Month: March 2025

“Doesthe plowman plow without stopping for planting, opening and harrowing their ground? They are properly ordered; their God directs them.”

Isaiah 28:24, 26 (Common English Bible)

This teaching asks the reader to imagine a farmer busy at work in their vocation—plowing the land and planting a crop that is useful. No work is more routine. No work has a more basic rhythm than preparing the soil, planting, then followed by regular watering until the earth produces food that feeds a family, a community, a nation. It is hard work, preparing the soil often under the scorching sun, removing from the ground anything that hinders or diminishes an abundant crop. Some soil may be rock-filled. Other soil may have old root networks from previous groundcover that was removed for the purposes of farming the land. Soil testing may reveal deficiencies that must be addressed with fertilizer before a healthy crop can be harvested. As with most vocations, knowledge of farming methods must be learned and continually developed as technology moves every aspect of farming forward. Yet, what remains is that farming is pictured by Isaiah as routine, everyday work.

Isaiah then startles. The routine, regular work of the farmer is directed by God! The routine becomes holy work! Many readers are surprised by this discovery—the discovery that God walks beside the farmer, under the sweltering sun, guiding, teaching, and strengthening the farmer in their important but often dull task that seems, well, so secular. But why are any of us surprised? What is so strange about the companionship of God with the farmer? A God that formed the heavens and earth with God’s own hands, who with the same hands pulled apart the waters that covered the earth that revealed the soil, the soil where God then planted the garden that would feed the first man and woman? God the creator, the farmer, the one who walks alongside the man and woman, directs their steps and lays out the parameters of the relationship that God intends with all of God’s good creation.

The distinction often made between the routine, ordinary work and sacred work is purely arbitrary. Why should we expect to find God only in the work of the clergy, the sacred task of administering the sacraments, the careful study of the scriptures, and the pastoral care of the troubled, the broken, and the disillusioned? Nor should we expect God to only show up when we are reading the scriptures, practicing the sacred work of prayer, and partnering with God in feeding the hungry, clothing those who lack, and meeting other basic needs among the under-resourced. Is the work of the farmer so far removed from heaven? We must not forget that in the second chapter of Genesis, God’s hands reached down to the earth from the heavenly places to gather soil, shaping from the soil both man and woman. Then God breathed into each of their nostrils God’s own breath, which gave them life. Each breath we draw into our lungs is a reminder that it is God’s breath that started life.

Sacred life is not separated from the secular. Nor is there ordinary work and holy work. As an instructor in my graduate studies once said, all work that meets the legitimate needs of another is God’s work, is holy work. There is no distinction. Jesus worked as a carpenter; the apostle Paul made tents. Brother Lawrence, a monk centuries ago, experienced the presence of God and God’s participation alongside him while he washed the dishes in a monastery. Farmers and dishwashers and clergy are all equal with God in the wondrous work that God is presently engaged in this world. The ground that Moses stood upon while speaking to God in a flaming bush was declared by God to be holy ground. Not because Moses was there but because God was there. Isaiah found God walking alongside a farmer and saw what many of us fail to see—that God is present and honors us in our everyday living. Isaiah only asks that we notice that God is right there beside us.

Joy,

The following meditation was written by Dr. Michael B. Brown.

THE COMFORT OF COMMUNION

“While they were eating, Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, ‘Take and eat. This is my body.’ He took a cup, gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, `Drink from this, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many, so that their sins may be forgiven’.” (Matthew 26:26-28 Common English Bible)

The gospels tell us that on the night he was betrayed, Jesus had dinner with his closest friends (who were like family to him). He spent time surrounded by them, sharing bread and wine with them, offering ministry to and receiving strength from them. And just a bit later, he took a handful of them with him to the Garden of Gethsemane. They couldn’t change what was about to happen. But, their presence kept him from having to face it alone. Jesus both offered and experienced comfort at the holy table and through what we call “the communion of the saints.”

