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Barth“In the relationship of man to God’s work and word there may exist not only an unhealthy undernourishment but an equally unhealthy overeating.  A man perhaps comes from a family and environment in which theology was not only the Alpha and Omega (as the case should be) but also the substitute, which it should not be, for all the other letters of his alphabet.  Or, as a novice, he has devoted himself to theology with the incomparable exclusiveness of a first love; and now he lives not only as a theologian in everything, but even entirely as a theologian alone, to the elimination of everything else.  He has no basic interest in the newspapers, novels, art, history, sport; and so he reveals that basically he has no interest in any man.  He is interested only in his theological work and in his theological concern.  Who is not acquainted with this situation? Not only are there students and professors of theology who go beyond their calling, but also preachers who live their whole life hermetically sealed off within their congregations.  They associate with other men only in an hypertheological way.  A dangerous business!…In this way a person can, in fact, destroy himself as a theologian.  The reason for this is not merely the great probability that such a person will fail in carrying out his experiment and will then inadvertently and without admitting it succumb once again, and perhaps quite thoroughly, to the syndrome of the two kingdoms [dualism, sacred/secular divide] and all its corollaries.  The major reason is that, like all hypertrophy, theological overemphasis demonstrably leads all too easily to satiety, in this case to what was called in the ancient monastic language the mortal sin of taedium spirituale, the spiritual boredom, from which only a small step is needed to arrive at skepticism.  Concentrated theological work is a good thing, or even the best thing, but exclusive theological existence is not a good thing.  Such existence, in which a man actually plays the deadly role of a God unconcerned about his creation, must sooner or later inevitably lead to doubt, in fact to radical doubt.” (Karl Barth, Evangelical Theology, pp. 115-16)

Protests“The oppression of human beings is a humiliation of God…Justice is not an ancient custom, a human convention, a value, but a transcendent demand, freighted with divine concern.  It is not only a relationship between human and human, it is an act involving God, a divine need…Justice is as much a necessity as breathing is, and a constant occupation…The prophets’ preoccupation with justice and righteousness has its roots in the powerful awareness of injustice.  That justice is a good thing, a fine goal, even a supreme ideal, is commonly accepted.  Moralists of all ages have been eloquent in singing the praises of virtue.  The distinction of the prophets was in their remorseless unveiling of injustice and oppression, in their comprehension of social, political, and religious evils.  They were not concerned with the definition, but with the predicament, of justice, with the fact that those called upon to apply it defied it…Justice is scarce, injustice exceedingly common.  The concern for justice is delegated to the judges, as if it were a matter for professionals or specialists.  But to do justice is what God demands of every person: it is the supreme commandment, and one that cannot be fulfilled vicariously…The logic of justice may seem impersonal, yet the concern for justice is an act of love…God rules the world by justice and compassion, or love.  These two ways are not divergent, but rather complementary, for it is out of compassion that justice is administered.” (Abraham Heschel, The Prophets)

In the Talmud it is written: “You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.” Self-destructive impatience with slow progress and despair over the possibility of genuine, lasting transformation are both flawed responses to the seemingly intractable presence of injustice in the world.  They are real temptations for us today, given the pervasive racial injustices so long entrenched in the United States.  Psalms 9 and 10 (originally a single psalm) are perhaps the pre-eminent protests in the Psalter for the implementation of social justice and against the oppressive presence of the wicked and powerful.  Here lament is interspersed with raw, outraged and yet confident cries for God to “rise up” and do something about the injustices that rage on unchecked in the world and that consume and devastate the vulnerable and marginalized.

It is undeniable that much more than prayer is needed right now–and quite often, mostly something else than just prayer alone.  Yet impassioned, expectant prayer is still critical and as Christians we must not forget, minimize or neglect its role in our lives and in God’s unfolding purposes in history.  God is a real actor on the world’s stage and His agency is not simply a dim reflection of our actions in history.  In Psalms 9-10, the people of God protest and insist that God arise and intervene to do that which we cannot, even as we strive to do what we can and should and must. God’s action in the world does not rule out our action, and often works precisely through our actions.  But there is always more to the story than what we aspire to do or are able to accomplish.  The prayer-less state of so many Christians and churches today testifies to our forgetfulness of this truth, to our underestimation of the sheer potential and power of the God who raised Jesus from the dead after the injustice of his suffering.

