Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Psalm 60

O God, You have rejected us. You have broken us;
You have been angry; O, restore us.
You have made the land quake, You have split it open;
Heal its breaches, for it totters.
You have made Your people experience hardship;
You have given us wine to drink that makes us stagger.
You have given a banner to those who fear You,
That it may be displayed because of the truth. Selah.
That Your beloved may be delivered,
Save with Your right hand, and answer us!

God doesn't make sense. Well, life doesn't make sense, and as so many of us believe God is the source of all things, then for us it follows that God doesn't make sense.
God doesn't make sense but God is the only place to turn when life doesn't make sense. (After reading the rest of the Psalm, that's my basic conclusion.)
God is completely outside of our control and God is our only hope.
God doesn't promise anything other than faithfulness, and we don't get to decide what faithfulness is. 

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

(with an "e", of course)

Anne, as in Anne of Green Gables, once said something to one of her pals – Diana, Ruby, I don’t know, someone – about a tree being a poem. What?!? Anne, usually you are pretty entertaining and endearing, but at this point (to my twelve-year-old literary self) you sound just plain crazy. (By the way, I have this theory about people named Anne: They are essential to my life. My mother, for one. My roommate/bridesmaid/gluten-free-baking/ever-sarcastically-teasing friend, for another. Then there was the nurse practitioner who got me Kleenex while I sobbed in the exam room at Loyola’s Wellness Center, and then very kindly and gently led me through the initial diagnosis and treatment of mono. Pretty much, they’re all Saints. Except Anne of Green Gables – she, L.M. Montgomery made clear, is pretty devilish.) But now, years later, recalling that snippet of the amazing, imaginary world that I spent lots of time in with the red-haired romantic Anne, I am kind of starting to “get” what she meant. Because now in my own mind I’m saying that things are other things. That living is a prayer. That forgiveness is an act of worship*. That hospitality is grace. That witnessing and sharing someone’s suffering is holy. So, ok Anne, I guess a tree can be a poem. You stick with sweet, dramatic, poetic things. I’ll dig into more theological things. And we can continue to be friends.
*more to come on this, in a future post