Infinite Mercy

Psalm 51

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you alone, have I sinned, and done what is evil in your sight, so that you are justified in your sentence and blameless when you pass judgment. Indeed, I was born guilty, a sinner when my mother conceived me. You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart. Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones that you have crushed rejoice. Hide your face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing spirit. Then I will teach transgressors your ways, and sinners will return to you. Deliver me from bloodshed, O God, O God of my salvation, and my tongue will sing aloud of your deliverance. O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise. For you have no delight in sacrifice; if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased. The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. Do good to Zion in your good pleasure; rebuild the walls of Jerusalem, then you will delight in right sacrifices, in burnt offerings and whole burnt offerings; then bulls will be offered on your altar.

The hospital was eerily quiet as I made my late-night rounds.

The sound of my shoes echoed throughout the hallways as I peeked in on different patients, asking if anyone of them wanted “pastoral care.”

Most of them were asleep.

Those who were awake waved me away with their televisions remotes as they sifted through the early morning informercial marathons.

It felt, in that moment, like a rare opportunity to crash on the bed in the dim lit pastoral office and enjoy some blessed rest. But before I turned to head that direction, a message popped up on my beeper beckoning me to another part of the hospital.

She sat up when I entered the room, old enough to be my great-grandmother, and she gestured for me to come closer. I reached for a nearby chair but she patted on the bed. She explained that eyesight and hearing were such that she needed me to be as close as possible, so I obliged. 

She took my hand in hers and said, “Father, I need to confess my sins.”

“Well,” I began, “I’m not actually a priest, and neither am I ordained, I’m basically a glorified pastoral intern.”

She said, “God loves to work through people like you. Will you hear my confession?”

“I guess so.”

“I lied to the nursing staff this afternoon. They asked if I was comfortable and I said ‘Yes’ even though I feel terrible. They asked if I like the food here and I said ‘Yes’ even though I wouldn’t feed it to my dogs. And they asked if I needed anything and I said ‘No’ even though, honestly, I need a miracle.”

We sat in silence for a moment and then she said, “Aren’t you supposed to say something.”

“Yes,” I muttered, “In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven.”

“Thank you,” she replied as I saw the worry drift away from her face, “I know God already forgives me, but sometimes it’s just nice to hear someone else say it.”

I then prepared to get up from sitting next to her on her bed when she tightened her grip around my hand and said, “Now its your turn.”

“My turn to do what?” I asked.

“To confess your sins to me.”

So I did.

Psalm 51 is read by the people of God to mark the beginning of the Lenten season. It is, as we call it in the church, one of the penitential psalms – a psalm that expresses sorrow for sin.

And yet, Psalm 51 does not begin, as we might suspect, with a confession of sin. Rather, it begins with a request for forgiveness. “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.”

That might not seem like a big deal – but it implies that the psalmist knows they have something worthy confessing, that if the psalmist is to be helped (at all) then the sins must be taken away completely, that the psalmist cannot do this on their own, and that the psalmist can ask for forgiveness because the psalmist worships a merciful God.

And that is astonishing.

Let me put it this way. In so much of our lives it go like this: We do something wrong or we avoid doing something we know we should do. And then, for awhile, we stew over what happened, or didn’t happen. We know we should probably admit what we did but it’s terrifying. What if we wronged someone and when we tell them the truth they cut us out of their lives forever? Or we wrestle with it because we don’t want to admit that we’re the kind of person who could do such a thing. And then we either bite the bullet and confess, or we keep in in our heart of hearts as it seeps throughout our being and does far more damage and the initial indiscretion.

But the psalmist sees it different. 

The psalmist knows that forgiveness has come even before the sin occurred. 

The psalmist worships a God who mercy knows no bounds.  

The psalmist understands that God can redeem even the worst mistake.

For us, people entering the season of Lent, this is something to keep at the forefront of our minds – we are justified not after we confess our sins, but right smack dab in the middle of them. At the right time Christ died for the ungodly, while we were yet sinners God proved God’s love toward us, there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus (who, by the way, happen to be everyone since Jesus has taken all upon himself in and on the cross).

The challenge then, for us, isn’t about whether or not God will forgive us. 

The challenge is whether or not we have the constitution to confess the condition of our condition.

Because even if we can summon the words, Lord have mercy upon me, most of us go around convincing ourselves that we’re, all things considered, pretty decent people.

After all, we’re tuning in to a midweek first day of lent service online!

Sure, we know we’re not perfect but at least we’re not like those other people (whoever they may be). We’re happy to get on Facebook and Twitter to call out the specks in other’s eyes all while ignoring the log in our own. 

That’s why Lent is both so important and so difficult. It is a time set apart to turn back to the Lord who came to dwell among us – it is a remarkable opportunity to reflect on what we’re doing with our lives and how those lives resonate with the One who breathed life into us.

But Lent is also a time for honesty.

Honesty about who we are, how we have fallen short, and how in need of grace we really are.

Judgment comes first to the household of God, the disciple Peter writes in an epistle to the early church. We, the church, then don’t exist to show the world how wrong it is in its trespasses but to confess first that we are sinners in need of a Savior who can do more with us and for us than we could ever do on our own. 

