I am sharing a blessing today that I wrote in my journal during a retreat last July, while sitting in front of Hope Monument at the Oblate Renewal Center in San Antonio. I will let this image be for you what you need it to be, and I will leave you with this blessing that blessed me that day, word for word as it came to me. May it bless you, as well.
Hope Monument (sculpture by Beverly Paddleford) at Oblate Renewal Canter in San Antonio, TX. (Photographed by Jessica Petersen on July 23, 2021)
May you remember that it is the way of things that new life comes springing up from the emptiness where something once was.
For there cannot be new life without death, loss, grief, sorrow… there must be an ending for there to be a beginning. A period at the end of a sentence, a space, a breath, before a new sentence, paragraph, or page.
And in that space, that breath, where it feels like there is nothing, there is always God, Spirit, grace. Because God is in all, through all.
Even when we forget to look for God in the ending or acknowledge God in the beginning, God dwells in it all.
Weeks or months or years from the day when an end became a beginning, we may look back and give thanks with a tender heart for the new life that was birthed from death, for the gifts that came, even as we grieve and remember. And may God be in it all.
Lately, there are days when I feel like I don’t know how to write anymore. It’s as if I have forgotten how to formulate coherent thoughts into words and sentences, weaving them together into something that is cohesive and meaningful. It’s not that I haven’t been writing recently. I have. But I haven’t finished anything (with the exception of sermons) in a few months. When I sit down to write, I’m finding it hard to get started, and when I do begin to make progress, I usually need to stop (because: kids, work, other responsibilities, etc). Additionally, the world seems to be moving so quickly that when I pause and return a day or two later, everything I have written seems irrelevant. So, I start again, and don’t finish again, and the cycle repeats. And sometimes I wonder what I even have to say amidst the war in Ukraine, horrific mass shootings occurring with regularity, discriminatory laws against LGBTQ+ persons, the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, the border crisis, the breakup of the United Methodist Church, systemic racism, the overturning of Roe v. Wade, and so much more…
If I’m honest, I couldn’t type that last sentence without crying. It is A LOT, and that list is only a snippet, a tiny percentage, of the pain and injustice, the growing polarization and division, the complete and utter heartbreak that is occurring in our country and in the world. Words elude me to even begin to describe this.
The way I am feeling lately feels similar to something I experienced during my Clinical Pastoral Education internship. While serving as a hospital chaplain during the CPE process is always intense, my situation was unique because one of the long-time chaplains at the hospital where I served was dying of cancer. I was assigned his units to cover, which meant that I spent my days on in the ICU, the oncology unit, and the cardiac unit. Additionally, I spent time caring for staff who were grieving the impending loss of their own caregiver and support person. I was twenty-five years old, fresh from seminary, and it was A LOT. And when it was all beginning to feel like too much, a thirty-two-year-old patient in the ICU was determined to have lost all brain function.
As I approached the ICU to be present with his family, I heard wailing before I even reached the doors of the unit. And when I walked through the doors, I stopped in my tracks. Through the glass walls, I could see the patient’s loved ones gathered (far more than were allowed in the ICU; the room was packed) wailing and weeping and lamenting. I wanted to run the other way. It was too much. But this was my work, what I had been called to that day. When I entered the room, it suddenly became silent. Then, someone asked me to pray. I didn’t know what to pray. I didn’t have words. I bowed my head and remained silent as I tried to find the words and instead tears came…for the family, for their pain and grief, for the impossibility of doing anything to fix or help this situation. And I cried with them and for them and eventually prayed something (I have no idea what, because the words did not come from me but from the Holy Spirit) and somehow, whatever I prayed was comforting, helpful, meaningful to those in the room. After I prayed, the mood in the room was different. Individuals began to talk and share, and I listened. But I didn’t say much, and I didn’t need to. I learned that my words were not what was needed; it was my presence that mattered, my willingness to be with them in their worst moments, to cry and lament alongside them.
I guess what I am saying is that I don’t know what to say right now. But I am here. I am crying, even if you can’t see it. I am lamenting, even if you don’t hear it. I am praying, even if you don’t know it.
While some might think this is a cop-out, what I know about myself is that I have a tendency toward productivity and busy-ness, sometimes at the expense of what God is calling me to. I could put in the time to write a carefully thought-out and polished theological statement (and perhaps that will come, in time) but if I did that today, it would be at the expense of what I really need to do: cry, pray, lament.
