Messages

As I’ve thought about the difference between the calm that comes with knowing we’ve done what we could, and not knowing what we can do, I’ve remembered the Hebrew bible instructions like, “You shall not wear cloth made from wool and linen woven together. You shall put tassels on the four corners of the cloak that you wrap around yourself.” Maybe these are the things God gave them to do to assure themselves that they were faithful, that they had done, at least, what they could do. Maybe we need the same kinds of things in our life. Not tassels. Not separating wool from linen. But other things. What would it take for me to feel as though I had been at least a minimal amount of faithful?

Dan explores the Quaker belief in "that of God in everyone," emphasizing that this divine presence is not a human trait but a reflection of God's relationship with each person. He warns against mistaking human goodness or conscience for the presence of God, as people often fail one another. Using a parable about a horse judge who sees beyond physical traits to true quality, Dan illustrates how God perceives people beyond external characteristics. He urges listeners to recognize every person's value as a child of God, striving to see through human flaws with divine perspective, even when difficult.

"We began this morning with a passage by the preacher and theologian Howard Thurman in which Thurman alludes to how difficult it is for us to be vulnerable, to allow ourselves to be seen when we are overwhelmed, or damaged, outsmarted or paralyzed, or simply in physical or emotional pain so great it diminishes our ability to think. One of our defensive mechanisms to being in that position of diminishment is to deny that we are. To make light of our pain, to make light of our confusion, to make light of not knowing what to do. We deny these things because they point to our human vulnerability. When we acknowledge them, we seem weak to ourselves, unable to meet the responsibilities of personhood and our responsibilities to those for whom we care. We would rather give to God, and probably even to those closest to us, a less than complete version of ourselves than to include within the picture the part of us that stands quivering and unknowing, pained and panic stricken."

The reason I keep thinking about this particular little story is that it is such a useful image to me of the virtue of faithfulness, of doing what we are called to do no matter whether we see the results or not. I don’t want to suggest that Jim was following the Spirit’s leading when he brought that water up here in the first place; he may have been, or it may have been something less, I don’t know. But I think of this story as an analogy of what we do for faithfulness: we try to follow our leadings, try to act on the motions of love that are given to us—and try to free ourselves from measuring the results."

"So what I love about the shepherd’s voice, in Buechner’s story, is the way he suddenly comes to realize that God’s love is all around him—and really always has been, but something has broken through the daze of the everyday, and now he can suddenly see it, feel it, receive it: 'The air wasn’t just empty, it was alive. Brightness everywhere, dipping and wheeling like a flock of birds...We ran through a sea of wings and moonlight and the silvery wool of the sheep.'”