Blessed Restlessness

Scripture: 3 John 11, 13-14

Inscribed in stone on the south wall of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. is the text of one of the most famous speeches ever given—Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Over time, the words of this short speech have become ingrained in our national DNA. We know its first sentence: “Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” And we know its last ringing phrase: “government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.”

Indeed, the speech is so familiar that we often read past a curious statement that appears right in the middle of it. The statement seems out of place in light of what the speech has come to mean to us. And the statement seems marvelously ironic in light of the fact that it is etched into the Indiana limestone of one of the most impressive and recognizable monuments on the planet. The statement is this: “The world will little note nor long remember what we say here.”

This statement was no show of false modesty on Lincoln’s part. In his vast biography of the President, Carl Sandburg says that Lincoln feared the speech would not “come up to public expectation.” And Sandburg reports that, after delivering the address, Lincoln remarked to a friend: “It is a flat failure and the people are disappointed.”

Indeed, many were. A Chicago newspaper suggested that “The cheek of every American must tingle with shame as he reads the silly, flat, and dish watery utterances of the man who has to be pointed out to intelligent foreigners as the President of the United States.” And a Harrisburg newspaper expressed the hope that “the veil of oblivion [might] be dropped over [the President’s remarks so] that they [would] no longer be repeated or thought of.”

Of course, it didn’t quite work out that way.

Over time, it became clear that Lincoln’s brief, simple, elegant remarks captured something essential about the aspirations of democracy and the nature of self-sacrifice. The speech that everyone thought no one would remember became immortal. And, to compound the irony, the two-hour long oration of Edward Everett, the man actually charged with giving the principal address at Gettysburg that day, has been largely forgotten.

In the second and third letters of John we find a statement even richer in irony than the one that appears in the middle of Lincoln’s famous address. For, in both letters, the author laments the inadequacy of his correspondence and expresses the hope that he will soon have the opportunity to converse with the people to whom he is writing. “I would rather not write with pen and ink,” John declares; I would rather talk with you “face to face.”

It is quite wonderful, really. The author apologizes for the shortcomings of his letters—letters that will find their way into the Holy Bible; letters that will be translated into every known language; letters that will become a part of the best-selling book in the history of the world; letters that will show up in homeless shelters and hospitals, in the mansions of the rich and the tenements of the poor, in obscure rural bus terminals and major urban airports, in spacious hotel rooms and cramped prison cells, in the foxholes of our soldiers, and the foxholes of our allies, and often the foxholes of our declared enemies.

And, while we may smile at John’s statement, we understand it, just as we understand Lincoln’s. For we know what it means to wonder whether we’re making a difference, whether our efforts are changing anything, whether our words are moving people’s hearts, whether anyone hears what we’re trying to say or sees what we’re trying to do or will remember what we have said and done. We know what it means to harbor doubts about whether the good we have done has finally done any good at all.

But there is something inside of us that keeps us at it. There is something in that spirit of ours—which, like the rest of us, is made in the image of the spirit of God—that urges us to keep trying. There is something that moves us to throw our good words and our good works and our good will out into the world despite our doubts. Because it turns out that faith does not just bring us rest. It also brings us restlessness, blessed restlessness, what the great poet George Herbert calls our “repining restlessness.”

Some of you may know a song by the rock group U2 called “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” The title pretty much describes its theme. A while back, I heard an interview with Bono, the lead vocalist of the group, who said that it was a “gospel song.” I knew exactly what he meant. For it is in the nature of faith to look, to seek, to try, to aspire, but also to remain unsatisfied and unsettled, living, as we do, in the unsatisfying and unsettling world as we find it. Our blessed restlessness is the God-given God-driven impulse to refuse to accept conditions as they are and to do the things we can to try to make them better.

Sometimes those will be big things. Sometimes they will be small things. But we persist in doing them because we understand that, at some level, they matter.

