As a Protestant I wasn’t brought up with the word sin in my vocabulary; that was for Catholics. Instead, we heard Jesus loves me, and were quite proud about that; we had the true message! Times have changed, but nevertheless, at least in my UCC church, sin is still not a prominent word. We don’t say it much. For example, in the Lord’s Prayer we say, ‘forgive us our trespasses,’ not, ‘forgive us our sins.’
     Lately I’ve been giving more thought to what sin means to me--not the individual ‘bad’ things I do as much as sin as part of being human. We aren’t perfect, and if we want to find any peace from God, we had better recognize and acknowledge that part of who we are. To do so keeps us humble and open to doing our part to work for God’s kingdom come here on earth.
     My prayer for the children and parents separated at our borders is more powerful when I admit that I am complicit as a sinful human being. Only when I keep picking myself off the floor can I hope that officials and politicians will do the same for the children.

     Yesterday on my cottagebythesea blog I wrote about the child abuse our government is carrying out on children and mothers seeking asylum as they courageously dare to enter the United States through Mexico. I’ve posted it below.
     Here on this prayerdiary I want to talk about all the praying that’s going on for the situation. People are praying and I trust you who read this blog are doing so as well.
      That’s the first thing I want to say. The second is that as Christians we are called to feed the poor… what you do to one of these, you do unto me. That’s what Jesus tells, and whenever I need a refresher, which I do, I read Matthew 25. It’s all there.
      Finally, what about the law? Jesus told the man who asked him which law to follow in order to gain eternal life, "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'" (Luke 10:27). You can find a similar response in Matthew 22:37.
     That sums up Jesus’ entire message. Just a few phrases, with a chapter or two thrown in for amplification and clarification.
 
Here are this morning’s gratitudes:
I’m grateful I had the freedom to nurse my two children.
I’m grateful that I am sooooo angry that nursing children are being taken (grabbed) from their mother’s breast at our Mexican border.
I can’t believe that my gratitude has to do with anger. As I’ve written before, every morning my husband and I start the day saying what we’re grateful for. Those ought to be positive, right? And they usually are because isn’t that the nature of gratitude? Isn’t that how we want to live?
But this is a totally new concept for me (and I’m sure I’m not alone), this separating nursing mothers and children. Separating is bad enough, but taking a baby from the breast? Child abuse is hardly a strong enough term. Is there any argument that says it’s not child abuse? I’m not saying abusive in some general, vague term. I’m using the full term: CHILD ABUSE.
Who are these people who physically carry out this child abuse? Border guards, men and women. I assume that more of them are men, because that’s the kind of job men have. A few may be women, but I can’t imagine any woman would grab a child from a mother’s breast. More likely the women border guards are probably in the detention centers comforting children and mothers.
I assume that these border guards are citizens of this democracy called the United States of America. How can these men and women stand by and be complicit in this child abuse? They need the job to support their families and they are powerless—the two go together; I get that. I also get that that is what German citizens said as they unwittingly participated in Hitler’s cult, which let to the Nazi state. And now, our the United States government, via the president, is requiring its citizens to participate in immoral and unethical acts against fellow human beings.
I’m angry but refuse to admit I’m powerless. I have to believe that I am a citizen of a democracy. I can speak out against this child abuse, but is there something more to do?
 

     Sometimes I pray with the people I visit. “What shall we pray for?” I ask, and I am in awe of what comes forth. Today, at the rehab facility, Martha wanted to pray for her caregivers. Here she was, sitting in her wheelchair, putting aside her long-term struggles and expressing compassion for the dedicated help she had been receiving for close to seven months.
     Visiting always presents an opportunity for me to receive as well as give. I don’t want to say that I receive more than I give, although that often feels like the case, because I don’t consider giving and receiving as competitive, or as one being better than the other. I am committed to experiencing them as part of the same seamless cloth, perhaps a beautiful prayer shawl.

     Childhood memories about praying can give us a window into how we learned to pray. I saw my parents praying every Sunday at church. Occasionally they talked about prayer with me. When I was thirteen I recall my father’s precise words as I considered which friend to invited to come with us on a trip to Canada.
     “You might consider praying about it.”
     I remember talking to God about it, and after a couple of days telling Dad my decision. The answer was right; we had a wonderful early teen time.
That’s pretty much the way I pray for decisions now, sixty years later. Pose a questions; talk with God; listen for an answer; stick with the decision and be happy with it. I pray mind, body, spirit, all mixed together.

Mind; an idea; thinking about a problem, chatting with God about it.
Body: the physical experience; we live in the body.
Spirit: a peaceful response; loving.

     Tomorrow morning at I’m going to pour myself a cup of coffee and enjoy soul talk with Kirk Jones, my professor at Andover Newton, who continues to be a friend twenty years later. Join us on Face Book Live.I don’t know how to put the link on here but just go to Face Book and write in Kirk Byron Jones and Saturday Morning Soul Talk.
See you there.

