Still Small Voice

And God said,
“Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.”
Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord,
but the Lord was not in the wind;
and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; 
and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire;
and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.
1 Kings 19:11-12

The story of the prophet Elijah in 1 Kings is one in which I find enormous consolation and inspiration; so when I saw this icon of Elijah I was immediately drawn to it.  It was part of an exhibition of icons from the Monastery of St. Catherine on Mt Sinai that were on display at the Getty Center in Los Angeles in 2007.  The icon shown here depicts a story earlier in the Elijah narrative than the text quoted above.  But it illustrates a truth about Elijah’s experience with God that runs through the entirety of his story.  Elijah the great miracle worker, preacher, political activist and warrior was also a great listener.  And he seemed to pay attention best when the Divine voice was expressed without words.

At the mouth of the cave on Mt. Horeb he experienced the power of God in an overwhelming silence.  In his self-imposed exile at the Wadi Cherith (1 Kings 17) after announcing God’s judgement of King Ahab, he received the hand of God’s mercy through the daily visits of the ravens who brought him bread and meat. The icon depicts the prophet’s surprise at these unexpected messengers from God.  This strong man is here depicted in his vulnerability as he is dumb-struck by the surprise of God’s grace delivered to him in the beak of a bird.  

In his book on preaching, Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Comedy, Tragedy and Fairy Tale, Frederick Buechner makes the claim that “Before it is a word, the Gospel that is truth is silence.”  In other words, the wisdom delivered in the words of an inspired sermon usually only comes to the preacher after a good stretch of silence.  Listening, watching, quietly paying attention, these are the precursors to preaching. You don’t know until you know, and this kind of deep knowing often comes only in the wake of deep listening.

I suppose this is why so much of what Jesus says has to do with the invitation to pay attention.  He says things like: what are you looking for, follow me, come and see, watch and pray.  Come walk along this way with me; open your eyes to what I have to show you, and you’ll begin to understand that I am the Way along which you were created to walk.  Or to put the same idea in the words of St Francis: “It is no use walking anywhere to preach unless our walking is our preaching.”

During Lent we’ll be exploring Jesus’ various invitations to awareness that he issues to his disciples.  He does not force himself on his disciples.  He does not begin with a list of precepts and rules that they must sign before they can become his followers.  He invites them on a journey and asks only that they keep their eyes and ears open so that they can see and hear all that he has to show them; so that they can behold the good news, the truth that will set them free. They don’t always get it.  They aren’t always awake.  Yet these failures and lapses do not deter his persistence. 

Neither will our failures and lapses diminish Jesus’ unending invitation to wake up to the gifts of God’s grace and Lent is a good time to let him issue that invitation to us once again.  Like his disciples we may not be able to stay awake with him in Gethsemane as he asks us to watch and pray. The task of reconciling the facts of his story with our expectations of what should be may continue to elude us.  But he won’t stop asking us to come and see.  He won’t stop pointing to what he’d like us to know.  He won’t hand us over to our stunted imaginations but will keep shining light on what we need to see.  And one day we will “know fully, even as we have been fully known.”

David Rohrer
02/12/2021

Celebration and Lament

“When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream.
Restore our fortunes O Lord, like the water courses of the Negeb.”
Psalm 126:1 & 4

When Abraham Lincoln gave his second inaugural address on March 4, 1865, the end of the Civil War was in sight.  That bloody conflict was the event that set the stage for and occupied his thoughts and prayers for all of his first term.  Toward the middle of the speech (which was really more of a sermon than a speech) he observed:

Neither party expected for the war, the magnitude, or the duration, which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes.

Lincoln’s words have comforted me in these days following a deeply conflicted and polarized election season, a rancorous and extended refusal to accept its results, a siege on the Capitol that vainly tried to overthrow it and finally, an inauguration of a new president who spent much of his speech asking for a new season of unity.  Those words of the new president were music to some ears and for others inspired little more than eye rolling consternation at a perceived hypocrisy.  And, as was true in Lincoln’s day, these opposing groups are, in part, comprised of people who read the same Bible and pray to the same God. 

