É a vida!!!!!!!
Blog de reflexão, com cunho religioso ou não.
Saturday, May 16, 2026
DARK HORSE: CAVALO AZARÃO OU CAVALO PRETO?
Friday, May 15, 2026
Night Blessing with humor and irony. In English and Portuguese
Night Blessing
The hour has come when the world finally stops asking things
of you. The last telephone has fallen silent. The last worry has tucked itself
back into the folds of tomorrow. And you, who spent the whole day looking
outward—at faces, at clocks, at obligations—you may now, slowly, turn around.
Look. There is a direction you have forgotten to look at.
Jeremiah knew this: that we spend our lives lost until we
ask the oldest question—which way is Zion? Not a city on any map.
Just that place inside you where the covenant still breathes, the one you made
before you knew how to make promises. Tonight, you don't need to arrive there.
You only need to remember that it exists, and that your face is turned, however
imperfectly, toward home.
But how do you walk in that direction?
Peter, that old fisherman who learned everything the hard
way, left you a staircase in his letter. Not a ladder to climb in a day—God
forbid—but seven steps you can take even in your sleep:
Faith — the small yes you said this morning
without knowing why.
Virtue — the honest thing you did when no one was watching.
Knowledge — the moment you understood that someone else's pain was
not so different from yours.
Self-control — the word you did not say, the hand you did not
raise.
Perseverance — the breath you kept taking when everything in you
wanted to stop.
Godliness — the fleeting awareness, as you watched the sunset, that
something holds all this together.
Brotherly affection — the way your heart softened, just once,
toward someone who annoys you.
And at the top, barely visible but there: love.
You don't need to have finished climbing. You only need to
be on the stairs.
Last Sunday morning, the sermon reminded you of something
you learned so long ago it felt almost embarrassing: the Lord's Prayer. Not the
one you recite with your mouth while your mind runs errands. The real one. The
one Jesus taught when He said, go into your room, shut the door, and
pray to your Father who is in secret.
So here you are. In your room. Door shut. No one watching.
Not even yourself, not really.
And what does that secret prayer say?
Our Father — not my Father,
because that would be too small. Our. Which means the person who
cut you off in traffic. The person you haven't spoken to in years. The person
sleeping under a different roof tonight, or no roof at all. All of us, children
of the same bewildering mercy.
Hallowed be Your name — which is another way of
saying: help me remember that I am not the center.
Your kingdom come — here, in this broken heart
of mine. Tonight. Even now.
Give us this day our daily bread — not
tomorrow's, not last year's. Just enough. Just what fits in these two empty
hands.
Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors —
and oh, there is the splinter. The one you've been chewing on for weeks. The
prayer doesn't let you skip past it. It makes you say as we forgive out
loud, which is terrifying, because what if you don't? What if you can't? But
perhaps the prayer itself is already the first small loosening of that knot.
Lead us not into temptation — which is to say: I
know what I am capable of. Do not let me meet myself at my worst.
Deliver us from evil — from the evil outside,
yes. But also from the evil that wears my own face in the mirror.
And then the strange little ending that the sermon
mentioned, the one that isn't in all the manuscripts but that the Church kept
saying anyway, because it was too true to lose: For Yours is the
kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever.
Not mine. Not yours. Yours.
Now lie down. The bed is not a reward for a day well lived.
It is simply a place where the covenant holds you whether you deserve it or
not. Let the forgiveness you cannot yet feel precede you into sleep. Let the
staircase wait until morning. Let the direction—Zion, home, that unnamable
place where love finally makes sense—be the last thought before your eyes
close.
The Father who sees in secret has been watching this whole
time. Not to catch you failing. To catch you falling—into arms that have been
open since before you knew how to pray.
Sleep, you forgiven one.
Sleep, you unfinished one.
Sleep, you who are, tonight, exactly where you need to be.
Benção
da Noite
Chegou a
hora em que o mundo finalmente para de te pedir coisas. O último telefone se
calou. A última preocupação se recolheu nas dobras do amanhã. E você, que
passou o dia inteiro olhando para fora – para rostos, para relógios, para
obrigações – pode agora, devagar, se virar.
Olhe. Há
uma direção que você esqueceu de olhar.
Jeremias
sabia disso: que passamos a vida perdidos até fazermos a pergunta mais antiga
– que rumo fica Sião? Não uma cidade em nenhum mapa. Apenas
aquele lugar dentro de você onde a aliança ainda respira, aquela que você fez
antes mesmo de saber fazer promessas. Hoje à noite, você não precisa chegar lá.
Só precisa lembrar que ela existe, e que seu rosto está voltado, mesmo que
imperfeitamente, para o lar.
Mas como se
anda nessa direção?
Pedro,
aquele velho pescador que aprendeu tudo do jeito difícil, te deixou uma escada
em sua carta. Não uma escada para subir em um só dia – Deus o livre – mas sete
degraus que você pode dar até dormindo:
Fé – o pequeno sim que você disse
hoje de manhã sem saber por quê.
Virtude – a coisa honesta que você fez quando ninguém estava vendo.
Conhecimento – o momento em que você entendeu que a dor do outro
não era tão diferente da sua.
Domínio próprio – a palavra que você não disse, a mão que você não
ergueu.
Perseverança – o fôlego que você continuou tomando quando tudo
dentro de você queria parar.
Piedade – a consciência fugaz, ao ver o pôr do sol, de que alguma
coisa sustenta tudo isso.
