Author: Robert Keefer

Note from the Pastor: On Sunday, young people who participated in the 2019 Presbyterian Youth Triennium led our worship. The theme of the Triennium was “Here’s My Heart,” from the third verse of the hymn, “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” The message of the day was a poem composed and performed by Jordan Petersen. Here is the text.

Prayer From the Hiding

I have spent a lifetime hiding.
Hiding from people
People who taunt, torment, hurt
A twisted, cruel game no one wants to play
But will say nothing against
And so I can be found in a dark corner
Forgotten

Hiding from people
Who want to touch, to kiss, hug
Who mean well but don’t understand that
Sometimes
I can’t stand the suffocation that comes with their embraces
So I can be found
In an undiscovered room
Silent

But usually,
I’m hiding from myself
And the darkness that purrs within my chest
And the emotions I feel so strongly
Too strongly
That they threaten to wash over me
And wipe out those around me
As I stand
Literally the eye in my own personal hurricane
There are more casualties than I care to admit.

I am hiding from the undeniable fragility
Of my terribly human heart.
And maybe it isn’t so terrible of a heart
Its beat a constant reminder of life
Its steady thrumming calms me as I lay half-asleep
But it is fickle
And it can be cruel
It can see someone broken
And mock them instead of being
That smile they desperately need
It can want and take with reckless abandon
Leaving with those taken bits of others’ past
Marking them as its own
And then discarding them
When it grows bored

It can be so hateful
And turn away every kind face
Because it is jealous
Of the smiles that some so easily
To those shining faces
And it is broken
Breaking every day
Each day brings a new fracture
Until they spiderweb out
Leaving me wondering
If a cave-in is imminent

And sometimes I can’t
Help but think
God
If You exist
If you’re there like everyone says
You are
How could You design something
with so major of a flaw?
One that is so sure to be my downfall?

If You’re there
How could You design us to lie
Our untruths like poisoned honey falling from sneering lips
How could You design us to steal
Our hands reaching, snatching, taking
Like vultures on a carcass
How could You design us to sin
With wild and reckless abandon
Straying farther from You
With every crime committed against You

And it leads me back
To that age-old argument.
If You exist.
Because my broken
Volatile
human heart
sometimes can’t
Or won’t
Believe.
Because I there are times
When I cannot feel You
I cannot see You.

Where I cannot find You
As others do
In the eyes of my neighbor
Or the kindness of a stranger
I can only see what is wrong
And there is so much wrong
I am told to look for the good
And I am trying
But my mind pinpoints the wrongs
On the bulletin board in my mind
Red strings attached to show
Wrong
Deceitful
Unjust

Is that something wrong with me?
Is there something so fundamentally broken
Or wrong with me
That I can’t find You?
Or is it that You just aren’t there?
Is your silence extended solely to me?

Sometimes, it feels as if
There is a hole somewhere in my chest
Where doubt has carved a cavern so deep
That I cannot find the end of it.
And maybe
Maybe some small, cowering part of me
Would prefer if You weren’t there
If You didn’t exist
Because then I wouldn’t have to explain
To anyone
How broken I am
And no one would really see

Maybe that small part of me is okay with that
Because it’s terrifying to think that
You have to look down
And see who I am
Because I am a human of contradictions
And I feel ashamed
And so maybe I hide from You too

Because everything
Everything in this world
Seems to point
To taunt
To mock and compare
To tell me I am not good enough
And if I am not good enough for the world around me
How can I possibly hope
To be good enough
For You?

So I hide
And those broken bits of me
That so desperately need healing
Find no refuge and no salvation
Because the belief I once held so strongly
Faded and withered like a poisoned vine
Desperately clinging to life
Unable to stretch further towards the light
Just. Stuck. There.
Desperate for help
Yet unwilling to ask.
Because how can I believe in You
If there is no hope
Of You believing in me?

