I'd rather be sailing? (sermon from Sunday, June 24, 2018)

Reading: Mark 4:35-41

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was.  Other boats were with him.  A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped.  But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”  He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!”  Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm.  He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” 

“A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped.”

The disciples probably didn’t even want to be out there.  It was Jesus’ idea, not theirs.  “Let us go across to the other side,” he said. 

Surely some of them could read the signs, and knew they’d probably be sailing into a storm.  So did anyone say, “You know … can we leave this for now, and just wait a bit?  It’s probably gonna be a storm, so can we wait ‘til tomorrow … or maybe do something else entirely just as good and that won’t put us at such a risk?”

And even apart from the storm, I wonder if anyone questioned the plan itself to go “to the other side.”  Because the other side was the country of the Gerasenes – the land on the east shore of the Sea of Galilee, a land populated mostly by Greeks and other Gentiles, relatively few Jews, and full of pagan religion and practices.  They kept pigs, for goodness sake!  So did anyone say, “Um, Jesus … why do you want us to go there?  Aren’t things going well enough right where we are – here in Galilee, here among our own people and our own kind?  Do we really need to go out there and open ourselves to the risks?”

But that’s Jesus’ way, and Jesus’ will, isn’t it?  To bring the good news of God’s love to all people, and share the life of God’s kingdom with all the world.  So because of what they had received from him, and the way he had made them whole, how could they not go out and across to the other side when he asked them to?

And I wonder: when have we done that?  And when have we not? 

And the times we have, and have sailed right into a storm that has tossed us about and almost swamped our boat, do we look back on those times with regret?  Maybe just try to forget them?  Resolve never to do that – or put ourselves in that position, again? 

Or do we, like the Jesus-followers of the Bible, tell the story openly and gladly – even proudly, as a time when we at least tried as best we could to follow Jesus, to leave the safe harbour of where things always go predictably well, to venture out to some other side to share the love of God with people we haven’t up to that time really associated with, regardless of the risk and whether we even really succeeded or not?

Because storms don’t bother Jesus.  He doesn’t see them as problems to be solved, or things necessarily to be avoided.  He doesn’t even bother waking up in the midst of it, until the disciples shake him to, and ask him to please do something about it if he cares about them at all.

And how could they not?  Because often this is what we think God’s power is – the power to control things and make them turn out well.  At least for us, if he loves us.

But it’s not Jesus’ idea to still the storm.  That kind of power over the realities of life in this world is exactly the kind of power Jesus came to renounce in the desert when he went there on retreat after his baptism to grow into the true ways of God.  He learned not to turn stones into bread just because he feels hungry and he can.  Not to leap from the top of the temple and expect God to keep him from falling and being hurt.  Not to feel free to do whatever it takes – even use some of Satan’s ways, to try to make the kingdoms of this world into the kingdom of God. 

That’s often what his followers want him to do.  They want him to control things, because we imagine that’s what God’s power is – the power to bend the rules and control everything that happens.  And how can we not imagine that and want it to be true?  We’re human.  We’re creatures of our culture, and that’s one of the things our culture is mostly about.

But we are also creatures of God – not just with a worldly spirit, but also a holy Spirit breathed into us.  And it’s this – the holiness of living in God’s way within the limits and realities of life on Earth that Jesus appeals to, and seeks to nurture in his disciples.

I wonder: is the point of the story – and the real miracle of it, that Jesus is able to control the weather?  Or might the real miracle of the story be that Jesus – and in Jesus, God, is right with the disciples in their water-logged boat, experiencing with the storm, the waves, and the terrible danger with them?  And is the point of the story that that should have been enough?

Because God’s power is not found in the control of creation or of people, but in the willingness to be in covenant relationship – meaning vulnerable relationship, with them.  Not in being able to impose a divine will and insist that things turn out “right,” but in walking and living and sailing with us as we are and as we fumble around, make our way, and even sail into storms as we answer the call to go out to some other side in pursuit of living out God’s love for all the world.  God’s power is not seen in God’s imposing a kingdom on the world, but in God’s working together with us to make connections of compassion in the midst of hurt and sorrow, to gather communities of justice and peace in the midst of whatever darkness and coldness may have gripped the world in our day, to live out wellness and courage even in the midst of disease and brokenness, and to offer ourselves and call forth from others self-giving love even in the most selfish and scary of times.