Amor fraternal – o jeito como seu coração amoleceu, nem que uma
vez, por alguém que te irrita.
E no topo, quase invisível mas lá: amor.
Você não
precisa ter terminado de subir. Só precisa estar nos degraus.
Domingo de
manhã, o sermão te lembrou de uma coisa que você aprendeu há tanto tempo que
quase dava vergonha: o Pai-Nosso. Não aquele que você reza com a boca enquanto
a mente faz compras. O verdadeiro. Aquele que Jesus ensinou quando disse: entre
no seu quarto, feche a porta, e ore a seu Pai que está em secreto.
Pois aqui
está você. No seu quarto. Porta fechada. Ninguém vendo. Nem você mesmo, não de
verdade.
E o que diz
essa oração secreta?
Pai
Nosso –
não meu Pai, porque isso seria pequeno demais. Nosso.
Isso inclui a pessoa que fechou o trânsito na sua frente. A pessoa que você não
fala há anos. A pessoa que dorme hoje sob um teto diferente, ou sob nenhum
teto. Todos nós, filhos da mesma desconcertante misericórdia.
Santificado
seja o vosso nome –
que é outro jeito de dizer: ajuda-me a lembrar que não sou o centro.
Venha o
vosso reino –
aqui, neste coração partido. Esta noite. Agora mesmo.
O pão
nosso de cada dia nos dai hoje – não o de amanhã, não o do ano passado. Apenas o suficiente.
Apenas o que cabe nessas duas mãos vazias.
Perdoai
as nossas dívidas, assim como nós perdoamos aos nossos devedores – e ai, aí está o espinho.
Aquele que você vem mastigando há semanas. A oração não deixa você pular essa
parte. Ela te faz dizer assim como nós perdoamos em voz alta,
o que é terrível, porque e se você não perdoa? E se você não consegue? Mas
talvez a própria oração já seja o primeiro pequeno afrouxamento daquele nó.
Não nos
deixeis cair em tentação – que é o mesmo que: eu sei do que sou capaz. Não deixes que eu me
encontre com a minha pior versão.
Livrai-nos
do mal – do
mal lá fora, sim. Mas também do mal que usa o meu próprio rosto no espelho.
E então
aquele pequeno final estranho que o sermão mencionou, que não está em todos os
manuscritos mas que a Igreja continuou dizendo, porque era verdade demais para
se perder: Porque vosso é o reino, o poder e a glória para sempre.
Não meu.
Não seu. Seu.
Agora
deite-se. A cama não é uma recompensa por um dia bem vivido. É simplesmente um
lugar onde a aliança te sustenta, você merecendo ou não. Deixe o perdão que
você ainda não consegue sentir preceder você no sono. Deixe a escada para a
manhã. Deixe a direção – Sião, o lar, aquele lugar sem nome onde o amor
finalmente faz sentido – ser o último pensamento antes de seus olhos se
fecharem.
O Pai, que
vê em secreto, tem vigiado todo esse tempo. Não para te pegar falhando. Para te
pegar caindo – em braços que estão abertos desde antes de você saber rezar.
Durma, você
que foi perdoado.
Durma, você
que está inacabado.
Durma, você
que está, esta noite, exatamente onde precisa estar.
Ascension Day sermon - Scripture: John 17:20–26 - May 14th 2026
Entrusted with His Glory: A Prayer for the Ascended Church
Introduction: The Paradox of the Empty Throne
My brothers and sisters in Christ, today is Ascension Day.
Forty days have passed since the stone rolled away from the tomb. In our Gospel
reading, however, we are not standing on the Mount of Olives watching Jesus
rise into the clouds. We are kneeling in an upper room the night before He
died.
At first glance, this seems odd. Why would the lectionary
give us John 17—a prayer spoken on Maundy Thursday—for a feast about a throne
in heaven? Because the Church, in her ancient wisdom, knows that you cannot
understand where Jesus is going unless you understand what He
is praying for.
In John 17, Jesus is not just a friend saying goodbye to His
disciples. He is the High Priest crossing the veil. He is the King preparing to
ascend His throne. And in verses 20–26, He stops praying for the eleven men in
the room. He looks through time. He looks at you.
I. The Gaze of the Ascended High Priest (v. 20)
Listen to His words: “I do not ask for these only,
but also for those who will believe in me through their word…”
Do you realize what just happened? In the shadow of the
cross, faced with betrayal and death, Jesus was not consumed by His own
suffering. He was consumed by you. He prayed for the generation of
the apostles, but He also prayed for the Roman centurion, for the medieval
monk, for the missionary in Africa, and for the tired parent sitting in a pew
in the 21st century.
If Jesus prayed for you before He had even
secured your forgiveness on the cross, how much more is He praying for
you now that He is seated at the right hand of the Father?
Ascension Day is the day we celebrate that our High Priest didn't disappear. He
simply moved from the battlefield to the command center.
II. The Mission of Unity (v. 21-23)
What does Jesus ask for? He asks for one thing, repeated
three times like a drumbeat: “That they may all be one.”
Why is unity so critical to the Ascension? Because the
Ascension is about visibility. The disciples could no longer point to a
sandaled foot or a scarred hand to prove who God was. From now on, the world
would see Jesus through the Church.
Jesus prays, “That the world may know that you sent
me.” How will the world know? Not through billboards or political
power. Through a community of forgiven sinners who love each other as radically
as Jesus loved them.
