...the turning

The solstice moon is like a pearl suspended in the lake
Frozen underneath a spell no human hand can break.
We turn our backs against the wind that drives the bitter cold,
And celebrate the wonders that a new year will unfold.
We turn to friends and family, and mourn the loved ones gone,
And gather them around us as we raise our voice in song.
We turn to feed the fading fire, dream deeply through the night,
And cherish songs that carry us from darkness into light.
We turn to ask forgiveness, and with gratefulness of heart
Turn once again to welcome in the new year as it starts.
And we will sing at the turning of the year,
Knowing we are a short time here.
And so we'll sing at the dancing, spinning, turning of the year.
--- Anne Hills, 2000

The cusp. The edge. A thin place. The turning. Although from living most of my life in an academic setting and a college town I will forever set my true New Year's clock by 'back to school' calendars and new backpacks, there is a certain magic about the clean slate feeling of a brand new calendar year.

One second, 2014. The next, a whole other thing. Just another second, really. But a whole new year, 2015. It stretches out before us, beckoning. What will you do with it? Who will you be? What will you carry with you? What will you leave behind? Is there forgiveness you must grant, bitterness you must let loose, shame you must release? Is there a softness, with yourself or with others, you must pick up for the journey ahead? Steadfastness? Assurance? Do you need trust to be reborn in you this year?

From shadow to sun, then. From the cold, to the rebirth of warmth. From year to year.

The turning.

...walking out of heaven

For He is our childhood’s pattern;

Day by day on earth He grew;

He was tempted, scorned, rejected,

Tears and smiles like us He knew.

Thus He feels for all our sadness,

And He shares in all our gladness.

---Cecil F. Alexander, 1848

“You don’t know how I feel!” “Nobody remembers what it feels like to be my age!” “You have no idea what I’m going through!” Now, whether you are a child or a teen, a young adult just starting out on your own or an elder dealing with the autumn of life, chances are you have felt (if not voiced) these very sentiments. I know I have. There is no emotion so isolating as what this hymn refers to as ‘sadness’; the feeling that others don’t know what you are experiencing is one that builds walls between people, making it even more unlikely that anyone will connect with you. Here’s the thing, though. God knows. Jesus has been there.

The miracle of the incarnation, ‘becoming flesh’, is that part of becoming flesh means being human --- with the aches and pains, the tears and fears, the insecurities and lonelinesses. To shrug off God-ness for a time, Jesus took on skin, and everything that fit inside it --- the jumbled mass of feelings and aspirations that make us real. For this, Jesus walked out of heaven and into Bethlehem.

Our pattern, our goal, in humanity, incarnate. The Christ Child.

...just what I needed

Who would think that what was needed to transform and save the earth
might not be a plan or army, proud in purpose, proved in worth?
Who would think, despite derision, that a child should lead the way?
God surprises earth with heaven, coming here on Christmas Day.
---John L. Bell and Graham Maule, 1987

"Oh, it's just what I needed!" I wonder how many times this refrain was heard around Christmas trees and hearths today as family and friends gathered and opened packages. I also wonder how many different ways there are to speak this simple statement --- "Just what I needed!" "Just what I needed?" "JUST what I NEEDED!" (teen angst version) "Juuuuust what I needed!" (flat tire when you're running late version). The funny thing is, there have been a couple of times I've gotten that gift, you know the one, that I can't quite figure out. I don't know the giver's motivation, or what good it will be to me, or (honestly) whether this person even knows me at all. It's the kind of gift that tempts me to say, in one of it's variations, "Just what I needed?"

The world, then as it does now, clamored for a ruler with some muscle behind his rhetoric. A little firepower to back up his diplomacy. Someone with the guts to stick it to the man, not back down,  to throw off the yoke of Roman oppression. Enemies smell weakness, they will eat you alive. No time, this, for peacemakers, for path-straighteners, for do-gooders, for God's sake.

And then the gift we are given, the one that confuses and confounds, turns out to be our salvation. Turns out to be "just what we needed".

Thanks be to God, on this Christmas Day, that we don't get to pick out our own gifts.

...another chance

Sweet little Jesus boy, they made you be born in a manger.
Sweet little Jesus boy, didn't know who you was. 
The world treat you mean, Lord; treat me mean, too;
but that's how things is down here ---
we don't know who you is.
---Robert MacGimsey

Tonight's the night. The Traveler makes his lonely way from Paradise to a dusty feed trough, from God of the universe to Joe the Carpenter (Jr.), from infinite to fragile. And, we won't know Him. We won't mean to miss Him, but we will search the crowd for majesty. We will listen for fanfare. We will sniff the air for the aroma of incense.

Because we still search for a King

And, over and over, Jesus told us to look for Him in the faces of the overlooked, in the lives of the troubled, in the injustices dealt the least of these. Over and over, Jesus told us the way we treated others at their most powerless was a true reflection of how we'd treat Him, delivered into our hands.

