Slow Television is the term used to describe marathon coverage of an event, typically shown in real-time. The genre gained popularity in 2009 after the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation broadcast a seven-hour train journey. Yes, seven hours, on a train. Sounds—boring. But it’s gained an audience that finds the scenic ride mesmerizing.

The concept behind Slow TV is to show something at the rate it’s experienced instead of the speed with which a narrative drama is told. It’s built around transition and movement instead of tension and plot. Slow TV is a step toward savoring life’s minutes as opposed to counting them.

The poet Francis Thompson wrote of God’s “unperturbed pace.” Thompson meant that God moves methodically, patiently, with steps measured and intentional. We see this slowness even with God’s emotions. In Scripture, the prophet Joel’s call for the people of Judah to repent is grounded in the reality that our God is “slow to anger” (Joel 2:13). Unlike our dramatic narratives, fueled by tempers and flying-off-the-handle selfishness, God takes a different approach. His anger arrives slowly. To a people who had rebelled against Him, God says, “Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God” (v. 13).

God’s anger isn’t like ours. He’s slow to anger, a reality that allows us to return to Him with all our heart.

Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot is best known for enduring classics like “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” and “If You Could Read My Mind.” But one of his lesser-known songs is titled “The Minstrel of the Dawn.” (A minstrel is a troubadour, a singer who puts his poetry to music.) Like us, Lightfoot’s troubadour longs to be “more happy than blue.” Although there are always “blue” things to think about or dwell on, the minstrel chooses to focus on the happy things as the new day dawns and then sing about them.

The minstrel of the psalms, David, penned a similar line: “In the morning I will sing of your love” (Psalm 59:16). David had plenty of “blue” things to dwell on—from enemies ready to attack him to fierce men slandering and conspiring against him. “They return at evening,” he sang, “snarling like dogs, and prowl about the city” (v. 14). But he chose, as the new day dawned, to focus not simply on something happy but on Someone good—God—and then sing of God’s love, “my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble” (v. 16) on “whom I can rely” (v. 17).

You may not be a singer-songwriter, but you can still be a minstrel of the dawn. Like David, you can tell God, “I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love” (v. 16).

In his book Generation to Generation, family therapist and Rabbi Edwin Friedman introduced the phrase “a non-anxious presence.” Friedman’s thesis, written in 1985, is that “the climate of contemporary America has become so chronically anxious that our society has gone into an emotional regression that is toxic to well-defined leadership.” Friedman focused on how chronic anxiety spreads within a system—a family, a workplace, a congregation. Yet in the same way, a leader can offer a non-anxious presence that will spread through a system, becoming a person of peace in the middle of a storm.

Psalm 4 is a psalm of David, written in the middle of one of life’s storms. David was in the grip of anxiety. So, he cried out to God: “Give me relief from my distress; have mercy on me and hear my prayer” (v. 1). While he was fearful for his life, he was also aware that his followers were fearful too: “Many, Lord, are asking, ‘Who will bring us prosperity?’” (v. 6).

David’s decision to trust God created a non-anxious presence in the presence of anxiety! “In peace I will lie down and sleep,” he said. David could rest, because “you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety” (v. 8).

We too can rest in the non-anxious presence God provides. We can spread His peace wherever we go.

For a parent, the death of a child is devastating. But to lose two of your children? Unimaginable! Yet that’s the experience of Australian musician, writer, and actor Nick Cave. In 2015, his 15-year-old son fell from a cliff and died. A few years later, Cave’s oldest child also died. In the grip of such overwhelming grief, how did Cave and his wife keep going? How would you?

Cave attempted to find comfort in the world around him. “It’s the audacity of the world to continue to be beautiful . . . in times of deep suffering. That’s how I saw the world,” he said. “It was just carrying on, being systemically gorgeous.”

Jesus knew the Source of such beauty, and He saw it for what it truly is: the very nature of His heavenly Father. His oft-quoted words in Luke 12—“consider the lilies” (v. 27 esv)—don’t dismiss the reality of suffering in our lives. In fact, they honor our great tragedies by offering an antidote to such harsh realities. Stop and consider the lilies, or the ravens (v. 24), or the sunrise. Christ taught us, “If that is how God clothes the grass of the field . . . how much more will he clothe you!” (v. 28).

In the face of grief and loss, the world’s perspective falls short. Jesus encourages us to consider our Creator God who holds His audacious creation together and cares for us deeply.

Brenda and Eddie got in the car and began their Thursday evening ritual. “Where would you like to eat?” “Oh, Eddie, I don’t care, anywhere is fine, really.” Eddie’s been here before. “Okay, how about The Windmill?” Brenda bristles, “No, anywhere but there!” Eddie sighs. “So where then?” Brenda insists, “Really, anywhere is fine.”

It’s the stuff of comedy sketches, humorous from a distance because we know how maddening it is in the moment.

Sometimes it can be that way in our prayer lives too. We’re too vague. In contrast, the prayer in Daniel 9 reveals Daniel boldly saying what he wants. First, he confesses the sins of his people: “We have sinned and done wrong” (v. 5). Then he makes his requests. “Now, our God, hear the prayers and petitions of your servant” (v. 17). “Lord, listen! Lord, forgive! Lord, hear and act” (v. 19). God owed nothing to Daniel, but such was Daniel’s trust in God’s “great mercy” (v. 18) that he felt free to bring the full weight of his desires.

It’s always right to pray “not as I will but as you will,” as Jesus prayed to His Father the night before He was crucified (Matthew 26:39). But there are also times when saying what we want is the way forward. God honors our boldness when we come before Him with repentant hearts. So be bold, pray what’s on your heart, and entrust it to the God of great mercy.

