...harvest home

All the world is God’s own field, fruit unto his praise to yield,

Wheat and tares together sown, unto joy or sorrows grown.

First the blade, and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear,

Lord of harvest, grant that we wholesome grain and pure may be.

---Henry Alford, 1844

It doesn’t look like corn. It looks like wide blade grass; St. Augustine, or maybe Johnson grass. Not like corn. Not at first. But wait. Just wait. Keep caring for the plant, watering, weeding, tending. And wait. It doesn’t look like corn at first. But time will tell.

Our own efforts at spreading the good news about God’s lavish gift of abundant life, and sharing life's rich journey with others, may be like tending that corn. It may not seem like our efforts are yielding any results. Funny thing is, though, our task is to  water, weed, tend, care. And wait. It may not look like a harvest at first. But time will tell.

...all we thirsted for

All the way my Savior leads me; cheers each winding path I tread,

gives me grace for every trial, feeds me with the living bread;

though my weary steps may falter, and my soul athirst may be,

gushing from the Rock before me, lo! a spring of joy I see.

---Fanny Crosby, 1875

There are times the path seems winding, and the end unseen. At those times, when each step grows heavy, and the way seems never-ending, a hint of breeze refreshes, cheers. A rest along the way, to refuel and rest, can cast the day in a different light.

And when that path is life, and goals are elusive, and progress seems awfully rare, grace is that refreshing—gift, given with no thought of return, or of its having been earned in the first place. The words of our brother Jesus, urging us on toward greater compassion, more tenderness, consistent understanding—these words are food, fuel.

And the very presence of Christ, in the midst of our mess, feet on our path, God with us—this presence is pure joy, springing up like cool spring water, unexpected, thrilling, a little shocking. The very thing we never knew we were thirsty for.

All. the. way.

...what feet are for

Oh, how sweet to walk in this pilgrim way, leaning on the everlasting arms;

oh, how bright the path grows from day to day, leaning on the everlasting arms.

---Elisha A. Hoffman, 1887

Path. Way. Journey. Through the years, these expressions of spiritual life have come to ring truest in my ear, and resonate most soundly in my soul. While I am not always positive about my destination, and my goals change, and sometimes finish lines seem frustratingly movable, feeling called to the journey is a constant. If day breaks, there is a path, and even when I may not be totally sold on the reason, my feet will be on it, because that is what feet, and paths, are for.

In this little bit of late-19^th cent. poetry, the hymnist speaks of the path growing bright from day to day. My mind travels to the memory verse from Bible Drill---“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.” (Psalm 119:105) And the thing is, I’ve walked on some dark paths in my life (yep, literal and metaphorical), and I know how lights work. That flashlight? Even a good one, with the batteries you remembered to replace before you packed it up for the campout? It illuminates the path a few steps ahead.

God’s presence? Right there with us on the path, every step of the way. But that light it throws? It’s a flashlight, not a floodlight. We were always meant to walk leaning on God, steps at a time, waiting for the light to shine up ahead.

Wow. Light for the journey, and an arm to lean on. On the path with Jesus.

...wondering and weary

In Lenten practice we, with Jesus, 'turn our faces toward Jerusalem', facing along with him the steps that led to betrayal, accusation, abandonment, and death. We spend ourselves in meditative practices that guide us deeper into Jesus' experience--so that, having suffered with him, the Easter of rising might be infused with a celebration infused with depth of meaning and debt of love.

In Advent practice the breathless steps we take toward the oddly-filled manger imbue our days with a sense of wonder. The gentle, expectant searching for hope, peace, joy, love in unexpected places--in a stable? among the ragged people? sought by faraway star-scientists?--can create the feeling that things, things, are possible.

Wonder is in this world at Advent.

But so is weariness.

Even in candleglow, we see the dust in the corners of our lives, and the ugly cobwebs high in the eaves of others. We notice the good intentions and horrid execution of strangers, and of friends. We have big plans, and we blow them. The very people, and institutions, that we count on to make the world kinder, and lovelier, let us down. We mean to be better, and we aren't.

And we are so weary.

I have to think that, somehow, all of the wonder, and all of the weariness, is gathered into this Advent journey. I will keep walking. I will find out.

...in our best moments

Like a mother with her children You will comfort us each day,

giving guidance on our journey, as we seek to find our way.

When we walk through fiery trials, You will help us take a stand;

when we pass through troubled waters, You hold out Your tender hand.