The great preacher and author Frederick Buechner seems to delight in stories about small things—often done spontaneously or without fanfare—that end up making a big difference to someone. One day, he says, he was walking along Central Park South in New York City, working his way through the crowds on the busy sidewalk, when a woman going past him said “Jesus loves you.” Buechner reports that she said it in a casual, ordinary voice and kept on walking, but this random gesture had a profound impact him. He writes:

"I [wanted to] catch up with her and say, ‘Yes. If I believe anything worth believing in this whole world, I believe that. He loves me. He loves you. He loves the whole doomed, damned pack of us.’ For the rest of the way I was going, the streets I walked on were paved with gold. Nothing was different. Everything was different … For a moment it was not the world as it is that I saw but the world as it might be, as something deep within the world want to be and is preparing to be, the way in darkness a seed prepares for growth, the way leaven works in bread." (Buechner, The Kingdom of God)

But my favorite of Buechner’s stories concerns one Lyman Woodward, a man about whom you probably know nothing, and about whom Buechner knows only one thing. In 1831, a steeple was added to the New England church where Buechner often preached. The written history of that church reports that, when the construction was finished, “one agile Lyman Woodward stood on his head in the belfry with his feet toward heaven.” Buechner writes:

"That’s the one and only thing I’ve been able to find out about Lyman Woodward, whoever he was, but it is enough. I love him for doing what he did. It was a crazy thing to do. It was a risky thing to do. It ran counter to all standards of New England practicality and prudence. It stood the whole idea that you’re supposed to be nothing but solemn in church on its head just like Lyman himself standing upside down on his. And it was also a magical and magnificent and Mozartian thing to do." (Buechner, The Clown in the Belfry)

So even this ridiculous off-hand stunt ended up making a difference. It found its way into the history of a church. More than a century-and-a-half later, it found its way into a sermon and then it found its way into a book. And, now, it has found its way to you.

I suspect we all have stories like this—stories about little things that people did out of restlessness or impulse but that made a real difference to us. I have an abundance of them. I’ll share a recent one.

There is a family in our community who, within the past few months, suffered a terrible tragedy. I don’t know the family, but about a week ago I happened to be driving past their house. As I did, I glanced over and noticed that someone—maybe a family member, maybe a friend or neighbor—had hung a basket of flowers on the front porch of their home.

Now, on any other day, this might not have had an impact on me. But on that particular day it seized my attention and left me absolutely amazed. Just think about it. Here is this little family, living in a home that must still be haunted by a dark and unrelenting and inexpressible grief. And yet, and yet on every single day someone goes out onto that porch, walks into the light, cares for the flowers, and throws a clear high note of grace and hope and joy out into the universe.

In a way, the basket embarrassed me. It shamed me to think of the weak and self-indulgent ways I wallow in my own struggles—struggles that seem so trivial compared to what that family has endured. Indeed, the basket even seemed to embarrass the world itself, to call it to task for its meanness of spirit, to shame the petty, profane, bickering, banal culture that surrounds us.

But, much more than this, that messy little scramble of flowers woke me up. It shook me up. It elevated me. It blessed me. And, stranger still, I am sure that, in this, I am not alone.

Oh, all the directions our blessed restlessness can take us. It can call us to give a speech, to write a letter, to remind someone that Jesus loves them, to stand on our heads in celebration, or to hang a bright bundle of flowers on a tired old porch. We do these things, not knowing if anyone will hear what we say, or will read what we write, or will believe what we declare, or will share in our displays of joy, or will be moved to smile by the small splashes of color that we toss out onto the world.

We do these things because God made us to do them, and because when we honor that principle life is good and full, and because when we dishonor that principle life is sad and empty, and because in the end it really isn’t any more complicated than that.

We do these things to sustain us until we can see the ones we love—and, finally, the One who loves us—“face to face.”

We do these things without keeping count or expecting repayment.

We do these things understanding, at some basic level, that there is holiness in our unsettledness, that there is blessedness in our restlessness, and that there is gospel in our struggle to find what we are looking for.

We do these things without waiting for the blessings that follow because, deep down, we know that in the doing of them we are already blessed.

So has it always been.

So will it always be.

And the people said: Amen.

The Uncertainty Principle

Scripture: Hebrews 4:12-13

In February of 1927, a German physicist by the name of Werner Heisenberg made a discovery that had profound and far-reaching implications for scientists. Heisenberg was interested in the measurement of subatomic particles, like electrons. But Heisenberg realized that when he tried to measure the position and the momentum of a particle at the same time the results were always imprecise.

