Despite all the darkness, human hope is based on the instinct that at the deepest level of reality some intimate kindness holds sway. This is the heart of blessing.
-John O’Donahue, To Bless the Space Between Us

The Prayer

My wife and I stepped through the entryway into our living room late into the night, greeted the babysitter, and asked how everything went. 

“Fine, pretty much. The boys wrestled, and that got a little. . .aggressive. But we all had fun. Your daughter did inform me that my bedtime prayer was incorrect.”

Reading our puzzled expressions, she continued: “She brushed her teeth, got tucked into bed, and informed me, ‘It’s time for you to pray for me.’ So, I said a prayer, said ‘Amen,’ and when I opened my eyes, she told me, ‘You did that wrong. You didn’t say the prayer.’ What would she have been talking about?” 

We smiled, because we knew. Our toddler was referring to the prayer. The one she and her brothers heard every night. We’d lean over their beds, while they cocooned beneath their blankets, and pray the same words over them, night by night. Even today, the last voices they hear before settling into sleep are ours, invoking the well-worn benediction in Numbers 6:

The LORD bless you and keep you; 
The LORD make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; 
The LORD lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. 

Barak

I’ve been pondering the practice of blessing. Our associations with that word are usually anemic. In the South, the term is a vacuous nicety: “Well, bless their heart.” And in social media parlance, it’s a hashtag-humblebrag: when your friend or co-worker or cousin posts the batch of pictures from the vacation at the exclusive resort, or the night at the expensive restaurant, they caption the images #blessed, #blessedlife, #tooblessedtobestressed. 

Barak, the Hebrew verb we translate as “to bless,” in reality carries a whole world of meaning. My former professor David Stubbs observe that “‘Blessing’ is a central organizing image within. . . the overarching story of the Bible.” Blessing begins the story of Scripture. In Genesis, God speaks, and utters heavens and earth, light and darkness, sky and sea, flora and fauna, women and men. Then, the Creator rejoices in their goodness: “and God saw that it was good.” And twice, Genesis tells us that God punctuates his creation with blessing (1.28; 2.3). 

Blessing is the first word in the story, and also the last. In the New Testament correspondence, the final word in the conversation between pastors and churches is blessing. After praising their faith or addressing their divisions, after “remember what I’m telling you!”, or “don’t exclude the poor!”, or “stop fighting!”, there’s benediction:

• “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” Romans 15.13

• “Grace be with all who have an undying love for our Lord Jesus Christ.” Ephesians 6.24

• “Grace be with all of you.” Titus 3.15

In the book that closes the canon, St. John’s wild, apocalyptic revelation finishes with blessing: “See, I am coming soon! Blessed is the one who keeps the words of the prophecy of this book” Revelation 22.7.

That declaration of goodness, the conferral of favor from a voice of ultimate importance — it’s the great ache of human life. It’s desperation for blessing that drives scheming Jacob to impersonate his brother Esau and swindle his aged, blind father. And I think it’s that same yearning for benediction that makes us do more or less what Jacob does: dress up as false versions of ourselves in hopes of hearing some pronouncement of validation and delight. 

The Syrian church father Theodoret of Cyr, in his writings, points out that Christ is the fulfillment and content of each line of Numbers 6. Christ takes on our curse to lavish on us God’s blessing. In Christ, God shines his face on us, graces us, brings us peace. That’s why I think that maybe the most important moment in my week as a pastor arrives at the close of worship, when I clear my throat and pronounce God’s favor in Christ on all gathered, every one of us arriving after a week spent searching for benediction. 

You Belong to God

From a Nazi jail cell, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote in a letter that “Blessing means laying one’s hands on something and saying, ‘Despite everything, you belong to God.’” That, for me, captures the mystery of what happens whenever, and however, we offer God’s blessing. 

Despite it all, you belong to God. 

Whatever’s happened, whatever else is going on, whatever may happen; even still, God keeps you. In Christ, God graces you. You belong to God.

That mystery is what I trust when I dribble baptismal water on a child’s head while her parents look on. That’s what I hope is conveyed as I place a hand in prayer on the shoulder of someone in a hospital bed who’s laboring through their last breaths. Christians dare to believe that there’s a shimmer of divine alchemy and holiness in every last gesture of favor and grace. 

A couple Fridays ago, our family gathered in the driveway with our oldest son. His vehicle was packed, and he was about to pull out, drive away, and begin college life. We paused to pray, and I reached for those same words I’ve invoked every night of his life:

The LORD bless you and keep you; 
The LORD make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; 
The LORD lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. 

Whatever’s ahead, you belong to God.

Bedtime Photo by Richard Stachmann on Unsplash