Beauty finds a way

 An offering of beauty to the 2PC parking lot from our next door neighbors (photo by Mike Willock)



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Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening

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Mike Willock writes: At Second Church earlier this month the preaching text came from 1 Samuel 3, the call of Samuel. It’s a good story: The boy Samuel is serving in the house of the Lord under the old priest Eli at a time when the word of the Lord is rare in the land of Israel. When the lamp of God had not yet gone out, the Lord calls Samuel by name. Samuel runs to Eli, who says, “I did not call you. Go lie down.” When the call comes a third time, Eli realizes God is calling Samuel and tells Samuel to respond, “Speak, Lord . Your servant is listening.” “Speak, Lord . Your servant is listening”. Just six words, but they 1) confirm the relationship between God and Samuel, 2) affirm with conviction that God is still speaking, and 3) that Samuel is ready and willing and waiting to receive and do the word of God. As reformed Presbyterians we know that God still speaks to those who have ears to hear by the power of Holy Spirit, and that God calls us to live out God’s word in love among...
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How Then Shall We Live?

A poem by Ellie Stock , appropriate for the Easter season, Earth Day and National Poetry Month in April. The poem will be included in the liturgy at Second as part of one of the upcoming services this month.     HOW THEN SHALL WE LIVE?   What do we call What calls from the deeps, that pulses through stars and quickens heart’s beat, that surges through waves and cleanses with fire, emerges from dust and breathes soul’s desire? What do we name What mocks human pride, that bends the Tree of Life, sustaining being’s tide?   How do we greet What calls to our deeps, that lasers vulnerabilities and loves us into being, that mourns lost illusions and leaves us defenseless, transforms the present moment and awakens all senses? How do we embrace What eternalizes finitude, that opens wide portals, flooding tears of gratitude?   How do we know What calls us to decide, that gives no guarantee and provides no place to hide, that beckons all...
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Meditations on Mortality

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Mike Willock writes: I love poetry – I always have. In this poetry month at Second, three poems come to mind – all of them old, like me. As aches and pains come and go each day and my mobility decreases, I recall “The One Hoss Shay” (1858) by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The poem is much too long to print here, but the gist is that the Deacon built the shay for the Parson in 1755 so it wouldn’t break down. It had no weak spot – each part was just as strong as the rest. He found the strongest oak and lancewood and ash and whitewood and elm and steel and leather to build it. In 1800 it was good as new and so it stayed until November 1, 1855 when it began to show traces of age. While the Parson was on the way to the meeting house that Sunday morning working on the fifth point of his sermon text he found himself sitting on the ground behind the horse with the shay in bits and pieces all around him.  …It went to pieces all at once, All at once, and nothing first, Just as bubbles d...
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