Within T.S. Eliot’s poem East Coker, one stanza has long resonated with me:

"Old men ought to be explorers.

Here and there does not matter.

We must be still and still moving

Into another intensity

For another union, a deeper communion."

I love the thought that even as we grow older, we are still called to exploration. Though that exploration might not look like it did at a younger age, it is nonetheless a calling. “Still and still moving” is the way of spiritual life: patient, persistent, attentive, and open - open to discover new depths of God’s presence in us and around us.

Jesus once told his disciples, “Abide in me, and I in you.” (John 15:4). To abide in Christ is not passivity. It is a continual opening of ourselves to God’s presence, a conscious willingness to be shaped, nurtured, and guided. Like Eliot’s explorers, we remain in motion—spiritually curious, searching for a deeper union with God—even as we learn to move with stillness, attentiveness, and trust.

These days, when change happens at lightning speed, when information constantly bombards us, and the demands of daily life can feel overwhelming, it is worth pausing to ask ourselves:

* Where in your life today might God be inviting you into “another intensity” or “a deeper communion”?

* Where might you be called to move gently, with attentiveness, while also being still enough to notice God’s presence?

* What ordinary moments or relationships could become holy spaces if you opened them to Christ’s abiding love?

Exploration is not only for the young or the restless. It is for anyone willing to remain open, to pay attention, and to let God lead us ever deeper into life and communion. Even in the quiet, even in the ordinary, God continues to meet us, calling us into fuller presence, awareness, and grace.

Let us pray:  God of hope and grace, we pause even for a moment now in your presence, asking you to guide us in a deeper communion with you. Help us to know you, to love you, and to abide with you; in Christ and through Christ. Amen.

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Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters… Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread?”

—Isaiah 55:1–2

Thomas Merton once wrote, “In Christ, we die to the letter of the law so that our conscience can no longer see things in the dead light of formalism and exterior observance. Our hearts refused the dry husks of literal abstraction and hunger for the living bread and eternal waters of the Spirit, which spring up to life everlasting.”

What Merton calls “the dry husks of literal abstraction” are the things that once carried life but now only imitate it. The heart, he says, refuses such fare. It hungers for living bread and eternal waters.

Isaiah speaks directly to that hunger. God does not address the faithful as disciplined or accomplished, but as those who hunger and thirst. “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread?” God asks—not in judgment, but in compassion. Why exhaust yourself on what cannot give life? Why settle for substitutes when abundance is freely offered?

The invitation is simple and radical: Come. Come without money. Come without credentials. Come not because you have done everything right, but because you are hungry. The living Word of God is not earned through perfect observance or religious performance. It is received by those willing to admit their need.

“Listen carefully,” Isaiah says, “and eat what is good… and delight yourselves in rich food.”

As we move through this Lenten season, the living Word is still speaking. The table is still set. The only requirement is hunger—and the courage to come.

Let us pray: God of living water and daily bread, awaken our hunger for what truly gives life. Draw us away from what cannot satisfy and teach us to come—empty, trusting, and open. Feed us with your Word, and grant us new life.  Amen.

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It is an old story, but it is true, and it is good. The famous British author John Ruskin, one night in his later years, sat watching a lamplighter who, with a torch in his hand, was lighting the lamps on a distant hill. The man himself could not be seen, but the lights would gleam as each one was lighted. Ruskin said to a friend, "That is what I mean by a real Christian. You can trace their course by the lights they leave burning." 

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, "You are the light of the world... let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in Heaven." (Matthew 5:14-16). Friend of Dial Hope, make today a masterpiece with your contagious enthusiasm, the light of your joy and hope. 

Let us pray: O God of china blue skies and dazzling sunrises, with each new day, your promise of hope is restored. Each day is like the Day of Resurrection, filled with new life and hope. Grant us the boldness to move out of comfortable security to the risk of faith, the joy of service, the laughter of love. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

I was out surfing alone sometime ago, and another surfer paddled out next to me. It was a beautiful day, but this surfer was full of complaints. He was angry that someone told him the waves were perfect, and they were not. His language was rough and his demeanor ugly. I found myself thinking: Look, you are not at work. You’re healthy. The water is warm, clear, and beautiful. The waves are not perfect, but not bad for Florida. The sun is out, and the pelicans are soaring. I didn't want anything to do with this guy, so I turned and paddled down the beach to get away from him. 

But later, I reflected on the situation, and it dawned on me that I had no idea what this other surfer might have been going through in his own life. Maybe he had just argued with his wife or son. Maybe he was worried about money. And as I reflected, my heart softened, and I prayed for him.

How often do we judge other people without really knowing what they may be dealing with?

I hope I am never as ungrateful and negative as this fellow surfer was on that morning. But I also hope no one judges me based on one chance meeting. We all have our moments, don't we?  

Jesus said, “Do not judge unless you want to be judged. The measure you give is the measure you get.”

May God give us eyes to see beyond the surface – to see his image in each and every person we meet. 

Let us pray: You have called us to be salt and light; to set an example of your love and grace. As we go through life, O God, we sometimes meet people who rub us the wrong way. Sometimes we see things in people that we don't like in ourselves. Whenever possible, Lord, help us to be kind and gracious. We pray today for people who are carrying heavy, heavy burdens at this time. We lift up to you those who are so stressed and worried that gratitude is almost out of reach. We pray that your Spirit would rest on them and give them your peace. May your Spirit rest on us, too – that we might be instruments of your peace. Amen.

In Old English, the word lent means lengthening, and it originally referred to spring. As the days of spring become longer, nature blossoms with renewed life, energy, and growth.  In this sense, perhaps we can think about Lent as a spiritual spring - a time of spiritual growth. 

I like that image… 

I remember when I lived in Atlanta, we had more of a striking distinction between the seasons. Those of you who have lived in colder climates, you know what that’s like - especially as you come out of winter - there is that longing, that yearning…

When I was in seminary, I remember running the neighborhoods in Atlanta. (Of course, there was no surfing, so I did a lot more running back then.) In the wintertime, the trees were completely bare of leaves, the lawns dormant, and the gardens were nothing but dirt. Everything was cold and dead. 

But then, almost without warning, you would begin to see just a hint of green popping up in the trees and from the ground. And then it seemed like just one day, I would wake up, and the flowers would be in full bloom, and the weather near perfect - everything glorious. There was a feeling of life, vibrancy - total renewal.

I think about the natural seasons of the year and how they can mirror the seasons of life - seasons of abundance and growth, seasons of stillness and barrenness, seasons of dying, seasons of rebirth and renewal. And the church calendar, too - if we let it - moves us through these seasons of faith…

And as we head toward Easter, we have begun our spiritual spring. Not the full bloom yet—not the trumpet blast of resurrection—but the quiet work beneath the surface. The slow softening of what has been hard. The patient greening of what looked dormant or lifeless.

Lent reminds us that new life rarely arrives all at once. It begins subtly, almost imperceptibly, with small signs of hope—an openness to prayer, a willingness to let go, a hunger for something deeper than what has sustained us before. Like spring itself, this season asks for attentiveness more than urgency, trust more than control.

So perhaps Lent invites us not to force growth, but to make room for it. To notice where God might already be at work, coaxing life from places we assumed were finished. To trust that beneath the surface of our lives—even in seasons of barrenness or waiting—something is stirring.

Let us pray: God of New Life, the days are lengthening. The ground is warming. Prepare our hearts for your renewing work, and lead us faithfully toward the joy of resurrection. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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