Devotional

God’s Promise by Pamela D. Couture

Prayer for Guidance and for Deliverance

Of David.
To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul.
O my God, in you I trust;
do not let me be put to shame;
do not let my enemies exult over me.
Do not let those who wait for you be put to shame;
let them be ashamed who are wantonly treacherous.

The psalmist commits his soul to God and declares his trust. In light of the personal losses and social conditions that fall far short of what we would associate with the reign of God, it may be difficult for us to truly do the same! Every religious life that opens itself to the conditions of the world must confront the question: how can I put my trust in God? As long as trust in God means relying on God for our own particular, desired outcomes, we will be disappointed.

Lifting our souls to God and trusting in God leads us into an ever-deepening relationship in which the mysteries of life unfold. As we trust, we let go, look expectantly to the future, without setting requirements for what that future must hold. Instead, we trust the unfolding of the Creator’s gift of life. We trust that our own small portion of human experience is already known by the immanent God, the God who has experienced all that humanity experiences as God incarnate, God in human flesh. We are humbled to life our souls to the transcendent God, the mysterious, all-embracing, creative God whose purposes are wider and broader than we can see.

Placing our trust in this God allows us to face squarely the personal losses and social injustices that are often the source of our doubts. Yes, we continue to have our personal hopes and our particular way of fulfilling our vocation for love and justice. But these are tempered by the larger vision, the mysterious leading of God.

Advent is a time for an examination of those things that hold us back from fully trusting God; letting go and living in the comfort that comes from lifting our whole being into God’s arms.

Holy God, reassure us by making yourself known in ways broader and wider than we can hope and dream. Amen.

Waiting with Patience by Henri J. M. Nouwen

How do we wait for God? We wait with patience. But patience does not mean passivity. Waiting patiently is no like waiting for the bus to come, the rain to stop, or the sun to rise. It is an active waiting in which we live the present moment to the full in order to find there the signs of the One we are waiting for.

The word patience comes from the Latin verb patior, which means “to suffer.” Waiting patiently is suffering through the present moment, tasting it to the full, and letting the seeds that are sown in the ground on which we stand grow into strong plants. Waiting patiently always means paying attention to what is happening right before our eyes and seeing there the first rays of God’s glorious coming.

Telling the Story of Jesus by Henri J. M. Nouwen

The Church is called to announce the Good News of Jesus to all people and all nations. Besides the many works of mercy by which the Church must make Jesus’ love visible, it must also joyfully announce the great mystery of God’s salvation through the life, suffering, death and resurrection of Jesus. The story of Jesus is to be proclaimed and celebrated. Some will hear and rejoice, some will remain indifferent, some will become hostile. The story of Jesus will not always be accepted, but it must be told.

We who know the story and try to live it out have the joyful task of telling it to others. When our words rise from hearts full of love and gratitude, they will bear fruit, whether we can see this or not.

Going to the Margins of the Church by Henri J.M. Nouwen

Those who are marginal in the world are central in the Church, and that is how it is supposed to be! Thus we are called as members of the Church to keep going to the margins of our society. The homeless, the starving, parentless children, people with AIDS, our emotionally disturbed brothers and sisters–they require our first attention.

We can trust that when we reach out with all our energy to the margins of our society we will discover that petty disagreements, fruitless debates, and paralyzing rivalries will recede and gradually vanish. The Church will always be renewed when our attention shifts from ourselves to those who need our care. The blessing of Jesus always comes to us through the poor. The most remarkable experience of those who work with the poor is that, in the end, the poor give more than they receive. They give food to us.

The Church, God’s People by Henri J. M. Nouwen

As Jesus was one human person among many, the Church is one organization among many. And just as there may have been people with more attractive appearances than Jesus, there may be many organizations that are a lot better run than the Church. But Jesus is the Christ appearing among us to reveal God’s love, and the Church is his people called together to make his presence visible in today’s world.

Would we have recognized Jesus as the Christ if we had met him many years ago? Are we able to recognize him today in his body, the Church? We are asked to make a leap of faith. If we dare to do it our eyes will be opened and we we will see the glory of God.

