Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with the beautiful Psalm 91, so full of images to help us experience the steadfast tenderness of God.
Our Gospel shows us this tender mercy in the story of Jesus and two complementary healings – the woman who suffered for twelve years, and the young girl who has lived only twelve years.
In both cases Jesus, by a touch received or given, gathers a broken soul under Mercy’s wing. In the mystery of that grace-filled shade, the soul is restored to the fullness of Light.
As we pray Psalm 91 today let us, like the Gospel’s woman and young girl, reach for any healing and wholeness we long for.
Is there something in us that has died too soon and longs to be reborn?
Is there something crippled in us that longs to leap once more and run free?
May we find new life under God’s infinitely caring wing which ever hovers over us in love.
Poetry: A video mix of Rumi and Hafiz, a dynamite combo!
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with Psalm 123.
… eyes fixed on the Lord, pleading for mercy.
Psalm 123:2
This starkly passionate response, repeated throughout the psalm, struck an image in my imagination – an ardent tango with the Beloved, eyes fixed in hope.
Often in my prayer I just dance or sing with God – sometimes with sound and movement, sometimes in still silence. The dances are varied depending on the prayer and the day’s circumstances.
Today’s readings, filled with Israel’s resistance, Paul’s thorn, and Nazarene recalcitrance drew an energetic tango in my mind.
It is a dance between Mercy and Resistance. In my prayer, I searched for where that dance resides in me.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with Psalm 117. We do so in the spirit of Thomas, who now offers his unquestioning faith to our patient and forgiving Jesus.
Praise the LORD, all you nations; glorify him, all you peoples! For steadfast is his kindness for us, and the fidelity of the LORD endures forever
Psalm 117: 1-2
Faith is not a commodity or an achievement. Faith is relationship and a journey.
It is a gift and an exercise of grace. Never stretched, it withers like a brittle ligament.
It ebbs and flows with our personal and communal dramas. It deepens with prayer, silent reaching, and a listening obedience to our lives. It shallows with our demands, like Thomas’s, only to see and to touch.
It is fed by the Lavish Mercy of God Who never cuts its flow to our souls if we but take down the seawall around our heart.
On this day when we celebrate the power of tested and proven faith, may we bring our needs into the circle gathered in that Upper Room.
Standing beside Thomas today in our prayer, may we place our trust in the glorified wounds of Christ.
A video today for our prayer: Blessed Are They That Have Not Seen
Music: Healing Touch – Deuter
As we reach out in faith with Thomas to touch Christ’s wounds, let us open our hearts to receive the returning touch of God’s Lavish Mercy.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with Psalm 106 which is a prayerful inventory of Israel’s long story with God. In today’s liturgy, the psalm follows a similar Genesis recounting of the story of the Abraham-Sarah family.
These two readings remind me of my own family as we have gathered, in our many configurations, over the seven decades of my life. For many early years, I was the listener to the old tales and legends. Gradually, as new generations were born, I became a guardian and teller of our history.
Psalmist 106 is a teller of Israel’s many ups and downs to the place where they now find themselves. By remembering both the darkness and light, the calms and the storms, our psalm testifies to God’s faithful and enduring mercy.
Blessed are they who observe what is right, who do always what is just. Remember us, O LORD, as you favor your people.
That testimony encourages the listeners that this faithful God can be trusted now and in the future – to abide, forgive, renew, and call believers.
It holds out for us a heritage of fidelity promising to bless the generations with whom we share it.
If you sat down with your life at the table of holy memory, what would your stories be? What storms and rainbows mark your journey? How would your psalm of memory and gratitude read? How is your faith life transmitting this heritage to the next generations?
Visit me with your saving help, That I may see the prosperity of your chosen ones, rejoice in the joy of your people, and glory with your inheritance.
Poetry: Naked Truth – A Jewish tale retold as a poem by Heather Forest
Naked Truth walked down the street one day.
People turned their eyes away.
Parable arrived, draped in decoration.
People greeted Parable with celebration.
Naked Truth sat alone, sad and unattired,
“Why are you so miserable?” Parable inquired.
Naked Truth replied, “I’m not welcome anymore.
No one wants to see me. They chase me from the door.”
“It is hard to look at Naked Truth,”Parable explained.
“Let me dress you up a bit. Your welcome will be gained.”
Parable dressed Naked Truth in story’s fine attire,
with metaphor, poignant prose, and plots to inspire.
