Afflicting the Comfortable: Another Take on Psalm 23 – Sermon for April 17, 2016

If someone were to say to you, quote a line from the Psalms, chances are good that the first answer that popped into your head would be something from Psalm 23. That’s not surprising. There are 150 Psalms, and yet this is the one we all seem to know. And often we can recite it, amazingly, in 16th century English, with “leadeth”, and “restoreth”, and “maketh” and all.

In six lines, the Psalm says something that seems to comfort us. It points to a God who is protective and giving. One who keeps us safe. One who leads us down the right path. And when I was a hospital chaplain, when I asked people if they would like to hear a particular passage from Scripture, nine times out of ten, they asked for this one.

When I talk to people about funerals, either their own, or that of someone they loved, they ask for this Psalm too. Because unlike perhaps any other piece of Scripture, Psalm 23 gives us comfort in the most difficult of times. The Psalm reminds us that our comfort comes from God. It comes from the God who allows us to say that, “even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.”

So, to be honest with you, that’s why for a long time I could not stand this Psalm. After years of being a chaplain, I just sort of thought of it as the Psalm you read when someone was sick or dying, and I really only thought about it then.

I mean, really, nearly every time you hear this Psalm something bad is happening, right?

And that’s okay. I think in times of pain, in times when we are asking why, in times when nothing makes sense, the words we have relied on in our hardest times come back to us. Words like “the Lord is my shepherd”.

And that’s a gift. We need that assurance. We need to know that God is here with us, and that God will comfort us, and that we will “dwell in the house of the Lord forever”. We need to hear those words, because they are true. And they are true especially in our hardest times.

But, it would be a mistake to just think of this as the funeral Psalm, or the Psalm you read when times are hard.

When I was in college I heard a priest say once that the job of the preacher was to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable”. That still resonates at some level. If you come to church and you are in pain, I do hope you find comfort in what is said here. But if you come to church and you are completely comfortable, and completely unmotivated to make this world better for others, then I hope you leave a little afflicted.

I’ve sometimes wondered if the same is true of the Psalms. I wonder if they too are meant to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

picmonkey_image
Like I said, almost every time I plan a funeral, the reading of Psalm 23 is requested. But the fact Psalm 23 has been relegated mostly to funerals is a tragedy. Because this Psalm isn’t about death; it’s about living fearlessly and in abundance.

The shepherd of the Psalm, who is God, is described as someone who can lead us through the scariest of places, all the while casting aside our fear. And God fills our cups, not just until there is enough, but until they overflow with so much goodness that we can’t help but share it.

That’s a good word for those of us who are so comfortable we could use some affliction. And, to be clear, that’s most of us, at least some of the time. We all have moments when we can use a little comfort but, whether we admit it or not, we also have moments where our cup overflows with abundance.

And so when our cup is overflowing the question that remains is who do we then follow? Who will be our shepherd through life? Will it be the one who has filled our cups to overflowing? Or will it be something else? In other words, can we really say with all honestly and conviction that “the Lord is my shepherd”?

Before you answer that, know that there are many shepherds out there you can choose. You can choose the shepherd of fear, who tells you that you will never be enough. You can choose the shepherd of anger, who reacts to the world with rage. You can choose the shepherd of greed, who tells you that you need more. Or you can choose the shepherd of narcissism, who tells you that you are the only one who matters on the path.

And there are countless other shepherds as well, all vowing for your time and attention. And, even if we believe that we are independent of their influence, the reality is that we are all following some sort of shepherd in this life. And, too often, they are leading us down the wrong paths.

And so, when we proclaim instead that the Lord is our Shepherd, we are saying something extraordinary. We are saying that we are not going to get lost anymore. We are saying that even as God leads us through territory that is so foreign and vast that it feels like we are in the “valley of the shadow of death”,you also know that you are still with God, and there is nothing to fear.

God does not promise us that if we follow we will always have an easy journey. Psalm 23 isn’t a warm and fuzzy affirmation of an easy life. But God does say that even when we are on those new and unfamiliar roads God will be there with us, leading us through.

And so, I also want to say this. What is true for individuals is so often also true for churches.