So, here I am finishing something I began to write only this morning…800+ words about how I can’t find words. It’s probably not well-written. Perhaps it’s just babbling. But it is finished. And it is my offering for today…as I cry, pray, and lament for the world, for women and girls, for those without the privileges I have, for those hemmed in on all sides and lacking options, for those who simply want to live.
*If you want to read more about lament as a spiritual practice, you can do so here.
Throughout this week, the week we call “Holy Week,” we will recall and in a small way – enter into – the stories of the final week of Jesus’ earthly life.
While the week begins with a parade, bursting with hope, soon things will change. The tables will turn. Jesus’ teachings will agitate leaders. Her anointing of him will appall observers. The meal Jesus and his friends share will be the last. Jesus’ prayers in the garden will be interrupted. His trial will be unfair, his crucifixion unjust. The curtain in the temple will be torn, because of God’s grief, God’s rending of garments, God’s lamenting, at the atrocity of it all.
And we will lament too… with words, with tears, with groans and with mouths agape…. that it had to be this way.
There is no way to put this week in a box, cover it in paper to make it beautiful tie it up with a tidy bow so that we can just enjoy Easter without walking through the rest of it.
What is Easter, without the rest of it? We cannot celebrate without first lamenting, grieving, waiting. Even though we know the story, we cannot skip to the end, as a means of avoiding walking through and working through the messy, painful middle.
And so we lament. We remember. We open our hearts and we ask God to do something deep within us… to transform us and make us new because if we come to next week the same as we are now, what was it all for?
Many thanks to Professor Amy-Jill Levine for her book Entering the Passion of Jesus: A Beginner’s Guide to Holy Week. This Lenten season, our congregation read the book and it shaped our worship and study. Her perspective and insight informed my own reflection during this season.
The season of Lent has arrived, whether we are ready or not. But since preparation is the purpose of this season, we don’t have to begin the season “ready.” Perhaps it is most helpful to begin this season in a posture of openness to what God will do. If we are open, we create space for God to work in our lives. Whether you engage in an intentional Lenten practice or not, a posture of openness to God is important in this season.
This year I am lamenting for Lent. Why? Because there is so much to lament – in my personal life, in the lives of loved ones, and in the world. For me, lament feels essential right now. Intentionally engaging in the practice of lament compels me to respond to hard things differently than I might otherwise. When I practice lament, I enter in and engage things that bring grief and sorrow by offering them to God. While I might be inclined to become mired in my feelings, or, depending on the circumstance, be tempted to disengage, lament enables me to feel my feelings and do something with them. Lament compels me to engage when it would be more comfortable not to. Lament enables me to be open to God.
What is lament?
I first became familiar with the concept of lament in college and seminary courses that studied the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible. Lament or lamentation, according to The Westminster Dictionary of Theological Terms, is “a religious cry of sorrow or mourning.” Certainly, I intuitively engaged in the practice of lament before I knew what it was. But learning about lament gave this type of prayer meaning and form, example and justification. While others may have defined my prayers as “self-absorbed” during my teenage years, I believe they were lament. I was honestly and vulnerably offering to God that with which I was struggling, expecting God to do something with it. After all, isn’t that what lament is?
Lament became an intentional practice for me in seminary when my Old Testament professor, Dr. Ellen Davis, gave an assignment on praying the Psalms. We were instructed to not just read them, pray them. And not just the psalms you like, all the genres of psalms, even the psalms of lament. It was while engaging in that assignment that I learned what lament truly is. I discovered that when I prayed the lament psalms written by others, I lamented not only my own circumstances, but those of others: situations long-past and those in the news today, those relevant in my own life and those entirely foreign to my personal experience.
Lament became my response when I heard about hard things in other’s lives, in the news, and experienced them in my own life. Whether I prayed one of the biblical psalms of lament or lamented in my own words, I offered the hard thing to God in as many words or images or tears or groans as I had. Then, I waited for God to do something with it.
Lament is an Act of Faith
After all, lament is an act of faith. It’s not just complaining. While it may begin there, lament is complaining addressed to God. Someone who has a lot of complaining or whining to do could do that with a friend or write about it in a journal, without addressing it to God. In the practice of lament, those expressions of negative feelings and emotions become prayer. The practice of lament requires vulnerability and trust combined with hope. Isn’t that what faith is?
