read my homework

I walked out of morning Eucharist once last semester. It was simply impossible to stay, feeling the way I was. Perhaps that was why there was something familiar about this last round of lectio divina: I really wanted to leave.

Just before I came into the prayer room to join my team, I had run to the Pygmy on a quick errand. There, I was confronted with someone's dissatisfaction about some work I had done. As I returned to that supposed sanctuary of silence and peace, the last thing I wanted to do was this assignment.

We chose Zephaniah 3:14-20, and Sarah read aloud. As I heard the call to worship, my thoughts were focused on giving up: "My best efforts at serving people fall short. What I give is never enough. I am tired of being taken for granted." Then I really heard the words being read: "Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands hang limp." The image may have had a number of different meanings to Zephaniah's audience, but to me it was a posture of resignation and defeat. And God was calling me away from it.

Because this passage had been used for Spiritual Emphasis Week earlier in the year, I had taken some time to read the whole chapter. I knew that Zephaniah was speaking about "one fine day" when God would set all things right. I wondered aloud, "Is that something that's only achieved in Heaven . . . or should we be looking for it now?" Is it reasonable to expect that I will be protected and loved and joy-filled in this lifetime? Because sometimes that intimacy with God eludes me and I stand, hands limp, and wonder what is next.

There is something so beautiful about a Father singing a lullaby over His baby daughter. It speaks of safety and belonging and cherishing. For me, it evoked yearning. I caught a glimpse, if only for a moment, of what it would be like to live out of confidence in God's love - undaunted by fear or worry, certain of His guidance, comforted by His presence. Sometimes, though, it feels like I am on my own - which, to continue with the infant imagery, leaves me wailing in my toothless, defenseless loneliness.

It is quite rare that I see myself as an abandoned child. Last Wednesday, though, Zephaniah's description of God's promises for the future spoke directly to the resignation and frustration I was feeling. What I still wonder is when those promises were intended to come to fruition and - because I avoid assuming the role of Israel in every verse I read - if they were even meant for us.