This is the hardest part of the Christian life. We are good
at believing in Jesus; we are terrible at loving each other. We split over
hymns, over politics, over carpet colors. But on Ascension Day, Jesus reminds
us that our bickering isn't just rude—it is a theological contradiction. When
we refuse to forgive, we blur the image of the ascended Christ to a watching
world.
III. The Gift of Glory (v. 22-24)
Then Jesus says something breathtaking: “The glory
that you have given me I have given to them.”
Stop and think. On Ascension Day, we celebrate Jesus taking
up His divine glory. But He tells us that He has already given that same glory
to us. What is this glory? It isn't a halo. It isn't superpowers. In John’s
Gospel, the glory of God is the invisible weight of His love made visible in
self-sacrifice.
Jesus is saying: “Just as I showed the Father’s love
by washing feet and dying for enemies, I am giving you the capacity to do the
same.” You share in the Ascension glory whenever you choose humility
over pride, service over status, and reconciliation over resentment.
And note the promise: “I desire that they also be
with me where I am” (v. 24). The Ascension is not a separation. It is
a preparation. Jesus went ahead to prepare a place, but He sent the Spirit to
prepare the guest. You are already seated with Him in the heavenly places
(Ephesians 2:6). The rope of prayer ties you to the throne.
IV. The Threefold Love (v. 25-26)
Jesus concludes this magnificent prayer with a revelation of
the Trinity. “I made known to them your name... that the love with
which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”
What is the Ascension ultimately about? It is about a love
so strong that it could not be contained by a tomb, nor limited by a single
body in Palestine. On Ascension Day, Jesus withdraws His physical presence so
that He might extend His spiritual presence to everyone, everywhere.
Because He ascended, He is not limited to Jerusalem. He is
here, in this bread and wine. He is here, in the gathering of two or three. He
is here, in you.
Conclusion: Living Between the Ascension and the Return
So where does this leave us? We live between the Ascension
and the Return. Jesus has His hand on the door of heaven, but He has not yet
opened it to bring us home.
Until then, remember three things:
- You
are prayed for. When you doubt your salvation, remember: the Man
with the nail prints is praying for you right now.
- You
are unified. The person in the pew next to you who drives you
crazy? They are the evidence of God’s love. Love them. It proves the
Ascension is real.
- You
are glorious. Not glorious in yourself, but carrying the weight
of Christ’s love.
Today, as we celebrate the King taking His throne, do not
look up into the sky with bewildered faces like the disciples in Acts. Look
around at the Church. Look at the bread and wine. Look at the mission field.
The King is not absent. He is ascended. And because He lives, we can love.
To Him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to
present you blameless before His glory... to the only God our Savior, through
Jesus Christ our Lord, be glory, majesty, dominion, and authority, now and
forevermore. Amen.
Thursday, May 14, 2026
Ascension Night Blessing with Humor – In English and Portuguese
A Night Blessing for Ascension Eve
(with a wink from the One who lifts up and lets go)
Beloved, as this Ascension Day draws its breath and tucks
itself into dusk, rest your weary feet and your wondering heart. The sky still
holds the shape of His leaving—but do not strain your eyes. He promised not to
vanish, only to pray from a different room.
Tonight, Proverbs 23:17 whispers a sly, sweet truth: Do
not let your heart envy sinners. Go on—admit it. You’ve looked at
those who seem to carry no weight of faith, who sleep soundly without a single
"Amen," and you’ve felt a flicker of something silly. God smiles.
Envy? For that? Child, you’ve tasted the honey of His name in the
dark. They chase shadows; you’ve been held. So let the envy go—it’s a bad fit,
like trying to wear someone else’s nightmare.
Instead, be zealous for the fear of the Lord all day long.
But tonight? Tonight, even zeal can take off its shoes. The fear of the Lord is
not a terror but a tender, hilarious awe—the kind that laughs when you realize
you’ve been trying to impress the One who made the womb you grew in.
And listen to Luke 24:46-48, still warm from the resurrected
mouth of Christ: Thus it is written, that the Messiah should suffer and
on the third day rise from the dead, and that repentance for the forgiveness of
sins should be proclaimed in His name to all nations. You are a
witness of these things. That’s the line. Not "expert." Not
"hero." Witness. And a witness sometimes falls
asleep mid-story. God finds that endearing.
Now, a glance back at last Sunday’s sermon—Matthew 6, the
Lord’s Prayer. Remember? You practiced praying without performing. You fumbled
"Hallowed be Thy name" while chopping onions. You whispered
"Give us this day our daily bread" and meant it, even the crumbs. And
that hardest line: Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. God’s
humor shows up right there—because you know exactly whom you haven’t forgiven,
and God knows you know, and still He pulls the chair closer and says,
"Let’s talk about it tomorrow. For now, sleep."
Here is the gentle joke of Ascension Day: Jesus lifted His
hands and blessed them—and while He was blessing, He rose. He didn’t stop
blessing to leave. The blessing was the leaving. So tonight,
you are not abandoned. You are sent. Sent to bed. Sent to dream. Sent to wake
tomorrow as a witness who still needs to practice the Our Father one more
time—which is exactly why grace is endless.
So close your eyes.
Let envy fall off like a coat you never liked.
Let repentance feel less like shame and more like turning toward a warm light.
Let forgiveness be a muscle that twitches in your sleep, learning to rest.
And let the God who laughs at our solemn little prayers and weeps at our real
wounds tuck this night around you like a blanket with a hole in it—still warm,
still yours.
Blessing:
May the Risen One who ascended not to leave but to intercede
whisper your name once, just as you drop off.
