Living in the Kingdom

Jesus said to the crowd: “They will seize and persecute you, they will hand you over to the synagogues and to prisons, and they will have you led before kings and governors because of my name.  It will lead to your giving testimony. Remember, you are not to prepare your defense beforehand, for I myself shall give you a wisdom in speaking that all your adversaries will be powerless to resist or refute.  You will even be handed over by parents, brothers, relatives, and friends, and they will put some of you to death.  You will be hated by all because of my name, but not a hair on your head will be destroyed.  By your perseverance you will secure your lives.” (Lk 21:12-19)

Clearly, this is not one of those warm, fuzzy, God-is-love gospel passages.  And the timing of the message adds fuel to the fire.  Here we are about to join with family and friends to give thanks for all of God’s blessings, and we hear that we will be seized and persecuted, turned against by those closest to us, even put to death in some cases. 

Uncomfortable though the message may be, we hear it more than once from Jesus.  For example, the final beatitude is “blessed are the persecuted.”  How can this be?  An easy out is to assume that Jesus is simply telling us a basic fact of life.  In a world of sin, meeting up with evil is inevitable, and everyone who lives in the world must endure at least some pain, suffering, and, yes, even death.  Our lesson, then, is to simply live in the hope of our final union with God, when all pain and suffering will vanish.  In the meantime, offer up our own suffering, help those who we see suffering, and all will eventually be well.

However, when I accept this interpretation, I have, in a very important way, missed Jesus’ point.  The key words in the passage – as they are in that final beatitude – are “because of my name.”  This persecution is not inevitable simply because we live in a world of sin and death; it is heaped upon us because while we live in this world, we are not of this world.  We are not simply to live in the hope that all will be well, but, in that very hope, we are also to live as if the kingdom has already come.  We are to live on earth as we will in heaven.

This is a very tall order!  Jesus tells us not to live as if the world around us is all we have. We are not to live as if our lives are bound by time and space.  We are not to live as if all resources are finite and all love is conditional.  We are not to live as if our happiness depends on our ability to live longer and healthier, our ability to possess more things, our ability to make more friends, or our ability to create more powerful weapons.

Rather, we are live in a world of infinite goodness, treating our limited time here on earth as a mere prelude to an eternity of life with our all-provident God.  We are live in a world of unconditional love, as God loved us by giving us his only Son, and as God continues to shower this unconditional love down on us and on all of his creation to this very day.   We are to live, as we were reminded this past Sunday, not bound by mere earthly government and authority – no matter how just and fair that authority may seem – but with Jesus as our King.

In very concrete terms, Jesus describes what this life looks like.  Love your enemies, turn the other cheek, forego violence, fight evil with good, be meek, merciful, mournful, be a slave to all, place complete trust in God for protection and sustenance, forgive seventy-seven times, and give without counting the cost.

The cost will be great, for living in the kingdom defies all common sense.  It contradicts the very obvious physical and temporal constraints of this world.  As a result, it makes many people – those who only think in terms of the world – very, very uncomfortable.  So uncomfortable, that it seems to threaten their very being. 

We see this dissonance quite clearly in the reactions to the Syrian refugee crisis.  While the Pope and the bishops insist that charity should drive us to assist in any way we can, many others insist that our primary duty is not love, but self-preservation.  And since it is almost impossible for us to sort out with certainty the dangerous from the benign, it makes sense – in a world in which God is not to be trusted – to simply keep the problem at arm’s length, or even better, at ocean’s length.  Those who would follow the Pope’s "ludicrous" thinking are, at best, idealistic fools; at worst, they are as dangerous as the terrorists themselves.

For me, the choice is clear – I either embrace the persecution that comes from living in Jesus’ name, living in Jesus’ kingdom, or I bind myself to a world of finite resources, limited time, and transitory pleasure – a world that doesn’t need God, a world of hell.

Choose the Kingdom, reject Hell.

Already but not yet

Last night, while we were out to dinner, Mary noticed that the lamp sconces were festooned with Christmas wreaths.  In other news, radio stations are playing Christmas carols 24/7, and Pumpkin Spice is out, Christmas blend is in.  We haven’t even celebrated Thanksgiving yet and Commercial Christmas has begun!  Oh well, 'tis the season.