It was this imprecision that prompted Heisenberg’s startling and revolutionary conclusion. You see, Heisenberg came to believe that this imprecision wasn’t the result of some human limitation or mistake. Rather, it was simply in the nature of things. Or, to put it differently, Werner Heisenberg theorized that one of the characteristics of the universe—at its most basic and elemental level—is uncertainty.

This idea—known as “Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle”—shocked the scientific world and gave rise to furious debate among the leading theoretical physicists of the day. From our perspective, this may seem like a great deal of unnecessary fuss. After all, if you want to know whether there is a fundamental uncertainty to things you do not need to ask Werner Heisenberg or Albert Einstein. You can ask a philosopher. You can ask a theologian.

Or you can go to an even better source. You can ask a retired assembly line worker who is worried about losing his pension and his medical insurance. You can ask a fifty-year-old automotive engineer who finds himself unemployed for the first time in his life. You can ask a doctor who has to give hard news to one of her patients. You can ask anyone who has a friend or family member serving in Iraq. You can ask someone who has fallen out of love or who does not seem to be able to fall into love. You can ask someone who’s trying to decide whether to begin chemotherapy, take a failing parent off life support, or lend financial aid to a struggling son or daughter who may spend the money on drugs or alcohol.

You could have asked my father. He grew up in poverty during the Great Depression, dropped out of high school to help support his family, watched both of his parents die while he was still a young man, served in the Second World War and was shot at on two different continents, built a successful business that crashed, spent some time in prison, moved to Detroit the year of the riots, and suffered from ill health his entire life. I don’t think my father ever knew anything but uncertainty.

Yes, if you want to know whether there is a fundamental uncertainty to things, all you need to do is ask an expert. That probably includes just about everyone you know. It probably includes you, too.

And the uncertainty principle I’m describing has a deeply troubling dimension to it. For it is when we most need certainty that we may have the most trouble finding it. It is when we face life’s toughest questions that we may come to wonder whether we can find any answers, or, for that matter, whether any answers exist. And yet we have to live with this uncertainty and conflict and contradiction, because that is where life happens. The writer and naturalist Barry Lopez, in his book Arctic Dreams, puts it this way: “One must live in the middle of contradiction, because if all contradiction were eliminated at once life would collapse. There are simply no answers to some of the great pressing questions. [So] you continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of leaning into the light.”

The biblical text before us is a letter written to a group that must have been plagued by conflict and contradiction and uncertainty, perhaps as no group has been before or since: the Hebrews of the mid- to late first century of the common era. Imagine their circumstances. They were members of the Jewish faith and followers of Jewish traditions. In all likelihood, their family, their community, their occupation, their very day-to-day existence was intertwined with that identity. But they had come to believe in the divinity of one of their own, a Jew, a man they had never met, a revolutionary who had divided the religious and political authorities of his time, an itinerant miracle worker about whom they had heard fantastical stories and who was said to have risen from the dead.

And who was guiding them in this new faith? Well, it was a motley crew: a ragtag collection of disciples; a former persecutor of Christians who wrote lots of nagging letters and who now called himself Paul; and countless others who claimed to speak with authority—and how was one to know whether they did or did not? How could you tell who to follow or what to do? Indeed, those early Jewish Christians might have sympathized with an observation made by the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, who once said—probably only half in jest—that “Everything has been figured out, except how to live.”

What the writer of this letter offers to those uncertain people living in those uncertain times is this: God watches you and knows who you are. God sees the thoughts of your mind and the intentions of your heart. God understands you as if you were naked and laid bare before Him and stripped of all pretense and deception. God comprehends your very soul.
Of course, this is not the only time we encounter this message in the scriptures. We run across it periodically and it often comes to us as a kind of warning. God sees everything and judges what He sees. God watches what you do and so you better watch what you do as well.

Now, let us be honest with each other. This message makes us nervous. It intimidates us, maybe even frightens us, perhaps more than a little. And if you have any question about that, try living just one day in a state of constant minute-by-minute awareness of the fact that God is monitoring your past and present and future, observing your every action, and listening to your every thought. It is not an exercise for the faint of heart.

