Prayer – Confessions of the Pastor's Wife

This morning, I got out of bed and made my coffee. I said a prayer over my cup–my morning coffee prayer– asking, as I do each morning, that God will bless all of those whose hands have led to the cup being placed in my hands. I use the same phrases, call to mind the same images, as I go through the life cycle of a coffee bean. It’s a small ritual, but it’s one that grounds me in a big way. It reminds me that I am just a small part of something much larger, and that what I have and enjoy is not mine alone. Others have cultivated and nourished and shaped it, too, so at the end of its journey, when the coffee is poured into my cup, I feel a profound sense of gratitude for that first rich sip.

My coffee prayer is a ritual–a solemn rite that I engage in repeatedly, intentionally, in the same way, over and over again.

Often, when I think of ritual, I think of those big acts of worship that we engage in on Sunday mornings: communion, the Lord’s Prayer, the Apostles Creed, the Gloria Patri, the Doxology. And if I’m being honest, sometimes they get a little old (Apostles Creed, I’m looking at you!). If you asked me what I thought about rituals, in general, I would roll my eyes and give you my best 80’s Valley Girl “Uck–as IF! They’re so booooring!”

But this morning, as I pray over my coffee, I realize that I’ve got rituals all wrong. Rituals aren’t rote tasks that we complete on autopilot just because it’s something we’ve always done. Rather, they are intentional acts of worship that bring the divine and the earthly together in sacred communion. In going through the motions of ritual, we remind ourselves that what we are part of something bigger, something nobler, something stronger and more lasting than our little lives. Ritual is a beautiful mingling of past, present, and future. Our words and actions are familiar, having been taught and practiced over time, but they speak to us anew where we are right now, and they give us hope and stability for what is to come. There is comfort in ritual. And we create it, even if we think we’re opposed to it.

How do you order today? What are those intentional practices you engage in that give your tasks meaning? Maybe it’s a special prayer you say before each meal. Perhaps it’s going to the same space each day to meditate or read God’s word. It could be an early morning walk as you gaze at the wonder of a new day opening up, or a late night glance at the stars holding court in the night sky.

We all create rituals, and these small moments of the sacred infused into our day are the ties that bind us to God’s beloved kingdom. Rituals, whether practiced corporately or alone, build community. In the Gospels, we see Jesus pausing throughout his missionary journey to engage in rituals. There was the Lord’s Supper on the night before he was arrested, there was the reading of Scripture in the synagogues, and the mixing of mud and spit before a healing. Though Jesus’s ministry was itinerant, it was grounded by rituals both big and small. And it was the practice of those rituals which helped the disciples recognize Jesus upon his resurrection.

Rituals don’t have to be huge. We can practice them simply, quietly, in the midst of our busy days. They are a moment, however brief, to feel God’s loving presence, and to know that we are not alone.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

“Slow down!” I called, pulling in with both arms on a leash stretched taut between our big baby of a Great Dane puppy and my hand–her barreling down the trail and me being dragged behind. “You go my pace! I don’t go yours!” I cried as she finally came to a standstill, looking back at me with an expression of annoyance that clearly communicated I needed to do a better job of keeping up.

The problem of ploughing pell-mell through the woods (beyond a dislocated shoulder) is that we miss the wonder and beauty and peace that comes from contemplating all of creation on display around us. There’s not time to pause and ponder the bright yellow leaf that has fallen, absolutely perfectly, into the middle of the path. There’s no time to stop and stare eye-to-eye at the brown-eyed doe tentatively assessing whether it’s safe to cross the path. There’s no time to marvel at the way the crisp, cool air expands your lungs, and the how the earth smells sharp and rich as it seeks to reclaim the leaves and twigs and smashed nut shells of the previous season. There’s just no time…

This is how I often feel during the season of Advent (yes, it’s still a thing; no, it’s not a countdown to Christmas), like I’m being pulled through something marvelous that I really want to stop and enjoy, but there’s just no time. Where Christmas is bright, big, and boisterous, Advent is retracted and reflective, requiring a certain amount of stillness and awareness. These are qualities our society does not endorse. And so we sprint through it to take in as much of the holiday hoopla as we can instead of waiting and watching and listening for the arrival of the holy, like those wise bridesmaids Jesus spoke of in the gospels.

In the above Scripture passage, the prophet Micah is lamenting the path the people of Israel have chosen. They have relegated God to an afterthought, and instead of listening for him, instead of watching and waiting for the deliverance God longs to bring, the people are living as they wish. The people of Israel rush around seeking to make themselves happy in a misguided attempt to close the gaping hole that no amount of money, power, luxury goods, or food seems to fill. There is conflict and animosity, injustice and idolatry in the wreckage of God’s perfect order.

And then there is Micah, who must feel like he’s screaming into the wind, compelling the people of Israel to remember before it’s too late that God only wants these things from them: to be just, to choose love, and to walk in humble obedience with God. But God’s path is a slow one, filled with detours and unexpected pit stops, and the people have no desire for such a seeming waste of time. So Micah sits, pulling his cloak around him, and waits–believing with every fiber of his being that he will see the Lord’s salvation when it comes. Micah stops to watch. He stills himself to listen. He doesn’t check his watch, add to his to-do list, or strategize a shopping plan. He just waits. And hopes. And listens. Do you know what Micah hears in the waiting? He hears the voice of God.

This is the beauty of Advent, if we truly allow ourselves to indulge in it. As we wait, as we watch, as we still ourselves to listen, we, too, can hear the voice of God. Sometimes it comes in wonder, as we gaze at God’s beauty in nature or in the companionship of those we love. Sometimes it comes in song, as we pause to listen to Christmas hymns both new and old. Sometimes it comes in Scripture, as we take time to dive into God’s word and find revelation anew. And sometimes it comes in the quiet of our stilled thoughts…a soft and gentle whisper nudging us in a specific direction or wrapping us up in acceptance and love.

Newbery Award Winning Author Madeline L’Engle puts it this way:

Advent calls us into a holy stillness. While the world whirls in a carousel of frenetic energy, blurring our thoughts and confounding our senses, we are called to hop off the ride and sit, like Micah, on the side of the road…waiting and watching…believing with every fiber of our beings, that we will see the salvation of the Lord. Come, Lord Jesus….

Blessings and Peace,

Sara