We don't know who You are. But tonight's the night. And another chance to approach the thin place where we may see You, seeing us from the eyes of our sister or brother.

Come, Jesus.

...the whole wide world

Joy to the earth! The savior reigns; let all their songs employ;

While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains repeat the sounding joy.

Isaac Watts, 1719

How very interesting that this beloved carol emphasizes nature’s share in the joy surrounding Christ’s birth! Perhaps the message of joy and hope for the world is just too big to entrust entirely to angels, or to shepherds. The wonders of nature cannot help but bear witness with us to a liberating love big enough to encompass every part of our world. In a world where the Savior reigns, all of us --- rocks, floods, plains, plainsdwellers --- are freed from the curse that binds us to smallness and failure.

Joy to the world…the whole wide world!

...fear find no quarter

Rejoice, rejoice, take heart in the night. 
Though dark the winter and cheerless,
the rising sun shall crown you with light; 
be strong and loving and fearless.
Love be our song and love be our prayer
and love be our endless story;
may God fill every day we share
and bring us at last into glory.
---Marty Haugen, 1983

The calendar tells me we have passed the turning of the year, but my bones don't yet believe it. Something in me isn't convinced the light has begun creeping back into the day, reclaiming minutes from the dark and cold with each revolution of the planet. Funny thing, though --- I know it's coming. I've been here before. I've heard this story. I can 'take heart', even before I see the evidence. And because I know, I can rejoice. I am far from fearless, but I'm working on it.

And working on the fear? That's all about the love, I think. In 1 John, we are told that perfect, or complete, love casts out fear; there is just not room for mature love and mature fear to co-exist. So maybe, in hearts where love is song and prayer and story, fear finds no quarter. Perhaps it even works in communities, where ---God knows--- fear runs rampant, turning us into enemies and paranoiacs rather than allies and supporters.

May love, in the end, usher us into the very presence of God.

...peace-flung splendors

For lo, the days are hastening on, by prophet bards foretold,

when with the ever-circling years comes round the age of gold;

when peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling,

and the whole world give back the song which now the angels sing.

---Edmund Sears, 1849

I won’t lie. The complete text of this hymn, written in 1849 by Massachusetts minister Edmund Sears, is one of the most incisive studies of peace, and how we destroy it, that I have ever read. Almost no hymnal includes all the verses, but you can find them complete on several internet sites, and I encourage you to do so (along with the entire text of ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day’, from Longfellow’s poem ‘Christmas Bells’). Their power will affect you deeply; and in our world of commonplace, numbing un-peace, we need the angels’ song to shock us out of our complacency.

This verse looks forward to a time when the world will be set right, in tune with the song of the angels, at peace. Imagine, a time when peace, personified, flings its splendors over the whole world; a time when warring and internal turmoil cease around the globe; a time when we mortals can forget our war-cries and shouts of hate and fear, and fill our mouths and hearts to echo back the peace song the angels have sung all along.

Lo, the days are hastening on…

...about to turn

My soul cries out with a joyful shout that the God of my heart is great,
and my spirit sings of the wondrous things that you bring to the ones who wait. 
You fixed your sight on your servant's plight, and my weakness you did not spurn,
so from east to west, shall my name be blest. 
Could the world be about to turn?
My heart shall sing of the day you bring. Let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near, 
and the world is about to turn.
---Rory Cooney, 1990

In anticipation of tomorrow's Gospel lectionary reading, I have been meditating on the Magnificat, what is commonly called Mary's song. Luke's Gospel relates the familiar story of the angel Gabriel's visit to the young girl, with earth-shaking news --- Mary's world is about to be turned upside-down, and whatever she had planned for, oh, the rest of her life, she'll have to seriously rethink. She is called. Chosen. Ready or not. Oh, the angel calls it "highly favored". But let's all admit, we can think of a few other descriptors for this sudden change of condition. Mary, teen down the road, becomes Mary, mother of God. In all the icons and paintings, she gains a halo. In one carol, and in many of our imaginations, she becomes "Maiden Mother, Meek and Mild".

Not so fast, though. There's something about that song she sings. This is no meek, mild acquiescence, this song, no fawning obedience. This song is about getting it, about buying in. Mary's song is a partnership anthem about saying 'Yes!' to the coming age of justice, 'Yes!' to the God Who brings it. If there is to be a changing, this teenager will take her place in the vanguard.

Mary's life was turning upside-down, but that was just the beginning. The world was turning, too. Because Mary said 'Yes!'

