Night Blessing Garden in English and Portuguese

 O Crepúsculo do Jardineiro

Que a tua noite seja como a névoa que subia da terra no jardim do Éden — silenciosa, envolvente, sem alarde, mas capaz de regar toda raiz sedenta.

Tu és pó. Isso não é maldição, é honestidade terna. O Deus Todo-Poderoso se inclinou, tomou o pó da terra em suas mãos — não ordenou que se tornasse humano, mas o moldou pessoalmente, como o jardineiro revolve o solo, como o oleiro amassa o barro informe. Ele não desprezou o pó por ser humilde; ao contrário, soprou nele o fôlego da vida. A tua pequenez e a tua grandeza coexistem nesse punhado de terra e nesse sopro.

Esta noite, quando te deitares, lembra-te disto: tu não és acaso. O pó se lembra das mãos que o moldaram; o sopro se lembra da boca que o concedeu. O teu cansaço, a tua mediocridade, a tua dignidade quase invisível de tanto ser gasta pelo cotidiano — tudo isso ainda está na palma daquelas mãos.

Jesus disse: "Eu sou a porta; se alguém entrar por mim, será salvo, e entrará, e sairá, e achará pastagem." A porta é feita para o viajante cansado. Durante o dia andaste muito, tomaste muitas decisões, suportaste muitas pessoas. Algumas portas empurraste com dificuldade, outras bateste sem resposta. Mas há uma porta que permanece aberta — pequena, sem pompa, sem destaque, mas que conduz ao pasto. Ao entrares por ela, não precisas provar mais nada; basta deitar-te como ovelha, e ser pastoreado.

"Seja sobre nós, Senhor, a tua misericórdia, como de ti esperamos." Este versículo tem uma ordem admirável — não é que primeiro esperemos o suficiente para que a misericórdia venha; é a própria misericórdia de Deus que se torna o fundamento da nossa esperança.

Por fim, lembra-te da tua identidade no jardim. Deus colocou o homem no Éden para o cultivar e o guardar. Tu não és o dono do jardim, és o jardineiro. O mundo não é um armazém para consumires à vontade, é um jardim confiado aos teus cuidados. Cada pequena coisa que podas, regas e proteges — uma história contada antes de dormir, um jantar simples, uma paciência oferecida a um estranho — nada disso é em vão. São marcas de cultivo.

Esta noite, dorme em paz: o pó cansa, mas o sopro não se interrompe. A porta está aberta. O pasto é verde. Aquele que te dá a vida não cochila nem dorme.

Que entres e saias e encontres pastagem. Que o que plantaste cresça por causa da sua misericórdia.

 

The Gardener's Nightfall

May your night be like the mist that rose from the earth in the garden of Eden — silent, enveloping, without fanfare, yet capable of watering every thirsty root.

You are dust. This is not a curse, it is tender honesty. The Almighty God bent down, took the dust of the earth in His hands — He did not command it to become human, but shaped it personally, like a gardener turning the soil, like a potter kneading formless clay. He did not despise the dust for being humble; on the contrary, He breathed into it the breath of life. Your smallness and your greatness coexist in that handful of earth and in that breath.

Tonight, when you lie down, remember this: you are not an accident. The dust remembers the hands that shaped it; the breath remembers the mouth that granted it. Your weariness, your mediocrity, your dignity almost invisible from being worn away by the everyday — all of it is still in the palm of those hands.

Jesus said: "I am the door; if anyone enters through Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture." The door is made for the weary traveler. During the day you walked much, made many decisions, endured many people. Some doors you pushed with difficulty, others you knocked on without answer. But there is a door that remains open — small, unadorned, unremarkable, yet leading to pasture. Upon entering it, you no longer need to prove anything; you need only lie down like a sheep, and be shepherded.

"Let Your mercy, O Lord, be upon us, just as we have hoped in You." This verse has an admirable order — it is not that we first hope enough for mercy to come; it is God's own mercy that becomes the foundation of our hope.

Finally, remember your identity in the garden. God placed the man in Eden to cultivate it and keep it. You are not the owner of the garden, you are the gardener. The world is not a warehouse for you to consume at will, it is a garden entrusted to your care. Every small thing you prune, water, and protect — a story told before bed, a simple dinner, a patience offered to a stranger — none of it is in vain. They are marks of cultivation.

