Nurture Faith with Dr. Doug Hood

“She gave birth to her firstborn child, a son, wrapped him snugly, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the guestroom.” Luke 2:7 (Common English Bible)

My wife, Grace, and I collect nativity sets. Over the course of our marriage, we have collected over thirty, each beautiful and unique in their own way. Several have come from Congo, Africa, where my wife was born and raised by missionary parents. Others are from Guatemala, Argentina, Peru, Mexico, and Israel. There are also beautiful sets from Alaska and from Native American reservations in the west. Two are whimsical sets from North Carolina—one that depicts every character of the nativity as black bears and another as red cardinals. They have been fashioned from metal, stone, clay, wax, and wood. Each represents a cherished memory and all stir the wonder of that first Christmas.

Christmas begins with wonder. It is a story whereby we are reminded that God has come into the world for every generation and for every person. It is a story that defies reasonableness. God, the creator of the heavens and the earth and all that is them, comes to earth as a vulnerable baby, to parents of little material possessions, in the nondescript town of Bethlehem. The parents have no stature, no power, and no capacity to provide anything more than a manger to place their first child. Absent is any hint of privilege, any suggestion that this family will ever attract the notice of others. Yet, shepherds are drawn to the nativity, leaders of great nations travel considerable distances to bring gifts of substantial value and angels sing from the heavens of the birth of Jesus. The story is astounding, incredible, and outside the parameters of credible story-telling. Serious engagement with the Christmas story begins with wonder.

Wonder is not doubt. For those who doubt, they are unable to see. Their eyes are clouded by a determined focus on what they understand. Wonder exists where there is hope in inexplicable love, and uncommon generosity. Wonder springs from believing that there is more in life than can ever be explained and the deep desire to be surprised. Christian wonder arises from the ancient promise of a God who cares deeply for us, clinging to that promise tenaciously, particularly at those times when there seems to be so little evidence for it, and paying attention, recognizing that God may surprise us at any moment. The shepherds and the magi arrived at the nativity, not because of incontrovertible proof that the Holy Son of God was born but because they were paying attention to a God that surprises.

For Christmas to be more today than a nostalgic glance backward there must be a recovery of wonder. We cannot rejoice at Christmas unless we rejoice that this is a season where images of the nativity—in our homes and churches, on Christmas cards and wrapping paper—remind us that God comes to us in unexpected moments, in a surprising fashion, and always in a manner that is beyond our ability to understand. We live in a world that doesn’t know what to make of the love of God; a love that is free of ulterior motives. God baffles us and mystery and wonder permeate God’s presence and activity in the world, including the Christmas story. The Christian faith has never asked that we dismiss our questions. But its promises are realized only when we permit ourselves to experience expectant wonder once again.

Joy,

“Then Mary said to the angel, ‘How will this happen since I haven’t had sexual relations with a man?’”

Luke 1:34 (Common English Bible)

While I was in college, I studied for a semester in Coventry, England. My dormitory room was in Kennedy House located on the campus of Coventry Cathedral. The clergy of the Cathedral were my faculty. Each Friday, at noon, I was required to participate in a brief service of worship in the ruins of the original Cathedral destroyed during the Second World War. Imagine that experience of worship with me. I gathered with a small number of people in the chancel area of the Cathedral, charred walls of the Cathedral embraced our worship. Brokenness was magnified by the destruction from a world at war. Yet, amid the visible brokenness, a pastor would take bread, give thanks to God, break the bread, and share that this bread was the bread of life for us. It was a remarkable contrast—visible brokenness to the eyes with a spoken promise of life.

Something like that is how the Christmas story began. There is an unanticipated pregnancy—“I haven’t had sexual relations with a man.” Then, as now, such a pregnancy shattered the respectability for the woman. Mary is poor but struggling to live by the rules of a respectable society. Then, the unexpected. An angel appears to Mary, and the message from the angel alarms her. There is a pregnancy, and now nothing makes sense. “How will this happen?” asked Mary. Life is already difficult for Mary. But now, due to no fault of Mary, everything has become worse. In that day, a woman found pregnant outside of marriage could be stoned to death. Loss of respectability is one thing. But the prospect of stoning now multiplied the brokenness except for one thing. Within the brokenness, there is the promise of life—not simply the life of an unborn child, but a child that would bring life to all people.

At this time of the year, people often ask the wrong questions of the Bible. The predominant question at Christmas is the implausibility of a pregnancy without a sexual relationship. Naturally, this is a scientific difficulty. Pregnancy always follows predictable rules. And right here in this teaching from Luke’s Gospel, the predictable rules are not at play. Yet, there really is nothing in this story that asks us to reduce it to scientific inquiry. That is the wrong question. According to this teaching, the right question is not a scientific one but, rather, a personal one. Mary is surprised. Surprised by an unexpected visit from an angel. Surprised to learn that she was about to receive something she was not anticipating. It is this element of surprise that is essential to reading this Christmas story correctly. God has intruded on Mary’s life.

