From The Sheep Pen

Where can I go from your spirit? Where can I go from your presence? Psalm 139

Christians, especially those of us who claim  to be “spirit filled”, that is filled with  the Holy Spirit, often talk about being “in the presence of God.” Often, especially during worship time  something  in the spiritual atmosphere shifts, becomes “charged” and touches worshiper’s hearts, emotions and spirits. Many of today’s  worship songs invite God’s Presence into the house and into our hearts.  Some describe it  as a “weight or heaviness”  which is noticeably  different from the normal coffee klatsch  atmosphere  in church  prior to the  service.   In  the Old Testament  God’s shekinah, the weight of  God’s glorious Presence  caused prophets to fall on their faces in awe and trembling. I long for such a  glory to fall on us during the gathering darkness. I long for the full measure of Holy Spirit’s Presence  in our  Sunday service – and welcome Him at any time before that.

In the 17^th century Brother Lawrence, a humble friar,  described  how he encountered  God’s Presence   in his everyday  monastic activities. For him, God was to be found always and everywhere whether  in the sanctuary or the  kitchen (which was  his usual workplace). Prayer was an ongoing conversation with the Lord who  permeated his thoughts, actions and words.  His writings were later compiled into a small book, “Practicing the Presence of God.” It is a Christian classic  and a joy to read. I’d highly recommend it. https://www.amazon.com/Practice-Presence-God-Brother-Lawrence/dp/1684226422

I believe that Brother  Lawrence  practiced  the true concept of  “mindfulness,” in that  his mind was full of God,  filled with Holy Spirit. His intentional awareness of God  is the polar opposite of the mindfulness which comes from Buddhist and Hindu  religions which focus on  the here and now in order to detach  from all feelings, emotions and distractions. Unlike   Brother Lawrence who embraced the living God into his experiences, un -Christian mindfulness  empties  the mind  of self to reach enlightenment and eventual Nirvana or nothingness. It is integrally tied into the bondage of karma and reincarnation.

            In Buddhism, nirvana refers to realization of non-self and emptiness, marking the end of rebirth by stilling the fires that keep the process of rebirth going. Wikepedia

Instead of God’s  living Presence within us, instead of having Jesus’s Light shine forth from us,  instead of Holy Spirit breathing eternal life now and  forever with the Father, eastern mindfulness  offers captivity and appalling nothingness. The word is a tragic misnomer and a wicked lie.  By focusing on the self alone, the self becomes its own deity. As such, it denies God’s omnipotence and authority.  It argues with God as to who or what  controls life. It rejects the Gospel of salvation and our  need for Jesus. It thumbs its nose at God’s promises of never leaving  us. Instead, utterly alone, helpless and hopeless, we’re left  sitting on our own thrones, meditating how to annihilate them.

We shouldn’t be surprised that  since the 60’s when  God’s Holy Spirit  began to be openly rejected by western culture, “mindfulness and meditation” came in from the East as part of New Age spirituality.  Today prayer in school is out but  meditation is  being taught in schools to  our children, ostensibly for relaxation and  concentration. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/testing-prayer/201412/mindfulness-meditation-in-public-schools

Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll take a humble monk’s spiritual kneeling  before God  instead.

Truthfully, I’m only beginning to grasp the mystery of  God’s Presence. I know what the Bible says.  I’ve even had fleeting moments in God’s Presence and experienced the Holy Spirit’s power. But the 18 inches between head and heart are filled  with questions.  Where is God? God is both omnipresent and present here as I write. How can that be possible? Well, He is God  of course, but that’s just reasoning in circles and doesn’t really clarify much. I desire God to become present in my heart the way Brother Lawrence encountered. It is after all the divine encounter we seek.

Recently I was upstairs doing something  very ordinary. My husband Dan was downstairs doing likewise. I couldn’t see him or hear him, but I knew He was present in the house with me. I knew because we’ve lived together for a life time so  I not only know when he’s around but there’s a deeper sense of his presence  which is more than physical. It’s tangible in all of my life. Why? Because we’ve done life together sharing  joy, sorrow, life and death. The good,  the bad and the in between.  The big moments and countless small ones. I know Dan and am always aware of him.