Plastering on a smile
And throwing a laugh where it is needed
Sometimes, it’s easier to smile
To pretend
Sometimes the laughter is pure and genuine
Although tainted with something darker
And if I close my eyes
There are memories flashing
Behind my eyelids
Like butterflies
And it is as easy as breathing
To declare
“I believe in God”

Then there are days where there is nothing
I do not dare close my eyes
Because I will see this deep pit of nothing
This dark void inside my gut takes form
prowling under my skin like a caged beast
whispering doubts that no amount of sunshine
Or laughter
Can ever take from me

And I want to cry out to the Heavens,
“God! Save me from these feelings,
I am drowning
And I can’t do this alone
I cannot swim through this”
But I do not
Because I don’t know which I’m more afraid of
The echo
Or the answer
And so I hide

You’re called the Rock of Salvation
And all I could think of was the sea
And stones in that murky, sour water
Covered in soft-looking algae
Pulled down by their weight
Whispering secrets and mysteries
To those who dwell below
Forgotten, unseen by those above

And I didn’t want to be like that
I didn’t want you to sink me to the bottom
Below those churning waves
If you are truly a rock then I would plummet
The ocean floor rising to greet me
I didn’t want you to drown me
Overpower me
So that all that’s left of me is a song
At the bottom of the sea

So I hid
When I should have clung to you
Because in my frightened human heart
I never thought of stability
something so steadfast and unmoving
That it is unshakable
I thought of you as an anchor sending me to the bottom
Not one holding me fast
Against any storm
Against any current desperate to pull me away
To rip away every piece of me

But still I hide
Like most of us do
Hiding from Your light, Your warmth
Afraid it will burn our eyes
Instead of drying our tears
Afraid it will forsake us
After we grow to love it so dearly
So we distance ourselves
Shut ourselves in the dark
Because the fear
Of the creatures who dwell with us
Within that dark
Is sometimes easier
To manage, to leash
Than the fear
Of being unworthy
Of Your embraces

And Lord, I am sorry
Sorry that we hide from you
Sorry that I hide from you
You, who have made our
Human hearts in your image
While Yours surely breaks
As we cower
Terrified to be deemed unworthy
By a Father who has shown us
Nothing less than perfect love

A Father who gives his children
All he has and all he is
I am sorry that there are days
Where it seems that darkness
Is my only comfort
I am sorry that I am sometimes afraid
To say I believe in You
Because my fickle heart
Is full of contradictions
And I am sorry
For my broken human heart.

But I want you to know that I am trying
Every day, every hour, every second
Trying to be worthy of You
Because every second of every hour of every day
You battle my darknesses to keep them at bay
You bring back the light to me
When I have given up on the sunshine
When my doubt threatens to drown me
My Rock holds me fast
And when my fragile heart
Threatens to give out
You are there to soothe it, to calm it
I am not perfect
And I struggle to find you
But I promise you every day I will try.

Because it is You who saves
My people
Your people
It is You who offers light in the darkest of nights
It is You whose songs comfort the wailing of many
It is You who heals the weary, the broken
It is You whom we seek
And yes, sometimes
It is You we are
Afraid to find
But it is You who loves us
It is you who knows us
It is you who will try and bring us
Back to you

You knew me before I ever knew you
And no matter where my doubt takes me
You will be there
Waiting for me to come home
So when I come back
Fold me into your arms
Hold me there so my doubt
Is meaningless and shallow
In the light of your fathomless love.
When I return to that place of shadow
Do not fear
For I will find my way back to you
Lead me back
Light up my night
With your starshine.

God, I love you with all of my human heart
It is ever-changing and in turmoil, full of anger and greed
But it is mine
And I will offer it wholly to You.
And maybe that isn’t much
But it’s all I have
And I know deep in my singing bones
That it is enough
That I am enough for You

I might be prone to anger so deep
It pours fire into my veins
Scorching my lungs and
Leaving me with crimson-tinged vision
Sadness so profound
It steals the breath from my lungs and
Sends tremors through my body
That I can barely contain
And doubt so agonizing
That every whisper of the wind frightens me
Makes my very soul cry out in despair

But You
Are prone to Love so complete
That you shaped our very lives with it
poured our very souls from it
And Compassion so strong
that maybe I can feel it
in the strength of my bones
Or the height of my shoulders
The current running through my veins
or the praises on my lips
And I am enough for You.
I am everything to You.

So Lord, take my heart
Forgive me for all the missing pieces
Kiss all the fractures
Smooth over the jagged edges
Bind them together with Your Love and Grace
Because You might just be the only thing
Strong enough to hold me together
And that’s okay
Take my heart, Lord
Take and seal it.
Seal it for thy courts above.

© 2019 Jordan Petersen

“We do not lose heart.”
Pentecost XV (O. T. 25); September 22, 2019
II Corinthians 4:1-18

As part of this sermon, the ACE Puppet Troupe performed a piece called “Brave.” Since I cannot reproduce it adequately, I’ve removed portions of the sermon that set it up and responded to it, and left intact the bulk of my thoughts on the subject.