“In its peculiar way lamenting is an act of faith because it speaks to our understanding that things are not as they should be…Perhaps the more difficult part of lamenting comes in maintaining some element, no matter how small, of trusting that God is living and able, trusting in the inherent goodness of God, and recognizing that God too understands that in a broken world, things are not always as they should be…”
Enuma Okoru, Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent
Lament doesn’t stop with prayer. When we offer lament to God and expect God to do something with it, we are asking for a response from God. Lament also requires our openness to what God might ask of us, because sometimes what God does will change us or involve our participation. That is when the practice of lament becomes more than prayer. When we lament, we never know what God will do, but we always expect something to happen. It might be the opposite of what we expect.
“God cares that I am in pain and can be expected to do something about it. That is a remarkable assumption when you think about it, which we hardly ever do – that the God who made heaven and earth should care that I am hurting. Yet it is the only thing that explains this strange style of biblical prayer…”
Ellen F. Davis, Getting Involved with God: Rediscovering the Old Testament
In the psalms, lament often makes way for praise and thanksgiving. Well-known Psalm 22, which begins with:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?”
concludes with:
“To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it.”
Clearly: God hears, God cares, and God responds. That is why I am practicing lament, as an act of faith, and opening myself up to whatever God will do. However you choose to prepare during this Lenten season, may you do it with a posture of openness to God. Blessings on you in this season.
As we close out year two and look toward a third year of the COVID-19 pandemic, parents are worn down and struggling. For those of us of us with children under 5 (who cannot yet be vaccinated), the challenges of quarantines and childcare issues have not abated; the crisis is ongoing. I could go on and on about the unsustainability of this situation. Instead, I will offer this blessing that came to me when I needed it most.
For parents everywhere… exhausted, overwhelmed, barely hanging on, and desperately in need of a BREAK from this pandemic that has upended our lives, led to anxiety with every cough or sniffle, obliterated the concept of reliable childcare, and contributed immeasurable stress to everyday life.
This blessing will not tell you to “cherish this time” or give you any tips for thriving, but it will acknowledge your weariness and assure you that you are not alone.
You are seen.
When you keep on giving, helping, caring – trying your best to be patient and understanding – creatively adapting to every circumstance, even when you haven’t gone to the bathroom alone all day.
You are heard.
When you say this is extraordinarily difficult, that it requires every ounce of energy that you have, more stamina than you can fathom, and you do not know when reprieve will come.
You are valued.
Even when your children scream and whine, the assistance you offer is rejected, the criticism is deafening, and you never hear “thank you” from anyone.
You are good.
Because you are showing up for the ones you love and doing what is yours to do and you are not super-human.
You are enough.
Even when you are worn down, juggling too many responsibilities, feeling constantly behind in all things, and you want to run away (at least for a day).
You are loved.
By your family, your friends, your children (even when they don’t say or show it) and most especially, by the One who sees you, hears you, values you, created you to be good, reminds you that you are enough and calls you “beloved.” Amen.
*Special thanks to Rev. Teresa Welborn for this benediction she offers frequently: “You are good. You are beloved. And you are enough.” These words echo in my heart and mind and served as inspiration for this blessing.
I’ve never eaten homegrown tomatoes during the season of Epiphany – until this year. Tomatoes are usually abundant in summer. Even in Texas’ lengthy growing season, if the August heat hasn’t completely scorched the plants, it is rare for tomatoes to bear fruit through the month of October. This year, we had a steady supply of tomatoes fresh from our garden in June, which was wetter and cooler than usual. Then, production decreased during the heat of the summer before increasing again in the fall. We savored tomatoes from the vine in October, expecting them to be our last.
However, central Texas had an unseasonably warm fall and early winter. In November, we were sharing just-picked tomatoes with friends the week before Thanksgiving. In early December, we anticipated a freeze and picked everything left on the vine: red, orange, yellow, or green. The temperature dipped into the 30’s and I assumed the tomato plants would gradually die. I ignored them while we appreciated the gradual ripening of the tomatoes on our kitchen windowsill.
One day in mid-December I went to the compost bin in our garden area and noticed that the tomato vines were alive and still producing! I picked a handful of ripe cherry tomatoes before realizing that there were several large tomatoes developing, as well. We began to pick tomatoes again as they ripened, always expecting them to be the final fruit of the season. Before Christmas, we picked the remaining tomatoes again and our family was thrilled to have tomato salad with our Christmas dinner, an unusual treat! On New Year’s Day, anticipating a significant freeze, we picked the remaining tomatoes for the third time. That really was our final harvest from these vines. By the next morning, the plants had frozen and crumpled into gray heaps in the garden beds. But their prolific fruit remains, and we are continuing to enjoy it.