What I find comforting about Lincoln’s observations is not that his words give us direction to navigate these seemingly irreconcilable conflicts in which we find ourselves, but that they give witness to another time in our history when we were stuck in a rut of unending dispute.  It calms me to remember that these dynamics have happened before, that they were never really “solved,” but we are still here and still have the opportunity to face and deal with them informed by the power of the grace of God.  His words also calm me in that they admit that neither side can possess certainty that they have comprehended and therefore represent the mind of the Creator on the matters of what should characterize our national policy. “The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully.  The Almighty has his own purposes.” And we don’t fully comprehend what those purposes are.

But what do we know? We know that Jesus is Lord and that nothing can separate us from the love of God.  We also know that we are called to love our neighbors as ourselves and that we are invited to allow the love of God to teach us to love our enemies.  If we think about it long enough, we know that the matter of determining whether or not God is on our side and not on the other side is a fruitless task.  For while we may read the same Bible, we wear different lenses as we read it and our arguments about who has the right interpretation end up looking like a cartoon in which the characters take turns exchanging blows on each other that are inflicted by the same club.  And this “same” Bible becomes merely a tool to prove our rightness rather than the word that directs our attention to God and gives light to our path. 

So, if this is true, if this is what we do know, what should we do?  If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion, I would say the first thing that all of us should do is take a step back and pause to remember that the God who we think we hold in our hearts actually holds all of us in his heart.  We don’t just pray to the same God, this same God created all of us.  This same God has more than enough space for all things to come together in his heart and is actually at work reconciling all things to himself.

Furthermore, as we pray to this same God, I would offer the suggestion that one of the prayers we pray be comprised of the words of the 126th Psalm.  Psalm 126 gives voice to the passions of both sides in our current conflict and in so doing teaches us empathy for one another and roots us in the truth that God cannot be locked into the box of either side.  There is a side which is rejoicing in a feeling of restoration.  The Lord has restored our fortunes and we are “like those who dream.” Our mouths are filled with laughter and our tongues with shouts of joy.  Yet so also is there a side more drawn to the second half of the psalm. “Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like the water courses of the Negeb.”  Quench the dryness of our defeat with your rain.  Replace our tears with joy.  Give us a seed to plant that will help us live in hope of something better.

God has plenty of room for both prayers.  God knows the hearts and minds of both sides.  But we need to remember that neither the prayer of celebration nor the prayer of lament can capture the fulness of the truth.   Yet both can express the heartfelt longings of humble people who must ultimately resign themselves to the mystery that “the Almighty has his own purposes.”

O the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!
How unsearchable are his judgements and how inscrutable his ways!
For who has known the mind of the Lord?  Or who has been God’s counselor?
Or who has given a gift to him to receive a gift in return?
For from him and through him and to him are all things.
To him be the glory forever. Amen
Romans 11:33-36

David Rohrer
02/06/2021

Pastor's Annual Report for 2020

A year-end report is in some ways a kind of magical thinking.  It makes the assumption that we can push a cosmic pause button that gives us time to both reflect on and tie up the happenings of the previous year in a neat package that can then be filed away.  But time didn’t stop on December 31, 2020 and what we accomplished or failed to achieve this past year is all part of the information that we are still working with and adding to in 2021.  In light of this, the most important thing I have to report with respect the life of Emmanuel Presbyterian Church in 2020 is that God is faithful; God’s mercies are new every morning and we can expect that to continue into 2021.

 When the world went into lock-down in early March because of the pandemic, our life together was up-ended and we had to figure out some way to meet without actually being in the same room.  We’ve done pretty well with that adjustment.  It has been both an exhausting and energizing thing to go through this process.  It is never easy to be dispossessed of what you think are normal expectations.  Yet when this happens there is a corresponding call to innovation and adaptation.  The former depletes us; the latter restores us. 

We have known both of these states of being over the last 11 months.  We have lost some folks due to lack of connectivity to the internet.  We have lost others due to their fatigue and frustration with a church that is choosing not to come together in our sanctuary for worship.  We have lost others because of life circumstances related to Covid-19 that have caused them to move away from Bothell.  Some of these folks we will see again when we return to the practice of gathering in our sanctuary for worship, but some won’t be returning.  Yet that said, we have also welcomed a number of new people into our fellowship at this time.  For a variety of reasons Emmanuel has become a welcoming place for folks even in this time when our gathering place is virtual.  On most Sundays 90-100 devices log into our Zoom worship service and many of these screens have more than one person sitting before them.  And that means that our worship attendance has actually grown.

