Welcome to the many people who joined The Cottage this week — new readers signed up as a result of the widely-shared Israel post and those who attended events where I spoke in Montreat, NC and Richmond, VA! Thank you. We are glad that you’ve found your way here.
Every weekend, I send out a Sunday Musing — a reflection on texts from the Revised Common Lectionary (a schedule of readings shared by Catholic and Protestant churches around the world), photographs as visual meditations, poetry and introductions to amazing poets, and news of my own work. Sunday Musings are the spiritual backbone of the community gathered at The Cottage — and I hope you find them refreshing and inspiring for your own journey.
This week, the lectionary offers two of my favorite biblical texts: Psalm 23 and Philippians 4:1-9. Both speak to the beauty of faith with rare lyricism and profound insight. And they are surprisingly relevant amidst this painful, frightening moment of violence and rising global tensions. Let your cup run over with their wisdom today.
Psalm 23
(Book of Common Prayer version)
The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures
and leads me beside still waters.
He revives my soul
and guides me along right pathways for his Name's sake.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I shall fear no evil;
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me;
you have anointed my head with oil,
and my cup is running over.
Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Philippians 4:1-9
My brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved.
I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life.
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.
Usually, I write on the lectionary’s gospel reading (Matthew 22) or the passage from the Hebrew Bible (Isaiah 25). But I confess: they are tough today. The Matthew text is the story of a guest tossed from a wedding banquet that ends with these words: “‘Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’ For many are called, but few are chosen.”
And the Isaiah reading? Well, it begins like this:
O Lord, you are my God;
I will exalt you, I will praise your name;
for you have done wonderful things,
plans formed of old, faithful and sure.
For you have made the city a heap,
the fortified city a ruin;
the palace of aliens is a city no more,
it will never be rebuilt.
Yikes. Just what I didn’t need this Sunday — stories about exclusion and destruction. These biblical texts seem (on the surface at least) to exalt in the suffering of enemies. And they are the sort of texts that make many cringe with worry about a vengeful God. Honestly, if I wanted to hear about those things, I’d turn on television or read Twitter.
I felt my anxiety level rise.
My heartbeat slowed a bit, however, when I turned to the Psalm and the passage from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Today is one of the three times Psalm 23 is included in this year’s lectionary, and Philippians 4 is a frequent reading for Thanksgiving Day. Both are familiar, and both turn our attention to abundance, gratitude, and beauty. Paul’s words of advice in this passage are among the most exquisite he ever penned: Beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.
At first, I wondered if some savvy lectionary editor chose these passages to specifically counter Matthew and Isaiah. After reading all four texts together, the vengeful God gives way to the tender One, the gentle Shepherd, and the Giver of peace.
Recently, I’ve been lecturing on gratitude (I’m so, well, grateful that having written a book on this subject causes groups to invite me to speak on it!). Over the years, I have learned quite a bit about the science and psychology of giving thanks. There are numerous studies on how practicing gratitude benefits well-being, physical health, and fosters community. Indeed, when we think about the gifts that surround us — provision, love, support, the wonders of nature — we refocus and reframe our experiences. We literally learn to see the world differently. But not in a kind of Pollyanna-ish, denial way. Rather, gratitude gives us a wider lens, one that allows for deeper dimensionality and realistic color, that enables us to draw previously invisible meaning and purpose from life and opens us to possibilities of hope and compassion we didn’t know we had. Gratitude isn’t magic, but its benefits are enormous.
Psalm 23 and Philippians 4 are great biblical passages of gratitude: still waters, open fields, protection, provision, healing oil, goodness and mercy; truthfulness, honor, justice, purity, joy, praiseworthiness, and excellence. Look on these things. Reflect on them. Feast on them. Feel your soul lifted and lighter, as if skipping or dancing.
And yet — enemies show up in these gratitude texts as well.
Psalm 23 is sometimes classified as a Psalm of lament and is believed to have been written in the middle of a crisis, a dire situation in which the author finds himself. Even though psalms of lament are cries for help or prayers of complaint, they often include words of faith and consolation. But Psalm 23 is unusual as a lament — and is often referred to instead as a psalm of trust — because it is so comforting, so ultimately hopeful. However, the bad things in Psalm 23 are really bad — exhaustion, evil, the valley of death, and surrounded by enemies. This is the song of a person on the run, fleeing those who seek to kill him. For whatever reason, the psalmist suddenly sees differently and is filled with gratitude. “I shall fear no evil; for you are with me,” he cries out. And, instead of being pursued by those with evil intent, “Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”
But it remains the case: His enemies are the occasion for the poetry. Psalm 23’s glorious gratefulness is birthed in the presence of fear, violence, and hatred.
The same is true for Paul’s admonition to the Philippians. The immediate circumstance to which he wrote was a fight between two of his female co-workers, Euodia and Syntyche. He seeks their reconciliation and urges the whole community to give thanks as a way forward.
But far more is at stake than a personal argument between two friends. The larger context for Paul’s remarks is startling: He was in jail.
He was being held in a Roman prison as a disrupter, a traitor, and a preacher of the criminal Jesus. He literally doesn’t know what the Romans are going to do with him. In the beginning of the letter, he speaks of his own existence hanging between life and death: “I am hard pressed between the two.” He shares his fears and doubts — as well as his will to live — with his friends in Philippi, who may be facing down Roman persecution as a community and vicariously sharing in Paul’s imprisonment. They, too, are suffering in the painful space between living and dying. Both Paul and the Philippians are surrounded by their enemies.
Paul reminds them not to tear each other to shreds while the greater enemy is at their door. And, it is in the midst of not knowing if the next guard to visit the door of his cell will lead him to the executioner, that Paul bursts forth in praise of beauty.