Moreover, prayer can form us to be a faithful, just people who can be sustained upon the hard, demanding course of advocating for and engaging in transformative change in the world and in our communities.  Apart from God’s help and support, all too often the early passions and enthusiasms of activism and advocacy can turn into cynicism, despair, exhaustion, manipulation, hatred, or sheer complacency with the status quo.  Too many seemingly successful revolutionaries have become the next tyrants and oppressors in the world’s annals.  We pray ceaselessly so that we can engage and work and labor tirelessly and enduringly for the long haul.  The coming of the kingdom into this present evil age is a marathon, not a sprint.  The people of God need to be trained to become people who are able to be just and to act justly–and this does not come naturally or easily or quickly to any of us.  We cannot bequeath to the world what we ourselves do not have; society will not be influenced in directions that we do not ourselves embody.  The tragic lack of our formation as a people and the superficiality of our discipleship in large swaths of the church that seasons like these reveal is terrifying and problematic.  Being a people who learn to take the language of the cry for social justice in Psalms 9-10 upon our own lips, to make it our own and to have its (theo-) logic shape our lives is one important way–though not the only one–to begin to experience such formation, so that we might be available for and useful to what God desires to do, rather than just another part of the problem.

Please join us for a meditation on Psalms 9-10 and a time of silence and prayer this Thursday, June 11th at 7pm (Eastern).  Here is the Zoom link:

https://zoom.us/j/91231584057?pwd=WWVJZjBneWRPYmx4KzJoNnM1TG42UT09

 

“Rise up, O Lord–O God, lift up your hand.  Do not forget the afflicted.  Why has the wicked despised God.  Why does he say to himself, ‘He won’t call me to account’?  But you do see the trouble of the afflicted; you consider their grief and take it in hand.  The victims commit themselves to you, for you have been the helper of the fatherless.  Break the arm of the wicked and evildoer.  Call their wickedness to account until you find none.  The Lord is king forever and ever; the wicked nations will perish from the earth.  O Lord, you hear the desire of the afflicted. You will strengthen their heart. You will incline your ear and listen, to do justice to the fatherless and the oppressed, so that human beings who are of the earth may strike terror no more.” (Psalm 10:12-18)

Oliver O’Donovan writes this incredible overview on the interpretation of Scripture under a sub-heading entitled “Receiving the Testimony”:

O'Donovan“The prayer for the disclosure of God’s purposes is answered by the Spirit-filled community of witness ‘to the ends of the earth’ (Acts 1:8).  A community is constituted by a communication.  The communication of any specific thing, whether food, care, or human affection, is founded on a communication of meaning, the shared intelligence of the reality.  In this great chain of communication all who believe are empowered to participate.  It is the founding ‘work’ of love to receive the communication and to share it with one another.

We participate by receiving the communication.  Attending to what is said is our first concrete moral undertaking, the material form in which we exercise responsibility for self-disposal.  ‘Take care how you hear!’ warned Christ (Mark 4:24).  Hearing admits us, for good or ill, to a community of thought.  The thought may be false, the community destructive; that is the danger of hearing, the reason for taking care.  But discernment is possible…

As we pay attention to the report, so we take note not only of its content but also its form: its strong claims and modest silences, its logical progressions and its fault lines, its authorizing references and unsupported ventures.  The form of the report is no mere envelope for the content; it is the dynamic structure that interprets it.  By it we judge the report’s coherence with reality.  To the task of hearing carefully we bring a distinctive practice, a kind of ‘hearing’ which is not quickly taken captive to the clamor of voices.  This is the reading of texts.  In reading we set ourselves at a judicious distance from the immediate, we consider reports from another place and time, ‘examining the texts each day to see if these things were so’ (Acts 17:11).  Mere textuality is of itself, of course, no guarantee of considered reflection…The distinctive strength of textual communication…is its power to cover distance, to open up historical and local views not accessible to immediate exchange.  Literary communication thrives on distance, for writing postpones the encounter with truth, allowing it the time to take place when the conditions are ready: ‘What was written in former times was written for our instruction’ (Rom. 15:4).  It is for this reason that the spread of literacy has been the most important and indispensable step of enlightenment, central to the spread of the Gospel, to be mentioned first in any account of Christian works in civilization.

