Taking a Daily “Time Out”

Then he (Jesus) told this story to some who boasted of their virtue and scorned everyone else:

“Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a proud, self-righteous Pharisee, and the other a cheating tax collector. The proud Pharisee ‘prayed’ this prayer: ‘Thank God, I am not a sinner like everyone else, especially that tax collector over there! For I never cheat, I don’t commit adultery, I go without food twice a week, and I give to God a tenth of everything I earn.’

“But the corrupt tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed, but beat upon his chest in sorrow, exclaiming, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner.’ I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home forgiven! For the proud shall be humbled, but the humble shall be honored.”

(Luke 189-14, Living Bible)

Recently I was asking a friend who found a new church home about what drew them there, and she said, among other things that “It was the only church could find that offered me the gift of confession.” I’ve been thinking about her phrase “the gift of confession”. It doesn’t capture the way I usually think about that word or process — you know, of “coming clean”, of getting honest with the Living God about my living days and broken ways. And then I reflect on these words:

“Remember that our Lord Jesus can sympathize with us in our weaknesses, since in every respect he was tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with boldness approach the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16)

How I need mercy and grace! Though sometimes I lose sight of these when I lose touch with my own frailty and opt instead for the delusion of self-righteousness, that old, primal temptation given to humanity way back in the garden of eden: “You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” What a delusion, and what a temptation still.

I think I need a daily time out to start over again with this God of mercy and grace, who I’m told is not waiting with anger but filled with what Israel calls “Hesed”, that is, steadfast love, with mercy and grace in the moment when I desperately need just such. The trick is that grace is only my experience when I’m up front and honest about my need for it, and why. And here is where my honest confession to God becomes a gift. I can begin again with a clean heart and mind, with a new chance to love up and out; I can renew the day with a lightened burden in the presence of the risen Christ who bids me to come and find rest.

Maybe that gets a little bit at what my friend meant when she talked about “The Gift of Confession”. Maybe honest confession, though not easy, though often painful and embarrassing, really is good for our souls. For we come home even in our sins to the One who has loved us with an everlasting love, and whose grace to begin again is always abundantly flowing like a rushing summer river.

I think the prayer of the tax collector is a gift too, because it’s short and sweet and easy to own: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” It’s easy to repeat with the cadence of every breath, a constant plea, an unburdening of sorrow, an expression all at one time of utter despair and trust in the One who I know loves me. I can fill in the blanks, I can find the details in my secret heart. And in this honest confession I find again and again a word of release, and a lightened burden, and surprisingly, a distinct sense that all is well again.

A daily time out is what I need, to come back home to God’s grace and mercy in my time of need. How about you?

Peter Hawkinson

The Beach at Night

Last week, when it was hot, hot, hot, I wanted to go to the beach. I had spent the money earlier this summer on beach passes for myself and a friend, and yet hadn’t gotten myself down to the water. There was always a good reason, and some beyond my control: poor air quality, too much bacteria in the water. Beaches closed for lifeguard training. My own schedule too busy.

And on the day I was absolutely positively going to do myself a favor and go lay in the sun for a while, read a book, and take a dip, I cleaned my condo. Took my dog on a playdate. Had a nap.

But something in me – maybe it’s the part that takes external accountability super seriously – prompted me to go anyway, because I’d told a few people I was going to. I remembered that, last summer, during a similar heatwave, I packed up some things, drove Zoe down to the beach with me, waited for the lifeguards to leave at the end of the day, and then went for a swim.

So that’s just what we did.

We waited, cautiously, until all of the Parks Department staff had left, the “no lifeguard on duty” signs were up, and much of the crowd dispersed as twilight settled in. We watched for signals of other dog owners bringing their companions onto the beach, and lurked by the entrance with some other unsure pet parents. And finally, one brave man tucked his little chihuahua under his arm and strode confidently onto the sand.

That was all it took. Zoe and I raced out into the fast-emptying beach. I threw down my towel, took off my cover-up, hooked up her long leash, and dove into the water.

I remembered what I love so much about the beach at night.

As we played in the waves, and watched other dogs run around, chasing balls, sniffing at the water, digging in the sand, I felt so free.

I noticed other people coming onto the beach, now that the crowds were gone. People like me, coming by themselves. People who might not have had companions to come with earlier in the day, or who weren’t comfortable baring their skin before harsh sun or critical eyes. People who wore headscarves or hijabs instead of bikinis, or had a kid who behaved just a little differently and needed extra space and permission to just be, and not be explained or excused.