The Apostle Paul had all sorts of reasons to give up. A conservative Jew, when he became a follower of Jesus and started hanging out with Gentiles he was branded a race-traitor. Many of his fellow Christians were suspicious of him, said that he shouldn’t call himself an apostle, and spread rumors about him. Of course, he was frequently in trouble with the authorities, and in one catalog of his sufferings he notes that on five occasions he’s been whipped 39 times, three times beaten with rods and once subjected to stoning (II Corinthians 11:24-25). In the course of his work he also dealt with hunger, shipwreck, and other troubles.

So why did he keep going? He could have made a good living as a teacher, or making tents. Why did he keep preaching the Gospel and founding churches? Why do you and I keep going? Our times are not particularly friendly to a Christian agenda and even church people can be hostile to folks who are honestly trying to follow Jesus. Why do we keep going?

We read this entire chapter from Paul’s letter today because it both starts and ends with the same phrase: “We do not lose heart.” Paul certainly could have lost heart, but he never did. At the beginning of the chapter he said that he did not lose heart because “it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry.” He had a strong sense of calling, and when you truly believe that the work you are doing is God’s work, that’s a powerful motivator to keep going. And at the end of the chapter, he said he did not lose heart because the suffering of this present time is stripping away our sinful human nature to make us ready for the glory of eternity. So we do not lose heart.

Part of what kept Paul going was the sense that he was responding to God’s call to him. Another part was anticipating the eternal weight of glory. Yet the key, I’m convinced, is in the heart of the chapter: “The God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (v. 6). Let me focus you on the big picture and the small picture. The big picture is the God who said, “Let light shine out of darkness.” Sometimes you need to know that the garbage you’re digging through today connects in some way with a larger, meaningful whole. Paul could keep going because he was convinced he was serving the God who created the universe – and you can’t get bigger than that.

I remember a story in a publication for ministers in which the writer described the lives of clowns in the circus. Apparently the chief occupational hazard was being bitten by chimpanzees. And the writer described the constant annoyances that pastors have to put up with as “chimp bites.” Why put up with them? Because if we didn’t, then we wouldn’t be in the circus! You and I hang in there – we do not lose heart – in our struggle to live by the ways of God because we believe we are living for the God who said, “Let light shine out of darkness.”

But the small picture is equally important: that light shines in our hearts in the face of Jesus Christ. A particular person, a carpenter who liked parties, a teacher who took time for children, a suffering Messiah, a risen Savior who invites us to eat and drink with him: that one shines in our hearts, and so we do not lose heart.

My friend and I read Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning together, a reflection on his years in a Nazi concentration camp. You heard Steve Bhaerman refer to it last week;[1] he told us that Frankl and his friend vowed to find something to laugh at every day. Another thing in the book was that the writer said that what kept him going every day was that he found a sense of meaning. And it wasn’t something big and grand and glorious: his meaning in his daily existence was the hope of seeing his wife again. The image of her face in his mind kept him alive. It was the small thing.

We do not lose heart if we speak up against racism or bullying, if we join the struggle for the earth, if we love God and neighbor in acts of service, teaching, and salvation… we do not lose heart because it’s about Jesus. This isn’t about me; this isn’t about you. It’s about Jesus. And when we remember that the light shining in our hearts is the light of the Creator, shining in the face of Jesus Christ, then we do not lose heart.

Robert A. Keefer
Presbyterian Church of the Master
Omaha, Nebraska

[1] Comedian Steve Bhaerman spoke at our 10:30 service on September 15 on the subject “The Healing Power of Laughter.”

Dios Mío
Pentecost XIV (O. T. 24); September 15, 2019
Ezekiel 36:22-28

The title of the sermon is inspired by a story I read many years ago. A particular Catholic bishop said that whenever he had a new priest in his diocese, who would be serving a congregation that included Hispanic/Latino persons, he would send that priest to Puerto Rico until he learned to say, “Dios mío:” “my God.” Over the course of my ministry I’ve been privileged to work with Puerto Rican folks, Mexican-American folks, and then this year to visit briefly Nicaragua. Although very different from one another, they all seemed to have this in common: an intensity of personal relationship with God. Dios mío.

