How long, O Lord? This anguished cry flows from the mouths of millions of beleaguered folks in this, the richest nation in the world. We hear reports of the wealth of our richest citizens and see on our streets those who have no place to sleep. We pass beggars at intersections with their cardboard signs asking for a pittance. Our star athletes are offered monumental amounts of money to play the sports we so avidly watch, and even those among them who grossly misbehave can afford fines in the millions of dollars.
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — / I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference.” — Robert Frost. I hadn’t read this poem in years and so, when a friend recently included it in an email, it brought back memories.
I wish I was home for Christmas. Home means eating cinnamon rolls made by my mom, playing with my nieces and nephews, meeting up with friends we haven’t seen all year. Home means getting to have cheese fries at my favorite restaurant and hugging my partner’s 80-year- old grandmother who I love like my own.
As a new year begins for the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), synod and presbytery leaders share their resolutions for the church. Among those resolutions are challenging congregations to do something radically new without worrying about failure, lifting voices often ignored and widening the witness of being a Matthew 25 presence in the world.
It seems that in today’s culture, the “bigger is better” philosophy is all around us. Supercenters, 75-inch flat-screen televisions and mega-sized smartphones have become the norm. The church is not immune to this growing trend (pun intended), as many communities are seeing the growth of the megachurch — churches with hundreds in worship, often across multiple campuses and varying service times. It is as if the larger the church membership becomes, the healthier the church is perceived to be, leaving smaller congregations often feeling inadequate. While megachurches may appear to be the new norm, statistics paint a different picture.
I received a text from a friend instructing me to “bring a yoga mat, blanket, pillow or whatever you’d like for resting comfortably on the floor.” I was going to be joining her at a nap ministry event.
As you travel on a patchwork section of Interstate 75 in Southwest Detroit and cross the River Rouge, this scene emerges before you: towers and tanks spreading out on both sides of the road, constituting a massive Marathon petroleum refinery.
“Did you write this?”
I glanced at the page. Squarish letters in black ink with variable-width strokes. Just the kind I used to make with a chisel-end pen. Just the kind I inscribed on numerous baptismal certificates and wedding records over the years. Definitely my work.
Do you ever get irritated when reading genealogies in the Bible? All that “so-and-so begat so-and-so…” Most of the time, we just skip over these lists of unpronounceable names to get to the good parts that really matter. Yet, genealogies hold deep meaning for us if we pause a moment and consider them closely. This is especially true for the genealogy in the first chapter of the Gospel of Matthew.