With laughter and tears and adventure to unveil,
Together they went forth to spin a tale.
People opened their doors and served them their best.
Naked Truth dressed in story was a welcome guest.
Music: Heritage of Faith – Babbie Mason (lyrics below)
The patriarchs of old
The saints that now are gone
To their great reward
Held fast to the struggle
Persistent through the years
Forging through their fears
They fought to change their world
For the sake of the gospel
May their love for Jesus
Never go unnoticed
May they spur us on to all
That lies before us
This heritage of faith
This legacy of love
We must pass to our daughters
Hand down to our sons
We must raise the standard high
And proclaim the name of Christ
That others may know the way
And this heritage of faith
In my heart I hear the call
That echoes from the cross
Where the sacrifice for man
Was freely rendered
It's the call to stand for right
Keep the faith and fight the fight
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with Psalm 115, bringing a welcome comfort after the always disturbing story of Isaac’s aborted sacrifice.
This story fascinated Rembrandt. Notice the differences between the 1635 and 1655 interpretations. The old man in the 1655 image has darkened eyes, covers his son’s eyes – not his mouth, and embraces the boy in his lap not laid out on an altar. Old age has gentled what Rembrandt found in the story.
On the left, 1635. On the right, 1655
But here’s what I think. It was never about a human sacrifice. God was never going to let that happen.
It was about whether Abraham’s trust would allow him to really see God – God who is never a God of death, but always of life.
As Abraham looked about, he spied a ram caught by its horns in the thicket. So he went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering in place of his son. Abraham named the site Yahweh-yireh; hence people now say, “On the mountain the LORD will see.”
We live in a world full of choices that run the gamut from death-dealing to life-giving. They may be small, personal choices like what we eat, or how we drive. Or they may be more consequential choices such as the political views we foster or the global ideologies we embrace.
Psalm 115 helps us to solve any confusion we might have about our choices. Always make the choices that lead ourselves and others to the land of the living.
Abraham must have been thrown into the dark by what he believed was God’s expectation of him. But it was really Abraham’s own expectation that had to be broken through. He did this by staying with his pain while trusting that God was bigger than it.
Christine Robinson’s interpretation of Psalm 115 fits well here:
O Great Mystery We must love and praise you without understanding. You are not a little tin god with eyes that do not see and ears that do not hear and a mouth that does not speak. You can not be described or boxed up or tamed You are beyond our understanding. Still, we yearn to hear you, know you, feel your love, and in mystery, we do. We know awe at the intricate majesty of the heavens, We cherish the work of caring for each other and the Earth. We praise you, Great Mystery all the days of our lives.
Poetry: Silence – Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
Abraham failed the test. For Sodom and Gomorrah he argued but when it came to his son no protest crossed his lips. God was mute with horror. Abraham, smasher of idols and digger of wells was meant to talk back. Sarah would have been wiser but Abraham avoided her tent, didn’t lay his head in her lap to unburden his secret heart. In stricken silence God watched as Abraham saddled his ass and took Isaac on their final hike to the place God would show him. The angel had to call him twice. Abraham’s eyes were red, his voice hoarse he wept like a man pardoned but God never spoke to him again.
(It is true that, in Genesis, this is the last recorded exchange between God and Abraham!)
Music: Story of Isaac – Leonard Cohen
(If there’s no picture below, just click on the underlined phrase “Watch on Youtube“
The door, it opened slowly
My father, he came in
I was nine years old
And he stood so tall above me
Blue eyes, they were shining
And his voice was very cold
Said, "I've had a vision
And you know I'm strong and holy
I must do what I've been told"
So we started up the mountain
I was running, he was walking
And his axe was made of gold
Well, the trees, they got much smaller
The lake, a lady's mirror
When we stopped to drink some wine
Then he threw the bottle over
Broke a minute later
And he put his hand on mine
Thought I saw an eagle
But it might have been a vulture
I never could decide
Then my father built an altar
He looked once behind his shoulder
He knew I would not hide
You who build these altars now
To sacrifice these children
You must not do it anymore
A scheme is not a vision
And you never have been tempted
By a demon or a god
You, who stand above them now
Your hatchets blunt and bloody
You were not there before
When I lay upon a mountain
And my father's hand was trembling
With the beauty of the word
And if you call me brother now
Forgive me if I inquire
Just according to whose plan?
When it all comes down to dust
I will kill you if I must
I will help you if I can
When it all comes down to dust
I will help you if I must
I will kill you if I can
And mercy on our uniform
Man of peace or man of war
The peacock spreads his fan
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with Psalm 34. We do so in the light of our first reading which tells us the heart-wrenching story of Hagar.
As Hagar sat opposite Ishmael, he began to cry. God heard the boy’s cry, and God’s messenger called to Hagar from heaven: “What is the matter, Hagar? Don’t be afraid; God has heard the boy’s cry in this plight of his. Arise, lift up the boy and hold him by the hand; for I will make of him a great nation.” Then God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water. She went and filled the skin with water, and then let the boy drink.
Genesis 21: 15-19
Surely Hagar, and her baby Ishmael, are “poor ones” whose cries the Lord hears.
When the poor ones called out, the LORD heard, and from all distress saved them. The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear God, and delivers them.
Psalm 34: 7-8
Hagar is the embodiment of a faith that has surrendered everything to God. She is pressed to it by the circumstances of her life. But even in that press, she has a choice: God or godlessness.
God sees her heart choice and opens her eyes to its power:
Then God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water. She went and filled the skin with water, and then let the boy drink.
The revelation I take from today’s readings?
Even in our deepest thirsts, there is a “well of water” awaiting us when we live in faith and reverence for God:
Fear the LORD, you holy ones, for nought is lacking to those who fear God. The great grow poor and hungry; but those who seek God want for no good thing.
Psalm 34: 10-11
Poetry: Hagar in the Wilderness by Tyehimba Jess
My God is the living God, God of the impertinent exile. An outcast who carved me into an outcast carved by sheer and stony will to wander the desert in search of deliverance the way a mother hunts for her wayward child. God of each eye fixed to heaven, God of the fallen water jug, of all the hope a vessel holds before spilling to barren sand. God of flesh hewn from earth and hammered beneath a will immaculate with the power to bear life from the lifeless like a well in a wasteland. I'm made in the image of a God that knows flight but stays me rock still to tell a story ancient as slavery, old as the first time hands clasped together for mercy and parted to find only their own salty blessing of sweat. I have been touched by my God in my creation, I've known her caress of anointing callus across my face. I know the lyric of her pulse across these lips... and yes, I've kissed the fingertips of my dark and mortal God. She has shown me the truth behind each chiseled blow that's carved me into this life, the weight any woman might bear to stretch her mouth toward her one true God, her own beaten, marble song.
sculptor: Edmonia Lewis (1845-1907), an African/Native American expatriate who was phenomenally successful in Rome.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with Psalm 34 which picks up a theme running through our first two readings about Peter and Paul-
They needed to be
Rescued!
“Rescue”, if not exactly a comforting word,carries a relieving tone. We don’t want to need rescuing, but if we do, we’re glad to get it.
I looked up the etymology of “rescue”. It comes from a Latin root excutere “to shake off, drive away,” from ex “out” + cutere, combining form of quatere “to shake”.
Excutere: to SHAKE OFF!
So what God did for Peter and Paul was to shake them free, a gift many of us may have prayed for at some time in our lives.
To be free from
As we celebrate the great Saints Peter and Paul, we might focus on today’s Gospel to understand the fullness of their emancipation. They were profoundly freed by their faith:
Jesus said to his disciples , “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter said in reply, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
As we pray to be rescued from any present or future spiritual entanglements, let’s affirm our faith, as Peter and Paul did, by the way we live our lives.
Poem: Psalm 57 BY MARY SIDNEY HERBERT COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE
The daughter of Sir Henry Sidney and Mary Dudley, Mary Sidney was born on 27 October 1561 at Tickenhall near Bewdley, Worcestershire, on the Welsh border while her father was serving as lord Governor of the marches of Wales. He had been a companion of King Edward, who died in his arms. Her mother, a well-educated woman who was a close friend of Queen Elizabeth, was the daughter of the Earl of Northumberland, who was virtual ruler of England in King Edward’s final years, and the sister of Elizabeth’s favorite, Robert Dudley. Lady Sidney was badly scarred by smallpox after nursing the queen, and thereafter rarely appeared at court.
Thy mercy, Lord, Lord, now thy mercy show: On thee I lie; To thee I fly. Hide me, hive me, as thine own, Till these blasts be overblown, Which now do fiercely blow. To highest God I will erect my cry, Who quickly shall Dispatch this all. He shall down from heaven send From disgrace me to defend His love and verity. My soul encaged lies with lions’ brood, Villains whose hands Are fiery brands, Teeth more sharp than shaft or spear, Tongues far better edge do bear Than swords to shed my blood. As high as highest heav’n can give thee place, O Lord, ascend, And thence extend With most bright, most glorious show Over all the earth below, The sunbeams of thy face. Me to entangle every way I go Their trap and net Is ready set. Holes they dig but their own holes Pitfalls make for their own souls: So, Lord, oh, serve them so. My heart prepared, prepared is my heart To spread thy praise With tuned lays: Wake my tongue, my lute awake, Thou my harp the consort make, Myself will bear a part. Myself when first the morning shall appear, With voice and string So will thee sing: That this earthly globe, and all Treading on this earthly ball, My praising notes shall hear. For god, my only God, thy gracious love Is mounted far Above each star, Thy unchanged verity Heav’nly wings do lift as high As clouds have room to move. As high as highest heav’n can give thee place, O Lord, ascend And thence extend With most bright, most glorious show Over all the earth below, The sunbeams of thy face.
Music: Rescue Me – Selah
A completely non-spiritual extra for today> I know some of you, of my vintage, are singing this song in your heads now. So here it is:
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray with Psalm 103 which paints an incomprehensible God in the soft colors of kindness and mercy.
Face detail from Creation of the Sun and Moon by Michelangelo
Writers as early as the Genesis story have worked to put a face on God.
Artists have done the same.
And of course, the face is human because that is the only one we know. In our first reading, we see the Lord reflecting, turning options over in his mind, keeping secrets, and allowing himself to be cajoled. It’s a very human conception of the Divine – because it’s the best we can do with our only human paint brush.
Reading today’s Genesis verses, I hear their counterpoint in the elegant hymn from Romans:
O the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments, and untraceable His ways! “Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been His counselor?” “Who has first given to God, that God should repay him?” For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be the glory forever! Amen.
Romans 11: 33-36
How incalculably gracious of God to show us the Divine Heart in the human face and story of Jesus Christ.
He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation: for by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones, or dominions, or rulers, or authorities— all things have been created through Him and for Him.
Colossians 1 15-16
In Christ, we find the true human face of God’s Mercy. As we deepen in prayer and imitation of Jesus, that Face becomes visible in us.
With the psalmist, we offer praise and thanks for:
The Lord is kind and merciful, dealing with us not according to our sins, nor requiting us according to our crimes. For as the heavens are high above the earth, so surpassing is God’s kindness toward those who live in holy awe.
Psalm 103: 10-11
Poetry: Creature of God – Jessica Powers
That God stands tall, incomprehensible, infinite and immutable and free I know. Yet more I marvel as His call trickles and thunders down through space to me.
that from His far eternities He shouts to me, one small inconsequence of day. I kneel down in the vastness of His love, cover myself with creaturehood and pray.
God likes me covered with my creaturehood and with my limits spread across His face He likes to see me lifting to his eyes even the wretchedness that dropped his grace.
I make no guess what greatness took me in. I only know, and relish it as good, that I am gathered more to God’s embrace the more I greet him through my creaturehood.
It is a soft, summer morning in Capernaum and Jesus is in the height of his ministry. Large crowds follow him wherever he goes, crowds hungry with hope; crowds fired by his counter-cultural words and miraculous deeds. This morning, Jesus prepares to speak to them, to translate into language they can comprehend the Eternal Life that lives in his heart. His back is to the gentle, sunlit sea. The hubbub softens to a murmur, finally stilled by the lapping waves.
But before Jesus can begin, a distressed man bursts through the gathered crowd. His robes fly about him as he runs to Jesus and falls at his feet. This man is important, so important that we all have known his name for two thousand years. This is Jairus who lives nearby and organizes the worship in the synagogue. Now breathless and swallowing sobs, Jairus pleads with Jesus: Please! My daughter! You can give her life!
Every loving father has been Jairus at least once in his life. We know these fathers. We are these fathers. They are the ones who burst into emergency rooms with a seizing infant in their arms. They are the ones who stare blankly at the pronouncement of a stillborn child. They are the old men in war-ravaged countries who kneel at the sides of their fallen sons and desecrated daughters. They are all the men throughout history rendered helpless by the forces of unbridled power, greed and death.
The merciful heart of Jesus understands this man and his desperate urgency. Without even a word, Jesus gets up and accompanies Jairus to the place of his pleading.
But there is another urgency pushing forward from the crowds: a woman, apparently of low importance for we have never known her name. She is a woman whom the ages have defined by her affliction. She is “The Woman with the Hemorrhage”. Without the status of Jairus, she approaches Jesus as such a woman must. She crawls behind him at his heels, reaching through the milling masses to even scrape the hem of his garment.
This is a troubled woman, a stigmatized woman. Her life has been spent, literally, in embarrassment, isolation, fatigue and, no doubt, abuse. For twelve years – coincidentally the life span of Jairus’ s daughter – her vitality has bled out of her. Her face is gaunt; her eyes sunken. Her soul’s light is all but extinguished. She is a woman who knows a particular kind of scorn.
We know these women. We are these women. They are the ones filled with remorse for an aborted baby. They are the ones who miscarry their longed-for child. They are the women whose beautiful young sons are profiled, stereotyped and hunted on the violent streets. They are the mothers of “The Disappeared”. They are the women who suffer disproportionately from war, poverty, hunger and violence. They are trafficked women, prostituted women, women victimized by the long saga of domination. They are the women whose children have been torn from them at the borders.
It is just such a broken woman who stretches her fingers through the Galilean dust in a last reckless reach for healing. She finds only the hem of his robe. Touching it, she is transformed, like a parched meadow in the spring rain. Her whole being reaches up to receive the holy restoration. She knows herself to be healed. And it is enough; it is everything. She retreats into the resignation of her otherwise lonely life.
But Jesus wants more for us than just the practical miracles we beg for. We ask for one healing; Jesus wants our eternal salvation. We ask for one blessing; Jesus wants our entire lives to be filled with grace. We ask for one prayer to be answered; Jesus wants our life to become a prayer.
Jesus feels the electrical touch of her hope. He feels the secret healing she has extracted from him. He turns to seek her. Can you see their eyes meet? Yes, the bleeding has been stemmed, but he sees the deeper wounds that scar her soul. His look of immense mercy invites her to tell him “the whole truth”. By her touch, she has commandeered a physical healing. But by his gracious turning toward her, her entire being is renewed. In this sacred glance, her history has been healed. Her future has been pulled from darkness into light. Her capacity to love has been rekindled. She now and forever will remember herself as a child of God.
Jairus waits, no doubt impatiently, at the edge of this miracle, anxious for such power to touch his daughter’s life. He fears they have lingered too long with the woman. His servants arrive, confirming his fears. He receives the dreaded report, “Your daughter has died.”
Jesus now pushes Jairus to the gauntlet of pure faith. In the face of this devastating news, Jesus tells him, “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” Is this not an almost impossible command? Like Jairus, we all know what it is to worry for our children:
Fathers of color teach their sons behaviors to protect them from profiling.
Immigrant parents fear their children will be ripped from them in a pre-dawn raid.
Famine-ravaged mothers watch their children disappear into hunger.
In hospitals and doctors’ offices, devastated parents summon the courage to accompany their critically ill child.
And Jesus says, “Don’t be afraid. Have faith.”! What can he possibly mean?
Perhaps it is this simple. In Jairus’s home, Jesus takes the dead girl’s hand. He says, “Talitha, koum – Little girl, arise.” His call to her heart tells her there is no darkness, devastation or death from which God cannot draw us into life. This is the truth Jesus brings to the little girl and to us. But it is a truth that, in our fear and need, we cannot always see.
For the moment, this girl lives. But at some time in history she, like all of us, will die. So the miracle is not the restoration of her life. The miracle is that her eyes, and her parents’ eyes, are opened to the power of God over death. Despite all appearances, God’s life endures eternally.
This is the revelation of this Gospel passage. If we live by faith, we live beyond cure into healing. If we live by faith, even death can bring life. If we live by faith, we are free to release all worry into the abundant mercy of God who grants us healing even beyond our asking or desire.
Man or woman, old or young, at some time in our lives each one of us has been Jairus. Each one of us has been one or the other of these two women. Within their stories of woundedness and deep faith, our stories shelter. Jairus and the afflicted women – unnamed like so many women throughout time – believed there was a way to new life. They reached for it. They begged for it. What is it in us that cries out for such healing? What is it in us that, without the touch of Jesus, teeters on the verge of death?
Simply by believing, these three Gospel figures became new beings. Simply by believing, their orientation changed from darkness to light. By their example, let us lift up those wounded and deadened places in our hearts and world before the loving gaze of Jesus.
To what suffering in our souls is God whispering the encouragement, “Talitha, koum”? What is the “whole truth” Jesus is inviting us to confide? Let us arise and respond to him in the full energy of our faith. Let us gaze with boundless confidence into the eyes of God’s mercy.
Today, in God’s Lavish Mercy, we pray once again with Mary’s exquisite prayer, the Magnificat. This prayer is so rich that we can pray it in many ways. Today’s other readings suggest to me to pray it as a prayer of spirited possibility.
For you, my God, have done great things for me, and Holy is your Name. Your Mercy is from age to age for those wrapped in awe of you.
In our first reading, Abraham and Sarah are the prototypes of such holy awe. Recognizing something godly in his visitors, Abraham welcomes them extravagantly.
Sarah is so struck by their predictions that she turns giddy.
Sometimes when we are overawed by our circumstances, we dissemble rather than quiet ourselves in reverence. God calls Abraham and Sarah to be still within the holy moment by asking the divine rhetorical question:
In our Gospel, the centurion has his own holy moment. Already committed in faith, he hopes for more from Jesus because of his need. With profound trust and humility, the centurion invites God’s Word to act completely and spontaneously in his life.
We may not have visible angels visiting our homes today, like Abraham and Sarah did.
We may not find Jesus walking into our local town like the centurion did.
Still, by faith, we trust that the Holy is present in every moment of our lives.
With Abraham and Sarah, may we open the tent of our lives to heavenly intervention.
With Mary, let us ask God to release the miracle of sacred possibility over our lives and over our world.
Your mercy reaches from age to age for those in awe of you. You have shown strength with your arm; you have scattered the proud in their conceit; you have deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowly to high places. You have filled the hungry with good things, while you have sent the rich away empty. You have come to the aid of Israel your servant, mindful of your mercy― the promise you made to our ancestors― to Sarah and Abraham and their decendants forever.
Poem: SARAH’S LAUGHTER (GENESIS 18:1–15) by Irene Zimmerman, OSF
When Abraham had hurried back
to the three Strangers with bread
and meat, milk and curds,
Sarah, obediently hiding her faded
beauty behind the tent flaps,
watched them feasting beneath the oak.
From there the Strangers’ words
came winging to where she stood—
in shocked disbelief at first,
having grown old and used to
the sterile disfavor of Abraham’s God,
then exploding in peals of laughter
that ricocheted off the oaks of Mamre
and the stony hills of promise.
“How many can you count, Sarah?”
Abraham asked as they held each other
beneath a blanket of stars.
“How many children will there be?”
The words set her off again,
and Abraham too,
with irrepressible mirth
till the hills whooped and hollered
and the stars blazed their Aha
in the pregnant desert night.
Music: Two songs today. One just to laugh! Enjoy the possibilities!🤗
Sarah Laughed – Joe Buchanan
Miracles abound, In front of you and all around
You and I, she and him, It’s a miracle that life begins
Every time we think we’re lost for good
The world keeps turning, just like it should
And out of the darkness came let there be light
And it’s a miracle we’re sharing space, here in this life
The universe is a concert, everything moves in time
Anything can happen when the moment is right
And Sarah laughed…
The day begins the same way each time
The sun and moon and stars, they all know their lines
Life has a heartbeat of its own, you know
The only thing unpredictable… the human soul
And out of the darkness came let there be light
And it’s a miracle we’re sharing space, here in this life
The universe is a concert, everything moves in time
Anything can happen when the moment is right
And Sarah laughed…
And we’re the change in things
The dreamers and the shapers, we’re the crafters and makers
All building our lives
And I try so hard to find G-d’s plan in mine
But I’m a rocky start… maybe that’s by design
And then I laugh, And Sarah laughed
And out of the darkness came let there be light
And it’s a miracle we’re sharing space, here in this life
The universe is a concert, everything moves in time
Everything can happen when the moment is right
And Sarah laughed…
2. Abraham and Sarah Had to Laugh – Bryan Sirchio
Abraham and Sarah were very old and gray
And angel of the LORD showed up and said to them one day
We know you’re very old and that you’ve never had a kid
But God says, “better find a baby crib!”
And they said…
(Chorus)
Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
You can’t have a baby when you get this old
Abraham and Sarah had to laugh
O boy that’s a knee slapper!
Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
But now Abraham and Sarah know
That nothing is too hard for God
Lavish Mercy 