The results I want to report are anecdotal. Hear them with that in mind, but invariably the most common answer I get is that growth came through some kind of crisis or challenge, hardship or suffering. In that crucible, folks got a clearer idea of what mattered, about how resources of faith could help them through tough times.

Our nation now faces three major crises at the same time. Any one of them could have thrown us for a collective loop, crises of health, economics, race relations and justice. So I’m thinking, this may be a time for real spiritual growth. I actually see some of that happening. The hunger for community deepens. Prayer life is enriched. Stories of scripture (many having to do with crisis) speak with more meaning. People of faith take action for equity. Reliance on the power of the Holy One becomes a necessity, as people recognize a need for God. In many ways, the season draws us back to the center, to the basics, to the heart of the matter.

Today is the feast day of Evelyn Underhill, who lived in England (and France) in the first half of the 20^th century. She probably got most attention during the 1930’s, a time of striking economic and political challenges. As an aside, it was also during the 1930’s that Forward Movement started, in response to economic and spiritual depression, a movement focused on spiritual growth.

But back to Evelyn. A mystic, she was a person who seemed to know not only about God. She seemed to know God. That connection has drawn people of faith to her ever since. I talk about her a lot because early in my work with RenewalWorks, a colleague shared a letter Ms. Underhill wrote to the Archbishop of Canterbury in the 1930’s, with her observations of the challenges facing the Church of England in her day. Her pointed comments are aimed squarely at the clergy. In my humble opinion, she could have written it last week to all of us, clergy or not.

In that letter, she said that we look to the church to give us an experience of God, mystery, holiness and prayer. We look to clergy to help and direct our spiritual growth. To put it mildly, she confessed disappointment with what was being offered. She said: “In public worship they often fail to evoke the spirit of adoration because they do not possess it themselves. Hence the dreary character of many church services and the result in the increasing alienation of the laity from institutional forms.” Ouch. She goes on to remind the Archbishop (why did he need reminding?) that God is the interesting thing about religion, and that people are hungry for God. In her mind, care for the interior spirit is the first duty of every priest. (Substitute: every person of faith).

You can read the whole letter yourself–it would be worth your while. Here’s a link to it. In a time of crisis, she saw opportunity for spiritual growth, and it had everything to do with a return to basics. I don’t know about you, but sheltering in place has helped me realize with greater clarity what is important and what is not. I sense these crises are prompting such realizations for our churches. May we never forget that God is the interesting thing about religion, and that people are hungry for God. So hungry.

What would Evelyn Underhill have to say about your spiritual life, and mine? How can the crises with which we all contend prompt our own spiritual growth? What are you learning? How are you growing? What lessons might unfold this week?                                                                              

It’s come to this. I’m doing jigsaw puzzles. I’ve never been that interested. I didn’t get the point. But sheltering in place has brought change. I’ve been presented with challenging puzzles, lots of pieces looking exactly the same. And I’m hooked. I just have to find one more piece. Just one more. One reason I’ve never done these puzzles is that you spend all this time and end up with some beautiful picture and then you rip it up and put it back in the box. Done.

Reminds me of the book of Ecclesiastes, which we’ve been reading on a daily basis lately. The key word: vanity. You work hard all life and then it’s done and who knows what happens to the work you did. Some jerk follows who undoes it, does it a different way, doesn’t get what you’ve done, doesn’t care. If I was in charge of the final edit, I’m not sure I would have included Ecclesiastes in the Bible. But thanks be to God, no one appointed me editor. There it is and here we are, taking in its sometimes puzzling message, which actually may have a word for us this morning.

I grew up the child of an ad-guy, okay a mad man (as in Madison Avenue). My memories were that my father and colleagues were enviably fun and successful, witty and attractive, not to mention well-compensated. Glory days. As decades have passed, as my father has passed, many of those colleagues have ended their lives in isolation, often debilitated, sometimes broke in all kinds of ways that humans break, festive life an ancient memory. Maybe you know similar stories. As I visit nursing homes, I always want to know the stories of men and women who live there. Too often those stories are forgotten. They can’t remember. They can no longer speak of them. The stuff of Ecclesiastes.

When I’m leading worship, the blessing I often offer at the end begins: “Life is short, and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us.” Many people use and love this blessing. It touches people unlike others. I think it’s because we all know that life is indeed short. Just blink. The prayer invites us to use the time we’ve been given for good. The advent of Covid and the tragic death of George Floyd sharpen our attention with pain and urgency. The times in which we live pose this stewardship question: What do we do with the gift of the time we’ve been given? This day?

