"Sidestepping"

This morning

I sat alone 

on the balcony

and considered 

the clumps of seaweed

that high tide had

deposited onto the beach …

no doubt, the recent hurricane

ripped them loose

and set them in motion.

How many people

would look the other way 

or walk around the clumps

or think of the seaweed

as only ocean debris?

They once had a purpose, you know.

They gently danced

under the ocean’s surface, 

beautiful in their own way, 

purposeful in the way 

that they were created

to be purposeful.

I scoffed at those

who couldn’t see this.

Scoffed at those

who only saw

a clump of seaweed.

But then I remembered 

last evening,

when I saw four men,

dirty and staggering

and mumbling

as they stood in line 

at the restaurant.

I looked the other way

and walked around them

and, at times, glanced at them

in ways that might be akin

to casually glancing

at a clump of seaweed 

that the waves had

deposited onto the beach.

I overheard a server

whisper to the owner,

“Look, over there …

those four men are linemen.

They have worked in South Florida

and moved up to Georgia 

and now they are in 

South Carolina,

helping us.”

She turned and shouted

across the restaurant,

“SIRS, THANK YOU

FOR YOUR HELP.

THANK YOU!

THERE ARE SO MANY

WITHOUT ELECTRICITY.

THANK YOU!”

The four linemen

stood up to leave …

dirty from working

and staggering from exhaustion

and mumbling in gratitude, 

“You are welcome. 

We couldn’t think

of so many suffering

without doing something

to help.”

Just like the seaweed,

Hurricane Matthew

ripped these men

from their dwelling places 

where they gently danced

with their families …

ripped them loose

and set them into motion.

O God, In my scoffing

of those who sidestep

clumps of seaweed,

forgive me

for sidestepping

as well.

Amen.

"The Parting of Clouds"

Last night, 

I was soaked

by the storm

and the lightening

frightened me

as I ran from the car

to the apartment.

This morning, 

the skies were grey

and heavy

with the promise

of dreariness

in all of my day.

But as I drove to work

I saw the smallest 

of schoolboys 

with the largest

of backpacks

joyfully break away

from his mother

and run toward the school

(she released his hand

without protest).

The crossing guard,

who hasn’t looked my way

in decades,

(which makes me wonder

why I wave at him daily)

raised his head,

smiled,

and waved back.

As I continued

along my familiar route

on this dreary morning,

I saw two men 

who usually wander

the streets alone

walk toward each other

with smiles 

and outstretched hands

as if to greet the morning

(perhaps they have felt

alone for too long).

And of all things,

every single light

turned green

as I approached it

on my way to work!

It is wondrous and

somewhat miraculous

to me

how a raised head and wave

or a child anxious to learn

or unexpected greetings 

or green lights

can part the clouds!

"Accusations" (thoughts flowing from Luke 16:1-13)

Am I willing not only to be accused, but convicted of squanderings? This might not be the message of the story found in the parable of what is often called The Parable of the Shrewd Steward. Or maybe it is.  It is everything that flowed in my personal response to this difficult parable.  Choices. 

He steps out from the crowds of this world,

the nameless one, with small offerings.

That which was given to him,

to keep his own stomach from growling

is placed into the hands of someone else …

for others.

And there are murmurs.

Frivolous!

Squanderings!

(Such accusations)

He reaches into the pocket of his heart

and draws out a handful of words.

They have been entrusted to him,

yet he lavishly scatters them

over the fields of those

 who are debtors in need

of forgiveness.

  

And there are murmurs.

Frivolous!

Squanderings!

(Such accusations)

There is one who stands to 

be without wages for a week.

And those whose hours have been cut

and salaries have been reduced,

ask, “May we give a portion of our pay

to this woman?”

And there are murmurs.

Frivolous!

Squanderings!

(Such accusations)

There is a man

who runs in a manner

that would bring dishonor

to any man of great position.

A father’s robe 

covers a son in disgrace.

A ring is placed

on a hand dirtied

by life.

And there are shouts.

Frivilous!

Squanderings!

(Such accusations)

There is a steward

Who, with a master’s ledger in hand,

Forgives and forgives and forgives 

as if he is in the world of his reality

yet strangely not of the world.

And there are accusations

of shrewdness …

of dishonesty ...

and above all,

of squanderings.

(Accusations only)

As I walk through my days,

and find placed in my hand 

that which holds power 

to hurt or to heal,

to feed or to starve, 

to forgive or not,

I wonder if I will buckle

under accusations.

My questions are these ….

Will I, too, hear accusations

of squanderings

shouted about me

when I choose

what to do with that which

has been entrusted to me?

Oh God, I hope for such accusations.

And will the accusations

of squanderings

remain just accusations,

or will I be convicted 

of such things?

Oh God, I pray for convictions.

"THE MISSING ANGEL" (an angel in need of repair and cleansing?)

This morning the sanctuary 

was flooded with a bright sunlight

like I had never seen before.

The memories of the elders

could not recall such light either

for the stained glass angel

that pointed heavenward,

was the oldest window

in the sanctuary,

moved into place

over 100 years ago

and had always provided

a warm color in this place.
The angel is missing today
and in its place,
clear glass.

The bright light

of the September morning’s sun

was alarming at first

as it poured into the sanctuary.

It made me feel uncomfortable

and somewhat vulnerable

as if the colors from

the stained glass

had always been

a cloak for me …

or a shield of protection.

“You might notice

that the Tiffany angel 

is missing.

It is being cleaned 

and repaired

and will be back in place soon” 

came the announcement

from the pulpit.

