we rarely ever ventured there. Glancing through my high school yearbook from forty-five years ago, our football, basketball, baseball and wrestling teams were all white. I heard about discrimination, prejudice and racial tensions, saw a little bit on TV, and talked some about it in school, but that was about as close as I got.
The student population at college was a little more diverse. However my cultural education there came mostly from friends and classmates who grew up in the Jewish faith, which I knew little about. I had a smattering of friends from different cultural backgrounds, but our primary focus on academics blurred most distinctions.
My first job with Bell Labs brought me into a little more of a multicultural setting. My department included a variety of engineers from India, Pakistan and the Middle East. As I struggled to tread water in that sea of genius, I was in the minority as a humble “code jockey.”
A few years later, I found myself at the seminary, making a significant career course correction. Though you’ll find them all over the world, the Lutheran church is predominantly white European and Scandanavian in tradition. I had a few black classmates, but as I struggled to tread water in another sea of genius, this time theological, race was the least of my worries.
And then came vicarage. For those unfamiliar with that term, a vicarage is an year-long internship at a church half-way through residential seminary education. A coalition of ten churches in Baltimore secured a grant to host five vicars a year for three years. Would I be willing to go to the inner city for a year? “Sure, why not?” said this naive suburban white student about to marry a young lady from rural southern Indiana. That’s when it got real.
The two churches we would serve put us up in a row house in a neighborhood where we were the only white people for miles. The only exception was two other vicars who lived next door to us in an adjoining house that year. The house had been burned out during a riot a number of years ago. With a little repair and paint, it was inhabitable. (Note: Were she to describe it, my wife would not use that adjective.) On the other side of our house, across a small yard, was a black Lutheran congregation where I would learn to preach and teach. Across the street was an elementary school attended by at least six hundred children all from black families.
The culture shock was seismic. I was told to wear my clerical shirt most of the time. At that time and in that community, the clergy were held in high regard. Our neighbors knew who we were and why we were there, and they looked out for us. The children quickly discovered our dogs and came over often to run around the yard with them. The sounds of the street lasted into the early morning hours, including music, loud conversation, even louder cars and gunshots. The church doors were shut and locked when it was time to start worship.
It took months to get used to our situation. I felt safe enough to go for a run in the early morning when no one was yet out on the street. We became comfortable shopping in local grocery stores, tasting unfamiliar foods and patronizing local businesses. Having two large dogs made us feel more secure. (Large dogs were also well-respected.) I cut my preaching teeth by preaching every other week while my wife got some experience in social work. I learned much from other pastors in black clergy caucuses whose meetings I attended. I had so much fun tutoring neighborhood children and taking some of the teens to summer camp.
Sometime during that year, something clicked. It wasn’t really racial distinctions we were adapting to. It was life in an inner city. It was life in the south (south of the Mason-Dixon line). It was life in an industrial urban setting. The foods we learned to eat were local blue crabs and oysters as well as greens and sweet potato pie. The choir sang pieces from a rich southern gospel tradition, creating harmonies we never tired of hearing. Not only did we grow comfortable in that setting, but we missed it after our year there was up. I am so grateful for the pastors and people of that community who taught us so much.
We had no idea where ministry would take us. My wife had no idea she would one day be sleeping in a small bug hut on a concrete floor in Haiti, just six months after the devastating 2010 earthquake. We had no idea that we would find ourselves out in the middle of Kenya and Madagascar, sleeping under mosquito nets, eating interesting food, not daring to drink the water and hoping we didn’t have to use the squat pot out back. Each and every time we would reminisce, “If we could survive that year in the city, we can do this!” Each and every time, the people we met and helped were so gracious, so appreciative, and so caring.
To tell you the truth, I think we had a harder time adapting to life at my first church in eastern Connecticut. It took us longer to get used to the New England attitudes and culture, where the population was all white. I also think it was harder to truly feel comfortable at my second parish in Iowa, where life revolved around agriculture. My experience just didn’t equip me to talk intelligently about hog farming, soybeans, hail insurance or commodity futures.
My third and current church in Florida was a refreshing change. The congregation and community was well-seasoned with people from Jamaica, Honduras, Barbados, India, the Philippines, Russia, Germany, Cambodia, Suriname, and Canada. And that just felt right. It still does.
So where am I going with all this? There are times when I feel suspicious or negative about someone whose skin color is different than mine, which some would call a racist attitude. But in such moments I have learned to pause and ask myself, “Why?” Why do I feel that way? What do I really know about that person? Are they in any way a threat to me? Most of the time, they’re not.
More importantly, I’ve learned to ask, “What’s that person’s story?” And, “What can they teach me?” I am grateful for all who have shared their stories and taught me much over the years. Those simple questions do not pretend to ignore the differences but instead leads me to value and appreciate them. Maybe that’s a good place to start.