And there was the Aha moment. So too God. The more I know God , the more  I share my life with Him, the more His Presence becomes apparent to me. God is Spirit  and  Spirit cannot be confined. He is always in the  universe, in the house or the room or the car  I’m in. Whether we speak or are silent,  He Who Is loves me. He   fills the atmosphere with Himself.  Such knowledge is too wonderful. The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard describes when 

“My conscience  became  aware that the eye of God sees me and ever since then, it is impossible for me to forget that  I am seen by Him. ” (paraphrased from the German)

Likewise, once we  understand God’s Eye is the  metaphor for always being seen by Him, we  therefore are never unseen by God. We’re always in His  Presence and we too are undone.

            Sting   Hebrew:  parash To cut into;  Greek: kentron. A goad or spur

Autumn is my favorite season and this year it has been  exceptional. The sun drenched days and cool nights are perfect.  Although there aren’t many deciduous tree  on our property,  the yellow green aspens and occasional fiery maples  are all the prettier for their rarity. They can stand up to any colorscape  in upstate New York or Maine. Because my flowers are still blooming and there are still veggies, especially kale and carrots , I’ve been reluctant to bed down the gardens for the winter. Nevertheless, a few days ago we agreed it was time to pull out the tomato plants.

Suddenly, a wasp flew  right at me and got me in the arm.  Ouch!  Not good. I’m allergic to bees and wasps  and while  the sting wasn’t  dangerous, I knew I’d have a reaction. First I was mad because I’ve gone all summer without being stung. Why now?  Oh, well, I knew what to do – put ice on the bite and  take an antihistamine at Dan’s insistence. It helped, but  my arm’s red and swollen up to  my elbow.  Since then, that tiny wasp’s poison has spread and itches incessantly.

I am always amazed how the smallest cut or bruise or sting can steal all of one’s  attention.  Get a hangnail or tiny paper cut, stub your toe hard enough, or wake up with  a kink in your neck or throbbing toothache and that’s all you  think about. While the rest of my body may be fit as a fiddle, a single  misery  will dominate  my thoughts.  Ever since Tuesday I just want to scratch the itch until it goes away, knowing full well that the more  I irritate the sore spot, the worse the itching becomes.  It’s a nasty cycle.

Our adversary the  devil doesn’t always show up like a wolf or ravenous lion, preying by stealth and attacking in the open.  He doesn’t always  arrange  forbidden  fruit to pop up  on the Internet or orchestrate a car accident waiting around the bend or be in the middle of the dreaded doctor’s report for he knows exactly how to take us out. When catastrophes happen,  the  mature Christian’s  trust in God  rises above the calamity. It’s in life’s every day bumpety bumps where we typically get  ensnared, especially  by offenses.

Offenses are like wasps. They fly out of nowhere, sting exactly where we’re vulnerable and leave a toxin in our souls.  Offenses are where the devil’s wasp nest  grows and misdirects us from God through   small,  irritating encounters.  We’re far more fragile than we  care to admit. An unkindness or rejection from someone we admire can torment us for days.   How often has a snarky  comment   become toxic to  our self esteem and to a  relationship?  How often does righteous criticism  from a loved one become   a sore tooth which we can’t leave alone? How often when God doesn’t answer us quickly, the devil’s right there stinging and whispering, “See, why bother praying.  He doesn’t hear you.  Or see you.“  Offenses  sting and our wounded pride keeps  scratching  and scratching at the sore spot until  the perceived offense is  ten times bigger. It steals  our peace  of mind and love  for  one another.

Psalm 91 is my go to prayer in times of trouble both great and small.  It’s a prayer for protection from the world’s wickedness and the devil’s wiles.  As we take shelter under the shadow of the Almighty,  God  protects us from the arrows which fly  by day and the  pestilence  that walks in darkness.  The Lord encharges us to angels who carry us through the rough times so that our feet would not stumble upon  the rocks  –   of offenses and temptations. He  promises that those who love His Name will trample on lions and cobras.  Therefore be still ,  know that the Lord of Hosts is with us,   forgive  every offense just as you’ve been forgiven  and in the blessed name of Jesus, smite that wasp and destroy the devil’s sting. 

