Today’s Scripture passages include all three Persons of the Trinity, sometimes in the same passage. Let’s take a quick look:

The Old Testament reading is from Isaiah 6, the story of Isaiah’s commission, when he sees the Lord—a frightening experience, for even the seraphs who attend the Lord of hosts cover their eyes. This vision of God prompts Isaiah to realize that he is “a man of unclean lips.” But God in His mercy and grace, sends a seraph to touch Isaiah’s lips with a coal and proclaim to him the words of absolution, “your guilt has departed, your sin is blotted out,” foreshadowing the work of Christ on the cross.

Psalm 29 focuses on God’s power, and specifically on the power of God’s voice. I love this image of the voice—it hearkens back to Genesis 1, when God speaks all creation into being, and it holds Trinitarian undertones: the voice of God requires a Speaker (the Father), Breath (the Spirit) and a Word (Christ, the Son).

In Romans 8, Paul reminds us that we “did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but… a spirit of adoption.” God is our Father, and the Spirit witnesses to our spirit that we are God’s children, joint heirs with Christ who suffered for our sake that we might have life as children of Love.

And in John, we read Jesus’ famous discourse about being born of water and the Spirit. God the Father, Jesus says, so loved His creatures that He sent the Son so the world might have life through Him. We who would receive that freely offered gift of life must be “born from above.” The Spirit births this new life in us and leads us in the ways we should go, like a mother bearing and rearing her children.

The God of glory thunders.
In his temple, they all cry: “Glory!”

Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of hosts;
the whole earth is full of his glory.

The lectionary passages for Trinity Sunday:
Isaiah 6:1-8
Psalm 29
Romans 8:12-17
John 3:1-17

At the end, Julia wondered aloud, “I wonder how Peter and the other disciples knew all those languages so everyone in Jerusalem could understand them?”

One boy said, “Maybe they learned them in school!”

“Maybe,” Julia said, “but Peter was a fisherman. So was his brother Andrew and so were James and John. They probably didn’t go to school. So I wonder how they knew how to speak so the people from far away could understand them.”

Silence fell on the children for several seconds. Then a little girl, who does not speak much, said, “Maybe God taught them?”

A chorus of “Yeah, yeah” rose from the other children. “I bet God taught them!”

As a child, it is not improbable that God would teach you something as complex as a foreign tongue. As a child, you don’t know how hard it is to learn a new language, how miraculous that would be. As an adult who has never spoken in tongues, I find myself envious of these children: what would it be like to believe that God could do something so wonderful?

Oh, I believe it. Of course I believe it. I have too many friends who have received the gift of tongues to not believe it.

But still—it has not happened to me. It is not part of my experience. And so my belief is at one remove, the belief of an observer, not a participant.

And yet, the Psalm for Pentecost reminds us that God is the giver of life and all that sustains it: All creatures “look to you to give them their food in due season;/ when you give to them, they gather it up;/ when you open your hand, they are filled with good things.”

It takes a certain amount of faith to believe this, to live with a heart of gratitude, looking upon the richness of our lives (whatever form that takes) as gifts rather than givens. It takes even more faith to let others’ gifts be theirs, without coveting them or questioning the goodness of God. That is one of the lessons of Pentecost—that whatever form our gifts take, they are simply that: gifts. Nothing we earn, nothing we deserve. Sheer grace.

Pentecost is about more than this, of course. It is about power and new life and resurrection and the birth of the body of Christ. It is about a God who gives unstintingly, pouring out His gifts, His grace, His Spirit on all flesh.

I believe; help Thou my disbelief.

The lectionary passages for Pentecost:
Acts 2:1-21 (or Ezekiel 37:1-14)
Psalm 104:24-34
Romans 8:22-27 (or Acts 2:1-21)
John 15:26-27; 16:4b-15

Before he leaves them, Jesus opens their minds to understand the Scriptures, so that they see for themselves that he had to suffer and die and be raised from the dead.

My favorite part of these ascension stories is this little detail Luke includes: that Jesus led the disciples “as far as Bethany.” It is there, in this town where his beloved friends Martha, Mary, and Lazarus live, that he blesses those who follow him and is carried into Heaven.

I love that Jesus returns one last time to the home of these friends, that he chooses to be with the woman who proclaimed him Messiah (John 11:27) and the woman who understood that He was going to Jerusalem that last week to die and so anointed him for his burial (John 12:3-7).

Though his disciples did not understand these things, Jesus’ friends at Bethany did. They recognized who he was and what he was about—perhaps only fleetingly and only partially, but enough to speak and act on what they knew.

I find this reassuring. My faith is not strong and constant, not nearly as strong and constant as I wish it were. But there are moments when I can proclaim with Martha, “I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God,” and moments when, like Mary, I know I will pour out all I am and all I have for Him.

And then there is the rest of the time, when I am not certain, when I doubt, as Martha did (John 11:39), when I reprimand and accuse, as Mary did (John 11:32).

