Year C Proper 27: No such thing as a stupid question?

Posted on November 10, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

You know how we always tell each other, and especially our children, that there’s no such thing as a stupid question? I have to think that the Sadducees were pushing the envelope on this one.

It wasn’t because they were stupid: actually, they were among the elite of Jerusalem society, well educated and socially ranked; they were not ignorant and they were not confused. They asked their question in order to try to make Jesus look stupid, look like a bumpkin from up-country Galilee, naïve and ill-informed, and gullible. They wanted to discredit him before any more people realized that he was for real, that he was, in fact, the one for which the world had been waiting. This exchange takes place, remember, during Holy Week, in the holy city. The Sadducees and their fellow elite people have seen the spectacle of Palm Sunday, and they are afraid of the damage that a popular religious movement might do, if it attracts any more attention from the Romans. Passover is upon them, and crowds are gathering. Things could so easily get out of hand if people insist on whispering one to another that Jesus is he, the Messiah, the one who will change everything. They don’t want him to change everything, because they are afraid of what might follow.

So the Sadducees are not trying to ask a serious question about the technicalities of levirate marriage or the afterlife – in fact, by definition, one who identified himself as a Sadducee did not believe in an afterlife. They didn’t believe in the resurrection of the body, nor in the survival of soul or spirit; for them, death was final, and with the body dies everything that has inhabited it – all thoughts, emotions, prayers and relationships. All relationships – which was exactly why they could be so cavalier and crass, so ridiculous and contemptuous of other people’s eternal concerns and questions. Because we do wonder, don’t we, how things will turn out with the relationships that we have left incomplete in this life, how they will be healed and reconciled and made whole in the next? The Sadducees denied having any such concerns, which is why they were able to ask their question in such a deliberately dense, intentionally insensitive, stupid way.

They had a lot in common with the people challenging the faith of the Thessalonians. We don’t hear directly from those folks; we only have Paul’s reassurance to the Thessalonians that these prophets of doom are wrong, that they are not to be trusted. The people who provoked the letter are spreading the message that not only was Jesus’ resurrection and ascension complete, but the second coming had also somehow slipped by them, the work of redemption was over and done with, and there would be no more. They didn’t deny the saving grace of God manifest in Jesus Christ; they just said that it was all in the past.

There would be no more resurrection, no more ascension, no more visitations by the living God, nothing to look forward to or hope for any more. Like the Sadducees, they had lost their faith that any good could befall them any more.

You have to wonder what had happened to these Sadducees, these Thessalonians, to make them so hard-hearted that they would not only give up all hope, but deny it to anyone else.

Paul told the Thessalonians, stand firm, hold fast to the traditions that you were taught, by letter or by word of mouth – that is, the traditions of the stories of Jesus told by his closest followers and friends, including stories like this one, when Jesus speaks to the doubts and derision of the Sadducees and affirms the hope of the resurrection, the life of God, the eternal, unending life of a loving God who is not done with us yet, because Jesus knows we need that hope.

We need it in a world that pauses at eleven o’clock of the eleventh day of the eleventh month to remember war, and which longs for peace. We ask the serious questions that the Sadducees will not ask: What will happen when we meet our enemies beyond the grave? Who will heal our divisions? How long will we wait for deliverance from death?

We need it in a world that is anxious about unfinished relationships, unfinished business, people we long to see again, people we dread to see again; we ask the serious, searching questions that the Sadducees will not ask: Will it be alright? Will we be alright?

We need it in a world where thousands, ten thousand and more, lost their lives last week in a single storm; where we worry about what we have contributed to climate change, how we can defray the damage we have done, and how we can help those who have already fallen victim. We need the hope of new life when we are faced with so much death.

We need it in a world that tells us, frankly, that we’re stupid for continuing to hope: where aggressive forms of atheism deride religion and accuse us of peddling deceitful doctrine, saccharine sugar pills, false hope, the opium of the masses.

You have to wonder what has happened to make the world so hard-hearted, so world-weary that it would simply give up.

The first letter of Peter advises, “Always be ready to make your defence to anyone who demands from you an account of the hope that is in you.” Jesus was ready for the Sadducees, with arguments and ammunition from the Torah, their own chosen proof-texts: he confounded their questions with the reality of a living and lively God, a God who is always ready to do something new, as we were reminded this weekend at our diocesan convention, as the resurrection is witness.

