Epiphany
Unclench your fists
Hold out your hands.
Take mine.
Let us hold each other.
Thus is his Glory
Manifest.
Madeleine L’Engle
from The Weather of the Heart, p. 17
I needed a little beauty today to set my heart right, to reorient myself to God. What reorients you when your world spins?
“And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. 6 But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. 7 …”When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. 17 But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, 18 so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”
During our Ash Wednesday service this morning, our community of dusty, stumbling penitents heard these words from Matthew 6. And I thought (and truly thought more than prayed), Lord, let me not be like the hypocrites.
As soon as I thought it, though, my knees wobbled. And I knew, as I know in this moment, as I knew last week, and I will know tomorrow: I’m not just like the hypocrites, I am one.
Here is where the dusty, marked and marred among us get real. I don’t know about you, but I feel a little self-righteous about the cross I wear today, Ash Wednesday. Even when I forget, rub my forehead, lose the feeling of the palms burned and given back to the very ones who claim to praise—even then some small part of me feels self-satisfied.
And, oh, how that humiliates and humbles me.
I am such a child of Earth. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return, said the priest, my friend, my bishop. I hear the words, receive them like life. They humble me and give me hope. They are bread for the day’s journey—the rare day that a gathering together doesn’t culminate in bread and wine, but in prayer and fasting. These words are food, but (oh I wish it weren’t true), by the time I’ve returned to my seat, I’m wondering how the cross I’m wearing looks. I’m positioning it not as a symbol of my sin, but as another form of fig leaf. Something to hide my weakness behind so that you won’t know how wounded, how broken, how off the mark I am so. very. often.
And that’s why I’m here. Confessing. Saying to you (yes, you), and my whole community of dusty travelers of the Way that I am a hypocrite humbled. I am wearing my weakness today, and this whole season in which Christ asks me to remember my need.
Today, it’s this ashy cross, this conflicted symbol that I hope in and hide behind. And today it’s also my weakness, my need for help, my need for repentance from all the self-sufficient arranging, impression-managing, impressing I try to do (and will try, I know, to do again).
You see, God’s asked me to give up contact lenses this Lent. I’ve thought about not telling anyone (When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting), just doing it without having to draw attention to what God’s up to in my life. But I’m realizing that the NOT telling is allowing me to stay secretly self-congratulatory. Because I’ve been asked to give up contact lenses for Lent precisely because I am a hypocrite. I despise my glasses, these inconvenient reminders of my weakness, my physical limitations, my broken ways of seeing. I hate the fact that just a glance over their rims brings life less clear, and I’m confronted once more by my lack of vision.
I hate they way they signal to everyone else that I need help.
And that’s what God’s after in me, this Lenten season. Because I’m precisely the one in need of the most help when I’m wearing those lenses day in and day out. You can’t see it then, but I’m hiding my needs, refusing to let others in, putting on a front of holy self-awareness.
Glasses, just like this today’s dark ash, remind me that I am daily hiding, from others and from God. That He’s calling me, not out of punishment or promised pain, to a deeper knowledge of my need. He’s calling me to humility, to an intimate knowledge of who I am—weakness and all—so that I can move beyond the hypocrisy into healing and wholeness. So that He can breathe life into this Earthen frame, if only I will let Him.
And so, here’s me (and the smudge of bread dough that’s calcified onto our kitchen wall because I forgot to clean it off). Me, my hypocritical cross, and my glasses. I’m showing up, taking off the fig leaf by putting on my specs.
And maybe I’ll see a little more clearly His love as a result.
I’ll also be taking up the Daily Office this year for Lent, a practice of intentional prayer. So how can I pray for you? What can I hold tenderly up to Jesus? Leave a comment and I will pray for you these 40 days of weakness and penitence. Will you pray for me? (And thanks, Sarah Bessey, for the inspiration.)
by Ted Loder
Holy One,
most of the time
you don’t seem very close or real to me—
only a word, an ought,
a longing, maybe, a hope—
and, for the most part,
I don’t care much about you,
and that is the not-so-pretty truth of it.
But there are things I do care about:
myself mostly,
and some people I feel close to—
families, friends, children,
most of all children.
I do care what happens to them
So, I do care about love,
about being loved,
and about loving
(or trying to);
and I wonder about it,
how to do it,
and what makes me want to do it.
With those close to me,
I care about laughing,
and crying,
and learning,
and talking honestly (a little);
and fighting openly and fairly,
and forgiving (a bit more),
and admitting I want to be forgiven
and need to be (once in awhile.)
I care about things,
about getting them
and being gotten by them;
And I do care about money
and all the things I do for it,
and with it,
and what it does to me;
And I care about being a little freer
of all that, somehow,
because I care about being secure
core deep.
