The Land Between

These last couple of weeks have been a blur of softball, soccer and baseball games, various appointments, and lots of details in preparation for Jay and my trip to Israel. And maps. Lots of maps. The course we’ll be taking at Jerusalem University College is called the History and Geography of the Bible, and sometime earlier this spring, two large packets of maps arrived, with instructions to study and work with them before arriving in Israel. We’ve come to the conclusion that we should have started sooner . . .

The resources we’re using – maps and study guides – all talk about the land of Israel as ‘The Land Between.’ It reminds me of how often we are aware of being in a place or time between – Holy Saturday between Good Friday and Easter, Advent between the already and not yet coming of God’s kingdom.

One guide says, ‘This Land Between is never isolated and throughout history more often than not was a powerless pawn in greater struggles.’ One of the things I’m relearning is how small Israel is and was in the world. A reminder that God over and over again chooses small things, small places, small communities to demonstrate God’s work in the world. Another guide describes the land as a ‘fragile testing ground of faith between sea, desert, and great political powers.’ A fragile testing ground of faith feels familiar too, as we continue to live with ambiguous loss.

In between studying maps, I’ve also been re-reading In the Shelter by Padraig O Tuama. This prayer, near the end of the book, resonated with me and I wanted to share it with you all.

Collect

God of watching,

whose gaze I doubt and rally against both,

but in which I take refuge, despite my limited vision.

Shelter me today,

against the flitting nature of my own focus,

and help me find a calm kind of standing.

And when I falter, which is likely,

give me the courage and the kindness to begin again with hope and coping.

For you are the one whose watchfulness is steady.

Amen.

 

God of silence,

who watches our growth and our decay,

who watches tsunamis and summer holidays,

who cares for the widow, the orphan,

the banker, the terrorist, the student,

the politician, the freedom fighter.

We pray to be nurtured in our own silences.

We pray that we might find in those silences

truth, compassion, fatigue and hearing.

Because you, you, you see all, and are often silent.

And we need to hope that you are not inattentive to our needs.

Amen.

 

God of darkness

You must be the god of darkness

because if you are not, whom else can we turn to?

Turn to us now.

Turn to us.

Turn your face to us.

Because it is dark here.

And we are in need. We are people in need.

We can barely remember our own truth, and if you too have

forgotten,

then we are without hope of a map.

Turn to us now.

Turn to us.

Turn your face to us.

Because you turned toward us in the body of incarnation.

You turned toward us.

Amen.

  

May you know you are held in God’s loving watchfulness and silent presence, and that God’s face is turned toward you in the darkness.