Sermon on Psalm 23

This is a sermon I never wanted to preach. The first sermon after the death of my brother Gary. Big brothers are supposed to be invincible. Yet with each new challenge in Gary’s cancer treatment, and especially as the news became more bleak over the last several weeks of his life, it has taken an emotional toll on us.

I want to thank all of you for the great love and support you have showered me and my family with in these tough days. I have drawn great comfort from phone calls and messages, emails & Facebook posts, text messages and handwritten cards; from all of the caring actions and thoughtful gifts…you have been a comfort to me and I am both grateful and humbled by your many kindnesses.

When you are grieving, you can feel isolated from others. It can seem as if your sorrow is out of place in a world that continues to move on with everyday life. Yet this week has been one marked by so much tragedy. Our collective sense of security has been rocked by the incomprehensible act of violence in Boston; and the explosion at a fertilizer factory in West, Texas leaving at least 14 dead. There was yet another earthquake in Pakistan killing at least 35 and leveling villages. And following on its heels, an earthquake in Szechuan province in China with the death toll at 179 and rising, and over 5,000 injured…an area of the world that lost nearly 80,000 people in a devastating earthquake in 2008.

In the face of so much death and destruction, there is no escape from the hard truth that life is difficult. Life is painful, fragile, mystifying. The world can be a terrifying place. And suffering will at some time confront us all.

No one is immune.

The lectionary this week offers to us Psalm 23. Rabbi Harold Kushner suggests that the 23rd Psalm responds to the question, “How do you live in a dangerous, unpredictable, frightening world?”

It is one of the most beloved passages of Scripture. It is mind-boggling to me that these 15 lines of Hebrew poetry, only 57 words in Hebrew, this little jewel of a psalm, has provided comfort and strength to so many disparate people, places and cultures through nearly 3,000 years.

For many of us it is the familiar words of the King James version that are planted in our hearts and our memories.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

The Hebrew word translated as “the Lord” in the King James is that mysterious name of God given to Moses from the burning bush:

Yahweh;

I Am Who I Am;

I Cause to Be What I Cause to Be;

The unspeakable name of the Holy One.

Our reading this morning was from the contemporary translation, “The Voice” which puts it this way:

“The Eternal is my shepherd, He cares for me always.”

The incomprehensible divine force behind the universe is my shepherd, the psalmist claims.

From that starting point the psalmist begins a reflection that moves between danger and protection, fear and comfort. He speaks of green pastures, but also vividly of valleys of the shadow of death; he writes of calm waters and the menace of evil; of gracious abundance and of the presence of enemies.

The contrasts are stark.

We know both places in our lives, don’t we?

Looking back, we can see moments in our lives where we have been refreshed, times in which the grass is green and inviting, the waters calm and safe, when our table is filled with all manner of good things. The psalmist believes that God has been with him in these times of comfort and blessing.

Yet never far from his mind are the times of uncertainty and terror, when the shadow of death looms over the valley.

“Shadow of death”–what a beautiful poetic phrase. As i’ve held that phrase in my heart, I can see that it is not death that is menacing, but the presence of death that blocks the light in the valley. I know that feeling, perhaps you do too. That power that death has to hide all of the good in our lives, to envelope us in hopelessness and despair. The psalmist feels the pain of the shadow of death, but knows that his presence there is temporary, that the valley will not be his permanent dwelling place.

The faith of the psalmist is not an easy faith.

The psalmist doesn’t make claims to a God who is a divine problem fixer, with a magic wand that can make all our troubles disappear. There is no promise of complete safety or of no sorrow, but rather the affirmation that we will not be left alone.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”

The Voice puts it this way:

“Even in the unending shadows of death’s darkness,

I am not overcome by fear.

Because You are with me in those dark moments.”

The hard times do not disappear. The dangers are still very real. But the presence of God remains.

There is a subtle turn in the psalm at this point, a change in perspective that points to the deep trust the psalmist has.