...snow on snow

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
in the bleak midwinter, long ago.
---Christina Rossetti, 1872

Last week, things were definitely looking bright. Yesterday, there was still hope. Even this morning, I awoke with optimism. Now, I surrender. There is no way for me to 'do' holiday this year. Cards. Gifts. Food. Cleaning. Yada yada yada. Not gonna happen. And as if to rub it in, Martha Stewart sent me an email this morning with the subject line "Have the stress free holiday you've always wanted." Correct me if I'm wrong, but the creation of a stress-full holiday is at least 75% Martha Stewart's fault. The other 25% is Pinterest, but Pinterest is gaining.

So, if you happen to be in the part of the world where it might be snowing, step outside or look out the window. If you are here near me in the US south, close your eyes and imagine. Pause the NPR podcast of Serial, turn off tonight's star-spangled Christmas music special on the television. Wait for the silence. Then in the silence, wait for the deep silence. Forget your pursuit of the picture-perfect holiday, and await the arrival of the midwinter miracle. Let Christmas come. And in the silence, let the snow fall.

Snow on snow on snow on snow.

...right from the beginning

(Joseph)
God save you, Hostess, kindly! I pray you, house my wife,
Who bears beside me blindly the burden of her life.
(Hostess)
My guests are rich men's daughters and sons, I'd have you know!
Seek out the poorer quarters where ragged people go.
---15th cent French, tr. Eleanor Farjeon

This extra-Biblical, but traditional exchange between Joseph and the innkeeper has captivated writers of
Nativity plays from medieval times right up until this week's kindergarten Sunday School presentations. We somehow turn a single line of Scripture --- "because there was no room for them in the inn" --- into a brusque brush-off by an over-worked Holiday Inn owner in a town packed to the gills with travelers on government business. But nowhere in the Bible will we find an innkeeper, or the even better caricature, an innkeeper's wife.

The feeling I do have from reading the spare Nativity accounts we are left in two Gospels is that nothing is there by accident or general neglect. And so I believe that, from the start, the point is made purposefully by the Gospel writers that this Jesus, even in infancy, was no regular royal, no privileged prince. From the beginning, Jesus' place was in the 'poorer quarters'. From the beginning, Jesus' people were the 'ragged'. The living of Jesus' life confirmed the beginning of it.

If we ever wonder where our place is, as Jesus' people, we should seek out the places Jesus stayed. If we ever wonder with whom we should stand, as Jesus' people, we should seek out the people beside whom Jesus stood.

Right from the beginning.

...just in time

As I journeyed onward in the noonday's heat,
A great rock blocked the path before my feet;
but from its shade there gushed a cooling spring,
And it quenched our thirst and made our hearts to sing.
When the night seems darkest and our hope is gone,
In the East we see the signs of coming dawn.
---Willys Peck Kent

Have you come to that boulder in the path? That place where all your forward progress suddenly stopped, and what had seemed clear suddenly had you back-tracking and second-guessing? Have you thought it a dead end, sat down in resignation with your back against the rock, cried out with the exhaustion and frustration of being thoroughly beaten?

That's the dark. The parched dry of world-crashing-in, not-good-enough-ness. That is the night of not-hope. And it could be the end of the story. But.

But. There is water, a trickle, a runnel, bubbling from a hidden spring. The boulder in the path has been guarding it, protecting its outlet all along. And there, just at the darkest edge of your vision, dawn is drawing back the curtain between earth and sky. Almost like it was planned, the light comes.

The Water. The Light.

Just in time.

...not one more December tragedy

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay:
Lullay, thou little tiny Child, 
By by, lully, lullay.
---Robert Croo, 16th cent.

The bleak midwinter reveals a rock-hard core once again. At its base--- under the sleigh bells. and snowflakes, and merriment ---it seems,  lie loss and mourning. Buried in the Christmas story in Matthew is the violent subplot of King Herod's slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem. In his burning jealously over guarding his throne against usurpers, Herod sent his soldiers out to murder all the boys in Bethlehem whose births fit the Magis' calculations. In The Coventry Carol, featured in a 1534 pageant on the birth of Christ, mothers were shown rocking their babes, singing one last lullaby as Herod's army approached.

The grief of a mother over the loss of a child is, perhaps, our true picture of grief. Think of Michaelangelo's Pieta, with a diminutive Mary cradling her full-grown, newly-crucified son in her arms. Think of Jeremiah's prophecy, quoted in Matthew's gospel:
"A voice is heard in Ramah, 
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more."

It seems we would have learned, through the years, the centuries, to quit killing our children, to quit breaking our mothers' hearts. But we continue to observe our December tragedies, to see bleak midwinter run bleaker still at the point of a sword, the trigger of an assault rifle, the detonator of an IED. Terror looks like Herod's soldiers in Bethlehem, like Adam Lanza and a Bushmaster in Newtown, like the Pakistan Taliban in Peshawar.