Hear, you deaf! And look, you blind, that you may see. Isaiah 42:18

I was heading to McCall for an early (for me!)  meeting with a prayer group. It was a beautiful autumn morning. The valley held veils of  mist and fog, but the smoke which has shrouded mountain and valley in several counties was gone. I headed into Goose Creek canyon and because I was running a little late, I had to find extra measures of grace and patience for the old truck ahead of me plodding well below the speed limit. Why does it happen like that, I wondered?   Whenever I try to be on time for an appointment either it’s a logging truck chugging up the grade or  some  tailgating guy   six inches from my bumper  trying to pass in the canyon.  I took a slow breath and tried to enjoy the morning sun light slanting through the trees, through  the windshield which I hadn’t bothered to clean since the last trip to Boise.  

But then I entered a curve  where I headed directly into the face of the sun and the road was shadowed by the mountain.  The intense light blinded me.  Momentarily  I couldn’t see the road or anything else. The filthy windshield was a road map   magnifying  the   smeared bugs and dirt from my attempt to use the windshield wipers.  I was literally driving blindly through the curves.

I’d hit a blind spot. And then several more until I got out of the canyon.   It’s a phenomena where the  sun and shadow meet  almost as if they were lined up on top of each other.  Whenever the sun is lower in the sky, often early in the morning or right before sunset those blind spots  are most unpleasant and dangerous.   I knew to  slow down,  sit up a little higher to avoid the sun’s glare and focus on the white fog lines  on the right side of the road … and follow the red reflectors of the slow poke truck ahead. I made it safely and almost on time to my meeting. Afterwards  I headed  straight to a gas station to clean that dirty windshield.

In my journeying with the Lord, there have been many blind spots where suddenly there’s an incident out of the blue and I simply  cannot see the road I’m on.  A person or incident “blindsides us” and it is only the grace of God which keeps us from driving off the cliff.  How can you  safely navigate  through   life’s unexpected  blind spots?  It is by keeping the  wind shield of God’s Word clean of dead things,  by remaining alert and aware of  God’s Presence and trusting in God to help in the shadows  (like the fog lines and the truck’s reflections ahead of my car ).  

There is another kind of blind spot which Jesus addressed specifically with the Pharisees to call  out their hypocrisy. 

³ And why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye, but do not consider the plank in your own eye? ⁴ Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me remove the speck from your eye’; and look, a plank is in your own eye?   ⁵ Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye. Matthew 7:3-5

Jesus said that our  speck in the eye, our blind spot is as large as a tree trunk and yet we can’t see it.  Our perspective is skewered  and self deceptive for how can a blind person see his own blindness? It’s the secret places  where Jesus  hasn’t touched our heart, where a piece of the “old man” hangs out to distort how we see ourselves and others. Our blind spots are where we become vulnerable to the world, the flesh and the devil,  where we fall into sins  of pride, rejection, unfogiveness and  judging others. Jesus’ admonishment is clear. Hypocrite! Look into the mirror of your own soul and take care of business there. And since you can’t see your own blindness, pray that the Holy Spirit can and will do so.  The Spirit may call you to humble yourself by inviting a trusted friend into your life:

“I know I have  blind spots in my life but I can’t see them. Will you help me to see them and expose them to the  light and life of Jesus?”

Pronoun: a word or word phrase that takes the place of a noun to which it refers.

I write this with  great sadness:  the “pronoun war”  has come to our family. Several months ago we learned that a beloved granddaughter  no longer “identifies”  as a female, has chosen a  different  name and wants to be referred to as “he”, not “she”.  I’ve been in shock   ever since trying to wrap my brain around this. What in the world happened to this beautiful, gifted   child of God in just a few years?  The Creator  who fashioned   my granddaughter in the womb  knew her before she was born.  He formed her DNA, her XX chromosomes and He has not suddenly changed His mind. God does not make mistakes and He does not authorize  gender confusion. As a female – daughter, wife, mother and grandmother-  I do not understand  why and how  children   violently reject their own biology, creating  family turmoil and broken  relationships. We can put the blame on all kinds of societal  problems bubbling up like swamp gas, but the answer is  as old as the  snake in the Garden.  The Prince of Darkness’ tactics have never  changed; he’s surfaced to lie, steal and destroy again, this time our precious children.  

