Call to Worship
Praise the Lord, all you people of God!
We join our voices with all creation to bless the Lord!
The morning stars sing, and the heavens shout for joy.
How great are the works of our God!
The earth is full of God’s glory.
Our eyes have seen the majesty of the Lord.

Invocation
Source of all wisdom,
Throughout the earth your Spirit moves, breathing new life into your handiwork. From prestigious halls of power to long forgotten byways, the voice of Wisdom calls for us to follow. Your thoughts are not our thoughts, O Creating One, and we find it hard to know your ways. Grant us humble hearts so that in seeking to follow you we might find our true selves. In the name of Jesus, our Savior and Guide, we pray. Amen.

The flight was almost over before I noticed. Sitting in the middle seat, squeezed in between two strangers, my elbows tucked in politely, I had managed to immerse myself in reading. When my eyes finally left the page, I looked out the window. It was meant as only a passing glance, simply to gauge how much further to Chicago, nothing more.

But we were not yet to the city, with its neatly laid-out streets and cookie-cutter houses. No, instead my eyes fell upon the deep green patterns of Illinois farmland, squares of rich greens, knitted together with threads of country roads. The patchwork quilt was lined with dark ribbons of forests and hidden creeks winding their way along the edges of carefully tended farms.

It was a sight I knew well–fifteen years of living in the Northwest, I’d been making regular familial pilgrimages home. I had become accustomed to the beauty of its uniformity from the air. The fertile Midwest prairie turned bread basket held a peculiar charm, touching a nostalgic chord in my transplanted soul.

I had spent two weeks weaving my way through the Illinois farmland that lies between my mother’s home and my grandmother’s now vacant country homestead. Beautiful row after row of tall corn stand at attention along the road, no matter if I had been speeding down Interstate 57 or tentatively finding my way on the back roads, once quite familiar and now just ever so slightly changed as to keep me wondering if I had somehow made the wrong turn.

It seemed disrespectful that the cornfields looked so resplendent with their golden tassels rising in the air, while my father was not there to give his expert voice of approval to their progress. Dad knew every farm and farmer on these roads, had taught their daughters and sons the art of tending abundant fields and raising healthy lifestock, and had walked many of those same fields when the forces of Mother Nature had turned neatly planted crops into acres of devastation.

My daddy has been gone seventeen months, and my heart still grieves, but the land seemed unmoved, offering its praise chorus of bounty when I longed to hear a mournful lament.

“Are those soybeans?” my oldest brother asked, on one of those drives.

“I think so,” I replied, although there could be no doubt. In the silence that lingered, I swear I could hear my father answer, “Those are good-looking beans.”

“Not too much rain this year?” I longed to ask him one more time, knowing my father’s response, “No–just right.”

It had been a good summer for growing–the tomato plants that same brother had planted in memory of our father at mom’s place were thick with green tomatoes, promising a crop far beyond our mother’s needs. I had dutifully tied up the heavy-laden branches, knowing full well the neighbors, and not I, would enjoy their rich juicy fruit.

Now as my flight makes its way over the last stretches of green farmland, I weep. I cry over fields that would have made my father smile with satisfaction, not that they were his fields, but that they were beautiful. I can’t bear to look at them, wiping away tears, hoping my seat mates look the other way.

Soon, I know, my grandmother’s place will be sold, the wild blackberries out back will offer their fruit begrudgingly not to me, but to someone else. Will the next folks discover the secret trail that leads to the pond where as a child I would chase after frogs and pray that the chiggers would be merciful to me?

A generation is coming to an end, and returning home will never again be what it once was. My mother still lives in Illinois, in the house I called home for much of my life, but she is a city girl at heart, formed in the noise and bustle of St. Louis streets. I have inherited my father’s country soul–albeit gentrified, I admit–nevertheless the remnant of his love of the land remains alive in me.

How many more times will I make this journey? When my mother is gone, there will be no need to return and tie up the tomatoes or trim the hedges. There will be no reason left to come back to these verdant fields. For a moment I catch my breath, wiping away warm, salty tears. Who will I be when I no longer know the back way home?

I’m reading from All Saints: Daily Reflections on Saints, Prophets, and Witnesses for Our Time by Robert Ellsberg.

The saint for January 6th is Jacques Ellul, the French theologian and sociologist.
He believed that the task of Christian living was “to create a new style of life,” in opposition to secular criteria. Robert Ellsberg puts it this way:

…this involved preserving a consciousness of the Transcendent. At the same time, the Christian should desacralize the idols of modern society–whether politics, the state, or the marketplace–and create alternative zones of ‘free life.’ In other words, Christians should be ‘troublemakers, creators of uncertainty, agents of a dimension incompatible with society.”

In these times of economic uncertainty, a little “desacralizing” of modern day idols may be just what we need. Rather than offering false proclamations of certainty, we can go about stirring up a little trouble by being “creators of uncertainty.”

Come, Holy Spirit,
the one who sang a new melody as God’s Creation rose from Chaos,
who wept at the dark shadow of a cross,
and who danced early in the morning, at the opening of an empty tomb,

Come, Holy Spirit,
the one who could not be contained by wind, or flame, or breath,
the one who blesses the Church with courage, peace, and love.

Come, Holy Spirit, to us, who gather this day with trembling hands and uncertain hearts. Teach us to sing a new song and to dance with reckless abandon.