If we've got a hope in this world, it is that, when God came to us, it was as one of us, flesh to flesh. As if to say, "Your lives can be holy, and the way you live in this world can be holy. Watch me."

Because we can. Not one more December tragedy.

...is there peace?

It was as if an earthquake rent the hearthstones of a continent,
And made forlorn the households born
of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong, and mocks the song
of peace on earth, goodwill to men!"
---Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1863

As important as any of the text quoted above (from the poem Christmas Bells, of which a large excerpt became the carol I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day) is the citation of the year of its composition. 1863. The bloody, fiery, hateful middle of our torn-up nation's Civil War. Longfellow's own household was not untouched by the war's devastation, as his oldest son, gone to fight against his father's will, was soon gravely wounded in battle. Top to bottom, the country watched and waited, impotent, as its youth played their parts, wounded and wounding, injured and injuring, bleeding and dying on killing fields that had only months before been yielding fields. Violence had broken society as surely as an earthquake might crack the hearthstones of a community's homes.

And still today, in the streets, the song of peace on earth is mocked by the strong semi-automatic fire of hate, by the casual disregard for the spark of the Divine in each human life. Still, disagreements escalate, and the hardware is easily accessible to create permanent solutions for temporary problems. Still, we live in a culture where we have failed to make known each person's value and worth. All lives don't matter, not in all circumstances, and despair is the result. There is no peace on earth.

But Longfellow, honest and despairing as he was, didn't end his poem there. And the story doesn't end there for us either. Because we await the coming of the Prince of Peace, ushering in a reign of peace. And the peace can change us. We can see each other, and ourselves, as beloved of God. And treat each other with goodwill. Lord, haste the day.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail,
With peace on earth, goodwill to men."

...wherever it went

And by the light of that same star

The wise men came from country far,

To seek for a king was their intent,

And to follow the star wherever it went.

Nowell, born is the King of Israel.

The wise men have always intrigued me. Unlike the people of Israel, for whom the story of a Messiah was somewhat familiar, these Magi had backgrounds shrouded in mystery, and we can’t know what they thought they would find at the star’s guiding. Surely they were expecting a king recognized by his subjects, properly anointed and installed to the throne. Nestled in this verse of The First Nowell is this intriguing line: “...and to follow the star wherever it went.” Not to follow the star wherever they thought it should go, or to follow the star until it became inconvenient, or to follow the star until it was clear that the star didn’t know what it was doing. To follow the star…wherever it went.

May we, like the Magi, follow the star wherever it leads us, laying aside our preconceptions of appropriate destinations, surrendering our notions of a proper king for the reality of a Savior beyond our understanding.

Follow the star.

...hope and fear

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by;
yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
---Phillips Brooks, 1868

I wonder, when I watch the news, or read history, or talk to friends, or sit alone with my own thoughts, whether fear is not the controlling emotion in our world, whether it always has been. Whether fear has not been the root cause of self-image spirals, jealousies and betrayals, greed and hoarding, wars and violence. Whether fear is not the reason we fail, so often, to summon up the courage to risk loving each other.

But in a little backwater town, a long time ago, stress fractures appeared in the fear chain. Tiny things, really; not so you'd notice, if you weren't looking. But in this little town, in the midst of fears --- both the everyday variety and the 'we're-having-a-baby-and-the-whole-world-is-spinning-out-of-control' kind --- hope touches down. In Bethlehem, with the otherwise unremarkable birth of a baby, each world-fear is met with hope. The insidious beachhead of fear is met by the tide of hope sweeping in, wave on wave.

It may take time, but little by little the beach can be eaten away by the tide.

...beside the weary road

O ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way, with painful steps and slow,
Look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing:
O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing!
---Edmund Sears, 1849

It's easy to do. Without even meaning to, you can fill up every little square in your planner this time of year, with 'have to's and 'want to's. You can fill it up until activities start leaking out the sides, dropping off the bottom, and being written over in darker pen. Some of the things you'll do will be important, make the world a better place. Some will just make your world a better place, and that's ok. Some of them, straight up honest, you might do just because someone else expects you to. There. Said that.

Add to that, the holidays aren't the kindest time of year for everyone. Every lost parent, sibling, or child; every family bent or broken, stretched into new shapes; every strained relationship or career disappointment seem magnified by the sparkle of lights, the constancy of piped-in carols, the over-sweet trays of goodies on every table, the smiling Christmas card faces.

Close your eyes, then. Imagine pulling to the shoulder of the hectic, crowded road. You know you are tired, exhausted even; it will be good to rest. You pull on your gloves and hat, and button up your coat to the top; dig the fleece blanket out of the back seat. Get out of the car now; climb up onto the hood, and wrap up. Then, just listen.

There's a song the angels are waiting to sing just for you.

