God’s presence has always been more than an idea on a page. Scripture keeps pointing us back to that truth. In the wilderness, Israel learned to look toward the mercy seat, that small space between the wings of the cherubim, because that was where God chose to dwell. Not in the gold, not in the symbols, but in the living presence that met them there. The psalmists return to this image again and again. They cry out to the One who is “enthroned between the cherubim,” not because they believed God was trapped in a box, but because they trusted that God was real, near, and attentive. The mercy seat became a reminder: God is not far off. God leans toward us. That same presence moves even closer. Jesus becomes the meeting place, the mercy seat in flesh and blood. And after his resurrection, the Holy Spirit takes up residence not in a tent or a temple, but in human hearts. The presence that once rested between the cherubim now rests within us. We don’t always feel it. Some days we’re distracted, tired, or simply unaware. But the presence remains, steady, patient, near. Scripture doesn’t replace that presence; it points us toward it, the way the cherubim once did. It reminds us that God is not an idea to study but a presence to encounter. And so we live our days in the desert, in the quiet, in the ordinary, the same God who met Israel in the wilderness meets us still. I leave you with a song called Deep Peace from Libera, the boys’ choir from South London. May its blessing rest lightly on your spirit and carry you gently into whatever this day holds.
The way I write and think today is different than it was years ago. I don’t claim it is better — only more seasoned, shaped by experience and tempered by time. Yet one thing has remained constant: my appreciation for the unknown. Chronos time — the measurable, scheduled flow of days — has shaped my views of the church, community, and world. Seminary and ongoing study have given me a quantitative framework for ministry. But when Chronos becomes our only lens, it can drown out Kairos: those opportune, grace-filled moments when God breaks through in ways that cannot be planned or measured. God speaks in both kinds of time — in the steady rhythm of our days and in the sudden moments of significance. But I have always felt drawn to the God who teaches through surprise, the God who invites us to live into questions rather than cling to answers. I consider myself a Christian mystic, even though my life does not always reflect that claim as faithfully as I wish. Still, I recognize those Kairos moments when God reveals something beyond my comprehension — moments that remind me of the beauty of mystery and the joy of resting in a presence that exceeds understanding. If I can say one thing with confidence, it is this: God loves you — fully, fiercely, and without condition. Not because of what you have done, not because of how you feel about yourself, and not because of who you may become. God loves you in this present moment, exactly as you are. May we learn to trust the God who meets us in both Chronos and Kairos — and may we find peace in the holy unknown, where God continues to speak. I will close this short message with a song by John Michael Talbot, T he Spirit of God is Upon Me Father Dave+
by Fr. David Madsen Spiritual habits rarely begin easily. Wisdom has said this for centuries; the beginning of discipline is always the hardest step (cf. Proverbs 1:5 ). And anyone who has tried to build a spiritual practice knows the truth of another old insight: habits are fragile at first, but the longer you keep them, the harder they are to break (cf. Meister Eckhart thoughts about starting and keeping spiritual practice ) We live in a world overflowing with books, blogs, and guides on prayer, meditation, and spiritual rhythms. But where does someone actually begin? I’ve learned that the best place is not a book, it’s a person. Think of someone whose life carries the quiet weight of prayer. If you have a spiritual director, or a trusted guide, ask them. If there is a pastor or spiritual leader whose rule of life seems rooted in practice, ask for a conversation. In my humble opinion, there is no “right” or “wrong” way to pray. Prayer is communion with God, sometimes with words, sometimes without. Jesus himself makes this clear in the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector ( Luke 18:9–14 ). One man stands tall, proud of his religious performance. The other sits in the corner, beating his chest, whispering, “God, be merciful to me.” And Jesus says it plainly: that man, the one crying out for help, is the prayer God listens to. Over the last thirty years, I’ve tried many practices. Some stayed with me, some faded, but one has carried me since before seminary. Yes, there are days I miss, but I try to keep those to a minimum. Experience has taught me that the longer you keep a spiritual practice, the more it keeps you. So if you feel a desire rising in you to begin a spiritual practice, don’t dismiss it. You didn’t invent that longing. I believe the Holy Spirit is already stirring in your heart. That stirring itself is prayer, God’s own prayer in you, drawing you toward communion. And that is where every spiritual habit begins. I will close with a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter, I have a need for solitude.