     Miracles fascinate me, and, I’m all over the place about them, believing in them when I have no other way to explain certain things that happen. “It’s a miracle,” can be a throwaway comment. According to the Gospels, miracles were an essential part of Jesus’ ministry; he performed them often. Thus, there must be a correlation between prayer and miracles,
     I’m in the middle of Lee Strobel’s new book, The Case for Miracles. I figure that in order to deepen my faith, I have to be open to new understandings and different points of view. Strobel’s theology doesn’t mesh with mine. He is evangelical, I am not.
     Strobel embraces Richard L. Purtill’s definition: “A miracle is an event that is brought about by the power of God that is a temporary exception to the ordinary course of nature for the purpose of showing that God is acting in history.”
     This presents a binary understanding—God as puppeteer, pulling the strings every once in a while to exert his (masculine) power. Strobel interviews skeptics, scientists, philosophers, and theologians about their experiences and beliefs about miracles. So far, the examples of miracles are extraordinary medical reversals, which lend themselves to the miraculous. For example, a paralyzed, non-verbal woman hearing a voice and getting up and walking.
     On my best days when I pray, I don’t use miracle language. In fact, I don’t use much language at all. I lift people or situations to the light and let go and let God. Sometimes I picture them healed. Hmm, maybe I should ask for specific healings, for miracles.
     More to explore. I’m still fascinated and still all over the place.

Again, a post on Acottagebythesea with commentary.
       Many of my friends fall into the ‘spiritual but not religious’ category. If they attend church they go to the Unitarian church (my church for 15 years). Many were brought up Christian but have either wandered away or made a conscious decision not to affiliate as Christian. They are loving, caring, giving people, believing, they might say, in a ‘higher being;’ that say that we are all on the same path, wanting the same things. I won’t argue with that, but for me, having walked the ‘spiritual but not religious’ path, I know that I am in different and better place as a Christian than when I was human being trying to do the right thing. It’s all about humility and I can’t get that on my own. Believe me, I’ve tried.
      It was a challenge to talk about my faith but I’m glad I did. Here’s how it went.
 
     The other day I had lunch with a group of long-time friends. The six of us get together every three of four months, and lately we’ve developed the ritual of checking-in. Around the table we go, one by one telling what’s going on in our lives. Although we keep in touch individually, this communal forum offers a venue for a more public, on the-record-account, thus making our group time together sacred.
     Knowing there would be a formal check-in, I found myself planning ahead what I wanted to say. I gave an update on the doings of my family, and then albeit awkwardly, I talked about how important my faith is to me, not just as a way to do nice things for others, but as the only way I know to be humble. I mentioned that I grapple with my white privilege; that being a good person on my own isn’t enough; and that my faith leads me to confront judgments, critiques, pride, impatience, and arrogance that keep me from being humble. In other words, I can’t be humble all by myself on my own doing. AND, I desperately need humility because it the only way of being that leads me to peace.
     To my surprise I ended by saying, “I believe that right now in my life I am supposed to pray for people.”

     I still can't believe I blurted that out. Notice, I didn't say that I was called to pray. In thinking about it, I wonder if that proclamation was one of the most important thing I've said out loud? Certainly the most powerful, if not to them, at least to myself.

     I posted this on acottagebythesea but here on aprayerdairy I’ve extended the ending.
 
     Those of you who follow me on this blog know that I long for solitude-- after all, that’s what the blog is about. But even if you don’t know me personally you can probably surmise that I can be quite social. On the Myers-Briggs I’m right in the middle on the introvert/extrovert continuum. I get energy from both solitude and community.
     Lately I’ve been thinking about community, it’s importance in society at large, and for me in particular. Although I have a good amount of solitude in my life, I also have many communities: family, friends, and church are the big categories, but within them are many little overlapping ones.
     Case in point. Friday I went to Andover Newton Theological School to celebrate the retirement of Bob Pazmino, Professor of Christian Education. When I was there (1998-2003) getting my MDiv, Bob was a mentor and friend. We had much in common through our writings for teachers: he for Christian educators, me for elementary school teachers. His memoir, A Boy Grows Up in Brooklyn, was a catalyst for me to write Very Grateful: The Story of My Hundred Year Old Mother and Me.
     That evening of celebration rekindled many communities from my student days at ANTS. Communities with professors, administrators, students, and families, and each with overarching theme of writing. A long time friend asked for encouragement to write when she retires in June; a graduating student explained how he wants to write about climate change; one of Bob’s cousins told me she had read Joyful Learning when she was a kindergarten teacher. Kirk Jones, my preaching professor, asked me what I was writing these days, and then encouraged keep at it. He and I are going to be in touch. 
     Yes, we have our major communities, which for me are family, friends, and church. And we have our small ones, too. They flow among each other, coming and going, vibrating and fading, but all part of the whole which constitutes our lives.
   
    Here are a few more details of my discussion with Kirk Jones. When he asked me what I was doing these day, much to my astonishment I blurted out that I was praying.
     ‘And again to my astonishment he asked, “Are you writing about it?”
I can’t get that question out of my mind. Writing about my call to prayer would reveal more about me than most people know. Although I write about it here, most of the people I know personally don’t know this blog exists. Of the seventy or so who sign in on a given day to read Aprayerdiary maybe I know five. Much to ponder.
     Kirk, we must talk.

     This has been a busy week, full of joys and concerns: a family graduation celebration here at the house, a sad funeral at church, and preoccupation with my cousin Mark’s surgery.
     The joys were easy. Everything about my niece’s daughter’s graduation was delightful. Mark’s kidney transplant was a success, and although still in the hospital, he is now recovering with only a I.V. attached—but not being used.
      Concerns are always more of a challenge. When a 31 year old man dies, it is sad, even when the memorial service is uplifting and when love surrounds everyone. As Christians we believe that there is life after death, and in some way beyond understanding, Jesus will always be with us. We can gain some comfort in that, but Jesus also taught us about suffering, tears, and doubt,
      When sadness or tragedy bursts into our lives, it is hard to even remember that our faith is not one of joy or concern, but one of hope. As Christians we must embrace both joys and concerns as they appear, knowing they are necessary for us to rest in God’s peace. Hope makes that possible.