There’s a song that goes “I will call upon The Lord, who is worthy to be praised. So shall I be saved from my enemies. I will call upon The Lord.” I find it prettiest when it is sung as a call and response, with the different parts falling in upon each other as the song gathers strength and passion. The chorus goes “The Lord liveth, and blessed be the rock, blessed be the rock of my salvation.” This song, especially sung as a call to worship, draws all who sing and worship together to sing and name The Lord as present in this space.
I think about this song frequently, even if I haven’t sung it since the last time I was at a campfire worship circle. I want to call on The Lord to be present in this space, in each and every space where people are in worship, or hurting, or in danger, or in pain.
The conflict is escalating in Israel and Palestine, and I know there are no easy answers, but my heart breaks with the stories of families being torn apart, children wounded in a war between their parents. How difficult to teach a child the reason for their injuries, without teaching them the hate and fear that led to the conflict in the first place.
There are stories of people being better than the war growing around them, stories of grace and forgiveness in the midst of grief and heartbreak. But these stories of hope are scarce in the midst of conversations of missiles and interception measures.
I pray for peace in the midst of this conflict, as well as other conflicts around the world, those I have heard of, and those I have not, conflicts between communities and conflicts in the midst of diseases reaching epidemic proportions. I pray for healing, for grace, for the power of God to reign in broken places and in broken lives.
May The Lord live and bless us, let the name of The Lord be praised, root us on the foundation of the rock that gives abundant life.
I will lament and I will praise and most of all I will continue to hold all of the world, all of these amazing, intricate people who were formed in the image of God in my prayers. Let this call, this invocation be carried by the Spirit to the very heart of God.
Today Le Tour de France ended in a part of France in which I traveled when I visited my sister while she taught there. (Sis, you can keep going to cool places, and I’ll keep visiting you there.) It was cool to see parts of the country, the cobblestones I had walked on where now the competitors were racing. The thing about the stage today: it was raining. And so at the end of the stage, every single biker was covered in the mud kicked up from the road from their tyres and the tyres of all the men racing with them. The announcers said that they were showering or at least getting a “thorough toweling off” before they had any interviews.
I’ve not often been that dirty. I have a pretty clean job, where I do a lot of writing, and I might sweat, but it is only because I might be preaching outside or if the heat is turned higher than I find comfortable. On vacations, I take a shower after a day at the beach, but that’s to get salt and sand out of my hair. I don’t play sports very often in the rain, though I do enjoy a stroll in a summer downpour every so often.
I remember once, though, that I got pretty dirty.
While I was volunteering with Peace Corps in Kenya, a group of us wanted to go over the border to Uganda to white water raft the headwaters of the Nile. There is probably a flight that goes from Nairobi to Kampala and a quick cab or charter flight that would take at most an hour or two to get the journey done. But, being volunteers and with limited spending money (I almost said we were poor, but that would be lying) we all took the local mass transit available. That means we all took Matatus. A Matatu is a unique vehicle, designed for fifteen passengers, with the diesel engine block directly under the driver and front passengers. They are everywhere in Kenya, probably in most of Africa. We saw a couple of the same vehicle bodies when were in Tokyo, but they were not the same, they were way too clean and didn’t have nearly enough people in them. Remember how I said they were designed for fifteen passengers? Sometimes, especially in the western side of Kenya, the conductors can fit in an extra five, ten, or fifteen people in, as well as live chickens, goats, children who sit in laps, and any assorted collected luggage. It can get a little cramped.
Our group came together, and managed to fill most of a Matatu, but not all of it, there were locals riding with us. I managed to sit in the very back, alongside a window that I cracked open to get some good air circulating through. There is no air conditioning in Matatus. You learn to make the best of imperfect circumstances. I was sitting pretty for the final leg of our trip. Window seat, got a seat nearly to myself, friends around me, doing pretty good, actually.
When we got to the base camp of the rafting company, I gave myself more than a once-over. My arm, where the sleeve met the skin, looked like I’d gotten a farmers tan. Not too bad, just a bit red and dark. On closer inspection, I realized it was dirt. That’s right, the dust of the road had layered on thickly enough so that I thought I had a tan. It was time for a bath.
I went on to take the most amazing shower of my life. Showers are not all that common in Kenya. I didn’t live with running water in my home and took bucket baths to get clean most of the time. The base camp had showers set up along the ridge looking out over the river, one wall made of forest and river in the distance. As I soaped up my hair I could see rivers of dirt streaming down my body. I don’t always rinse and repeat, but this time it was incredibly necessary. It felt so good to be clean.
