Search Episodes

A liturgy for remembering our leaders. Father, you are One of order. I thank You for the leaders You’ve put in charge of the affairs of me and my team-- from residence permits, to airport pickups, to welcome dinners, providing an office space to work and meet with students, and help with finding housing- I thank You for them. I ask You to bless them and the work You’ve given them. Give them wisdom as they navigate relationships at home and  At work  bless the task they’ve been given to maneuver cross-cultural relationships with foreign staff. When situations arise that are out my control and theirs, help me to remember that You are Sovereign. Instead of trying to push for my will to be done, may I pause and seek Your wisdom for each situation- great or small. May I remember that You rule and reign over class sizes, textbooks choices, cancellations, leaky faucets, start dates, unexpected moves, visa runs, and every other thing that concerns Your beloved. I ask You to bless and deepen my relationship with those in leadership over me. Help me to remember that they are people with hopes, fears and limitations, just like me. Help me to remember that we are in this broken world together striving to make a difference, take care of loved ones, and live at peace with those around us. Dad, have mercy. For the leaders who are thoughtful in their preparations for me,  I thank You for their diligence and the ease of working with them. For the leaders who are not as conscientious, I thank You for them too. Their weaknesses or inattentiveness remind me that I too need grace in areas where I am lacking in ability or  for the times when I too leave  tasks undone.  Dad, have mercy. Thank you for the ways I can grow in learning how to show respect and kindness to the leaders over me, even when it’s challenging.  Thank you for the patience they show toward me and my team,  when our requests and lack of cultural understanding frustrates them.  Help me remember that I’m not the only one being stretched.  Dad, have mercy on me, on them, on us. Amen

A liturgy for the start of a new semester. I look around and see and hear signs of a campus coming back to life after a break: students rolling their suitcases to their dormitories dining hall staff unloading goods the sound of brooms sweeping across pavement clearing fallen leaves teachers chatting as they walk to class Each person valuable and filling an important role It’s exciting. Yet, if I’m honest the new start also brings anxiety about the unknown. Just what will this semester be like? Giver of peace, quiet these questions of doubt and anxiety that fill my mind: Am I really equipped to work in this place? Can I teach and manage all of these classes? Will I get along well with my new co-workers? Will my students like me? Will the work I do here make a difference? When my heart gets anxious may I speak to my soul and say: The one who called you is faithful, He will do it. He has prepared good works for you to do, and in His timing He will bring them to pass. I am not alone. He will strengthen me and help me. I am held by His mighty right hand. I am loved with an everlasting love that is not rooted in how I perform. One who knows all, You lack nothing. Everything I need is in You. Would You change these anxious thoughts about myself and turn my heart and mind toYour greater purposes. Please show me where You are at work. Open my eyes to the needs around me: in my classroom, in my department, on my team, and in the community You’ve placed me in. May I not be overwhelmed by the needs around me, but instead may the vision You provide be my guide. One who created all things, help me to design a curriculum that equips students for the work that is ahead of them. Grant me the ability to know how to both encourage and challenge them. One who determines my steps, would You allow me to cross paths with just the people You want me to befriend. May I be ready to serve the stranger- old or young, friendly or unfriendly, charismatic or odd. You love all. Giver of life, make me and my co-laborers a sweet fragrance of You to those we meet. May the resources, gifts and talents You’ve placed in us bless those we encounter, no matter how long we are here. Master, unless you build it, we labor in vain. I ask for you to do the building through us. Give us a  vision for what You want to accomplish this semester, and may we not just  do what is familiar or comfortable for us, but what will benefit others and lead to flourishing for those around us. May Your will be done. Amen.

A liturgy for personal health. I walk the halls of the hospital again. It was all new to me when I first arrived years ago. I wanted comfort, but its comfort felt so uncomfortable to me. It came not at the hands of my loved ones but through the help of my new colleague.   Many times after, it has come, not through the familiar but through the foreign. It has come through the words of students, reminding me of my body’s need for more of this and less of that and through texts from friends, insisting I rest more. Their reminders echo Your call to Wisdom. Help me heed Your wisdom. It has come through hospitality from teammates who make an extra pot of soup or watch my children. Their kindness imitates Your humble service. Help me receive Your service.   It has come through health care workers who have taken time to send texts out of hours or who have even gone the extra distance to check in on me at my own home. Their faithful presence in time of need reflects Your own unchanging nature. Help me reflect on Your nature.    It has come through the hands of the nurses and doctors who encounter every disease, tirelessly working for the lives of others. Their healing hands are a whisper of Your kingdom, their patience and meticulous care a mirror of Your loving-kindness, and their courage to face sickness, brokenness, and death, an allusion to the One who conquered these realities once and for all.   Help the foreign become familiar and the uncomfortable become comforting. Help me receive their hands as Your hands, a gift given in my time of need. As they reach out to embrace me, the foreigner, may I reach out to embrace them, loving them as myself. And as they touch the brokenness of my body may the reality of Your body broken manifest in our interactions, touching them back, healing their  brokenness, For not one of us is well; we all cry out for a Doctor. May the broken body serve as a reminder of the body broken. For us. For them. Amen. —Jean Morton

