A Posture of Gratitude

A few weeks ago I was struck by the ABC News article on two pastors who have lost their faith, but are still preaching.[1]  The second pastor, “Adam”, explained: "I live out my life as if there is no God."  This phrase caught my attention because I’ve been reading Stanley Hauerwas’ memoir, Hannah’s Child.  Hauerwas, a theologian and ethicist, writes: “I live most of my life as if God does not exist.”[2]  I know there are many atheists out there, but how is it possible for pastors or theologians, people who devote their lives studying God and teaching others about God, live as if there is no God?  In that same breath, I couldn’t help but ask myself, “How much of my life do I live as if God does not exist?”

I became overwhelmed by the possibility that God does not make any difference in much of what I do day in and day out.  My daily patterns and habits often do not look any different than those of friends who do not believe in God.  But I know for certain that I would not be where I am today doing what I am doing where it not for the fact that God has made a profound difference in my life.  In trying to seek a faithful answer to this question, I asked myself, does God’s existence make any difference to my morning routine?  I chose my morning routine because it is exactly that – a routine, filled with the same patterns, day in and day out.

Each morning I am generally woken up by a hungry cat who progresses from gentle nudges to stomping all over me, trying to get me up to feed her.  (Who needs an alarm clock when you have a cat?).  After nuzzling her and giving her her morning rub down, I feed her.  Then it is the dogs’ turn.  Each one gets a morning rub down that slowly wakes them up.  I’ve done this for years – I start at the head and gently massage the head, the body, and then each leg, and finish with a hug.  Then I let the dogs out and get the kettle on for tea!  My morning tea is a must.  I read my morning devotion with the first mug of tea, then move on to checking email, news headlines, etc. with the second cup.  A walk comes next – the dogs love their morning walk across the Haw River and then up along the edge of the lake.  When I get home I feed the dogs, and then I’m ready to eat, take a shower, and get on with my day.  This is a very typical morning – these habits and patterns are deeply ingrained, and have been for years.

So I wonder, is there anything in my morning routine (beyond my morning devotion) that points to the existence of God?  Or do I also spend much of my life living as if God does not exist? 

Anyone could have a routine like this – Christian or non-Christian.  For a brief moment I thought, “God’s existence really doesn’t make any difference in my morning routine.”  But as I continued to reflect on this week, the thing that struck me is the underlying posture of gratitude that accompanies each part of the routine.  The morning rub-downs are a time to give thanks to God for putting these animals in my life (yes, even the cat!).  The morning tea is a time to give thanks to God for my dad who so graciously supplies me with good Canadian tea (and to give thanks to God for good Canadian tea!).  My walks give me time to thank God for creating such a beautiful world and they give me time to pray.  These prayers can take many forms – from earnest petitions for those I love to singing praises to God to simply listening for God – depending on my mood.  And when I get home I give thanks for shelter, food, and the ability to delve into the tasks that lie ahead of me.  A posture of gratitude.

On mornings when I am more grumpy than grateful, it is the pattern that moves me toward gratitude.  The cat’s soft fur relieves some of the ache in my hands.  The dog’s wet kisses and whacking tails can’t help but bring a smile (dogs really do have this way of loving unconditionally).  The tea warms and cheers.  The devotion opens up God’s word to me, encouraging and inspiring me.  And the walk – especially the walk in Saxapahaw – brings glimpses of God’s glory.  A blue heron, a red fox, a white tail deer, a brown squirrel.  By the time I am ready to delve into my day, I have been repeatedly confronted by just how good God is to me.  I am able to embrace a posture of gratitude for another day – a posture that says loudly and clearly, “God exists!”  More than that, this God, who revealed Himself so profoundly through Jesus Christ, loves me – even me, in all my brokenness.

A posture of gratitude is such a simple act of worship – one that can connect me to the living God day in and day out assuring me that God not only exists but is powerfully present with me.  So with the Psalmist, I sing:

O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
for his steadfast love endures forever.