...a not yet world

You come, O Lord, with gladness, in mercy and goodwill,
to bring an end to sadness and bid our fears be still.
In patient expectation we live for that great day
when your renewed creation your glory shall display.
--- Paul Gerhardt, 1653

We live in a 'not yet' world. It is easy to look around and see that things are not as they should be. There is pain, disease, systemic failure; there is evil, cruelty, apathy, human weakness. There are a few with way too much, and way too many with way too little.

Our world does not reflect its Creator. Not yet.

But part of the Advent waiting we do, in addition to looking forward to observing the birth of the Babe in the manger, is looking forward in eager anticipation to the time when God's dream for this world and the reality of this world become one. This, too, is Advent.

Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed. And all flesh shall see it together.

...to be bound

Come, thou long-expected Jesus, born to set thy people free;

From our fears and sins release us; let us find our rest in thee.

Israel’s strength and consolation, hope of all the earth thou art;

Dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.

---Charles Wesley, 1744

I always worry a little that songs and stories of Israel in bondage don’t resonate with us. Time and again, Israel is taken captive, enslaved, bound by nations and peoples more powerful than they. The flame of hope in them flickers and falters, faint and nearly cold.  We sit here, free, rich (relatively), beholden to no one, and try to put ourselves in the place of those Israelites who longed to be freed from their oppression. We hear the songs of their longing, but can we really connect with them?

Then I look again at the text for today. “From our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee.” Surely we all know what it is to be held captive by sin, to be in servitude to our fears, to yearn for rest and comfort. Imprisoned by a dark past that won't let us go, or one that we can't let go of. Terrified of stepping onto a shadowy path where the footing is uncertain. We know what it's like to be bound.  We know what it’s like to need setting free.

Come, thou long-expected Jesus.

...and not look away

Star-Child, earth-Child, go-between of God,
love Child, Christ Child, heaven's lightning rod,
this year, this year, let the day arrive
when Christmas comes for everyone, everyone alive!

Street child, beat child, no place left to go,
hurt child, used child, no one wants to know,
this year, this year, let the day arrive
when Christmas comes for everyone, everyone alive!
---Shirley Erena Murray, 1994

The images are arresting, wrenching. They take my breath away. Stories of kids, babies really, who never had a chance. Their families failed them, the schools failed them, our society failed them. They are hungry, aimless, abused, bitter, out of hope.  We let them down, then we shake our collective heads at what they become. I look away, because I read in their eyes the reflection of the guilt I bear for my part in the way I live my life alongside the least of these. And then I thank God for 31 Days of ABC Family Christmas movies, and click the remote control. Because really, who can handle the news?

But no remote  can control the message of love and justice ushered in with the birth of another Child, ages ago and for all time. The God of the universe set aside power and might, and entered time and culture powerless and voiceless. Great God became small human, dignifying the human struggle and sanctifying the lowliest life.

I cannot celebrate Christ's birth and look away from the suffering of God's children. I will not.

...tidings of comfort and joy

God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,
for Jesus Christ our Saviour was born upon this day,
to save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray:
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy.
---18th cent. English trad.

It was Christmas afternoon, and I had just bundled my teen and college kids off to spend it elsewhere for the first time ever. A remote chill emanated from every corner of every room as I wandered through in the early-gathering dusk. I hadn't bothered turning on the overhead lights. Usually, this would have added to the twinkle of the lights from the trees in several rooms, but this afternoon it only added to the gloom. I listened to analog clocks ticking the seconds away, the cardinal couple pecking on the window bird feeder outside the sunroom. I sat very still.

I had not overestimated my strength on this day; and, thanks to preplanning, providence, and the kind permission/invitation of a certain hospital chaplain, I didn't stay wrapped in that silent, shadowy place for long. I packed my guitar case and carol book, and made the drive on the mist-slick highway to the hospital, where I guarantee no one wants to be on Christmas Day. Well, except me; I needed to see if music could lighten any loads that day. I set up in the lobby, and began singing subdued carols --- In the Bleak Midwinter, The First Nowell, Still, Still, Still, Away in a Manger, What Child Is This. Folks, alone or in clusters, passed by, or stopped to listen; some stopped to sing along or request a song. "You know Silver Bells?" I had taken a basket of candy treats that were quite popular among young and old carolers alike that day.

I was preparing to pack up for the night when a family group of six or eight walked up. They were holding hands; some had been weeping. They asked if I was finished; I said of course not. They shared that they had just lost their loved one within the hour; could they request a Christmas carol to sing together? That would be wonderful, I replied. They huddled up to confer, wanting to choose just the right song. "I guess Jingle Bells would be just about perfect," said the eldest male in the family group.  "Jingle Bells? Jingle Bells?" I thought to myself. I quickly flipped away from Silent Night, my odds-on favorite for a comforting carol, and we started.

