Hidden quietly and subtly in Hebrews 11 is a core tenet of Christianity: a powerfully concise definition of faith. It’s laid out so simply: “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.” Surely it’s as easy as described, right? Maybe not. In what I believe to be one of the major challenges in my life
Bible readings may bring about one or more of several emotional reactions for me: Wonder and Awe at the feats attributed to God or His followers (Jew or Christian) — frequently can invoke sheer euphoria; Anticipation — especially in the Psalms pleading for relief from human conflict and pain, physical or mental; Joy — the anticipation is frequently balanced in the Psalms by great
Mother Liz, in a recent sermon, referred to the mystery we call God. I’m awed and bow down before Mystery. Theology and Science meet at the point of mystery. Religion originated, as did science, in the awareness of mystery. Without the consciousness of mystery there would be no intellectual curiosity, exploration, discovery. research, or faith. To comprehend and accept mystery, one must master the
Today’s reading is the story of Abram, his wife, Sarai and their maid, Hagar. As a 21st-century, pink-pussycat-hat–wearing feminist, I recognize Margaret Atwood’s inspiration for The Handmaid’s Tale. I am appalled by the treatment of Hagar by Abram and Sarai. Sarai has her reasons for wanting Abram, 86, to reproduce. The Lord has made a covenant with Abram granting his descendants land. Sarai feels
Like Lent, this passage from Romans contains within itself both a gloomy disposition and the brightness of soul-filling hope. We each have to come to terms with our own sinfulness. But, there is hope because while our sins may be different, we are each inescapably sinful. We are linked together by it. Lent offers space to consider our individual and communal sins, with the
It is easy to feel God’s presence when we are feeling loved, safe, and appreciated. But when we feel lost, hurt, unseen, abandoned, and unheard it can feel as though God is nowhere to be found. It can seem as though we have been abandoned by God to a point of despairing. We might be tempted to respond in kind to frustration, loss, and
“I cry aloud to God,” begins the psalmist. Railing against the sky. Lamenting, in the first half of the song, the variety of ways God’s love has, somehow, changed. Then something happens. In the second half of this song, almost in mid-sentence, the rant shifts both attention and, more notably, intention. The focus is now on God’s mighty acts. It’s a fitting response to
Genesis comes through our Open Door most every Tuesday — while I’m here, 12:00–2:00 — to pray. She’s from Florida, a student at NYU, and adorable. One day she came in, nervous: “I’m taking my Finals!” On her way out I gave her a hug. The following Tuesday, she bounced in happily. “Did you ace them?”
The readings this week raise the themes of shame and humility — two concepts which, to me as an Individualist lapsed Christian child of the 80s, have always been very uncomfortable concepts. I am well-acquainted with shame; as a young adult, guilt and shame threatened to take me down, going so far as to drive me to a suicide attempt. I loathed the ideas
The Book of Daniel, from which one of today’s readings is taken, has fascinated me since childhood Sunday School days, because it is filled with vivid imagery. Of course there are the stories of the lion’s den, the writing on the wall, the fiery furnace, the interpretation of the king’s dreams and beasts galore. Today’s passage is certainly appropriate for Lent, as it presents