I care about my neighbors,
at least some of them,
sometimes;
and about all the things that would make it better,
and perhaps easier
for us to live together;
and the hard decisions and sacrifices
it would take for that to happen.
Which means I do care about justice,
though mostly from a distance,
because I care about what it might require of me;
and then I get testy or silent
but am haunted but it
because something in me
won’t let me stop caring about it,
even though I often wish I could.
So, I care about my enemies,
and am tired of being angry
and suspicious so much,
which is such a waste;
and I care about the least—
the hungry
and the sick
and the terrorized
and the exploited of the earth—
because I care about peace
and long for it inside and out,
and am weary of being afraid
for myself and my children.
I care about this tiny fragile blue planet,
this home, this mother earth and all her offsprings,
all the creatures who share the mystery of life.
And I really do care about beauty,
about the songs in me,
the poems, the stories;
I care deeply about
the wondrous, puzzling,
aching struggle
that I am;
I care about this joy I feel
flickering sometimes, flaring sometimes,
when I touch hands or eyes
or minds or sexes or souls,
and ache, then, for more.
I care about living—
living more fully,
abundantly—
and about my urgent longing for that;
I care about what makes me restless,
makes me reach
and stretch
and grope for words,
for dreams,
for other people
and…
for you.
Holy One, you,
I do care about you,
sometimes fiercely,
or I wouldn’t be stumbling along like this,
trying to pray,
trying to put myself in your way;
I care about you,
and such is my faith,
however faltering it is;
and I trust that, past words
you crea about all these things
that I care about,
care about them more,
infinitely more,
than I care about them;
and that you care for me,
even when I am careless
of the things I care about.
from Guerillas of Grace: Prayers for the Battle, p. 62-65
The guarding of the God of life be on you,
The guarding of loving Christ be on you,
The guarding of Holy Spirit be on you
Every night of your lives,
To aid you and enfold you
Each day and night of your lives.
(from the Carmina Gadelica)
Almighty and everlasting God, you have given to us your servants grace, by the confession of a true faith, to acknowledge the glory of the eternal Trinity, and in the power of your divine Majesty to worship the Unity: Keep us steadfast in this faith and worship, and bring us at last to see you in your one and eternal glory, O Father; who with the Son and the Holy Spirit live and reign, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
(via Scot McKnight)
Blessing for Trinity Sunday
In this new season
may you know
the presence of the God
who dwells within your days,
the mystery of the Christ
who drenches you in love,
the blessing of the Spirit
who bears you into life anew.
(from Jan Richardson)
Almighty and everlasting God,
you have given to us you servants grace,
by the confession of a true faith,
to acknowledge the glory of the eternal Trinity,
and in the power of your divine Majesty
to worship the Unity:
Keep us steadfast in this faith and worship,
and bring us at last
to see you in your one and eternal glory, O Father;
who with the Son and the Holy Spirit live and reign,
one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
Book of Divine Worship (and the Book of Common Prayer)
The Breastplate of St. Patrick
I bind unto myself today
The strong name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same,
The Three in One and One in Three.
I bind this day to me for ever,
By power of faith, Christ’s Incarnation;
His baptism in the Jordan River;
His death on cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spicèd tomb;
His riding up the heavenly way;
His coming at the day of doom;
I bind unto myself today.
I bind unto myself the power
Of the great love of the Cherubim;
The sweet ‘Well done’ in judgment hour;
The service of the Seraphim,
Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word,
The Patriarchs’ prayers, the Prophets’ scrolls,
All good deeds done unto the Lord,
And purity of virgin souls.
I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the starlit heaven,
The glorious sun’s life-giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea,
Around the old eternal rocks.
I bind unto myself today
The power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay,
His ear to hearken to my need.
The wisdom of my God to teach,
His hand to guide, his shield to ward,
The word of God to give me speech,
His heavenly host to be my guard.
Against the demon snares of sin,
The vice that gives temptation force,
The natural lusts that war within,
The hostile men that mar my course;
Or few or many, far or nigh,
In every place and in all hours
Against their fierce hostility,
I bind to me these holy powers.
Against all Satan’s spells and wiles,
Against false words of heresy,
Against the knowledge that defiles,
Against the heart’s idolatry,
Against the wizard’s evil craft,
Against the death-wound and the burning
The choking wave and the poisoned shaft,
Protect me, Christ, till thy returning.
Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.
I bind unto myself the name,
The strong name of the Trinity;
By invocation of the same.
The Three in One, and One in Three,
Of whom all nature hath creation,
Eternal Father, Spirit, Word:
Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
salvation is of Christ the Lord.
Translation: Cecil Frances Alexander