How should we live when death is at hand?
Gratefully.
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.
Like the Psalmist, Paul discovered that gratefulness is the path of revolutionary joy. Beauty, feasting, and giving thanks subvert the power of enemies — and restore those oppressed by persecution, suffering, and even death to the fullness of faith, hope, and love.
Ultimately, all of today’s lectionary readings are about enemies. The two readings I skipped I can now reread. There aren’t two gods — one of vengeance and one of tenderness. But the One God of Israel and of Jesus Christ is, in both testaments, the God of loving provision and protection, whose very presence in the face of violence calls forth gratitude. The texts of terror need to be read in that light — the evils of death and destruction, the enemies of all humankind, can occasion the most powerful poetry of our souls. We can rise to goodness and mercy even in the worst of circumstances.
If there is vengeance to be had, let us leave that to the mystery of God. In the meanwhile, let’s stick with what we know: God is love. God is with us. God provides. God sets a table in the wilderness. The good gifts of life still surround us all, even when evil seems poised to win.
Think about these things. Give thanks.
INSPIRATION
If you are not to become a monster,
you must care what they think.
If you care what they think,
how will you not hate them,
and so become a monster
of the opposite kind? From where then
is love to come—love for your enemy
that is the way of liberty?
From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go
free of you, and you of them;
they are to you as sunlight
on a green branch. You must not
think of them again, except
as monsters like yourself,
pitiable because unforgiving.
— Wendell Berry, “Enemies”
The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making a circle with no end and no God.
— Yehuda Amichai, “The Diameter of the Bomb”
“Look carefully and see if there could possibly be pain like my pain, like the one bestowed by You upon me.” – Lamentations 1:12
Dear God, help us look,
look closer so that we may see
our children in their children,
their children in our own.
Help us look so that we may see You –
in the bleary eyes of each orphan, each grieving childless mother,
each masked and camouflaged fighter for his people’s dignity.
Dear God, Divine Exiled and Crying One,
Loosen our claim to our own uniqueness.
Soften this hold on our exclusive right – to pain, to compassion, to justice.
May your children, all of us unique and in Your image,
come to know the quiet truths of shared pain,
shared hope,
shared land,
shared humanity,
shared risk,
shared courage,
shared peace.
In Sh’Allah. Ken Yehi Ratzon.
May it be Your will.
And may it be ours.
— Rabbi Tamara Cohen, “No Pain Like Our Pain”
“You know, when an emigrant needs something to hold on to, a spider web looks like a wooden beam.” – Rafik Schami, Damascus Nights
Hudood, the word for border,
looms in her mind’s vocabulary
like a passive voice, a noun for longing.
Maybe the undulating line runs in water
or in sand, splays on the imagined cover
of a passport, map for a new home.
She has vowed to cross it, daughter on her hip,
two legs doggedly moving apace,
two legs suspended, bare.
She plans to learn the other side
like a foreign language:
first the stones as single utterances,
then the houses and hills, sentences.
The scenes will warm in the light of the sun.
Now it’s dark and the little girl
is ensconced in her arms, eyes closed,
but a lulling breeze could spell betrayal
if they aren’t careful. She reaches
between her breasts for the pendant
inscribed with amal, hope, rubs it
like a magic lamp. The din of conversation
starts to rise as light gathers at the horizon,
where the singular message of true East
has grounded her since childhood.
Lay low, look west, wait for the boat.
She understands the grammar for fleeing,
unspoken rules that decide how
the journey will end, when words
like harb, war, and joo`, hunger,
might ebb and not flow.
Her toddler wakes asking for water
while the sea responds with crashing waves.
— Zeina Azzam, “A Grammar for Fleeing.” Azzam is a Palestinian-American poet and Poet Laureate of Alexandria, Virginia (where I live!)
SOUTHERN LIGHTS IS BACK!
January 12 -14, 2024
And our theme is Reimagining Faith Beyond Patriarchy and Hierarchy
Last January, almost 700 people gathered at St. Simon’s Island in Georgia for a packed weekend of poetry, theology, and music.
WE’RE GATHERING AGAIN!
YOU ARE INVITED to join me and Brian McLaren as we reimagine our faith beyond patriarchy and hierarchy in our interior lives, in our communities of faith, and in the Scriptures. We’ve asked three remarkable speakers to take us through this journey: Cole Arthur Riley, Simran Jeet Singh, and Elizabeth “Libbie” Schrader Polczer. Our special guest chaplain for the weekend will be the Rev. Winnie Varghese (St. Luke’s Episcopal, Atlanta).
Please come and be with us in Georgia. SEATS ARE INCREASINGLY LIMITED and hotels are filling up!
Or, if you’d rather be with us online, you can choose that option as well.
INFORMATION AND REGISTRATION CAN BE FOUND HERE.
I pray for your peace in troubled lands,
in places where people fear each day, in cities or villages under threat of danger.
I pray your peace into the hearts of those who hate,
into the minds of those who live in anger, of those who long for revenge. The hot winds of war sweep over so many lives, dear God, terror and cruelty following in their wake, I do not know what else to do, but stand here making my appeal to heaven.
Peace I pray.
Peace against all the odds, peace without compromise, peace strong and enduring, peace so children never worry as they go to sleep.
— Steven Charleston,
Episcopal bishop and citizen of the Choctaw Nation
An interesting (and ultimately hopeful) take on some very disparate texts.
Also, Yehuda Amichai's (so timely) poem took my breath away. Thank you for introducing me to his works.
Thank you, Diana, for the reminder to keep peace in our hearts. So that we can trust in, and speak, reconciliation, mercy, forgiveness, gratitude, hope, faith, beauty, kindness, gentleness, compassion and love into the world even when darkness threatens to overwhelm us.