Pastors joke that the standard metric of success for a congregation is “Butts in the pews and bucks in the plate.”  The absence of both pews and plates makes for potentially very bad news for a congregation.  Yet not so for us.  Our giving and our attendance have remained steady this past year.  Not only is God faithful, but so are you.  You are hanging in there and working to show up even when you can’t meet together in our sanctuary and narthex. Thank you for your faithfulness that is born of the faithfulness of God.

I can’t say this with absolute certainty, but I suspect that the congregation of Emmanuel Presbyterian Church has been asked to go through more change this past year than it has ever been asked to endure before.  I have heard it said that all change is often initially experienced as loss.  Indeed, the loss of meeting together in our sanctuary is a big one.  By all rights, it should have killed us.  Losing the place where we expect to live our life together feels life threatening.  It requires enormous adaptation.  It is like asking fish to develop lungs and legs so they can live on land or asking us terrestrial mammals to grow bigger lungs and fins so that we can join our cousins in the sea.  That’s a tall order! 

Yet what makes adaptation possible is that there are still points that do not change.  One of those is God’s faithfulness to us. The big, big heart of God has not stopped being the place in which we primarily dwell.  My prayer for 2021 is that we can spend more time resting in this truth than being anxious about the yet unknown ways in which we will be invited to adapt.  It is hard to know what is before us, but we can rest in the truth of where we are.  We’re fixed firmly on the rock of Jesus Christ and this foundation is one from which we can’t be shaken loose.      

 Dave Rohrer—January 31, 2021

Three Acres and a Building

I was glad when they said to me, “let us go unto the hose of the Lord.”
Psalm 122:1

Depending on which route I choose to take on a given day, my commute from home into Emmanuel sometimes takes me past the former and present locations of Bethel Lutheran Church in Shoreline.  As I drive East on NE 175th I can see the perimeter of Bethel’s former location outlined by construction fencing.  The building which once housed the Bethel congregation is being repurposed by a new family of faith, the Buddha Jewel Monastery.  Then as I continue my drive up 175th and turn left on 15th Ave NE, I pass Bethel’s new home consisting of two storefronts in a retail corridor.   

I do not know the specifics of Bethel’s story and I have no need to make judgements about that community’s choice.  Clearly, they have found a sustainable way to continue to be a worshipping community and light to their neighborhood.  They are like so many other congregations which have made a similar choice.  It is a way forward that perhaps comes in the wake of changing demographics and declining numbers. Perhaps it was a choice that is not unlike what a couple does when they sell their home and downsize their lives by moving into a condo or retirement community.  It is time to allow someone younger or something new, to occupy the space that defined so much of one’s life.  The increasingly difficult demands of maintaining a property begin to weigh heavy, and the best path to sustaining life together is divestment and reinvestment resulting in relocation.

If this is Bethel’s story, it is not unique.  Last year in this space, at about this time, I mentioned the common sight of signs in front of churches announcing an impending closure or relocation. Also at least once a month I receive mail that tells me that many churches are considering similar moves.  This mail comes in the form of a letter from a developer or realtor who is wanting us to be aware of how they are ready and willing to help us “secure our future” or “fund our ministry.”  I usually read these kind offers with a smirk on my face and they start to drift toward my recycling bin as I am midway through the second sentence.

At this point their offers seem irrelevant to me.  From where I sit, I look at Emmanuel and see a spiritually alive and financially healthy congregation.  We are meeting our financial obligations, saving money for those inevitable projects that a property like ours can expect, and able to share our resources with others who are in need.  We have, even in the midst of the pandemic, maintained the same levels of Sunday worship attendance and beyond that welcomed new people into our fellowship.  So for the present at least, divestment, reinvestment and relocation do not present themselves as a necessary means of securing our future.

Yet with this pandemic we have learned some things about our building and our grounds that we might not have acknowledged apart from the experience over the last 10 months.  First, we have learned that we can come together, worship together, stay together, serve together and grow together as a congregation even if we can’t meet together in our building.  And this has gotten me looking at our three acres and building in a new way.  They are no longer synonymous with the word “Church.” They aren’t the church, they house the church.  And what a house! They are a privilege to possess.  They are a fountain of riches that we probably appreciate in a new way.  They are a treasure that God has given us to share with our neighborhood. And surveying these grounds leads me into an experience of deep gratitude.  I find myself regularly thanking God for the labor and dedication of all who have contributed to the work of securing this place that is the home of Emmanuel Presbyterian Church.  And my longings to once again come together for worship in this place grow more intense every day.