In the very acts of writing and reading certain claims to authority are made and conceded…Is not the whole enterprise of serious reading a prolonged search for a ‘first text,’ a ‘classic’ that can measure all texts? And here we come face to face with the logic of a canonical text.  Theology cannot discard that logic…In the Scriptures the church holds the written testimony of prophets and apostles attesting the work and words of God.  The church owns the unique authority attaching to the innermost circles of testimony, the writings of the generation that ‘looked upon and touched with our hands the word of life’ (1 John 1:1).  Divine act and self-testimony come first, Scripture follows; there can be no inversion of that order.  Yet if we would hear the divine act and self-testimony at all, it must be through the writers whose unique role it is to tell them…What is at stake is nothing less than the catholicity of the church…for the condition of being acknowledged is to acknowledge…Bishop to bishop, church to church, servant of God to servant of God, the greetings of those who read the same apostolic texts confirm the intercommunicating structure of the apostolic churches.  So the multiplying cells of the Christian community establish themselves as one holy, catholic, and apostolic church by shared reading.

It was no luxury for the early churches, this literary connection with the apostles; it is no luxury for us that we should hear words addressed by the apostles to the earliest communities and should enter into their communications.  It is the condition of our own relation to the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth and the work of God in him.  The canonical Scripture draws its authority from the central, normative strand in history, the coming of the Christ.  The privileged book witnesses to privileged events…Reading of Scripture proceeds on the basis that this text has been received, with all its remoteness and all its nearness, with its immediate appeal and its strange distance, that it has been received from a source that cannot be ignored, and that it cannot simply be taken up in any way and from any point of view that happens to strike us, but must be read interrogatively by a community that looks to it for its identity.  In the church’s worship the lectern is at the center.  No act is so fundamental to its catholic identity as reading.  This is not to devalue preaching, singing, prayer, let alone sacramental act, all of which find their authorization through reading…

These remarks on reading embrace in principle everything that needs to be said about interpretation.  There is, to be sure, good reading and bad, careful reading and careless, and we must distinguish them…We soon fall back into a stereotyped division between the Protestant ‘reader’ and the Catholic ‘interpreter,’ the one suspected of idiosyncrasy, the other of authoritarianism.  Whatever special roles and ministries the church may develop for interpretation—the pulpit, the academic commentary, theological reflection, the magisterium—the heart of the matter is that all readers are interpreters and interpretation is necessary for reading.  Good interpretation never struggles against the text, reading, as the fashion is, ‘against the grain,’ deconstructing the textual surface and showing it up as a confidence trick.  Good interpretation never tries to bargain with the text, forging a compromise between what it says and what we would like to hear from it.  It never supplements the text, overlaying it with independent reflections that head off on their own devices, never invokes a higher wisdom to cover the text’s nakedness.  Interpretation is the cheerful acceptance of the text’s offer of more than lies on its surface, its invitation to come inside, to attune ourselves to its resonances and its dynamics, its suggestions and its logic…At which point the excitement of discovery may lead us to make a bad mistake: we imagine we have wrung this historical information out of reluctant text, and forget that everything we have learned was simply what the text showed us.  No ‘method’ of ours—none, at any rate, that can be trusted—has not been shaped by the text itself, its points of connection and transition, its juxtapositions, its haltings and hesitations, its ambiguities, its strands of consistent and confident narrative.  The text has disclosed itself and its background.  If we suppose we have defeated it in battle like some Goliath, we shall, no doubt, triumphantly cut off its head.  We shall then be fools twice over: first in conceiving that our cunning overcame the text when the text overcame our naïve simplicity, second in not allowing the text to overcome our second simplicity, which is the pride we take in analysis to the neglect of a synthetic understanding of the text as a whole.” (Oliver O’Donovan, Finding and Seeking: Ethics as Theology, Vol. 2, pp. 132-36)

This is the next meditation I’ll be doing on the Psalms in this season over Zoom, on Thursday, May 21st at 7pm EST.  The event is open to everyone.  Email me at nick.nowalk@gmail.com if you are interested in joining us, and I will send you the Zoom link.