Jan Richardson, an artist and theologian, has written a poem titled “Blessing in the Storm.”  I wonder if maybe it’s something Jesus wishes he could have said to the disciples, and that he’s happy to see us able to understand about God, and to live out in our love for others – both here where we are, and out there where and when he calls us to go:

I cannot claim
to still the storm
that has seized you,
cannot calm
the waves that wash
through your soul,
that break against
your fierce and
aching heart.

But I will wade
into these waters,
will stand with you
in this storm,
will say peace to you
in the waves,
peace to you
in the winds,
peace to you
in every moment
that finds you still
within the storm.

Kingdom seed by kingdom seed (sermon from Sunday, June 17, 2018)

Reading: Mark 6:24-34

(When Jesus does stuff -- like healing the sick, feeding the hungry, forgiving the sinners, and reaching out to include the outcast and forgotten, it is pretty clear what the kingdom of God is, and that it is there if we want it.  But when he talks about it -- especially about how it comes to life, and how we come to live in it, we have to start scratching our heads, and challenging some of our learned notions of how it comes to be, and how we come to live within it.)   

 

I hate it when Japhia gets sick.  I hate it when she gets so sick she has to go the ER to have them help her with the nausea and the vomiting. 

I hate not being able to fix it, and that it will never get better. 

Sometimes I get angry and start blaming.  Sometimes she gets angry and feels depressed. 

It’s hard to feel such powerlessness, which is why the Serenity Prayer seems to be one of the most helpful prayers for us ever to learn, and to learn how to live:

God,

grant me the serenity to accept what I cannot change,

the courage to change what I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Thy will, not mine, be done.

Because powerlessness in the face of certain realities, is one of the realities of life.  And all of us suffer it. 

What is there perhaps in your life that you wish were different, but you know will not be, no matter how much you wish it?  What is there in the world you would change if you could, and you know you can’t?  What is there inside yourself or in someone you love, that you wish wasn’t, but is, and always will be? 

Sometimes we just wish the kingdom of God would come – that final solution, the answer to incompleteness and brokenness.  And whether that means all of us just going to heaven, or heaven coming to be on Earth doesn’t really matter.  Because when hurting comes and powerlessness overwhelms, either way would be better than this.  Just let it come, dear Jesus.  Let the kingdom come.

“So,” Jesus says, “it’s the kingdom you want – the kingdom of God?  Let me tell you then…

the kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.  The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head.  But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.”

He also said, “With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it?  It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.”

That’s it?  Seeds sown on the ground, and then waiting for them – trusting in them, to grow and bear fruit?

And a mustard seed?  One of the smallest seeds of all?

I already feel like that, and maybe you do too at times in your life.  Small and just thrown out there into the field of the world, vulnerable to whatever may come.  Cast down and quickly buried and lost in the cares and sorrow of the day.  What kind of help, what kind of kingdom is this? 

Okay … there is something to be said for the mustard seed.  Often mustard is just an invasive weed, something any good farmer spends a lot of time pulling out of his field.  But cultivated as a crop, it actually has value.  Crush the seed, and the oil can be used to flavour special dishes, and it has medicinal power.  The seed and oil are bitter, but they help clear both the senses and the bowels.  Applied to the body, it is a remedy against insect bites, fungus, phlegm, and toothache.  Who knew, that such a little, lowly, often unwanted thing would be of such good?

Kings are likened to cedars – like the great, towering cedars of Lebanon.  And kingdoms, if they are likened to plants at all, are likened to a grove of oaks like the Oaks of Mamre where Abram, our father, is sitting when God came to tell him of the vast and endless people that will come of him. 

And when the kingdom comes?  Surely that has something to do with cities and fortresses strong enough to withstand any threat, with temples grand enough to house God forever, and with weapons powerful enough to eradicate evil.  Isn’t that how we imagine heaven?  And imagine the Second Coming of Jesus to bring the kingdom to be?

And yet … Jesus says, this little plant – a shrub at best, just a few feet high at most, reaching spindly-weak branches out into the world and into the wind, is exactly what gives the safety and support that God’s restless and troubled creatures need. 

This, Jesus says, is what saves the world.  This is what makes life good.  This is the kingdom of heaven on Earth.

The seed of our heart, small as it is, crushed, its oil flowing out with power to heal.

This plant of our faith, our hope and our love, powerless as it may seem to be to make a difference, sown into the field of someone’s pain or of the world’s sorrow, and growing to offer exactly the kind of care, safety, and support that others are in need of.

So when Japhia is really sick, we go the ER together and we ask them to help her with the nausea and vomiting.  And when we come home, day by day and week by week, we keep working at and living into the kingdom of God in the same way that you do – with mustard seed by crushed mustard seed of time and care, and mustard plant by out-reaching mustard plant of humble attention and support. 

Not a final solution.  Not an end once for all to the incompleteness and brokenness of life. 

But the kingdom of God that heals the brokenness of the moment, and offers exactly the gift of peace and support that we and other restless and troubled creatures are in need of.

Spirit, Spirit, who's got the Spirit (or, who has seen the wind ... lately?)

Reading: Mark 3:19b-35

Jesus is causing a stir.  Only 3 chapters into the Gospel and he is breaking religious and social rules left, right and centre.  He is forgiving sins as though he is a priest, creating an alternate kingdom-community that includes all kind of riff-raff, ignoring traditional religious practices, and doing things that normally aren't done on the sabbath and in synagogue.

The people love him, and he empowers twelve of his followers to start doing more of the same kinds of things that he is.  The leaders are understandably alarmed, and the religious teachers and some of their friends who have influence with the Jewish court and the Roman military begin to talk about how they can put an end to Jesus.

In the midst of this, he makes a visit back home.  

It was Convocation Day at McMaster University.  One of several that spring, this one for the Faculty of Arts.  Hordes of graduating students and proud parents were on campus celebrating the young scholars’ success and hard-won achievements.  Great day to be on campus and feel like part of the McMaster family.

In the Bookstore students were making last-minute purchases.  Parents were buying gifts for their children and souvenirs for themselves.  At one register parents lined up to help pay off their children’s outstanding accounts, because the rule was no student could graduate – couldn’t go up on stage when their name was called and be given their degree along with their classmates, if they had any outstanding debt to the University.

And the line had stopped.  Two parents were there to pay off the thousand dollars or so still owing on their child’s account, and they didn’t have either VISA or Mastercard, that much cash, or a  cheque book.  All they had was a Diners Club card which wasn’t on the list of companies the University dealt with. 

The parents were distraught.  The cashier was sorry.  The manager was called, and as soon as he heard the problem, he thanked the cashier for calling him, turned to the parents and said, “Everything is fine.  Just let me jot down the number on your card, if you don’t mind, and we’ll take care of it.”  He wrote down the number, printed out an invoice of their child’s outstanding account, hand-wrote “Paid in Full” at the bottom of it, signed and dated it, and gave it to the parents, who then, able to breathe again, moved on to rejoin their young scholar and celebrate the rest of the day.

The University never recovered that money.  And at the next meeting of Student Affairs managers, the Vice-President of Student Affairs, the Bookstore manager’s boss, told the story and happily commended the Bookstore manager for a job well done.  She said she hoped all her other managers would act with similarly selfless and sacrificial service of others in the name of the University when the need and opportunity arose.

In this story, I wonder, is the Vice-President of Student Affairs kind of like God, and the Bookstore manager like Jesus, knowing what God would want done in the situation, and just doing it regardless of the rules?  Is this a story of the kingdom of God and of what the good will of God for life on Earth looks like in the nitty-gritty of daily life?  Especially, how it sometimes requires a certain carelessness about the rules?

Jesus got into trouble for not worrying about rules that the gatekeepers of his day thought were important – rules that helped define the people of God, and made clear who was and who was not part of the family of God.  Like who is forgiven, or can be healed and included in the circle, who cannot or should not, and who has authority to do it.  Like who the right people are, and who you need to be careful not to be identified with.  Like honouring and obeying the old rituals and practices, and not doing  things on the Lord’s Day and in God’s house that everyone knows you just shouldn’t.

Not that Jesus didn’t know the rules.  Nor that he went around willy-nilly breaking them just for the fun of it.  But he knew an authority higher than the rules.  He knew the rules were provisional, and at times just have to be ignored in order to obey that higher authority.  Which is Love.  Which is simply the outpouring, in-gathering, forgiving, healing, lifting-up Love of God.

And each time he did it, it kind of made sense as an exception to the rule.  Hardly noticeable and certainly forgivable in the grand scheme of things.  But as he went on, in situation after situation, his behaviour became like the thin edge of a wedge.  The exceptions added up.  Until it was clear that he was not just making exceptions to the rule, but challenging the rules themselves.  He was questioning the whole system and suggested that the way the family of God had come to be identified was no longer adequate or helpful.

Some people got it, and started following him.  Some got it so deeply that he named them disciples and empowered them compatriots in the kingdom of God.

What others got, though – what the religious experts, ministers, priests and gatekeepers of the establishment got, was in a snit, then into a Giant Upset, and then into a huddle to see what they could do together to put a stop to this kingdom of God nonsense, this Spirit-blowing-where-it-will kind of trouble in the places that they were in charge of.

And that happens – that tension between the kingdom of God and the institutions of the people of God, that conflict between the freedom and creativity of Spirit and the rules that we try to live by, and make sense of life by.

Sad thing is that even when Jesus went home maybe just to get a little relief from the controversy and the strain, he found his own family really didn’t get it, either.  They were glad to welcome him home; who doesn’t want their own personal Jesus?  But they were not so happy at the kind of Jesus he had become, and that he had outgrown the limits of their rules and the simple, self-enclosed life they wanted to be able to enjoy together.

“Why do you have to do stuff like that, Jesus?  Why cause such trouble?  Can’t you just do what we’ve always done?  And be happy?”

Among the people of God, and even in the most intimate family of God, is there always this tension between where we come from, what we have always been, and the rules and routines that define us on one hand, and on the other, where we are called to go, what larger family we are called to grow into, and how careless we sometimes have to be about the rules we used to think were so important?

I think of the United Church of Canada, 93 years old today.  In its beginning, there was real, Spirit-ual excitement about being part of a new movement in God’s story of the church as the three founding denominations crossed lines that had been ruled between them, and they learned to be together.  But there was also a less Spirit-ual protectiveness and fear that was being expressed. 

At that time Canada was changing.  The West was being settled with waves of immigrants flooding the Prairies.  Many of the immigrants were East European.  And Catholic.  Which made the Protestants – small, struggling and divided, suddenly afraid the bigger and better-resourced Roman Catholic Church would be taking over the Canadian landscape.  So Church Union – the pooling of Methodist, Presbyterian and Congregationalist resources to compete with the Catholics, was their way of trying to keep Canada the way they liked it, of keeping the rules straight and the national family the way set.

To the UCC’s credit they got over that, and we’ve followed Jesus and been open enough to Spirit to grow in the Sixties into advocates of social justice for all, regardless of religious identity and rightness, and today the United Church spares no expense in serving the needs and acting as friend to the First Nations, to the LGBQT community, to Muslims and people of other religious traditions, to the poor and disadvantaged anywhere, to victims of disaster, and to Earth itself as a holy creature of God.

But the tension is always there, and today in our re-structuring of the United Church, making our structure simpler, more stream-lined and more cost-efficient, it’s an honest question we’ll need to keep asking ourselves – how much this is about making ourselves more open to Spirit, more free to follow Jesus, and more able to act out the kingdom of God, and how much it’s about just trying to survive, keep ourselves afloat, and hang on to what we have left of what we once were.

And with our own church here.  For a few months now Church Council has begun looking at our congregational vision, mission and goals, and at stewardship and commitment to our mission.  And that tension is here, too: on one hand, there’s a natural desire to be doing this to save ourselves, survive as a congregation, and be able to stay what and where we always have been; and on the other, a real desire to follow Jesus, be open to the life and power of the Spirit, and be led beyond what we have been, to be part of what God is doing, or wanting to do, in Winona today.

Like Jesus, the disciples, the people around him, and the people against him we work it out as we go – what to do, what to do no more, what rules and routines to hang on to, and what rules and routines to let ourselves be careless about, and even let go of in the name of a higher authority – that authority that is the outpouring, in-gathering, forgiving, healing, lifting-up love of God – the authority that leads us into selfless and sacrificial service of others in the name of God.

And what advice does Jesus give?  Only this: don’t go against the Holy Spirit, he says, or it won’t go well for you.  Don’t reject, and don’t speak ill of anything the Spirit is moving people to do.   

Which means, of course, that the Spirit is here – in there.  And there – out there.  And that Jesus has every confidence we are able as a community of disciples, to learn to open ourselves to the Spirit, and to discern together where this Spirit is leading.

And isn’t that good news?  Thanks be to God.

Ever wonder how unintentionally meaningful it is to be called Fifty, rather than First United?

Readings:

1 Samuel 3:1-10 
(The people of Israel are in a time of crisis.  Ever since they occupied the land of Canaan, the twelve tribes have relied on the priests in the temple to help them know God's will for them as a people.  But the temple and the priestly families who in habit it have become hopelessly corrupt, and a new system of political discernment and leadership are needed.  Old Eli is kind of "the last of the good priests" but even he had not seen God for a long time, and his sons are in no position to be able to carry on.  The other person is the story is young Samuel, an odd little boy who has come into the temple to live under Eli's tutelage.)

2 Corinthians 4:1, 5-11
(Corinth is a sophisticated, cosmopolitan city.  A plus for the Christian community, because it means they have all kinds of gifted and talented leaders and resources to draw on.  But also a big minus, because it means high expectations of professionalism, programming, power and success that really are not what the gospel of God and the mission of the church are most about.  How to live in this tension?) 

I don’t remember if it was just 3 or 4, or as many as 5 or 6 in the choir.  But the choir was small.   The members were old.  Their voices were not as strong, as controlled, or as on pitch as they used to be.

And to listen to them lead us into worship was really the most wonderful thing in the world.  Because as few and old and weakened and wavering as they were, they were men and women of deep, time-tested faith who were happy to be together in worship of God, singing what they believed.

It wasn’t a church I served, but it was nearby and our two congregations shared worship one day a year – every Good Friday.  We alternated worship spaces – one year at the church I was serving, the other year at theirs.  And it was that “other year” I most looked forward to.

The worship was not spectacular.  The liturgy was simple.  The sanctuary was small and even felt cramped.  But each Good Friday we were there, as soon as that choir began to sing – leading in the hymns and offering their anthem, I was glad to be there.  That choir helped me remember what worship is about, helped me believe in God, helped me open up to God anew, along with them. 

“For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus the Christ as Lord and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake.  For it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ whose light has shone into our hearts…  And we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.” 

And isn’t that what the story of God’s people in the world is about?  A story of clay vessels of all shapes, sizes and levels of ordinariness and even brokenness, filled with something greater than our weakness, carrying something of immense, life-changing value for the world and for others around us? 

Like Eli and Samuel in the first reading that tells of a critical point in the life of the people of Israel.  Things are not going well.  Ever since the people first occupied the land of Canaan, the twelve tribes have divided the land among them – each with their own part to live in and manage.  And together they have looked to the priests in and around the temple, to help them know God’s will for their life as separate tribes and as a single people. 

For a while the system worked well.  But the priestly families and the temple – like any human institution, no matter how holy, have been corrupted.  Laziness, pride, greed, short-sightedness, defensiveness against critique rather than openness to God have all taken their toll.  And the rot has become so engrained in the temple system that the priests are no longer capable of giving good direction to anyone, let alone help the tribes know God’s will. 

