Litanies & Prayers

In the book by his name, Job is addressed directly by the Lord God: “Gird up you loins, oh human one! I have questions for you. See if you can answer.

“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Who laid its cornerstone, when the morning stars sang together and all the children of God shouted for joy?

“Who shut in the sea with doors when it burst forth from my womb and fashioned its garment with clouds?

Jesus said to his disciples:
     Want to travel the Way with me?
     Then get over yourself, step out on the road,
     get in the way of every hostile host,
     and follow my lead.

Gonna get on the Way, walkin’ every day, no matter what
     they say or think, we’re gettin’ in the way.

Oh, but couldn’t we just believe in you, Jesus? We’ve got
     lots of books on that, and bumper stickers to spare.

And after they had eaten, Jesus took his disciples, walking east, away from the Old City of Jerusalem and its Temple Mount, descending through the Kidron Valley, and up again to the Mount of Olives and a garden named Gethsemane. Maybe he was tempted to keep on going.

But he stopped. To watch, to wait, to pray.

And the text says he was sorrowed and sad, anxious and anguished, troubled and tried and tempted to run.

Picture this, if you can: The Lord God of Hosts stands at the church house door, at the pulpit, at the communion table, maybe even at the potluck dinner counter, hands perched on hips, lips pursed and brows furrowed, voice wavering with a parental mixture of broiling anger and urgent affection, saying:

What in heaven’s name has gotten into you dimwitted people of the Promise, you ninny-headed, shallow-hearted sucklings of the Most High God!

From the lofty perch of Creation’s spire, your presidents and parliaments, your bankers and barons—they all look pretty puny to me.

One: The mighty One—Blessed be the Name!—speaks and summons the earth, from the rising of the sun to its setting.

All: Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God shines in brilliant radiance.

One: The Beloved comes and does not keep silence; a devouring fire lights the way, and a mighty tempest marks the moment.

Merciful One, for You alone does my soul wait in silence. Our only hope comes from Your presence.

I believe. Help my unbelief.

You alone are my rock and my salvation and my fortress. I shall not be shaken. We shall not be moved.

For what do we hope?

We hope for the Beloved’s Promise to overtake the world’s broken-hearted threat.

For what do we long?

There are, to be sure, moments of high drama in the
work of holy obedience:
     marches to be made,
     confrontations to be staged,
     dangers to be endured,
     corruption to be exposed,
     trips made to distant and unfamiliar places,
     maybe even jail cells to be filled.

On rare occasions, the whole world is watching.

Much more often, the storyline of faith is lived without
notoriety, is forged without fanfare:
     in familiar places,
     in small acts of courage against petty tyrants,
     with commonplace forbearance in the midst
           of garden-variety stress.

Sisters and brothers, these are among the convictions that we harbor and herald:

Faith is not belief in spite of the evidence. Faith is life lived in scorn of the consequences.*

Faith isn’t a set of doctrines you agree to; or a set of religious habits you keep; or a particular emotion you feel.

Come, oh come, every supplicant soul, remember—how tender!—the story foretold.

The story—such splendor!—of love so astounding, of mercy resounding and pardon abounding.

Confounding the ransom of death’s dark dominion; restoring, imploring the earth’s fertile care.