“As we treat the Word of God, so God treats us.” (John Albert Bengel)

Psalm 91

Immanuel Kant famously proposed three core questions which perpetually interest all human beings and for which philosophy is obligated to chart a course:  What can I know? What must I do? and, finally: What may I hope for?  In the Christian faith, a popular and quintessential answer to this question is found in the breathtaking vision of Psalm 91. Here the sorrowful, heartbroken laments of Psalm 90 are met by the outlandishly generous and joyful promises of God. A cursory reading of Psalm 91 seems to promise us the world (including, it must be said in this season, protection from the horrors of plague and pestilence!). In a word, Psalm 91 appears to guarantee nothing less than our lasting and comprehensive flourishing as human beings, with freedom from all possible harm and fear, if we but trust in the Lord and take cover under the shadow of His wings.

Yet disturbing objections must soon intrude upon any who would naively listen to such unrealistic assurances in the middle of a history like ours.  Psalm 91 seems too good to be true, perhaps more so than any other text in the Bible.  What about the many pastors and Christian leaders who have appealed to Psalm 91 to assure Christians that they would not be exposed to or die from Covid-19 as long as they trust in God, only to find such boasts disproved by reality?  Indeed, it is not accidental that the optimistic promises of Psalm 91 are found elsewhere bandied about by Job’s dimwitted, “orthodox” friends (Job 5:8-27), who coldheartedly seek to persuade the devastated Job that his lack of faith and obedience to God are the direct and inevitable causes of his suffering.  Even more provocatively, we find the language of Psalm 91 rehashed for Jesus while he is being tempted in the wilderness at the beginning of his public ministry, now on the deceitful lips of Satan (Matthew 4:5-6, Luke 4:9-11).  “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose,” Shakespeare once quipped in The Merchant of Venice on account of of this diabolical moment. “An evil soul producing holy witness is like a villain with a smiling cheek, a goodly apple rotten at the heart.  Oh, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!” If we learn anything from Job and Jesus here, it is that the tantalizing promises of Psalm 91 are more complicated and liable to distortion before the all-too-human desires for safety from and control over suffering than we might initially suspect.

And so back to Kant, in light of Psalm 91: what, exactly, may I hope for in this life from God? What, precisely, has God promised to those who trust Him?  What may we actually believe God for in the midst of the unpredictable, chaotic perils of life?  What may I legitimately expect from God if I am reluctantly single, or involuntarily childless, or long unemployed (or miserably employed), or chronically sick, or stuck in any number of challenging, unsatisfying circumstances in my life? As Augustine knew well, the two extremes of false hope and despair stand before us as equally disastrous temptations here.  Yet the danger represented by Job’s friends and Satan (false hope) is obvious enough, once it is noticed.  For many of us in the modern world, perhaps the opposite tendency pulls on us more subtly and with deadlier impact: namely, to so nuance and qualify the promises of God that, when we finally come to it, we are left holding nothing concrete or practical in our hands as we look to an uncertain future through the now vague, disillusioned eyes of “faith.”  Psalm 91 holds a crucial key to discerning the shape of God’s faithfulness as He has promised to care for us in our lives.  But we need to listen carefully to what is being said here—and to what is not being said.  And we need to labor hard to articulate the logic of God’s promises to His people, for His glory and our lasting welfare.  Please join us for a meditation on Psalm 91 next Thursday, May 21st at 7pm EST, followed by an opportunity for interactive Q & A.  Feel free to extend this invitation to others.

Saruman“I have come for your aid, Saruman the White.” And the title seemed to anger him.  “Have you indeed, Gandalf the Grey!” he scoffed…”I am Saruman the Wise, Saruman Ring-Maker, Saruman of Many Colours!” I looked then and saw that his robes, which had seemed white, were not so, but were woven with all colours, and if he moved they shimmered and changed hue so that the eye was bewildered.

“I liked white better,” I said.  “White!” he sneered.  “It serves as a beginning.  White cloth may be dyed.  The white page can be overwritten; and the white light can be broken.”

“In which case it is no longer white,” said I. “And he that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.”

“You need not speak to me as to one of the fools that you take for friends,” said he.  “I have not brought you hither to be instructed by you, but to give you a choice.” He drew himself up then and began to declaim, as if he were making a speech long rehearsed.  “The Elder Days are gone.  The Middle Days are passing.  The Younger Days are beginning.  The time of the Elves is over, but our time is at hand: the world of Men, which we must rule.  But we must have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see.”