Tomatoes on our kitchen windowsill – January 6, 2022
The tomato growing season this year was more than six months long! What an unexpected gift, especially after the way the season began. When our tomato plants were just babies beginning to take root, most of the plants were crushed by hail in mid-April. When I returned to the garden center to purchase more and start again – late in the season – the available plants were much larger, and some were already bearing fruit! I never could have guessed then that I’d still be harvesting from those late-season half-price tomato plants on New Year’s Day!
Now it is Epiphany, the understated season following Christmas when we celebrate the revelation of Jesus Christ as the son of God. The tomatoes that surprised me with their abundance throughout Advent and Christmas continue to line our kitchen windowsill and make regular appearances at meals. They are a precious and joy-filled reminder that the mystery of Christmas is not bound by the calendar. The unexpected gift of Jesus, God with us, is not packed away with the Christmas decorations. Jesus, the incarnation of grace, remains with us now and will continue to surprise us. Like Jesus, these tomatoes defied expectations and were not bound by a season on the calendar. And although the plants from which these tomatoes came have died, their fruit keeps on giving. That, in itself, is grace.
While we have enjoyed plenty of fresh sliced tomatoes this year, we have also delighted in the transformation that occurs when the alchemy of herbs, spices, heat, and acid combine to form something new: bruschetta, salsa, pico de gallo, tomato sauce. While tomatoes are essential to each recipe, the other ingredients are indispensable also. What a delicious representation of the community of faith, in which diversity is valuable and essential. When each person shares their unique gifts, we are better together, and we are never the same when one is missing.
Even when the tomatoes are gone, the memory of this unusual growing season will stay with me because these tomatoes have become a means of grace. They served as a catalyst that enabled me to draw near to God and rest in God’s abundant provision in my life during a challenging season. Their gradual ripening is a visible reminder of sanctification, the gradual process of moving toward the wholeness that comes with loving God and neighbor. Most of all, these late-season tomatoes have served as a reminder that when we least expect it and all seems lost, grace will break in again and again to nourish and sustain me when I need it most.
Here we are. It’s December 24, Christmas Eve. The day we have awaited is almost here! Whatever this season of Advent has been like for you, Christmas Eve is here. Tonight, we will celebrate Christ’s birth.
Take a deep breath. Scan your body. What does it feel like? Look around you. Where are you? What feelings do this place and this day evoke in you? As you reflect on this Advent season, what are you aware of? How did you experience God in these weeks preceding Christmas? In what ways were you awakened to God in this season? How are you aware of God right now, in this moment?
I’ll get personal here. My previous Advent reflections were written in October, long before Advent, but this one is being written in real time.
As I reflect on this Advent season, I am grateful. This Advent, I took things slowly. I didn’t do too much. I listened to my body, I paid attention to God, and I focused on what was in front of me. I savored the season of Advent, the gradual buildup to this day. Practicing awakening to God was a gift that helped me to remain oriented in this season.
As I reflect on the themes of awakening to the promise, to expectation, to abundance, and to wonder – I am amazed at God’s grace. This was not an easy Advent season. Our 3-year-old daughter was exposed to COVID at school (but thankfully, did not become ill). My dad was hospitalized in mid-December and will not be home for Christmas. This Advent was full of challenges and concern for loved ones. And yet, each week I was awakened to God in a new way:
Week 1: Awaken to the Promise – As I reflected on God’s promises, I was reminded of God’s faithfulness in bringing comfort and peace when we need it most.
Week 2: Awaken to Expectation – As I awakened to expectation, God’s grace became tangible in the form of roses blooming and tomato plants still producing fruit in December, both totally unexpected.
Week 3: Awaken to Abundance – As I focused on abundance, I was sustained by the generous love and care of friends during a week when it would have been easy to become consumed by scarcity.
Week 4: Awaken to Wonder – As I sought to experience wonder, I was delighted by the gift of play and the creativity of our 7-year-old daughter.
Now that it’s Christmas Eve, I am practicing being present to this day, to what is, not to what I wish could be. I pray that you, also, can be present this day and throughout the entire season of Christmas, to what is…the sacrament of the present moment is God in our midst. And that is exactly what we will celebrate tonight – the birth of Emmanuel, God WITH us.
That statement is in the present tense because Jesus is present, here with us and within us now. Jesus is the light that shines in the darkness, and our awareness of God with us enables that light to shine even brighter. May you be present and aware, fully awake to God in our midst this day, and in the days to come. And whether through candlelight in the midst of darkness or the sunrise of a new day, may you rest in the reminder that the light is here, in this moment, and will always be. That is the best present that we could possibly ask for.