But despite their frailty, their myopia, their doubt, Jesus blessed them, as He blessed His apostles, as He blesses me.


The lectionary passages for Ascension:
Acts 1:1-11
Psalm 47
Ephesians 1:15-23
Luke 24:44-53

On Tuesday, I took my kids to the Space Needle: we ate lunch while looking out at Puget Sound from 520 feet in the air. Then we walked around on the observation deck. We found their dad’s work building, spotted two helicopters on the roofs of local news stations, and counted four ferries, two sailboats, and a barge on Elliott Bay.

When they’d had enough, we came back to earth and took the monorail into downtown, played on the escalators at Westlake Center, watched a makeshift elevator deliver building materials through the windows of a high-rise apartment building under construction, and took the bus home—where I promptly collapsed on my bed.

Jane fell asleep after a half hour of squirming, and a half hour after that, Jack, bless his heart, got his own snack. He even brought me spoonfuls of his yogurt—including the very last bite. Usually I would have said, “Oh no, honey, you eat it.” But I’d been thinking about receiving love, so I let him give me that last bite. Then he brought me strawberries (he even washed them!) and poured me a glass of apple juice. When Jane woke up, he got her a snack, too—without my even asking.

Jack abides in my love for him—it’s the foundation that secures his life—and that enabled him to give love on this day when I was weary and worn out. When we abide in Jesus’ love, we, like Jack, bear “fruit that will last,” the fruit of loving one another as He loves us.

The Lectionary passages for the 6th Sunday of Easter:
Acts 10:44-48
Psalm 98
1 John 5:1-6
John 15:9-17

Mostly I thought it just showed how incredibly dumb sheep are. Which is probably the point because in the Good Shepherd analogy, we are the sheep.

But if I’m honest, most of the time I think of myself as the shepherd—loving, kind, compassionate—or at least the sheep dog, smart and obedient.

And then there are the days (like oh, say, today, for instance) when the truth will out.

While I was dressing this morning, my children had a poop party in the bathroom. My daughter chose this day, when I have a cold, a headache, and a fever (it’s probably swine flu…), to poop on the bath mat, step in it, and then traipse round the house. The words I uttered—in a shrill voice at decibels I did not know I could reach—were fouler than the crap all over the bathroom floor, tub, and toilet.

And it went downhill from there.

Evidently, I’m just a sheep, prone to running amok when life doesn’t go my way. Which is why it is good to remember that I have a Shepherd who is with me, even when I can’t see past my own stuffed-up nose. Jesus bears my burdens, and that includes the burdens of being ill, angry, and a miserable mother. He carries those—and me with them—holding me close because that’s the only place I’ll ever be okay.

The lectionary passages for the 4th Sunday of Easter:
Acts 4:5-12
Psalm 23
1 John 3:16-24
John 10:11-18

–Merriam-Webster’s 10th Collegiate Dictionary

Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is. And all who have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure.

–1 John 3:2-3

In the first Beatitude, Jesus says, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God,” which is perhaps why John exhorts his readers to purify themselves—so that they may attain the hope they have of seeing God.

Of course, such perfect seeing is a long way off. In this world, we see in glimpses, snatches, through a glass darkly. But still, I long for such glimpses. I rejoice when I see, however darkly, through that glass.

Lately, the glimpses have seemed few and far between. This is not because God is absent. It is because I am. I have been preoccupied for a while now, obsessing over books sales (or lack thereof) and how that will affect my career as a writer. And so, worried about my future, I’ve not been present in my life—and have no doubt missed many graced moments when, if I’d been paying attention, I would have seen the presence and love of God.

In her book, Breathe, Keri Wyatt Kent writes that the opposite of simplicity is not complexity, but duplicity. Duplicity is a division. Di-vision. Two visions. We cannot live with two visions.

But I try. Oh how I try. I live with one eye on me and one eye on God. And it wears me out. Because here’s the thing: my eyes can’t do that. Invariably, both eyes end up looking at me, and I am inherently divided: my wants, needs, hopes, fears, loves, hates. Looking at myself isn’t just duplicity; it’s multiplicity, and it’s a recipe for crazy-making. (Just ask my husband. Never mind—please don’t!)

I need a single vision, one that is focused wholly on God. I want the single eye, the single heart that Jesus had.

Purify yourselves, as he is pure.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Create in me a pure heart, O God.

The lectionary passages for the Third Sunday of Easter:
Acts 3:12-19
Psalm 4
1 John 3:1-7
Luke 24:36b-48

According to Acts, none of the believers owned anything; they held all possessions in common. No one was poor or hungry or in need because all the believers shared everything they had. The apostles gave their testimony “with great power,” and “great grace was on them all.”

But it didn’t take long before the unity of the Holy Spirit was broken: the next chapter is the oh-so delightful story of Ananias and Sapphira, who held onto their possessions and then lied about it. Just as the idyllic days of Eden are gone forever, the idyllic days of the early church are, too.