May the Holy Spirit—that divine sense of humor—
remind you in a dream: You are not the point. You are the beloved.
And may you wake tomorrow with the audacity to pray,
"Our Father,"
as if you mean it.
Which, by grace, you finally do.
Sleep gently beneath the open sky of His
absence-which-is-presence. Amen.
Uma
Benção para a Noite da Véspera da Ascensão
(com uma piscadela dAquele que eleva e ao mesmo tempo solta)Amado(a),
enquanto este Dia da Ascensão suspira e se aconchega no crepúsculo, descanse
seus pés cansados e seu coração que se pergunta. O céu ainda guarda a forma da
partida Dele — mas não force os olhos. Ele prometeu não desaparecer,
apenas orar de um cômodo diferente.
Esta noite,
Provérbios 23:17 sussurra uma verdade doce e safada: Não tenha inveja
dos pecadores. Vamos lá, admita. Você já olhou para aqueles que parecem não
carregar peso algum de fé, que dormem tranquilamente sem um só
"Amém", e sentiu um lampejo de algo tolo. Deus sorri. Inveja? Disso?
Filho(a), você já provou o mel do nome dEle no escuro. Eles correm atrás de
sombras; você foi abraçado(a). Então deixe a inveja de lado — ela não serve em
você, como tentar vestir o pesadelo de outra pessoa.
Em vez
disso, tenha zelo pelo temor do Senhor o dia todo. Mas hoje à noite? Esta
noite, até o zelo pode tirar os sapatos. O temor do Senhor não é um terror, mas
um espanto terno e hilário — aquele tipo que faz rir quando você percebe que
estava tentando impressionar Aquele que fez o útero onde você cresceu.
E escute
Lucas 24:46-48, ainda quente da boca ressuscitada de Cristo: Assim está
escrito: que o Cristo haveria de padecer e ressuscitar dentre os mortos no
terceiro dia, e que em seu nome se pregasse arrependimento para remissão de
pecados a todas as nações. Vocês são testemunhas dessas coisas. Esta é a
frase. Não "especialista". Não "herói". Testemunha.
E uma testemunha às vezes pega no sono no meio da história. Deus acha isso
adorável.
Agora, um
olhar de volta ao sermão de domingo passado — Mateus 6, o Pai-Nosso. Lembra?
Você praticou orar sem representar. Você gaguejou "Santificado seja o Teu
nome" enquanto cortava cebolas. Sussurrou "O pão nosso de cada dia
dá-nos hoje" e falou sério, até as migalhas. E aquela linha mais
difícil: Perdoa-nos as nossas dívidas, assim como nós perdoamos aos
nossos devedores. O humor de Deus aparece bem aí — porque você sabe
exatamente a quem ainda não perdoou, e Deus sabe que você sabe, e mesmo assim
Ele puxa a cadeira para perto e diz: "Vamos falar disso amanhã. Por ora,
durma."
Eis a piada
gentil da Ascensão: Jesus levantou as mãos e os abençoou — e enquanto
abençoava, subiu ao céu. Ele não parou de abençoar para partir. A bênção era a
partida. Então esta noite você não está abandonado(a). Você está enviado(a).
Enviado(a) para a cama. Enviado(a) para sonhar. Enviado(a) para acordar amanhã
como uma testemunha que ainda precisa praticar o Pai-Nosso mais uma vez — e é
exatamente por isso que a graça é infinita.
Então feche
os olhos.
Deixe a inveja cair como um casaco que você nunca gostou.
Deixe o arrependimento soar menos como vergonha e mais como um virar-se em
direção a uma luz quente.
Deixe o perdão ser um músculo que se contrai enquanto você dorme, aprendendo a
descansar.
E que o Deus que ri das nossas orações solenes e chora sobre nossas feridas
reais aconchegue esta noite ao redor de você como um cobertor com um buraco —
ainda quente, ainda seu.
Benção:
Que o
Ressuscitado que subiu não para partir, mas para interceder
sussurre seu nome uma única vez, bem quando você estiver apagando.
Que o Espírito Santo — aquele divino senso de humor —
lhe lembre num sonho: Você não é o ponto principal. Você é o amado.
E que você acorde amanhã com a audácia de orar:
"Pai Nosso",
como se realmente quisesse dizer isso.
O que, pela graça, finalmente você quer.
Durma
suavemente sob o céu aberto da ausência dEle que é, na verdade, presença. Amém.
Wednesday, May 13, 2026
Night Blessing with Gentle Irony and Scripture – in English and Portuguese
A Night Blessing for the Small & Sleepy Sovereigns
So, you have managed another day. You rose, you fretted, you
folded your laundry or your spreadsheets, and you did not, for the most part,
let the world fall apart. Congratulations. The wind of your own importance was,
for a few hours, quite bracing.
But now the light fails, and the bright day’s bluster
settles into dusk. And here is the irony that stings like kindness: “In
whose hand is the life of every living thing” (Job 12:10). Not in your
hand. Not in your to-do list or your anxious plans. Every breath of every
sparrow, every sigh of every stranger—held in a palm much wider than your own.
You rehearsed the Lord’s Prayer last Sunday, did you not?
Those dangerous words: Give us this day our daily bread. Not
tomorrow’s. Not next year’s retirement. Just today’s crust, today’s grace.
And forgive us, because you have already, by now, said
something sharp to someone you love, or failed to say something tender. Forgive
us, because you are tired, and tired people are not always wise.