When I write , think, pray and hope  it is for  “her”  and not “him” but family conversations are becoming extremely  awkward. After a recent phone call with our daughter who now refers to her daughter as a male, (something I cannot judge her for) husband Dan said he feels likes if he’s constantly tripping over his own tongue, not knowing which pronoun to use, wanting to be respectful but unable in his mind and heart to condone the fantasy. The real incongruity has to do with English grammar and linguistics.  When I speak to our granddaughter,  (in linguistic terms, in the second person) I say “you” as in “Hi,  Sweetheart, How are you doing.” It’s only when I speak about  her to someone else (in the third person)  that  the pronouns (he, she it, him, her, us, etc.) are used. So why would  a gender fluid, i.e. confused person want a pronoun of the third person which can  only be used when someone was speaking about them and never be used in a direct conversation? Is it important? Well, yes, because it takes the onus away from the person in question and forces everyone else to  comply by changing how we talk, refer to  – and eventually think – about that person who isn’t even present in the conversation.  

It is language control.  Pronouns matter because language matters and  the pronoun war is not a minor skirmish.   We think in words, in the specific native language we’re born into or grow up in. Words shape us for good or for evil from the minute we’re born, by what we hear before we can actually speak to our first words to eventual language maturity.  Scientists have never been able to explain why people are wired for language and are befuddled by its very existence.  Our minds create utter nonsense or soar into  divine poetry through words.

In the Bible James warns severely   about the power of the tongue for life or for death.  Our words can love our neighbor or curse him, praise God or admire the devil.  Words can be manipulated by those in authority who want to control, confuse and  manipulate  men and women. George Orwell  warned of such tyranny in 1984:  “Control language and you control the masses.”  Think of Stalin, Lenin, Hitler, and Mao who keenly understood that language is the ultimate weapon against one’s mind. Every word  counts. 

To illustrate, let’s review a little grade school English grammas. By definition, a pronoun is a word that takes the place of or refers to a noun and in English both noun and pronoun must agree in gender (male or female) and number,(singular or plural). The function of  pronouns is to communicate  information about a noun without  constantly repeating  it so  they literally take the place of the  name or noun when we speak or write.  Here’s an example. “I just saw Mary and spoke with her. She said that her aunt was in the hospital.” The word Mary is implied in the pronouns “her” and “she”  and agree in number (singular) and gender (feminine.) It is simple, direct and not confusing language at work. Now if  a biological female decides to be addressed with male pronouns, every noun “he or him”  refers to also should be male gender language wise. You cannot have “him” refer to daughter, sister, or woman without the conversation getting totally bolloxed.  You then have  to change  all words that don’t  agree with  whatever pronouns you identify with.  The pronoun has literally displaced, taken the place and  manipulated meaning. Change language and you change reality. 

 Brothers and Sisters, be aware that language is being   hijacked for evil purposes and we are held for ransom in the name of tolerance. Instead of giving in to fear and hopelessness, I choose to follow Jesus, the Way, the Truth and the Life, to love our girl as He loves her and speak  truth in love when required.  Our hope and clear thinking  is only through Jesus , the Word of God , the Alpha and Omega of all language. Therefore,  we can take heart  from the Scriptures.

Grass withers and the flowers fade. But the Word of the Lord endures forever.  1.Peter  1:24-25

Then God said, ‘Let  the earth bring forth grass… Genesis 1:11-12.