Let’s face it: the story of Jesus’ birth is bizarre, almost unbelievable. It goes like this: God came to earth in human form, as a baby, born in a barn to a poor couple, following a miraculous conception and pregnancy. When he was born, this baby was visited by angels and shepherds and kings from another land. Later, this child grew up to become an amazing teacher with a large following whose death (and resurrection) would change the entire world. This is a difficult story to get behind. Some of the facts are debatable. The details are fuzzy. But it is still true. It is true because we have seen the evidence of the story in our lives and in the world. We are changed by it. That’s why we believe it, and that is why we are so full of wonder at this story.
Wonder is a sense of awe or amazement at something. Wonder comes upon us when we are astonished at what we see or experience. There are many stories in scripture that evoke wonder in the characters in the stories, or in us, as readers and participants from outside the story. In the Old Testament, the story of Moses and the burning bush comes to mind, as well as the Israelites’ escape from Egypt. In the New Testament, we think of Jesus’ miracles and of the stories of the early church in the book of Acts. But some of the most astonishing things in the New Testament actually came before Jesus’ birth, during Mary’s pregnancy.
When Mary – a young girl, pregnant and unmarried – went to visit her relative Elizabeth, who was old and miraculously pregnant herself, something wonderful happened. The baby in Elizabeth’s womb, who we know as John the Baptist, leaped for joy at Mary’s arrival (with Jesus in her womb) and Elizabeth proclaimed Jesus as Lord – the first person to do so. The vigorous movement of her child within her communicated to Elizabeth that something amazing was happening. Elizabeth was filled with wonder and proclaimed with a loud voice her astonishment at what God was doing within her and within Mary. In response, she blessed Mary, validating and believing her, when possibly no one else had done so. In this story, we get to see the way that God works in the relationship between these two women. Both are experiencing something wonderful (and probably lonely) as they fulfill God’s prophecies in the most embodied way possible: through pregnancy and birth. Their companionship is God’s gift of grace to them.
God is doing amazing things in the world all the time, but we don’t always notice them. When we are on our way to the store or to work or to the doctor or simply at home, God is always present with us. However, we might miss God’s work and the opportunity to be filled with wonder if we are too focused on where we think we will find God instead of looking for God in everything that we do, everywhere that we are. The practices below are intended to evoke an experience of wonder within you in some way, either through experiencing it, as you become more aware and awake to God’s presence, or through remembering an experience of wonder in your past and re-experiencing it in some way in the present. Choose one of the following:
Look at something tiny with a magnifying glass or microscope or look at the night sky with a telescope. Look closely and reflect on what you can see with that “magnifier” that you could not see without it.
Create something (art, writing, music, dance, whatever you feel inspired to create!) that exemplifies the word “wonder” as you have experienced it in your life.
Follow a young child around, at their pace. Do not hurry them or make suggestions. Let the child lead. Do this for at least 15 minutes, but consider challenging yourself to do it for an hour or more.
Journal about a time in your life when you were filled with “wonder.” Reflect on what that experience was like. Consider what it meant to you then, and what it means to you now.
This is an excerpt from a study I created for my church for Advent 2021. During this season, I will post weekly on the theme, “Awaken.” I pray that as we journey through Advent, we will all awaken to what God is doing in and around us.If you missed the introduction/overview, you can find it here.
Perhaps the best way to define abundance is with one word: grace. During Advent we are reminded of the abundance of God’s provision in our lives because of the birth of Jesus, the promised Messiah, who was and is far more than we can possibly imagine or hope for. Grace is the embodiment of God’s love for all humanity. Grace became possible when God came to earth, as a baby, born to a poor couple in a barn. They didn’t have much other than faith, hope, and an amazing ability to trust in God’s promises…but that was more than enough.
In many ways, the world today is starkly different from the world Jesus was born into. Humans have continued to evolve, in both positive and alarming ways. But we have something in common with first century Palestinians: we often get caught up in scarcity and miss the abundance in our lives. As he prepared the way for Jesus’ ministry, John the Baptist called the people to repentance. He urged them to become aware of their abundance instead of focusing on their scarcity, to be content with what they have instead of keeping for themselves what they could be sharing with others. John the Baptist could have been preaching in the 21st century!
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, it is easy to feel as though we have too much and not enough at the same time. Often, this is an illusion, a cultural myth that we are encouraged to – literally – buy into. For many of us, our needs are not only met, but exceeded. Yet, it is easy to feel as though we do not have enough. The season of Advent is a reminder that there is enough, we have enough, and we are enough, by God’s grace. We do not need more; we simply need to be aware of the abundant gift of God’s presence and grace in our lives.