Sometimes our readings at Mass seem just as out of kilter to us as Christmas before Thanksgiving.  Here we are, getting ready to thank God for all of the wonderful gifts he has given us, and we in this country have certainly been gifted with unimagined plenty.  Then we turn to the quiet preparations of Advent, and only then, with lights blazing, hearts filled with joy, and the air ringing with carols, we will celebrate the coming into the world of our salvation in the innocence of the baby Jesus in the stable.

But this morning, as prepare for a season of joy, we hear Daniel and Mark 13 at Mass…the “fire and brimstone” imagery of Jewish apocalyptic writing…a time unsurpassed in distress, the sun darkened, stars falling from the sky, Jesus coming as an almighty judge to gather the chosen and damn the wicked, etc., etc., etc.  Ouch.  Where’s that “Joy to the World” or “Silent Night” or “O Little Town of Bethlehem” now?

In its wisdom, the Church forces our attention away from the comforting warmth of family gathered around the table laden with the turkey and trimmings of a Thanksgiving feast, the bright joy of remembrance of that first Christmas morning.  For it is easy for us to become complacent and think that Jesus saved the world some two thousand years ago, what more need we do but celebrate the coming of the kingdom?  In just a few short days, many of us will enjoy an abundance of gifts that are surely signs of God’s grace and his kingdom. 

In our complaisance, we can lose our sense of the kingdom to come where true, absolute, and eternal joy and peace reside.  This is the source of our Christian hope, that even though we know not when, we know not where, we know not how, Jesus will come again and all things wrong will be put right, not just for now, but for ever more.

This “already but not yet” tension has been with us since Jesus first came into the world. The kingdom is here, “at hand” as Jesus proclaims in the very first chapter of Mark, yet is “to come in glory” at the end of time.  Our readings today urge us to reflect on how we live in this “already but not yet” stage.

As we were horrified to hear just a few days ago, Satan seems intent to force us to dwell in and obsess in the “not-yet-ness” of our time.  In fact, he would rather we forget the “already” altogether, to write it off as pious foolishness.  He would rather we despair completely in the “not yet” and assume it will be nevermore. 

The tragedy in France compounded for us the horror we felt most personally here in Newtown not three years ago, and the horror the world felt some fifteen years ago on 9/11.  How are we to appreciate the “already” when we seem to be buried in and blinded by the “not yet?”

Fred Rogers gives us a clue.  Fred McFeely Rogers was the creator and host of what is perhaps the greatest children’s television show ever produced – Mister Roger’s Neighborhood.  He also happened to be a Presbyterian minister, and part of the appeal of his show was the richness of Christian spirituality which pervaded each episode.

He gave us a pearl of wisdom that helps us see the “already” especially in times where we are blinded by and lose hope in the “not yet.”  As he tells it, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things on the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping.’”

And doesn’t that resonate with us here in Newtown.  Take a moment – or, as Fred Rogers would say – “close your eyes for ten seconds and think” – think of the reverence in which we hold the first responders at 9/11, many of whom gave their lives that day and many of whom are still dying today from their efforts during the recovery.  Think of the gratitude we felt – and still feel today – for the thousands upon thousands of people throughout the world who offered us material and spiritual support after 12/14.  Imagine the doctors and nurses in trauma centers in and around Paris these past few days.  Imagine the people rushing to the aid of friends and strangers as bedlam descended on Paris.

Where you find the helpers, there you will find faith in the “already.”  

There you will find hope in the “not yet.”

There you will find the light which darkness cannot overcome.

There you will find God.

Easter People

We all know from song that there are twelve days of Christmas, but Easter is a much bigger deal.  There are fifty days of Easter!  We can be wishing each other happy Easter and shouting out our alleluias until May 24^th this year, when the Easter season ends at Pentecost.

This is a logic to this.  While the Incarnation of Jesus is certainly worthy of celebration and praise, we are not really changed by it.  God becomes man, but we’re still the same.  But when Jesus allows the world to hit him with its worst, then conquers death by rising from the grave on Easter morning, we are transformed.  We become Easter people.  So, how exactly does that work?  Our readings today – the Emmaus story in Luke 24 and Peter and John at the Temple in Acts 3 – give us a clue to our new lives as Easter people.