Tonight, sleep in peace: the dust grows tired, but the breath is not interrupted. The door is open. The pasture is green. The One who gives you life neither slumbers nor sleeps.

May you go in and out and find pasture. May what you have planted grow because of His mercy.

 

A Night Blessing, with a Certain Irony – in English and Portuguese

 The Gardener Is Still on Duty

So, another day is ending. Yours, mine, everyone's. And before you turn off the light, let's have a little chat, just between us, about the business of being dust.

The sermon last Sunday was about a garden. A gardener, some dust, and a breath. It’s a good image, isn't it? God, with the patience of an old man tending his roses, scooping up a handful of nothing, shaping it, and then—the nerve!—leaning over and breathing life into it. A divine CPR. And voilà, here we are. Walking, talking, worrying about the mortgage, made of the same stuff as the chair you're sitting on, but with a little something extra in the lungs. It’s a beautiful, terrifying thought. That we are, all of us, highly sophisticated mud.

And what does this sophisticated mud do? It worries. It frets. It spends the day fighting battles it was never meant to fight. The traffic, the boss, the bills, the ungrateful children, the country's direction, the neighbor's dog. We build these enormous armies of anxiety in our heads, and we march them up and down, exhausting ourselves before the real battle even begins.

That’s why the verse from Exodus is so wonderfully, almost comically, practical. "The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still."

Be still. Can you imagine? It’s the most counter-intuitive advice in the world. Our entire instinct is to run, to shout, to fix, to organize a committee. And the advice is: sit down. Have a cup of tea. Let the Big Guy handle it. It’s either the deepest wisdom or the most sublime laziness, and I suspect it’s a bit of both. Because the battles that really matter—the ones for your own soul, your own peace—are not won with fists or fury. They are won in the quiet. When you finally admit you don't have the strength, and you just... be still. And let the dust settle.

And then, what about when you have to speak? When you're called to give an answer, to defend the hope that is in you, and your throat is dry and your brain is empty? We rehearse, we prepare, we write little notes on our hands. And then Mark comes along and says, "Do not worry beforehand about what to say. Just say whatever is given you at the time, for it is not you speaking, but the Holy Spirit."

Think about that. The same breath that was breathed into the dust in the garden is the one that will give you the words. It's not your eloquence, your cleverness, or your well-constructed argument. It's a gift. A whisper from the Gardener, reminding you of who you are. It’s a profound comfort for those of us who are not particularly eloquent, which is to say, for all of us, really. We are just the mouthpiece. The breath is His.

So, tonight, as you lie in your bed, remember the story.

You are dust, yes. And to dust you shall return. But you are dust that has been breathed on by God.

You are a little garden, planted by a patient Gardener.

The battles you are fighting tomorrow? They are His. Be still. Let Him fight.

The words you are afraid to speak? They will be His. Don't worry. The breath will come.

This is the blessing. Not that you will be spared the dust, the struggle, or the silence. But that the Dust-Maker is with you in it. That you are not just a collection of anxieties and ambitions, but a holy mixture of earth and spirit, tended by a gardener who is rather fond of his creation.

Now go to sleep. You’ve done enough. The Gardener is still on duty.

And tomorrow, when you wake up, take a deep breath. It’s a gift. It always was.

Amen. Or something like that.

"O Jardineiro Continua de Plantão"

Então, mais um dia termina. O seu, o meu, o de todo mundo. E antes que você apague a luz, vamos conversar um pouquinho, só entre nós, sobre esse negócio de ser pó.

O sermão do domingo passado foi sobre um jardim. Um jardineiro, um pouco de pó e um sopro. É uma boa imagem, não é? Deus, com a paciência de um velho cuidando de suas roseiras, pega um punhado de nada, molda, e então — que ousadia! — inclina-se e sopra vida dentro. Uma respiração boca a boca divina. E voilà, aqui estamos nós. Andando, falando, preocupados com a hipoteca, feitos da mesma matéria que a cadeira onde você está sentado, mas com um algo a mais nos pulmões. É um pensamento bonito e assustador. Que somos, todos nós, lama altamente sofisticada.