A liturgy for transitions in the staying. Father, they say that change is the only constant. Maybe this saying is meant to provide me with comfort, yet I am not consoled. One more year ends, another season of life comes to a close, and more major shifts ensue. But because you, O Eternam One, are the same yesterday, today, and forever, I will not fret the transitions in life; I will proclaim that You alone are the only constant, and that knowledge carries much joy and assurance for the road ahead. However, sometimes I am weak. I am not sure I can bear another move, a new team, a change in role. My self-defined search for permanence and stability always seems to escape. Another term ends, goodbyes are said, tears are shed, all while preparing for the newness to come. I should always be joyous at the new ways you are using my skills and gifts to bless others, and thankful for the ways new people and circumstances are being used to form and shape me more into the image of your Son, but I admit that at times I am anxious about the unknown. I confess that this is one area of imitating your Son in which I am unlearned. I look for a home on earth; he had no place to lay His head. I lay out disturbance-free plans; he saw the opportunities in the interruptions. I seek to keep my friends close; he blessed His friends to go and tell. Teach me Your ways, O Master, for You are in the changes before me. Thank you for delighting in using me, your servant, as you deem best. You are my Rock and the Overarching Constant that sustains me in the transitions. What joy it is to follow Your leading because that is where goodness awaits me! You are good and You never change; You will be good in this next season. You are kind and You never change; You will be kind to me in this next season. You are faithful and You never change; You will be faithful to me in this next season. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know You hold tomorrow. Amen Written by Michael

A liturgy for transitions in the leaving . I glance up   I don’t want to think about what’s to come.   I'm too busy. There are too many things on my list.  Last meals,  last hangouts,  giving final exams,  grading, packing and shipping,  squeezing in one last trip and   deciding who to see and when;  interviews for new positions,  goodbyes to be said,  notes to be written and the list goes on. Maybe I can process next week, next month, next semester  oh wait nevermind   Again, I glance up   Where are you? What's going on? I mean I know the logistics, but how did we get here? Ok, I know that too and yet why does it often feel like I am constantly losing  someone or something,  a teammate,  a neighbor,  a student,  a colleague,  a close friend,   a family member It’s exhausting this loss, I feel  Exhausted. In my bones, in my marrow, in my Heart… sometimes it feels like it may turn inside out. Maybe it has, is it still there? It must be. It’s hurting.   Father? What are you doing? You must be doing something, right?  Aslan’s always on the move  So again I lay down these years, memories and special ones, trusting that every cup of  tea or coffee,  every spicy hotpot,  every walk around campus, every hand of Uno,  every English Corner,  every cafeteria meal,  every bike ride,  every bowl of noodles and dumplings,  every KTV song,  every hour studying language,  every story heard and shared,  every tear shed and hand held,  and every laugh experienced  served and is still  serving Your purpose. Future memories will also serve Your purpose.  It’s hard to walk in this ‘new’ way, back towards a country I haven’t known in years and away from the people you have taught me how to love.  I look up   You say you are with me, that I am not alone.  You've said when I experience this specific valley that you'll bring me comfort.  This was and is still  Your promise.  You’ve kept it before, and I’m holding you to it again.  Thank you, for that bittersweet reminder. I never would’ve thought the memory of a past pain could become a potent salve.   Please do it again. Don't allow me to focus on me, become distracted or wallow in anything other than you. Create a desire for you in me again and again.    Looking up smiling , I'm reminded of your faithfulness. Even as I cry, sometimes without tears, I'm looking for you. As I saw you before, help me to see you again.    Amen