That reflects what the Prophet Ezekiel was getting at in this passage. Here’s a recap of what’s going on in the Prophet’s words. Ezekiel has been reflecting on the behavior of God’s people and what led to the collapse of their society and their exile. He said that their failure to live by the ways of God – I could say, failure to obey the Law of God – that that failure caused dishonor to the name of God. Think about it: if one of your children does something terrible, don’t you feel your family’s name has been dishonored? So when the people of God fail to live by the ways of God, the Lord’s name is dishonored.

And so the Babylonians overran the country, destroyed the Temple, and took all the leading citizens into exile. In today’s reading comes the Lord’s promise: I will bring you home, and I will do a heart transplant on you. “I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh” (v. 26). When you and I talk about the heart symbolically, we think of it as the place where emotions are: love, hate, lust, desire for revenge, and so forth. Among ancient Hebrew people, the heart was thought of as the seat of the will: from the heart came what you wanted to do, your goals, the things you set yourself to.

So when the Prophet says that the people used to have a heart of stone, he meant that they were stubborn, they resisted the will of God. And he says that God will give them a heart of flesh, so they would want to do the will of God. If they kept God’s Law at all in the past, he implies, they did so out of fear of punishment. But in the future, they would keep God’s Law – they would live by God’s ways – because they want to; “and you shall be my people, and I will be your God.”

The upshot of the whole thing: God has shown us how to live, and we have promised to live by God’s ways. When we don’t do it, we dishonor God (not to mention that we’re also messing up our planet and living with violence, poverty, and hunger). And God’s intention is that we live by God’s ways because we want to, not merely because we’re afraid of punishment.

It’s clear, given God’s freely offered forgiveness, that God understands when we fail to live up to the calling of God. When we want to do the right thing, but fail to, God freely forgives. God’s aggravation with us is when we don’t want to do the right thing, when we’re more concerned with protecting our own, grabbing our goodies, or even simply being lazy. When we want to do the right thing but fail, our heart is in the right place. But when we don’t want to do what God is calling us to do, then we are living with hearts of stone.

But Ezekiel says that God will give us new hearts, hearts of flesh, so that we will want to do God’s will. I keep wondering: when? When will my heart be changed, so that I genuinely always desire to do the right thing, when I no longer by my stubbornness dishonor the name of God? Despite Ezekiel’s promises, God persists in allowing us free will, in allowing us freely to choose to ignore God’s ways, to hold onto our hearts of stone.

I hope this makes sense to you and that you can see yourself in this mirror, too. Do you always freely choose to do the will of God, to live by God’s ways? Or do you also find yourself sometimes being selfish, sometimes being lazy, sometimes willfully doing the opposite of what God wants? Even if you’ve learned to say Dios mío and mean it, if you feel a close relationship with the God who loves you, surely there are times when your heart is stubborn and you simply want to serve yourself, not the Lord.

The Lord Jesus is working at showing us the way. For us to follow the ways of God because we want to, rather than because we’re afraid we might go to Hell if we don’t, requires a heart transplant, and Jesus is just the surgeon to do it. As you learn more about Jesus, about his life on earth, his teaching, his priorities, he becomes for you the sort of person you want to be. He touches the heart, the place where we say “my God” and choose our goals and priorities.

One of the great teachers of the Church, Peter Abelard, took a very different look at the Cross of Jesus from some others. While others viewed it as an offering to God, a sacrifice to pay for sins, he looked at it as God’s offering to us. God’s own Son went to the Cross as an expression of God’s love for us, and when we look, really look, at Christ Jesus on the Cross, then we are moved to change for the better: our hearts of stone are melted and become hearts of flesh.

And this occurs to me, too: if I want to know God, if I really want God in my life, where do I turn? Do I follow the rules to try to get God to accept me? If I’m good enough, will God notice me and make me part of God’s life? Or shall I listen to Jesus, who said, “Come to me”? Shall I allow my heart and mind to be opened to Jesus, so that by turning to him I may find myself in the life of God? Well, you know what I think.

I think that God is so fascinating and exciting that I want God in my life, and so I turn to Jesus Christ. And I’ll try, however haltingly, to follow the ways of God, not because I’m afraid I’ll go to Hell if I don’t, but simply because I want to. And when I get lazy or stubborn and don’t want to, I’ll pray that God will change my heart from a heart of stone to a heart of flesh, so that I can truly say: Dios mío.