I think churches could learn from Psalm 23. Because in a time when so many churches are drawing inward, afraid of an unknown future, and clinging to the “hope” of austerity measures, and “wait and see” fearfulness, the Psalm offers us a radical alternative. Don’t live in fear. Live in faith. And follow the one who can lead you through the darkest valleys and make them seem like they were well-lit sidewalks.

Some of you know that my first parish ministry call was to a two point charge in Vermont. One church was relatively healthy, but the other was not. For nearly 200 years it had been a thriving small town church, and the center of the town. But those days were long gone. By the time I got there, my work was to help the church to close its doors and merge with the other church in a graceful way.

At that time a good Sunday morning was one in which the attendance was in the double digits. As in, ten people. Counting the organist and me. And it was rarely a good Sunday morning.

I wanted to understand why this had happened, and so did a lot of research into the history, going back even before any of the people who were left, because the truth was that the few who were left had come after the damage had been done. And as I looked deeper, I found out that there had been a time when the church’s cup had indeed overflowed in every sense of the word. But decades before, instead of sharing that abundance and using it in creative ways, fear had ruled the day. The church had turned more and more inward, and more and more fearful about its own future.

It was like as this cup overflowed they were trying to put all of that abundance and grace back in so they could hang onto it. They kept trying to build a bigger cup, instead of using what they had been given. They were so afraid of a future when they would not have enough that instead of looking at all they had as a blessing and gift to share with others, they saw it as something to fearfully store up for themselves.

And, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, decades later those fears came true. Just not in the ways they thought they would.

At the end of the church’s life they had a whole lot of money in the bank account, a nice building that was hardly ever open except on Sunday mornings, next to no one in the pews, and most importantly, no one in the community being served beyond the doors of the church.

That’s not our situation. At all. But it’s a constant reminder for me. I don’t believe anyone ever consciously chose or even wanted that future for that church. But somehow, over the course of decades, that’s where they wound up. And so, I promised myself that no matter where I pastored next, I would tell that story. Because it’s too easy to have the best of intentions, and to end up there.

And so, I always want to say to churches the same thing I want to say to individuals: don’t wait until your funeral to live out this Psalm. This should not be your deathbed prayer. This should be the proclamation you make as you rise every morning: the Lord is my shepherd…I shall not fear.

And so, whether on your own path or on this path we walk together, live out that kind of faith everyday. God has already given you more than you need. You have an abundance. You have enough. Don’t be afraid to use it. Live boldly, follow the Good Shepherd, and you, and we, will indeed live. Amen?

Lost and Found: Sermon for March 8, 2015 on Psalm 23

Psalm 23

1 The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
2 God makes me lie down in green pastures;
God leads me beside still waters;
3 God restores my soul.
God leads me in right paths
for God’s name’s sake.
4 Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff—
they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
my whole life long.

If someone were to say to you, quote a line from the Psalms, chances are good that the first answer that popped into your head would be something from Psalm 23. That’s not surprising. There are 150 Psalms, and yet this is the one we all seem to know. And often we can recite it, in 16th century English, with “leadeth”, and “restoreth”, and “maketh” and all.

In six lines, the Psalm says something that seems to comfort us. It points to a God who is protective and giving. One who keeps us safe. One who leads us down the right path. When I was a hospital chaplain, when I asked people if they would like to hear a particular passage from Scripture, nine times out of ten, they asked for this one.

And when I talk to people about funerals, either their own, or that of someone they loved, they ask for this Psalm too. Because unlike perhaps any other piece of Scripture, Psalm 23 gives us comfort in the most difficult of times. The Psalm reminds us that our comfort comes from God. It comes from the God who allows us to say that, “even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.”

640px-Flock_of_sheepSo, to be honest with you, that’s why for a long time this wasn’t my favorite Psalm. After years of being a chaplain, I just sort of thought of it as the Psalm you read when someone was sick or dying, and I really only thought about it then. I mean, really, nearly every time you hear this Psalm something bad is happening, right?

But then a couple of years ago, that changed for me. It was the week that the Boston Marathon bombings happened, and coincidentally it was also a week when this same passage came up in the lectionary, the church’s calendar of Biblical readings. And for the first time, I heard it with new ears.