It was a lovely, cool morning for a walk.  My dog Bandit bolted down the driveway, stopped at the road  and eyeballed me as to which direction  we’d take. He instinctively  knows when I’ll let him off leash to run and so it was. Below our  house, we turned onto the dirt road which wanders up the mountainside for several miles;  unfortunately it’s  plastered with “Private, No Trespassing, No Hunting”   signs and has at least three gates to keep people like me out.  However, Dan  advised there’s an  original right of way for the development so I figured the lawyer knows and it’s OK. I’ve never run into anyone in the dozens of times I’ve walked. Occasionally a few raucous ravens break the stillness to scold us, but the forest  bordering  the road is  beautiful and quiet in the mornings,  my dog  runs free and we’re both happy.

I am always fascinated  how  the forest is more than just “green.”  Once as a writing exercise, I listed vocabulary words to describe  “green”. Dozens came to mind. Many synonyms associate green with the natural world. My imaginary green crayon box holds emerald, pine, moss, sage, olive  and apple green. There’s sea foam green,  grey green of storm clouds,  bright green of  spring buds and the forest floor’s brackish green  carpeting. All around me  and my  energetic dog God planted every imaginable shade of green, from the lightest, brightest yellow green lichen attached to pine bark,  to the  dark green mausoleum  recesses  where sunlight  can’t  penetrate.  I wonder what grand green palette God has  stored  for us in heaven!

Our God created infinite variety in green forests. No two leaves or pine needles are exactly alike.  No tree touches  the heavens  or stretches its branches in the  same way.  No shrubs  are exact mirror images.   Wildflowers appear willy nilly. The more I look, the greater the seeing. It’s a vast green  landscape of texture, color and hue,  affected by the sun’s slanting light, by wind and shadow and seasons.  

  In high school science I learned that grass  is green because it contains chlorophyll and is  affected by light wavelengths.  That fact alone  is dizzying  because it points to the vaster, invisible molecular activities of life. More so is knowing that   all  green plant life takes in the carbon dioxide I exhale, breaks it apart  for fuel and  releases   oxygen which humans need to breathe. Only God can come up with such an astounding,  complex plan for life which I receive. Like the Psalm 8, in awe I  consider the  marvelous work of His Hands.

I took a walk this morning and found more than  trees  along the way.  The same Spirit that hovered over the deep  in Genesis,  the same Spirit who breathed life into all Creation,  is the same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead. By my faith in Jesus, the Holy Spirit now breathes  new life into  me while all  the marvelously wrought  green trees sigh in obedience and agreement.

Some time ago,

A small cluster  of wild blue asters

peered  at me through  rain dappled  undergrowth like curious eyes.

That was then  and I’ve been gone.

Today I found them growing still

in earth untouched by rain, as bright and lovely

as if they’d always sprung from rocks.

Blue petals wreath the  yellow center, like fragile feathers

 floating on  a topaz ring

I trod  more lightly.  There’s   blessing beneath my feet.

On the Third Day after all His mighty works,

after the Creator raised  mountains and carved  canyons

with a Word from His own loving heart,

after He spoke so  the forests greened,  the rose perfumed

and oceans overfilled, God said,

“Let us make wildflowers to grow on rocky paths,

from crevices splitting  hills,

from crags and scorched earth,

so when my  wandering children  

who stumble among the thorns and thistles 

with downcast  eyes and heavy hearts,

(as if they were not made for Light,)

I’ll let blue aster speak for Me:

“Lift up your head and know I’m always  near.

Heaven’s wilding at your feet.”

It’s another rainy June morning. I watch the rain dripping from the roof like the silvery fringe on a shawl;  the  rain chain overflows  with  rivulets of water to puddle below.   I want to get outside into the gardens but it’s too muddy and wet to do anything. So I content  myself with  being inside, admiring the scented lilacs which have grown thick and lush. I’m astonished at how  many shades of green God  creates in the pine trees and underbrush. Additionally, I am reminded that this wet, rainy June is not  unusual. My journal  from last year confirms  a June just as cool and damp as this one and I recall one year when it rained excessively in the spring, so much that  moss grew  in some of the flowers baskets. At least I don’t have to water the gardens today or tomorrow.