Many years ago I served a church near Charlotte, NC, that, rather than gathering on Christmas Eve, always observed Christmas Night Communion. They thought the last act of Christmas should not be unwrapping presents, eating turkey, and watching football. Instead, it should gathering as a family of faith at the Lord’s table to say “Thank You” for the true Gift of the season. It was not a large church. They had a small staff. There were no Associate Pastors. One particular year while I was serving there, my mother had been buried on Christmas Eve. But, there was no one else to lead the service and serve the Sacrament on Christmas night. So, I was present—broken, wounded, empty, going through the motions, but present. I had a four-year-old child at home who didn’t understand the sadness in our house at Christmas that year. My father was with us, having lost his wife of almost half a century. That night I seriously struggled just to be there, let alone to provide anything of meaning for those who came to worship. When the first group of congregants who had received the bread and wine stood, they didn’t return from the altar to their pews. Instead, the person at the end of the altar walked over to where I stood and hugged me. The next person did the same. And the next and the next until they had all held their minister close in a gesture of sympathy and love. The following group who knelt for Communion did the same thing before returning to their seats. Eventually, every single individual who came forward to receive the Sacrament that night hugged me before returning to their pews, many whose faces were wet with tears. For all the books I had read about theology, and for all the courses I had taken in seminary, I think that was the night when I learned what “the communion of the saints” actually means. 

In church, we receive the comfort of Christ’s promise, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many, so that their (our) sins may be forgiven.” And, when tough times come, we also receive comfort from the communion of the saints, those who hold us close and hold us up so that we may survive the darkness.

Joy,

“If you keep track of sins, Lord—my Lord, who would stand a chance? But forgiveness is with you – that’s why you are honored.” Psalm 130:3,4 (Common English Bible)

Anne Lamott imagines a common caricature of God as an uptight, judgmental perfectionist who loves and guides you and then, if you are bad, roasts you: a God as a High School principal in a gray suit who never remembered your name but is always leafing unhappily through your files.[i] Fortunately, such a God is unknown in this Psalm. Composed as an individual prayer, Psalm 130 begins with a plea for help. This prayer is made from “the depths” (verse 1), a dark and bleak place and, apparently, there is nowhere else to turn. We are not told what the darkness is. It may be the loss of someone deeply loved. Perhaps the prayer comes from fear of those who threaten harm. Or, maybe, the prayer gushes forth from a keen sense of personal spiritual poverty. The reason for the prayer doesn’t matter. We all know darkness. Each one of us has made a cry from “the depths” at some point in our life. And, along with the person who makes this prayer, we ask for God’s mercy and care.

Suddenly, right in the midst of the prayer, confidence in God’s persistent mercy, is celebrated: “If you keep track of sins, Lord—my Lord, who would stand a chance? But forgiveness is with you—that’s why you are honored.” Memories of God’s mercy in the past strengthen the expectation that God will continue to demonstrate mercy. More, it is this character of God—one who assiduously grants mercy again and again—that God is honored among the people. Mercy is an eager expectation precisely because of God’s character! The one who prays now transitions from “the depths” to hope. This affirmation of faith moves from one generation to another because it is built upon the sturdy “honor” of God: “that’s why you are honored.” It is right there that we uncover the precious nugget, the valuable gem of this prayer—God’s honor. God is honored because God refuses to “keep track of sins.” God’s honor is in moving “honorably” toward us, entering the depths of our darkness and restoring light and life to our lives through forgiveness.

God has nothing but the best for us. In the weeds, and thorns, and brokenness of our lives, God sustains us and cares for us. Though we have hurt God, and others, God forgives us. God behaves honorably with us. There’s that word again—honorable. God is “honored” because God moves toward us with forgiveness which the Bible calls, “honorable.” Remember that when in those darkest of dark moments, we wrestle with forgiving ourselves. If God calls forgiveness honorable, do we dare now behave in a dishonorable manner by a failure to forgive ourselves? A man walked out of a church service just as the Lord’s Supper was about to be shared. One of the two pastors quickly grabbed a large piece of bread and a cup and followed the man to a nearby park. The pastor offered the man the bread and cup. The man said, “I don’t deserve that!” “Neither do I”, responded the pastor. “But strangely, God’s desire is to honor us with this bread and cup—to honor us with God’s forgiveness. Will either of us dishonor God with our refusal?” 