Susie Q

You are the salt of the earth. – Matthew 5:13

Music filled the car as I drove toward her house: “Susie Q, Susie Q, oh my baby I love you.” It was the hit song of the day, and, since by coincidence I was dating a Susie Q at the time, it was a doubly special, doubly fine tune. It was also the perfect music to have blaring to deliver an equally fine high school graduation gift. I had worked on it for weeks. It had style. It had sentiment. It had above all creative flare. There were no options left for her but to be incredibly impressed. What an exciting time, the kind of day that makes you sing, the pinnacle of days of shopping for just the right item, organizing it ever so precisely, and wrapping it for the perfect, spellbinding effect. The core of the gift was a gold ID bracelet, her name on top, mine on the back, to “remember me always.” But anyone could give an ID bracelet, so I dressed it up with a little creative razzmatazz. Remembering that our first date had included a drive along the Clearwater Causeway and a stop for dinner at Mullet Inn, a restaurant known for the best smoked mullet in the area, I decided that, symbolic of our first event, two fresh ready to cook mullet should accompany the bracelet. They were selected for size and good looks and gently wrapped and packaged in a shoebox with the gold bracelet around the neck of the prettiest fish. Red, green, and yellow rubber fishing worms were added for color and the whole thing was wrapped in the traditional comic section newspaper with a few extra colored rubber worms on top for a bow. It was a masterpiece of gifts, combining the sentiment of our first date meal, the class of a tasteful gold bracelet, and the creative humor that sparked our relationship. Who wouldn’t sing en route to deliver such a prize package?

Nor were my spirits dampened when Susie wasn’t home. I simply presented the gift to her dad with the instructions “Please give it to her as soon as she returns.” Now was it my fault that he instead put it on the dresser in her bedroom? Was it my fault that they left that evening on a two-week vacation, leaving the gift unopened? Was it my fault that on returning they found the unopened gift ripened and had to have all the carpets, all the drapes, and most of their clothes cleaned? I should say not. I had left proper instructions. I had said “please” and “as soon as she returns.” They unfortunately failed to see my side of the story. Sentiment, creativity, even humor went unrecognized, and Susan was banned from my presence.

I even went personally to apologize, but her dad wouldn’t discuss it. When Susie walked me out to my car she suggested that I not return to her house. “Who’d want to come back here. The place smells like dead fish.” We broke up shortly after that. Amid the surface humor I really was sorry. It had seemed like such a fun idea at the time.

I told my church youth sponsor about it the next week. There, of course, was not a solution; it was not a problem to be solved. After listening and laughing, he reminded me of Matthew 5:13 where Jesus said to the disciples, “You are the salt of the earth.” He went on to explain, “The disciples were fishermen, and they packed their fish in salt to keep them fresh and good. Jesus,” he continued, “was reminding them of their place in the world as preservers of that which is good.”

That’s one Bible lesson I’ll never forget. Nor will I ever again eat mullet, or give dead fish, even dressed in gold, as a gift. But I can’t help but laugh every time I hear a music flashback of “Susie Q” on the radio. It still makes me want to sing.

Prayer: Help us, Lord, to take a stand on the side of preserving good and righteousness and love. Amen.

Pee Wee

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Train up a child the way that he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it. – Proverbs 22:6

They called him “Pee Wee,” although he never really liked the name. He accepted it because at the time he was glad to be called anything. It was a lonely time. His family had moved to a new state leaving behind aunts, uncles, and cousins, but also every friend he’d ever known. The new city might as well have been a new world. The friends he made there were those who accepted him quickest and required of him the least. It mattered little to a fifth grader that they cussed, smoked, drank and ‘lifted’ small items from local stores. They were his friends. They liked him.

Although his parents worried about the noticeable changes taking place in their son, they didn’t know what to do, and surely didn’t want to over-react, be too protective, or too rigid. But they were concerned. So much so that just before Pee Wee began seventh grade, they moved across town in hopes that a new neighborhood and school would lead to new friends. In eighth grade, Pee Wee was hopping trains to ride across town to see the old cronies and continue now old habits. Being picked up for shoplifting at 15 years old was pretty tough. His mom cried a lot, and then just sat and prayed. His dad stood, staring into space, shaking his head, muttering to no one, “Where did I go wrong?” It was obvious to them that something had to be done. Drastic changes had to be made.