Easter people are people who see the world – past, present and future – with new eyes, with Easter eyes.  The two disciples on the way to Emmaus were quite confused.  They knew their history and the prophets.  They knew that God had promised his people a Messiah, a king from David’s house who would conquer Israel’s enemies and reign with justice for ever and ever.  They had hoped Jesus would be this king, but their hopes were dashed when Jesus was crucified.  They couldn’t see where they could have gone so wrong.

Then, after the stranger explains the Scriptures to them, joins them for dinner, and breaks and blesses the bread, their Easter eyes are opened to see in a new way.  They see the Messiah not as an earthly king, a mighty general who conquers Israel’s enemies, but as a divine savior who conquers humankind’s greatest enemy, death itself.  They see Jesus and the past few, fateful days with eyes of faith.

Peter and John come to the Temple to pray and see a man who had been crippled since birth.  Both of them “look intently” at the man.  What do they see?  Do they see as they did when Jesus came upon a man blind from birth in John 9?  Do they simply see this man as one being punished for his sins, or perhaps punished for the sins of his parents?  No, they see the man in a new way, with Easter eyes.  They see the man as a child of God, as one for whom Jesus died.  They see him as Jesus saw each person he came across, with eyes of love.

Peter then says something very odd.  Peter asks the man to look at John and him.  The man does so, “expecting to receive something from them.”  The man doesn’t know it yet, but he is about to become part of the Easter people.  Peter has primed him to see as all Easter people see, with eyes of hope.

Like Cleopas and his companion, like all Easter people, we see the past with eyes of faith.   We see the historical Jesus not simply as a good man who lived, taught and died as all men do, but as the Christ of faith.  We see in the crucifix not an instrument of torture and death, but a sign of God’s infinite and unconditional love for each of us.

Like Peter and John, like all Easter people, we see the world and the people around us with eyes of love.  We see times of great tragedy and evil not as unmitigated darkness, but as opportunities to shine the light of God’s love. We see those who hate and despise us not as enemies, but as fellow sons and daughters of God, fellow creatures in the image and likeness of God, and though they may not know what they are doing, we see them as fellow objects of God’s love.

Like the man at the Beautiful Gate, like all Easter people, we see our future with eyes of hope.   We look to the future not with anxiety over what we are to eat or wear, but with confidence in God’s benevolent providence.  We see death not as an end, but as a transition to an eternity with the source of all joy, peace and love.

We are an Easter people, for we see the past with Easter eyes of faith; we see the present with Easter eyes of love; and we see the future with Easter eyes of hope.  

Happy Easter!  Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Morality through Relationship

If you’ve ever been to Outback Steakhouse, you would notice several menu items listed as “no rules.”  I’m not really sure what it means – perhaps you can have it however you want it; or perhaps it is so decadent that you must not rules about healthy eating if you order it.

Some people think of Jesus as an “Outback Steakhouse” kind of guy – “no rules” is his motto.  Why worry about all those pesky rules that the Pharisees followed – just love Jesus, believe he is the Son of God, and you are saved!  After all, if we could save ourselves by following rules, why would God find it necessary to send His only Son to take on our mortal nature and suffer and die like the rest of us?

Yet, this morning we hear Jesus tells us that we should not break “the smallest part of the smallest letter of the law” or, heaven forbid, teach others to break the law. (Mt 5:18-19) In other places, he implies that at least part of the law is a gift from God, created solely for our benefit – “the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” (Mk 2:27).  As a devout Jew, it seems certain that Jesus was also a good follower of the law.  Otherwise, the Pharisees would not have invited him to dine with them, as they were scrupulous about not eating with those whom they considered unclean.

So, how do we reconcile salvation through God’s mercy and the need to follow the law and to encourage others to keep the law?  One clue is to look back at the Ten Commandments, which we just heard at Mass this past Sunday.

Before listing the fundamental moral and ethical rules – rules which guide our behavior and attitudes towards others, we are given the first three commandments that lay out our relationship with God. 

First, God is to be the most important thing in our lives.  Nothing can be more important to us than God, for that thing – which must have been created by God and is therefore inferior to God – must be a false god.  Second, God must not only be number one in our hearts, but he is also number one in our speech.  We should not use his name – for the ancients, the name was the essence of a person – frivolously, for our relationship is too serious and important.  Finally, He should be number one in our actions – so much so that we should be willing to dedicate one day of seven completely to him, putting aside our worldly concerns and duties to spend “quality time” with him.