Anne Lamott rejects the caricature of God she creates and so should we. God is not a High School principal in a gray suit who never remembers our name. Not a God that continually examines the file of our life, seeking to produce a record of wrongs. This Psalm shows us a God that refuses to keep a record of our wrongs and neither should we. Sin remembered creates a chasm—a chasm between us and another, a chasm between us and God. That is why the apostle Paul boldly asserts in his letter to the Church in Philippi that, “I forget about the things behind me and reach out for the things ahead of me.” (Philippians 3:13b). Should any of us chose to play the comparison game, the game that “my sin” is so much greater than Paul’s sin that he so easily dismisses, remember, Paul held the coats for men as he watched them cast stone after stone upon Stephen until Stephen was dead. That nightmare of a memory Paul forgets as he now accepts God’s forgiveness, forgives himself, and reaches forward for the goal of living fully in Jesus.

Joy,

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[i] Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, 25^th Anniversary Edition (New York: Anchor Books, 1994), 29.

“If an army camps against me, my heart won’t be afraid. If war comes up against me, I will continue to trust in this.” Psalm 27:3 (Common English Bible)

For some, the greatest struggle of faith is uncertainty. One man spoke to me following worship recently and commented, “I find this Jesus you speak of very attractive. And I have no doubt that living as Jesus taught will positively impact a life. My difficulty is this, what can we know for sure?” The writer of these words in Psalm 27 records an ancient answer to this question that remains very present for some people: “What can we know for sure?” Here, the author makes an honest assessment of the world—a world that is fearful of hostile armies and war—and affirms that, nonetheless, trust in God will abound. Anyone would be grateful that this author is so confident in the presence and power of almighty God. Yet, the question remains, “How shall we find that same confidence?”

Gene E. Bartlett is helpful.[1] First is the consistent witness that God is a loving God. Naturally, this unwavering witness through the ages fails to prove the existence of God. Simply, it asserts agreement that if there is a God, that God is a loving God. Yet, an honest and fair reading of the Bible demands some attention to the cultural norms that shaped the day when these words were written. In the day of Scripture, the notion of “father” was much deeper and richer than our present use of the designation. More than a biological identification, “father” was one who had authority and commanded respect. Unquestioning obedience and honor were expected. So when Jesus addressed God as “Father,” Jesus was making a theological claim—obedience was expected before proof was received. And throughout the ages, as men and women struggled imperfectly to obey God, the consistent experience was love, acceptance, and forgiveness. A common experience through thousands of years of struggling to live faithfully does, at the minimum, hint at the possibility of God’s existence.

Second is the conviction that men and women are responsible creatures. We may shirk responsibility at various times in our lives but none of us can escape the conviction that, ultimately, we are personally responsible for the direction our lives will take. We have the capacity to decide to move in one direction or another, to love or to withhold love. Each person senses the freedom to make decisions that will impact their lives positively or negatively. Except in those cases where there exists some mental deficiently or handicap, the common experience is that there is a tug in those decisions to move positively for the benefit of others and oneself. From where does that tug come; the tug toward kindness, goodness, and mercy?

The third is the common experience that good is more powerful than evil. So pervasive is this thought that it is woven throughout the pages of science fiction. Look at the popular movie franchise, Star Wars. Anyone familiar with it has had the words, “May the force be with you” engraved upon their minds—“the force” is a force for good. Bartlett observes on this one point that in the long sweep of history, there is evidence after evidence that good beats evil at every turn. How is that so? For Gene Bartlett and countless Christians, the answer cannot be a coincidence. Behind the consistent witness of being deeply loved, behind every conviction of personal responsibility, and behind every experience that good is a greater force than evil is the notion that present is a common source. For many millions of people through the pages of Scripture to the present day, that source is God. “What can we know for sure?” The answer is these three things. And they all point to something much deeper.

Joy,

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[1] Bartlett, Gene E. “Some Things We Know Without Proof”, In The News in Religion and Other Sermons, New York: Abingdon-Cokesbury, 1947, 96.