E o que essa lama sofisticada faz? Preocupa-se. Agita-se. Passa o dia lutando batalhas que nunca foi feita para lutar. O trânsito, o chefe, as contas, os filhos ingratos, o rumo do país, o cachorro do vizinho. Construímos esses exércitos enormes de ansiedade na cabeça e os fazemos marchar para cima e para baixo, exaurindo-nos antes mesmo de a verdadeira batalha começar.

É por isso que o versículo do Êxodo é tão maravilhosamente, quase comicamente, prático. "O Senhor pelejará por vós; e vós estareis quietos."

Estar quieto. Você consegue imaginar? É o conselho mais contraintuitivo do mundo. Nosso instinto inteiro é correr, gritar, consertar, organizar um comitê. E o conselho é: sente-se. Tome um chá. Deixe o Grande Chefe cuidar disso. Ou é a sabedoria mais profunda ou a preguiça mais sublime, e suspeito que seja um pouco das duas coisas. Porque as batalhas que realmente importam — as da sua própria alma, da sua própria paz — não são vencidas com punhos ou fúria. São vencidas no silêncio. Quando você finalmente admite que não tem forças, e simplesmente... fica quieto. E deixa o pó assentar.

E então, e quando você tiver que falar? Quando for chamado a dar uma resposta, a defender a esperança que há em você, e sua garganta estiver seca e seu cérebro vazio? Ensaiamos, preparamos, escrevemos bilhetinhos na mão. E aí vem Marcos e diz: "Não vos preocupeis de antemão com o que haveis de falar. Falai o que vos for dado naquele momento, pois não sereis vós que falareis, mas o Espírito Santo."

Pense nisso. O mesmo sopro que foi soprado no pó do jardim é aquele que lhe dará as palavras. Não é a sua eloqüência, a sua esperteza ou o seu argumento bem construído. É um presente. Um sussurro do Jardineiro, lembrando você de quem você é. É um consolo profundo para aqueles de nós que não somos particularmente eloqüentes, ou seja, para todos nós, na verdade. Somos apenas o porta-voz. O sopro é Dele.

Então, esta noite, quando você se deitar na cama, lembre-se da história.

Você é pó, sim. E ao pó você retornará. Mas você é pó que foi soprado por Deus.

Você é um pequeno jardim, plantado por um Jardineiro paciente.

As batalhas que você vai enfrentar amanhã? São Dele. Fique quieto. Deixe-O lutar.

As palavras que você tem medo de dizer? Serão Dele. Não se preocupe. O sopro virá.

Esta é a bênção. Não que você será poupado do pó, da luta ou do silêncio. Mas que o Fazedor de Pó está com você nisso tudo. Que você não é apenas uma coleção de ansiedades e ambições, mas uma mistura sagrada de terra e espírito, cuidada por um jardineiro que gosta bastante da sua criação.

Agora vá dormir. Você já fez o suficiente. O Jardineiro continua de plantão.

E amanhã, quando você acordar, respire fundo. É um presente. Sempre foi.

Amém. Ou algo assim.

 

Night blessing after a rainy weekend, in English and Portuguese

 A Night Blessing for a Dry Monday

The rain has stopped.
After a weekend of it—the drumming on the roof, the gray washing everything soft—
today the sky held its breath and gave us nothing.
No rain. Just the quiet, and the ground still remembering.

And isn't that the irony of grace?
That we are tended most gently when we feel most like dust.
That the Gardener does not wait for us to be impressive—
only breathing, only willing to be made.

Jeremiah 31:31 — "I will make a new covenant... I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts."
Not on stone this time. Not on the outside.
Within. On the heart—that soft, stubborn, beating thing.
Gentle care, indeed: God writing where we cannot erase, where we cannot even see, where it becomes not rule but rhythm.

Acts 2:39 — "The promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far off."
For you. For yours. For the ones who feel far—far from the garden, far from the promise, far from the rain.
The promise travels. It does not stay put. It comes to the dust.

And Sunday's sermon—Genesis 2:4b–9, 15—The Gardener, the Dust and the Breath.
Ruach. The breath that hovered over the waters, the breath that filled the dust and made it living.
The Gardener did not plant a garden and walk away.
The Gardener breathes still.
And then—verse 15—"to till it and keep it."
To serve. To guard. To tend.
The irony: we are dust, and we are given charge over the garden.
We are breath, and we are asked to keep the ground.
Gentle care, ironic care: the Gardener trusts the dust.