We may not know exactly what the new thing will look like. We don’t have the answers to all the problems of war and peace and typhoon storms neatly packaged; we don’t have a YouTube video of life in heaven to show to those who question us; but we do have our faith, and we do have the traditions passed down by the apostles, and we do have the help of the living God, who is, after all, the God of the living, and who breathes among us with the Holy Spirit.

We have hope here, and we hear the Holy Spirit among us. Twice, in the last couple of months, people have reported walking into this church because God told them to come here. We are blessed and charged with being a cradle of hope, a haven for those asking difficult questions, with real and weighty concerns. Unlike the straw man schemings of the Sadducees, there are no stupid questions from those truly seeking truth.

We need to uphold one another in that hope and in that endeavour, coming together to pray and to witness to the goodness of God. You may not know to whom you are giving hope simply by your presence here in the house of God, here in the haven of prayer. People around you know that you pray; they rely on it, even if their hearts are too weary just now, too frightened or too scarred to pray for themselves. We gather not only for ourselves, but also for them, so that when God tells them to get to church, they know where to find a friend; so that we have a home to invite them into.

 And we don’t need to know all the answers, but we do help one another with the questions. On Tuesday nights, we wrestle with Scripture and the questions it raises, or we hold up our questions in silent, centering prayer, and all are welcome to join us. We will question the traditions that we hold fast, and explore our faith, our church as we prepare for confirmations and receptions next spring. Every month, we witness to the hope that is in us for our communities, our neighbourhoods, our city and our world through our prayer walks: we are ready to defend that hope with prayer and with our presence. Coming together, we affirm one another’s hope, and we bear witness to the faith that God is living, and that God is continually doing new things. No matter what has happened to harden the heart of the world against hope, God continues to break open that shell of cynicism and surprise us with new life.

 In the words of St Paul, “Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.”

 Amen.

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Responding to a Sadducee

Posted on November 9, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Resurrection
is not “a conjuring trick with bones,”*
nor is the resurrection
a reality-tv show about the life
of seven brothers and their
unnamed widow-sister-wife
Resurrection is not undone
by the cynicism of the resurrected one
blinking, bewildered in the sun,
wondering with trepidation
exactly what it is that has just begun.

*http://www.theguardian.com/books/1999/sep/04/books.guardianreview10

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Be Still

Posted on November 5, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

I am Lazarus, lying still.
In the whitewashed tomb
even time stops running,
runs down, stops.
The air is still, unstirred by
breath of life; deep dark
unbroken by flashing eye,
or a rogue smile.
I am Lazarus, numb,
unfeeling, unknowing,
unloving, undone;
deep in death, I am still.
And it dawns on me that he
is God. My eyes fly
open, my heart also,
and my grave.

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All Saints

Posted on November 3, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

The letter to the Ephesians makes a perfect sermon all by itself for All Saints and a day of baptism. I hardly feel as though I need say more. But there is more. Listen to the words that come just before and after what we read and heard today:

 “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. He destined us in love to be his sons [and daughters] through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace which he freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace which he lavished upon us. For he has made known to us in all wisdom and insight the mystery of his will, according to his purpose, which he set forth in Christ as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth…

And you he made alive, when you were dead…”

God chose us in love, before the foundations of the world, to live as saints of the living God. God chose you, before you knew that you were you, to be a saint, to be holy and blameless before God.

God destined us through love to be God’s daughters and sons, through the adoption of Jesus Christ, so that we might know God’s grace flowing through our lives, through our veins, through our prayers and praises.

God gave us the gospel, God’s word, God’s promise, to be with us throughout it all.

God sealed us with the Holy Spirit, the breath of God kissing our foreheads, lighting us up like candles.

God has given us wisdom and revelation, the knowledge of good and evil, the wisdom of a baby who knows where to find warm milk and a warm embrace; the wisdom of a child who knows how to hold her gently; the wisdom of parents and godparents to know what is good and what is evil for their children, how to raise them in truth and love.

God has enlightened the eyes of our hearts to see the glorious inheritance of the saints, to see beyond our own lives, beyond our own days, to recognize in relationships of love and glory the touch of eternity, so that even when we are parted by death, we know that those who have died in Christ are alive in Christ, and we shall see them again.

We make some bold promises when we come to baptism, when we bring our children to baptism, when we renew our own baptismal covenants.