“And listen, Gandalf, my old friend and helper!” he said, coming near and speaking now in a softer voice.  “I said we, for we it may be, if you will join with me.  A new Power is rising.  Against it the old allies and policies will not avail us at all.  There is no hope left in Elves or dying Numenor.  This then is the choice before you, before us.  We may join with that Power.  It would be wise, Gandalf.  There is hope that way.  Its victory is at hand; and there will be rich reward for those that aided it.  As the Power grows, its proved friends will also grow; and the Wise, such as you and I, may with patience come at last to direct its courses, to control it.  We can bide our time, we can keep our thoughts in our hearts, deploring maybe evils done by the way, but approving the high and ultimate purpose: Knowledge, Rule, Order; all the things that we have so far striven in vain to accomplish, hindered rather than helped by our weak or idle friends.  There need not be, there would not be, any real change in our designs, only in our means.”

“Saruman,” I said, “I have heard speeches of this kind before, but only in the mouths of emissaries sent from Mordor to deceive the ignorant.  I cannot think that you brought me so far only to weary my ears.”…

“And why not, Gandalf?” he whispered. “Why not? The Ruling Ring? If we could command that, then the Power would pass to us.  That is in truth why I brought you here.  For I have many eyes in my service, and I believe that you know where this precious thing now lies.  Is it not so? Or why do the Nine ask for the Shire, and what is your business there?” As he said this a lust which he could not conceal shone suddenly in his eyes.

“Saruman,” I said, standing away from him, “only one hand at a time can wield the One, and you know that well, so do not trouble to say we! But I would not give it, nay, I would not give even news of it to you, now that I learn your mind.  You were head of the Council, but you have unmasked yourself at last.  Well, the choices are, it seems, to submit to Sauron, or to yourself.  I will take neither.  Have you others to offer?” (J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, pp. 258-60)

Augustine“C. S. Lewis writes of ‘the ruthless, sleepless, unsmiling concentration upon self which is the mark of Hell.’  It is in fact that concentration upon self, not longing for God, that ultimately obliterates the person of the neighbor…Although it is true that we find happiness only if our love finally rests in God, our loves are one, and there is no jumping ahead to the end of the story.  Here and now we are given others to love, and in loving them we hold open in ourselves the gap that only God can fill, the wound that only God can heal.  Here and now we accept the incompleteness and vulnerability that love brings in its wake…We can never really become invulnerable to loss.  There is no self-sufficiency here and now, because we are drawn out of ourselves in love for both God and our neighbors.  Our happiness depends on both objects of love, and therefore others must not be obliterated.  Nor will we be self-sufficient there and then, when we rest in God in heaven.  Our happiness will still be dependent on God–but no longer dependent on any others…

Pride always ends with an isolated self who seeks to be the author of the conditions of its own happiness.  If Augustine is right, it is this assertion of self, not a longing for God, that finally obliterates the other.  None of us is permitted veto power over the happiness of others in heaven, for in the presence of God there must be fullness of joy.  But Augustine can believe this without supposing that the presence of others is unimportant or adds nothing to one’s joy.  Each shares his own vision of God with others, thereby enriching the vision of all; for, as Augustine writes in the Confessions, ‘when many people rejoice together, the joy of each individual is all the richer, since each one inflames the other and the warmth spreads throughout them all’ (8:4).  Moreover, the God who draws us to himself and who is alone our sufficiency is never a tyrant who seeks to obliterate all other objects of our love.  To turn in love toward that God is to turn toward One in whom we are given others to love.  But they are–always and only–loved ‘in God’; for, apart from that location they can never truly be themselves.

When in the Paradiso Dante finally comes face-to-face with Beatrice, when his longing to see her has brought him to where one sees God, she then returns to her place within the heavenly ranks–smiling once more at him, and, then, turning her face to ‘the eternal fountain.’  The austerity of the moment is overpowering, and of course one might–as Nussbaum does–find that austerity offensive.  But Beatrice does not leave Dante; rather, together they are to gaze at the love that moves the sun and the other stars.  In God they are given back to each other, that each may enrich the vision of the other.  Augustine sees–and bends the knee before–a similar truth, a vision of that God who continually gives us the neighbor to love.  Recalling in the Confessions that Nebridius now lives ‘in the bosom of Abraham’–whatever, as Augustine characteristically adds, that may mean.  ‘Now he no longer turns his ear to my lips; he turns his own spiritual lips to your fountain and drinks his fill of all the wisdom that he can desire, happy without end.  And I do not think that he is so inebriated with that wisdom as to forget me; since it is of you, Lord, that he drinks, and you are mindful of us.’ (9.3).” (Gilbert MeilaenderThe Way That Leads There: Augustinian Reflections on the Christian Life, pp. 41-45)

This is a blurb for a reflection I’ll be offering via Zoom on Thursday, April 30th at 7pm EST.  Please email me at nick.nowalk@gmail.com if you are interested in attending, and I’ll send you the Zoom link and password.