That’s all it takes. That’s all my five-year old grandson needs to hear, and he’s all in.
Our first project involved a couple of Blue Daze plants which always do great in our garden soil. He wanted to plant blue flowers, which aren’t that common. Even these are a bit on the purple side, which he pointed out to me. He carried the two quart containers out back, while I brought the shovel, some branch trimmers (I knew we’d encounter lots of roots at the base of the pine trees), and a watering can.
He dug the holes as I lopped off some uncooperative roots. I showed him how to take the plant from the pot and shake out the roots a little bit and place the plant in its new home. He filled in the dirt and started to work on the second hole. After we were done, he gave both plants a nice long drink in their new home. Each time he comes over the house, I always remind him to water his flowers.
Our second project involved part of an old whiskey barrel my wife wanted in the corner of the patio, a few bags of potting soil and a twelve-pack of impatiens with orange flowers. The impatiens were a variety I hadn’t seen before, suitable for both shade or sun (according to the label.). I found a few old landscape bricks to take up space in the barrel, and then added the soil. Now the fun part. I pulled back a small hole with my trowel as he stuck each plant in it’s place and covered up the roots with dirt. Once again, we treated our new guests to a tall cool drink.
One of my go to places to relax or destress is the garden. Soil, plants and water are cheap therapy when you’ve got a lot of stuff on your mind. The sun, the breeze and a little dirt under the fingernails always take my mind off my worries.
I think my dad taught me most of what I know about gardening. My dad always had amazing gardens. Front yard beds full of crocuses, tulips and hyacinth in the spring were followed by azaleas and roses as summer approached. Dad’s beds were immaculate, too. No weeds, cultivated soil and gorgeous blooms were the rule in front of our house. The vegetable gardens were out back. Lettuce and spinach first, followed by peas and beans, and then carrots, kohlrabi, peppers and bushels of tomatoes by the end of the summer. His carefully composted rows of vegetables produced much of what we saw on the table throughout the year. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this help keep our family fed during my growing up years.
The gardening gene must be dominant. When we arrived at our first call in Coventry, CT, we planted a garden. And what a garden! Our parsonage was on the four acres next to the church’s four acres. I borrowed a rototiller and broke up a 20′ x 40′ area of the backyard for our garden. If someone tells you that New England soil is rocky, they are understating the conditions. I think we found more rocks that soil! Forget the spade. You need a spading fork. We got it done and planted corn, sunflowers, several varieties of beans (including some that were purple!), peas, carrots, lettuce, spinach, tomatoes and melons. There were also some asparagus beds in place.
My harvests had mixed results. We got some sweet corn, but many ears didn’t properly develop. Some kind of bug ate a lot of the sunflower seeds. The cantaloupe never got bigger than a softball. We had lots and lots of peas and beans, though. Do you know that purple beans will turn green when you boil them? I’d say our attempts were average. We ate a lot of peas right off the vine and had plenty of beans.
We had a garden at our second call in Iowa. Our backyard in West Des Moines had rhubarb. It didn’t matter how cold the winter or how hot and dry the summer, we had huge rhubarb plants. No gardening talent needed there. My wife made some amazing rhubarb and rhubarb-strawberry pies. The soil produced some amazing zucchini, too. We made lots and lots and lots of zucchini bread. Our best gardening project, though, were strawberries. I bought a whole bunch of plants for our backyard, carefully mulching each one. In year two, we began to see some nice strawberries begin to form. That’s exactly when I got the call to Florida. We never got to see how that harvest looked.
Florida gardening? Totally different than up north. After much trial and error, my philosophy is this: plant native and plant what grows in your yard. My soil is crazy sandy, the growing seasons are weird, and plants take over your yard when you aren’t watching. Winter freezes are few and far between. Hurricanes blow in weeds you never expected to find. Plants you gave up on sometimes grow back. Plants that look great in the yard across the street die in mine. Go figure.
When I put my hands in the dirt, I leave something behind and I take something with me. Along with seeds, fertilizer and water, the garden always seems to have room for worries and frustrations. It return it gives peace and serenity along with blossoms and fruit.
Thus, the allure of a shovel, soil and a watering can endures. I can still care for our little piece of dirt, planting and watering and watching things grow. I can still eat the fruits of our labor, share them with others and enjoy the colors of creation.Maybe that’s why gardening is so appealing and amazing. It brings me close to the Creator, reminds me of His creation, and gives me a chance to share that with a new generation. When I’m close to Him, I discover a peace that surpasses my understanding.
I ran across these interesting words in a letter the apostle Paul wrote to believers in the ancient city of Corinth: “If food makes my brother stumble, I will never eat meat, lest I make my brother stumble” (1 Corinthians 8:13).