But every so often, I have glimpses of the unity and beauty and blessing that is supposed to characterize the body of the risen Christ.

Today, I took my kids to the toy store—my 5-year-old son wanted to buy a space shuttle with the allowance money he’s saved. He hadn’t had the toy five minutes when his little sister asked to play with it.

To my surprise, he let her.

To my further surprise, after she’d played with it for a couple minutes, Jane said, “Here you, go, Jack,” and gave it back to him.

It was one of those graced moments when kindred dwell together in unity, when the precious oil of anointing falls on your life, and you know you are blessed.

It was such a small thing I feel a little silly mentioning it, like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. But then I think of the mustard seed and am heartened: great things come from small and humble starts; faith as a mustard seed can move mountains. So I’ll keep looking for the kingdom of God in my own small life, in the nooks and crannies (or toy stores), anticipating glimpses of Resurrection, the new life of unity in the Holy Spirit.

The lectionary passages for the second Sunday of Easter:
Acts 4:32-35 (during Easter, we read from Acts instead of the Old Testament)
Psalm 133
1 John 1:1-2:2
John 20:19-31

But it’s not.

Because it doesn’t end there. Jesus doesn’t ride up to the Temple and institute a new world order. He doesn’t usher in the Kingdom of God once and for all. He doesn’t, in fact, do anything. By the time he gets to the Temple, his adoring fans have vanished. He looks around. He leaves. That’s it. (If you don’t believe me, read Mark 11:1-11.)

He comes back the next day and turns over the money-changing tables, bars the Temple doors so no one can get through, and accuses the priests and the people of defiling God’s holy place, of being mercenaries and robbers.

And He doesn’t stop. He tells story after story about how bad the supposedly religious are, how great the poor and needy are, how the rejected are chosen, and the chosen rejected.

The priests are furious. Even Judas, one of the Twelve, is deeply disappointed enough that he’s willing to betray his teacher. The priests are gleeful and promise to give him money.

Jesus knows all this, and still He keeps at it, preaching His upside down kingdom. By Friday of that week, He’s managed to piss off the people of Jerusalem so badly that the same people who adulated Him on Sunday are now clamoring for His death, preferring to release a murderous thug onto the streets of the city rather than let this itinerant rabbi loose to call them out of their sorry lives and into a better one.

And that’s when the liturgy gets uncomfortable, that’s when I start to hate Palm Sunday, because we’ve reached the place where the worship leader says, “Pilate spoke to them: Whom do you want me to release for you, the criminal Barabbas or Jesus, called Christ?”

And we in the congregation cry out, Barabbas!

Then what should I do with Jesus?

Crucify Him!

Why? What evil has He done?

Let Him be crucified!

Let Him be crucified, we cry, loudly, all our voices joined together, demanding this one thing: the crucifixion of the One we claim to follow.

It’s our demand, our cry, our voices. It’s yours. It’s mine. And I hate having to acknowledge that this was not just those idiot people back then; it’s this idiot person right now, the one who looks back from the mirror and generally feels pleased with herself that she’s not like that. You know. Because I bet you do it, too.

But we are like that. We are the people who make this demand—every day, every hour—because of the way we live our lives, or fail to.

And our voices prevail.


Read it yourself.
The Lectionary passages for Palm/Passion Sunday are:
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29 (Palm) or 31:9-16 (Passion)
Philippians 2:5-11
Mark 11:1-11 (Palm) or 14:1-15:47 (Passion)

The alternate Psalm for this Fifth Sunday of Lent is from Psalm 119, the longest chapter in the Bible (176 verses), the whole of which is a paean of praise to God’s law. I read this psalm last week as part of my church’s challenge to read through the Psalms during Lent, and I was struck by the psalmist’s passionate love—I can’t call it anything else—for the Law of God.

I don’t think much about the law of God, to be honest. I’m too busy thinking about myself—or maybe my kids. So I found it shocking that the psalmist wrote 176 verses—352 lines—about how much he (or she) loves God’s law. In today’s excerpt alone, there are eight active verbs that describe the psalmist’s relationship (this is love, remember?) with the law:
seek
treasure
declare
delight
meditate
fix
delight (again!)
remember

And the psalmist engages his whole person in this love relationship with God’s law—legs, heart, lips, eyes, mind, memory.

Reading these verses again, I am stunned by the intensity of them, the intensity of the psalmist’s desire to be close to God, to walk in God’s ways, to live in God’s law. The man has passion and singleness of purpose. He has a pure heart (vs 9) because he wills one thing: to follow the law of the Lord.

Jesus willed one thing, too: to do the will of the Father, no matter the cost. And it cost Him dearly. As we descend deeper into the darkness of Lent and come nearer and nearer to our Lord’s death, I wonder, what’s my one thing? What’s yours?


Read it yourself.
The lectionary readings for the fifth Sunday of Lent:
Jeremiah 31:31-34
Psalm 51:1-12 or Psalm 119:9-16
Hebrews 5:5-10
John 12:20-33