Here in this gathering of believers, as you did with those so long ago,
breathe on us now.

Breathe on us,
blowing away our fears and our hesitations.

Breathe on us,
transforming our hard-heartedness into passion-filled lives.

Breathe on us,
for we need peace, peace that only you can give.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

call to worship
Lift up your voice and call out to God.
We cry out, believing that God hears us.
Come together and wait for God.
We come together, trusting that God is still speaking.
Surely God’s presence is here with us now.
We wait in hope, for God’s steadfast love lifts our hearts.
Come, worship the Lord.
We celebrate the power of God that restores us.
–based on Psalm 130

opening prayer
Holy God, Creator of Life,
you call us out of our dark places, offering us the grace of new life.
When we see nothing but hopelessness, you surprise us with the breath of your spirit.
Call us out of our complacency and routines,
set us free from our self-imposed bonds,
and fill us with your spirit of life, compassion, and peace,
In the name of Jesus, your anointed one, we pray. Amen.

Prayer of Confession:
The presence of God surrounds us, and yet too often we go about our daily lives oblivious to the power of Holy Spirit moving in our midst. Let us together confess the ways in which we are blind to God’s everpresent care.

God of rainbows and puddles,
Lover of snowshowers and clear blue skies,
we confess to you and to one another the many ways we fail to live the lives you want for us.
We make ourselves busy with many things,
and neglect to listen to your voice.
All too often we see the worst in the world around us,
and look past your signs of hope.
We are quick to voice our dissent with one another,
and refuse to see your face in the persons with whom we disagree.
We focus on our own hurts, anger, and disappointments,
and close our hearts to your transforming grace.
O Holy Light of the world, forgive us.
Open our eyes to your endless possibilities,
Give us courage to listen for your call to us,
Take our hearts of stone, and make them new again with your holy love.
Amen.
Assurance of Pardon:
Do not be afraid. God’s light has come into the world and has scattered the darkness; the morning star rises in our hearts. Rejoice! For God does not hold our sins against us, but embraces us as God’s own beloved.

Oh, my holiday decorations are not even put away; the Christmas tree still sparkles in our living room. Even so, the church calendar speeds along quickly this year, and Ash Wednesday is just over a month away.

I’m trying to find some focus for our Lenten season by reflecting on experiences of solitude, meditation, and prayer. Today I’ve been living with the poetry of T.S. Eliot, particularly Burnt Norton from his collection Four Quartets. Eliot writes of the elusive nature of time and meaning.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered.
Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy
The resolution of its partial horror.
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.

Is Lent a time in which we walk in the garden along with Eliot? We move from stories of the ancient past and our own pasts, dwelling in the present, and all the while wondering about the future. Do we find moments that are still points? Places in which we encounter the transcendent in the midst of the hurriedness of life? Those fleeting moments, “neither from nor towards,” may be the space in which our hearts are free to dance.

Prayer of Confession:
The prophet speaks of the coming light of God which calls all the people of the earth to come together in God’s realm of shalom.  Let us confess the ways in which we have rejected God’s vision of wholeness:
God of light and darkness, We have seen the glimmer of your star-light beckoning to us, but we have turned away and followed other paths.  We confess that we have not loved you with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our mind, and with all our strength. We have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.  Forgive us, Holy One.  Strengthen our faltering steps and guide us in your holy way of peace.  Amen.
Assurance of Pardon:
Lift up your eyes and see the grace of God poured out into your lives.
The light of God shines through the darkness.  Our hearts rejoice for Christ is in our midst.

Prayer of Confession:
On this the sixth day of Christmas, as another year draws to a close, we come together before God and with one another, confessing,
the ways in which we have been caught up in the frenzied spirit of the holidays,and turned away from Your Spirit of Peace;
the times we have focused so much on our own lives and desires,
that we have neglected the voices of your children who cry out for Justice;
in our focus on making the season perfect,
we have turned away from the hurting people and broken places in our world in need of Healing;
in the times we have dismissed Christmas as a time only for children,
and we have stubbornly closed our hearts to your amazing gift of Love.
O Holy Child of Bethlehem, Word Become Flesh, our Savior and King, hear us as we humbly pray,
Cast out our sin and enter in; be born in us today. Amen.
Assurance of Pardon:
Hear the good news of Christmas.Today God reveals to us the wonders of divine love.
For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given.His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.

Advent 4, Year A
The days grow short in our Northwest winter. The darkness easily pushes back the afternoon sun, as evening casts its shadows over our lives. Is it no wonder we fill our neighborhoods and our homes with Christmas lights? The sparkling lights offer a quiet beauty in the face of ever-creeping darkness. The splendor of lights is a small act of defiance against the shadows–it speaks of our faith that the dark will not have the last word.The psalmist gives voice to a people who have been waiting for the advent of God’s realm.  The people who have been living in darkness cry out to God to bring light into their world, 

Shepherd of Israel, hearken, He who drives Joseph like sheep,enthroned on the cherubim, shine forth…O God, bring us back, and light up Your face that we may be rescued.(Psalm 80: 1-2, 4, translated by Robert Alter)  

Our waiting is almost over. A fourth candle joins the three candles shining in the darkness. The candle of love adds its light to the flickering flames of God’s dream of peace, justice, and healing for all creation.