Because, yes, I heard what I had always heard in it. The part about God comforting and protecting us, even in the face of evil. And I needed to hear that. I had friends who were at the finish line who narrowly escaped injury, and Heidi’s home church, the church where we were married stands right where the bombs went off. And that whole week it just seemed inconceivable that such evil could happen in front of a place that had become, for me, a green pasture.

I think in times of pain, in times when we are asking why, in times when nothing makes sense, the words we have relied on in our hardest times come back to us. Words like “the Lord is my shepherd”.

And that’s a gift. We need that assurance. We need to know that God is here with us, and that God will comfort us, and that we will “dwell in the house of the Lord forever”. We need to hear those words, because they are true. And they are true especially in our hardest times.

But, especially in times like this, we also need to hear something else. And this is where I heard this Psalm with new ears. We need to hear that the Lord is our shepherd, but maybe we also need to hear that we are more than sheep.

Now, not to be mean to sheep, but sheep aren’t the smartest animals. They sort of just follow the herd until they’re scared, and then they’re known to panic and run away. Really, if you’re trying to find an animal to emulate, sheep aren’t the way to go.

Instead, we are called to follow God, to follow the true shepherd, in a different way. Not as a part of a scared flock that reacts with panic to what frightens us, but as a group of beloved children of God who keep our focus on that shepherd, and on the teachings of our faith, and on the one who truly wants for “goodness and mercy to follow us all the days of our lives”.

This Psalm is not just about soothing words, or blindly following like a barnyard animal. This Psalm is about who to look for when you are feeling lost. This Psalm is about being found.

Downstairs today we are teaching our elementary school classes about this Psalm and about the idea that God is always walking with them, through good and through bad. But we are also teaching them that when they are lost, and they feel alone, and they don’t know what to do next, God is with them even then, helping them to get found.

In other words, we are teaching them that this Psalm is not just about sickness and death. This Psalm, most of all, is about life, and about choosing to follow the one who will always bring you new life. We are teaching them about what to do when you feel lost.

And that is not a lesson that is only for the smallest among us, because I would guess that all of us, no matter our age, have felt lost in the world at times. Maybe you are even feeling that way now. Maybe there is something in your life that you aren’t sure about, something that you are trying to figure out but you are not getting clear answers.

Or maybe you are lost in other ways. Maybe you are lost in an addiction, lost in depression, lost in anxiety, lost in grief, or lost in hopelessness. Maybe you are wondering where those green pastures are that Psalm 23 talks about.

You aren’t alone. I think all of us at some point in our lives has felt profoundly lost, often by no fault of our own. But hopefully, we have also felt found.

I know that’s true for me. At one point in my 20’s I felt so lost that I began to wonder if God really existed. I was studying theology at the time, ironically, but God never felt further away. The fact I was reading so many books for school all telling me about the grace and mercy of God, and I couldn’t feel it, made it even worse.

So what made it better? I believe God found me and, like the shepherd of the Psalm, led me back to the path. But it didn’t happen in some overwhelming religious experience with lights and angels. And it didn’t happen in an instant. Instead it happened slowly, over time. And I honestly believe it happened because God sent others into my life to help show me how to get found. And that’s why I really believe that God acts through us to change the lives of others.

And so that’s the question for you today: do you need to get found? Or do you need to help find others? Or, do you maybe need a little of both?

That’s a good question for Lent because Lent is all about the wilderness. But it is also all about getting found. It’s about getting found by God, and it’s about being found by one another, and for one another.

How we do that can look like a million different things, but at their core they are all the same.

A few days after the Boston bombing, I was walking on Newbury Street about a block away from the worst of the damage, trying to understand what happened. And there were these chalks drawings and words of support and hope everywhere on the sidewalk. I saw two women kneeling down, writing. And they wrote simply, “We are very sad.”

They saw me watching, and they turned to me and asked, “Is it okay?” I didn’t know what they meant at first, but then they explained that they were from Brazil and they didn’t speak English very well but they wanted to write to the people of Boston and let them know that they were sorry. Because they knew what it was like to hurt, and they chose to love instead.

And there, next to the yellow police tape and the armed police officers, somehow I knew, it would be okay again.