We promise to turn away from all that would separate us from God, and turn towards Jesus Christ, with the eyes of our hearts enlightened to see and trust him as our Lord and Saviour.

We promise to continue in the apostles’ habits of prayer and praise, study and worship, breaking bread together and celebrating as the saints of God; we promise to be here, together, regularly.

We promise to return, not if we sin but when we sin; we promise not if but when, knowing that even with our hearts enlightened, even with the revelation, the wisdom of good and evil, we will fall, we will fail; but knowing too that God made us, chose us before the foundations of the world to be holy and blameless before God, so that however we fall into sin, whenever we repent and return, God receives us with open arms and a forgiving embrace.

We promise to share and to demonstrate that Gospel promise.

We promise to seek and serve Christ in all people, loving our neighbours as ourselves, seeing each one of them with the eyes of our hearts enlightened, not dimmed by prejudice or envy, fear or favour, but seeing them clearly as creations of Christ, of the living God, destined just as we are for God’s love and grace.

We promise to help them find it, striving for justice and peace, dignity and honour, so that we all may stand with integrity before the throne of God and praise God with the saints in glory.

We promise all of these things, invoking God’s help, knowing that it is only because God has already destined us for them that we have any hope of success. They are bold promises; tall orders. But we do have hope. We have the hope of the inheritance of Christ, hope that sustains us through our lives and beyond death.

Because on this feast of All Saints, we celebrate not only those new saints that come to clothe themselves in baptism, and join the throng dressed in white, but we celebrate also those saints who came before us and whom we see no more. When we raise our voices to affirm the promises of those who come for baptism, when we promise to uphold them in their vows with a loud, “We will,” it is not only we who speak, but their great-grandparents, their cousin, the matriarchs and patriarchs of this place, those who have loved them and their parents and godparents, those who have made it their business to support the ministry and the mission and the lives of those who are baptized into this, God’s holy church – all of them shout with us, “We will.” We will continue to pray for them, to watch over them, to support them and encourage them, as only we who have seen eternity can.

As these children come to their baptism today, to enter into those promises that God has already made to them since before time began, they are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses. Some of those witnesses are visible to us all, flesh and blood, all of you, the saints of Epiphany drawn together in worship and praise to support these new saints in their journey with Christ. But there are others, there are more, and they are here for the children, and they are here for you, for me. They know the promises that God has made to us all, and they know, better than anyone here, that those promises are real and are fulfilled. They know all about the forgiveness of sins. They know all about redemption. They know all about the destiny of all of God’s children as sons and daughters, beloved. They know what it means to be made alive.

And when you renew your own baptismal covenant, those bold promises, this morning, they are standing right beside you, among you, promising with God’s help to uphold you in your saintly life:

“We will.”

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Praying alone

Posted on November 2, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

The writing was on the wall outside:
the service ended hours ago; the people gone to
their Sunday dinners, families, fire sides.
The church empty, gaping open, sat
stone cold and silent as the grave,
its pews petrified, unforgiving,
its prayerbooks written in Welsh,
a mess of consonants, indecipherable,
unpronounceable, except for
the writing on walls inside, the names
proclaiming an eternal presence,
an endless cycle of prayer.
Transported, I followed along as their
unheard voices preached the gospel,
passed the peace,
celebrated with the angels and saints,
holy, holy, on holy ground
they drew me quietly into their embrace.

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All Hallows Eve

Posted on October 31, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

all saints 003Reaching through the darkness in the long, dark night,
a soul might lose it way, fall away, if not for the light, beckoning.
All in white they stand before the throne of light,
shining through the hollow pumpkins, porchlights, tealights,
singing softened only by the hum of electricity, made harmless,
harnessed; there is nothing to be frightened of.
At midnight, when the lights are out and the world is darkest,
all the saints reach through the night and dawn quietly upon us.

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Year C Proper 25: Stand closer

Posted on October 27, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Have you ever read the brilliant dystopian novel, Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley? I won’t give the whole game away, but one of the themes in the book is social engineering, which is achieved by a mixture of genetic manipulation and social conditioning. Growing children are trained and moulded to their place in society, and to be glad that they are not like some others they could mention. In just the second chapter, we are introduced to the idea by the Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning. A group of Beta children are sleeping, and listening while they sleep to an undercurrent of whispered messages:

‘“Alpha children wear grey. They work much harder than we do, because they’re so frightfully clever. I’m really awfully glad I’m a Beta, because I don’t work so hard. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don’t want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They’re too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides, they wear black, which is such a beastly colour. I’m so glad I’m a Beta.”’