No one welcomes brokenness. Life is disrupted, often with considerable woundedness. We may go to church to seek escape, to receive a word of inspiration, or to find a community that will embrace and love us. Yet, like that worship in the old Coventry Cathedral, brokenness remains, surrounding us on every side. We wring our hands about the conditions that have fallen on us. Perhaps we even ask, as Mary, why this has happened. We didn’t plan on any of this. But, if we are honest, neither did we plan on the serendipitous surprises of life that delighted us or the friendships that have nurtured and strengthened us. The Christmas message of Mary’s visit from the angel is that God is present amid the brokenness. We need only to pay attention. What we thought would be our ruin may be a new beginning filled with new life and the possibilities that life presents.

Joy,

“After taking the bread and giving thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’”

Luke 22:19 (Common English Bible)

Notice here, in this teaching from Luke’s Gospel, Jesus’ habit of thanksgiving. What is significant is Jesus giving thanks over a piece of ordinary bread, “After taking the bread and giving thanks.” This habit of giving thanks over the ordinary strikes some as unusual. Many of us are more accustomed to giving thanks for the extraordinary: a surprised gift of appreciation or an unusual demonstration of kindness. We were taught as children that such occasions merited giving an expression of gratitude. But here, Jesus takes in hand an ordinary piece of bread and, before serving the disciples dinner, gives thanks. Praise abounds in the narratives of Jesus. Any perusal of the four Gospels impresses upon the consciousness that praise is inseparable from the Jesus stories. But thanksgiving? And thanksgiving for the ordinary? That is also present. But noticing Jesus’ habit of thanksgiving requires a more careful reading.

Another discovery that is rewarded to the careful reader of the Gospels is that Jesus is noticed by the disciples, not in moments of praise, but in moments of thanksgiving. After a rather difficult week in Jerusalem that included an arrest of Jesus, the crucifixion of Jesus, and Jesus’ resurrection, two disciples were traveling to Emmaus. Jesus suddenly shows up with them. But the two disciples don’t recognize him. That may draw a question from the reader. The disciples were with Jesus for three years and now fail to recognize him? Our own experience answers that quandy. If we see a familiar face in a context we don’t expect, there may be a moment of recognition, but we brush it aside. That person can’t possibily be traveling in Europe at the same moment that we are! There may be a moment of recognition by the disciples, but it can’t be Jesus. He was crucified. But the moment Jesus takes bread and gives thanks—presto! It’s Jesus.

Perhaps there is wisdom for each of us to pay more attention to Jesus’ use of thanksgiving. Particularly because, in the hands of Jesus, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. When I officiate over a baptism, I stir the water in the baptismal font—ordinary water placed there minutes earlier from an ordinary tap. It is then I pray, “With an unseen hand, touch these waters and separate them from their ordinary use and make them extraordinary. May they become cleansing waters, removing guilt from the one who will be baptized.” When I stand before the Lord’s Table, I pray, “Separate this bread and this cup from their ordinary purpose so that they may become a symbol of your power and love in our lives, reconciling us once again to Jesus.” In thanksgiving, the common becomes radiant with the holiness of God, which, in turn, makes for a transfigured world. It is then a world that has become rather dull is made vivid with wonder.

Life is made up of very ordinary things. Thanksgiving for them opens the channels to see God where God has been previously unnoticed. Common places of life become extraordinary, even holy. Bryant Park in New York City is a holy place for me. Where many visitors and residents find a respite, I experience God as a very near presence. Every opportunity I am in that city I take the time to be in Bryant Park for prayer. I pray for my ministry, the congregation I serve, for my family, and for the City of New York. I pray for the welfare of the city. I pray that God will work redemptive wholeness where there is brokenness. When I can’t be in New York, I sit in a Bryant Park chair I have in my office. Seated there, I continue my prayers for the city. Consequently, my soul is filled with the fullness of God. I see God in the city where others may only see commerce, indulgence, and brokenness. Thanksgiving becomes a beautifier that transforms that city for me. There is great wisdom in following the example of our Lord for giving thanks for the ordinary.

Joy,

The following meditation is from Dr. Doug Hood’s upcoming book: A Month of Prayer & Gratitude: Five-Minute Meditations for a Deeper Experience of Gratitude.