So tonight, as the rain holds off and the earth drinks what it already has—
May the Gardener walk in your garden.
May the Ruach breathe over your rest.
May the covenant written on your heart beat quietly in the dark.
May you know that the promise is for you—yes, you—and for your children, and for all who are far off.

And may the irony of grace settle over you like a soft, dry evening:
That you are dust.
And you are loved.
And you are tending something holy, even now, even in your sleep.

Good night. Rest in the breath that made you.

---

"The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it." — Genesis 2:15

"I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts." — Jeremiah 31:33

"The promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far off." — Acts 2:39

Ruach. Breath. Spirit. Night.

Uma Bênção Noturna para uma Segunda-feira sem chuva

A chuva parou.
Depois de um fim de semana inteiro dela — o tamborilar no telhado, o cinza lavando tudo com suavidade —
hoje o céu prendeu a respiração e não nos deu nada.
Nenhuma chuva. Apenas o silêncio, e o chão ainda se lembrando.

E não é essa a ironia da graça?
Que somos cuidados com mais ternura justamente quando nos sentimos mais como pó.
Que o Jardineiro não espera que sejamos impressionantes —
apenas que respiremos, apenas que estejamos dispostos a ser feitos.

Jeremias 31:31 — "Farei uma nova aliança... porei a minha lei dentro deles, e a escreverei no seu coração."
Não em pedra desta vez. Não do lado de fora.
Dentro. No coração — aquela coisa terna, teimosa, que pulsa.
Cuidado gentil, de fato: Deus escrevendo onde não podemos apagar, onde nem sequer podemos ver, onde não se torna regra, mas ritmo.

Atos 2:39 — "A promessa é para vocês, para os seus filhos e para todos os que estão longe."
Para você. Para os seus. Para os que se sentem longe — longe do jardim, longe da promessa, longe da chuva.
A promessa viaja. Ela não fica parada. Ela vem até o pó.

E o sermão de domingo — Gênesis 2:4b–9, 15 — O Jardineiro, o Pó e o Sopro (Ruach).
Ruach. O sopro que pairava sobre as águas, o sopro que encheu o pó e o tornou vivente.
O Jardineiro não plantou um jardim e foi embora.
O Jardineiro sopra ainda.
E então — versículo 15 — "para o cultivar e o guardar."
Para servir. Para proteger. Para cuidar.
A ironia: somos pó, e recebemos o encargo do jardim.
Somos sopro, e nos pedem para guardar a terra.
Cuidado gentil, cuidado irônico: o Jardineiro confia no pó.

Então esta noite, enquanto a chuva se contém e a terra bebe o que já tem —
Que o Jardineiro caminhe no seu jardim.
Que o Ruach sopre sobre o seu descanso.
Que a aliança escrita no seu coração pulse baixinho no escuro.
Que você saiba que a promessa é para você — sim, você — e para os seus filhos, e para todos os que estão longe.

E que a ironia da graça repouse sobre você como uma noite suave e seca:
Que você é pó.
E é amado.
E está cuidando de algo sagrado, mesmo agora, mesmo dormindo.

Boa noite. Descanse no sopro que o criou.

---

"O Senhor Deus tomou o homem e o colocou no jardim do Éden para o cultivar e o guardar." — Gênesis 2:15

"Porei a minha lei dentro deles, e a escreverei no seu coração." — Jeremias 31:33

"A promessa é para vocês, para os seus filhos e para todos os que estão longe." — Atos 2:39

Ruach. Sopro. Espírito. Noite.

 

 

Sermon at the 15th Sunday of Trinity. 13th of September 2026, St Crucis Lutheran

 

The Gardener and the Ground

A Sermon on Genesis 2:4b–9, 15

Before we say anything about this passage, I want us simply to be still for a moment.

Not because there is anything magical about silence, but because sometimes we need to become quiet before we can really listen.

So, if you are comfortable, close your eyes for a moment.

Put your feet firmly on the floor.

Feel the ground underneath you.

Feel the weight of your body. You are here. You are breathing. You are alive.

Now take a slow, deep breath in.

Hold it for a moment.

And slowly breathe out.

We often take breathing for granted. We don’t even think about it. We simply breathe.