In verses 1 through 3 the psalmist has talked of God in the third person

The Lord is my shepherd…he makes me lie down…he restores my soul…he leads me…

But in verse 4, when the conversation turns to those darkest times in the poet’s life, God is no longer in the third person, an object to be considered. The psalmist switches from the third person to the second: ”for Thou art with me…” or as The Voice puts it, “Because You are with me in those dark moments.”

The idea of God, the concept of a God who walks with him, has now been replaced with an experience of God’s presence in the midst of his existential pain. God has not abandoned the psalmist, but accompanies him through dark valleys and in the presence of evil.

The great Hebrew scholar Abraham Heschel once wrote, “Dark for me is the world if not for the knowledge that God listens when I cry.” The evil does not disappear, the shadow of death does not lose its power to block out the light, rather, it is in the experience of evil, in the acute pain of loss, that we find that we are not alone.

When we are grieving there is comfort in the presence of God, and indeed in the presence of others. So often when we know someone is hurting, we don’t know what to say, or what to do. Yet it is the act of being there for the other that is most important. I will never be clever enough to know what to say to make another person’s pain disappear…but we can offer consolation…hold hands, offer a shoulder, a dinner, share a drink.

In the years I have been blessed to serve with you in ministry, I have had other times to grieve, and so many of you have comforted me. Now that I am in my thirteenth year with you, the depth of your care has touched me deeply. More so because we have walked such paths together before. An embrace from those of you who have lost a sibling, a parent, a child, or a loved one–connects both our suffering and our hard-earned wisdom together. We all experience great loss; it is part of this wonderful, crazy thing called life. And when we embrace one another, when we acknowledge our common pain, we give strength and courage to each other.

It is not just God’s presence that the psalmist recognizes, though. It is the awareness that God is on his side. That God is not to blame for the illness or accident or terror. God is on his side, our side. God is not the cause of evil and suffering.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”

The psalmist believes that God is not the source of the shadow, but is with us in the presence of sorrow.

Last week Ben and I flew back to Illinois on Thursday and landed after dark. It was cold and windy–what else would one expect from Chicago?

On Friday morning we headed out of the hotel to run some last minute errands before the evening’s visitation at my brother’s church. I walked outside and suddenly realized that I was indeed back in Illinois–the trees were all bare, the grass still brown; the skies gray, and the wind still cold. It felt like winter.

When we flew back to Washington, landing in the late afternoon, the view that greeted us was almost too much to bear. The sky was so blue, the sun was shining, the trees were green, and the snow on the mountain range just glistened.

It was oh so very green.

Over the past several weeks I hadn’t noticed how lush our little corner of the world truly is. The deep greens of the evergreen trees,the brilliant greens of the grass, the light greens of new plants pushing their way through the warming soil.

Now, I know that when we left home the grass was still that green…that all of the trees were still as green…that the flowers had already started to bloom. But in the pain and in the tears, I had not seen them…the shadow that comes with death had covered them all.

The psalmist ends with the affirmation that “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” The Hebrew word translated as “follow” actually has a stronger connotation of “pursue.” Goodness and mercy will not only be with him, but they will follow him, run after him, hound him…

It’s funny, most of the time we think we need to search out goodness and mercy, find them ourselves, earn them. But the psalmist has discovered that God’s goodness and mercy find him, wherever he is–in green pastures and in dark valleys; beside cool waters and in the face of evil.

Forrest Church, the great Unitarian preacher, would end worship with the same benediction:

“And now in our going may God bless and keep us.

May the light of God shine upon us and out from with us

And be gracious unto us and bring us peace.

For this is the day we are given.

Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

Indeed, this is the day we have been given. For some of us it may be a dark valley, for others it may be a day of refreshment and peace. Whatever this day holds for us, know that God is present with us through all of life’s circumstances, so, let us rejoice and be glad in it.

(I am indebted to the work of Harold Kushner, The Lord Is My Shepherd: Healing Wisdom of the 23rd Psalm.)