A few days ago on a day like this I busied myself cleaning out a desk drawer cluttered with papers, pens, and the flotsam and jetsam I accumulate. I found a stack of old greeting cards rubber banded together, ones I didn’t have the heart to throw out because they were too pretty and because they were from friends and family who are now on the other side of eternity. I found several from my mother Elisabeth who always sent special cards for special occasions. She never just dashed off her signature but filled  every available space in her tiny German handwriting with news about the family, with words of love, advice and encouragement. In the card I held, she mentioned my  great need of patience. Did she mean I shouldn’t be so  impatient with others? Or was it a mother’s prayer for a daughter to receive God’s infinite, patient help? Knowing my mother, she meant both. I still can’t  throw her cards away.

To this day, I love getting an actual card or letter in the mail from someone near or far away.  There is something special about tearing open an envelope and discovering the personal surprise inside. I have a friend who thoughtfully remembers all holidays and my birthdays with a card. She does the same for everyone in her large circle of friends.  Another friend makes beautiful hand crafted cards. I wouldn’t dream of tossing them away.   Both of my daughters are card senders. (My brother and son are happy with a short  text.)  I keep the special ones because they’re physical, personal connections   which remind me that I am remembered and loved by others.  My mother is gone, but her words written long ago still speak.

 In this too busy, too fast moving and too complex world, sending letters and cards has gone the way of  typewriters. .  Most of the time a quick text from the phone while we’re on the run to somewhere really important suffices. I plead guilty as charged and use texts far too often because it’s more convenient and quick and I don’t have to say very much. Why sometimes even a smiley face or heart icon will do. They’re universal symbols, right? Maybe, but they’re so overused, they’ve become meaningless. We use   baby talk when we have entire dictionaries in our heads.

When I pray, I wonder how I come across to God? How does He regard me as I speak?  How does He hear my words? As a thoughtful love letter, filled with praise and honor and glory for Him? Or as  quickie mental texts cobbled together  with worn out phrases I rattle off as I go about the next thing? 

Our Father has things to say to us. Better than a desk full of greeting cards, God gave us the Bible as His love letter to reveals His Spirit and Name,  to guide us in every possible situation and to draw us into communication with Him.  There are endless surprises and  eternal revelations within the covers of His Word/Letters/Book.  He speaks to us from the beginning to the end of time and I can hear His voice as clearly as I could hear my mother’s. Unlike my stack of old, precious  cards which one day will be thrown away, God’s Word never ceases, never ends, never fails.  His Word speaks  volumes into our hearts.  God does not text nor will He  dash off  cute little icons because He never hurries or rushes to speak.  How then shall we respond to such a marvelous gift from the One waiting for us to come nigh?  Hopefully,  we emulate the prophet Samuel  who made himself available wholeheartedly to hear, to listen and to respond to  God.

The LORD came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!” Then Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” 1. Samuel 3:10.

 Nothing less will do than the most special card we can inscribe with honest, grateful, adoring words flowing from us to Him.

The Lord upholdeth all that fall and raises up all those who are bowed down. Psalm 145:14

I was  hurrying through  Costco to get the last few items I needed before we headed home. The store wasn’t  crowded for a change so I took my time pushing the cart down the aisle.  I didn’t see the elderly man until he stopped right in front of me. He wore a baseball cap imprinted with a veterans’ logo and decorated with several pins, a worn, zip up jacket, baggy jeans and   a wooden cross around his neck. The cross was identical to ones a Lutheran friend gave me which I’ve always hung from the mirror inside  my car. Where did this man get the cross? Was there a Lutheran Christian store somewhere selling them? “I like your cross,” I said to the man.

He gave me a friendly smile. “Are you a Jesus believer?” he asked. Well,  that got right to the point., didn’t it. No Costco chit chat here in this aisle. I told him, Yes, I was a Jesus believer and  waited for him to say more. He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.  Are you familiar with …..    and  he named a well know Christian magazine. I told him I’d often read stories in that magazine  although it had been some time since I saw one. He told me his story.  He wrote an article for the magazine but  they sent him  a rejection letter because he didn’t  give  enough details about his life. “I wasn’t writing about myself,” he said. “I was writing about Jesus. Would you like to read it?” I would indeed. He left, I finished shopping and found Dan and the car. I couldn’t wait to read my Costco friend’s article.