Robert A. Keefer
Presbyterian Church of the Master
Omaha, Nebraska

Joy in the Ordinary Day
Pentecost XIII (O. T. 23); September 8, 2019
Psalm 4

To the reader: The Worship Design Group of our Church starts a four-week series today, “Here’s My Heart.” Each week we focus on a different idea about the heart: physical, metaphorical, emotional, spiritual. This week is “God mends broken hearts.”

After Nancy Perry’s burial on Wednesday, I was talking to one of her daughters. I observed what a beautiful day it was; she said, “Yes, Mom would have loved it. Mom was the sort who always noticed things: the blue sky, a flower…” In the midst of her grief, she took joy from the simple memory of her mother’s attentiveness to beauty.

Our focus today is on God’s mending broken hearts. I suspect nearly everyone in this room, at least if you’re over fifteen years old, has had your heart broken at least once. Consider what has helped you heal. A lot of it is beyond your control: the passage of time, the attentiveness of friends, the encouragement of Scripture. What you can control is where you place your attention, what you choose to think about.

Some years ago I memorized Psalm 4 in the New Revised Standard Version; I got the idea from a book by Eugene Peterson about the use of the Psalms in your prayer life.[1] I committed the Psalm to memory and I recite it every night. After I’ve turned out the light from my reading, and before I fall asleep, I recite Psalm 4. The last verse (“I will both lie down and sleep in peace; for you alone, O Lord, make me lie down in safety”) is what makes it a bedtime psalm, but my favorite verse is the next-to-last. In the NRSV it’s, “You have put gladness in my heart more than when their grain and wine abound.” It’s a response to the many who ask God for favors; the poet says, essentially, they can have their favors; God has put gladness in my heart.

In The Message (coincidentally, a paraphrase also by Eugene Peterson), those lines are:

Why is everyone hungry for more? “More, more,” they say.
“More, more.”
I have God’s more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day
Than they get in all their shopping sprees.

“I have God’s more-than-enough.” Because you and I have given ourselves to God, and God’s beauty and bounty are key to our lives, joy in an ordinary day surpasses the thrill of stuff from a bout of big spending. “You have put gladness in my heart more than when their grain and wine abound.”

God’s work of mending a broken heart is often seen in the subtle ways God works around us: the friend who calls at the right moment, the message that arrives when needed, the sun breaking through clouds. And it is also in teaching us where to put our attention: to notice the blue sky after your mother’s burial, to enjoy a fresh tomato when the sadness piles up, to allow our hearts to receive gladness more than when their grain and wine abound, to take joy in the ordinary day.

The key, I believe, is to trust God. Hearts in our congregation are broken at the many deaths we have had so far this year: Laurie Wilson, Sue Mehaffey, Ruth Cook, Andrea Sherman, Dave Perry, Jan Blimling, Fred Henninger, Barb Oertell, Nancy Pearson Perry, Maureen Lambrecht. People say all sorts of well-meaning things in response to our sadness, and sometimes those things help. The Pastor aims to comfort and encourage us, to help our hearts to heal, from the witness of Scripture. Although people will say all sorts of things about life after death, we really know very little. Here are two things that I think I know, two things that can help mend broken hearts, that I certainly believe.

First: Jesus Christ is raised from the dead. Since Christ is raised, resurrection is real. Christ has gone before us into the tomb and through the tomb and blazed the way to new life. Because Christ lives, we too shall live. And because Christ lives now, every ordinary day is an opportunity to be touched by Christ, to eat and drink with him, or chat with him, or recognize his goodness in a blue sky. Since Christ is alive in your ordinary day, there is joy in your ordinary day.

Second: God is trustworthy. I try not to say much about what resurrection life is like, because the Bible says very little about it and I don’t want to go beyond what the Bible says. So I don’t know what life-after-death is like. But I believe I can trust God, and that God knows what God is doing, and so whatever it means for Laurie, Sue, Ruth, Andrea, Dave, Jan, Fred, Barb, Nancy, and Maureen, God can be trusted to be looking after them.

That’s really all I want to say to you. If you and I can trust God for that, then we can trust God for today and for every ordinary day.

Why is everyone hungry for more? “More, more,” they say.
“More, more.”
I have God’s more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day
Than they get in all their shopping sprees.

“You have put gladness in my heart more than when their grain and wine abound.” Thanks be to God.