A few chapters later, the conditioning has taken: ‘“I’m glad I’m not an Epsilon,” said Lenina, with conviction. “And if you were an Epsilon,” said Henry, “your conditioning would have made you no less thankful that you weren’t a Beta or an Alpha.”’

 

A Pharisee prayed, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.”

 

A follower of Jesus, a reformed tax collector, having heard the parable and Jesus’ commentary upon it, taking note of who was justified and who was not, might have prayed, “God, I thank you that I am not like that Pharisee.”

 

Most of the characters in the story play pretty much to type. The Pharisee is satisfied that he has done what he can to lead a righteous life, and he trusts God to reward his virtue and his faithfulness. He even has sufficient grace to ascribe to God the credit for his ability to lead a better life than those around him, but he is a bit full of himself. One wonders what secret sin he is hiding.

 

The tax collector is thoroughly ashamed of himself, as well he might be. He is not only corrupt and self-serving; no, it is not his self-service that shames him so thoroughly but his service of Caesar. This man is a collaborator, a cowardly, creeping collaborator. Maybe he had his reasons. Maybe they threatened his family, or burned down his house, or beat down his resistance, but one way or another he has sold his soul to Rome, and now he is ashamed in the presence of God, his face burning and downcast; yet still he has the grace to ascribe to God mercy, even sufficient mercy for one such as he.

 

Jesus as usual is turning things on their heads, messing with the social order, exalting the humble and tumbling the mighty and the haughty types to the bottom of the table. His audience, no doubt scandalized as ever, yet secretly rejoicing in how the mighty are fallen.

 

Only God is inscrutable.

 

From the moment in the earliest stories, when God accepted Abel’s offering over Cain’s, it has been difficult for us to know exactly what we can do to be justified, to be the perfect, the best offering that we can guarantee will be an acceptable sacrifice. We try to organize things so that we know; like the Pharisee, we assume that a tithe here and a kind deed there, refraining from the obvious crimes like murder, theft, adultery; we hope that those will stand us in good stead. And yet here comes this weasley, wheedling tax collector, beating his breast, and he goes home justified. It’s enough to make a faithful Pharisee wonder whatever is the point?

 

There is an interesting alternative translation of the Greek that sends the tax collector home justified, which says that he was justified along with the Pharisee, rather than instead of him.[1] Reading that made me wonder this week what would have happened if, instead of setting themselves apart, one out of shame, one out of pride, these two men had come together to pray. What might they have learned from one another?

 

The tax collector certainly could have used some tips on righteous living. The Pharisee might have learned, if he’d gotten a little closer, what true repentance really sounds like; how painfully honest it is possible to be before God.

 

The thing is that no matter where we find ourselves in this story, it is God who determines our worth, our value, our righteousness, our justification; and God reserves the right to be unexpected, to do the unthinkable, to forgive the unforgivable and love the unlovable. God moves children and slaves to prophesy, according to the prophet Joel, and we had better listen. God rescues Daniels and Sauls, saints and sinners from the lion’s den, and we are astonished. God hears the prayers of the righteous and of the unrighteous, and answers them. “O you who answer prayer!” says the Psalm: “To you all flesh shall come.” (Psalm 65:2)

 

I wouldn’t think that the point of the story for the Pharisee is that there is no point in his careful religious observance. He gains much in the way of spiritual awakening, of good relationships in his community, the satisfaction of giving and the blessings of being a leader in his chosen society. But he needs to remember to give thanks for his fellow members of society, and not simply to give thanks that he isn’t one of them. He needs to remember some humility before God and before his fellow person, to recognize that we each have something to offer, that we each have something to teach one another, that anyone can be a messenger of God, prophesying repentance, reflecting mercy. Writing off the tax collector as beneath his notice, beneath his contempt, was a poor move on the part of the Pharisee. He would have done better to have gotten a little closer, to hear the other man’s prayer, and add his own Amen.

 

At the end of yesterday’s prayer walk, a gentleman from a different Christian tradition from our own commented on how enlightening it was to come together with members of different churches, to pray and celebrate our commonality, instead of judging and separating ourselves from one another. Celebrating our ability to pray together, acknowledging God’s grace shared out amongst many, was so much warmer than the cold winds of separatism. It was good to walk together.