My “soul longs, indeed faints for the courts of the Lord.” Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder.  It also drives home the point of how rich we are:  What a valuable resource we possess!  And this in turn makes me reflect on how we go about expressing gratitude for this resource. I ask that you join me in this reflection and pray with me a prayer of thanksgiving to God.

Our congregational “tag line” (Hope Refuge Service) is once again providing the framework for my January sermons.  Because we started worshipping together in January of 1963 and were chartered in January of 1964, I try to set this month aside as a time to think about what it means to live into our joint calling as a congregation.  This year, after more than ten months of not meeting together in our building, it seemed appropriate to thank God for our grounds and our building and together ask how God is calling us to treasure and steward this resource. So please join me in responding to the Psalmist’s call to gladness as we ponder the gift of going to the house of the Lord.   

David Rohrer
01/07/2021

Generosity

They rise in the darkness as a light for the upright.
Psalm 112:4

“Thank you for your generous gift.”  I can’t count the number of thank-you notes I have written over the years that have included this line.  Yet as I ponder the nature of generosity, it occurs to me that to call a gift “generous” is at best redundant, and at worst, adding a modifier that suggests that a gift of lesser monetary value would not merit the designation.  In other words, if a gift doesn’t get a donor’s name engraved into the wall of the museum or concert hall, it doesn’t qualify for the addition of the adjective.          

But a gift is a gift.  It is something freely given out of love, or gratitude, or joy, or appreciation, without expectation of a response from the recipient.  If it is a gift, it isn’t more or less generous because it is bigger or smaller than what might normally be expected.  It is simply a kindness shown that is a benefit to both the giver and the receiver.  And when this is true, the receiver usually passes it on in some way to another.  Generosity tends to beget generosity. 

Christmas, at its best, is a season of generosity.  The gifts we give one another are imitations of those gifts given by the Magi to the Holy Family.  They are expressions of gratitude for the privilege of being a part of the story, being let in on a miracle, being the recipients of a grace we did nothing to earn.  Our relationships with the ones to whom we give gifts are treasures lavished upon us and inspire a generosity that wants to broadcast its gratitude for a resource on which no price can be placed.  And so we give gifts.

Christmas, at its worst, is a season of obligation.  The gifts we give are a part of a social protocol.  Their value is closely watched and matched with the message we are supposed to send.  They are all about meeting an expectation, being just enough to properly recognize where the relationship falls in a hierarchy of relationships.  Machiavelli’s political writings could perhaps be construed as an illustration of how one goes about mastering the exchanges of power that are inherent in these kinds of gifts. 

I come to Christmas each year with a deep desire to live into the Christmas of generosity.  O how I want to follow the Magi to Bethlehem and unthinkingly, giddily and somewhat foolishly, lay my gold, frankincense and myrrh at the base of the manger simply because I am so grateful to be there.  But I would not be honest if I did not admit that the Christmas of obligation always worms its way into my consciousness and takes up residence in some dark corner of my soul.  And this makes me want to run from the holiday and hide someplace until well after Epiphany.     

Yet this Advent as we have been pondering the light and the various ways we can live in hope in spite of the darkness, I have found encouragement in the Psalms to stay put and persevere.   Psalm 112 is one of those places of encouragement, especially in that it celebrates how acts of generosity reflect God’s light.  Here are some of highlights, (some sound bites I have excised from the original context and rearranged):

Happy are those who fear the Lord, who greatly delight in God,
Wealth and riches are in their houses
They have distributed freely, they have given to the poor.
It is well with those who deal generously and lend
They rise in the darkness as a light for the upright,
they are gracious, merciful and righteous.
Their hearts are steady, they will not be afraid.

The Psalm just keeps saying the same thing: those who know they are rich, who know they possess an inexhaustible resource, cannot help but be a generous presence in their world.  The fear of the Lord, the awe we know as we ponder the unfathomable depths of God’s steadfast love and faithfulness, displaces our fear of scarcity.  The darkness of want is shattered by the light of God’s love.  The confidence that we have more than enough gives birth to a bold generosity that reflects the warmth of God’s light to our world.  And so on. . . , and so on. . . , and so on . . . .