And there, in the sparsely-populated lobby of a Christmas night hospital, while the mist turned to a rare, magical December snow outside, a group of hurting people mourned. And healed. With Jingle Bells.

O tidings of comfort. And joy.

...what's in a name?

"This child shall be Emmanuel, not God upon the throne,
but God with us, Emmanuel, as close as blood and bone."
The tiny form in Joseph's palms confirmed what he had heard,
and from his heart rose hymns and psalms for heaven's human word.
---Thomas Troeger, 1985

Throughout the history of God's called-out people, divine love has been claimed, and spoken, and worked in intervening acts. God has made love known for a precious nation in a thousand large and small ways, noticed and unnoticed. God has broken into history in mighty and powerful ways, rescuing and restoring God's people time and time again.

And time and time again the love of God fades into the distant memory of the beloved people.

So God takes on a new name, and this name changes everything. Because as much as I love words, they only go so far. Because the most logical prose, the most moving poetry, the best-ever 140-character zingers have their limits. Because being there, in the flesh, means more.

Emmanuel, God's new name, is 'God with us'. Because when love words don't break through, sometimes you show up in person.

Thank God.

...the moon is there

Heavy clouds that block the moonlight now begin to drift away.
Diamond brilliance through the darkness shines the hope of coming day.
Christ, the morning star of splendor, gleams within a world grown dim.
Heaven's ember fans to fullness; hearts grow warm to welcome him.
--- Mary Louise Bringle, 2005

It's been cloudy here. The kind of cloudy that brings the ceiling of the sky low, makes it brooding. I knew there was a moon out there somewhere, knew it was well nigh on full, from second-hand reports of overflowing labor-and-delivery departments. But look up? No moon, no stars, nothing but grimy-looking, worn-out clouds, pressing down the sky. It's the kind of weather that always drives me deep into my chair, under my prayer shawl. Nothing good about days like this.

Then, tonight, I went out. The wind captured my attention first. After I caught my breath from the immediacy of it, from the biting chill, I noticed the quality of light on the oak leaves covering my walkway. Each smooth brown leaf reflected a silvery glint from...what? And then I looked up. The leaves were reflecting the crystal glow of a moon now revealed in a pure blue-black sky. The wind had blown away the clouds, and the sky ceiling now seemed limitless. In that moment everything, it seemed, from the damp ground supporting the fallen leaves to the space beyond the moon and stars, thrummed with "Yes."

That moment reminded me, in my soul, that clouds can cover the moon and stars, even completely enough that I forget what the clear sky looks like. But the moon? the stars? Oh, they're still there. And sometime soon, the clouds will be blown away, and the light will shine. The light that was there all along.

Light is there. We will see.

...fruit basket turnover!

In darkest night his coming shall be, when all the world is despairing,
as morning light so quiet and free, so warm and gentle and caring.
Then shall the mute break forth in song, the lame shall leap in wonder,
the weak be raised above the strong, and weapons be broken asunder.
---Marty Haugen, 1983

Sweet, smiley-face Jesus. Baby Jesus. Hug-the-children Jesus. Gentle hippie Jesus. What in the world could be so threatening about this guy? What is it that got Jesus on the Wanted: Dead or Alive list with the government, at the same time he managed to alienate the top guys in the religious establishment? What's the problem with a fella trying to bring a little light to the world?

Nothing, really. Unless you've got light. And you're worried Jesus just might be thinking of spreading some of yours around to 'them'. Yikes. Light redistribution. Because, really, when we hear the stories about Jesus preaching relief to the poor, the prisoner, the lost, the downtrodden, people on the fringes, our impulse is to hear Jesus talking to us. But if we're honest, most of us aren't those things. Not here in America. We're the 1% of the world. So Jesus' good news might well have felt pretty threatening to us back then, too.

That's because we buy into a gospel of scarcity, a theory that there is not enough of...whatever. And if there is not enough, we'd better hold on to ours. If there is not enough healing, not enough food, not enough justice, not enough protection --- I'm gonna get mine. And any dude preaching craziness about the first being last, and new kingdoms where everything is turned upside down, and enough love for the unlovable, won't last long in this place, Son of God or not.

But it's a lie. There is enough. There. is. enough. It's dark now, but the dawn is coming. Everything will look different in the quiet light of morning. Everything will change. And that's ok. Good news...fruit basket turnover!

...hope past hope's believing

View the present through the promise, Christ will come again.
Trust despite the deepening darkness, Christ will come again.
Lift the world above its grieving through your watching and believing
in the hope past hope's believing; Christ will come again.
---Thomas Troeger, 1985

We wait and watch here, in the darkness of the 'before' time. We shake our heads at the state of this world. We whisper, we cry, we shout, we pray, "How long?" How long now till things are made right? How long till good is rewarded, and evil is punished? How long until the weak are protected from harm? Till justice rolls down like mighty waters?