Good Friday Cross Walk 2013

I was asked to speak briefly on Christian unity in our local community as part of an ecumenical Good Friday Cross Walk observance. What can one say about Christian unity in 12 minutes? Here’s what I said.

The signs read “Please walk on grass, but don’t make paths.”

The small, neatly painted white signs could be found on each side of the large lawn at the center of the seminary campus I attended in Louisville, KY. It was a great grass quad, surrounded by a grand collection of southern Greek Classical Revival buildings, with red brick and white columns. The library on one side, administration, classrooms and student center on the other, and student housing on the other two.

“Please walk on grass, but don’t make paths.”

Oh, there were a couple of lovely brick walkways, but mostly a great expanse of grass, the perfect shortcut for students rushing to their classes. The signs were a long-standing sight on the campus, undoubtably placed there by a frustrated grounds keeper, many years ago.

Despite the clear message of the signs, and the ample amount of green grass on which to walk, there were always paths, clearly visible. Not bare dirt, but grass bent over from the many students who walked back and forth across that quad each day.

I’m reminded of those little signs when I hear the words of Jesus’ prayer from the 17^th chapter of John, “So that they may all be one, as you Father, are in me and I in you, that they also may be in us, that the world may believe that you sent me.”

Since the 16^th century it’s been known as Jesus’ high priestly prayer, a prayer for the unity of the church. It’s his final prayer at his farewell meal with his disciples in Jerusalem–the pinnacle of his farewell address. In the next chapter, Jesus will be arrested and the events of the Passion will unfold.

The only reason I can see for the writer of John’s gospel to have included this petition for the oneness of the followers of Christ is that during his time there was disunity in the church. Because you and I both know, you don’t pray for something when you already have it–there’s no need!

Just like the only reason to have a “Please walk on grass, but don’t make paths” sign is because people were making paths.

An earnest prayer for unity on the lips of Jesus at the eve of his death must reflect the reality that there was disunity among churches for whom the gospel was written, sometime in the last 20 years of the first century–50 to 70 years after the ministry of Jesus.

One might think by reading the first few chapters of the book of Acts, that at least in the early, early days there was an almost utopian unity of the believers in Jerusalem–the early church’s version of Camelot–you may remember, where after the Spirit comes at Pentecost, the first followers spent much time together in the temple, breaking bread and sharing meals with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people…and July and August were never too hot, and the rain never fell till after sundown, and the fog always disappeared by eight in the morning…

and as we heard read a few moments ago, Luke writes, “The community of believers was of one heart and mind.”

So, at least back in Jerusalem–there–for one brief shining moment the church was one…until…we read the very next story in Acts in which two believers break the social and economic covenant of the community and shatter the idyllic story. Soon there will be more division as cultural differences and national barriers intrude.

And we heard Paul’s plea to the strife-filled church in Corinth to come together, “I urge you brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you all agree in what you say, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and in the same purpose.” Remember Paul was writing a merely 20 years after the life of Jesus, and well before John or Luke.

It seems the church has never truly been of one heart and mind. We certainly have never been one in thought, belief, or practice.

In much of the 20^th century, the ecumenical movement focused on dialogue and cooperation from the top down. Many denominations and global churches joined or cooperated with the World Council of Church after WWII. Its Commission on Faith and Order exists to “proclaim the oneness of the church of Jesus Christ and to call the churches to the goal of visible unity.” And the dialogue and documents produced by Faith and Order Commission are wonderful–thoughtful explorations of the beliefs and practices of the Christian Church in its many diverse forms.

But for the most part, for all its good intentions, and for all its insightful work on promoting unity, which I read and consult as part of my work, Faith and Order is largely removed from the life of congregations like yours and mine.

And don’t tell anyone–but I’m skeptical that we can ever come together with a single document that reflects the unity of the church.

But what if that’s not what Christian unity is all about?