Generosity is an expression of gratitude for a gift we have been given.  It is not something we muster up and then show forth.  It is something that uncontrollably flows out of us because we have no capacity to contain it, because we are running over with it.  The living water Jesus gives us to drink becomes a “spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” The gift that God gives us keeps on giving. 

David Rohrer
12/23/2020

Straining to See

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
(from “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe)

When Mr. Bieberstein asked our 8th grade Social Studies class to memorize at least 40 lines of a famous poem and recite it before the class, I chose to learn lines from Poe’s “The Raven.” What we memorize in our younger years stays with us and as I was contemplating the observance of Advent this week, Poe’s lines came to mind.  Probably not a poem often quoted at Advent, but in my defense, Poe did set it in “bleak December” and “peering” into the deep darkness and trying to discern the shape of some shadow or some faint ray of light is a great description of the work we do during Advent.  

If you want to know something about the experience of darkness, Poe’s “The Raven” is a good source.  As he ruminates on the death of his beloved, Lenore, Poe depicts an experience of grief that suggests slipping into a kind of schizophrenia.  He hears a tapping at his door, and as he opens the door to look for the source of the sound he is initially greeted with a silent darkness.  Eventually he encounters a raven outside his window and the bird has but one word for this grief-stricken man: “Nevermore.”   

That’s often the way darkness can feel.  In deep darkness we strain to discern some source of light, we lean forward and listen for some sound.  And when neither emerge, the dark silence ratchets up our despair.  Praying people have called this the “dark night of the soul.”  It is the overwhelming experience of the presence of an absence.  It is the desolation of wondering if God is anywhere to be found.   It is the fear that our soul, as Poe put it, “Shall be lifted—nevermore!” 

The Psalms acknowledge this experience.  And fortunately, they give us words to pray to God in the midst of it.  Psalm 115 is one of those prayers that grows out of this kind of desolation.   It’s sort of a bargain with God that grows out of an experience of the darkness of God’s apparent absence.  It begins with the appeal:

Not to us, O Lord, not to us, but to your name give glory,
for the sake of your steadfast love and your faithfulness.
Why should the nations say, “Where is your God?”

We miss you God.  We’re not seeing you.  So, show up.  But don’t do it just for us. Do it for yourself.  Don’t just come and save us.  Defend yourself. These folks that surround us don’t think you exist.  But we know the power of your faithfulness and steadfast love.  So, show up and show them these things that are at the core of your being. If you are out there God, if you are listening, if you care, then show yourself in a way that makes the darkness face into the truth of its impending demise.  Let the darkness know that its only option is to admit its ultimate destruction by your light.

If Christmas is about light, Advent is about darkness.  You can’t have one without the other.  You can’t know one without the other.  Both are a normative part of our experience.  Thank God that the rhythms and observances of the spiritual life honestly make room for both realities.   Those perceived injustices we suffer will continue to come tapping on our doors.  They will suggest to us that they have the last word. And we will be tempted to believe them. But the best response to these invitations to despair is not to greet darkness as an aberration we should fear, but as a norm that gives birth to prayer.  The life of faith in God gives us the ability to navigate in the darkness. It is a life that triggers memory and instills hope.  It fosters the boldness that allows us to bargain with God.  To look into and ultimately beyond the darkness and scan the horizon for the light spoken into being by the author of all life.  The light that will ultimately guide our feet “into the way of peace.”

All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.
What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.
The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.
John 1:3-5

David Rohrer
12/16/2020

A Fist Against the Dark

“Why, it is she that has got all Narnia under her thumb.  It is she that makes it always winter.
Always winter and never Christmas.”
(Mr. Tumnus to Lucy in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, by CS Lewis)

CS Lewis’ depiction of the effects of the reign of the White Witch is an image that has always commended itself to me as a description of how winter can bring with it an invitation to hopelessness.  “Always winter and never Christmas.”  Cold and dark, unbroken by any inkling of light and warmth.  No birth, no star, no angel choir singing glory to God.  No dimly burning wick that will not be extinguished.  Just the bleak mid-winter.  But underneath all this despair, Lewis tells the story of a small band of Narnians who subversively resist the regime of the Witch.  They have not forgotten about the light of Aslan and as they await his coming; they live in the assurance that his light will melt the frozen world of the White Witch.  And sure enough, the trickle of water from melting ice and the appearance of Father Christmas are among the first signs that that their hope has not been in vain.