Locked into this intense relationship with God, the rest of the law – how we are to interact with the all of God’s creation – flows as naturally water under the bridge.

The Ten Commandments – and Jesus – teach us that our morality is not based on a rule book, but on a relationship.  The rules that we follow are simply a consequence of our relationship with the One who created us, the One who loves us without limit or condition, and the one who desires nothing from us by our complete and utter love.  If we live in this relationship, the rules become part of our lives.  We enter a virtuous cycle.  Our love of God encourages and strengthens us to follow Jesus’ rule of love.  This, in turn, deepens our relationship with Jesus, and we are then emboldened to love his creation even more richly.

In contrast, if we ignore the relationship with God, if we separate ourselves from the love inherent to that relationship, the rule of love becomes a heavy burden, and we easily put it aside whenever the going gets too tough.  This is a vicious cycle.  As we deny or ignore the love of God, our love of his creation wanes.  This turns us into ourselves, and we become even less sensitive to the love of God, our only source of strength and courage, further weakening and discouraging our desire to love his creation.

Lent calls us to double down, or perhaps triple down, on our relationship with God – enriching it with our prayer, realizing the emptiness of false gods with our fasting, and remembering his great love and providence through our almsgiving.   Let the virtuous cycle begin.

Obedience

I’ve never had much problem following the Ten Commandments.  Well, I can’t say that I’ve always obeyed each and every one, for if I said that, I’d be breaking one of them right then and there.  But I’ve always known that I should follow them as best I can.  I’ve always felt guilty if I broke one of them and knew that when I did break them, I needed God to forgive me.  What I didn’t know, or knew wrongly, was why this was so.  Why should I obey them at all?

I suppose my first thought was that I was an oldest child.  Many psychologists have theorized that first-born children are compliant, seeking to be seen as upright, responsible mini-adults, someone like their parents who were the only ones in their lives at the most formative stage.  The theory may or not be true, but I was certainly like that.  My mom and dad were good people who obeyed the commandments. I wanted to see to be like them, so I obeyed, too.   So I internalized that my purpose in obeying the commandments was so that people would think I was good; that I was a grown-up.  But this couldn’t be the real purpose.  I’m grown-up now.  Do I still have to obey the commandments?  Isn’t it possible to be grown-up without obeying these ancient rules?

Of course, I soon learned that the Ten Commandments weren’t just my parents’ rules, they were God’s rules.  And Sr. Thecla assured my classmates and me that if we didn’t follow God’s rules, really, really, bad things would happen.  And of course, that’s true.  If I willfully and habitually ignore the commandments, I build walls between me and God.  If those walls get thick enough, I may never even know or believe that God is on the other side.  I may have walled myself into hell.  As I recall, Sr. Thecla had a much more graphic description of that process.

And while this is certainly a good reason to not break the laws, I then made a deadly mistake, though it seemed to make perfect sense.  If by breaking the laws, I damned myself to hell, then my purpose in following the laws was to gain my place in heaven.  The closer I followed the laws, the better I would be and then, the God would reward my obedience with more love and with heaven itself.   Not only would the laws save me from hell, they would save me for heaven.  For most of my life, I used this to justify following the Commandments.  But I was wrong again.  Even more importantly, my mistaken view of the Law’s purpose led me into dangerous spiritual ground.

I became quite proud of my obedience.  I found that I was much better at following the law than many of the people I knew.   That’s what a lifetime of practice would do for you.  Being better at following the law, I believed, made me a better person than many of the other people I knew.  I could even assume that because of my scrupulous obedience, God would love me more than he loved those who ignored his law.  After all, they were going to hell, right?  I was headed in the other direction.

Then came Jesus.  Jesus teaches us throughout the Gospel that salvation comes not through the law, but through relationship with Him, who is in intimate relationship with the Father.  It is only when we love and live in this intimate relationship, that we see the law as God’s gift, given to us to allow us to praise God, to thank God, and to love God as he loves us.  Certainly Jesus insists that we should obey the law, but our obedience does not lead to our salvation.  Rather, our salvation leads to our obedience.

We do not obey out of fear, as a slave obeys his master to avoid a lashing, but rather we obey out of love and gratitude, as a loved child obeys a loving parent, as a husband obeys his wife, and as a wife obeys her husband.