What if Christian unity is not found in documents or doctrines?

What if unity is not uniformity?

My hope for the unity of the church is that it will be found not when we are able to recite the same creeds or share the same liturgy, but when we lose ourselves in the call of Christ to love our neighbors as ourselves.

For me, the beauty of the unity of the body of Christ universal is seen in the very particular ways in which we live out Christ’s call to servanthood in our communities.

When Presbyterians and Methodists volunteer with one another at St. Francis House.

When Catholics and Baptists are sorting food together at the Puyallup Food Bank.

There, in the midst of them, is Christian unity.

As the last vestiges of Christendom fall, in order to be faithful we must recognize that we are not in competition with one another. As Jesus said, “For those who lose their life for my sake will save it,” so the church that loses itself in Christ’s ministry to the poor and outcast will find itself.

The health of my congregation is tied to the health of yours, to all the churches in our community. Too often we size up our own congregations by comparing ourselves to one another. But the body of Christ is not a competitive sport. Indeed, the Apostle Paul urges the church to understand that the Spirit gives a variety of gifts for the common good.

The task for the church in our day is not to chase after some illusive dream of doctrinal unity, but rather to practice the graciousness of God in our diversity, to embody Christ’s radical hospitality in all of our ministries.

I think of Peace Lutheran Church which years ago looked around its community and saw a large number of individuals living in difficult economic circumstances. Seeing that need, they responded by starting a weekend lunch program, providing a free meal on Saturdays. They put out an invitation to churches and groups to help with this meal. And my congregation, First Christian, responded. Now we could have said, “A free meal on Saturdays? That’s a great idea. Let’s do it at our place, instead.” Or we could have said, “Oh, if we help out at Peace Lutheran, what’s in it for us? What if our folks get tired of volunteering? What if our ministries suffer?”

With foresight and grace, Peace Lutheran exhibited hospitality in extending the opportunity for joint ministry to other churches in Puyallup.

Freezing Nights, Puyallup’s winter sheltering program for adults, is another example of churches seeing a need and responding to that need. Churches of all theological persuasions coming together, not waiting for a unity of belief, but responding to the call of Christ to shelter the least of those among us. I smile when I see the great variety of volunteers on Friday nights when our church is the host site–Lutherans and Baptists, Mormons and Disciples, Presbyterians and Methodists, why, even some great atheists–with all of our differences of belief and practice–cooking meals and washing dishes, listening to stories, playing Bingo together, providing transportation.

It’s the vision of The One Another Foundation in Puyallup — connecting individuals and churches to ministries already at work in our community. Not creating new ministries but strengthening the great work that so many of our congregations and community members are doing right now.

I wonder if we can consider the possibility that Christian unity might be better understood not as uniformity but rather as a complex system of networking. Perhaps Christian unity will not come from the top down, from denominational headquarters or the upper ranks of church hierarchy, but rather bubble up in communities large and small, as the people of God practice hospitality both in our ministries and in our service.

In fact, what we may be called to do in our time and place is to embrace the amazing plurality that is the universal church. Our great diversity may in the end be our strength.

Back to those little signs at my seminary, “Please walk on grass, but don’t make paths.” The invitation to Christian unity is not a mandate to retrace the exact steps of those who have gone before us, or even those who are traveling today,or to force others to follow.

It is an invitation to walk on the grass;

it is a wide open field for creativity and flexibility;

it is an invitation to embrace diversity, and not fear it.

To be the church, the body of Christ, a mosaic of congregations–not becoming mirror images of one another–but embodying the gifts we have been given by God for the common good of all.

I’ll share with you a little dream I have for the churches in Puyallup. Someday I’d love to see all of our churches on Pentecost Sunday, the day we celebrate the gift of the Spirit to the church, cancel their Pentecost Sunday worship services.

And instead of worshipping in our separate sanctuaries, wearing our finest red, and singing songs about the Holy Spirit, we would send everyone out in a great sea of Pentecost red, to live out the servanthood of Jesus in our community.