---Jann Aldredge-Clanton, 2000

Motherhood is often a balancing act. When to insist on vegetables first at dinner, when to sneak a little dessert in? When to stretch that last bedtime story to two (or three, or…)? When to let the baby cry it out, when to gather her up in your arms and tuck her in beside you? When shorts pants and knickers, when blue jeans and khakis? When to protect, when to challenge? When to comfort, when to brush off? When to support, when to caution? When to hold on, when to let go?

The same could be said of fatherhood, I’m sure (don’t know, never been a father). The thing is, this holy dance of parenthood is a weaving, the weft and warp that colors the character of our children. And God, in whose image we are created, and our pattern in all things, models for us both the compassion and the courage of a mother or a father for us.

For God offers both comfort and guidance, each in appropriate measure and at appropriate time. And when flood waters or trial fires rise around us, God’s hand is reaching out --- ahead of us, to rescue us; or at our backs, to urge us on to our own brave action. Because, in our best moments, that’s what mothers, and fathers, do.

We can hear You gently saying, “Do not worry, do not fear;

for I’ll always go beside you; every moment I am near.”

...flashlight, not floodlight

Oh, how sweet to walk in this pilgrim way, leaning on the everlasting arms;

oh, how bright the path grows from day to day, leaning on the everlasting arms.

---Elisha A. Hoffman, 1887

Path. Way. Journey. Through the years, these expressions of spiritual life have come to ring truest in my ear, and resonate most soundly in my soul. While I am not always positive about my destination, and my goals change, and sometimes finish lines seem frustratingly movable, feeling called to the journey is a constant. If day breaks, there is a path, and even when I may not be totally sold on the reason, my feet will be on it, because that is what feet, and paths, are for.

In this little bit of late-19^th cent. poetry, the hymnist speaks of the path growing bright from day to day. My mind travels to the memory verse from Bible Drill---“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.” (Psalm 119:105) And the thing is, I’ve walked on some dark paths in my life (yep, literal and metaphorical), and I know how lights work. That flashlight? Even a good one, with the batteries you remembered to replace before you packed it up for the campout? It illuminates the path only a few steps ahead.

God’s presence? Right there with us on the path, every step of the way. But that light it throws? It’s a flashlight, not a floodlight. We were always meant to walk leaning on God, steps at a time, waiting for the light to shine up ahead.

Wow. Light for the journey, and an arm to lean on. On the path with Jesus.

...like a mother

Like a mother with her children You will comfort us each day,

giving guidance on our journey, as we seek to find our way.

When we walk through fiery trials, You will help us take a stand;

when we pass through troubled waters, You hold out Your tender hand.

---Jann Aldredge-Clanton, 2000

Motherhood is often a balancing act. When to insist on vegetables first at dinner, when to sneak a little dessert in? When to stretch that last bedtime story to two (or three, or…)? When to let the baby cry it out, when to gather her up in your arms and tuck her in beside you? When shorts pants and knickers, when blue jeans and khakis? When to protect, when to challenge? When to comfort, when to brush off? When to support, when to caution? When to hold on, when to let go?

The same could be said of fatherhood, I’m sure (don’t know, never been a father). The thing is, this holy dance of parenthood is a weaving, the weft and warp that colors the character of our children. And God, in whose image we are created, and our pattern in all things, models for us both the compassion and the courage of a mother or a father for us.

For God offers both comfort and guidance, each in appropriate measure and at appropriate time. And when flood waters or trial fires rise around us, God’s hand is reaching out --- ahead of us, to rescue us; or at our backs, to urge us on to our own brave action. Because, in our best moments, that’s what mothers, and fathers, do.

We can hear You gently saying, “Do not worry, do not fear;

for I’ll always go beside you; every moment I am near.”

...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.

...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.

Light in a Shadowy Night

It's true. The birth of Jesus, what we celebrate as Christmas, was no big thing. Conception shrouded in personal scandal, to backwater parents, in a busy little town preoccupied with a Roman census, marked by domesticated animals and a scruffy group of shepherds. No big thing.

But, like the smallest flame in total darkness, thoroughly transformative. From dark, to not dark.

If you have always wondered what the big thing was, or if you doubt that a little light could make that much difference, you are invited. Come with me on a journey, a search, for a little light in our shadowy night.

Let's make Advent together --- hope in a mean season, peace in a tumultuous time, joy in a desert place, love in a wounded world.