Prayer | All is Well

Personal Grace: A Prayer

October 17, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

We are weary, God.

Not just of the political insanity that surrounds us in these days as we approach November 8th–though there is that.

Not just of the constant barrage of disheartening news of email leaks and presidential candidate sexual exploits and rampant racism and seemingly hopelessness for the future of our country’s leadership–though there is that.

Not just of the heart wrenching images of children being killed in Aleppo, even as the brave white helmets risk their lives to try to save them in the hellish aftermath of raining barrel bombs in Syria–though absolutely, there is that.

Not just of things closer to home–concerns over our children and the world they are growing up in, never-ending exhaustion of long work days and short, sleepless, nightmare nights, and the weight of heavy decisions that bear down upon us in our day-in-and-day-out journeys through this life–though there is that.

It isn’t one thing, God. It is the culmination.

A brief rain shower on a mountainside creates little noticeable change. It is the aggregate of many rain showers that results in erosion.

The same is for us, God. The steady drip, drip, drip begins to erode our faith. And our hope.

We are weary.

But you know that, about us.

I read a simple, simple sentence this week, in John Frame’s Systematic Theology. It settled deep in my mind, upon reading it–and I’ve returned to it more than once in the past few days:

Grace, therefore, is utterly personal. ~ Frame (pg. 244)

Frame was referring to the truth that the grace Israel received from You, God, had absolutely nothing to do with her righteousness. No, the grace You showered upon her was because You were her covenant Lord.

And You are our covenant Lord; we who are Christ-followers. We, who have been bought with the costly price of the death of Your Son. We, who you have adopted as co-heirs with that same Son.

We, whom you love.

And in that, we find renewed hope.

We find renewed hope, precisely because Your grace is so very personal. In Your sovereignty, You know what we need better than we do ourselves. You see and know and act. You know we are weary. You know that truly, the churn that surrounds all of our days sometimes bring us to our knees. Which is not a bad thing, if on our knees, we are seeking You. But sometimes are knees buckle and we find ourselves too weary to lift our heads.

But You, oh God, are the lifter of our heads.

You are the shield about us. Even in the chaos.

You are our glory. (Psalm 3:3)

It is as we sang this morning:

Nations rise and nations fall
but God is the Lord above them all

The whole earth is filled with Your glory
The heavens declaring Your praise
The nations are filled with Your wonder
Holy are You Lord , Holy are You Lord (~Gateway Worship)

So God,

…on this night of yet another presidential debate, that has the potential of being another shameful debacle.

…on this night of continued tensions off the shore of Yemen, and in Syria, and devastation in Haiti, and the list is long….

…on this Sunday evening before yet another long week of work and parenting

…on this night when we will each return to our beds and try to exercise the faith to close our eyes and rest, and trust that You do not slumber (Psalm 121:3)

…on this eve of the unknown, because every day holds unknown joys and sorrows

We say to you this:

We need your very personal grace.

I need your very personal grace.

Grace that knows how to calm our anxious hearts, and settle the fears that wrap our souls in grey, and grace that knows how to give rest to our weariness.

Grace that knows how to discipline us even though discipline can be painful. Grace that knows how to ignite joy in us when we at one time feared that we may never know joy again. Grace that knows how to call us to You, as our only hope. That beckons us to cling to you–and grace to give us the ability to do what you call us to do–to parent. To work hard. To care deeply, for the hurting.

To pursue You.

And to know that You, giver of grace, will give us a very personal, intimate grace that will seep into the very fabric of our souls so that we know who You are, and Whose we are.

And, in that, we know hope.

Holy are You, Lord.

Holy ,Holy is the Lord Almighty
Holy, Holy all the nations rise singing
There is no one like You, there is none beside You
All of creation falling down when they see Your face
Holy are You Lord, Holy are You Lord

(Gateway Worship: The Whole Earth)

When We Come to the End of Ourselves

August 7, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

Sometimes, we grow weary.

Not just tired. There’s a difference.

There is a distinct difference, between being tired and being weary. You know that. I know that.

God knows that.

And, maybe he even created it to be that way. To be different.

We push ourselves hard, through the days allotted to us. And I don’t necessarily think that this is a bad thing. Our bodies were made to expend energy. To work hard in our jobs. To give our best, to everything that lays before us. To go to bed, tired enough to sleep. And sleep, as a form of trust in our Father.

Tired can be not good. But, it can also be very good. And right.