In the same way, today we recognize our prayer shawl ministry for all they do to help make the Good Shepherd real to so many. Together they knit prayer shawls for people they may or may not ever meet. With each stitch they knit their prayers for those who need them into the shawls. And then they give away the work of their own hands to those who need a reminder that there is love, and there is goodness in the world.

And someone on the receiving end, somehow, knows that they have been remembered, and they have been found.

And so, for those of us who once were lost but now are found, how can we shine the light for those who need it the most? How can we be the ones who go out on the shepherd’s behalf, telling the world about the one who is waiting to welcome us home? How can we help on another to find our way back? And how do we love one another until we shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever?

That is the job of the church. When people are hurting so badly that this Psalm doesn’t make much sense to them, when they feel so removed from the path, when they wonder whether God and grace are real, that is when we live out this Psalm. We live it, so that others may believe, and so others may be found. And we pray the Psalm for those who cannot yet pray it for themselves. Because God is not just my shepherd, or you shepherd. God is bigger than that, because:

The Lord is our shepherd; we shall not want.
2 God makes us to lie down in green pastures: God leads us beside the still waters.
3 God restores our soul: God leads us in the paths of righteousness for God’s name’s sake.
4 Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil: for God is with us; God’s rod and thy staff they comfort us.
5 God prepares a table before us in the presence of our enemies: God anoints our heads with oil; our cup runs over.
6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives: and we will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Amen.

The Good Shepherd: Sermon for May 11, 2014

Scripture: Psalm 23 and John 10

If you ask people to tell you their favorite Scriptures, or even just list a few Scriptures they know, there’s one that always seems to come up: Psalm 23. You likely know the words: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

We read it at funerals. We read it to give us comfort in anxious times. We read it when we are sick. In fact, more than almost any other part of the Bible, we read it so much that we might even have it memorized.

533999_485840638098085_190703679_nSo when it comes up in the lectionary, as it does today, there might be a tendency to gloss over it. What more can you say? The Lord is my shepherd…everything is going to be okay, right?

But to think of this Psalm as simple, to underestimate it because of it, it to miss just how radical a statement of God’s love and concern it really is. That’s why it’s important that it’s paired with another reading today, this one from the Gospel, and this one containing the words of Christ himself.

Christ is doing a lot of talking about sheep and gates and how the sheep will follow the shepherd and how the shepherd is unlike a sheep thief. How the shepherd guides us, and does not devour us. Christ is talking about how the shepherd will save the sheep. And Christ goes on to all himself “the Good Shepherd”.

So, by this point you might have noticed that today’s Scriptures say a whole lot about sheep, and you might be wondering about that. That’s fair. And it might not surprise you to know that in the life cycle of the church year, this is called “Good Shepherd Sunday”.

The metaphor of church people being sheep has always bothered me a little. I don’t know much about sheep, but they don’t seem all that bright to me. They seem more like animals that follow the leader, and do what they’re told. I don’t want to be thought of as a sheep. I don’t want to be part of a mindless “flock” that follows along and does what it is told.

And another part of this has always bothered me too. And that’s because Christian ministers are often referred to by this title of pastor. And if you go back to the roots of that word, “pastor” has a very particular meaning. It’s a derived from this Latin word: pascere, which means to shepherd. In other words, in a congregation that pastor is the shepherd and the people are the sheep.

You might be feeling a little offended by that right now. That’s okay. I would too. You probably don’t want to be sheep anymore than I do.

But here’s the thing that has always made me most uncomfortable about this: the idea that somehow the pastor takes this role that really is only supposed to belong to Jesus. Maybe that point is hitting me a little extra hard today.

Now as I’m up here preaching today, you might be thinking about the news I shared with you this week. As you know, I have been called to serve another church. At the end of June, Heidi and I will be moving to New Hampshire.

I believe this is a true call. I believe that we are following God’s will for us. And yet, making the decision to leave was incredibly hard, and incredibly sad. We love this community, and we love this congregation most of all. I’ve been very blessed to be your pastor.