So rest. Not because you have earned it—there’s the irony
again—but because the Father who sees in secret (Matthew 6:6) has been watching
the show of your busy day with an amused and gentle sorrow. He does not need
your eloquence. He does not need your performance. He only needs your empty
hands.
And as Jesus said from the terrible cross, that strange
pillow of wood: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” (Luke
23:46). Into hands, not achievements. Into mercy, not résumés.
So tonight, blessed creature, commend your own tired spirit.
Lie down like a child who has forgotten to be impressive. The wind that blew so
bright at noon is now a whisper over the grass. You are held. You are small.
And that, finally, is the whole of the blessing.
Amen. Now sleep. You are not God. What a relief.
Uma Bênção Noturna para os
Pequenos e Sonolentos Soberanos
Então, você
conseguiu passar por mais um dia. Levantou-se, se preocupou, dobrou suas roupas
ou suas planilhas, e não deixou o mundo desmoronar — pelo menos na maior parte
do tempo. Parabéns. O vento da sua própria importância foi, por algumas horas,
bem revigorante.
Mas agora a
luz se apaga, e a ventania do dia claro se acalma no crepúsculo. E eis a ironia
que arde como carinho: “Nas suas mãos está a vida de todo ser vivo” (Jó
12:10). Não nas suas mãos. Nem na sua lista de tarefas, nem nos seus planos
ansiosos. Cada respiro de cada pardal, cada suspiro de cada estranho — tudo
isso é sustentado numa palma muito mais ampla que a sua.
Você
recitou o Pai-Nosso no último domingo, não foi? Aquelas palavras
perigosas: O pão nosso de cada dia dá-nos hoje. Não o de
amanhã. Não a aposentadoria do ano que vem. Só a crosta de hoje, a graça de
hoje. E perdoa-nos, porque a essa altura você já deve ter dito
algo ríspido para alguém que ama, ou deixou de dizer algo afetuoso. Perdoa-nos,
porque você está cansado, e gente cansada nem sempre é sábia.
Portanto,
descanse. Não porque você mereceu — aí está a ironia de novo — mas porque o Pai
que vê em secreto (Mateus 6:6) está observando o espetáculo do seu dia
atarefado com um sorriso alegre e uma tristeza meiga. Ele não precisa da sua
eloquência. Ele não precisa da sua performance. Ele só precisa das suas mãos
vazias.
E como
Jesus disse da terrível cruz, aquela estranha almofada de madeira: “Pai,
nas tuas mãos entrego o meu espírito” (Lucas 23:46). Em mãos, não em
conquistas. Em misericórdia, não em currículos.
Portanto,
nesta noite, criatura abençoada, entregue o seu próprio espírito cansado.
Deite-se como uma criança que esqueceu de ser impressionante. O vento que
soprava tão forte ao meio-dia agora é um sussurro sobre o capim. Você está
segura(o). Você é pequena(o). E isso, finalmente, é toda a bênção.
Amém. Agora durma. Você não é Deus. Que alívio.
Tuesday, May 12, 2026
A North East Brazil style Night Blessing Prayer. In English and Portuguese
Blessing for the Hour When the Rooster Sleeps on One Leg
(To be spoken at twilight, or when the heart is heavier
than a full waterskin)
My Lord God of the catingueira tree and of the unending
starry sky,
You who regard the prayer of the destitute (Psalm 102:17) —
not the prayer of the one with a silken tongue and a buttoned waistcoat,
but the prayer of the poor devil whose stomach knots itself in the dark,
the one who has no house number, only a thirst and a name written in the dust.
Tonight, Lord, I am that destitute.
I do not come with the hem of my robe washed clean.
I come with the mud of the road still on my feet,
and a lump in my throat the size of a dry bean.
Last Sunday, the preacher — a good man, with the voice of a
cracked bell —
reminded us of Your Son, Jesus the Backlands King,
who said: When you pray, don't stand on the street corners hemming and
hawing like the pagans.
No, Lord. You told us: Go into your inner room. Shut the door. Speak to
the Father in secret.
But my God, my inner room is this hovel of four crooked
walls.
And sometimes I don't even have the words.
Sometimes my prayer is just my open hand in the dark.
Then Your Holy Spirit nudges me and says: Remember
James 5:16 —
Confess your trespasses to one another. Pray for one another, that you may
be healed.
Ah, Lord! This is the hardest part!
To confess to my brother that I have eaten his portion of forgiveness.
To say to my sister: "I held a grudge against you since the drought of
'98."
To admit that I have prayed more for rain than for righteousness.
But the sermon said — and my soul shuddered — that the
Lord’s Prayer is not a magic formula, not a pretty string of beads.
It is a contract signed with charcoal and tears:
Our Father — You, who are more Father than my
own father ever knew how to be.
Hallowed be Your name — even when I curse my own luck.
Your Kingdom come — even if it has to kick down my door.
Give us this day our daily bread — the crust, the crumb, the
courage to share it.
Forgive us our debts — Lord, the oxcart of my sins is piled higher
than a termite mound.
As we forgive our debtors — here is the splinter in my foot: I have
a brother I still won't look in the eye.
So tonight, before the owl begins his second shift,
I pray the prayer of the destitute that You never despise:
"Lord, I can't forgive by myself. You will have to forgive in me."
And I pray the prayer of the righteous that James promised
is powerful and effective:
not because I am righteous, but because I am seen.
You see me, Lord, wrestling with my grudges like Jacob with the angel.
You see me trying to shut the door of my inner room while the world bangs on it
with a fist.