Weary, though…..that is a different animal.

When we are weary, it seeps into our bones. It settles into our minds, working itself to the core of our thinking. Tiredness washes over us, but weariness invades us.

I love words; I often say that I collect them, like others collect baseball cards. There is a word that I’ve “collected”, that I think is such a good accompanying word, for describing being weary:

Languishing

When someone is languishing, they are growing weaker. One of the definitions for “languish” is this:

To suffer from being forced to remain in an unpleasant place or situation.

When we remain for any amount of time, in a weary state, we languish. It is a form of suffering. But this is where the definition fails, I think–being weary is not just being in an unpleasant place. “Unpleasant” is not a strong enough word.

But “Hopeless”—that is a good fit. A Hopeless place.

The Israelites knew this hopeless place. They knew what it meant to be weary. They knew all the things that we know today—fear, exhaustion, the lure and trap of their sin, and seemingly endless days of wilderness wandering.

That’s where they were, when we come upon the words of Jeremiah 31. They were not just tired; though that was surely a part of the situation. No, they were beyond tired–they were weary. And settling into a hopelessness that must have felt like a tarry substance, around their souls.

And yes, this chapter is meant for the Israelites, and it must be read in that context. But it is also meant for us. For you. And for me.

I find Jeremiah 31 to be a chapter that I return to often. And, this week it is where I crash landed when hit with a wave of weariness that I feared would drown me. The reasons are not important–they are no different than the reasons that threaten to swamp your hope, in your world. It is enough to say that, by Thursday–o, my soul–my very bones ached with weariness, and I fought for breath.

There is so much, in this chapter—so much that speaks to my soul. I see myself throughout the words here deeply. For the longest time, it was a chapter that I couldn’t look too closely at; because it too closely mirrored much in my life. It was painful to read. It hurt. However, today it is often where I go, when weary, because the words written there have become a balm to those painful, hurtful places.

I have learned, that there truly is grace in the wilderness. (vs. 2)

I have been redeemed, from evil hands that were too strong for me. (vs. 11)

I have mourned, deeply–and I have known the miracle (for, truly, it was and is miraculous) of having that mourning turned to joy. (vs. 13)

I have known discipline from God, and the restoration that this discipline has brought time and time again. (vs. 18)

I have known shame (vs. 19), and I have known the shame-erasing mercy of God my Father. (vs. 20)

And I have known–and know, even tonight, the words of Jeremiah 25:

25 For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish.”

I find it so interesting, though, that vs. 25 uses the word “satisfy”. Why that word? Why not something like “restore” (though the sentence does end with replenish, which is similar), or “give rest”, or “energize”? Why “satisfy”?

I am not sure. Certainly there are theologians so much smarter than me, who could give a much better answer than my feeble attempt. However, I want to try, because the answer is important.

Why “satisfy”?

I think it may be this: when we are the most weary, we are also longing the most–for relief, for rest, for rescue, for the “not yet”, in the now.

We ache, for a filling of the void in our soul. We try to fill it with other things–with alcohol, with drugs, with drive and ambition. We try to fill it with escapism and materialism. We even try to feel it with “good works”. But the hole is bottomless, and our longing is deep. And, it is only filled by the one who is holy enough to do so–Emmanuel, the God who is with us.

It wasn’t the rescue from their enemies, that would satisfy the Israelites. It wasn’t the provision of their needs that would satisfy their longing. It wasn’t the Promised Land, that would bring them peace and joy.

It was God, Himself.

And, the same is true for us today. It is only God, who will satisfy our weary souls. He is the only one who can reverse the languishing we experience in this life.

Only Him.

Tomorrow, at our church, we will be introducing a new song to our congregation, from Elevation Worship, titled “O Come to the Altar”. When we practiced it last Sunday afternoon (the first time I had heard it), I really “liked” it. It’s a beautiful tune. The harmonies are nice. It’s unique, with beautiful words. I was looking forward to sharing it tomorrow.

However, by Thursday night of this week, I no longer “liked” what it said.

No, I needed, what it said.

And, I needed the words of Jeremiah 31st, to be truth in my soul and mind. And, because they are truth–because scripture is truth–I have clung to them with white knuckles; gripping the truth in my hands and soul and mind like one grips a branch as they hang over a cliff–like a vise.

And tomorrow, I will sing these words, trusting them to be truth both for me and my family, as well as my beloved church family:

O, what a Savior.

Isn’t He wonderful?