Therefore, most of us, maybe all of us, do not live this way. And we can understand why: this is strong medicine, and so we take it sparingly, and after a while we stop taking it at all. So we conveniently forget that God knows everything we think and do. And, in its own way, this seductive forgetfulness makes life easier and less demanding. But when we cease remembering this basic truth about God’s relationship with us we deprive ourselves of a source of certainty that may help us in some of our uncertain times.

Let me offer an example. In the early nineteen seventies, a study was conducted using Princeton Theological Seminary students as guinea pigs. The seminary students were gathered into a classroom for a discussion period and then dismissed. As the students left the classroom they came across an individual slumped in a doorway and clearly suffering some form of distress. You will not be surprised to learn that the vast majority of those seminary students stopped to see if the individual needed help.

You may, however, be surprised to learn that the students were much less likely to stop if they were told at the end of the discussion period that they were late for an appointment. Under those circumstances, most students bustled past the suffering stranger as if he or she wasn’t there. And, ironically, the seminary students chose to keep their appointment, rather than help the individual, even when their classroom discussion had focused on the story of the Good Samaritan.

Now, we should be fair to those seminary students. Many of them probably just responded to the pressure of the moment without giving the matter any thought. And those who did consider stopping—but didn’t—might have believed that they were making an appropriate choice in morally uncertain circumstances. “Well,” they might have said to themselves, “I have a responsibility to help others but I also have a responsibility to follow the instructions that were just given to me. Lots of people can take care of this stranger. But I’m the only person who can keep my appointment.” We should be fair to those seminary students, if for no other reason than that most of us can see our own decision-making in theirs. Again, let us be honest with each other and admit that we, too, have made thoughtless or self-interested decisions like this and have tried to justify our choices by claiming that we were presented with a complicated and uncertain situation and did the best we could.

On some occasions, such justifications will be true and fair. We will have confronted a situation of genuine moral uncertainty. And we will have made the best judgments we knew how to make, trying our hardest to “lean into the light” as we went along.

But I wonder whether that is the case with the seminary students. I wonder whether the situation they faced really involved any moral uncertainty at all. I wonder whether those students would have walked past the stranger in distress if they had simply remembered that they were making that choice in the sight and in the presence of the living God. I wonder if there are times in our lives when remembering that simple article of faith might help us find some certainty where the temptations of uncertainty have clouded our vision.

Still, there is another—and, in my view, vastly more important—dimension to the idea that God is with us and watching us. It has nothing to do with judgment or correction. It has everything to do with peace and consolation. And it is this: watchfulness is an essential characteristic of love. We know this to be true. We know that this explains why every year millions of parents gather to watch their children play baseball, play soccer, play football, play in the band, play in the orchestra, or even play in the backyard. How will you know if I love you? Check to see if I’m watching.

We are made in God’s image, and so it is with God. God is not the ultimate surveillance program. God does not watch us because He hopes to catch us breaking the rules. God watches us because that is how God finds opportunities to offer us forgiveness and redemption and hope and grace. It is in the knowledge that this is so, and in those opportunities—which arise mysteriously and unexpectedly and in the most improbable ways—that we may find something like certainty even in the midst of the radical uncertainty that surrounds us.

And it is in the nature of forgiveness and redemption and hope and grace that those opportunities will come to all of us, no matter who we are or where we’ve been. My favorite contemporary bluegrass musician, a guy named Bill Bynum (who hails from—of all places—Trenton, Michigan) has a song with a wonderful refrain: “Every sinner has a future; and every saint has a past.” God knows this, because, as the Letter to the Hebrews says, “all are naked and laid bare to the eyes” of God. So God watches us; and knows us; and loves us; and comes to us. And that certainty can carry us through times when no other certainty can be found, because it is certainty enough to keep us going.

In an August evening of 1997, musician Neil Peart learned that his nineteen-year-old daughter, who had left that morning for college, had been killed in an automobile accident. Within ten months, his wife of twenty-two years had been diagnosed with cancer and had died of it. These tragedies, one hard upon the other, left Peart empty and desolate, a ghost of his former self. A year later, restless in his despair, Peart set off on a fourteen-month 55,000 mile journey on his motorcycle, searching for a reason to live.