Over Christmas break all college freshmen like to go home and look up old friends. At eighteen Pee Wee was no different. Neither were his old friends. By then, one had been killed and another was in jail for manslaughter…a hunting accident he had called it. The other three were in jail doing hard time for trying to rob a gas station. There was no reunion. The friends were gone. Of the old gang, only Pee Wee had broken away.

As a minister who worked with youth, I often have questions raised by parents. Does the church really make difference? Is the youth group influence that strong? Is it really worth the trouble, time, money, and energy? I have always answered yes. I believe in youth programs. I know youth activities serve a purpose. I know God’s power is experienced in youth groups. I know because I’ve experienced the change. I’m Pee Wee, although I never really liked the name.

Prayer: Let me remember, Lord, that it is easier to train the young than change the old. Amen.

Annie

Rejoice with me for I have found my sheep which was lost. – Luke 15:6

I called her Annie although she continually stated her preference for Elizabeth Anne. She insisted that her full name was more womanly, and at the age of seventeen I guess she was right. But still somehow “Annie” continued to ring from my lips, and with each call I perceived a glint in her eye that gave me continued permission beyond her numerous protests. Besides, Annie was a child’s name, and before she moved from youth to woman I hoped for her the experiences that only childhood and youthfulness could bring.

Annie had grown up fast and hard. Having been abandoned to an orphanage as a toddler, she had later moved through several foster homes and then on to live with her mother through three consecutive husbands and her father through two wives before being deposited with her grandmother. At the age of seventeen she had seen a lot, known a lot, and hurt a lot.

Her grandmother was a friend of mine. Having been thrown together by her disabling fleabites, through numerous visits we quickly moved from the pastor-parishioner relationship to very dear friends. I was her gently-smiling confidant when she moved so cautiously into “dating” at the age of seventy-one. I was honored to perform their wedding and later grief stricken to perform his funeral after their two years of marriage. When Annie re-appeared in her grandmother’s life we were three months into a heart wrenching discussion of cancer and chemotherapy. Love never comes cheap. Nor does it come to those who cannot stand the pain.

Everything about Annie cried out for help. I supposed it to be a weakness that I could not turn her away, but no one else stepped forward to help. She was too old for foster homes and too young to be left alone. Everything in me mourned for her – the lost childhood, the family she never had, school dances she had missed, and football games she had never yelled at. I wanted her to laugh. I wanted her to be a child, a youth, and a young lady. I wanted her to build memories of some good times.

When Marion came home from work she was excited to think I’d gotten a babysitter for some special outing. She was instantly shocked to be introduced to Annie, “who will be staying with us awhile.” Marion is most gallant when she’s shocked. I did my best to explain. She did her best to listen and adjust. And Annie unpacked.

During her seventeen years Annie had built walls of protection around herself with bricks of neglect, rejection, and pain. I had hoped so much for her. But even within the first few days I was sadly aware that all of my concern and good wishes couldn’t erase the marks from her years of hurt. After six weeks Annie’s grandmother and I moved her into a halfway house for teens. Giving Annie up was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. For days I sat in a chair rocking, staring at nothingness. Occasionally I took walks in the hill country alone. Failure is the hardest thing I know.

I’ve never had any trouble understanding the shepherd leaving the flock in search of the lost lamb (Luke 15). And having experienced the anguish of the lost, I now know more about God’s joy over those who are found. I learned from Annie.

Prayer: Let me remember, Lord, that there is great joy when the lost is found. I seek that joy for myself, my family, my friends and my acquaintances. Amen.

Where Were You?

Truly I say to you, as you did it not to the least of these, you did it not to me. – Matthew 25:45

When Todd was four years old, we lived in Lawton, Oklahoma, where I served in the Army as a chaplain. On Saturday we had gone out for a Chinese dinner with our friends Skip and Carol. We were sitting in our paper walled booth eavesdropping on the couple in the booth next to us and had just received our egg drop soup when I was called to the phone. It was Vicki, our babysitter.

