On Monday, we planted our feet in the reality of our tiny-ness. We stared like dopes into cereal boxes and walked around with cardboard over our heads because our eyes cannot handle the brilliance of 1% of the sun.
Like many of you, I felt sick on August 12 after scrolling through line after line about the protests that were happening in Charlottesville. And if I felt sick on Saturday, I can’t imagine what my fellow beach compatriots must have felt.
Paul says that there is a war, and that it’s raging. It isn’t a war between Jews and Gentiles. It isn’t between us and them, or between right and wrong, or left and right. It is between law and grace. It is an internal war between I-can-do-it-on-my-own (independence) and come-to-me all-who-are-weary (dependence). It is between you-get-what-you-deserve and find-rest for-your-souls.
When I was in seminary, I was told that every passage of Scripture could point to baptism or communion. Any text could and should move the congregation towards one of these two sacraments.
Today is Pentecost. Unlike Christmas and Easter, however, you’ll find no displays in Target. No chocolate filled flames, no marshmallow tongues of fire or Pentecost-Red bead necklaces.
It was my back pain that got me in the yoga studio, but it is the Psalmist who keeps me coming back. “Be still and know that I am God,” he writes.