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Sometimes what makes us whole are the same old things our grandmothers recommended, the remedies our ancestors believed in, the ancient ordinary things.
But despite the apprehensions many of us have around the very thought of blood, blood is life, and blood adequately reflects the gravity and severity of God’s love for us.
Someone wise said that walking is just controlled falling. When we put one foot in front of the other, we control our falling every time we move. We make a decision to move on.
The gifts of sabbath are radically subversive and exceedingly compassionate. In a society that values constant achievement and over-functioning, sabbath keeps us intact.
Maybe it was a miracle. Maybe it was magic. Or maybe it was this: maybe Moses just forced them to truly examine at what they were dealing with: not vampires, but snakes.
I wonder if Jesus prayed the psalms in the days before going to Jerusalem. I wonder if it gave him comfort that he could be that honest with God about his terror and grief.
I miss the future. All I can see is a different future: the end of the office, the end of school, the end of church. The end. We are on this journey without a map, without guides.
We’re not terribly interested in the hard stuff of life, are we? Fortunately, it is the nature of God to go straight into and through the hardest stuff, so we know we are not alone.
The pandemic is revealing, once again, what really matters, and what the good gifts of life are that don’t arrive by two-day shipping.
During this Lenten season, I commit to inserting joy and laughter into my daily fight for justice and peace. I commit to saying ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry.’