Some of us may be lacking something: income, a safe place to live, physical/emotional health, or companionship. Others are grieving a significant loss, or have responsibilities that require more time and energy than you have. It is very hard to lack something you need, especially during this season. If this is you: may you experience the abundant gift of God’s love and grace, carrying you through this difficult time, even in the midst of what you lack.
Take a moment to pause and notice God’s abundant provision for you. Engage in one of the practices below, with the knowledge that there is enough, more than enough – even if you stop and take care of yourself, even if you share what you have with others. Perhaps, in the act of intentionally engaging in one of these practices as an act of resistance to the myth that there is not enough, you will experience abundance in a new way. Choose one of the following:
Observe the Sabbath. Resist the temptation to claim that you “don’t have time” to stop being productive for an entire day. Just pick a day, practice intentional rest and renewal, and see what happens. (Alternatively, if you want to practice this in “bite-size” form, take a nap. When you feel tired, don’t seek out caffeine, just take a nap.)
Explore your home and discover what you have an abundance of. Find a way to share with others out of your abundance.
Volunteer your time/share your gifts in service of others. You could volunteer to serve a local charitable organization, or you could help a friend or family member.
Journal about what “abundance” means to you. Also consider: what is the opposite of abundance? What does each one feel like? In what aspect(s) of your life are you experiencing abundance right now?
This is an excerpt from a study I created for my church for Advent 2021. During this season, I will post weekly on the theme, “Awaken.” I pray that as we journey through Advent, we will all awaken to what God is doing in and around us.If you missed the introduction/overview, you can find it here.
Advent is a pregnant time, full of expectation. In the literal sense, Advent is one of the few times of the year when we engage biblical stories of pregnancy and birth. But it is also a pregnant time because we anticipate and look forward with hope to the birth of Christ and toward God’s promised Kingdom. We remember during Advent that God’s Kingdom is both already and not yet: here on earth in the form of the Christian community, and yet to be fully realized in a future that we hope for with expectation that Christ will come again.
As we look toward the future, the stories of the past remind us that God rarely conforms to our human expectations. The scriptures we read and study during Advent remind us that God always fulfills God’s promises, but often in the most unexpected ways. That’s what happened to the priest Zechariah, who did not expect that his wife, Elizabeth (who was barren), would be able to become pregnant and bear a child in her old age. Because he did not believe the angel’s words, Zechariah became mute until his son, John the Baptist, was born (Luke 1:18-20, 59-66). It is clear through the prophecy he spoke when he regained his speech that Zechariah encountered God powerfully through this experience, in both expected and unexpected ways.
We, too, have the opportunity to encounter God in both expected and unexpected ways during this season. Whether consciously or unconsciously, we all have expectations for the season ahead. They may be traditions we want to keep, hopes of spending time with loved ones, the desire to avoid something uncomfortable or painful during this season, or the intention to try something new. Whatever your expectations are, and however they unfold during this season, don’t forget to remain awake and aware, looking for the unexpected ways that God is working. While this may be easier when things are going well, the need to cancel or alter plans sometimes has the effect of creating space for something else to happen…perhaps, even an unexpected encounter with God. Pay attention so you don’t miss it!
You are encouraged to choose a spiritual practice for this week that that is counter-intuitive for you. If you think “I do not expect to encounter God through that…” perhaps that is the practice you should try. Whatever practice you choose, expect to be aware of God’s presence in a new way and allow yourself to be surprised at where and how God is revealed to you. Choose one of the following:
Do something slowly and intentionally, focusing fully on what you are doing. Examples: eat a meal, drink a glass of water, rock in a rocking chair, observe an animal, fold the laundry, wash the dishes, etc.
Pray in a way you usually do not. Examples:use prayer beads, try breath prayer, embodied prayer, or praying in color, etc.
Get up early, go outside, and watch the sunrise. Reflect on your experience.
Journal about your expectations for this Advent/Christmas season. Also consider: How do your expectations align (or not) with God’s promise to send a savior to the world? How have you experienced God at Christmas in the past, in both expected and unexpected ways?
This is an excerpt from a study I created for my church for Advent 2021. During this season, I will post weekly on the theme, “Awaken.” I pray that as we journey through Advent, we will all awaken to what God is doing in and around us.If you missed the introduction/overview, you can find it here.