The uncertainty principle, in its most callous and brutal form, had taken control of Neil Peart’s life. Indeed, just before he set out, Peart wrote to one of his friends, “I don’t know who I am, what I’m doing, or what I’m supposed to do.” Shortly after setting off, someone recognized him and asked if he used to be a musician. Peart responded, “I used to be a lot of things.”
Still, Peart pushed on. He “leaned into the light.” And after a while he could say “I did not really believe in a destination called ‘healing,’ but at least I had begun to believe in the road.”
Sometimes that’s all the certainty we can find: the certainty of the road and the search. And then, along the way, we discover the certainty that someone is watching us; that someone is with us; that someone loves us; that someone has come along for the ride; that someone is trying to help us see the signs and the hazards; that we are not going it alone.

And so, sitting in a Nazi military prison in April of 1943, alone but not alone, in the midst of the most uncertain circumstances imaginable, Dietrich Bonhoeffer could write these words: “It is certain that we may always live close to God and in the light of God’s presence, and that such living is an entirely new life for us; [it is certain] that nothing is then impossible for us, because all things are possible with God; [it is certain] that danger and distress can only drive us closer to God. It is certain that we can claim nothing for ourselves, and may yet pray for everything; it is certain that our joy is hidden in suffering, and our life in death; [and] it is certain that in all this we are in a [relationship with God] that sustains us.”

So what of our old friend Werner Heisenberg? Well, in my view he got it partly right. Sure, the uncertainty principle is fundamental. But it is not foundational. And it is not final. Because it turns out that the universe has another characteristic as well: it is under the watchful eye of the One who made it. And so, praise the Lord, are you.

Amen.

Graceland

Scripture: Colossians 2:13-14

I do not believe in ghosts. But, if I did, I would also believe that Memphis, Tennessee has more than its share of them.

That thought crossed my mind recently as I stood in a hallway of the Lorraine Motel, which now houses the city’s Civil Rights Museum, and looked through a large plate glass window into room 306.

As you may recall, room 306 is where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. rested briefly, took some coffee, met with fellow civil rights leaders, and joked with friends before stepping out onto the balcony where he was assassinated. That balcony marks the place where one of God’s beloved prophets and poets was martyred. In my view, that balcony is holy ground.

But it was room 306 itself that really captured my attention—indeed, almost hypnotized me. It is a dingy, tired, cramped little space that has been preserved just as Dr. King left it when he stepped onto the balcony. The sheets on the bed are rumpled. Cups are scattered around in disarray. It looks indescribably ordinary.

An exhibit I had passed earlier in the museum left me with the same impression. That exhibit described the story behind Dr. King’s famous letter from Birmingham jail—one of the most significant documents in the history of the civil rights movement. You know some of the lines from the letter: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” “Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever.” “We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.” It is a document of signal importance.

Part of the exhibit features a glass case that contains the satchel that one of Dr. King’s lawyers used to carry the letter out of the jail. It is a humble, beaten up old briefcase—another indescribably ordinary thing. One can hardly imagine that this scarred leather bag served as a vehicle to carry words of inspiration to millions of people and multiple generations.

We know that God often chooses to speak to us through indescribably ordinary things. Indeed, at certain times of the year we make it a point to remember that He does so. At Christmas we talk about a stable that was even more dingy, tired, and cramped than room 306. On Palm Sunday we talk about a donkey that was even more humble and beaten up than that scarred leather briefcase.

We might think of the cross in these terms as well. It is a sparse geometric figure, the joining of single horizontal and vertical lines. It can be drawn with two strokes of a pen. It can be signaled with the simple gesture of a hand. It can be made out of two sticks and a tack. In a sense, there is nothing more ordinary than a cross.

Of course, we know that on a dark afternoon two thousand years ago this ordinary thing became the vehicle for an extraordinary message. And we know that this ordinary place became the focal point of extraordinary events. So, understandably and rightly, we glorify the cross.

But when we do so we risk losing sight of just how ordinary, basic, and simple a thing it is. And, more importantly, we risk forgetting that, in the time of Jesus, the cross was a political weapon, a method of state-endorsed terrorism, a means of inflicting unspeakable torture. We risk missing the fact that in its time the cross was a feared and cursed and wretched thing.

