CHRIST IN WINTER:
Reflections on Faith for the Years of Winter
I have been thinking about
the “pastoral” prayer I shall give in worship this morning. I am not opposed to
writing prayers ahead of time, but I don’t like to do so myself, because almost
always as I pray, the Holy Spirit [at least, I HOPE it’s the Holy Spirit]
redirects me at a point or two. It’s good, though, to pray ahead of time about
the prayer, to be open to the Spirit before I have to open my mouth in worship,
to be sure that the hustle and bustle of the worship time does not cause me to
ignore some concern that should be a part of our prayers. So, I’ll probably
pray something like this come worship time…
Gracious and giving God,
we are supposed to start our prayers with praise and thanksgiving, and so we do
so now, out of habit and custom, to be sure, but also because these angry times
in this dangerous world smack us in the face and wake us up. These violent days
and hostile nights, from Dallas to Turkey, from Baton Rouge to Syria, remind us
that life is never to be taken for granted, and so we thank you for the rest of
the night, and for the opportunity of the day, for the occasion to be here
together to worship, for the very air we breathe, for the Spirit that blows
over our souls like that very air. Yes, we are alive, and we see each other’s
face, and we give thanks.
We confess, though, that
we are distracted by many things. We are pulled first one way and then another,
and we get so confused and so tired. It’s hard sometimes to believe that life
in this world is a good gift. We are tired of the ways of this world, tired of
hunger and homelessness, tired of war and disease, tired of greed and anger,
tired of being shot at and being yelled at, tired of psychopathic politicians
and empty promises, tired of being afraid, tired of taking a step forward and
sliding back two. Tired of feeling helpless, tired of settling for prayers and
vigils instead of action. Tired of arguing about what it means when we say that
lives of any hue matter. We’re tired of being tired. And we’re tired of
ourselves.
We remember, though, that
Jesus promised his followers not a rose garden, but the Garden of Gethsemane.
We know that it is in that garden, of agony and self-sacrifice and finally
accepting God’s will, that Christ walks with us and talks with us and tells us
we are his own.
And so we give thanks for
the lives we bring here this morning, however insignificant they may seem, and
we give thanks for the life we find here together. Renew in us the determination
to make the world feel “the stubborn ounces of our weight.” ]1]
Hear us now, we ask, as we
approach you with prayers for those most precious to our own hearts and lives,
as we pray for those who are hungry and homeless, sick and in prison, as we
pray for those who have no one else to pray for them.
Amen.
JRMcF
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com
1] That phrase is from a
poem by Bonaro Overstreet.
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