Imagine it…

Catholics and Baptists, Lutherans and Methodists, Episcopalians and Disciples, Nazarenes and Community of Christ and so many more…working side by side to stock food bank shelves, build furniture for people moving into a new apartment, replanting creek restoration sites, mowing lawns and painting houses, serving meals, installing a peace pole in a city park….the sky’s the limit. It would be a marvelous sight; the gifts of the people of God being poured out in our community.

That’s a vision of Christian unity.

And that’s a patch of grass just waiting to be walked upon.

Call to Worship Baptism of Our Lord Year C

Be at peace and have no fear.
For when trouble comes,
God will be with us.
When the way seems uncertain,
Christ  journeys along side us.
When hope seems dim,
The Spirit of God surrounds us.
God redeems us, loves us, and calls us by name.
Thanks be to God. We are not alone.

Advent 1C Call to Worship & Prayer of Confession

Call to Worship

Now is the time for waiting,

even so, the world rushes by us.

Now is the time for destruction, for God hears the cries for justice,

and the center cannot hold.

Now is the time for dreaming visions of new beginnings,

for our redemption is at hand. 

Look around! The things of old are passing away.

Now is the time to make ready, for God is birthing a new world.

Come, O Lord, and set us free.

 

Prayer of Confession

In the lonely places of our lives,

when we find ourselves abandoned,

holding our secret pains,

our hidden sorrows,

the voice of the prophet whispers:

Prepare the way for the Lord.

 

In the dark places of our lives,

where thoughts fill our hearts with fear,

and our doubts lurk in the shadows,

the light of the prophet shines in the darkness:

Prepare the way for the Lord.

 

Meet us in our desert places,

for You are the God of our rescue.

Lead us in your ways of kindness and truth,

that we may abound in love for you and one another.  Amen.

 

Cooking with the Saints

My mother believed that all of her children should know how to cook for themselves.  She encouraged us to use a cookbook, following the directions and measuring carefully. Once we mastered a recipe, then we could put our own signature on the dish.  She was a straightforward, no nonsense Midwestern cook herself, but she opened the doors for her kids to branch out into new ways of cooking.  Even so after all these years, I still aspire to make my fried potatoes taste like hers.

My three older brothers have become superb cooks. I love visiting them to see what is on the menu. Each of us developed our own style of cooking.  The brother who studied chemical engineering in college approaches cooking with a technical style, meticulously creating mouthwatering sauces and the perfect mix of spices to bring out each dish’s best flavors.  Another brother never cracks open a cookbook, but buoyantly floats through the kitchen putting in this or that until the dish meets his satisfaction. He never cooks anything exactly the same way twice.

When I moved to Kentucky at age twenty-two, I fell in love with southern cooking, both comfort food and high country cuisine. My mother, who had often given me cookbooks, began gifting me with Southern Living magazine’s annual cookbooks, containing every recipe from the year.

Each hardcover book is graced with a spectacular picture of one the year’s recipes. One recipe that I make almost every year for Thanksgiving was on the cover the 1990 edition and ranks as one of the magazine’s all-time best desserts, Pecan Pie.

Pecan pie for Mom’s 80th birthday.

The recipe is great, but it was the picture that caught my attention—a golden brown crust surrounding perfectly aligned, concentric circles of pecan halves. I am sure the recipe tastes just as good if the pecans are chopped and scattered across the top of the pie, but I can’t do it. What makes the pie for me is the beauty of each piece, perfectly sliced with pecans halves set in position.