Similarly, observing Advent is a means of joining the resistance.  Advent is a spiritual discipline.  It is a practice by which we demonstrate that we have chosen to live in hope.  And that we have chosen to do so in the face of evidence of hope being little more than the stuff of fairy tales and magical thinking.  So, as it gets darker and darker we light more candles.  And at the darkest point we light the biggest candle, because somewhere there is a child who has been born who is the source of all light.  His light will melt that seemingly impermeable and unassailable layer of ice and so demonstrate that there is no darkness that exists that has the power to extinguish it. 

Often we represent the season of Advent as a time of waiting.  One Advent when my daughter was attending the Lutheran preschool near our home, her class presented a choral program for parents.  In good Lutheran tradition none of the songs they sang were Christmas carols because of their practice of not singing Christmas carols before Christmas.  So they sang the songs of Advent, songs of anticipation and longing.  One of the songs, set to the tune of a familiar Christmas carol, featured the lyric: “Advent is a time for waiting, not a time for celebrating.”  Ah the austere religion rooted in the personality and weather of Northern Europe!  Wait!  It’s not yet time to celebrate.  You can only open one window in the Advent calendar per day and you’ll have to wait until Christmas Eve to open that last window behind which you’ll find that biggest piece of chocolate.  Wait!  

Waiting is also a spiritual discipline, and waiting is one of the things we do during Advent.  But Advent is not primarily about waiting.  Advent is not merely about waiting for what we know we are going to get at the end of it. It is especially not about a waiting based in the admonition that some benefit accrues to us when we avoid a premature expression of levity and mirth. There is nothing inherently redemptive about waiting.  It is just the necessary result of living between promise and fulfillment. Waiting is not synonymous with hope.  Waiting is one of the things that we must do when we have hope.  Hope is not a passive biding of our time as we wait for what we know is coming.  Hope is actually an active and militant stance.  And hope is the work of Advent.  To light those candles is a defiant act against the darkness.  

In his essay titled An Leabharlann (which is the Irish word for the library), Brian Doyle speaks of a librarian in Ireland who told him about his first visit to a library with his grandfather.  As they approached the building, he heard his grandfather use this Irish word for library.  His grandfather spoke it so gravely and with such reverence that he took notice even as a small boy. Because, as this librarian continued: “People who fear freedom fear libraries.  The urge to ban a book is always an urge to put imagination in jail.  So a library is a shout of defiance too, if you think about it: dorn in aghaidh an dorchadas, a fist against the dark.” (Brian Doyle, “An Leahharlann”, in One Long River of Song, p. 141)

The practice of Advent is also a fist against the dark.  It is, if you think about it, a militant act.  It is a refusal to give darkness the respect it is trying to coerce.  To give witness to the light of this Word who became flesh is a calm but bold rejection of the claim that darkness tries to make on our lives.  Yet this Advent fist is not one that delivers a violent blow to the head of his enemies; it is the hand of the infant reaching up toward us from his manger.  This fist against darkness is the hand of generosity and love, grace and peace.  Darkness has neither the ability to understand nor the power to overthrow this ray of light. So, light a candle.  Join the resistance.  Live in hope.  The hand reaching up to us from the manger is still reaching and nothing can separate us from his love.       

David Rohrer
12/5/2020

Transitions

“When shall I attain it?”
Psalm 101:2

For obvious reasons, I have been thinking a lot about the word transition lately.  More specifically I have been thinking that the phrase smooth transition is probably an oxymoron.  The passages that we make from one place to another are by their very nature disruptive.  To leave something behind and venture into something new is a journey that is almost always accompanied by some degree or loss and fear:  Loss as we say good bye to what was and fear as we anticipate what we do not yet know. 

It was helpful to read the  Seattle Times Op/Ed piece by Harry Truman’s grandson last week (Seattle Times, November 22) in which he reminded us of the historical tidbit that the notion of a smooth transition of power from one president to the next is a relatively recent phenomenon. Truman and Eisenhower couldn’t stand each other, but “Give-em Hell Harry” took the initiative to refrain from acting on his nick-name when it came to the matter managing the ending of his administration to make way for the beginning the Eisenhower administration.  Prior to this there were apparently some very ugly Presidential transitions.  Let’s just say that magnanimity and cordiality have not always been the rule of the day in this area.