And yet, in the biblical imagination, breath is never merely breath. It is a gift.

Genesis tells us that God formed the human being from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.

Dust and breath.

That is us.

We are wonderfully made—and we are made from the earth.

We are fragile, dependent, and completely unable to give ourselves life.

And perhaps that is a good place for us to begin.

Because this ancient story is not simply giving us information about how the world began. It is inviting us to remember who we are, where we come from, and what God has entrusted to us.

So, for the next few minutes, I don’t want to give you a lecture about Genesis.

I simply want us to listen together.

Perhaps, somewhere in these words, the Gardener may speak to you.

---

1. Dust and Breath

Listen to what Genesis says:

“The Lord God formed the human being from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the human being became a living being.”

I love the earthiness of this picture.

God doesn’t simply speak and suddenly there is a human being standing there.

God forms.

God shapes.

God gets God’s hands into the soil.

And the word used for the ground is adamah.

From the adamah, the ground, God forms the adam, the human being.

There is something deeply humbling about that.

We spend so much of our lives trying to prove that we are important.

We want to be successful.

We want to be respected.

We want people to remember us.

We want to feel that our lives matter.

And then Genesis quietly reminds us:

You are dust.

Not worthless dust.

Not meaningless dust.

But dust that God has lovingly formed.

You belong to the earth.

You are part of God’s creation.

Your body, with all its strengths and weaknesses, belongs to this good creation.

And then God breathes.

That is the beautiful part.

The dust becomes alive because God gives life.

Your life is not something you have created for yourself.

It is something you have received.

Every breath is a gift.

Every morning you wake up is a gift.

Every ordinary day is a gift.

And perhaps some of us need to hear that today.

Because there are days when we feel very much like dust.

We feel tired.

We feel discouraged.

We feel as though we are falling apart.

Sometimes life has a way of reminding us just how fragile we really are.

And Genesis says:

You may be dust, but you are dust into which God has breathed life.

You are not forgotten.

You are not abandoned.

You don’t have to perform for God.

You don’t have to prove yourself worthy of God’s attention.

You simply receive.

Breathe.

Receive the life God gives.

---

2. God Plants a Garden

Then the story takes us somewhere beautiful.

Genesis says:

“The Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east; and there he put the human being whom he had formed.”

Notice that.

God plants a garden.

God could have created a palace.

God could have created an empire.

God could have created a monument.

Instead, God plants a garden.

There is something wonderfully gentle about that image.

A garden takes time.

A garden needs patience.

You plant something, and then you wait.

You water it.

You protect it.

You pull out the weeds.

You watch the seasons change.

You cannot force a garden to grow by shouting at it.

And perhaps that tells us something about God.

The God of Genesis is not only powerful.

God is also patient.

God is a gardener.

And look at what God puts in the garden:

Trees that are beautiful to look at.

Trees that provide food.

And in the middle of the garden, the tree of life.

Before there is any command about what the human must not do, the Bible first tells us about what God has given.

Beauty.

Food.

Life.

Abundance.

That matters.

Because we so easily become obsessed with what we don’t have.

We look at the one thing missing from our lives and forget about the many things God has already placed around us.

We notice the unanswered prayer and forget the prayers that have been answered.

We notice the difficulty and forget the people who love us.

We notice what has gone wrong and overlook the small signs of grace that are still there.

Sometimes we are standing in a garden and living as though we are in a desert.

So perhaps today God is inviting us simply to look again.

Look around you.

Look at the person sitting beside you.

Look at the light coming through the windows.

Listen to the voices around you.

Think about the people who have loved you.

Think about the ordinary things that sustain you.

Food.

Shelter.

Friendship.

A cup of coffee.

A conversation.

A child’s laughter.

A familiar hymn.

A quiet moment.

These things can seem so ordinary that we hardly notice them.

But perhaps they are small green shoots of grace.

God is still planting.

God is still providing.

God is still giving life.

The question is:

Can we see it?

---

3. We Are Placed Here for a Purpose

And then we come to verse 15:

“The Lord God took the human being and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it.”

This is where the story becomes very personal.

God doesn’t simply make the human being and leave him wondering what to do.

God gives him a place.

And God gives him something to care for.

The Hebrew words behind “till” and “keep” are rich.

Avodah carries the sense of work, service, even worship.