And yet—and yet—through His use, God transformed it. God transformed the cross—even the cross. God took this symbol of misery and despair and contempt, this “emblem of suffering and shame,” and turned it into a symbol of eternal life and enduring love, an emblem of audacious hope and amazing grace. How could we believe—how could we believe—that God can so fundamentally transform even the cross itself and yet cannot fundamentally transform us?

Indeed, in this passage in his letter to the Colossians, Paul assures us that God has already begun the work of that transformation. We come to God weak and uncertain and confused and hesitant and jealous and angry—in short, we come to God as human beings, and therefore come to God as human beings have always come, as those undeserving of the love of the one who made us. But God casts all of that aside.

God takes the ledger sheet—the list of foibles and failures and frustrations that we accumulate as we stumble through this mystery called life—and nails it to the cross …. nails it to the cross. God nails it to the cross, and in doing so makes our burdens His. Is there any greater act of love and grace imaginable? Is there any better Good News than this?

Now, there is a subtle difference here between what Paul is saying and what we often hear said. Perhaps you’ve been at a worship service where someone urged you to write your burdens on a piece of paper and throw it at the foot of a cross. Or perhaps you’ve had a well-intentioned friend encourage you to take a burden and “give it to God.”

These sorts of expressions of faith are all well and good, but they may not help us much. We may feel as though we no longer have the strength to carry our burdens, even to the foot of the cross. Or we may hear the kind advice to “give it to God” and think to ourselves “well, I’ve been trying to give this thing away for some time now, but without much luck!”

Paul is saying something different. He is saying that you do not need to carry these burdens to God or give them to God. God has already taken them. God has taken them, and has “nailed them to the cross.”

* * *

Well, I mentioned that I was recently in Memphis, Tennessee, but I didn’t tell you why. Lisa and I were there because Lisa’s mother is a passionate fan of the late Elvis Presley. So, for Christmas, Lisa invited her mother and father to join us for a trip to Elvis’s famous mansion, Graceland.

Now, I have a confession: I’m not all that big an Elvis fan—my father held the view that music went downhill after Bach. But I love my mother-in-law and this is the sort of pilgrimage you make out of love. So off we went.

But, before I talk about the trip, I have one more confession. A few weeks before I was going to preach this sermon I told our senior pastor that my sermon would be called "Graceland." I also told her I had no idea what the sermon would actually be about. I just felt certain that if I was going to a place called Graceland I would have an experience that, as the saying goes, “would preach.” And I think I did.

We drove just south of downtown Memphis and met the tour bus at the building near the parking lot, which houses fourteen different gift shops to meet all your Elvis needs. The bus took us across the street to the mansion, where we fell into a group that got into line with all the other groups. And there we were: the four of us, and every other flavor of humanity that God ever put on this earth. I thought of the Paul Simon song called “Graceland,” where he summarized the diversity of the visitors with the succinct phrase “poor boys and Pilgrims with families.”

Well, there were poor boys and Pilgrims with families. And there were also the young and the old, the fancy and the slovenly, the educated and the unschooled, the gay and the straight, the tattooed and the clean-cut, the hares and the tortoises, the uninitiated and the veterans, the Southerners and the Northerners and the Easterners and the Westerners, the deeply devoted and the mildly curious, the English speakers and the Spanish speakers and the Japanese speakers, the ones who would pause in the Jungle Room to laugh over the shag carpeting on the ceiling, and the ones who would pause at the gravesite to cry over the death of someone who had meant something special to them.

I watched all these people—every one unique, every one with their own hopes and dreams and burdens and problems—work their way through the twists and turns of the various buildings until they found themselves on a winding outdoor path. And I watched as they followed that path until they arrived in the meditation garden, literally at the foot of a tall stone cross. And I thought of the Paul Simon song again. And I remembered these lyrics: “I have reason to believe we all will be received at Graceland.”

I do not know what is on your list. I do not know whether it is a list of things done or undone, words said or unsaid, pain that you have suffered or pain that you have caused, dreams that have been denied or dreams that have been deferred or dreams that have died.

But I know that each of us has such a list, a list of our burdens, a list that is uniquely our own.

And I know this: that no one’s list is greater than God’s power to transform the person who writes it; that God has already taken that list from you; that God has nailed it to the cross; and that God waits to meet you there.

Amen.