Author: Episcopal Cafe

Deadly violence in Israel has erupted once again.  It’s captured the world’s attention, and with it aspersions are cast in angry self righteousness.  The Levant has been a whirlpool of contending peoples visiting war, famine and death on each another since the beginning of recorded history, so the current outbreak should not surprise anyone. 

What do you do when you lose a child? How do you continue to trust God and grief the apple of your eye? This is the testimony of a dear friend who lost a child in a tragic accident, yet continues to be shown how God is still worthy to be trusted-even in the darkest moments of life. If you are grieving or know of someone who is, please read and share.

What is striking about the story in Acts, is that this powerful man, in a chariot, reading Isaiah, humbly said he could not understand, and needed someone to guide him. This was humility in its most pure and modest form.  Think how willing people are today to acknowledge what they don’t know. Think how often people resent someone who tries to teach something, however gently. A powerful man is assumed to be someone who knows the secrets to power, and is not assumed to be in need of a teacher. That is what makes the Ethiopian Eunuch a model for us all: true humility means we live the truth of who we really are, without pretension or deceit or false modesty. We acknowledge that there is wisdom greater than ours, and much to learn.

Today I continue to engage in childhood rites. Throughout my life, I have dared God to love me when I stray. I double-dare him to love me when I do not listen to him. I triple-dog dare him to again show his love in a direct and immediate way. So far, God has accepted all my dares. For me, the salvation story resonates like a dare that ends in victory. A girl charged with a nearly impossible mission could get close to God. All along, it was within reach.

In the last year, we have been presented with the opportunity to know the Prayer Book more intimately as friend and companion. While we have been, to varying degrees, separated from the Eucharist, the Prayer Book has been there for us offering community in isolation. In a time of great absence, it has served as a sacramental presence, an outward and visible sign of the presence of grace among us. In so doing, it has embodied for us the potential to realize that, despite distance, we are all connected and sustained by the mysterious yet abiding depth of a divine incarnational love.