And so as I begin to take my leave, I know that I am handing off the role of pastor to someone new. Someone else, an interim pastor, is going to fill this pulpit very shortly. And not long after that a settled pastor will be with you for a longer period. And I pray that they will be exactly the pastor you need. And I pray that you will continue to grow and to minister to your whole community.

But here’s the spoiler. One day, hopefully years down the line, they too will be called to move on. Not because there’s a better congregation out there. That’s not why pastors have to leave. But because God will call them to the next thing, and will call you to the next thing as well. God is going to call you into the next phase of your life together, a place where God already is, and where God will bless you.

And that’s because it is God, and not the pastor, who is ultimately the “Good Shepherd”. It is God who leads us through the valley of death to safety. It is God who makes sure our cup runs over. It is God who brings us into green pastures and leads us beside still waters. And it is God’s house, not the pastor’s, in which you will dwell forever.

In other words, it’s not about the pastor. It’s about God.

When our conference minister, Lynn Bujnak, was called to Vermont she wrote something interesting in her candidating material. She wrote that she didn’t see herself as a shepherd, because in Christ we already have one of those. He is the Good Shepherd, in fact. But she did see herself as a pretty good sheep dog.

A sheep dog can do a good job gathering us in. They can find the ones around the margins, and help lead them back to crowd. They can guide the way. They can push us forward. They can sound the alarm is something is wrong. And they can pretty useful and helpful.

But they aren’t shepherds. And, as good as they are, they are replaceable. And they should be.

And that’s because if you are here today at this church, if you are at any church, the pastor shouldn’t be what makes you stay or go. Sure, you might like your pastor, you might feel like the pastor “gets you”, you might feel a sense of connection that helped you feel comfortable here, but in the end, hopefully, that’s not why you stayed.

My hope is you stayed because you felt a connection with the Good Shepherd. My hope is something about these Scriptures every week caught you, and connected with you, and you felt led to go deeper. My hope is you found Christ, or at least a glimpse of him, in prayer. And my hope is that this community helped you to find Christ’s love in a new and uplifting way.

This church has had literally dozens of pastors in its over 150 years. But it’s only had one Good Shepherd. And that Good Shepherd is why this church has lasted, and why it will continue to last. Christ will be the guide through whatever comes next. And Christ will make all things into a blessing for this church, no matter who your particular sheep dog happens to be.

In a few minutes, we are going to be baptizing Annie. We are going to be welcoming her into this holy sacrament as a community. And, even though I will be the one sprinkling the water on her head, I won’t be the one baptizing her. And even though you will be the ones making the baptismal promises to nurture her, you aren’t baptizing her either. We aren’t the ones doing the lifting here.

That’s because Annie is about to be baptized into something a lot bigger than all of us. And above all else, in this act, the Good Shepherd is claiming her.

That’s good because Annie is probably going to be around a lot longer than most of us. And when we are gone, God’s love will still be there. The same God who claims her in baptism today will claim her in her golden years. And the same God whose name we bless her with today will call her name throughout her life. Because the Good Shepherd never forgets any of us, and never lets us go.

What’s true for Annie is true for us all. Even, and especially, when we are on the move to our next green pasture. The Good Shepherd will go with Annie all her life. And will go with me to Exeter. And will go with this congregation wherever you are headed. And we will all dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.

Where Do We Go From Here: A Sermon by Heidi Carrington Heath in the Aftermath of the Bombings

IMG_0686Note: this is not my own sermon, by one written by my wife, Heidi Carrington Heath. Heidi is a seminarian under care of Old South Church in Boston, the church located at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. The first worship service of that congregation was this Thursday night. Due to the fact the area is still considered a crime scene, Old South worshipped at the neighboring Church of the Covenant. She had already been scheduled to preach before the bombings. This is what she said to a congregation still in shock:

I love to preach at this service.  I had a text all picked out.  My sermon was well planned.  The ideas were percolating.  I knew exactly what I wanted to say to you tonight.   And then, it was Monday.   Beautiful, sunny, Marathon Monday.   It is practically a High Holy Day here in Boston.   I was sad to be away from the city for the first time in a number of years.  While I mumble and moan about the traffic on Patriot’s Day, and the ways it clogs up my commute, I not so secretly love the marathon.  I love what it stands for.   Dedication, hard work, determination, the resilience and perseverance of the human spirit.