Now I seldom stick to every last detail of a recipe, especially the photograph. Most of the time I heed my mother’s advice to follow the recipe once, and then change it up to make it taste better. But there are times when the recipe and techniques need no tweaking, when the wisdom of the kitchens of old should be followed and thankfully so.  My favorite television chef, Anthony Bourdain, when asked about the “received tradition” of cooking replied, “I feel that if Jacques Pepin shows you how to make an omelet, the matter is pretty much settled. That’s God talking.” Otherwise Bourdain argues for a cook to possess a pure heart, soul and love, all to be poured into the act of cooking. He says that authenticity in cooking comes from cultures colliding and individuals taking risks, saying, “We would never have had Jimi Hendrix if he’d stuck to the right way to play guitar.”  Bourdain is spot on.  We would have no Kentucky Derby Pie, that delightful mix of chocolate, bourbon and pecans, if someone had decided to stick with the orthodox pecan pie.

Sometimes we follow closely the traditions we have received from those who have come before us.  The church calls them saints, that great cloud of witnesses that surround us.  We learn of the balance of work and prayer from the words of St. Benedict and the passion of faith from St. Julian.  We see a testimony to our connectedness to all of creation in the life of St. Francis and a call to solidarity with the poor from Dorothy Day and Archbishop Oscar Romero.  Their lives stand as guides for us as we make our way in the world.  They are signposts pointing us, not to themselves, but to the ongoing presence of the Holy in our midst.

Yet there are times that call us to new ways of being faithful. We hear God’s call for justice ringing through Scripture and that divine insistence compels us to examine not only our own practices and beliefs, but even more deliberately consider our society and its systems. When we look to Scripture and find over 2,000 verses that call us to solidarity and care for the poor and the oppressed, we take the recipe for justice that has been handed down to us and we faithfully seek to live it out in our own time and place. The questions of just war, marriage equality, and immigration move us to re-examine our traditional ways of thinking.  As we allow God’s Spirit to direct us we may find ourselves on the side of justice in ways that our forbearers could not have imagined.

Our time needs both Jacques Pepin and Jimi Hendrix.  We need the voices that deepen our understanding of the best of our spiritual traditions.  And we need risk-takers, too.  Those individuals who step out bravely and beckon the rest of us to join them, into the holy adventure that is the realm of God at work in the world.

Open Confession Is Good for the Soul

I am writing on the holiest day of the Jewish year—Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  Yom Kippur follows Rosh ha-Shanah, the Jewish New Year, and the ten days of self-reflection and repentance known as the Days of Awe.  Together these holy days attempt to start the new year right, to reflect intentionally upon the previous year and to step into the future with God’s blessing.

Yom Kippur is a solemn day marked by regret and commitment.  Religious services begin with a long confessional statement of wrong-doings.  Many of the trespasses acknowledged are sins that seem commonplace:

“the sin we have committed before You by hard-heartedness…by the prattle of our lips…by wronging our neighbor…in passing judgment…in business dealings…by evil talk…knowingly or unknowingly…”

Confession of sin is not a popular activity in our culture.  Rather than admit wrongdoing, celebrities and politicians often apologize not for their words or deeds but if they offended someone.  We shy away from sin-talk.

Our uneasiness with any admission of wrongdoing can lead to comedy gold.  For several years during the Days of Awe, Stephen Colbert on his television show The Colbert Report has offered a segment called the “Atone Phone Hotline,” inviting his Jewish  friends to call and apologize to him. Colbert answers the phone, “Shalom, how have you wronged me?” Celebrities call and inevitably silliness prevails.  Regular listeners call in as well, with their sincere apologies:

I want to apologize to Stephen for living in Canada.

I do have something to atone for. During the Emmys I rooted for  Don Rickles to beat you.  (see Stephen Colbert’s Atone Phone)

This year a Reform prayer group at the Hillel House at Harvard made the news by adding a modern twist to this Jewish tradition.  They invited people to tweet their sins via the social media tool Twitter, using the hash tag #AlChetHarvard.   The prayers would be added to the communal prayers offered on Yom Kippur.

While the confessions did not flood in and there were a few juvenile responses, surprisingly there were thoughtful admissions:

I work too hard and sometimes neglect my spiritual meditation time.

…For not thinking before I spoke.

For the sin of anger expressed 2 others that caused pain, justifying it because I felt it.

