Wednesday, July 10, 2024
(click here to listen to or read today’s scriptures)
The bug and I
The high places shall be destroyed, and they shall cry out to the mountains, “Cover us! And to the hills, “Fall upon us!”
Eric and I sat eating whiskey bacon burgers, looking for answers. Seems like our friends and family and everyone in all the world need answers, need God to rescue them from their own personal wreckages, and … we do too.
God, where are you? Why are the mountains falling down on top of us? Why is the cyclone wind blowing down the Texas Gulf Coast? Again?
There are lots of Christians on the Texas Gulf Coast. My friend sent me pictures of a broken playhouse and a huge tree knocked down in his family’s backyard.
Sing to him, sing his praise. Glory in his holy name and rejoice, O hearts that seek the Lord.
I look back and forth between computer screens and read the lectionary, then sit a moment alone, a fly buzzing. Silent, God feels right here, and I write that down. I breathe in and out, and listen for a minute. The ceiling fan turns and turns. Tinnitus jingles and jangles in my ears.
They have mouths but speak not; they have eyes but see not; they have ears but hear not; they have noses but smell not. The house of Israel trusts in the Lord. But thorns and thistles overgrow their altars.
Trusted mentors tell me to pray for what I want and expect God to give me what I ask for, but with the caveat that I cannot “demand” anything from God. That seems like a thin wire to balance on while crossing the Niagara Falls of life. Is it OK to get mad at God sometimes when I just can’t hold in the disappointment, the “life sucks, and then you die” attitude that creeps up on what I thought was deep faith?
God, where are you?
Sow for yourselves justice, reap the fruit of piety, break up for yourselves a new field.
Here’s a poem by a former pastor, perhaps also a former farmer, like Eric. This poet is an acute observer of nature, who is given the gift of God-shaped words but no certainties to speak of about the very same God.
Tiny bug
I’m sitting on my porch reading the Bible.
A tiny bug, smaller than the letter i,
crawls across the page, its feet treading
on the name of God, the deeds of Christ,
its microscopic feelers touching
again and again the cries of the poor,
the prayers of the desperate and the faithful,
uncomprehending, unsuspecting
the vastness, the mystery, the grace,
crawling over the face of God.
 You and me both, bug.
 Who are you, calling me a bug? And the bug says, “Who are you, calling me a man?” And God says, “Quiet down, there, children. What’s got into you?”
It is time to seek the Lord, until he come and rain down justice upon you.
(Hosea 10, Psalm 105, Mark 1, Matthew 10)
(posted at www.davesandel.net)
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