Furthermore, this proper ordering and interplay of grace and works then changes our view of the rest of God’s creation.   As we live in relationship with God and his infinite, unconditional and eternal mercy, we are impelled to go beyond the law – to live the fulfillment of the law which is Jesus himself, the one who laid down his life for me, for you, and for all of creation.  We see those who do not follow the law not as the damned and the lost, those less loved by God and by us, but as those who have not yet realized the grace of their salvation, have not yet experienced or recognized the great bounty of God’s love.

Why should I obey the Ten Commandments?  It is the right and just response to the good news that Jesus, out of God’s great love and mercy, has died to save me from the fires of hell, and desires me to enter into relationship with the one who is all love; the one who is all joy; the one who is all peace.

I obey the Ten Commandments not for my own gain, but as witness to the world of the infinite and unconditional love I have already received as pure gift; a gift offered to one and to all, forever and ever, amen.

The Greatest Gift

This time every year, we remember in special way the precious gift of life which God has given us, as we participate in a march – either in person or in spirit and prayer – to convince our fellow Americans of the sanctity of all human life, born and unborn.

And yet, as precious as this gift is, and as important as it is for us to defend its sanctity, Jesus does not allude to our earthly life as the treasure buried in the field or as the pearl of great price (Mt 13:44-46).  After all, the person who found the treasure and the merchant who found the pearl already had life when they discovered something much, much more valuable, something for which they gave their all to obtain.

In this same way, martyrs like St. Agnes, whom we celebrate today, knew that their lives on earth, as precious as they seemed, are mere dross compared to the gold that is eternal life with Jesus.  Life on earth is certainly good, but life in the kingdom, life with Jesus, life in relationship with the one who offers unconditional love, profound joy, and perpetual peace, is truly priceless.

This is why Jesus insists that we must be “born again, begotten of water and the Spirit.”(Jn 3:3-5)  This is why Jesus says that “whoever loses his life will save it.”  (Lk 9:24) This is why the people in the today’s parables eagerly “sell all that they have” to gain what is worth so much more.  This also explains the rich young man’s reaction to Jesus’ command to give away all his possessions and follow him. (Mk 10:17-22).  He goes away not angry at Jesus’ words.  Rather, he is deeply saddened, for he knows in his heart the great value of what he is turning down, but he cannot find the courage to pay the price. 

The good news of Jesus is that he not only offers us eternity with him in heaven when our earthly lives come to an end, but that life in the kingdom is available to us at this very moment – “the kingdom of God is at hand!” (Mk 1:15)   Jesus invites me – as he invites you and every other human being – to live intimately with him at this very moment and for all eternity.  Oh, and one more thing:  his invitation includes an RSVP.

 

For most of my life, I didn’t get this at all.  Surely, I thanked God that he did not ask me to die a martyr’s death.  I thanked God that my parents brought me to baptism as a young baby and taught me right from wrong.  I thanked God for blessing me with intelligence, the ability to work hard, and the opportunity to earn a very comfortable life.  I especially thanked God for a loving family with whom to share this life. 

But I had no relationship with Jesus or with God.  I had not returned the RSVP.  I saw no need to do so.  I believed Jesus had died for me many years ago and that God had given me tools to succeed, but it was my effort, my belief in Jesus, my dutiful obedience to God’s commandments and to the Church’s laws, and my good works and charity that would ultimately result in a favorable judgment when – presumably many, many years from now – I would be face-to-face with St. Peter at the pearly gates.

Then, one day – it was a Tuesday, as I remember – I realized my mistake.  I was a baby deacon at the time, only ordained a few years, driving to my job at IBM in Armonk, but mostly thinking about a homily I was to give that weekend on Luke 15 – the lost sheep, the lost coin and the lost son.  It seemed an easy lesson – God will seek us out even if we are silly or stupid enough to wander away, and there will be great rejoicing when we are found.  Not that I felt any personal need for being found – after all, I was the deacon, wasn’t I?

The morning tea wasn’t even cold before my ruminations were rudely cast aside.  An eerie hush fell over the office as we were transfixed in horror at the sights unfolding on our computers, for it was September 11, 2001.  Work became meaningless, and we rushed home to be with our families in our grief.  On the drive home, my grief quickly turned to anger.  I was angry at the injustice of it all, angry that we who were so good, who were so innocent, who worked so hard, could be subjected to such horror and pain.  I was angry with God.  I wondered what we could possibly do to extract justice from such great injustice, to appropriately punish such great evil, to emphatically demonstrate to the world that these despicable acts could not be tolerated.