–Psalm 107:1

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[1] Dan Harris & Wonbo Woo, “Atheist Ministers Struggle with Leading the Faithful,” ABC World News (November 9, 2010). Online: http://abcnews.go.com/WN/atheist-ministers-leading-faithful/story?id=12004359).

[2] Stanley Hauerwas, Hannah’s Child: A Theologian’s Memoir (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2010), 159.

Under His Wings

I read Psalm 91 several weeks ago as part of my devotions.  Since that time this image has been caught in my imagination.  I am no artist, but wanted to share this with you.

You who live in the shelter of the Most High, 

who abide in the shadow of the Almighty, 

will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress; 

my God, in whom I trust.” 

For He will deliver you from the snare of the fowler 

and from the deadly pestilence; 

He will cover you with his pinions,

and under His wings you will find refuge; 

His faithfulness is a shield and buckler... 

Because you have made the Lord your refuge, 

the Most High your dwelling place, 

no evil shall befall you, 

no scourge come near your tent.   

For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.

~Psalm 91:1-4, 9-11

By The Water's Edge

While Psalm 137 is so clearly the cry of a people in exile, there’s something about this psalm that draws me into the depth of grief and loss.  Our hearts cry out with those in exile as we experience our own “exile” – our own separation through loss and death from those we love.  And so we cry out to God in prayer:

By the rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept

when we remembered Zion.

On the willows there we hung up our harps.

For our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth,

saying “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?[1]

By the water’s edge we sit and watch the river flow by.  Whether it is a wide, slow moving river or a rocky, white-water river we sit by the water’s edge gazing out at the water in our grief, pausing to let life flow by.  Perhaps we toss a flower in and watch it float downstream.  There’s something about the river that allows our tears to flow more freely.  And we weep as we remember.  We weep as we remember those we love.

Tormentors fail to grasp the depth of our grief and invite us to laugh and sing.  Perhaps they are simply trying to cheer us up.  But how can we laugh?  How can we sing?  How can we praise God at a time like this?  No, this is a time for sitting, not a time for doing.  The laughter and the singing will come later, but for now we must simply be.  And our prayer continues:

If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!

Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you,

if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.

In grief and sadness we want to remember; Lord, don’t let us forget! As we sit with our grief we remember the person, the place, the community we have lost.  We remember the laughter and the tears.  We remember the joy and the sadness.  And somehow – even if we don’t believe it at the moment – we remember that in life and in death we belong to God.  And yet, even as we remember, there is fear.  What if we forget?  How can we forget?  Lord, don’t let us forget!

As we sit by the water’s edge we remember that love never ends.  There is hope.  We glimpse the joy that comes from loving and serving our Lord.  We remember that God is with us; even if we forget, we know that God will not forget.  And then, in that moment, just as we glimpse the possibility of joy, the grief sweeps over us again.  And that is okay.  Our prayer continues:

Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem’s fall,

how they said, “Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations!”

O daughter Babylon, you devastator!

Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us!

Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock!

With the grief comes a shocking anger.  We didn’t know we could hate so much.  We didn’t expect that we would want to lash out at someone, anyone.  We didn’t anticipate that the pain would manifest itself as a desire for revenge, as a need to blame someone, anyone.  And yet, these emotions overwhelm us.  The unfairness of it all.  The injustice of it all.  Anger threatens to consume us.  And then, in the act of shouting out our most horrible thoughts and desires and threats to God, somehow we find some comfort, some peace.

How fortunate we are that we can share both the sadness and the anger of grief and loss with our Lord.  As we sit by the water’s edge and our hot tears continue to flow, God sits by us and listens.  God sits by us in our sadness and in our anger and weeps with us.  And when we are ready we will leave the water’s edge and re-enter life.  Forever changed, yet stronger.  Knowing we will laugh and sing again.  Giving thanks to God with our whole hearts for His steadfast love that endures forever.

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[1] Psalm 137 (NRSV)