 

Even amongst ourselves, I would challenge us to recognize those tendencies to separate ourselves from those we do not stand close to, do not understand, or like. Here before God, we would do better to love our neighbour, starting with those right here, perhaps, and learn from their prayers. Perhaps they may surprise us. I would love to challenge each of you during the coffee hour to try to find someone you don’t normally talk to, or don’t know well at all, and find out something new about them, and tell them something of your own hopes, prayers, thanksgivings.

 

The whispering voices which brought us up to think that we were different from the others, that we were not like “them,” and that we should be thankful, they should be heard with caution. We have more in common than we have differences, because we are all children of one God. We have more to be thankful for in one another than apart from one another, because God made us to be together, to love one another. We should not assume that we know all there is to know about one another, because God is full of surprises for each and every one of us, and has a tendency to do the unexpected, like justifying the Pharisee alongside the tax collector; like saving you, and even me.

 

 

[1] The Jewish Annotated New Testament, Amy-Jill Levine and Marc Z. Brettler (eds) (Oxford University Press, 2011), Luke 18:14, note

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Prayers, overheard

Posted on October 26, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Each stood away from the other, his face turned anyway but there,
no meeting of eyes for these two, let alone hearts, minds.
One looked up to heaven, his prayer belying his blindness to the other,
“Thank God I am not like him! Such shame I could not bear!”
Did the other hear him? Did that prompt his fall,
his face turned down to the ground and the underworld,
his soul beaten down by his fist against his breast,
his conscience overwhelmed by the tragedy of it all?
And if the first then heard his humility,
would he in turn become convicted and find himself
strangely drawn to God’s mercy instead of this
haughty, hopeless economy,
and two were saved for the price of one,
so that heaven resounded with unexpected delight?

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Bigger on the inside

Posted on October 21, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

Fans of the tardis already know that it is bigger on the inside than it appears from the outside; but it’s not the only thing that is built that way.

Life. Way more gets packed into it than anyone would believe.

Labyrinths. Compacted pathways that cover miles (or portions of them) while taking up a corner of a garden, a segment of a transept; it always seems to take forever to reach the centre, but the journey is easy; straightforward in a roundabout way.

Mirror mazes are the opposite; smaller than they look; tricky and mean.

Retreats. Mine lasted from about eight in the morning, when everyone left, till about three in the afternoon, when they started coming home and woke me from an apparently much-needed nap. Short, but filled with prayer, a pilgrimage, fasting, breaking fast and even a nap thrown in for good measure.

Also, a labyrinth.

It’s bigger on the inside, and it also features the shapes of bow ties (which are cool) and a central star shape. Suitable for religious or secular meditation, may it transport you through space and time and always return, in the end, to the exact present, necessary moment.

.

20131021-152527.jpg

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Year C Proper 24: On the need to pray always and not to lose heart

Posted on October 20, 2013 by Rosalind C Hughes

The days are coming, says the Lord, says Jeremiah, the days are surely coming when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. I will be their God, and they shall be my people. The days are surely coming. And Jesus affirms the words of the prophet: Will not God listen to those who cry out day and night? Will God delay to do justice? The days are surely coming.

But what do we do while we are waiting?

Patience is not easy to come by. We live in a world run riot with fast this and instant that and quickie the other. We are barely able to contain ourselves while we fast forward through the adverts to get back to our favourite show. Heaven help the person who hesitates for half a second when the traffic light turns green – unless she’s a big fan of the car horn symphony orchestra! Waiting for the yes or no on a job application can be all-consuming. Waiting for medical test results, school exam results, waiting to find out whether the fog will lift and the plane will leave, waiting in line for the drive through when there are four, count them, four whole cars ahead of us! – most of us don’t do so well with waiting. We change lanes repeatedly to try to find a shortcut through the traffic jam when really, everyone’s on the same road. We check our email compulsively, almost convulsively, to see if the answer’s come through yet. We want what we want, and we want it now!

But that desire can be a good thing, it can be a driving force for getting on, for learning, for growing, if it is tempered with patience rather than impatience, persistence rather than frustration. Because patience is not necessarily passive, and persistence doesn’t have to be rude.