Born Mary Flannery O’Connor, she’s best known as Flannery O’Connor, one of the American South’s most celebrated writers. Her stories brim with suffering and grace. When her beloved father died of lupus when she was fifteen, a devastated O’Connor threw herself into writing her first novel. Soon she herself was diagnosed with lupus, an incurable disease that took her life at thirty-nine. O’Connor’s writing reflects her physical and mental anguish. Novelist Alice McDermott said, “It was the illness I think that made her the writer that she is.”

We don’t know what the apostle Paul’s “thorn” was (2 Corinthians 12:7), though many have offered conjecture. We do know that Paul said, “Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me” (v. 8). We also know God didn’t do so (v. 9). This humbled Paul. He notes how it kept him “from becoming conceited” (v. 7). Paul’s thorn formed him and made him the apostle that he was. But the thorn wasn’t all, for with the thorn came God’s sufficient grace and perfecting power, so the tormented apostle could declare, “When I am weak, then I am strong” (v. 10).

The thorns in our lives, whatever they may be, form us. They make us who we are. But the thorns aren’t all there is. As Paul and Flannery O’Connor and countless others have witnessed over the long arc of human history: God’s grace is sufficient for us.

There’s a poignant scene near the end of Frederick Buechner’s novel Brendan. The character Gildas stands up to reveal one of his legs missing from the knee down. As he reaches for his walking stick, he loses his balance. Brendan leaps up and catches him.

“I’m as crippled as the dark world,” Gildas says. “If it comes to that, which one of us isn’t?” Brendan replies. “To lend each other a hand when we’re falling. Perhaps that’s the only work that matters in the end.”

In 2 Samuel 9, we find King David desiring to show kindness to anyone still living from the house of Saul (v. 1). There is one, Mephibosheth, “a son of Jonathan; lame in both feet” (v. 3). Mephibosheth is ushered into the king’s presence where he hears these words:

“I will restore to you all the land that belonged to your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table” (v. 7). And he always did.

Scripture is full of unforgettable stories of David and giants and armies and kings and kingdoms—the stuff of movies. But the Bible also remembers this poignant kindness shown toward a person in need—the story of someone lending a hand to another.

After all the big, flashy scenes fade, it’s possible that kindness such as David extended to Mephibosheth is the work that matters most in the end. Lending a hand is the kind of work you and I can be about each and every day.

Her fans knew her as Nightbirde. Singer-songwriter Jane Kristen Marczewski won a following in 2021 on a popular TV talent show. In 2017, she’d been diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer. In 2018, she went into remission. She started touring, but months later the cancer returned, giving her little chance of survival. Amazingly, she recovered and was declared cancer-free. But on February 19, 2022, Nightbirde died.

During her difficult journey, she blogged, “I remind myself that I’m praying to the God who let the Israelites stay lost for decades. They begged to arrive . . . but instead He let them wander, answering prayers they didn’t pray. . . . Every morning, He sent them mercy-bread from heaven . . . . I look for the mercy-bread . . . The Israelites called it manna, which means ‘what is it?’ That’s the same question I’m asking . . . . There’s mercy here somewhere—but what is it?”

The exodus story reveals much about God’s mercy. First, His mercy was promised to the Israelites. “You will be filled with bread” (Exodus 16:12). And second, His mercy may surprise us. “They did not know what it was” (v. 15). Mercy often doesn’t look like what we think. But it’s mercy nonetheless. For the Israelites, it looked like morning manna. For Nightbirde, she wrote of the gift of a blanket from a friend, and her mother’s hands.

What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word “property”? Your mind may go to a piece of real estate. But you might also consider “a quality or trait belonging to an individual or thing”; for instance, the property of a certain type of wood that provides insight about it. What is the wood’s texture? How prone is it to shrinkage? Is it water-resistant? In other words, what are the qualities of the wood that you can depend on?

My wife and I attend a church with a traditional feel—corporate prayers, kneeling, Scripture reading, communion. One of the prayers we pray each Sunday holds this phrase: “But thou art the same Lord whose property is always to have mercy.” Not God’s real estate, but a quality or trait belonging to God—to have mercy not just once in a while but always.

Nehemiah 9 gives us a picture of the Israelites gathered together, fasting, wrapped in sackcloth and ashes (v. 1), confessing their sins and the sins of their ancestors (v. 16). They praised God for His patience in Israel’s history: “Because of your great compassion you did not abandon them” (v. 19). God could have put an end to them or abandoned them, but He never did. Why? That’s not God’s property, for He is “a gracious and merciful God” (v. 31).

In our prayers of confession, let’s include praise for that dependable property of God—His mercy.

’Tis a fearful thing/to love what death can touch. That line begins a poem written over a thousand years ago by the Jewish poet Judah Halevi, translated in the twentieth century. The poet clarifies what’s behind the fear: to love . . . / And oh, to lose.

In Genesis, an outpouring of emotion occurred when Abraham lost Sarah in death. “Abraham went to mourn for Sarah and to weep over her” (23:2). The chapter unfolds the beautiful, grief-heavy story of the loss of one of Scripture’s most memorable characters: Sarah, the faithful wife of Abraham, that old woman who laughed at the news she’d be a mother (18:11-12) but cried in pain as Isaac made his way into this world.

We make much of that crisp, humanity-rich verse in John’s gospel: “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). Jesus’ tears at the tomb of Lazarus emphasized His loss. To love is indeed a fearful thing. The poet Halevi calls it a thing for fools, yet he follows by also naming it a holy thing, which it is, especially for those whose faith is “hidden with Christ in God” (Colossians 3:3).

We love and lose everything from spouses to children to parents to friends to pets, and weeping with painful joy is oh-so-human. Yet for the believer in Jesus, our weeping only lasts for the proverbial night. As David wrote, “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Our Father hasn’t left us bereft of hope.