 

“Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it.” (Flannery O’ConnorWise Blood)

Lament

All seasons of significant crisis leave in their wake profound disruptions to the rhythms we once considered “normal.” Our expectations about life need to be painfully, intentionally adjusted in our considered response to such unwelcome intrusions.  The sense of disorientation and disquietude that comes upon us in such times can be jarring and remarkably uncomfortable.  We can quickly lose a grasp on our former experiences of well-being–mentally, emotionally, physically.  In sustained crises no real possibility of avoidance remains to us.  No quick, cheap solutions are available in the havoc.  We are virtually forced into coping, lest we waste endless energy in futile directions.  Most of us know this by now; enough time has lapsed for our initial fantasies to wither.  Yet temptations continue to abound in diverse directions: stubborn denial, trivial distractions, numbing addictions, retreat into prolonged, disengaged loneliness, or even launching out into desperate strategies that foolishly resist any real alteration to our previous way of being in the world.  Most dangerous of all is the possibility of despair, a bitter resignation about the faithfulness of God and the meaningful goodness of our lives in this world.

Psalm 90 stands as perhaps Israel’s most breathtaking, risky strategy for coping with the heartbreak and confusion brought on by radical, unwanted crisis. Here the people of God learn how to channel their subsequent disillusionment and their accumulated pain in healthy, life-giving directions that are pregnant with fresh possibilities.  Here the voice of Moses reappears from of old once more as Israel faces the catastrophic loss of their home, taken into exile and displaced at the hands of their enemies.  Seemingly rejected and abandoned by God, a cry of anguished lament is uttered forth.  How can God have allowed this to happen?  How much longer, O Lord, must we endure this? What can we possibly do when the brief, precious time we have been allotted in the world seems to be slipping through our fingers, never to return again? How can we still go on and yet remain ourselves, in a place we no longer recognize and with a future before us that now appears terrifyingly obscure and uncertain?

Teach us to number our days, so that we might get a heart of wisdom!” comes the clarifying request which is passionately articulated to God by Moses on behalf of all who stumble through the traumas and vicissitudes of history.  Redeeming the time that is still left to us by launching out in new directions, fueled by previously undreamt of possibilities for our life now freshly in view, in spite of everything that has happened—this is the gift that is bestowed upon us and the task set before us in Psalm 90.  As Andy Crouch has recently observed, throughout history the practice of lament has time and again become the seedbed of creativity for the church when all else around us was fractured and fell apart.  For God’s grace is invariably manifested as disruptive to us who are still bent out of shape into far too many disastrous postures before our Creator, our neighbors, and towards the world He has entrusted to us.  And yet it is grace no less for that.  But we must be willing to face our fears and to name our shattered experience honestly in God’s presence. Only on the other side of a bitter, unqualified and finally liberating acceptance of the tragic limits of our lives can we truly flourish in a world still caught in the throes of sin and death.  And so every crisis turns out to contain an opportunity to learn how to desire the best things, the most human things–perhaps for the first time–even as our former impoverished dreams begin to fade into memory.

Webinar Details

Please join us for a time of reflection on Psalm 90 next Thursday, April 30th at 7pm EST via Zoom.  The aim of this time together is sheerly practical—that we might learn wisdom for coping with crisis and experience a deepening of our confidence in the unwavering faithfulness of the God who only ever says “No” to His people in order to finally say “Yes” to them.  We don’t give up, because He never will.  Our reflections on Psalm 90 will be aided by Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s gripping autobiographical recollections which arose out of his own harrowing personal crisis and disappointment as recorded in his justly famous Letters and Papers from Prison.  There will be ample opportunity for interactive Q & A, though also space to remain anonymous and silent as well.  This time is open to anyone, anywhere.  Please feel free to extend this invitation to others who might be interested in joining.

Economy of Grace