Now, Lord, the night comes. The cold comes. The memory of my
sins comes scratching like a stray dog.
But I stretch out my hands — empty as a beggar's bowl — and I ask:
Bless this sleep.
Let no nightmare be the devil’s counterfeit sermon.
Let every breath I forget to take be held in the palm of Your
destitute-regarding hand.
And if I do not wake tomorrow,
let it be said of me that I died trying to pray the way Jesus
taught —
not with swollen words, but with a quiet heart,
a confessed lip,
and a forgiveness that cost me blood.
For Yours is the kingdom — not mine.
The power — not the politician's.
And the glory — not the fame of this world.
Now and forever. Amen.
(He makes the sign of the cross on the forehead of the
night, spits once to ward off false piety, and lies down like a just man — or
at least like one who is trying.)
Bênção pra Hora em que o Galo Dorme Numa Perna Só
(Pra ser
dito no crepúsculo, ou quando o coração pesa mais que um odre cheio)
Meu Deus
Senhor da catingueira e do estrelêro sem fim,
Vós que olhais para a oração do desamparado (Salmo 102:17) —
não a oração do sujeito de língua doce e colete abotoado,
mas a oração do pobre diabo cujo estômago se dá nó no escuro,
daquele que não tem número de casa, só uma sede e um nome escrito no chão de
terra.
Hoje à
noite, Senhor, eu sou esse desamparado.
Não venho com a barra da túnica lavada em sabão de coco.
Venho com a lama da estrada ainda nos pés,
e um galo na garganta do tamanho de um feijão de corda.
Domingo
passado, o pregador — homem bom, voz de sino rachado —
nos lembrou de Vosso Filho, Jesus, o Rei do Sertão,
que disse: Quando rezar, não fique nas esquinas se pavoneando como os
pagãos.
Não, Senhor. Vós nos dissestes: Entra no teu quarto. Fecha a porta.
Fala com o Pai em segredo.
Mas meu
Deus, meu quarto é esta tapera de quatro paredes tortas.
E às vezes eu nem tenho palavra.
Às vezes minha oração é só minha mão aberta no escuro.
Aí o
Espírito Santo me cutuca e diz: Lembra de Tiago 5:16 —
Confessai vossos pecados uns aos outros. Orai uns pelos outros, para que
sejais curados.
Ah, Senhor! Essa é a parte mais difícil!
Confessar ao meu irmão que comi a parte dele do perdão.
Dizer à minha irmã: "Eu guardei mágoa de você desde a seca de noventa e
oito".
Admitir que rezei mais por chuva do que por justiça.
Mas o
sermão disse — e minha alma se arrepiou — que o Pai-Nosso não é fórmula mágica,
não é contas de rosário bonitinhas.
É um contrato assinado com carvão e lágrima:
Pai
Nosso — Vós,
que sois mais Pai do que meu próprio pai soube ser.
Santificado seja o Vosso nome — mesmo quando eu amaldiçôo minha
própria sorte.
Venha a nós o Vosso Reino — mesmo que ele tenha que arrombar minha
porta.
O pão nosso de cada dia nos daí hoje — a casca, a farofa, a coragem
de repartir.
Perdoai-nos as nossas dívidas — Senhor, a carrada de meu pecado
empilha mais alto que murundum.
Assim como nós perdoamos aos nossos devedores — eis aqui o espinho
no meu pé: tenho um irmão que ainda não encaro no olho.
Por isso,
hoje à noite, antes que a coruja comece o segundo turno,
rezo a oração do desamparado que Vós nunca desprezais:
"Senhor, eu não consigo perdoar sozinho. Vós haveis de perdoar em
mim."
E rezo a
oração do justo que Tiago prometeu ser poderosa e eficaz:
não porque eu seja justo, mas porque sou visto.
Vós me vedes, Senhor, brigando com minhas mágoas como Jacó com o anjo.
Vós me vedes tentando fechar a porta do meu quarto enquanto o mundo bate nela
com um punho fechado.
Agora,
Senhor, a noite vem. O frio vem. A lembrança dos meus pecados vem raspar que
nem cachorro sem dono.
Mas estendo as mãos — vazias como a cuia do pedinte — e peço:
Abençoai
este sono.
Que nenhum pesadelo seja o sermão falsificado do demo.
Que cada respiração que eu esquecer de puxar seja guardada na palma da Vossa
mão que olha pro desamparado.
E se eu não acordar amanhã,
que se diga de mim que morri tentando rezar do jeito que Jesus
ensinou —
não com palavras inchadas, mas com o coração sossegado,
o beiço confessado,
e um perdão que me custou sangue.
Porque
Vosso é o Reino — não o meu.
O poder — não o do político.
E a glória — não a fama deste mundo.
Agora e
sempre. Amém.
(Faz o
sinal da cruz na testa da noite, cospe três vezes pro lado pra espantar a falsa
piedade, e se deita como um homem justo — ou pelo menos como um que está
tentando.)
Monday, May 11, 2026
Night Blessing with Humor and Scripture – in English and Portuguese
A Night Blessing for the Weary & the Loved
That sermon on Matthew 6 keeps sitting with me, doesn’t it?
The Heart of Asking: Learning to Pray from the Father and a Mother’s Love.
And I realized—we spend all day trying to say the right thing,
the holy thing, the grown-up faith thing…
…and then night falls, and we can barely remember if we brushed our teeth, let
alone prayed without “vain repetitions.”
So tonight, let’s keep it simple.