Another transition that is not necessarily smooth is the one that we speak of during the birth of a baby.  I asked Mary Ann, my birth doula wife, to help me understand what happens during the transition stage of labor and delivery.  She told me that transition is the stage where the cervix of the mother’s uterus is fully effaced and dilated to 10 centimeters.  Just before this happens is a time of extreme intensity where the mother feels like she can’t go on.  Just after transition, she is more present and ready to prepare to push. One stage of labor is over, and another is beginning.  The baby’s trip down the birth canal is ready to begin.  Smooth is not a word I would use to describe any of this.  

The cars on a roller coaster laboriously lunge and click as the chain pulls them ever upward to a pinnacle; for a short time at the top there is that pregnant pause which ends when the force of gravity pulls at the line of cars and the transition of that rapid, winding descent to the bottom begins.  Also not smooth.

Yes, things end and things begin.  One way to characterize our lives is in terms of the movements we make from one place to the next.  But is the place we occupy between those two things merely a passageway?  Isn’t it also a place where something is happening?  In the long scope of history there are stories of some who have lived their whole lives in a period that we would call a transition.  The writer of Hebrews reflects on this idea in chapter 11 of that book.  Exploring the stories of many of the great saints who lived by faith he concludes: “All these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them (Hebrews 11:13).” 

In short, there is something more to life than a list of departures from one gate and arrivals at another.  There is that matter of simply being where we are.  Movement does not cease in this place.  It isn’t about merely biding our time as we wait for deliverance into a new thing.  In some ways, there is no moment in life that is not a transition. We always only have the present moment and in that brief moment of acknowledging it, we are already moving on to the next thing.  We can only be where we are and even where we are is not something we can hang onto for very long.

So, what is it that holds all these moments of transition together?  The answer to this question is not a “what” but a “who.”  I like the way John Calvin put it: “Every moment has everything to do with the Living God.”  The One who made us is with us in every moment letting us know why and for whom we were made.  The One who brought us into being is with us in every moment encouraging us to become who he created us to be.  Cohesion is found in relationship, relationship with God and with one another. 

The writer of the 101st Psalm begins his prayer “I will sing of loyalty and justice, to you, O Lord, will I sing.” In other words, I want to sing of the things that will give me life and help me to bring life to others. Ultimately that song is a song to you, O God. He goes on, “I will study the way that is blameless. When shall I attain it?”  I want to walk in a way that blameless, but am I ever going to get there?  We all know the answer to that question.  Blamelessness is not really in the cards for any of us.  In this life, we are not going to arrive at that destination. 

Yet while perfection is not within our grasp, something else is firmly in hand.  What is certain is that we are in God’s hand.  The Source of all loyalty and justice has made space for us in his heart.  Every moment is an opportunity to grow in our knowledge of the One who made us and the reason for which we were made.  

Our lives are not reduceable to the lists of things that will no doubt one day appear in our obituaries.  That series of departures and arrivals will only tell part of the story. The full story is actually much more exciting than the sum of the things on this list.  For the adventure of this relationship will deliver up to us a life that is comprised of “abundantly far more all we can ask or imagine.”

Now to him who by the power at work within us
is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine,
to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations,
forever and ever. Amen.
Ephesians 3:20-21

David Rohrer
11/27/2020

Winter Solstice

“So the shortest day came, and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
(from “The Shortest Day” a poem by Susan Cooper)

As I consider Susan Cooper’s poem and the illustrations of Carson Ellis that picture her thoughts, I am drawn to the description of Winter Solstice being the day that the year dies. Our modern sense of the death of the year is mostly something we associate with the calendar and clock and the coming and going of December 31st.  We celebrate it with a maudlin song (Auld Lang Syne) that is sung while under the influence of fermented beverages.  The death march of the Grim Reaper and birth of the infant wearing a sash emblazed with the number of the new year are both experienced within the span of a few seconds. Yet dying and birth are seldom quick experiences.  Both can be quite laborious.  Thus the encroaching darkness that foreshadows the Winter Solstice and the breaking dawn that forecasts the Summer Solstice, the  gradual going and the coming of light, speak more accurately to me about the experience of the death of one year and the birth of another.