Confession, what we’re doing tonight, is not just an apology, it’s not just a feeling bad about what we’ve done. It’s about agreeing with God about who we really are. 

We are dead in our sins. 

And we have no hope in the world of being anything else, except for the fact that God has come not to fix the fixable or teach the teachable, but to raise the dead.

We can’t fix ourselves. But that’s actually Good News. It’s good news because nobody, not the devil, not the world, not even ourselves can take us away from the Love that refuses to let us go. Even the worst stinker in the world is someone for whom Christ died. 

The Kingdom is heaven is populated entirely and only by forgiven sinners. Hell is thinking we need no part of forgiveness. Amen. 

Give God The Verbs

This week on the Strangely Warmed podcast I speak with Ben DeHart about the readings for the Fourth Sunday of Advent [B] (2 Samuel 7.1-11, 16, Luke 1.46b-55, Romans 16.25-27, Luke 1.26-38). Ben is the Associate Rector at Calvary-St. George’s Church in NYC. Our conversation covers a range of topics including phenomenal music, the uncontrollable God, riffing on the Magnificat, Kingdom ethics, the Prayer of Humble Access, obedience, impossible possibility, Israel’s calling, Hell, and Fleming Rutledge. If you would like to listen to the episode or subscribe to the podcast you can do so here: Give God The Verbs

Progress Is A Problem

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This week on the Strangely Warmed podcast I speak with Ben Crosby about the readings for the 1st Sunday of Advent [A] (Isaiah 2.1-5, Psalm 122, Romans 13.11-14, Matthew 24.36-44). Our conversation covers a range of topics including a case for the BCP, purple paraments, the eschatology of Advent, firearms and faith, unpacking peace in the Upper Room, being drunk on the Law, wearing Jesus, quarreling around Thanksgiving, and the unexpected nature of grace. If you would like to listen to the episode or subscribe to the podcast you can do so here: Progress Is A Problem

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The End of Questions

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This week on the Strangely Warmed podcast I speak with Kenneth Tanner about the readings for the 21st Sunday after Pentecost (Deuteronomy 34.1-12, Leviticus 19.1-2, 15-18, 1 Thessalonians 2.1-8, Matthew 22.34-46). Ken pastors the Church of the Holy Redeemer in Rochester Hills, Michigan and is a good friend of the podcast. The conversation covers a range of topics including the role of the theologian-pastor, why we should think about Moses when we think about MLK Jr., thoughts on the awesomeness of the BCP, and why we should spend less time trying to please people. If you would like to listen to the episode or subscribe to the podcast you can do so here: The End of Questions

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Devotional – Psalm 95.6

Devotional:

Psalm 95.6

O come, let us worship and bow down, let us kneel before the Lord, our Maker!

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Do you ever have times in your life that feel spiritually dry? You hear all the words in Sunday worship, you read your bible during the week, but when you pray it feels empty and lacking life? Before I entered seminary I felt that I had a robust spiritual life and was committed to daily prayer and the reading of scripture; I felt most alive when I was reminded of God’s Word during the week and when I was in communion with the Lord. However, after entering Duke Divinity and being bombarded with the amount of work I was required to do, I stopped praying and reading scripture outside of my weekly requirements. Reading the Bible went from being a life-giving experience, to a tedious chore.

Around that time my best friend, Josh, encouraged me to start attending Morning Prayer with the Anglicans and Episcopalians. Every morning before classes started a faithful group would gather in Goodson Chapel and go through the Book of Common Prayer in order to orient themselves for the day ahead. In the beginning I reluctantly made my way into the sanctuary every morning with Josh by my side and we went through the motions of Morning Prayer. As the token Methodists, we were not used to the constant physical movements of worship but we quickly caught on: We knelt on the floor during the confession, we stretched our palms facing upwards during the pardon, and we made the sign of the cross whenever the trinity was mentioned. For months we were there everyday and before I recognized it, Morning Prayer became essential to my way of life; I needed to pray with others to start my day, I needed to commune with the Lord before I dove into his Word for class. Additionally, Morning Prayer began to manifest itself in my life outside of that early service — I found myself making the sign of the cross at church on Sunday mornings and I was the only one at my United Methodist Church who would kneel on the floor during confession before communion (I got a lot of stares for that).

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Sometimes the physical routines of prayer, the embodiment of time with God, can help us through those times of dry spirituality. Even if I can sense that I am not fully invested in my prayers, when my knees hit the ground and I kneel before the Lord I am drawn back to the importance of what I am doing. Even if I can sense that I am distracted during worship, when my fingers make the sign of the cross I am drawn back to the intense gravity of all who have crossed themselves in reverence throughout the centuries. There is just something incredible about physically embodying our prayers that helps to keep me focused and thankful for the Lord our Maker.

This week I encourage you to try something new in your prayer life. Instead of sitting in the same chair at your home, or kneeling by your bed, trying praying in a new way. Experience kneeling on the ground to praise the Lord, or bow down and physically move in a way that helps to enhance your spirit. Try to live out your prayer life in a way that is different, faithful, and physical.