Blessing:
Beloved, listen:
There is no one holy like the Lord (1 Samuel 2:2) –
no one who holds your stumbling words like a mother holds a child’s
poorly-drawn heart.
And there is no Rock like our God –
solid enough to lean your exhaustion against,
even when your prayers feel more like sighs than sonnets.
The angels around the throne never stop saying,
“Holy, holy, holy” (Revelation 4:8).
Day and night. No yawning. No “I’ll finish this prayer in the morning.”
Frankly, it’s a little show-offy.
But you?
You are not an angel.
Thank God.
You are dust blessed with breath,
and the Father who taught you to pray –
“Our Father…” –
meant it as an invitation, not an exam.
So here is the humorous, gentle truth of this night:
You don’t have to be eloquent.
You don’t have to stay awake.
You don’t have to convince a Mother’s heart to love you.
She already tucked you in before you even asked.
A little prayer to fall asleep on:
Holy One, holy Three,
I forgot half of what I meant to say today.
But You remember my frame – that I am but dust,
and also Your child, with yesterday’s grass stains on my knees.
If the angels can stay up all night singing,
let them. I’m going to sleep on the Rock.
And if I snore through my evening prayer,
just hear it as a quiet “Amen.”
For Yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory –
and also the patience.
Especially the patience.
Amen.
Sleep gently. And don’t worry.
The Father isn’t grading your petitions.
And your Mother’s love?
She’s already pulling the blanket up to your chin.
Uma Bênção para a Noite –
para os Cansados e os Amados
Aquele
sermão de Mateus 6 ainda não saiu da minha cabeça, né?
O Coração do Pedir: Aprendendo a Orar com o Pai e com o Amor de Mãe.
E eu percebi: a gente passa o dia inteiro tentando dizer a coisa certa,
a coisa santa, a coisa com fé de adulto…
…e aí chega a noite, e mal lembramos se escovamos os dentes, quanto mais orar
sem repetições vãs.
Então esta
noite, vamos manter o simples.
Bênção:
Amado(a),
escute:
Não há santo como o Senhor (1 Samuel 2:2) –
não há ninguém que segure suas palavras tropeçadas como uma mãe segura o
desenho torto de um filho.
E não há Rocha como o nosso Deus –
tão sólida que você pode encostar seu cansaço nela,
mesmo quando suas orações parecem mais suspiros do que sonetos.
Os anjos ao
redor do trono nunca param de dizer:
“Santo, santo, santo” (Apocalipse 4:8).
Dia e noite. Sem bocejar. Sem “termino essa oração de manhã”.
Sinceramente, é um pouco exibicionismo da parte deles.
Mas você?
Você não é um anjo.
Graças a Deus.
Você é pó com sopro de vida,
e o Pai que te ensinou a orar –
“Pai Nosso…” –
quis dizer isso como um convite, não como uma prova.
Então aqui
está a verdade bem-humorada e gentil desta noite:
Você não
precisa ser eloquente.
Você não precisa ficar acordado.
Você não precisa convencer um coração de Mãe a te amar.
Ela já te cobriu com o cobertor antes mesmo de você pedir.
Uma
oraçãozinha para dormir:
Santo,
Três vezes Santo,
Esqueci metade do que queria dizer hoje.
Mas Tu te lembras da minha formação – que eu sou pó,
e também Teu filho, com manchas de grama de ontem nos joelhos.
Se os
anjos conseguem cantar a noite toda,
deixa com eles. Eu vou dormir na Rocha.
E se eu roncar durante a oração da noite,
escuta isso como um “Amém” baixinho.
Pois Teu
é o reino, o poder e a glória –
e também a paciência.
Principalmente a paciência.
Amém.
Durma com
calma. E não se preocupe.
O Pai não está dando nota para os seus pedidos.
E o amor de Mãe?
Ela já está puxando o lençol até o seu queixo.
Sunday, May 10, 2026
Rogate Sunday and Mother's day sermon - 10th May 2026
The Heart of Asking: Learning to Pray from the Father and a
Mother’s Love
Text: Matthew 6:5–15 (The Lord’s Prayer)
Occasion: Rogate Sunday (from Latin Rogate, “Ask”)
& Mother’s Day
Introduction: Two Gifts on One Sunday
Grace, mercy, and peace be to you from God our Father and
the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Today is a beautiful collision on the Church calendar. It is
Rogate Sunday—the Sunday when the ancient Latin introit commands us: Rogate,
“Ask!” It is the Sunday when Jesus Himself leans in and says, “Ask, and it will
be given to you; seek, and you will find” (Matthew 7:7). And yet, today is also
Mother’s Day—a day when we honor the women who have taught us, often without
words, what it means to be heard, to be loved, and to be held.
At first glance, a sermon on prayer and a celebration of
mothers might seem like two separate themes. But look again at our text from
Matthew 6. Jesus is not giving a lecture on religion. He is giving a
masterclass on relationship. And there is no better teacher of relationship
than a godly mother—and no greater model of relationship than the Father to
whom Jesus teaches us to pray.
Let us see what happens when Rogate Sunday and Mother’s Day
meet in the prayer closet of Matthew 6.
I. The Problem Jesus Addresses: Prayer That Has Lost Its
Heart (vv. 5–8)
Jesus begins with a warning. He says, “When you pray, you
must not be like the hypocrites.” What was their problem? They loved to stand
and pray in synagogues and street corners—public, loud, performative. Why? So
that they might be seen by others. Their prayer was not an asking. It was
an announcing. They were not speaking to God; they were performing
for people.