Let me tell you about Neva, who came to our 7:30 service every Sunday. She was in her nineties. Nothing could get in the way of attendance. I believe if an earthquake was followed by a blizzard by a blackout by a tornado by a bomb scare by a pandemic, she would still be in church. On the few occasions she wasn’t there, I’d phone her. There aren’t many parishioners I could do that with in a culture where regular church attendance no longer means weekly. Every Sunday, as she left the church, she would remind me: “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.”

Thanks be to God, in the symphony of scripture, in the choir of biblical voices some of which are dissonant, Ecclesiastes is not the only message. A message of hope in God’s future is at the core of scripture, for sure. But let’s just listen this morning to Ecclesiastes and ask: What will we do with the gift of this day?

Start by giving thanks for the gift of today, the present. Then maybe ask how to be of service in this day, a day marked by health crisis, economic challenge, racial injustice. Ask how to love God and neighbor more deeply. How to live into values held dear just that one day. Maybe at the end of that day, check-in and see if you were able to live into those values. In our own lives, in our families, in our churches, in our denomination, in our nation, we can give thanks for good things in the past. But we need not focus on former glory days, but on what God asks of us now. As St. Paul said, now is the accepted time. Now is the day of salvation.

Okay, back to the puzzle.

How to remember and honor all those who have died from this virus? 100,000+ names on a wall? Where would you build something so big? 100,000+ stones forming an altar of remembrance? A skyscraper? 100,000+ names read annually? It would take a long time. 100,000+ trees planted to be a forest of new life? I like this idea.

Wiser folks have called for this day to be a day of mourning and lament. On this day, June 1 in 1865, another national day of mourning and lament was declared. The specific focus was response to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. That one act of violence reflected a deeper brokenness in millions of racist acts. The designated day responded to the wounded character of a divided nation, the great loss of life brought with that struggle.

165 years later, religious and political leaders set aside today as another national day of mourning and lament. It was offered as a response to the milestone reached last week: 100,000 brothers and sisters who died of the coronavirus. Along with that deep wound, we’ve been reminded of the great racial divide, brought to our attention by video filmed in Minnesota.

It makes us think about the long tradition of lament, a spiritual practice which I’m sure precedes the psalms, some of them perhaps 3,000 years old. But the psalms (the only book of the Bible found in its entirety in the Book of Common Prayer) guide us in this ancient spiritual practice. Lord knows, we need it now.

Consider with me this Monday what it means to lament. There is individual lament, something we can all recognize because suffering is the promise life always keeps, as one of my mentors says. There is communal lament, perhaps the focus for today. Taking psalms as a guide , a prayer of lament consists of four parts, which I offer for your consideration and reflection on this holy day.

Lament begins by addressing God, on some level recognizing a higher power and purpose. Lament, no matter how angry or sad, confused or disheartened, involves a statement of faith, the amazing grace that we often take for granted. When we call, God is listening. So where do you see God in these moments? Can you believe God is listening?

Then claiming God’s attention, a prayer of lament articulates a complaint, a grievance, which says a lot about prayer. It says God can handle our anger or grief, our confusion and despair, our pain. I suspect that our feelings are not a surprise to the Holy One. We need not hold back. The Bible tells us so. Read the psalms. Read the book of Job. Hear the words of Jesus on the cross: My God, why have you forsaken me? What would be the complaint, the concern, the pain you bring to your prayers this week? Put it into words today, silently or aloud. And as you ask that question, note that sometimes lament is simply our reflection in a mirror. It includes confession, a complaint of complicity, recognition of our part in the problem, through sins of commission or omission, through our actions or our inaction, through our misguided passions and our stultifying indifference. As Pogo said: We have seen the enemy and the enemy is us. What if anything is your part and mine? Confess that this day.

A prayer of lament involves a request: What do we ask God to do in the midst of this all? What would we hope for? How would you articulate a prayer in these days of pandemic, simultaneously marked by the wound of racism and injustice? How might God use you in fulfilling that request?

Finally, a prayer of lament hangs on to hope, even if it makes little sense. As Jurgen Moltmann said: To live without hope is to cease to live. Hell is hopelessness. It is no accident that above the entrance to Dante’s hell is the inscription: “Leave behind all hope, you who enter here.” Jim Wallis said: Hope is believing in spite of the evidence and watching the evidence change. With all that in mind, I’m wondering where you can find a glimmer of hope, in your individual and communal prayers of lament? What kind of better world can you imagine?