This year I was almost through a full day of work wistfully wishing I was spending my sunny afternoon at the marathon when my phone buzzed.   The words on my screen read as if in slow motion.  A text message from one of my best friends said this:  “Hi.  You are going to hear soon there was a bomb at the marathon finish line.  I am okay.  I wanted you to know before the news broke.  I love you.  Don’t worry.”   I read the message over and over almost unable to process it.  Bomb.  Finish Line.  Don’t worry.   It couldn’t be…

I turned on the TV and the images came.  Fast.  Furious.  Heartbreaking.   Our beloved city being attacked in this way.   There was blood and devastation on our doorstep.   It didn’t feel real.   How could this be happening?   My co-workers and I held hands and shared a Kleenex box in the main part of our building as we watched in disbelief.  Almost immediately, I began watch social media and news reports with rapt attention for information of our beloved Old South.    It was a rare moment of joy when I discovered our church was safe.

A well meaning colleague of mine wrote me an email on Thursday night.  She said:  God has a purpose for all of this, we may never understand it, but there is a reason for everything.

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t find those words very comforting.

My words of comfort look a little more like tonight’s scripture passage:  The Lord is my Shepherd.   I shall not want.   (Do you know it?  If so, won’t you say it with me?)  She makes me lie down in green pastures.   She leadeth me beside the still waters.   She restoreth my soul.

Now, I understand where my friend was coming from.  I really do.   When the world feels too hard, too big, too awful to understand, it is our instinct to rush to quick, accessible theology in an effort to make sense of it all when things seem so senseless.    It is somehow easier to attribute the horror of something like a bomb to God than it is to another human being.

But here’s the thing.

I don’t believe that God causes bombs to explode.   I don’t believe that God sends attacks on our city as the result of some kind of celestial revenge for bad behavior, or in a wrath of heavenly anger.   That’s not the God I know and love.

William Paul Young, author of the popular book The Shack says it like this:  Grace doesn’t depend on suffering to exist, but where there is suffering you will find grace in many facets and colors.”

I don’t believe that God causes bad things to happen, but I do believe that God can work for good even in the midst of something unspeakable.

Here are a few examples of what the Holy One looks like to me as she works in our midst…

He looks like a lot like 1st LT Stephen Fiola and 1st Sargeant Bernard Madore of the Massachusetts national guard who ran into the flames when the first blast came to help the injured.

She looks a lot like the countless, tireless first responders who have worked around the clock since Monday.

Or how about the marathon runners who had just run TWENTY SIX POINT TWO MILES and kept running another mile and a half to Mass General Hospital to donate blood for their fallen and injured community?

I see it in the countless neighbors and community members who were Christ to each other in these recent days:  offering food, shelter, safety, even the clothes off their backs to help the stranger in a time of need.

This is the God I know, beloved.    Our tender shepherd who does not leave her sheep alone, even and especially in times of great trial.    On a less than ordinary April night when we cry out:  my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?   God is Emmanuel, God with us.   She is living out her promise:  I will be with you always.

That is why we gather here tonight. We gather not to pretend that what has happened on our doorstep did not happen.   But to remind ourselves that death will never have the last word. We gather tonight to be in communion with the one whose rod and staff comforts us in times of great.   We come to rest our weary hearts on the font of God’s still speaking love. We come to be with the one who does not and will not leave us alone.

Smoke may have clouded the finish line one sunny, Monday afternoon.  But it is not the end of the race.  Tonight, we lace up our running shoes, and begin anew.  We walk and run with steps of mercy, love, justice, and compassion.

Though the road seems long, and the journey may make us weary…

Though right now it may seem that we are running up heartbreak hill for miles and miles…

We are not alone.

To that end, will you join hands with the person next to you?  Let us pray.

Holy One,

We have so many questions and so few answers.

Our pain is raw and our tears are fresh.

We cannot see the road ahead.

And yet, we give you thanks for your presence with us in these dark days.

We have seen you move among us in powerful ways.

Help us to turn away from darkness and toward the light that we might see you in one another.

May we seek solace in community, knowing we are not alone.

Amen.