It was a community of the quirky, the different, the “others.”

And it felt so good. So welcoming, and accepting, and free.

We splashed in the water, Zoe running in and out and across the beach and as far as her long line would let her, me trying to dive in to the water while the waves got higher and faster as a storm crept in. And when we finally came up onto the sand, and sat on my towel, watching the lightning move east, I breathed my deepest breath in days.

I remembered that I love these nighttime swims, because they are always ultimately about more than getting Zoe into the water on a hot day.

Because they remind me, in a surprising way, of what the church is, at her best.

That welcoming, beautiful, accepting space of everyone who might not fit somewhere else. Who might be “too” something or “not enough” something: too big, too loud, too talkative, too direct; not accomplished enough or rich enough or smart enough or connected enough.

There is space for everyone. Perhaps especially those that the world rejects, or ignores.

Of course, this isn’t always how the church behaves. But it is who and what we’re called to be. And at our best, this is very much what we look like: like the crowds at the beach at night. Where everyone is welcome and no one is turned away.

I hope, in these complicated and divisive times, that we can continue to pursue this way of being. This holy and welcoming space in the world.

And if you need to see an example – well, come find me and Zoe some night. We’ll take you to our beach. And remind you of what could be.

-Pastor Jen

The Beach at Night

Last week, when it was hot, hot, hot, I wanted to go to the beach. I had spent the money earlier this summer on beach passes for myself and a friend, and yet hadn’t gotten myself down to the water. There was always a good reason, and some beyond my control: poor air quality, too much bacteria in the water. Beaches closed for lifeguard training. My own schedule too busy.

And on the day I was absolutely positively going to do myself a favor and go lay in the sun for a while, read a book, and take a dip, I cleaned my condo. Took my dog on a playdate. Had a nap.

But something in me – maybe it’s the part that takes external accountability super seriously – prompted me to go anyway, because I’d told a few people I was going to. I remembered that, last summer, during a similar heatwave, I packed up some things, drove Zoe down to the beach with me, waited for the lifeguards to leave at the end of the day, and then went for a swim.

So that’s just what we did.

We waited, cautiously, until all of the Parks Department staff had left, the “no lifeguard on duty” signs were up, and much of the crowd dispersed as twilight settled in. We watched for signals of other dog owners bringing their companions onto the beach, and lurked by the entrance with some other unsure pet parents. And finally, one brave man tucked his little chihuahua under his arm and strode confidently onto the sand.

That was all it took. Zoe and I raced out into the fast-emptying beach. I threw down my towel, took off my cover-up, hooked up her long leash, and dove into the water.

I remembered what I love so much about the beach at night.

As we played in the waves, and watched other dogs run around, chasing balls, sniffing at the water, digging in the sand, I felt so free.

I noticed other people coming onto the beach, now that the crowds were gone. People like me, coming by themselves. People who might not have had companions to come with earlier in the day, or who weren’t comfortable baring their skin before harsh sun or critical eyes. People who wore headscarves or hijabs instead of bikinis, or had a kid who behaved just a little differently and needed extra space and permission to just be, and not be explained or excused.

It was a community of the quirky, the different, the “others.”

And it felt so good. So welcoming, and accepting, and free.

We splashed in the water, Zoe running in and out and across the beach and as far as her long line would let her, me trying to dive in to the water while the waves got higher and faster as a storm crept in. And when we finally came up onto the sand, and sat on my towel, watching the lightning move east, I breathed my deepest breath in days.

I remembered that I love these nighttime swims, because they are always ultimately about more than getting Zoe into the water on a hot day.

Because they remind me, in a surprising way, of what the church is, at her best.

That welcoming, beautiful, accepting space of everyone who might not fit somewhere else. Who might be “too” something or “not enough” something: too big, too loud, too talkative, too direct; not accomplished enough or rich enough or smart enough or connected enough.

There is space for everyone. Perhaps especially those that the world rejects, or ignores.

Of course, this isn’t always how the church behaves. But it is who and what we’re called to be. And at our best, this is very much what we look like: like the crowds at the beach at night. Where everyone is welcome and no one is turned away.

I hope, in these complicated and divisive times, that we can continue to pursue this way of being. This holy and welcoming space in the world.

And if you need to see an example – well, come find me and Zoe some night. We’ll take you to our beach. And remind you of what could be.

-Pastor Jen