A priest friend once confessed to me that he had been years out of seminary before he realized that, throughout his life, he had spent all of his time talking about God rather than to God. He had been excited by the idea of God, by all the accoutrements around worship, and by the call to justice. In all his excitement, it took some time before he realized that he had missed the central piece.
This morning in devotions, I saw myself in Peter. I didn’t reflect Pentecost evangelical Peter or stepping out of the boat Peter, but anxiety ridden at the cross Peter. Peter, how I wish I related to one of your more shining moments.
While in college, one of the best parts about my summertime subway commute to work was the 50 minutes of uninterrupted reading it afforded me every day. To stave off any potential conversations, I always boarded the train with my book in hand, head down.
In America, we use angels to sell pretty good toilet paper and terrible lingerie. We’re not much for the six-winged terror holding a burning coal to the prophet’s lips (Isaiah 6:2-7). We prefer fat cherubs with harps to sentinels with spinning, flaming swords (Genesis 3:24). Our angels aren’t divine messengers, and they don’t start their sentences with, “Fear not!” They are boring and uncool.