It’s a deep constitutional crisis for Israel that cannot be solved by simple tinkering.  Radical change is about to come, and it’s going to come in the form of a kingdom.  For the first time ever Israel will soon be like other nations – united under one king from one of the tribes who will have power and ultimate authority over all the twelve tribes together, to bring them back together and together back to God. 

And how will this new era be inaugurated?  Who will guide the people into this new stage in their history?  Obviously by great heroes, charismatic leaders, powerful and highly successful giants of the day?  Right? 

Wrong. 

According to the story, two people – Eli and Samuel.  And look at who they are. 

One is a blind old priest who remembers the good old days, but hasn’t had a vision of God himself for years now.  The other is a slightly odd young boy who’s come into the temple from outside, and has no experience of God speaking to anyone, let alone him. 

It sounds like the script of the movie “The Karate Kid” – the story of a wimpy little kid bullied by bigger kids who have studied karate and use it for evil motives, who is taken under the wing of an unassuming repairman who also just happens to be an old, forgotten martial arts master, who trains the kid in a more true and compassionate form of karate that makes the kid able to stand up to the corrupted karate of the others, to make right triumph in the end. 

It’s like “Bad News Bears.”  Or “The Mighty Ducks.”  Or even “A League of Their Own.”  It’s like hundreds of stories where an old has-been of a teacher and a weakling of an oddball of a misfit of a young learner (or a whole group of them) somehow take a world gone bad and make it turn out good, just by channeling and committing themselves to the real truth of what life is all about – a truth and a way of being that’s greater than themselves and greater than their weakness. 

“For this reason [Paul says] we do not lose heart…We may be afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; for it is the life of Jesus we carry within us.  It is the life of Jesus that others see in us … when we let it be so, and let it be seen.” 

It really has little to do with what the world counts as strength and what we are told is necessary for effectiveness in the world.  As Rachel Remen says in one of the quotations included in our bulletin this morning, when it comes to the hand we are given to play in the world, if we really want to make a difference for good and God, “the top card we have to play [that trumps all others and makes the real difference in how the game goes, is not] perfection, or possessions, or even pride.  [Not prestige or power or professional programs, not any of the things the world says we need to make to make a difference.] Most often [she says,] the top card is love. 

Just love. 

And isn’t it the people at the extremes of powerlessness who often show us this way? 

When my son Aaron was three or four years old, my sister and brother-in-law came to stay at our house for a few days.  A good friend of theirs had died by suicide in Brantford, and staying at our place helped them be close enough to help out with arrangements and offer support without imposing on the folks in Brantford. 

One evening while they were there, Aaron saw my sister sitting by herself on the bed and crying.  He walked in to the room and asked why she was crying.  She said she was sad because a good friend had died and she wouldn’t have a chance to see her again.  To which Aaron, just wanting to help out and make things better, said in all sincerity, “But you can wave a magic wand, and say ‘Bippity bobbity boo.’” 

Bippity bobbity boo?  What good is that?  What does that do to anything in the world? 

Except maybe for my sister at that moment of terrible bereavement and loneliness, were those words and the absolute sincerity of love and longing from which they came, exactly a vehicle of God’s light into her darkness, exactly a vessel of what her spirit needed to see and hear? 

Like a casserole you carry in all weakness to a neighbour’s front door when you hear they have lost their partner or, God forbid, a child.  What’s a casserole in the midst of someone’s world crumbling into darkness? 

Except maybe just the gift that plants the seed to help create a new world for your neighbour to inhabit– and maybe you and your neighbour together – a world shaped by God’s light that shines into the darkness, and is not overcome by it? 

And in how many ways do we do things like this?  In response to a voice, an urging, an impulse of the heart in the midst of some darkness we suffer, or see someone else suffer? 

“And because it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ whose light has entered into our hearts… we are not embarrassed or afraid to offer this treasure in clay jars, no matter how poor and powerless, because the power to turn it to what’s needed is of God; it does not come from us.” 

Which is why when the voice, the urging, the impulse of the heart is felt, we simply say, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.”