Lord, how long? We wait and watch. For it to happen. For us. To us.

In this relatively new text by hymnist Thomas Troeger, our waiting and watching is no passive thing. To a world grieving starvation, disease, wanton violence, stony disregard for the suffering of others; to this world, hope comes with power to rescue. Our hoping, our believing has a presence to lift this world. Because our hope is in a transformative Christ, who grieves this world with us, who comes to set things right. To feed the hungry, to heal the sick, to break the sword.

And most of all? To fill the hearts of humanity with the desire to do the same. Could it happen? Hope past hope's believing. I believe.

...help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi

O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer
our spirits by thine advent here;
disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
and death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel 
shall come to thee, O Israel.
--- Latin prose, pre-9th cent.

It's always darkest before the dawn. Don't know if that's true, because I'm no kind of scientist. Lots of folks say it, which makes it crowd-sourced truth (the kind that matters these days). And really, when I think about it, I believe it must actually always be darkest furthest from the dawn. Right? Like, middle-of-the-night dark? Can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark? Scudding-clouds-blotting-out-the-stars dark? That kind of dark doesn't even have a shake-hands relationship with dawn. It's always darkest in the dead 3 a.m. middle of the night, dusk just a memory and dawn a lifetime away. This is the kind of dark where a little bit of light could transform the world.

To be honest, the news has felt kind of like this 3 a.m. dark lately. I say to myself, "Self, surely this is 3 a.m.; it can't get darker." Then, I turn on the news again, I open the paper, a tweet pings my iThing. And I blink my eyes to dilate my pupils, straining to see through the inky dark. The inky darker. No dawn in sight. Hope grows as thin as the blanket I pull more tightly around my shoulders, losing the battle against the darkest part of the night. Honestly, could our human family have done any more complete a job of plunging this God-gifted world into complete night than we have? Here in the middle of the night, with plenty of fault to go around, light-starved, desperate --- where can we turn?

Dayspring, Light of Light, Emmanuel ---
help us. You are our only Hope.

...speak comfort

"Comfort, comfort now my people; tell of peace!" So says our God.
"Comfort those who live in darkness mourning under sorrow's load.
To my people now proclaim that my pardon waits for them!
Tell them that their sins I cover, and their warfare now is over."
---Johannes Olearius, 1671

Tell of peace. Tell of covered sin. Tell of waiting pardon. Tell of obsolete warfare. Speak comfort. Speak comfort. Speak comfort. Let the words drive off darkness, and lift the burden of sorrow.

We sit, today, hunched over under the weight of our corporate and our private sorrows --- our Boko Harams running roughshod through northern Nigeria, our Mideast opposite-of-peace, our Fergusons, mothers with empty arms and overflowing hearts, generations with unquenchable appetites and easy payment plans, multiple social networks and not one friend to call in a pinch. We wait for a prophet to walk in off the dusty road, crying out "Comfort!" We are so ready for it, it is almost as if we can make out the sound of it. Listen...

A voice, crying in the wilderness...

...set free from fear and failure

Come, Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free;
from our fears and sins release us; let us find our rest in Thee.
Israel's strength and consolation, hope of all the earth Thou art;
dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.
---Charles Wesley, 1744

Fear and failure. Fear and failure. Are there any two more potent negatively-charged concepts in modern language? Can anything paralyze us more, sap our energy, drain our creative potential, cause us to second-guess ourselves and doubt the motives of those around us, than fear and failure? When we are trapped behind masks of fear, limiting our life choices and building walls to divide ourselves from the 'other'; when our past failures echo in our ears and memories so loudly they drown out the call to venture again; here we are trapped, and here there is no rest.

Our word for sin is from the Greek 'hamartia', an archer's term for 'missing the mark' --- failure. This Jesus, then, born Israel's strength and hope of all the world, comes somehow with the power to set us free from the strongest chains --- the ones we forge ourselves from our own fears and failures. Our pasts are the only prisons we've ever needed, and we are expert jailers; we excel at imprisoning ourselves and others behind thick walls made of our own fears and the failures of the past, both personal and corporate.

Christ comes to leave not one stone on stone. Are you ready to be free? Are you ready for others to be free? Fear and failure have no power over us in the path of the coming Christ!

...no journey for the faint-hearted

Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand;

Ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in His hand

Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand.

---Liturgy of St. James, 5th cent.

Friends, we step this day onto holy ground; crossing what is sometimes called in Celtic spirituality a ‘thin place’ between one world and another. For this day we begin to mark the Coming, the welcoming not only of the Babe to the manger but of the reign of God in our hearts and in the world. And where we welcome God’s reign, not one thing can remain the same --- not one social construct, not one ‘good old day’, not one stone left on stone. This Advent, this coming, is no journey for the faint-hearted.