There’s a cover letter dated two years ago giving  his name, address and phone number. His name is Virgil and he explains that he’s describing an event from forty years ago. There’s a very brief history of family, a military profession and the background of what happened. The bulk of the article is a vision of Jesus in which Virgil describes in beautiful, touching  details the One he saw.  The One he was testifying about. I don’t have his permission to include it all in my blog but I can add his postscript.

“I am eighty three years old. Despite heartache, disappointment and all the enemy has thrown at me, Jesus has held me up and kept me from falling and He will do the same for all who trust and obey Him. Reader, Jesus loves and cares for you.” He ends with Psalm 145.

That  magazine lost a gem of a story and  powerful testimony  about Jesus. But the power of God is such that He will never waste anything He has intended. Virgil’s story is God’s story  which  I’m honored to pass in part to you. I’m convinced Virgil continues to ask Costco shoppers (and I imagine everyone he meets) Are you a Jesus believer? Thank you for asking me. It was the best shopping experience  I’ve ever had.

Save now, I pray, O Lord; O Lord, I pray now. Psalm 118: 25

It is  Palm Sunday which always reminds me of my mother’s kitchen when I was a child. After we went to Mass  and  had our Sunday noon  dinner,  my mother  showed me how to  braid the  palm fronds  we’d gotten at church, shaping  them  into a  still fresh yellow- green cross. Every year she replaced last year’s dry and brittle palm cross with the new one, tucking it underneath the ceramic plate on the wall.  I knew about Palm Sunday, Holy Week  and Easter from the Gospel  read at church, but I don’t recall us ever discussing  Palm Sunday  – or Easter for that matter- in any depth. My parents were devout, but they didn’t pursue religious matters beyond the catechisms the church taught. Nevertheless, the Spirit of God must have touched my mother’s heart in a way I didn’t understand because the memory  of the braided cross lingers like a distant  lullaby.

Today I read through all four Gospel  accounts of  Palm Sunday, of Jesus’ entry  into Jerusalem, gleaning the Word of God for  hidden treasure. There are some  minor differences in the  text: Mark and Luke add that Jesus asked the two disciples to find a colt, “on which no one has sat.” In Luke  19:41, as Jesus  drew near to Jerusalem,  He wept over it because of their  rejection of him. John includes that the Pharisees also sought to kill Lazarus “because on account of him, many of the Jews believed in Jesus.” (12:10).  There is nothing contradictory in the narratives; rather,  taken together they complement and flesh out Jesus’ last Sunday on earth.   One detail is undeniably present in all accounts. As Jesus enters Jerusalem on the colt, the crowd  crushes in from all sides, waving palms, shouting   “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD.”  Surely it was pandemonium bordering on civil chaos as the people recognized the  messianic prophecies of  Zechariah 9:9 unfolding in Jesus.   They  shouted and cried “Hosanna!”  and blessing  Jesus in the words of Psalm 118:  “Blessed is he that comes in the name of the LORD.”

Hosanna  is a key word here. It  includes exultation or praise which is how it’s usually interpreted  but it’s different from and more than  hallelujah. It is not a word to be casually spoken.  The  English equivalent is the imperative form of  “save, ” but that is an incomplete picture.   The Greek word is directly related to the Hebrew  Yaw sham and na which taken together is a heartbroken plea for God, an “I beg you and entreat you, I’m on my knees before you   to avenge, deliver, help, rescue and bring salvation to your people. It is not a quiet, meditative prayer, but a cry born of hopelessness and desperation. When we consider the violence against and the oppression of the Jews under the Romans, the general poverty, misery, sickness, spiritual  darkness of those living  around  Jesus,  the cries  of Hosanna  are the pleas for God’s mercy and salvation taken directly from Psalm 118.  Interestingly, verse 25,  ho-wo-shianna, “Save now, I pray, O LORD”  occurs right after verse 22:  “the stone which the builders’ rejected has become the chief cornerstone”, a messianic prophecy about Jesus and leads into  the blessing of Psalm 118:26. The multitude  knew the  words of the prophet  Zechariah and the Psalm,  were seeking Messiah to save them – and missed the mark because He was riding  to  the  cross, not to a palace.  Their hosannas never made it to Golgotha  with him.