A liturgy for counting the cost. Father, When I left my passport country I thought I had considered something of the cost of being thousands of miles from my family, of living in a different culture and environment, of facing opposition for my values, of the resources needed to facilitate my transition to the other side of the globe. But, when I hear my family member ask,  “Are you done with living over there, yet?” and she sends the classified Ads for jobs in their area, or a leader wonders why I'm teaching there  when 'we have so many needs here,' the cost of serving overseas cuts a little closer to the bone, and home,   than when I somewhat naively, zealously, said, “Sure, send me!” Your name is at stake. But my heart does ache. Over two decades into it,  I don’t want to  be someone who started to build, and didn’t finish well. I see this stark reminder in a few construction sites here,  some shells left empty  and incomplete--  useless towers left bankrupt. Your name is at stake. But my heart does ache. I confess my understanding of the cost was limited By my naiveté, time, excitement, pride,    my “self.”  Please give me the vision and willingness  to die to self, as I follow,  despite the unknowns of ailing parents,  or missing my loved one’s lead role in her high school play, or hearing my relative’s realization  that I wasn’t there for that special Christmas memory,  or having hometown relationships somewhat cool  from the distance of years  living apart.  Your name is at stake. But my heart does ache. Remind me that you experienced thirty-three years of it. The distance traveled and cost  of that trip  can’t be compared-- all that You bore for me,  including a heart aching for time with your Father,  yet You finished it, completely. So, help homesickness to push me closer  to my true Home,  to deeper love for You,  for those in my classroom,  and for those still in my hometown. Please continue to grant me the desire to bring more Home with me. I confess I need a touch to persevere and finish many todays well. Thanks for enduring for the joy set before You. Thanks for the cloud cheering us on.  Your name is at stake. So you have born the ache. Thanks for completing the work  In me.

A liturgy for those who send us off. Will You pour out blessings  on those who give up  family or friend for Harvest’s sake? When they send us across an ocean, around the globe, or a world away, may our empty place in their lives  be filled with Presence. Color in their loneliness  with people who give  and receive. When they send us across a border and into unknown situations, may they work out their worries on their knees with thanksgiving. When news of disease or disaster comes from afar, calm their unsettled hearts and fill them with inexplicable peace, the special kind found only in You. When they receive good news  from this distant land, about light and love, about Your strength perfected in our weakness, may their spirits be moved  to bow in surrender with great rejoicing. When they manage our left behind possessions, money, people, pets and plants, may their minds be wise, their energy full, and their patience unending. May this participation in Harvest bring them purpose. When they are broken in body, mind, or spirit… You were pierced,  beaten,  crushed so that they could be whole. Will You pour out blessings  on those who give up  family or friend for Harvest’s sake? May they receive in return one hundred times what they lose. An extra measure of goodness,  full and running over in this life and countless treasures for the one to come. Amen.

A liturgy for sudden loss of life. Today my heart aches, and I choose Your joy. Today my heart wants to pull away, and I choose to lean in. I heard the news, and my world stopped. My student. Gone. It’s not supposed to be this way. Perhaps I could have said more. Did I even know her need?  So many faces in front of me, so many needs. How did I miss hers? I bring this deep ache to You. I bring the what ifs and the regrets.  As much as my heart aches, I know Yours aches more. Your love is deeper than mine could ever be. It was never meant to be this way. I thank You that You never meant for this to happen. You desire all to live in the light, and death wasn’t in the original plan. Thank You for your patience and graciousness. Thank You for more time. Thank You that I have history with You. Though death and darkness do not come from You, You often use even the deepest of tragedies to create the most breathtaking works of art.  Loneliness. Pain. Hopelessness. Death. They were never meant to be. It’s true. It was never meant to be this way. I thank You that it was never meant to be this way. Thank you for not giving up on us when we gave up on You. Thank You that there is hope when all seems lost.  Moving forward, may this tragedy for one bring life to many. May those who grieve be met with true comfort. May futility be met with hope. May loneliness be met with the truest of friendships. Give Your eyes to see what’s underneath the surface, to see the struggling and the forgotten. It was never meant to be this way, and You know. You see, and You love.  It was never meant to be this way, and one day, it won’t be.

A liturgy for hosting an English Corner. You are the One who made me in Your image, who knows all about me, and who invites me to come. Remind me of this as I head to English Corner. Let me be a small reflection of You. Help me to see all who come through Your eyes, as those who are made in Your image, and as precious to You. Remind me that this is not about me and it’s not about the number who come. Whether one person comes or many, may each one feel seen, known, loved, and welcomed. May this gathering be a place where conversation flows freely. Give those who are reluctant or shy the courage to speak. Give those who would dominate the willingness to hold back to give others a chance. May our time together be filled with both laughter and deep conversation. Use this time to give me insight into the lives of my students and friends - into the things that bring them joy, into their challenges, into their heartaches, into the daily routines of their lives, and into the things that keep them up at night. Help me to be curious, to ask good questions, and to listen well. Give me opportunities to offer a cup of cold water in Your name through an act of kindness or a word of encouragement. If I get asked (for what seems like the hundredth time) whether I can use chopsticks, let me answer with patience - grateful that they are curious, making an effort, and seeking to communicate. May each interaction no matter how trivial or how significant be forming a foundation of relationship and caring and trust. When we say goodnight, and I lock the door and head home, remind me once again to lift these precious ones made in Your image before You, asking that they too one day would hear the invitation and come.

A liturgy for personal health. Chronic conditions now mark my body and others mark those I serve alongside. For all of us, our bodies exist under the canopy of pollution. It afflicts our daily well-being and changes the life of some beyond the point of repair, even causing pilgrims to end their journeys early. We sigh a sigh of compassion for those of this country whose lungs know no different. May it not be so when the skies are rolled back, the canopy is lifted, and all is made new. And may the broken body serve as a reminder of the body broken. For us. For them. For some of us, it is an allergy that keeps us from ever tasting the local traditional foods of the culture we now call home—the handmade noodles from the road-side stand near our apartment or the freshly-made steamed buns from our student’s grandmother. Recounting the narrative to every wondering friend, student, or waitstaff wearies the soul like the broken faucet that just won't stop its drip drip dripping. May it not be so at the marriage feast where no burden limits and the narrative is one of healing. And may the broken body serve as a reminder of the body broken. For us. For them. For some of us, it is chronic pain, hidden from the view of others but constantly sapping the body of energy and fortitude—at times preventing participation with others in life-giving connection. Though the pain may be hidden, may the truth that not one is hidden from Your sight ring out. And may the broken body serve as a reminder of the body broken. For us. For them.    For some of us, it is the daily struggle of mental health often stigmatized, forgotten, overlooked, and misunderstood. May the reality of the Maker's complete acceptance and fullness of understanding be the message that quiets hearts and minds. And may the broken body serve as a reminder of the body broken. For us. For them.    We participate with You in Your suffering, communing with You in our own. We do this to remember The One who makes us whole. Like Your scars, may these transient realities all serve as a sobering reminder of the sting of death, the brokenness of this world, and the ephemeral nature of the body. Yet, just as Your scars, may they, too, remind us of abundant life and a new body--whole, free of pain and sickness, void of tears, marked by glory. For us. For them. Amen.     —Jean Morton

A liturgy for numbering my days. Would You teach me to number my days? They are days and times that You have ordained. Days mixed with work, rest and play. Would You teach me to number my days? Teach me to turn to You throughout the day. Inviting You into the rhythms that You’ve placed on my heart this term: Go to bed earlier.  Eat more of this, less of that.  Meet with so and so on this day Study language at this time Nap along with my students and co-workers in the afternoon,  because I actually need to rest, too. Remind me that these rhythms are not to box me in.  Instead, they help me to be a better steward of the days I’ve been allotted.   Would You teach me to number my days? Whether I rise up early to meet with You, go for a run and feel Your pleasure,  or linger with You in the night. In You I live and move and have my being. Would You teach me to number my days? Show me how to steward the gifts and resources You’ve given me. Directing me to those who need a listening ear, or working with a student or colleague who asked for my help. One who has prepared good works for me to do,  I look to You to confirm the work of my hands. Would You teach me to number my days? Teach me to abide with You this semester, Whether I’m working, resting, learning language, or doing mundane tasks, You tend my days. May I be humble when I’m consistent in these things,  and restored by Your daily grace when I’m not.   One who holds all things together,  Please teach me to number my days so that I may gain a heart of wisdom. Amen.

A liturgy for making language flubs. O, Maker who spoke the universe into being;  to the One who healed with a word; whose speech stirred hearts to wonder anew;  who celebrates in song:  We come.  We come bringing our past language learning;  we come bringing our fears of messing up;  we come bringing our hesitation and our nerves;  we come bringing our focus on ourselves:  We receive.   We receive Your grace for our mistakes;  we receive Your humor when we have none;  we receive Your focus on the other;  we receive Your gift of trying again:  We give.   We give up our pride for the humility of a learner;  we give the gift of shouldering the burden of understanding;  we give our words and ideas, our thoughts and ideals;  we give grace to all, including ourselves:   We learn.  We learn that all is not lost when misunderstandings come;  we learn that we can laugh, with others too;  we learn that the flubs create some of the best opportunities for learning to root deep; we learn that broken speech doesn’t sum up a person’s worth:  We rejoice.   Rejoice in the learning;  rejoice in the giving;  rejoice in the growth;  rejoice in the journey.   O, Maker  who spoke the universe into being:  speak knowledge and understanding into being for us.   To the One who healed with a word:  heal our wounds, our pride, our embarrassment.   To the One whose speech stirred hearts to wonder anew:  stir our hearts to wonder too.   To the One who celebrates in song:  may we join the nations to sing along with You.  We will try again.