When we left home Vicki was in the house with the baby, Bethany. Todd was out in the yard as usual playing with Harry his next door friend. It was now 9:00 pm and dark. Todd had not come home. Nor were he and Harry next door playing. Vicki was crying because Todd could not be found. He was gone. He was lost.

We immediately left our eavesdropping and our soup and rushed home. First we searched the yard, then the house, then the yard again, then we called the police, and then moved outside to search the neighborhood. From 9:30 until after midnight with the help of six policemen and twenty or twenty-five neighbors, we continued our house-to-house search including nearby ditches, neighborhood yards, and vacant lots. We searched silently; fearing the worst, hoping the best, and numbed beyond the verbalization of either.

Finally, at 12:20 am, Carol checked the upstairs back fire escape of a church two blocks away. It was unlocked. Down two halls inside a classroom sat Todd and Harry. They were sitting on the floor in the dark comforting themselves by pretending to look at books whose pictures they couldn’t see. They were alone. They were tired. They were hungry. But mostly, they were scared. They had climbed the back stairs to what they thought was a “candystore,” and upon entering the door had shut. They could neither push it open nor reach the lights. So they looked around, sat down to wait, and the darkness came.

When Carol brought the boys outside, two policemen picked them up and ran up the two-block hill to our home. As Todd was carried across the street he saw me in the distance, and leaning toward me with outstretched arms, cried out in a small, broken voice, “Where were you, Daddy? Where were you?”

And for the next three weeks as I tucked him in bed each night, he looked up sadly, and said it over and over again. And I persisted in my assurance with hugs and words that gave him no apparent comfort, “I was looking for you son. We all were looking for you.”

There is no doubt that this experience with my four-year-old lost son left its indelible imprint on me as a father. It also marked my faith. Later, as I studied alone, I closed my eyes to rethink the words “as you had done it unto me.” And in the silence of my inner self I caught a glimpse of hell. It would be hell to stand before the judgement seat and hear the crying, broken voice of God saying, “Where were you Rod? I was tired. I was hungry. I was alone. Where were you?”

Prayer: Lead us each to say to you Lord, “I am here. I am looking for you in the eyes of the tired, the hungry, and the alone.” Amen.

Guitar Picking

…for I seek not what is yours, but you. – 2 Corinthians 12:4

Within all of us there are built-in time capsules that ring loud, silent alarms to remind us that it is time to get out of bed, time to eat, or that the sermon has gone on too long. One of my inner alarms rings aloud each April and reminds me that it’s time to dust off the old guitar and once again rehearse, for the sake of inner tranquility, the folk songs of my youth.

At the peak of my folk-picking career I actually did belong to a folk group, “The Hamstrings,” that sang within the church and youth circles of the Tampa Bay area. Although we were never accused of being talented, we were very lively and extremely cheap. And the folk tunes of 500 Miles, Greenfield, and If I Had a Hammer could always be counted on to receive a rousing response from the congregation – with the one exception of the time we got carried away, forgot where we were, and started singing The House of the Rising Sun to the Christian Women’s Fellowship.

On one occasion I was trapped into leading a youth retreat sing-along by being the only one of the Hamstrings in attendance. Realizing that a retreat without music is no retreat at all, I reluctantly suggested a D-G-A chord song and led out. I still don’t know how I finished so far ahead of everyone else, but it was probably just as well because we had yet to hit the same note at the same time anyway. I suggested we sing the next tune a cappella but started it so high that we had to quit half way through the first verse. By the end of the third song the laughter had subsided, and by the fourth we were actually sounding pretty good. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the weekend retreat being very embarrassed but also a little bit glad that at least I’d taken a chance and it eventually turned out pretty well.

The experience reminds me how often we say, “If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well,” even though we know we don’t have the ability to do everything well that needs to be done. Therefore, as a terminally mediocre folk singer, I share with you a new saying: “If it’s worth doing, it worth doing poorly.” Maybe this is what Paul meant when he said of the Macedonians, “but first they gave themselves.” (2 Cor 8:5). For it seems to me that there are times when we must give and act, not from our proven strengths, but from our unproven highest hopes and best intentions.

Prayer: Lord, bless our hopes, our attempts, and especially our best intentions. Amen.

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