And what of us? The world is just as sickly,  miserable, violent and oppressed by Satan as it was when Jesus lived.  In the 21^st century we’ve  become ever so  efficient at killing and destruction, more than  the Romans could ever achieve. It is a world in a psychosis of fear and  anxieties , worsening every day. Where is our Psalm 118 “Hosanna?”   Save us, O Lord! If the poor and oppressed in Jerusalem entreated the LORD to save them, aren’t we more morally impoverished and spiritually sick?   The Romans are long gone, but there has  always been another oppressor waiting to enter with the sword.  Alone or in the crowds, we must plead with God. Hosanna, Lord, save us. Save  the children and the family. Cry Hosanna for the persecuted church and this violated, violent  world.  Entreat the only one who can save because  at the end of His journey, on the cross Jesus uttered, “It is finished.”

Jesus, you are our only hope. Messiah, Save us according to your Word and Your Holy Spirit’s empowerment. May the word in our mouths reach the throne of God and may He have mercy on us.

I rushed  into the  Dollar Store for a few items.  We don’t have a grocery store  locally  and I did not want to drive all the way to McCall for orange juice and  a cheap squeaky toy for my dog who chews them like dog candy.  Fortunately, this store often has basic items when I run out. (However, “dollar”  is a misnomer. Hardly anything is a buck anymore!)

There’s a recently added refrigerated cooler where I found the juice – with a still valid expiration date. I  looked  around for a bit, saw nothing I couldn’t live without and got in line to pay. Several people were ahead of me, waiting patiently. I tried not to speculate on their circumstances and their grocery choices piled in the carts.  My years at the food bank taught me that the poor do not eat nutritious, healthy food, tending to buy what’s quick and easy to fix, tastes sugary or salty – and is calorie laden. The reasons are complex and cause for compassion, not judgment,  especially mine. 

Waiting in line, I noticed the cashier who was new to the store. She was in her thirties with  facial piercings and tattoos  visible on her neck and hand. “ Oh, boy, “ I thought, as some very unChristian , notions  burbled up, like swamp gas.   (I  confess to having  problems with  tattoos and piercings. )  As I came to the register, I saw  the tattoo on her neck was a butterfly.  

“You like butterflies, don’t you?” I said making conversation. She gave me a big smile.  “Yes, I do.” She leaned over the counter,  showing me her  butterfly rings, a pendant necklace and the blue one pinned in her hair “I have butterflies on my ankle and a large one across my back. “ She turned around to show me where that  butterfly was resting under her shirt  across her spine.  Then she added. “I’m a felon, you see.”

I wasn’t sure why she shared that with me, but I wasn’t  surprised.  Back in the days of Heartland Hunger Center I met more than a few who’d been in prison. Often their fingers were tattooed with symbols. Never with a butterfly.  “It must be hard for you,” I said and added, “I understand a little what you’re going through,” without elaborating how I can personally empathize with her situation.  “Why a butterfly?” The woman looked at me with old, grieved eyes and a wistful expression. “I don’t know. I just like them. They’re pretty and  give me some joy – and hope.”   

I can’t remember what I said to her, except that God loved her very much and forgave her. This time her smile lit up the cramped space we shared.  God had done a number on my heart. He reignited  my compassion for  those walking on the knife edge of life.  She was no longer  poor or beat up or  ashamed of her past. She was definitely no longer a felon; she is a daughter of the Most High God who longs to bless and draw her to Jesus through someone just like me.

And then right before my eyes, she changed from moth into a beautiful butterfly, like a summer monarch, fluttering  across from me behind  the counter, looking for the nectar of love, acceptance and mercy.  I know the Holy Spirit was there guiding both of us into that encounter.

 I left the Dollar Store far, far  richer than when I went in.