God, today my finitude is rubbed on my forehead. The reality of my limits, my fragile body, spoken over me like a curse: From dust I was made, to dust I will return. Some days I need to be reminded that I am not the perfectibility project I set out to be I am full of bounce and brimming with hope. All woes, solvable. All problems, a distant whisper. When I don’t feel like dust, bless me O God, in the ways I trick myself into believing that my life is something I’ve made, that all my accomplishments and successes and mastered mornings add up to something independent of you.
But on days like today, when my head hangs low, sunk with the grief of my neediness, bless me o God.
When my joints don’t work like they should, when I grow sick or turn gray too soon, when my body betrays me… or perhaps it is doing exactly what it is supposed to do. Tell me again exactly how you made me: from dust to dust. Blessed are we, a mess of contradictions, in our delusions and deep hopes, in our fragility and finitude.
Sim Shalom
Hearing Voices
Calamity Averted
A Christmas Sermon on Peace - Martin Luther King Jr
A Weary World Rejoices, Together
Still Searching
The God You Hold
How Does A Weary World Rejoice? (We Acknowledge Our Weariness)
Who Reigns?
[bonus] Great is Thy Faithfulness
Ask The Pastors
God Stories
Every Tear
Our Faith Journeys: Words from the Confirmands
Death And Taxes
God’s A-List
What Matters Most
Expectations VS Reality
The Unfairness of Grace
4 Questions and An Answer
Two or More
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