Shamar means to keep, watch over, guard, protect.

So the picture is not of a human being standing over creation as its master.

It is much more like a gardener caring for something that belongs to God.

That changes the way we think about our lives.

Perhaps our calling is not primarily about becoming important.

Perhaps it is about becoming faithful.

We live in a world that constantly tells us that greatness means having more.

More influence.

More money.

More recognition.

More followers.

More success.

But Genesis gives us another picture.

The first human being is not given an empire.

He is given a garden.

A piece of God’s creation to tend.

To care for.

To protect.

And maybe your garden is much smaller than you think.

For one person, it may be a family.

For another, it may be a workplace.

For another, a congregation.

For another, a neighbour who needs kindness.

For someone else, it may simply be the care of their own heart and soul.

And all of these things matter to God.

If you are a parent and you are exhausted from caring for your children, that ordinary work matters.

The meals you prepare.

The stories you read.

The patience you sometimes have to find when you think you have none left.

That can be avodah.

Holy service.

If you go to work every day, perhaps your calling is not simply the job description on your contract.

Perhaps it is the way you treat people.

Your honesty.

Your patience.

Your willingness to help someone who is struggling.

That can be shamar.

Keeping.

Guarding.

Caring.

If you are an artist, perhaps your work is one way of reflecting the beauty of the Gardener.

If you are elderly and your physical strength is no longer what it once was, your life has not lost its purpose.

Your prayers matter.

Your stories matter.

Your presence matters.

You may be tending the garden in ways you don’t even realise.

And perhaps some of us need to hear this very clearly:

You do not have to be famous to have a meaningful life.

You do not have to change the whole world.

You don’t have to accomplish something extraordinary every day.

God may simply be asking you to faithfully tend the little patch of ground that has been placed in your care.

Your family.

Your friendships.

Your work.

Your church.

Your neighbourhood.

Your own heart.

That is enough.

---

4. The Gardener Is Still Here

And perhaps this is where the Gospel begins to touch the story.

Because we know something the people who first heard Genesis did not yet know.

We know the story of another garden.

We know that human beings failed to care for God’s garden.

We know about sin.

We know about brokenness.

We know what happens when we try to take God’s place.

But we also know that God did not abandon us.

The Gardener kept coming.

And eventually, God came among us in Jesus.

Jesus entered our dust.

Jesus breathed our air.

Jesus walked our roads.

Jesus touched our wounds.

Jesus entered our suffering.

And even when we turned away from God, God did not turn away from us.

The Gardener came looking for us.

So perhaps this passage is not simply telling us what we should do.

It is reminding us who God is.

The God who forms us.

The God who breathes life into us.

The God who plants.

The God who provides.

The God who entrusts.

And the God who comes looking for us when we are lost.

---

5. A Moment to Listen

So, as we come toward the end of this sermon, I don’t want to give you another list of things you need to remember.

Instead, I want to give you a moment.

A moment to listen.

In a little while, I am going to be quiet.

And perhaps that will feel uncomfortable.

We are not very good at silence anymore.

We are used to filling every empty space with something.

Words.

Music.

Phones.

News.

Conversation.

But for one minute, let’s leave the space empty.

And ask yourself:

Where has God planted me?

What has God entrusted to my care?

What in my life needs tending?

What needs protecting?

Where do I need God’s breath today?

Don’t worry about finding the perfect answer.

Just listen.

Perhaps there is a person God brings to your mind.

Perhaps there is a situation.

Perhaps there is something in your own heart that needs attention.

Perhaps you simply need to hear again that you are loved.

So let us be quiet.

Let us breathe.

Let us remember the ground beneath our feet.

And let us listen for the Gardener.

[Pause for approximately one minute.]

---

Conclusion

We began with dust.

We spoke about breath.

We looked at a garden.

And we remembered our calling.

Dust.

Breath.

Garden.

Vocation.

That is who we are.

We are creatures of the earth, sustained by the breath of God.

And we have been given something precious to tend.

So when you leave this place today, don’t imagine that the important part of worship ends when the service ends.

Your garden is waiting.

Someone may need your patience.

Someone may need your forgiveness.

Someone may need your encouragement.

Something in your own life may need tending.

Some part of God’s creation may need your care.

Go and tend it.

Go and keep it.

Go and serve.