“O Come To The Altar”

Are you hurting and broken within
Overwhelmed by the weight of your sin
Jesus is calling
Have you come to the end of yourself
Do you thirst for a drink from the well
Jesus is calling

O come to the altar
The Father’s arms are open wide
Forgiveness was bought with
The precious blood of Jesus Christ

Leave behind your regrets and mistakes
Come today there’s no reason to wait
Jesus is calling
Bring your sorrows and trade them for joy
From the ashes a new life is born
Jesus is calling

O come to the altar
The Father’s arms are open wide
Forgiveness was bought with
The precious blood of Jesus Christ

Oh what a Savior
Isn’t he wonderful
Sing alleluia, Christ is risen
Bow down before him
For he is Lord of all
Sing alleluia, Christ is risen

O come to the altar
The Father’s arms are open wide
Forgiveness was bought with
The precious blood of Jesus Christ

Bear your cross as you wait for the crown
Tell the world of the treasure you’ve found

(Elevation Worship: Chris Brown, Mack Brock)

Lament

July 9, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

Oh God.

We don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to say to my friends, whose skin is black, whose souls are hurting, whose world is turned upside down again by the senseless deaths of two black young men. My friends who fear being stopped by the very people who have sworn to protect and serve them. My friends who continue to reel from racism.

And I don’t know what to say to my friends who are in law enforcement, or who have spouses, children, and loved ones who are serving to protect us each and every day. Who place themselves in terrifying situations so as to make the world a bit safer for the rest of us. Who never know, when they put on their blues and their badges in the morning, if they will be returning that evening–or will find themselves in a hospital.

Or a morgue.

Like the 5 policemen executed in Dallas last night.

I don’t know what to do and I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to react when I read Facebook posts from pastors I know, such as the following:

Thugs back out on the streets again shooting police and screaming vulgarity. Make no mistake, God is on Law Enforcements (sic) side (Romans 13). Jesse Jackson incited all this and has blood on his hands.

Pastors such as the author of the words above, who think it is not sinful to refer to all protesters as “thugs”, and then dare to use scripture to justify their response, as if it was written for white, privileged America.

And I don’t know what to do or say or how to react to the small group of protesters who made a conscious choice to respond to violence with violence in Dallas last night. Or who chose to respond to Ferguson last year, with looting and vandalism, and destruction of their own cities.

Nothing. Makes. Sense.

Chaos. Grief. Lament.

Lament

God, why is chaos seemingly allowed to rule and reign? Do you see? Do you know? Are you with the children—black and white children–whose daddies are not coming back home again?

We look to you, God, because we know you are the only hope for this hurting world. For our hurting country. For our hurting cities. And for the hurting families. You are the only hope we know.

Please, do not be silent.

Please forgive us, for our hatred. For our judgemental-ism. For our self-centeredness. For our rush to pronounce our own opinions as the “right” opinions. Forgive us when we do not preach your word from pulpits, but instead preach politics. Forgive us when we do not reach across our man-made racial divides to grasp the hands of our brothers and sisters–of all races–to show compassion and love. Forgive us when we sit in our houses and throw barbs designed to make us look smart and superior, when all that does is take away from your glory.

How you must weep. Or, if you do not weep (because, truly, who can know the mysteries or the depths of your emotions, God?), then how you must burn with holy, righteous anger.

We do not understand such suffering, God. We do not understand your sovereignty, either. And, we do not understand why you tarry.

We long for home, for this is not our home.

We ache, and we hope, because you are our only hope. And you are our only home. And you are the only answer to this sea of chaos that surrounds us.

So we turn our faces to heaven. And we turn our faces to the floor. We weep with those who weep. We mourn with those who mourn. And we say, “There will be a day.” Because scripture is truth. And you are God. And you never forsake or abandon.

But even though these are truths, we need to sense your very real presence today. Please. Help us to know that you are near, because only through you allowing us to sense you, do we find some modicum of peace.

And hope.

“Look, O Lord, for I am in distress;
my stomach churns;
my heart is wrung within me,
because I have been very rebellious.
In the street the sword bereaves;
in the house it is like death.
21 “They heard my groaning,
yet there is no one to comfort me.
All my enemies have heard of my trouble;
they are glad that you have done it.
You have brought[g] the day you announced;
now let them be as I am.
22 “Let all their evildoing come before you,
and deal with them
as you have dealt with me
because of all my transgressions;
for my groans are many,
and my heart is faint.”