There is wisdom in the practice of reflection and confession.  Christian worship has long included the rite of communal confession beginning with the example of Jesus in the Lord’s Prayer.

Sitting in King’s College Chapel in Cambridge in 2007 I remember vividly how the words of the confessional prayer from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer (Evening Prayer) caught in my throat, for I was so struck by their power and my own failings:

ALMIGHTY and most merciful Father; We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no health in us….(my emphasis).

Our worship services at First Christian often use the Iona Community’s contemporary prayer of confession:

Before God, with the people of God, we confess to our brokenness, to the ways we wound our lives, the lives of others, and the life of the world.

Yom Kippur is not only confessional; it affirms the strong presence of a forgiving God.  Philo of Alexandria, a Greek Jew and a contemporary of Jesus, writing about the observance of Yom Kippur, wrote, “…all are overcome by its sacredness….For amnesty from sin [on that day] has been granted by the favor of the gracious God, who has assigned the same honor to repentant sinners as he has to those who do not commit a single sin.”

We Christians share the experience of God who in the words of the prophet Jeremiah says, “I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.” (Jer. 31:34)

When we practice critical reflection, confession of sins, and embrace of God’s grace and forgiveness, we are drawing upon the wisdom of our faith.  Confession allows us to let go of the idea that we earn God’s grace and to walk with the assurance of God’s forgiveness.  As our prayer of confession from Iona concludes:

May God forgive you, Christ renew you, and the Spirit enable you to grow in love.  Amen.

In the midst of daily routines…

During the prolonged stretch of hot days in August, the flowers on our back patio did best with a daily morning watering, so did the cucumbers, tomatoes, strawberries, lettuce and peppers in my small garden patch.  Each morning I would pour myself a cup of coffee and head outside to offer the plants their morning drink.

The tomatoes and strawberries are in a  triangular shaped bed.  In the very center of that bed this year is a sunflower—one single volunteer sunflower.  I have watched it grow over the summer, from an unknown seedling with only two leaves, to a full-grown plant taller than I.

When we left for summer camp at Gwinwood, I was sure that it would be in bloom when I returned.   No.  It was stubbornly refusing to blossom; only a green blossom, but none of the beautiful yellow petals in sight.  I was beginning to think the poor thing had forgotten how to bloom.

Several days into our heat wave, I finished my morning watering routine. First the hanging flower baskets, then the potted plants scattered around the patio, and finally the garden.  My cup of coffee empty, I headed back to the kitchen to grab an empty basket which I then filled with red cherry tomatoes, a few surprise strawberries and a peculiarly curled Japanese cucumber.

The sunflower plant was still there in the garden, a watchtower high above the tomato plants.  My attention was focused on the dry ground and my thirsty vegetables.  Once back in the kitchen, I stood at the kitchen sink rinsing off the dirt from the morning’s harvest.

It was only then I saw it, a dazzling array of bright yellow with its face turned gracefully toward the sun.  The sunflower was in full bloom.  I stood there, so taken by its beauty.

And then I began to wonder, “How did I not see a massive yellow bloom right smack dab in the middle of my tomatoes?”  I walked right by, never giving it a second glance.

Much of our lives are spent in a blur.  Deadlines to meet, tasks to accomplish, errands to run.  Even when we aren’t moving about, our attention is divided.  The television is on as we eat meals.  We catch up on emails and Facebook as we chat on the phone with a loved one.  Paying attention may be a lost art, but it is an essential piece of our spirituality.

When Georgia O’Keefe was asked about the popularity of her lush paintings of blooming flowers, she answered, “In a way, nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small, we haven’t time—and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.” (quoted by Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith.)

Paying attention takes time.  And a willingness to be pulled away from the task at hand.  Those tomatoes in my garden were at their perfect time, ready to be picked.  And at that same moment a single glorious sunflower was a revelation of the beauty of one of God’s creatures, fully alive.