I wonder when else that is the case. Do you have to get really dirty to appreciate getting clean? The contrast makes the positive so much stronger.
I struggle with thinking sin is the same way. And in some ways it might be. When a woman comes to wash Jesus’ feet with her tears, the host at the table complains at her effusive display of gratefulness. Jesus goes on to tell a parable about a man whose debts as big as a mountain being forgiven who is more thankful than a man with a mole’s hill worth of debt forgiven (Luke 7).
Paul asks: so should we sin more, to make the forgiveness that much sweeter? Absolutely not (Romans 6).
The thing about God’s grace: it is sweet regardless of the journey we have taken to receive it. Whether we have raced through the cobblestones of Northern France in the pouring rain, ridden in the back of a Matatu down a pot-holed dusty road, or done what seems to be nothing of consequence, God offers us grace to cleanse us of all that has hindered us.
I forget this. I forget that grace can come to me and those around me, whether we have a squeaky clean past or a hundred different skeletons in our closet. Shouldn’t we get a little dirtier just to make the cleansing that much better? Not necessarily. And in the same vein, it doesn’t matter how dirty you get, whatever past you think you have that is going to make God cringe. The waters of God’s grace shower down in a never ending fountain that cleanses us of everything. Every doubt, every fear, every anger, every moment of jealousy, every single thing. Now. We still live in this world, even as we are working to bring the Kingdom of God to earth. Grace is not a one time thing. We still need grace to work in us every day. Just like you need a regular shower, you need a regular encounter with God, with the grace and Spirit of God to stay in the right direction.
God is not done with you yet. God is waiting to cleanse you with grace again. And guess what? It feels so good to be clean.
It is beginning. The healing. I can feel it a little more now than I could yesterday. Today I didn’t crash into oblivion after lunch. Today it doesn’t feel like I am trying to hack out my lungs every few minutes. Today it doesn’t quite feel like I’m breathing through a soaking wet towel any more.
Today I feel a little better.
I’m not well yet. I still get a little light headed when I stand up or move too fast. I still need to take my antibiotic and fun cough suppressant. I still need to make sure that I have a way to take care of a runny nose and anything that might get produced during one of my hacking sprees.
But I can tell that I am healing.
It is slow, this healing thing. It has made me be patient. Patient in ways I really didn’t have a care to be. I haven’t been able to take my walks like I want to, and so my step totals for the week are going to be abysmal. My energy is not where it should be. I wouldn’t want to try to preach again tomorrow. I won’t be running anytime soon.
I am looking forward to feeling better tomorrow.
Until this morning, I wasn’t sure that I was getting better. I couldn’t have told you whether or not I was going to have to call the doctor for a better solution to being so terribly out of breath. I didn’t know if my crazy strong antibiotics were having an effect on the infection still wriggling away in my lungs, taking up residence and stealing my power from within me. It still seemed to me that I was just as unwell as when I initially went to the doctor.
Today I am just enough better that I can continue to wait and see. I’ll still take it a little easier than normal. I am still waiting for my reserves to build back up and return. I need to be ready for whatever life will throw at me next.
Whatever it is, I think I will be ready. I will be just that little bit stronger. I will be prepared to face the next curve solidly on my feet. Just make sure that it waits a couple more days. I’m not at full strength quite yet.
I really want to write something profound and spiritual right now. I also would like to be able to breathe normally and sleep in tomorrow. None of that is happening.
I want to take the lyrics of one of my favorite hymns to sing around patriotic holidays and reflect on it phrase by phrase. This Is My Song is about loving your own land as well as seeing that God’s people and promise are not limited by borders or alliances. I might do my reflecting later, but for now, know that I will be preaching on leaving your homeland as you listen to God’s leading.
And maybe after I wake up from my epic nap tomorrow afternoon, deeper reflection will occur. Or not. No Promises.
I try to see fireworks for the Fourth of July each and every year. This year, the plan was going to be more exciting than usual, but it’s hard to do fun things when you can’t breathe well. The second option still turned out pretty cool, and we didn’t have to curse at traffic but for like half an hour. Not bad at all.
The fireworks at the Savannah riverfront were very nice this year. I am glad that I got to share them with my family. We always have cherries and coffee blonde brownies when we go watch fireworks and celebrate the fourth. How do you celebrate?