So, on the cusp of this new year --- between the brokenheartedness of our shortcomings, our failures, our disappointments, and the possibility, the chance, the prayer that all things will be made new --- let us stand still, silent, awed by the holiness of God come to us as ‘us’. From our eyes, from our hands, from our minds fall any considerations aside from this holiness.

And we worship.

Called to Stand Up

The love of Jesus calls us in swiftly changing days,

To be God’s co-creators in new and wondrous ways;

That God with men and women may so transform the earth,

That love and peace and justice may give God’s kingdom birth.

---Herbert O'Driscoll

“What are you waiting for?” “Don’t just stand there --- DO something!” “Get a move on!” We are all familiar with these statements, or with sentiments like them, but maybe not related to the coming of the kingdom of God. When it comes to the kingdom, if you are like me, the verb that most readily comes to mind is ‘wait’. Now, on a scale of 1 to Make it Happen, ‘wait’ would seem to rate pretty low when it comes to action. Is there a way to wait and take action simultaneously?

Our lectionary Gospel readings this month have been from Matthew 25 (the prepared and unprepared bridesmaids, the managers of the talents, the sheep and the goats), and have highlighted the dynamic tension between waiting and working for the kingdom come. These stories illustrate how active our participation is to be in the ushering in of the new kingdom --- we are invited to be partners with God in unleashing love, peace, and justice on society to pave the way for the coming kingdom!

Now, action should come with a caution sign --- those who choose to partner with God often find themselves at odds with 'go along to get along' society, and Godself in Jesus ended up crucified for rocking the status quo boat. In the end, though, we are not called to count the risk; we are called to stand up. 

We might just have a hand in midwifing something new---all about love, and justice, and peace.

---Leigh Anne

Of pear-shaped pears, and mold-shattering Mystery

But we make His love too narrow by false limits of our own;

And we magnify His strictness with a zeal He will not own.

For the love of God is broader than the measure of the mind;

And the heart of the Eternal is most wonderfully kind.

---There's a Wideness in God's Mercy

   F.W. Faber, 1854

My son's girlfriend has begun a career in agriculture, and knows fascinating things about vegetable and fruit propagation. It is so enjoyable to sit around the supper table and talk about 'plant' stories we've seen on television, or read online, or heard on NPR. Of course, Jess' relation to this information is often either through direct observation or experience, so we get an insider's take on it. Last night we were enjoying a delicious King o' the West honeydew (the only kind I will buy --- trust me), and talking about the trend in Japanese agriculture of growing melons in crates, thus making them stackable for ease in shipping, and to fit them into the compact refrigerators common in much of that country. Jess told us, that, on a summer agricultural trip to China, she had observed orchard workers painstakingly fixing molds in the shape of Buddhas and other popular characters around growing pears on the limb. When mature, this shaped fruit would fetch many times the price of, say, pear-shaped pears.

The text from this amazing hymn hints at an action similar to what Jess saw in China, but we often are not conscious of doing it. God's love for us, and mercy on us, are so vast, so limitless, that our minds cannot contain the knowledge of this God. So, rather than live with the Mystery of a love beyond our understanding (and beyond our controlling), we remake God...in our own image. We make God with a human amount of love, and a human limit to that love. We put a human-shaped mold around God. And we end up with a human-shaped idol instead of the vast Love that is our God.

What a shame, that we cheat ourselves. All for a watermelon that fits in the fridge.

...though the earth should change

God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear,
though the earth should change...
     ---from Psalm 46

The world of Psalm 46 is fearsome --- full of natural disasters, the man-made disaster of war, and, most of all, 'change'. When has the earth changed for you? Was it tsunami, wildfire? The Gulf War Syndrome or Traumatic Brain Injury that have followed our fighting men and women home from war? The darkness we mark today, when terrorists flew planes into the twin towers of the World Trade Centers? The day 50 years ago when cowards in Birmingham set off bombs that took the lives of four little girls, and the dogs and fire-hoses were unleashed on the youth of the city? Or has your earth changed more privately? Beloved friend or family member wasting away with cancer? A child wandering away, or stolen by violence or needless early death? A failure at work or betrayal in marriage?
Obviously, our belief in God didn't protect us from these disasters of circumstance, of nature, of hatred, of gaps in medical knowledge; nor were we protected from our questions about how these things happen to 'good' people in God's world.
In this 46th chapter of Psalms, though, God is described as 'refuge', 'strength', 'help', 'presence', 'with us'. Right here, right now, in the midst of our troubles, God is present with us. When the earth changes, God is with us. When the whole world seems to shake with the portent of evils now or yet to come, God is with us.
Be still; acknowledge God's presence. When we need to hide from the changes and be quiet, God is here --- refuge, strength, help. God is here with us.