“Though the fig tree doesn’t bloom, and there’s no produce on the vine; though the olive crop withers, and the fields don’t provide food; though the sheep is cut off from the pen, and there is no cattle in the stalls; I will rejoice in the Lord. I will rejoice in the God of my deliverance.” Habakkuk 3:17, 18 (Common English Bible)

In our nation’s ritual observance of Thanksgiving Day, we are summoned to express gratitude for what we have. We may have little when measured against our neighbor, but we are, nonetheless, called to acknowledge what we do have and express gratitude. We know the story, the origin of this national holiday well. English immigrants—later to be called Pilgrims—sailed by accident into Cape Cod harbor, staked their claim upon the land, and named it New Plymouth. These immigrants, these Pilgrims, labored hard working the land, fought disease, and defended themselves against every threat this strange new frontier presented. Life produced struggle upon struggle. But they persisted. Then, in 1621, the harvest exceeded every expectation. To celebrate their good fortune, a harvest festival was held to which they invited the native Americans who occupied the land first.

As a child, I would be reminded by my mother and father that Thanksgiving Day was an occasion to “count my blessings.” As I consider this instruction, it seems to me that there is nothing wrong with a regular habit of doing so—counting my blessings. I have provided the same guidance to my children. Focusing on what I have versus what I don’t have is a mindset that must be intentional. For some reason, I find that many of us have a default setting to do just the opposite. Many days, I am caught up in complaints—usually in silence. I don’t have enough, whatever “enough” may be. If I dwell there long enough, I grow convinced that I have been cheated. If you have traveled this same route, you know it is an unpleasant journey. Then, I am reminded of the wisdom taught me so many years ago—count my blessings, regardless of how meager those blessings may be.

The difficulty with this Scripture from the minor prophet, Habakkuk, is that it seems to invite us in the opposite direction. At first blush, this seems to be a well-rehearsed complaint: the fig tree doesn’t bloom, and there’s no produce on the vine, and on and on. Sounds familiar, like a child who is struggling through a difficult day. The only difference between the child and the adult is that many adults have learned restraint. We feel as strongly as the child about what we don’t have, but we have learned to keep our lips sealed. Our lips may conceal what is on our hearts, but rarely is it a secret to others. When our lips are sealed, our general continence betrays us. Others see our dissatisfaction, our annoyance, our general selfishness. Then, as we are reading the Bible, we stumble upon these words from Habakkuk. Permission granted for making our complaint! Or so it seems until we keep reading.

We are jolted by a speed bump in verse 18. After a considerable complaint, the prophet Habakkuk concludes with gratitude! A bleak and depressing picture is painted for us and is then completed with, “I will rejoice in the Lord. I will rejoice in the God of my deliverance.” It appears that someone has confused the lyrics of one song, a song of complaint, with the lyrics of another song, a song of gratitude. One doesn’t follow another, not smoothly anyway. Failure and loss move rather quickly to a celebration of hope and confidence. How does the prophet explain this disjointed movement? It may be that we have gratitude all wrong. Perhaps gratitude doesn’t begin with what we have. Perhaps gratitude doesn’t even begin with us. If we lean into the pages of this prophet, what we learn is that gratitude begins with God, with God’s fidelity, and that we are included in God’s redemption. Gratitude begins when we realize we belong to God.

Joy,

The following meditation is from Doug Hood’s upcoming book: A Month of Prayer & Gratitude: Five-Minute Meditations for a Deeper Experience of Gratitude.

“How long will you forget me, Lord? Forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” Psalm 13:1 (Common English Bible)

The critic Guy Davenport wrote that translation is a game of two languages, and that “the translator is in constant danger of inventing a third that lies between.”[1] The language of the Christian faith is often characterized as one where God is responsive to prayer. The language of lived experience suggests that, on occasion, God is inattentive to prayer. What is the translator to do—how does a person of faith translate a “responsive God” to the occasional experience of an “inattentive God?” Often, the translation—or explanation—is that the prayer lacked sufficient faith or that the prayer failed to follow some prescribed rubric or pattern. The tragic result is a third language, a God that is responsive only if the prayer has been constructed properly or is undergirded by an unwavering and sturdy faith. The third language is unrecognizable to the people of the Bible, particularly the psalmist. It is a language that suggests that effective prayer is dependent upon us, not God.

Psalm 13 is the shortest of the prayers that seek help from God in the Book of Psalms. At the beginning of this prayer is a rhetorical question, “How long?” The question is asked four times in the first two verses. Information isn’t sought. A response is sought from a God that seems unresponsive. The individual who makes this prayer is in distress. An urgent neediness is presented to God, and the expectation is that God will show up and answer, consistent with the understood character of God. Excuses for God’s inattentiveness are not offered; God is not let off the hook. This is a powerful witness of refusal to inventing a third language. God is known as a responsive God. So, where are you God? As James L. Mays makes clear, “God does not help; there is no evidence of God’s attention and care. Anxiety tortures the mind with painful questions.”[2] The named experience resonates with our own when we are impatient and desperate. Our questions about God’s apparent inattention are not unfaithful.

