Each day may I count the causes of Thy mercy,
May I each day give heed to Thy laws;
Each day may I compose to Thee a song,
May I harp each day Thy praise, O God.

May I each day give love to Thee, Jesu,
Each night may I do the same;
Each day and night, dark and light,
May I laud Thy goodness to me, O God.

Have a great holiday weekend!

I struggle with these passages. I struggle with a God who encourages and enables the massacre of cities. I struggle with a God who promotes and encourages war and destruction. I struggle with a God that is so dissimilar to the God I know and worship.

I understand the urge to say there must be two gods. I understand the desire to say that there was a vengeful God of the Old Testament and a loving God of the New Testament. I understand; but I think that’s wrong.

Somehow, the God of the Old Testament and the God of the New Testament are one, eternal, unchanging God. The same yesterday, today, and forever.

I do not understand it yet. Maybe I never will.

The Israelites are taking a step away from an “eye for an eye” mentality and toward a mentality of “love your neighbor”.

Is justice based upon out come or intent? In an outcome based justice system, if I accidentally kill or cause the death of another, then my life should be forfeited. In a justice system based on intent, my life is only forfeit if my intention was to kill another; there may still be consequences for unintentional action, but death is not one of those consequences.

Is your sense of justice based upon outcomes or intentions? How does this affect your view of society, politics, capital punishment, war, and discipline?

Should you work toward changing your sense of justice?

There are two warnings in this passage: a warning to those who do not listen to God’s prophets, and a warning to those who pretend to be God’s prophets.

It is a dangerous thing to ignore God, even when he speaks through other people. It is an even more dangerous thing to speak for God when God has not spoken to you.

How do we tell the difference between the two types of prophets; the true prophets of God and the presumptuous usurpers? We wait to see if what they say becomes true.

Whatever you give to the Lord, make sure it is your best. Otherwise, it’s probably better just not to give.

The glass slipped out of her hand. For a brief moment she was brought to life. She turned her head and watched the glass fall. How slowly it fell. Inside, her mind was consumed, but outside, she only thought—how slowly it fell. It seemed she could catch it if she only reached out, but somehow she could only watch it fall.

She hadn’t planned on coming at all. Beth had said she must. It would be just fabulous, and besides, she just didn’t get out enough. She preferred to stay at home. It was such a big house for just herself, but it never seemed lonely to her. She liked the house so much better now, still and quiet. She rather enjoyed being home alone; there were no needs to meet but her own. She would never tell anybody, but she could not imagine a single reason why she should be worse off now. She wished she had stayed home tonight. But Beth was a friend of the family (what a strange way to put it) and had a way of making her feel like she was wrong. So she had come. Come to some people she didn’t know, to some house she didn’t know, to spill wine on their carpet.

On the way to the party, Beth didn’t stop talking. At first (a little over a year ago now) when Beth would come over to talk, she didn’t mind. Always sympathetic, always with a cake or flowers, Beth would come. Beth was truly sorry, seemed to want to help her, to be a friend, though she needed none. In truth, Beth was no more a friend than anyone else, just more tolerable. But it became annoying when Beth would say, “You don’t go out enough; you should come to lunch sometime; really, are you feeling okay?”

Like Beth, everyone had said she was taking it so well, that it was easier because they hadn’t had children. She heard their voices; she would respond, but she was distant. And now, now she only existed for herself. She would have been perfectly content to be by herself, live her life as she’d have it lived—unaffected by others. But Beth had said that she must go, and she cared too little to argue. She never argued with Beth’s assumptions—it seemed too much trouble. She was careful though, not to let Beth see her too happy. “That dress,” Beth had said only days after the funeral, “You haven’t worn it in years.” She had mumbled some explanation, not knowing herself why she’d chosen to wear it, but remembering what she’d always known—how important it was to keep up appearances.

Beth, of course, would think going to this party the best way to keep up appearances. Beth who said, “It’s been a year now, you’ve got to get on with your life.” Beth who tended to say many of the right things, for all of the wrong reasons. Beth who now said, “How good it is for you to get out,” as they drove to the party. “It will be just fabulous. An old friend of mine—William Kerns—is going to be there. I really think you’ll like him. He’s divorced, no children, a doctor. How nice it will be, or,” Beth questioned, “is it too soon to talk like that?”

On the couch, he sat down and began a conversation with her. He was a doctor. Yes, she nodded. How was she getting along? Fine, it had been over a year now, she was fine. He touched her shoulder, consoling, condescending; reflex—she pulled away. He continued to speak and she wondered at how male his voice was. Commanding and persuasive. It meant little to her. Why was everyone so concerned with her? She was never concerned with them. As he spoke her hand moved to rest on her knee. She remembered a scrape she’d had there. She had fallen in the bedroom; she thought of how nicely it had healed. She thought of how much the human body endured. How many times small children will fall, but always their scrapes and bruises heal. It was amazing to her, that so much could ever heal. When she was a child she had broken her arm on the swingset. Her father pushed her so high; she called for him to stop but he must not have heard her for he pushed again. Her small, frightened body shuddered and slipped—she landed on her arm. Such pain, yet now she easily used that same arm to lift her wine to her mouth. Her arm had healed—this amazed her. It amazed her that her bruises always healed.

Again, she noticed he was speaking. She would nod, or say a word or two; it was all that she wanted. His voice could have been any man’s voice—they all seemed the same to her now. And as he spoke his eyes moved over her; she would not think of this though; she would think of other things, and she would not look at his eyes. She felt the curve of her glass, how fragile it was. She remembered, as a child, breaking a glass—and being very afraid. Of what she could not say, but it still frightened her. She could hear the sound of breaking glass, from not long ago, breaking glass and an angry voice. How could so many bad memories be caught up in a glass, and she thought, why? Last week she had broken a plate. It was wet, and she had dropped it. Her entire body had flinched; a chill had run through her, but then she remembered and almost smiled. Now it was only a plate, she had thought, so she broke another to convince herself of the safety.

But now she was at a party, and there was a man talking to her. She did not much like him; she couldn’t imagine how she would. She was thinking of leaving when he turned to her and said, “Your eyes are beautiful.” Her body shuddered; a familiar chill enveloped her; she dropped the glass. She turned to watch the glass fall as those words rippled through her. Your eyes are beautiful. She’d heard those words before: as a child, as a wife. She could not stand to hear those words again. Memories she’d kept hidden for too long rushed on her; like fire they spread and engulfed her in a silent horror. The glass did not shatter; only the wine spilt, leaving a streak of red.

Asherah was a Semitic mother-godess, often worshiped as a fertility god. The image of Asherah was often carved into tress or poles.

This passage was written to Israel and was part of the law established for the Jewish people. With that said, does it speak to contemporary Christians? Should we have crosses or flagpoles where we worship? Or is that taking it to far?

I come from a religious tradition (Friends/Quakers) that historically rejected all adornments to its worship space. A meeting house was just that, a plain house in which to meet. There was no decoration, no adornment, no instrument, no cross, no flag; just benches. The goal was to keep focus on the leading of God, and not set up idols for worship.

Can a statue be an idol? Can a painting be an idol? Can a guitar be an idol? Can a flag be an idol? Can a cross be an idol?

If so, what should we do about it?

To-night, the night of the cross of agony,
The cross of anguish to which Christ was crucified.
Christ the Priest above us.

Noble the Gift! noble the Poor!
Noble the Man of this night.
Christ the Priest above us.

It was Bride the fair who went on her knee,
It is the King of glory who is in her lap.
Christ the Priest above us.

I hear the hills, I hear the seas,
I hear the angels heralding to earth
Christ the Priest above us.