And then, in a way I had never heard before, God invited me once again, asking me once more for my long-delayed RSVP.  I found myself as the older son in the parable of the prodigal son, indignantly standing outside the kingdom, fuming that I deserved more from my father – certainly much, much more than my wastrel brother received – for “not once have I disobeyed your commands.” (Lk 15:29)  I saw how little I understood that God had always offered me so much more than I could have possibly earned or imagined – “everything I have is yours,” he tells me. (Lk 15:31).

Since that day, I have tried hard to recognize and to treasure this astounding gift, this pearl of great price; to live in intimacy with Jesus, giving away my life of self-reliance, self-righteousness and self-gratification to place all of my trust in him who made the heavens and the earth. 

Every once in a while – and maybe more often than that – I still find myself slipping back and trying to take back a bit of my old life.  But I am encouraged by the ancient martyrs like Agnes and today’s martyrs like James Foley and the martyrs of Syria and Iraq, and most importantly, by Jesus who is constantly at my side, reminding me of the foolishness of trading away the priceless for the mere trifle of my ego and pride.

Please pray for me – as I will always pray for you – that on every day and in every way, we live in intimacy with Jesus, recognizing the pearl that is worth so much more than anything we could possibly earn, so much more than even our very lives. 

The Yoke and the Cross

At the end of Matthew 11, we hear what is perhaps the most personal of Jesus’ metaphors recorded in Scripture – my yoke is easy, my burden is light.

In his day, as it is today in much of the less-developed, agricultural societies, a yoke, whether a single yoke that a person may use to carry a heavy load, or a double yoke that may have joined a team of oxen to plow a field, would have been made of wood, the work of a carpenter.  And if the carpenter was particularly skilled and had custom-fit that yoke precisely to the person or team which was to use it, it would ride easy on their shoulders, it would make their burden light.  Presumably, St. Joseph and Jesus would have made many an easy yoke in the carpentry shop of Nazareth.  It could not have been more natural –and perhaps more personally pleasing to him – for Jesus to use this as a metaphor for the peace he would bring to those who accepted him and his love.

Yet this pleasing prospect – certainly good, even great, news – seems contradicted by a more well-known metaphor.  Throughout his ministry, Jesus insists that we must shoulder not an easy yoke, but a heavy cross, following him to Calvary.   Does the heavy cross also make our burdens light?  How can we reconcile these seemingly contradictory images?

Just over two years ago, we could not have imagined how urgent this question would be for us in Newtown.  This weekend, we will face this conundrum head on. 

We will gather at Mass to remember and to mourn for the great loss we suffered, a hole carved out of our hearts that will never be filled.  We will remember the pain and grief we endured, a pain that still throbs within us to this very day.  

But at the same time, we light the pink candle in our Advent wreath and don the pink vestments, recalling St. Paul’s admonition to rejoice always, for Christ’s coming into the world shows us that Jesus’ yoke is not made of wood, but made of the unconditional, eternal, infinite love of God.  God so loved the world, he gave his only Son. 

When we accept in our hearts that we are loved despite our sins, despite our failings, and despite our weakness; when we wholly enter into relationship with Jesus, who is this very love incarnate, we are filled with profound joy. 

It is a joy which cannot be engendered by a beribboned Lexus, a joy more lasting than the most perfectly-cut diamond, and a joy which the festive tree and its trimmings can only begin to hint at.  In turn, this joy leads to a profound peace, a peace which cannot be won by any army, secured by any treaty, or guaranteed by any constitution.  

This joy and peace becomes a great light within us – the light of Christ’s love which the darkness cannot overcome.  It is a yoke that makes the heaviest cross bearable.

This weekend, we will gather to not only remember our loss, our pain and our grief, but also to recall the thousands of people who mourned with us that weekend and in the months to come; the millions of prayers offered in our support; the countless gifts of consolation showered on us from around the world.   Each person, each prayer, each consolation reminds us to this day of God’s great and powerful love, the love which we chose to be our shield, our light, and our yoke.

It is Jesus’ yoke, and he guarantees us that no matter how heavy the cross, his yoke is easy, his burden light.

We believe.  We choose love.