God’s presence has always been more than an idea on a page. Scripture keeps pointing us back to that truth. In the wilderness, Israel learned to look toward the mercy seat, that small space between the wings of the cherubim, because that was where God chose to dwell. Not in the gold, not in the symbols, but in the living presence that met them there. The psalmists return to this image again and again. They cry out to the One who is “enthroned between the cherubim,” not because they believed God was trapped in a box, but because they trusted that God was real, near, and attentive. The mercy seat became a reminder: God is not far off. God leans toward us. That same presence moves even closer. Jesus becomes the meeting place, the mercy seat in flesh and blood. And after his resurrection, the Holy Spirit takes up residence not in a tent or a temple, but in human hearts. The presence that once rested between the cherubim now rests within us. We don’t always feel it. Some days we’re distracted, tired, or simply unaware. But the presence remains, steady, patient, near. Scripture doesn’t replace that presence; it points us toward it, the way the cherubim once did. It reminds us that God is not an idea to study but a presence to encounter. And so we live our days in the desert, in the quiet, in the ordinary, the same God who met Israel in the wilderness meets us still. I leave you with a song called Deep Peace from Libera, the boys’ choir from South London. May its blessing rest lightly on your spirit and carry you gently into whatever this day holds.
The way I write and think today is different than it was years ago. I don’t claim it is better — only more seasoned, shaped by experience and tempered by time. Yet one thing has remained constant: my appreciation for the unknown. Chronos time — the measurable, scheduled flow of days — has shaped my views of the church, community, and world. Seminary and ongoing study have given me a quantitative framework for ministry. But when Chronos becomes our only lens, it can drown out Kairos: those opportune, grace-filled moments when God breaks through in ways that cannot be planned or measured. God speaks in both kinds of time — in the steady rhythm of our days and in the sudden moments of significance. But I have always felt drawn to the God who teaches through surprise, the God who invites us to live into questions rather than cling to answers. I consider myself a Christian mystic, even though my life does not always reflect that claim as faithfully as I wish. Still, I recognize those Kairos moments when God reveals something beyond my comprehension — moments that remind me of the beauty of mystery and the joy of resting in a presence that exceeds understanding. If I can say one thing with confidence, it is this: God loves you — fully, fiercely, and without condition. Not because of what you have done, not because of how you feel about yourself, and not because of who you may become. God loves you in this present moment, exactly as you are. May we learn to trust the God who meets us in both Chronos and Kairos — and may we find peace in the holy unknown, where God continues to speak. I will close this short message with a song by John Michael Talbot, T he Spirit of God is Upon Me Father Dave+
by Fr. David Madsen Spiritual habits rarely begin easily. Wisdom has said this for centuries; the beginning of discipline is always the hardest step (cf. Proverbs 1:5 ). And anyone who has tried to build a spiritual practice knows the truth of another old insight: habits are fragile at first, but the longer you keep them, the harder they are to break (cf. Meister Eckhart thoughts about starting and keeping spiritual practice ) We live in a world overflowing with books, blogs, and guides on prayer, meditation, and spiritual rhythms. But where does someone actually begin? I’ve learned that the best place is not a book, it’s a person. Think of someone whose life carries the quiet weight of prayer. If you have a spiritual director, or a trusted guide, ask them. If there is a pastor or spiritual leader whose rule of life seems rooted in practice, ask for a conversation. In my humble opinion, there is no “right” or “wrong” way to pray. Prayer is communion with God, sometimes with words, sometimes without. Jesus himself makes this clear in the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector ( Luke 18:9–14 ). One man stands tall, proud of his religious performance. The other sits in the corner, beating his chest, whispering, “God, be merciful to me.” And Jesus says it plainly: that man, the one crying out for help, is the prayer God listens to. Over the last thirty years, I’ve tried many practices. Some stayed with me, some faded, but one has carried me since before seminary. Yes, there are days I miss, but I try to keep those to a minimum. Experience has taught me that the longer you keep a spiritual practice, the more it keeps you. So if you feel a desire rising in you to begin a spiritual practice, don’t dismiss it. You didn’t invent that longing. I believe the Holy Spirit is already stirring in your heart. That stirring itself is prayer, God’s own prayer in you, drawing you toward communion. And that is where every spiritual habit begins. I will close with a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter, I have a need for solitude.
