Holy Lingering

“[Jesus] said, ‘God’s kingdom isn’t coming with signs that are easily noticed. Nor will people say,

“Look, here it is!” or “There it is!” Don’t you see? God’s kingdom is already among you.’” Luke

17:20b-21, CEB

Dear Edinburg First family,

Can I share something with you? When I was a teacher, August was a very bittersweet month.

On one hand, I looked forward to the newness of a new school year, a new group of students,

new ideas to help them grow—all sparkly with possibility. On the other hand, where had the

summer gone? What about my summer bucket list? What about morning coffee with my mom,

travels with friends, or sitting down with a for-fun book? Back to the early mornings, after-

school duties, stacks of essays to grade. Not so sparkly.

As we look forward to August as a month of returning to another rhythm of life—or keeping the

same rhythm for those of us not in schools—I offer you the words of Mary Oliver’s poem “The

Pond” from her collection Felicity (2015):

August of another summer, and once again

I am drinking the sun

and the lilies again are spread across the water.

I know now what they want is to touch each other.

I have not been here for many years

during which time I kept living my life.

Like the heron, who can only croak, who wishes he could sing,

I wish I could sing.

A little thanks from every throat would be appropriate.

This is how it has been, and this is how it is:

All my life I have been able to feel happiness,

except whatever was not happiness,

which I also remember.

Each of us wears a shadow.

But just now it is summer again

and I am watching the lilies bow to each other,

then slide on the wind and the tug of desire,

close, close to one another,

Soon now, I'll turn and start for home.

And who knows, maybe I'll be singing.

I like to think of Oliver as a poet of holy lingering. I love the way the speaker’s eyes linger on

lilies spreading across the water, the heron who wishes he could sing. Many of Oliver’s poems

hold similar moments—quiet, everyday noticing of blades of grass or geese soaring above. In

her book Gravity and Grace, mystic Simone Weil wrote, “Absolutely unmixed attention is

prayer.” So, Oliver’s poem is a poem of prayer; it’s a recognition that not all things last, a

recognition that every moment is holy.

As the summer days wane, how can we take up the practice of holy lingering? How can we

come “close, close to one another”? Maybe we’ll linger a little longer at a table of family and

friends. Maybe we’ll walk around our neighborhoods or sit on our porches listening to the early

morning song of mourning doves. Maybe we’ll take a moment in our workday to sit and

breathe, to remember that we are held by God’s gracious love, to admire the way the sun

filters through our office or classroom windows. Maybe we’ll take a mental snapshot of a loved

one’s smile, the sound of laughter from the children in our lives. These moments seem so

fleeting, but when we linger, we make them a prayer, acknowledging that God’s goodness

overflows in these little passing moments.

Over the month of August, we’ll be exploring a few images of the kingdom of God in the Gospel

of Luke. I’m calling this sermon series, “The Kingdom Among Us.” We’ll talk about the core of

the Good News, some of Jesus’ parables about the kingdom, and we’re going to sit with how

the Kingdom of God is both about the eternal things AND about the everyday. As we linger in

the precious, fleeting moments of life, let us also consider the ways we have seen or

experienced the promise and reality of God with Us, the God who is working to make all things

new right now.

Con cariño,

With love,

Pastor Sarah