And when you become tired, remember:

The garden does not belong to you.

It belongs to God.

And you are not tending it alone.

The Gardener is with you.

So feel the ground beneath your feet.

Take a breath.

Receive the life God gives.

And then go back into the garden.

Amen.

Benediction

Go now as people who have been formed from the earth and filled with God’s breath.

Go into the places where God has planted you.

Tend what has been entrusted to you.

Protect what is precious.

Serve those around you.

And remember that the Gardener goes with you.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

A Night Blessing for the Seekers of Unity. In English and Portuguese.

 Blessed bee the unity seekers, for they will be the true Body of Christ.

With care, love, and gentleness — and just a pinch of irony

May the Lord bless you and keep you, you who seek unity
with such earnest, beautiful, and occasionally exhausting determination.

May you rejoice before the Lord with all your might —
with harps, lyres, timbrels, sistrums, and cymbals,
as David's whole assembly did —
and may your neighbors forgive the noise,
for unity, it turns out, is seldom quiet.

May you rejoice always, as Paul insists,
pray without ceasing,
and give thanks in all circumstances —
even in the circumstances of that committee meeting,
that family dinner,
that thread you should not have read.

And may you remember the guest who stays for dinner.

Zacchaeus climbed a tree just to see —
small of stature, large of hope —
and Jesus, looking up, did not say
"Come down and we shall discuss your position on the matter."
He said: "Come down. I'm eating at your house tonight."

So may unity find you the way salvation found Zacchaeus:
not as a program, a policy, or a five-point plan,
but as a guest who invites himself in,
eats your food,
meets your questionable friends,
and somehow — gently, ironically, gloriously —
leaves your house holier than he found it.

May you seek unity not by winning the argument
but by setting the table.
May you be found, like Zacchaeus, up a tree of your own anxiety,
and may Christ look up and call you down to dinner.

And when you grumble — as the crowd did, as we all do —
that he has gone to be the guest of that sort of person,
may you hear the quiet answer:
Today salvation has come to this house too.

Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks.
And leave a chair empty for the guest who stays.

Amen. And good night — sleep in heavenly, if slightly ironic, peace.

Bem-aventurados os que buscam a unidade, pois eles serão o verdadeiro Corpo de Cristo.

Com cuidado, amor e gentileza — e uma pitada de ironia

Que o Senhor te abençoe e te guarde, você que busca a unidade
com uma determinação tão sincera, tão bela e, ocasionalmente, tão cansativa.

Que você se regozije diante do Senhor com todas as suas forças —
com harpas, liras, tamborins, sistros e címbalos,
como fez toda a assembleia de Davi —
e que seus vizinhos perdoem o barulho,
pois a unidade, ao que parece, raramente é silenciosa.

Que você se regozije sempre, como Paulo insiste,
ore sem cessar,
e dê graças em todas as circunstâncias —
inclusive nas circunstâncias daquela reunião de comissão,
daquele jantar de família,
daquele comentário que você não deveria ter lido.

E que você se lembre do hóspede que fica para o jantar.

Zaqueu subiu numa árvore só para ver —
pequeno de estatura, grande de esperança —
e Jesus, olhando para cima, não disse:
"Desça e discutiremos sua posição sobre o assunto."
Ele disse: "Desça. Hoje vou jantar na sua casa."

Que a unidade te encontre como a salvação encontrou Zaqueu:
não como um programa, uma política ou um plano de cinco pontos,
mas como um hóspede que se convida sozinho,
come da sua comida,
conhece seus amigos duvidosos
e, de algum modo — gentil, ironicamente, gloriosamente —
deixa sua casa mais santa do que a encontrou.

Que você busque a unidade não vencendo a discussão,
mas pondo a mesa.
Que você seja encontrado, como Zaqueu, numa árvore da sua própria ansiedade,
e que Cristo olhe para cima e te chame para descer e jantar.

E quando você murmurar — como a multidão murmurou, como todos nós murmuramos —
que ele foi hóspede de gente daquele tipo,
que você ouça a resposta silenciosa:
Hoje a salvação chegou também a esta casa.

Regozijem-se sempre. Orem sem cessar. Deem graças.
E deixem uma cadeira vazia para o hóspede que fica.

Amém. E boa noite — durma em paz celestial, ainda que levemente irônica.