I wanted to respond 

by saying,

“Ummm, excuse me …

I didn’t know angels

were EVER in need 

of cleaning and repair!”

It was then when I remembered

that the stories of the 

stained glass windows -

of the Good Shepherd 

and the Road to Emmaus,

of the Resurrection and

this lovely old angel

pointing to God -

are reminders 

of what we are to share

outside of the walls

of this sanctuary.

Perhaps the clear glass

with the sunlight streaming

into the sanctuary

in such a startling way

tells a story just as important

as the other windows tell  …

“See … there …look outside…

there is a world beyond the

stained glass that needs to

hear the good news of

God’s Great Love!”

And those of us

who heed this sunlight,

will point to God

(as does this missing angel)

with our own words

and actions

and love

and we too will risk

becoming dirty 

and in need of repair.

In the promise of God’s

repairing and cleansing Grace,

may we respond 

to the Light that 

that beckons us to

the world outside of the walls.

And yes, angels do become dirty

and in need of repair …

SO BE PREPARED!

(9-11-16 Broad Street UMC / Statesville, NC)

"Oh Woman, Dear Nameless Woman" (Luke 13:10-17)

Oh woman, dear nameless woman,

Your life isn’t as it should be.

What has held your head down?

What has bent your back and heart

so severely?

What has burdened you so, dear woman,

that you are bent over …

that you are unable to stand straight …

that you cannot look

into the eyes of others?

What has shackled you

in this position?

Is it poverty or abuse?

Has all sense of worth

been stripped from you?

Have the cruelties of life

spit upon you and mocked you?

Have you been used by men to the point

of losing your own name?

Has death taken the very ones

who would have taken care of you?

Oh woman, nameless woman,

how your heart must long

to look into the eyes of others once more;

to seek hope and acceptance and love.

But alas, you cannot, can you?

Your head cannot be lifted.

For whatever reasons,

it is bent low.

You see only the dust of the streets 

and the feet of those

who step over you

and around you

and on you.

Oh woman, dear bent-low woman,

God has brought you to this place,

to this synagogue,

to this person who is teaching

freedom from bondage.

On this day …

yes, on this very Sabbath day

you will be set free 

and will stand tall

once more.

You must sense this hope, don’t you?

You made such a great effort to come.

You risked being turned away

by the leaders

as being one so nameless

that you would be in their way … 

a mere nuisance in their day.

But you have come to this place.  

Dear woman,

is this a last hope for you?

He has called you, 

not by name, but “Woman”.

Even before his touch, 

even before you might stand tall

he proclaims that those things

that had kept your head low 

and your back so bent

be gone forever.

Did you hear his words, dear woman?

SET FREE!  

Set free from all of the

bent-down bondage!

His eyes are the first eyes 

that you have seen in so long.  

How can you not respond

in the way that you do!

Standing straight … Praising God!

Oh woman, dear nameless woman,

Have you heard his name for you?

"Daughter of Abraham".  

Your great faith has given you

such a glorious name

and this man,

the one they call Jesus,

has seen your faith, 

even in your crippled posture.

What a beautiful name you now have!

(c) 2013  anna murdock

"Early Summer Mornings" (Aug, 13-15, 2016)

I thought it odd

that the early hours

of my Saturday morning

were silent and still.

There were no cautious sounds

in the trees …

sounds that a sentinel might make, 

moving into guarded position.

Perhaps it was the heat

of the summer’s morn.

I thought it odd

that the pre-dawn hours

of my Monday morning

were silent and still.

Was it was too early or dark

to be noticed by them?

I tried to be quiet

as I packed my car

so as not to alarm

the self-appointed

guards of the trees.

And, as I think back, 

it was odd

that sandwiched between

the silence of Saturday morning

and the silence of Monday morning,

there was Sunday morning …

there was urgent rustling and a

loud “CAW, CAW” 

and the response from far off

of “CAW, CAW” …

repeated again and again and again.

Just maybe the crows 

knew the difference 

and provided

the neighborhood with their own

Sunday’s Call to Worship!

(or is it  Caw to Worship?)

To them, it was not odd at all.

LACE and GRACE

Yesterday, I remembered

those summer days 

of my childhood …

those days that

brought out the best

of a mother and daughter

and Queen Anne’s Lace.

“Go out and play,” she would say

and I found myself running 

to the empty field.

At times, it was the

kite-flying field.

Other times, it was the

tag-playing field.

And still other times,

it was a baseball field,

beckoning very young, giggly players,

to run through weeds

toward imaginary bases.

But on a perfect day

the field would be filled

with Queen Anne’s Lace.

The little boys wanted 

nothing to do with such things

as flowers

so the field was mine.

No kites … 

no shouts of “Tag, you’re it” …

no giggles or the shouts of

“Run, run, runnnnnn!”

I was alone in a field of beauty.

Alone with flowers to be picked.

Many consider these flowers

to be weeds, 

but not me and not my mother.

At the sight of my bouquets of

Queen Anne’s Lace,

my mother would fill jars 

with water tinted by food coloring.

The stems of “lace” were divided

and I would put them in the jars,

knowing how thirsty they were.

Yellow, blue, red, green water.

The jars looked like stained glass.

And soon, the white flowers of 

Queen Anne’s Lace would 

become the colors of the water.

"Drink, for you are thirsty!

Drink, and become even more beautiful!

Drink, and be filled!"

This morning, I will think

of Lace and Grace as I,

along with many others,

receive Holy Communion.

"Drink, for you are thirsty!

Drink, and become even more beautiful!

Drink, and be filled!

Drink, and become the colors of Christ

   in this world!

Drink, for not one of you

is a weed!"

LACE and GRACE.