That’s very noble of you, Paul. But why is that such a big deal? Why should I have to adjust my behavior so that I don’t upset someone else? That’s their problem, not mine, right?
Food offered to idols?
I guess the first thing to wrap my mind around is the whole idea of “food offered to idols” in 1 Corinthians 8. I guess that was a thing back then, even in a pagan culture. While we mostly deal in currency for contributions, gifts of food could be brought to the temples. What are you going to do with all that food? Well, you could sell it in the market, which means you could also buy it in the market.
So Paul had to address the issue of whether or not it was OK to eat food wrapped up in pagan worship practices. On the one hand, it’s no big deal. There is only one true God and only one Savior, Jesus. Those other gods don’t even really exist. So it’s a moot point.
On the other hand, maybe you are someone who grew up in that pagan lifestyle and had become a believer in Christ. You had left behind your previous life to follow him and his teachings. And it really bothered you when others acted like it was no big deal.
I doubt if you’ll find any ritual food for sale at a grocery store. It seems like this inspired word of God doesn’t have much application for us.
Until your choices, actions or habits affect someone else.
Would you do it for them?
I’ve always been hypersensitive to serving or consuming alcohol when in the company of those in recovery from alcoholism. I know it’s their problem. They have to manage their addiction. I just don’t want to do anything to jeopardize how far they’ve come. I can drink a soda that night.
When we had a guest at our house who was extremely sensitive to gluten in food, we went out and bought a new rolling pin to use with gluten-free flour in food preparation. We didn’t have to do that. She could have eaten a salad. But hey, I can eat gluten-free for a day or two.
It is far too easy to bash other Christian denominations, pulverizing their beliefs with my own church’s doctrines. However, sensitive to the fact that many of my listeners have family and friends in those very denominations, I don’t have to do that. I can positively present what I believe and why without attacking the people you love.
Have you recently been asked or told to wear a face mask? Chances are you’re not happy about that. I’m not. It’s certainly not convenient. We don’t like it when someone tells us to do something we don’t think is wise or helpful. And we may be absolutely right. Maybe it is ridiculous, totally ineffective and a violation of our rights.
But would you do it for someone else? Would you do it for someone who was scared? Would you do it for someone who was grieving a lost loved one? Would you do it just to give someone peace of mind?
Would you do it for him?
Jesus said that if you want to come after him, you deny yourself, take up your cross and follow. Sometimes that means you set aside your rights, your preferences, your convenience and your passion for the sake of someone else. Sometimes you do it for Jesus. And whatever – even wearing a face mask – we do for the least of his brothers or sisters, we do it for him.
It felt familiar. It felt strange. It felt like home. It felt uncomfortable. It felt warm. It felt cold. It was a morning filled with contrasting sensations.
After seven weeks of “sheltering-in-place” virtual worship, we opened the doors of our church last Sunday morning. For an hour, the distance between members of the congregation shrank from miles to six feet. A thoughtful set of precautions reminded us of the pandemic. Psalms, hymns and spiritual songs reminded us of God’s powerful healing grace.
My mind vividly recalls these sounds and images of our first week back together:
For many, getting ready for church includes putting on a mask. Wearing gloves to church? The resurrection of an old tradition! Ushers and elders wore them for certain tasks. I wore them to distribute communion.
We did not pass the offering plates. Tithes and offerings were left at the door. Many were given electronically. Some were given by text.
We removed all the hymnals, bibles and visitor cards from the pews. Their absence made the church look even emptier. Until the worshipers began to gather…
…but the back rows were not filled! We sat on the aisles in every other pew, so many got to experience Sunday morning more “up close and personal” than ever before.
The little ones did not race to the chancel for a children’s sermon. I brought it back to them, to the place where they sat with their families.
The communion rail remained vacant. One person at a time came forward to stand at the altar and receive the sacrament.
My iPhone was perched on a tripod off to the side, live-streaming the service to many who were not yet ready to join us in person. Who knows how many actually worshiped with us on this day?
The sanctuary was filled with sound! It wasn’t just me speaking and singing and praying in an empty room. It was dozens of voices together, thanking and praising and praying. It was wonderful.
We had first time visitors in worship. The Spirit still gathers His people together.
Vigilant volunteers wiped down pews, door handles and chancel surfaces after everyone else left. (The filthy rags revealed we should have been doing this a long time ago.)
I can’t help but wonder if this is the new normal. Will we ever revert completely to how we gathered before? Will handshakes and hugs, kisses and high fives ever return to our assembly? Will we ever feel comfortable sharing books again? Or will we now always be hyper-conscious of the unseen germs all around us?
It’s only been one week. We’re learning as we go. I doubt we will soon forget how something so small can keep us apart. I just hope we never forget that someone so small – “to us a child is born” – can bring us together, too.
Waite for it... 