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Fire and flood, storm and pestilence, murder, strife, and rumours of strife surround us. We wonder, often and aloud, what will come of it, what will be our “new normal,” when this is “all over;” we look forward to the restoration of our fortunes, to our recovery. But we know, from our place in the cold ashes next to Job and his old friends, that whatever comes next, there is much that will not be undone.
It wasn’t until I was in the ordination process and repeating it week after week that I finally and suddenly recognized my mother’s familiar, “Rise and shine!” as the Canticle for Morning Prayer on a Wednesday, coined not by a working woman but by the prophet, Isaiah, whose oracle has ever since elevated the memory of my mother’s theme song into something sublime.
As we stand under our fig trees and eye the world with our limited, cynical vision, let us remember to listen for mystery. Let us admit the possibility of having our hearts opened and our minds blown
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