by erinrobinsonhall@gmail.com | Apr 16, 2019 | Prayers, Reflections, Uncategorized |
When churches burn, we are heartbroken, I told him. His little voice asked what happened and why I was upset at the news. I told him, Jesus weeps with us. God knows our sadness when something beautiful is destroyed. When churches burn, we gasp and hold our breath, unable to believe that this mighty structure could also be gone. We remember when the walls were built, how long it took to build this place, stone by stone. We remember how it took a directive, a collection, an offering of the widow’s mite to pay for each brick, each timber, and each nail. How could their gifts be destroyed like this? How could their legacy be turned to ash? When churches burn, we see each part of the sacred space and remember our vocabulary for religious architecture. We see the arches, the flying buttresses, and the nave as the grand spire collapses. The baptistry, the narthex, and the vestibule name the thresholds where we crossed from the ordinary into the holy spaces. When churches burn, we remember the first time we stepped into that place. How the heavy door made us aware of our inadequate muscles, how the stained glass seemed to shine every color in the created world. We remember how the choir voices sounded like they could lift the ceiling and even the whispered litanies echoed with power because they were spoken in that sanctuary. We remember how we looked up at the ceiling, curved as a shield for the gathered people. We remember how it felt to visit, to worship, to be a part of this place....
by erinrobinsonhall@gmail.com | Apr 15, 2019 | Prayers, Reflections |
John 12:1-11 Once upon a time, a door stood in the way. We were awaiting the arrival of our son, pregnant as could be, and quite ready for the birth to begin. My husband’s mother had called every day for an update on when her grandson would arrive. She lived a couple of hours away, and was ready to hop in the car and get to us. When the time came and Jake called her, she was equal parts ecstatic and anxious. She and Jake’s aunt had talked about this trip to the hospital since the very day we had announced that our long journey of infertility had finally brought us to expecting a baby boy. She could not wait to be at the hospital to hold this baby. She grabbed her bag, her overnight items, and her sister to run to the car and hit the highway. Until she realized: her car keys were in her bedroom. And she had just locked the door to that room. The locked door stood between her and her loved ones. So she broke down the door. There was no waiting for help and no frustrated tears. She saw what needed breaking and she broke it. She found a hammer, beat a large hole into the door, and opened that door. She grabbed her keys. Like a boss. Like a mother. The broken door stayed that way for a while. It took some months to replace it, but that cost was never calculated when she swung the hammer. It didn’t matter. When I first saw the gaping hole on a visit some...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Nov 8, 2017 | Prayers |
Today’s Wednesday Prayer is brought to you by one of my favorites – favorite writer, favorite truth teller, favorite singer. She just happens to be my favorite sister, too. She led in worship on All Saints Day last week, and wrote this gorgeous prayer. I’m told that her instructions were, “Yes, you can be yourself. Put in enough Ashley that it’s you, but not so much that you scare the Methodists.” Now, I know Methodists don’t scare easily, and neither does God. I’m thankful that Ashley put her whole self in the prayer. Methodists – and Baptists – would do well to realize what a gift they have in counting Ashley among their own. A General Thanksgiving for All Saints Day by Ashley Robinson Blessed Comforter, we thank you for the lives of the poets, the prophets, and the profane; the well-behaved and the rabble-rousers, the peacemakers, the music makers, the noisemakers, the caramel cake makers and the mess makers; the list keepers and the delightfully scattered, and even the unnamed, undocumented, and unmentionable people who have gone before us. We thank you for the great cloud of witnesses that shades us with comfort as we continue to walk each other home. We thank you for the saints still among us who awaken us to the possibility of your kindom here on earth. We thank you for the borrowed breath that sustains us from dust to dust. We find hope that you hear every damning why, every shattered Hallelujah, every tear-ragged thank you as a groaning to be filled with your life-giving spirit that welcomes us into community with the...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Aug 28, 2015 | Prayers |
I had everything set for this week, the planner was decked out. I was ready to make things happen and get things done. Lord, maybe I am not the maker of things? Monday launched, and we soared through the lists, zipped fast through the errands, put all the things on all the shelves where they belong. We went to sleep, all folded and laid out for the next day. Lord, thank you for days that feel complete. The next day was beautiful. And the next. But the week did not get things done, these things I had planned. The minutes scattered away, completely ignoring the corrals I had set for them. Lord, somewhere we lost steam. The tasks matter, at least to me. And to the running of our tiny world. The tasks are not everything, but they are something. I never liked leaving blanks on a test, when I could get extra points for showing my work. Lord, I confess that I grade myself a C+ for a question that is not even on the final. The wise ones say, don’t worry about it. The kind ones say, you did the things that matter. The shiny ones say, pin this and make it happen. Lord, I hear your voice say you know me. You smile and whisper: worry and doing and shining are the things that make you just you. That is me. That is me with lists in hand and three new ideas. That is me stopping, listening, playing “I spy” and being interrupted by my loves. That is the me who is becoming. Tired but excited,...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Apr 4, 2015 | Prayers |
At dinner with friends the other night I got to explain one of my very favorite Easter traditions: flowering the cross. It’s a true Easter moment for me. Some people say Easter happens when they sing at a sunrise service or say Hallelujah. For me, it’s when a chicken wire cross fills with flowers. Probably because it’s so communal and sensory and all those other churchy words. And I just love that there is no way to pattern out what this display will look like. Everyone is told to bring their own flower, so you may have huge daffodils or store-bought roses or scrawny looking “daisies” that we all know are weeds. You can try to have some easy carnations there for people who forgot their own, but like the Church itself there will always be one obnoxious, mis-matched blossom shoved in there. That’s what makes it beautiful. One year there was a gigantic, stubborn tulip. It was shoved onto the cross by a frustrated, heartsick woman. It slowly became surrounded by wildflowers and lilies, the whole thing processed into the sanctuary during a choir anthem that sounded like the skies opened to heaven. But it didn’t start out that way. That tulip showed up on that flower cross because I showed up at church at 6:00 am that morning. Our family had been in a season of struggle: everyday frustrations, tough moments of ministry. And infertility grief. But life doesn’t stop for liturgical seasons, and Easter did not go easy on us that year. It hurt. My husband and I had welcomed a rainy Good Friday that seemed...
by Erin Robinson Hall | Jul 29, 2014 | Archives, Prayers |
Teachers, I’ve had you on my mind this week. Walking through the school supply aisle gets me all googly-eyed for pretty folders and pens, and crayons. Oh, the smell of crayons. Which gets me thinking of all the heroes I know. The teachers who work and give and love and fight for our kids. My thinking turns to praying and my praying leads to remembering. This time last year, Sister was beginning a new gig as a longterm sub in an Atlanta school. She’s a sharp one, and a quick learner, which made her perfect for jumping head first into an elementary school culture. But I still got a few daily calls from her with stories that ended with, “Is this FOR REAL?” From the wisdom of my ten years teaching school, I would answer her . . . Yes. This is for real. Teachers know, more than anyone else knows, that some of the things you do and see will make you ask, a few times a day, Is this junk for real? My first year of teaching was in a North Carolina middle school. I loved those 8th graders. Two things one must posses to survive in middle school: laughter and appreciation for a good eye roll. Never underestimate how often these two can happen with 8th graders. I learned to rate the rolling of the eyes like an olympic judge, never really giving a 10.0 until the day LaTravia and I had a “come to Jesus” moment. Looking back, I might have done things differently now. But in the moment, I was pretty proud of my first...