Robert A. Keefer
Presbyterian Church of the Master
Omaha, Nebraska

[1] Eugene Peterson: Answering God: The Psalms as Tools for Prayer (Harper & Row, 1989)

Table Talk

Pentecost XII (O. T. 22); September 1, 2019
Luke 14:1, 7-14

I know that some of you still do dinner parties: you have people in for dinner, perhaps you play games, or you have good conversation over the table. When I was a student in Spain, I learned a word that has no equivalent in English: “sobremesa.” It literally means “over the table,” but what it describes is that time after you’ve finished eating and you’re sitting at the table, perhaps with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, and talking. Imagine the plates and utensils still sitting in front of you, but the conversation about federal trade policy or Martin Scorsese’s latest film is so good that you all sit together and talk.

That’s the point of dinner parties; am I right? Sometimes you have one in order to impress someone, such as your boss, or to welcome someone, such as a new neighbor or new pastor, and of course we have wedding receptions and rehearsal dinners and other scripted occasions. But if you do dinner parties at all, or go out to dinner with other folks, it’s primarily for the sake of friendship: to build relationships.

The reason this occurs to me as relevant to Luke’s story is that Luke calls it a “parable.” I decided not to walk you through all the twists and turns of thinking that led me to where I’m taking you with this story, but simply take you there. Jesus is doing more than simply giving good advice about how not to be embarrassed at a wedding reception – telling you to sit at a less important spot than you think you’re entitled to, so everyone will see you being raised up – but is telling us quite explicitly that in the kingdom of God, those who try hard to be important will be humbled. Those who humbly serve will be exalted (good word, isn’t it? How often do you say “exalted” in a typical day?).

And so the advice to invite “the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind” to your dinner parties is not merely a way to win brownie points with God. Yes, if you scratch the back of someone who cannot scratch yours, then you will be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven. That is true. But I think there is a deeper truth here, and it goes back to what I was saying about dinner parties.

We’re not here in God’s Church just to learn how to go to heaven. We’re here to learn how to help our world be a little more like heaven. And one place to start is the dinner table.

Last week, one of you suggested that we have weekly meals for our neighbors. Well, every week might be a bit ambitious for a start. But here’s the genius in your idea: it’s not only a way to be of service; it’s a way to get to know people. If you wish to follow through and make something come of your idea, please don’t do it just as an avenue of service, and don’t do it in the hope of recruiting church members. Do it as a way of building relationships, of meeting people that you would not usually get to know.

So in Jesus’ advice he suggests getting to know people not because of what they can do for you but simply for their own sake. Right, you have the boss to dinner in order to make a good impression and maybe get a promotion. And you can expect tit-for-tat if you invite people who will return the favor. But those who are not going to return the favor may give you a deeper favor: friendship.

The most interesting thing about my job is I get to hear people’s stories. When people talk about themselves, I get invited into the mystery of who someone is. Where you came from, the people who have been important to you, the work and activities you love, what frightens you. People are endlessly fascinating. Well, I don’t want to overstate this. There was the time I was on the California Zephyr heading east and my seatmate learned I’m a pastor; the whole way from Omaha to Burlington he told me about his life – all the way across Iowa. I really wanted a break to read for some of that time. But, generally speaking, my life is enriched by the invitation into people’s lives.

Imagine the richness of conversation with folks over dinner simply for the sake of having that conversation, without another agenda. Is it not a blessing to have dinner with someone and, in your mind you’re thinking, “The only thing I want from you is you. Your story. Your company for a little while. And maybe your opinion about the City’s transportation initiative.”

Although I’m not going into the whole process of my thinking, I will say I’m inspired by the Prophet Jeremiah’s observation that the people of Judah had abandoned the fountain of living water and instead dug out cisterns that could not even hold water (the Old Testament reading of the day was Jeremiah 2:4-13). We do something similar when we get distracted by scrambling for position, trying to make good impressions, working at marginal and unimportant things, while neglecting those things in life which matter: the love of God, our families, friendships.

I think if we invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind simply because we want to do something nice for them and maybe God will notice and reward us, we miss the point. We are trying to drink from cisterns that cannot hold water. But if we have dinner with the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind in the hopes of getting to know them, then we are much closer to the fountain of living water. We are eating and drinking with Jesus.

Our Church hosted Crossroads Connection on Easter; our Deacons prepared a lovely meal for the inmates and their families and we all enjoyed it together after worship. And I noticed that the hosts, the people from our Church, did not all sit together, but dispersed among the guests. You were listening to their stories. You were building relationships. You were drinking from the fountain of living water. You were having dinner with Jesus.

Robert A. Keefer
Presbyterian Church of the Master
Omaha, Nebraska