You may have noticed a certain theme to the hymnody that we’re using this morning. It’s a harvest festival, celebrating the in-gathering of our gifts to the food pantry, our successful first season in the garden, our ongoing stewardship campaign, and highlighting the offerings of our music ensemble. You know, to learn a musical instrument takes tremendous amounts of both patience and persistence. If you are too impatient for perfection, you will all too easily give up hope and lose interest in the instrument. It’s easy to make a horrible noise on a school recorder. It takes a lot more effort to make it joyfully, knowing that it is one more step towards something beautiful.

Growing a garden takes a mixture of that practical persistence and passive patience. You have to keep the faith: watering and weeding and waiting; but there are so many variables that are out of our control: the weather, the wild animals, the variety of whims to which nature is inclined. But, says the letter to Timothy, be persistent whether the time is favourable or unfavourable.

Of course, the letter-writer is talking not about practicing the piano or growing a garden, but about sharing our faith, persistently and patiently, whether the time is good or bad, his point being that there is never a bad time to share the love of God, the hope that is in Jesus Christ, the promise that the days are surely coming when justice will prevail and God’s kingdom will come, God’s will be done here on earth as it is in heaven. There is never a bad time to advocate for justice. But like so many good things, it takes patience. It takes persistent and faithful patience, persistent and patient hope.

The widow, in the Gospel story, is anything but patient. She is more like us in the traffic gridlock, angry and a little bit out of control. She is, in fact, literally beating up on the judge. The words that our translation uses are very gentle, but the image of the original language is much less genteel. We are used to reading parables as allegories: this stands for that; we are the widow, God is the judge; but this judge is the epitome of all that is godless, and the widow is a cartoon character of a little old lady beating up on him with her umbrella. We do not, I think, see ourselves following the widow’s example by beating God into submission with our prayers.

So what does it mean for Jesus to tell a parable about needing to pray always and not to lose heart?

I wonder if the key is there at the very beginning: do not lose heart. I wonder if it is there at the end: will the Son of Man find faith, that patient and persistent hope?

I know that God listens to our prayers. We don’t need to beat God like a lazy judge – God is swift with mercy and abundant in grace and love. God has promised seedtime and harvest in their due season. The days are surely coming, says the prophet, when God will say, they will be my people, and I will be their God. Remembering, when times are difficult, when progress is patchy at best, when the harvest doesn’t grow or gets washed away, burned away, buried by snow; remembering that God is faithful, that the days are surely coming; that is what takes patience and persistence.

And prayer, talking to God, staying in touch with God, recognizing that our lives are lived in the presence, the ever-attentive, responsive presence of God; prayer helps. It helps to keep us hopeful. It helps to keep us connected. It helps us to recognize God’s mercy when it happens, God’s unexpected graces when they fall.

Sometimes, when our prayers are repeated week after week, we wonder if we have the patience to persist; but like a musical talent blossoming or a garden blooming, the only way forward is faithful devotion, persistent practice, and perhaps a little patience.

Does prayer change the mind of God? I really don’t know how to answer that. I know that God is not a lazy judge who needs bullying into action; God is always good. But I know, too, that prayer does change us. It changes the person praying, entering into partnership with God in a moment of intentional intimacy. It changes the people prayed for, too.

One morning this week I woke up knowing that the day to come would be something of a trial. I began to pray, but it was difficult. You know when your thoughts are on a loop and it’s hard to find the end of them in order to find the beginning? It was difficult to know where to start. Then I remembered the people who had promised to pray for me that morning; the five women I meet with every Monday morning to discuss these scriptures and share their applications to our lives and ministries. I remembered that they were praying for me, and resting in their prayers, I found myself able to join with them, and to enter the day with the confidence that is within the gift of God’s grace.

(Not long afterwards, when I turned on my phone, the first thing that popped up was an email from one of the women, saying, “We’re praying for you,” followed by a chorus of Amens from the others. I wasn’t just imagining it!)

In a few moments we will join together in the Prayers of the People. We will pray to God for the church, the world, for ourselves and for our families and friends. We do so in faith that God is listening, and will take our prayers to heart, and answer them as God best can: God’s will be done, God’s kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. In praying together we can encourage one another in faith and trust, knowing that there is no unfavourable time for God’s mercy, no poor time to pray.

I am going to ask you, then, to think as we move towards our prayers together, of what it is that you are waiting patiently for, what problems persist, where you need God’s promise in your life, in our lives together. Remember those thanksgivings, too, which prayer recognizes. Bring those prayers to the silence between our petitions, and speak them to God. Speak them into the silence, and know that God is listening; and be at peace.

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