Gather us in, all peoples together, 
fire of love in our flesh and our bone.
- Marty Haugen

I first encountered this hymn in 2001 in a piano arrangement of it by Malcolm Kogut. Kogut's arrangement has a lot of shifts into asymmetrical meters such as 5/8 and 7/8, which give it lots of energy and is very fiery in that way. But fire is also a way of burning away impurities. We might prefer to look at fire as a tool or we might look at it as a thing of destruction. Our preference doesn't make fire any less one or the other. For one person the fiery arrangement may be a struggle as a tool for learning to play in these unusual meters. For another, it may simply be a lot of fun. But the piece is both. 

This song is so appropriate for this time of the church year as we move from the season of Epiphany into the season of Lent. And this image of fire gives us the light and energy we carry from Epiphany and sustains into the reflection of Lent where we seek not just to refrain from the things that might be hindering us in our relationship with God, but also seek to redirect that energy into the things that will bring us closer to God. God's love is energizing but also purifying and will cause us to continuously change into who we are called to be. 

As you sing this hymn on Sunday, think about all the images of the people God is gathering and who we are called to be through the lens of that image of the fire of God's love. Which images energize you? Which may be places where God is working on changing you to become who you are called to be? 

Marshall

​Called as partners in Christ's service, 
called to ministries of grace, 
We respond with deep commitment
fresh new lines of faith to trace. 
-Jane Parker Huber 
Used by permission. OneLicense.net # A-709014

It is always that last line that has been the phrase that sticks out to me. Tracing the work of something is often how we learn--we mimic what somebody else has put forth first. In 2018, I wrote a concerto for two saxophones and wind ensemble for a friend of mine who wanted such a piece that he could perform with his first saxophone teacher. I focused a lot of it around one saxophone beginning each melodic line in the same way as the other saxophone but each line veers off in a new direction. Unfortunately, his teacher passed before they were ever able to realize this piece. 

God gives us new lines of faith all the time. Sometimes through people with the boldness to look beyond what has been and is to what could be. Sometimes through circumstances and opportunities to reach beyond the safety and comfort of the walls of this building. But what is always clear is that the people God calls are not called into a place of comfort. How many prophets could not understand why God called them -- I  don't have the skills to do that -- people aren't going to listen to me -- and all the other excuses they tried to give. God didn't call them to speak like someone else (sing like someone else, play like someone else). God doesn't call us into the ease of simply tracing, but the anguish of forging new lines. 

God calls us to forge new lines of faith, but just as with those melodic lines in my concerto, those new lines don't come from out of nowhere. They begin from a place of tracing (recognizing what is good in that line being traced) and veering off to reach new places while retaining what is essential to the line in the first place. 

Are we ready to forge new lines of faith? Or are we too enamored with what makes us comfortable? 

Marshall

In this week's lesson from Luke, we encounter Jesus reading parts of Isaiah from a scroll, parts that were prophecy about what the Messiah would do: proclaim good news to the poor, setting prisoners free, giving sight to the blind, etc. 

You will see that theme running through the hymns this week, stated in different ways by the different authors of these hymns. In John Bell's "The Summons" he poses question essentially coming from Jesus throughout the Gospels and with the last verse gives what our response should be. The third verse directly speaks to some of the things addressed in the Isaiah text, but it is always this line that I think of as the highlight -- "Will you kiss the leper clean and do such as this unseen." Imagine what is asked there and what an immense call that is, and to do it without the thought of being recognized for that sacrifice. 

Amanda Udis-Kessler in "Church Is More than Just a Building" extends the tasks that we see in that scroll from Isaiah to being what the church is and does. I especially like the ending phrase "It's our work toward a world made new." Rusty Edwards phrases it in a manner that has always caught my attention. While he focuses more on praising Jesus for doing all these things, he begins with the phrase that is the title of the hymn "Praise the One Who Breaks the Darkness."

So, church, how do we break the darkness by shining our light? We do those things in that scroll from Isaiah, not alone, but as a church we "kiss the leper clean and do such as this unseen."

Marshall 

Vocalist/guitarist Bill DeMarco, staff singer Lucas Jackson, and bassist Con Woodall join us in the chancel for songs of service, community and compassion for the other.

"This Is My Song" was written in 1934 by Lloyd Stone and set to the music of the "Finlandia Hymn" by Finnish composer Jean Sibelius. The hymn formed the basis of Sibelius's orchestral 1899 tone poem "Finlandia," a work of protest against Russian oppression. The text offers a relative nationalistic worldview where each person's dignity and love of country is informed by respect for others who feel the same pride and love for their own respective land. The author states this compassionate message beautifully in verse 1: 

This is my song, Oh God of all the nations, 
A song of peace for lands afar and mine.
This is my home, the country where my heart is; 
Here are my hopes, my dreams, my sacred shrine.
But other hearts in other lands are beating,
With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

Lucas Jackson offers a solo vocal/banjo version of "Colors of the Wind" during our time of gift giving. Originally composed by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz for the 1995 Disney animated film Pocohontas, the lyrics speak to the innate sacredness of nature and how we are to care for its sustenance — together. As stated in the final verses: "You can own the Earth and still all you'll own is Earth until you can paint with all the colors of the wind."

"This Land Is Your Land" was written in 1940 by American folk singer Woody Guthrie with musical inspiration from the Carter Family gospel song "When the World's on Fire." The lyrics speak to a welcoming spirit that all have a right to live in peace and harmony together— compassion for all. The song was written as a response to Irving Berlin's "God Bless America" which he felt did not account for those citizens struggling in society, particularly those experiencing hardship during the Great Depression.