It is important that the reader—the one who is eavesdropping on this urgent prayer—understand that the psalmist is not releasing their frustrations upon another. It isn’t unusual for the faithful to speak to another of their disappointment with God. Many times, that is the preferred approach—sharing with a friend, rather than directly to God, a disappointment or hurt with a God that seems inattentive. This seems safer, less dangerous, than a direct and frank conversation with God on such matters. What is suspended in such moments is the recognition that nothing can be kept from God. God is privileged to our conversations as well as our thoughts. Just as Adam and Eve sought to hide from God, we participate in the self-deception that we can vent our frustrations about God to another without God’s knowledge. Why risk stirring God’s anger with such a blunt approach? Here, the psalmist does. God has let them down, or so the psalmist believes. Why not an honest conversation with God?

This bold move, this courageous exercise of faith, in turning directly to a God who seems inattentive, grants permission to the reader to do the same. The psalmist’s unflinching honesty before God demonstrates a confidence in God’s love and care for the well-being of the faithful. This nervy move reminds the reader of another man of God named Job. Job never flinched before God in demanding an answer for his suffering. The answer never came to Job. Yet, in time, God does demonstrate faithfulness to Job with the return of good things. What we find in Job’s story is that the individuals who feared holding God accountable received God’s rebuke. The psalmist in this prayer doesn’t receive an answer either. What to do with God’s apparent inattentiveness? The psalmist chooses gratitude. “Yes, I will sing to the Lord because he has been good to me” (Psalm 13:6). Choosing to give up on God was not an option for this one who asks God, “How long?” Such a choice only results in a life of despair.

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[1] Wood, Graeme. “The Iliad We’ve Lost,” The Atlantic, November 2023, 83.

[2] Mays, James L. Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching, Psalms. Louisville: John Knox, 1994, 78.

The following meditation is from Dr. Doug Hood’s upcoming book, A Month of Prayer & Gratitude: Five-Minute Meditations for a Deeper Experience of Gratitude.

“The Lord your redeemer who formed you in the womb says: I am the Lord, the maker of all, who alone stretched out the heavens, who spread out the earth by myself.”

Isaiah 44:24 (Common English Bible)

Foundations are important. In the construction of a building, a strong and reliable foundation is a primary consideration. The function of the building and its location are important matters for determining which materials are necessary. Without attending to the matter of a proper foundation, further construction becomes a foolish—and risky—enterprise. Similarly, a meaningful and purposeful life requires a sturdy foundation. The materials for such a foundation include unconditional love, encouragement, and support. But other matters are important, too! These include education or vocational training, a safe environment for failure and learning from that failure, and career guidance or mentoring. Yet, the most important matter is to know where we come from. Who are our parents? Were we adopted? What can we know of our heritage? Self-concept and identity are forged from this knowledge.

This passage from Isaiah shows that the people of Israel have lost their way. Their home, Jerusalem, has been destroyed, and they are a people in exile. Such disorientation is a poor foundation for rebuilding their future as a nation. It is in this disorientation, this emotional and spiritual place of despair and hopelessness, that the prophet Isaiah speaks. He reminds the people that they were formed in the womb by God—the same God who is the maker of all, who alone stretched out the heavens and spread out the earth. Israel, Isaiah cries, has not been left alone! And as a people who were created, fashioned, and formed by such a God, they are a people who belong. Isaiah reaffirms once again their relationship—their foundation—with their God. And it’s this relationship that has continued on throughout the ages unto this very day.

Understand, however, that we shouldn’t make the mistake of assuming that God belongs to us. Allan Hugh Cole Jr. shares a poignant metaphor he once learned that: “acting as if God somehow belongs to us can have a direct effect on prayer and faith. For example, it can lead to our viewing God as a commodity that exists primarily to serve us and our self-interests, rather than leading us to serve God and God’s interest. Moreover, we can begin treating God as ‘a cosmic Coke machine,’ such that we merely need to offer God some sort of payment (i.e., good deeds, the right prayers, acts of kindness, various sacrifices), put in our requests, and expect to receive something in return from God immediately.”[1] This incorrect notion that our relationship with God is purely transactional is a poor foundation for a faith that can navigate life’s discouragements and heartbreaks—it’s a foundation that cannot sustain us.

A life of faith and prayer that disappoints may be the product of a poorly laid foundation. Instead of seeking a relationship with God, we might pray, “God, I will give you this if you give me that.” Another poor foundation may be casting God in our own image rather than the other way around: we might depict God as an extension of ourselves, our desires, our needs, and our political ideology. We want God to see the world as we see it—we want God to be a certain way. This is a foundation that negatively impacts our prayers and shakes our faith. God does not operate under our control. As the prophet Isaiah reminds us, we belong to God. The only foundation for a robust life of prayer and faith is one where we seek to know God, God’s dreams, and God’s aspirations—it is one where we remember that God has created us and not the other way around.

Joy,

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[1] Cole Jr, The Life of Prayer, 15.