If ever there was a year of which it can be said that I am anxiously awaiting its death, it would be 2020.  To paraphrase the Psalmist, this year has “sated my soul” with the “scorn of those who are at ease” and the “contempt of the proud” (Psalm 123).  We have clearly had more than enough of the arrogance and rancor surrounding electoral politics and the management of a world pandemic.  It would be nice if it would pass quickly at midnight December 31st and move into oblivion as we wake up on January 1, 2021.  But we all know that won’t happen.  The move into darkness and the coming of the dawn are more gradual than that.  And what gets us through the wait is something called hope.

Hope in this context is not merely a wish for things to get better.  It is the confidence that the darkness will not have the last word.  Hope is living in the confidence of the dawn.  And the dawn is something that God brings about in a span of time that we do not control.  Hope is what is behind the Advent Wreath.  It is that almost foolish expectation of the coming of light as we watch the sun skirt the edge of the horizon and give us less and less light.  Each week as we move toward the day where the year dies, we light an additional candle.  At the end of the observance we have short, dark days and five dimly burning wicks that give witness to the truth that darkness cannot extinguish the dawn of God’s light.

Advent turns encroaching darkness into an invitation to hope.So light a candle. Look toward the now dark horizon, and live into the expectation of the dawn of God’s light.

By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.
Luke 1:78-79

David Rohrer
11/12/2020

Grief

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Matthew 5:4

Last week I used this space to write about anger.  This week I want to take a look at its relative: Grief.  The two usually dwell near each other.  Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross noticed this connection and identified anger as one of the five stages grief.  Grief is our response to loss.  Anger is one of the ways we express that grief. Our loss occasions the reactive, adrenalin-soaked reflex of anger.  Yet when that adrenalin dissipates, and if we have not done permanent damage because of that reflex, we usually return to the quieter, persistent, energy sucking, dull ache of grief.  Here we meditate on what is gone and is probably not coming back.  Here we let go of something.  Here we make decisions about whether we want to get up and keep living. 

In some ways, anger is a diversion from the hard work of grief.  I think Psalm 137 is one of the best examples of this dynamic.  It is a prayer that moves easily between the dull ache and the rage that can characterize our loss.  By the waters of Babylon, the Psalmist weeps over the loss of home, the loss of the familiar moorings that used to bring comfort. The walls of Jerusalem have fallen, the temple has been destroyed and now in exile in Babylon the psalmist contemplates his loss.  His new neighbors are asking some questions about his old home. They want to hear some of the songs he knows.  But the grief is too deep for him to even attempt to carry one of those tunes. Songs have the power to make us cry.  And even the distant memory of these songs brings him to tears.  So he refuses to sing and the fire of rage starts to well up within him.

“How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?”  Don’t treat me like a fixture of some interesting far off culture that no longer exists.  You took away my ability to sing when you tore down the place where I do my singing.  So no, I won’t sing one of our songs for you.  In fact, “Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth.”  And then he prays, “Remember, O Lord….”  Remember how they tore down our walls. Remember their acts of destruction.  I hate them because they deserve to be hated.  “O daughter Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us.  Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock.”

More often than not when Psalm 137 is read publicly, this last bit is left out.  In fact, even the common lectionary chooses not to include it.  Its seething rage and venom-filled longing for retribution and reprisal is embarrassing.  Reasonable people don’t say such things.  So if we feel it, God help us not to act on it.  God help us to take the path of the Psalmist in Psalm 4 who chooses to step back from acting on his wrath.  But we do feel it.  And we are fools if we do not own it.  For the attempt to keep this anger a secret from ourselves and others is futile.  As James Loder used to say: “the secret secretes.”  It will ooze out somewhere, and God help us if that shows itself only in violent acts that we believe to be expressions of righteous indignation. 

I take some solace in the fact that in response to the waywardness of the religious systems of Jerusalem, Jesus both angrily turned over the tables of the money changers in the temple and quietly wept as he pondered the tragedy of sheep who had walked away from their shepherd. The one who asked us to consider the lilies had some trouble considering them.  But he also showed us how to step back and weep.  He showed us the power of lament.  This man of sorrows was acquainted with grief.  He took up the freedom of allowing himself to sit with that grief. 

It is a mystery as to how this happens, but there is healing power in the broken heart of God.  Allowing ourselves to feel the pain of those things that break the heart of God and crying out to God in lament because of those things is something that opens us to comfort and healing.  Those who mourn are blessed because they find comfort in something other than their perceived solution to a wrong they have suffered.  They find comfort in the one who made them for himself and in a love that will never let them go.     

David Rohrer
10/24/2020