Keep Your Soul Diligently

March 1, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

It’s easy to forget.

It shouldn’t be. It’s even wrong, that we forget. But it seems to happen so subtly, so quietly, that we don’t even realize that we are forgetting.

There are moments–seasons, if you will–in our lives, when God’s presence is so evident. Palpable, even. We sense His nearness; and we see very tangible pieces of what He is actively doing. And sometimes we deceive ourselves into thinking that we will always remember how God “did this”. Or how God “moved in that way.” We think we will always recall how we knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that He was near.

But then, sometimes, we forget. And, sometimes in those moments of forgetting, we worry—where has He gone? And, maybe just a bit, we worry. We become unsettled, in both our minds and our souls.

God knew this about our human nature. He was, after all, the one who created us with these tendencies. These leanings toward forgetting, and toward unsettledness of mind and soul. He knows this about us, today, and He knew it about the Israelites as they as Moses prepared them for his death, and for their entrance into the promised land–after 40 years of wandering in the wilderness.I came across this verse yesterday, and it nearly stopped me in my tracks. Surely I have read this verse dozens of times before. Dozens and dozens. But never has it struck me like it did yesterday, sitting in my usual, predictable seat on a Sunday morning. In fact, I didn’t hear much of the sermon–which, by the way, was on Titus, and not on scripture in Deuteronomy:

“Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life.” Deuteronomy 4:9

“…..lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart….” He knew. God knew that, just as time has a way of dulling the sharp edges of grief, time also has a way of causing us to forget the things that our eyes have seen–those moments when we knew that God saw, knew and acted. Those times when, in the throes of despair, we felt His comfort and His peace. Or, in the times of tremendous joy, we felt overwhelming gratitude for what we knew were blessings straight from His hand. Or, those times in which we knew that, what we were witnessing His unmistakable hand–in the salvation of a dear friend, the provision of a deep need, the miraculous answer to a long-prayed-for-prayer, and oh, so many other ways that we have seen Him act.

Just as the Israelites saw His wrathful hand rescue them from the pursuing Egyptians as He parted the sea for their crossing, and then thundered it down upon their enemies after their safe arrival to the other side. Or just as they saw His leading by a pillar of fire at night, and a pillar of cloud by day. And how He provided their physical needs through manna, and quail, and water from rocks.

He knew that we, as sinful people–as human people–forget. We become enamored by shiny things. We become wrapped up in “the next thing”–the next job promotion, the next church to call us to serve on staff, the next crises to endure.

Or–and maybe this is worse–we become complacent. Our days become ordinary–which, isn’t necessarily a bad thing–but sometimes we “forget the things that {our} eyes have seen…” in the very sameness of our routine days.

And we wonder where God has gone. Or, worst yet, we wonder if maybe what we saw in the past, was not actually Him.

I know these thoughts, too, too well, in my own soul and mind.

He knew this about the Israelites, and He knows this about us, today, so many years later. And he warns us.

He warns us to take care. He warns us to keep our soul diligently.

And then He reminded the Israelites, of what He had done; in this case, in the giving of the ten commandments to the people, as they stood at the base of the mountain and witnessed His holiness in a very visible and tangible way.

But, how are we to “take care”? How are we to “keep our soul diligently”?

I’m not entirely sure, honestly. But I wonder if it doesn’t come down to diligently approaching Him day after day after day, regardless of whether we “sense” His presence or not. Regardless of whether we “feel” like pursuing Him in earnest and real prayer, and the reading of scripture, and the act of worship–or not. I wonder if it doesn’t come down to that word “diligent”: to me, that word conjures up in my mind the view of someone approaching something with disciplined care and attention to it; consistently.

Not just when they feel like it. And, maybe, not just when there is joy to celebrate. Or despair to seek comfort from.

And, maybe when we take care, and when we keep our soul diligently, through the steady practice of spiritual disciplines of prayer, and scripture study/reading, and corporate and private worship, we are more apt to remember–not just what God has done for us–but who He is.

And then, when we come together to observe communion, and we read the words in Luke–“Do this in remembrance of Me”–we will be more aware and able to say

–regardless of whether we are in that moment, experiencing immense joy, or gut-wrenching grief, or day-in/day-out ordinariness of life–

You are my Lord. And my God. And I remember. And will remember.

And my soul is, and will be, well.

The Holy Bible: English Standard Version. (2001). (Dt 4:9). Wheaton: Standard Bible Society.