Then Jesus says something striking: “When you pray, go into
your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your
Father who sees in secret will reward you.”
Think about that image. A closed door. A quiet room. No
audience. No performance. Just you and the One who already knows what you need
before you ask.
Now, here is where a mother’s love sheds light on this text.
Have you ever watched a mother with a hurting child? The child does not need to
perform. The child does not need eloquent words. The child simply stumbles in,
shuts the door of pride, and says, “Mama, I’m scared.” Or “Mama, I hurt.” Or
sometimes just falls silent in her lap. And the mother—she already knows. She
already felt the tears coming. She was already waiting.
That is the kind of prayer Jesus is after. Not a speech. A
refuge. Not a religious performance. A child running home.
Rogate Sunday asks us: Have we reduced prayer to
a public duty rather than a private dependency? Have we forgotten that we are
not addressing a committee—but a Father?
II. The Model Jesus Gives: The Lord’s Prayer (vv. 9–13)
Then Jesus gives us words. But notice: He does not give a
magic formula. He gives a family portrait. Every petition in the
Lord’s Prayer is a declaration of dependence.
“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name.”
First, it is a relationship. Not “Almighty Ruler” alone,
though He is that. But “Father.” A term of intimacy, trust, and belonging. If
you struggle to believe God is like a good father, then look
at the best mother you know. What does a mother do? She gives life, she
protects, she disciplines with tears, she rejoices over you with singing. God’s
fatherhood contains all the tenderness of motherhood and all the strength of fatherhood.
He is perfect love, whether we call Him Father or Mother in our prayer. The
point is: He is home.
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
This is the prayer of a child, not a creditor. A child does
not earn breakfast. A child receives it. On Mother’s Day, we remember all the
daily bread we never thanked our mothers for: the meals made, the clothes
washed, the fevers cooled, the silent sacrifices. And Jesus says: pray like
that with God. Every morning, every need—ask. Rogate.
“Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our
debtors.”
No mother I know keeps a ledger of her child’s failures. She
might remember, but she does not hold ransom. She forgives because love cannot
hold a grudge. Jesus says: that is how the Father forgives you. And that is how
you must forgive others. Not as a condition of God’s love, but as the proof
that you have received it.
“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
This is the prayer of a child who knows they are not strong
enough alone. A good mother does not throw her child into danger to “toughen
them up.” She walks with them. She warns them. She prays over them at night.
And so our Father in heaven does the same. Rogate—ask for
protection. Not because God is reluctant, but because asking keeps us close to
Him.
III. The Reason Jesus Repeats: The God Who Gives (vv.
14–15)
After the prayer, Jesus comes back to one thing:
forgiveness. “If you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will
also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father
forgive you.”
This is not God being petty. This is God being real.
An unforgiving heart is a closed-off heart. And a closed-off heart cannot
receive grace. You cannot hold a grudge with one hand and reach out for God’s
mercy with the other.
Think of the hardest thing you have not forgiven. Now think
of your mother—if she was a woman of faith. How many times did she forgive you
before you could even say sorry? How many times did she absorb your teenage
cruelty, your silence, your neglect—and still set a place for you at the table?
That is a whisper of God’s own heart. On Rogate Sunday,
Jesus says: Ask for forgiveness. And then, because you have been
forgiven so much, become a forgiver.
IV. Bringing It Home: What Mother’s Day and Rogate Sunday
Teach Each Other
So what do we take home today?
First, to every mother here: Thank you. You have
been living the Lord’s Prayer without even realizing it. You give daily bread.
You forgive debts. You pray in secret, behind closed doors, when no one sees
your tears. You have been to us a living icon of the God who listens. May the
Lord reward you openly for what you have done in secret.
Second, to those for whom Mother’s Day is hard: Perhaps
your mother is gone. Perhaps your mother failed you. Perhaps you long to be a
mother and are not. Or perhaps you are a mother carrying heavy burdens. Hear
Jesus: “Your Father who sees in secret.” The love of God is not less than a
mother’s love—it is the source of it. And when human mothers fall short, the
divine Mother-Father-God gathers you under wings like a hen gathers her brood
(Matthew 23:37). You are not forgotten. Rogate—ask Him to be the
parent your soul needs.
Third, to all of us: Jesus ends this passage by
returning to the beginning. He said in verse 7: “Do not heap up empty phrases.”
But then He gave us simple, deep words. Why? Because prayer is not about the
number of words. It is about the trust of the heart.
On this Rogate Sunday, here is your challenge: This week,
every time you say the Lord’s Prayer (and I hope you say it daily), pause on
the word “Father.” Remember a moment you felt truly safe—maybe in your mother’s
kitchen, maybe in a quiet room. That safety? It is a shadow of God’s presence.
Then ask. Ask for bread. Ask for forgiveness. Ask for
deliverance. Not because God is far, but because He is near. Not because He
needs your words, but because you need His ear.
Conclusion: The Door Is Open
Jesus said, “Go into your room and shut the door.” But here
is the secret: when you shut that door, you are not shutting the world out to
be alone. You are shutting the world out to be with your Father.
And He is already there. He has been waiting. His ear is tilted toward your
whisper. His hand is already reaching for the daily bread you haven’t even
asked for yet.
So today, on Rogate Sunday, do what the word says: Ask. On
Mother’s Day, do what children do: Trust. And in all things,
pray like the loved child of a loving God.
“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name… For yours is
the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever. Amen.”
The peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep
your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen.