...music just works

So has the church, in liturgy and song,

in faith and love, through centuries of wrong,

borne witness to the truth in every tongue:

Alleluia!

---Fred Pratt Green, 1972

I will admit it…I’m partial. I believe that the most enduring, penetrating, impacting method of teaching any truth is music. Sit through a PTA meeting where the third graders sing a rousing rendition of the fifty states and capitals. Listen while your child learns the multiplication tables to the beat of an uptempo rap. For sealing in the memory, music…just…works.

Southern trees bear strange fruit. The answer is blowin’ in the wind. Brother, brother, there’s far too many of you dyin’. Imagine all the people. Fight the power. Stop, hey, what’s that sound? The revolution will be live. They paved paradise and put up a parking lot. I’m everyday people. People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’. I am woman, hear me roar. We are the world. We gon’ be alright. That’s just the way it is. And I’ll rise up, I’ll rise like the day. This is my fight song. We shall overcome. For gathering around a common cause, and rallying when your flame burns low, music…just…works.

In the history of the church, music has always played a prominent part of worship and transmitting theology. The apostle Paul quotes a first century hymn in his letter to the Philippian church. Believers have always sung the songs of faith, and so participated in the liturgy, or work of the church. I often say that most of us keep in our memories some  Scripture, but many hymns and songs of faith. If we are retaining most of our theology through hymns and spiritual songs, we would be wise to make sure the songs we sing in worship include the great truths of the faith. For strengthening our faith, and the bonds of community, music…just…works.

Jesus spent his last night with his disciples weaving a web of music around their hearts, sealing in their memories the image of a singing Savior. Thanks be to a God Who sings.

...while supplies last

God pours the Holy Spirit on all those who believe,

on women, men, and children who would God’s grace receive.

That Spirit knows no limit, bestowing life and power.

The church, formed and reforming, responds in every hour.

---Jane Parker Huber, 1981

*while supplies last. Surely these words were designed to strike fear in the hearts of every red-blooded human on the face of the earth. If you might run out of something, I need one. Who am I kidding?...I probably need two. And if there is a countdown clock in the corner of the QVC screen or the Instagram ad (check your generation), those beads of sweat, and a sudden desire for previously unknown (but now totally life-giving) goods pop out all over.

Is there a better marketing principle discovered than the principle of scarcity? It stands to reason that if something is in short supply, only the real winners will end up possessing it. The rest of us? The waited-too-late, didn’t-pay-attention, stayed-in-on-Black-Friday, don’t-queue-up-for-Ticketmaster-at-midnight, wasn’t-tuned-in-to-the-faint-ache-of-longing-that-was-emptiness ones? Oh, yeah…the losers? Well, we’re gonna lose. That’s the way of the world, baby. Winners and losers—get used to it.

But on Pentecost, the rules go out the window. It’s not that winners and losers switch places, though Jesus used to talk about that scenario sometimes. No, at Pentecost, the only loser is the principle of scarcity. Here in this gathering of believers, inquisitive onlookers, and straight-up gawkers, the Spirit breathed a new sort of energy on God’s love story. And for once, it seemed, there were no losers, and there was no FOMO (fear of missing out). This Spirit was like the wind, or fire, and didn’t have to be measured or conserved. There was plenty for everyone, and more.

Still is. Still is.

...making it to Monday

Mother's Day. It can't have snuck up on you, or me. The sweet, tear-jerking commercials; the handmade cards smelling of Elmer's glue and crayon; the preschool 'teas' and musical programs with dress-up clothes and tissue-paper and pipe-cleaner flowers; the bouquets in every store, and cards that never quite say what you intend, but fit the envelope just fine.

While for lots of us Mother's Day is a lovely time of sharing with our own children, or celebrating the love of our mothers for us, for some folks this day is among the toughest on the calendar. While others celebrate, these seek out solitude and separation, counting down the hours to sundown.

Some of these may be children of mothers who were never 'moms' --- those who would not, or could not, love their children; those who withheld human kindness or approval from children starving for it; those who abused the trust placed in them as mothers by hurting their children. How lonely it must be, to try being sold on the idea of a Mother's Day for a mother who wants nothing more from you than your absence.

Then there are women who mourn for children who are not. Women who carried life in them, only to grieve a too-early goodbye, never getting to celebrate birthdays, 'first days', Christmases with children hoped-for and dreamt. Women who struggle with fertility, hope with each turn of the calendar page that this might be the month. Women left with holes in lives and hearts when illness, accident, violence walk in the door and beloved children no longer do. Sometimes Mother's Day means getting through the day.

Then there are the ongoing struggles of motherhood that can complicate the feelings around general 'happiness'. Mothers who wait for their children's busy lives to settle down enough to include them. Mothers who find themselves lifelong advocates for their children in a variety of settings. Mothers who find themselves navigating with their children the deep waters of the health care system or the mental health system; mothers who become over-familiar with the tangled web of the juvenile justice system, or consistently stand in the gap in the halls and classrooms of school systems designed around the 'typical' student. Sometimes putting one foot in front of the other takes precedence over a Hallmark-driven remembrance.

For some of these folks, they hold onto what they can. When it comes to Mother's Day, they are just making it to Monday.                                               

—from Mother’s Day 2013

...practice makes permanent

In the bread of life here given, we become what we receive.

In the cup of love here offered, affirm what we believe.

In the word of God proclaimed here, the good news of truth is heard.

In the telling of the stories, be open to God’s word.

---James Chepponis, 2002

Been there. Done that. I admit it. I am the first to make the jaded comment, or, on choking it back, to think it. This again? Or maybe, like Yogi Berra, It’s like deja-vu, all over again. And it’s kind of true.

Each time we gather and take communion, there is a familiarity to the elements, a sense of ritual in the setting. If I’m not careful, I can coast through the serving of the elements, the doing this in remembrance, on autopilot. If I am not present in the moment and attending to the story of my friend Jesus’ sacrificial love for me, a high holy moment can be, instead, just another holy snack pack and some pretty mumbling.

And those Bible stories? For heaven’s sake, I’ve been coming to church now for, well, for a long time. I have heard them all. Twice. What good does it do me, really, to be here with you, listening to the stories again? To sit and listen to the same old words and phrases over and over, till they are so burned into my soul that I could tell them myself? To know them so well that the words spring, unbidden, to my mind at unlikely times during the week? What good are a bunch of stories?

I have to be careful. I wouldn’t want to mix up being transformed with being done. Because being transformed? That could take a lifetime.

...glory to glory

Finish then Thy new creation, pure and spotless let us be;

Let us see Thy great salvation perfectly restored in Thee:

Changed from glory into glory, till in heaven we take our place,

Till we cast our crowns before Thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise.

---Charles Wesley, 1747

Restored and finished. Charles Wesley, in the mid-1700’s, used these words to envision the fulfillment of God’s dream for humanity. With a love that surpasses any other concept of love, God continues to “create” us, to draw us toward purity, rendering out anything that blurs our essential essence. This verse is an encouragement to me, as I often feel God must not quite be done with me yet! With each new day, God’s love transforms us, glory to glory, allowing each of us to become more of who we were always meant to be. What a God we worship, Whose creation is not limited to a one-time act, but happens over and over to create and re-create us as whole, complex, and complete!

It’s enough to lose ourselves in wonder, love, and praise….

...filling in the blank

We will work with each other, we will work side by side.

And we’ll guard each one’s dignity and save each one’s pride.

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

---Peter Scholtes, 1966

“They’ll know we are Christians by our _________.” There it was, all dressed up, bold-faced, meme-style, on my Facebook feed the other day. The folk hymn companion of “Pass It On” from the heart hymnal of my youth, sent out as a poll QOTD (question of the day) for any and all comers to fill-in-the-blank. And they did. Oh, they did.

Now, some folks knew the answer was supposed to be Jesus…and answered with “love”. But there are large portions of society who are not aware of what (we hope) marks Christianity. Some folks’ experience with people who wear the label has been judgmental, dismissive, condescending, even cruel. I cannot dismiss or deny their experience, because it is theirs…and because it has occasionally been mine.

But. I can labor and live to counteract that impression. I can love the world, and the people in it, with my whole heart. I can work to make this world better reflect the kingdom of heaven, where the Prince of Peace reigns and the dignity and pride of every person are uplifted. I can walk the world gently, and consider what it means to lay down my life for the sake of ‘the other’. I can let my breath be thanks.

You can, too. And they’ll know we are Christians. You know. By our love.

...laying things down

Be yours the Master’s purpose to seek and save the lost,

to ransom those in bondage, to dare nor count the cost;

to love and lift the lowly, to heed the prisoner’s groan,

to take up others’ burdens and bear them as your own.

---Henry Lyle Lambdin, 1969

To follow Christ. To take on our Master’s purpose. To lay aside whatever privilege life has accorded us; and to take on, as our own, the troubles and the sufferings of this hurting world. And every day the sun comes up in our modern times, this world is filled with suffering, troubles, injustices, and outrage and betrayal both ancient and modern. And the fire leaves us all burned. In the words of Martin Luther King, Jr., “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

And I must recognize I have privilege to lay aside, if I want to get down to the business of bearing others’ burdens. And if you are reading this, you most likely have privilege to lay aside, too. If we want to follow Jesus, we have to be in the business of laying things down.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself….And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient….(Phil. 2:5-8)

This is the full measure of faith. To lay down, and to pick up, for the sake of our human family. To walk in the way of Jesus. 

...a scarred savior

Crown him the Lord of love! Behold His hands and side,

Rich wounds, yet visible above, in beauty glorified;

no angels in the sky can fully bear the sight,

but downward bend their burning eyes at mysteries so bright.

---Matthew Bridges, 1851

There is a country song that includes the line, “…you ain’t lived till you got scars.” I think there is a lot of truth in the statement. My daughter Abby’s knee will always show the scars of a childhood fall from the “high monkey bars” and a couple of inelegant adolescent stair descents. Sarah’s forehead will always have a Harry Potter-esque ‘lightning bolt’ mark to remind her of the hutch at the bottom of the stairs at Grandma’s in Columbus. Any mom will tell of scars related to birthing, then raising, children --- scars both physical and emotional. Life takes its toll on us all.

And life took its toll on Jesus. When I read this hymn, I am struck by the thought that the Jesus glorified in heaven, present with the angels, still bears the scars of a real life. The kinds of scars we all carry--of injury and discouragement, of betrayal and disappointment, of rejection and indifference—if we walk the world long enough, earnestly enough. No air-brushed, cleaned-up, sanitized version of Jesus reigns in heaven. The Lord of love, mystery of mysteries, still bears the marks of his sacrifice on his glorified body.

You ain’t lived till you got scars.

...who baked the bread?

Who Baked the Bread?

Katherine Dale Makus

Who baked the bread

That Jesus blessed

And broke, and shared

That Passover supper, when he said,

"This is my body

Broken for you"?

Who made the wine,

When he passed the cup,

Saying, "This is my blood,

The blood of the covenant,

Shed for you and for many.

The fruit of the vine

I shall not taste again

Until I taste it new

In the Kingdom of God"?

Who made the wine?

Was it a woman who tended the vine,

Pressed the grapes, and made the wine;

Who planted the field, threshed the wheat,

And baked the bread for others to eat?

And afterwards, did a woman come

To clear the cup; to mop,

Perhaps, a single careless drop

Of wine, of God's blood shed;

To gather every scattered crumb

Of broken body, broken bread?

Did a woman, coming to clean the room,

Find grace in the fragments left behind,

As women, later, would come to find

An angel and an empty tomb?

Source: Daughters of Sarah (Mar-Apr 1988)

...un-scorned

From Olivet they followed among the joyful crowd,

the victor palm branch waving, with singing clear and loud.

The Lord of earth and heaven rode on in lowly state,

nor scorned that little children should on his bidding wait.

---Jennette Threlfall, 1873

It is always a heartwarming picture when Jesus and children get together. My little Bible, given to me June 26, 1968 by “Mother and Daddy”, is covered in a suh-weet colored depiction of Jesus blessing the little children. Everyone from tots to tweens is gathered 'round Jesus, shepherded by two lovely, young-looking mom-type ladies. Just looking at it now makes me warm inside. Jesus valued children.

And why not? Our society claims to value its children, perhaps more than almost anyone else. We spend hundreds of millions of dollars feeding, clothing, entertaining, educating, doctoring, bracing, and equipping our children. There are exceptions, and there are glaring holes in our protection of children as a society, and we bear the open wounds of our failures with each new disaster. But with our words, and in our best moments, “the children are our future” (with thanks to Whitney Houston).

But this attitude toward children is a modern development. In Jesus’ time, children were disregarded, valued only for the worth of their labor or future labor to their families. They were insignificant, and having a religious leader elevate them by his attention was actually embarrassing for Jesus’ disciples. I wonder, if this story were to take place in modern times, who would the children be? What group or groups of people are disregarded and marginalized in today’s society? Who is left out of the caring circle by us, Jesus’ disciples? Whose presence would Jesus scorn not? Whose presence should we, Jesus’ disciples, scorn not?

...whom heavens cannot contain

Surely in temples made with hands, God the Most High is not dwelling;

high above earth his temple stands, all earthly temples excelling.

Yet he whom heavens cannot contain chose in his people’s hearts to reign,

built in our bodies his temple.

---Nicolai F.S. Grundtvig, 1837

When my kiddos were small, I was astounded at how awful their jokes were. Anybody else? Show of hands? I mean, I was hilarious. I just kind of assumed they would at least be able to string together a few one-liners. But, yeah. Nothing. In the years since, two things have happened. One, thank heaven, they’ve gotten a lot funnier. And two, I’ve realized that successful joke-telling is a higher order thinking skill—babies aren’t just born with the perfect punch line (not just my babies, either—nobody’s kids are any good at jokes for at least a couple of years!).

One of the simplest-sounding jokes, and the hardest to catch the mechanics of, is the knock-knock joke. One of my kids’ favorite ‘knock-knock jokes’ went something like this: “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “Hahahaha, got you! It’s nobody!” See? It was hard to be me for a while there.

Just like in my kids’ non-joke, the ‘temple made with hands’ of this week’s hymn text would have its knock go unanswered. As majestic, as monumental, as awe-inspiring as some of these temples are, God has not chosen to take any of them for a dwelling-place. So expansive the heavens cannot contain God, the Creator of the cosmos has chosen instead the hearts of God’s people for a place of abiding.

So, truly, God is in the world, in the hearts of the beloved. God is in our busy-ness and in our leisure, in our serving and in our growing. And, when two or three are met together, in temples made of hands, God is in the temple, in the midst of the people as they worship.

Knock knock…

...held like sea water

O the deep, deep love of Jesus, vast, unmeasured, boundless, free,

rolling as a mighty ocean in its fullness over me!

Underneath me, all around me is the current of his love,

leading onward, leading homeward to that glorious rest above.

---Samuel Trevor Francis, 1898

Many of us are familiar with President John Kennedy’s quote concerning his deep passion for the sea – “We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea – whether it is to sail or to watch it – we are going back from whence we came.” Kennedy was famously at home in the frigid waters of his beloved Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, where in times of health and illness the water seemed life-giving and restorative.

The man I saw most in love with the sea was my father. Each summer we would camp (you read that right --- camping at the beach in the summer!) for a week or so, in the heat and humidity. And I would watch my professor father with the perpetual farmer tan float for hours on his back in the briny Gulf water, not paddling, not kicking, not moving at all. He’d tell my brother and me, “This salty water will hold you up. You just have to relax and lie back.” It was a matter of trust, and giving up the need to control the water that supported you.

You know, I never got as good at it as my dad; I never could float for hours, relaxed and committed to the water’s ability to hold me. But for a minute or two, here and there, it sometimes worked. I sometimes let go. And when I trusted that the sea was more capable than I, more powerful than I, more boundless than I’d ever be to meet my need to be held up --- for that moment, I was free.

Oh, to trust that I would be held up like that.

...complex and simple

Jesus calls us o’er the tumult of our life’s wild restless sea:

day by day his sweet voice soundeth, saying “Christian, follow me!”

---Cecil F. Alexander, 1852

It had been one of those weeks. In one of those months. In one of those seasons. In one of those years. Never quite getting well. Never quite getting the ‘to do’ list ‘to done’. Never quite getting caught up. Never quite feeling ready for…whatever comes next. Never quite feeling worthy of the trust placed in me, or the tasks required of me.

And then I stop. I breathe out, and in. And I notice how myopic my vision has grown, how inward-focused my hearing. With my focus drawn to my inner chaos, my shortcomings, my insufficiency--my attention must by definition be focused on…me.

And so I stop. I breathe out, and in. And I lift my gaze. And I focus my hearing. Out, in. There it is. The gentle leading, the focusing guidance. Follow me. Just that. Out, in. Complex and simple. Follow me. Lift the gaze. Focus the hearing. Out, in.

Follow me.

...pass-through gifts

I then shall live as one who’s learned compassion;

I’ve been so loved that I’ll risk loving too.

I know how fear builds walls instead of bridges;

I dare to see another’s point of view.

And when relationships demand commitment,

then I’ll be there to care and follow through.

---Gloria Gaither, 1981

Pat Benatar sang it, and there are times I almost believe it.

            Love is a battlefield.

There are so many ways to get burned. To get let down. To fall short. To do the hurting. To walk away. To run.

Thank God. No, really…thank God, for being our teacher in love, as in all things. Because we learn compassion from the creator of compassion. Because we pattern commitment from our model of steadfast love. Because we have watched our brother-Savior tear down the walls of fear that divide, we’ve heard stories of bridges of understanding spanning deep chasms. We have read the stories, too, of God’s love offered to an indifferent world, and of the patience and kindness offered even in the face of that indifference.

Fear whispers, “There are so many ways for love to go wrong.”

Thank God for the pass-through gifts of such compassion and understanding

...out of our huts

Strengthened by this glimpse of glory, fearful lest our faith decline,

We, like Peter, find it tempting to remain and build a shrine.

But true worship gives us courage to proclaim what we profess,

That our daily lives may prove us people of the God we bless.

---Carl P. Daw, 1988

We look, in these days, for worship that ‘wows’ us, worship that impresses, that astounds. We want to be fed, enraptured, thunderstruck. We want to wish to stay forever, to keep coming back for more, to never ‘let this feeling end’. We want ‘this’, always.

We want, in some strange way, to build a hut, to pull God in through the doorway, to hide away this glittering holiness, this shimmering lightness, all for us, for all time.

But see here. Worship is no glittering destination, no rapturous ‘fix’ for the faithful. Worship, rather, is challenging, inspiring, transformative. And, once transformed, a worshiping people are a working people, compelled by our transformation to lift up what is fallen, to bind up what is broken, to lighten what is burdensome, to reconcile what is torn. 

Out of the huts with us. It is time to let transformation do its work. To live as people of God.

...to risk life

O Love that will not let me go, I rest my weary soul in Thee;

I give Thee back the life I owe, that in Thine ocean depths

its flow may richer, fuller be.

---George Matheson, 1882

It’s hard to believe. Someone comes to you and says “Give up your riches to me. Blindly trust that I will take them and increase them.” And if this were an email solicitation, or a risky stock market offering, or a trench-coated fellow on a busy street corner, we know we’d be foolish to go along. No one wants to be scammed like that.

However, this is what God calls us to do. Here the hymnist imagines God as the personification of Love, a love that seeks us and pursues us, wraps us up and embraces us. This love calls to us, “Trust me. Turn over your life, which you may consider rich, full, and precious. In the depths of my life, your life becomes rich indeed. Entrust your life to me to achieve depth and meaning. You can rest here from your striving; here you are loved.”

This is a risk we can take, must take, if we are to live lives of meaning. Oh, to be found in the ocean of God’s love!

...of mercy and might

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God almighty!

Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee.

Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty!

God in three Persons, blessed Trinity!

---Reginald Heber, 1826

I will admit it. I have always been a bit put off by descriptions of God as powerful. It seems in this world that being powerful is an invitation to mistreat or take advantage of the weak and poor. For every “good King Wenceslas”, there are hundreds of “Ivan the Terribles”. Power seems so intoxicating, and so easy to abuse. So my vision of a powerful, almighty God is colored by the lens of the world in which I live, and the one I read about in history books. Reginald Heber, in the mid-1800’s, caught the essence of God’s power with one short phrase: “merciful and mighty.”

In a world where might is often used to man-handle and menace, and strength to strong-arm and subdue, we the faithful shine a light on a God who stands in contrast to those faulty human ideals. We worship a God who is strong and tender, who is limitless and approachable, who is Law and Love.

Merciful and mighty, God, we worship you.

...losing our grip on the good news

You call us, Christ, to gather the people of the earth.

We cannot fish for only those lives we think have worth.

We spread your net of gospel across the water’s face,

our boat a common shelter for all found by your grace.

---Sylvia Dunstan, 1991

Tell a good enough story, you never know who might show up!

Picture this. You’ve got this great product, and you want to get the word out. But. You want to practice a little targeted-demographic marketing. You only want to attract a certain kind of clientele. So you shape your message, subliminally almost, choose your media carefully, vet your messengers---all in the hope of building the kind of customer base you have in mind. Great plan.

But something goes awry. Maybe there are leaks in your marketing. Maybe your media shifts at the last minute. But the story gets out---wide. And people have been waiting for this. The---crowd---goes---wild! Everybody wants in on what you are offering. That exclusive demographic? Fugeddaboudit. You have just lost your grip on your brand.

Sometimes good news is like that. It goes where it wants, not where we plan. Thank God. Because, friends, our plans are never as grand as God’s. Our vision is never as long as God’s. And our reach is never as broad as God’s. So, although letting go of the marketing plan can be a little scary (‘The Spirit is on the loose!’ says a friend of mine gleefully, only half-joking), trusting God’s story to do its work in the world and welcoming all who come is a pretty good plan all on its own!

Let’s see who shows up!

...tearing down our fences

*this writing was tapped into being in the year 2008, but seemed timely when I stumbled across it.
-laca.

So brothers, sisters, praise his name who died to set us free

From sin, division, hate and shame, from spite and enmity!

In Christ there is no east or west --- he breaks all barriers down;

By Christ redeemed, by Christ possessed, in Christ we live as one.

“Good fences make good neighbors,” says the New England neighbor in Robert Frost’s Mending Wall. And probably at some time in all of our lives, we may have been tempted to quote him; when the neighbor’s grass reaches knee-high, when the next-door yard is full of tiny plastic ride-on toys and lots of screaming toddlers falling off them, maybe when your neighbor gardens in a bikini that would have been close-fitting several years and pounds) back. We even like the idea of fences and walls to keep certain groups of folks separated from others; them, and us.

In this text we sing that Christ came to break barriers, to minimize what separates us, to set us free from the things that hold us back from unity. And there is something a little scary about tearing down fences, something a little out-of-control about ending our human-constructed divisions. Jesus says we’ll just have to trust him for that. “Something there is,” Robert Frost said, “that doesn’t love a wall.”

Here’s to a tear-down, coming soon to a neighborhood near you!

...us and them

In Christ there is no east or west --- he breaks all barriers down;

By Christ redeemed, by Christ possessed, in Christ we live as one.

---Michael Perry, c.1979

US and THEM.

 In all the conflicts in the history of the world, there have only been two sides. Sharks and Jets, cats and dogs, Auburn and Alabama, Protestants and Catholics, Democrats and Republicans --- us…and them.

If we believe, really believe in Christ’s power to break down barriers, us and them is no more. It has no place in our world, or in our vocabularies. The same Christ that redeems us, that buys us back from the world; the same Christ that possesses us, directing our thoughts and actions; that same Christ destroys the walls we build between us and them.

In Christ we live as one.

...remade, for good

We are called to be God’s people, showing by our lives his grace,

one in heart and one in spirit, sign of hope for all the race.

Let us show how he has changed us and remade us as his own;

let us share our lives together as we shall around his throne.

---Thomas A. Jackson, 1973

In a new year’s effort to loosen the grip of the 24-hour news cycle on my attention (and life), I have been watching (less contentious) house-flipping and home renovation shows on HGTV and DIY networks. These are the shows where homeowners or professional renovators take tired, dated houses and turn them into places anyone would be proud to call home. The renovators have one goal in mind—to ‘flip’ the home for a hefty profit if they are professionals, to create a cozy family gathering place if they are handy homeowners.

In this hymn, Thomas Jackson imagines God as our re-modeler, creating something ‘one’ out of something scattered, disparate. In this wordplay, God is recreating us as a home, as a family, as a reflection and a sign.

In his work 1939 ‘Life Together’, Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes:

The more genuine and the deeper our community becomes, the more will everything else between us recede, the more clearly and purely will Jesus Christ and his work become the one and only thing that is vital between us. We have one another only through Christ, but through Christ we do have one another, wholly, and for all eternity.

God has remade us, for this life together, forever, for good.

...pass-along gifts...mighty good tidings

Arise, your light is come! The Spirit’s call obey;

show forth the glory of your God, which shines on you today.

Arise, your light is come! Fling wide the prison door;

proclaim the captive’s liberty, good tidings to the poor.

---Ruth Duck, 1974

We are so used to hearing the themes of Advent and Christmastide that they ring almost common in our ears, feel a bit bland rolling off our tongues…Light! Glory! Good tidings! When I stop and think about these things, they make me glad --- I need some good tidings, and some light, and a little glory to shine down on me! Yay, me!

Then hymnist Ruth Duck uses the prophet’s message from Isaiah to call my attention back to intention. Yes, some of that God-glory falls on me...but not to soak up and store. That glory, that light, those are pass-along gifts from a God who has called us as co-laborers in the life-work of lifting, reviving, nurturing, and restoring. These gifts? They were never meant for me, for us, to get and keep. This glory, this light, has always been destined for community.

And those, my friends, are mighty good tidings.

...awake to hear...to answer

It strikes me, at odd moments--mostly when I am confronted with uncertainty and fear over entering some new phase or stage of life-- how much of the Nativity story happened because people were awake.

Maiden Mary, hearing the rustle of messenger wings, the whisper of promise, challenge, provision, prophecy. Fiance Joseph, awakened by a dream visitor, with future-rocking words. Shepherds, sleepless and watchful, exposed to the night elements, catching the sky split open with the stunning news that earth and heaven were one.

Awake. Awake to hear. Awake to answer.

So many 'ifs'. One 'yes'. 

And the Gloria? The Gloria was the ringing of the spheres, the sound of heaven come to earth. The sounding, and resounding, of 'yes'.

~~~

Merry Christmas, friends. The video here is my brand new song for Christmas, If Not for What the Angels Sang, performed by some good friends on Christmas Eve morning (lyrics below). I hope you'll give it a listen, and pass it on.

If not for what the angels sang
Above the wild and windy plains
Echoes in the spangled sky
A boundless song, a Baby's cry
Gloria in excelsis Deo.

If not for what the shepherds heard
The stunning song, the summoning words
To stay within the sheltering fold?
Or seek the Child out in the cold?
Come, my friends, let us up and go!

If not for how the Baby came
Among the little, lost, and lame
Walking the same paths we trod
Showing us the heart of God
Love of Heaven come to earth below.

If not for what the angels sang
If not for what the shepherds heard
If not for how the Baby came--
Jesus Christ, God on earth.

If not for what the angels sang
Above the wild and windy plains
Echoes in the spangled sky
A boundless song, a Baby's cry
Gloria in excelsis Deo.

--LACA, 10/20/17

...longing for light

Longing for light, we wait in darkness. 
Longing for truth, we turn to you. 
Make us your own, your holy people,
light for the world to see.
---Bernadette Farrell, 1993

There is something in us, in all creation, that longs for light, seeks it out like air, like water. We reach for it, grow toward it. In some very real way, become it. The corner office, the room with a view, sunroof, convertible top down. We are sun-seekers. Trees and grasses stretch themselves toward the sky in search of their share of sun, soak it up, turn it to green, to growth.

In these long nights, short days, clouded skies, how we yearn for the light. How we exult in the sun, when it comes.

...love lives here

Love came down at Christmas, 
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.
...
Love shall be our token,
Love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.
---Christina Rossetti, 1885

For what is broken in this world, love.
For what is broken in me, love.
For what is broken in you, love.
For what is broken between, among, us, love.

What gift of grace. What sign of hope.
That our hearts, our homes, can be dwelling places for the sacred.
Even after all this brokenness.

Love lives here.

...song of earth

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. The echoes of God’s love “re-sound”…and nothing will ever sound the same.

Joy to the world…the whole wide world!

...waiting on Light

This is it. The longest night. The turning of the year. If we are counting the daylight in minutes, we begin using + signs starting tomorrow.

And oh, what a difference a little light makes! We yearn, we long, we seek for signs of light. We turn eagerly to the horizon at the rising, we note the stretching of the setting time with upturned faces, distant gazes.

In a primitive way, light means life. But even in our modern, mostly-indoor world, with 24-hour light (more than we need, more than is healthy), our bodies still settle into the rhythms set by the rising and setting. We relax into the natural light of day.

Here, just at the turning, we ready our hearts for the coming of Light. This Light, too, shines in the darkness. And we are promised, and I hang on to the promise, that no darkness will overcome it.

I'm waiting, again, on the Light.

...healing at Christmas

Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of Righteousness!

Light and life to all he brings, risen with healing in his wings.

Mild he lays his glory by, born that we no more may die,

born to raise us from the earth, born to give us second birth.

Hark! The herald angels sing, “Glory to the new-born King!”

---Charles Wesley, 1739

There is a danger in the carols of Christmas, one that threatens to deaden us to the wisdom hidden within. This danger is familiarity, the same quality that makes them beloved. Anywhere you go, you are apt to hear some version of this carol, sung or played by a wide variety of ensembles. Many of us could sing this carol in our sleep --- all three verses!

Our familiarity with this carol should not, however, blind us to the message of comfort and hope contained within. Hear these words anew: “Light and life to all he brings, risen with healing in his wings….” We all know that in the midst of the great joy of the season lurk illness, injury, grief, and sorrow. These are part of life, and do not miraculously disappear during Advent and Christmastide. But there is good news, even in darkness! There is one who brings light for our darkness, life for our dead places, and healing for what hurts us. In the middle of this tumultuous existence, Christ comes to meet our deepest needs.

Glory to the newborn King.

...releasing my grip

I have always described myself (mostly to myself), as fairly laid-back and easy-going. I go with the flow, roll with the punches, go along to get along. If you're all right, I'm all right. Well. As time goes on, I have noticed something; and I don't know if it is the wisdom of age, or improved insight, or if I am morphing. But. In more and more small ways, more and more often, I find that I hold, at least loosely, to control. Eek. I said it. I think I'm one of those people. I like some things the way I like them. I feel like things would run smoothly if they were done my way. Some days, I find my tongue sore from biting it.

My hands are sometimes clenched tightly around my ideas of 'should', and 'correct', and 'best'.

And boy, are they tired.

Because this, fundamentally, is not the way the world works (and knowing some of the ideas I have sometimes, this is probably a very good thing...). Many things, most things, are out of my hands. I need only seek my place in the puzzle of this life--find the spot I fit in, find a busy-ness that lights my fire, help in the ways I can, attune my heart to the undercurrent of joy in the song of everyday.

The rest, I release.

I wonder at how Mary, so long ago, must have wondered at all the loose ends that made up the tapestry of her life. How hard was it to relax her grip, to release her hold, to find a place, and to attune her heart to joy?

I want to loosen my grip on control...so that my hands are free for real things.

...here in the chaos

I have a bad habit. It is the sort that has been an annoyance to me, here and there, in my life. It is also the sort that has caused hurt and harm in my life, in ways that wounded me and sometimes those who entered into relationship with me. You might call it 'somewhere out there' syndrome.

In 'somewhere out there' syndrome, you envision a better time to act, to work, to decide, to be--and it is coming. It is somewhere, out there. Sometime, in a hazily-conjured future, things will fall into place, life will make sense, and that will be the time, the time, to start really experiencing life.

Call it a strange kind of misguided optimism. But watch out. Because if you're not careful, a lot of life slips by while you are waiting for that perfect day, that just-right set of circumstances, that 'somewhere out there' future.

Hear this good news, my friends. This present messiness, this current chaos, this day, this day--this is what we're given. This is the day to be joyful--not 'somewhere out there', but now, now. Don't wait.

Your joy is calling.

...carry me

"Momma...carry me." Parents the world over know that the time you are most likely to hear this refrain is when your arms are already full, home or the car is still blocks away...and you yourself are weary and staggering just to stay upright. It is the time you are probably wishing for someone to carry you. 

One of the remarkable aspects about life on this round earth seems to be that things were not created for isolation. Creatures flourish in herds, prides, flocks, litters, and packs. And people seem to flourish in community, too. In one of the creation stories from Genesis (this one from the second chapter), after assigning place and occupation to the human, isolation begins to seem pretty overwhelming. Matter of fact, it is the first pronouncement of "not good" amongst all the "goods" of creation. Company, and community, is created as the remedy for the "not good" of isolation.

In community, we hold each other up. We celebrate, and we mourn, in solidarity. We lean, and we prop up. We are strong, and we are weak, and we are not ashamed. We bear each other's burdens, and let others close enough to bear ours.

We trust each other to be the hands of God, to bear us up, when we just. can't. even. 

When we whisper, "carry me."

...the shepherd's gentle might

In an age where proving toughness and strength sometimes seems more important than proving almost anything else, I am weary of the posing, sick to death of the posturing.

The stockpiling of arms has overshadowed the work of helping hands. The threat behind clenched fists has outpaced the goodwill symbolized by linking arms.

It is overwhelming.

But there has always been a voice, crying in the wilderness. It has called us to a higher way. It has called us to drop our defenses, and throw down our weapons, and stop using our power to oppress the powerless.

It has called us to the might that is revealed in gentleness, to the shepherd's way.

He will nurture his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in arm, close to his heart, and gently lead those with young.-Isaiah 40:11/para.laca. 

...what they have left

11. 12. I know kids this age. They think so creatively it's hard to keep up. Their bodies are beginning to outgrow their capacity to control their movements. They are wicked smart, and you think twice before you ask, "What's on your mind?" because they will still tell you.

They delight me almost always. 

20 mothers and dads, twenty families, in Newtown tonight are wondering what their 11 and 12 year olds would be like--look like, sound like, love like. They wonder, because when these children were 6 and 7, they were murdered by gunfire while they went to school on a day not far from Christmas. They wonder, because wonder is what they have left.

Sandy Hook Elementary became a first grade killing field that day; and after 5 years, the mass slaughter is remarkable, aside from the tender age of most of its victims, mostly for its unremarkable-ness.

When will the voice of reason, the voice of standing up for the fallen, become louder than the voice of impersonal, obscenely deep-pocketed lobbying efforts? How long till lone voices become a chorus for change?

A voice is heard in Ramah, lament and bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her children; she finds no comfort, for they are no more.-Jeremiah.31:15/para.laca.

...the darkness reveals the stars

I've heard people say the things. You have, too. Maybe I've even said the things. "Life's been hard on him." "She learned the hard way." "Never had to work for a thing. Now they're soft." "I used to be a nice person, but I got lied to/used/cheated one too many times. Those days are over." The thoughts are, I think, that our life's experiences create us, or at least complete us.

But.

Do those experiences make us? Or do they reveal us? When (when, not if) shadows, struggles, heartaches, defeats, setbacks come, do they batter us, do they better us?

Or, like darkness reveals the stars, do circumstances allow for the truest view of our realest selves?

In darkness, what will be revealed in us?

...footprints in snow

Show me you've been here.

It's what we all want, really, when we get down to it. Isn't it? We want to know who we can count on, to back us up, to stand with us when our knees tremble, to be present in our emptiness. We yearn for a sign, a signal, a whisper of with-ness.

Don't leave me to make my way through this confusing world on my own. Don't leave me to make sense of all the ways the pieces of my life don't fit together. Don't leave me to find my way to you. Don't leave me. Don't leave.

That feeling, that bit of proof that we're not alone? That is glory. That is revealing. That is the essence of presence. Like footprints in snow, glory shows me you've been here.

And the Word put on skin, and pitched a tent among us mortals, and we caught a glimpse of glory, the revealing of God's own son, radiating grace and truth.-John 1:14/para.laca.

...the undecorated heart

...make your house fair as you are able
trim the hearth and set the table
people, look east and sing today:
love, the guest, is on the way.
---eleanor farjeon, 1928

I'm trying. My boxes are scattered across the floor, tops raggedly open, in multiple rooms, guts spilling out in a Tim Burton-esque holiday dreamscape that is equal parts mess and obstacle course. Trees are up and lit (no, I mean, you know, lighted...), and because I stayed up too late last night, they all have ornaments. Magi follow stars, shepherds wander here and there in search of...something they heard whispered on the wind. The angels stand and look, but you can tell they know more than they are saying.

And I am tired. In truth, November and December present some stumbling blocks for me, and I have to navigate the days with care. The holidays are difficult for the teens I work with; regardless of their history or the tough front they may present to the world, at Christmas they are kids who can't be home with mom. And I know that friends who have suffered loss of loved ones, broken relationships, or life changes during the year feel it most keenly during "the most wonderful time of the year". 

And so my heart sometimes remains quite plain. No twinkling lights, no manger scenes or angels, no aromas of baking or wintry drinks simmering on the stove. No guiding star up above leads the way for me, or to me.

Come, Jesus. I welcome you, in this quiet, to my undecorated heart.

...where is the tender spot?

"Where is the tender spot?" The doctor poked and prodded for the location of the discomfort. The discomfort, the tenderness, would, of course, be an indicator of injury. Healers probe for tenderness to help guide them to the source of the hurt.

There is at least one more sort of tenderness. This would be the care and gentleness with which we treat something, or someone, we value or love very much. We may treat priceless artwork, or newborn babies, tenderly.

I have been pondering, as I've talked to friends, and scrolled through my media, and reflected on my own life, that the Advent and Christmas seasons evoke tenderness, of both sorts, in an awful lot of us.

With the wonder of children, we unwrap ornaments and remember the stories that go with them. We bake---from scratch!--sweets and savories to share (and a few to keep for ourselves, maybe...). We envision the perfect gift for each loved one, the glow of happiness on each face when boxes are opened on the just-right Christmas morning. We pose our families for the everybody-smile pic for which (almost) everyone took your suggestion about wearing white tops, and it looks great. We tuck our own little ones into bed, or get misty-eyed smiling at someone else's little shepherds in the Christmas Eve pageant. There is so much tenderness here.

But if we're honest, for a lot of us, that's not the whole story. There is tenderness in this season that emanates from the source of hurt. Something about the season causes the backward gaze, and it is a time when those who have lost dear family and friends feel those losses in a deep and tender way, whether the loss is new or decades old. Circumstances change, and what is lost is noticed and mourned at the holidays. Health and wellness, always taken for granted, can slip away, and we note the holiday traditions that will be different. Strained relationships that are ignored during the rest of the year become painfully obvious during a season when the ideal holiday mood is one of togetherness and conviviality. Brokenness and alienation leave tender spots with no visible wounds.

In the midst of the lovely, tender times this holy season, there is also the tenderness that indicates pain. How can we celebrate the wonder of tenderness, and honor the tenderness of the shadows that is also part of the sacred everyday?

Where is the tender spot? I have mine...do you? 

...you must remember this

I just took a look at my phone's reminders list. That's a lie. I just added another reminder to it.

That makes...155.

...I think I may be doing this wrong.

You may as well know, there are things that I 'collect'. I like that better than 'hoard'. But I think words are piled higher than anything else, in my rooms, my mind, and obviously, in my apps. But I realize that no one can keep up with a running list of 155 reminders on a to-do list. And one of the items on that list is to get some help getting organized (why, yes, I *do* realize how ridiculous that idea sounds, thank you). 

It makes me feel a little less guilty to find that I am in good company, with my mile-long list, and my piles of words, and my unreasonable expectations. The people of Israel needed some guidance, and Moses came down the mountain (twice, but that's another story for another day) with Ten Easy Rules for Being the People of God in the Big World. There were guidelines for living in relationship with God, and guidelines for living in community with others. Now, the people right off weren't doing a super job with those Ten, but nevertheless they commenced to creating more, and more, and more items for their list. They ended up with over 600 items on their list of laws (I am feeling better about myself already...<pats self on back>), and plunged into a continual cycle of perpetual rule-breaking, guilt, and occasional excuses.

"Which Rule do you say is the most important to keep, Teacher?" The question posed to Jesus sounds like a choose-one-of-the-600+ kind of carnival game, but Jesus wasn't playing. The thing is, he was human; and he knew no one could hold space in their head, much less their heart, for that many words, that many rules, at once. No one could remember so much information parsed out that way.

But Jesus remembered another commandment or two from the lore of the people, and he knew it would organize everything, make the confusing tangle of 'should's (and let's be honest, mostly 'shouldn't's) an attainable inclination of the spirit.

"Love God with everything in you, with your wholeness. And love your neighbor and yourself with care and grace. Can you remember these things? Sure! If you can focus your life, each day, on making these reality, you will keep the law, you will."

And two things? A reminder list with two items is a reminder list I could learn to love.

Remember. 

...hold my beer

Last December, on a bitter cold early evening on the highway near Sylacauga, a tubular steel patio chair freed itself from an overburdened pickup in front of me and wedged itself under my Honda. I went from hurry-and-get-home mph to full stop at an amazing rate, after which time my car operated only (slowly) in reverse. I backed onto a side road, and began trying (futilely) to pull big pieces of jammed-in chair and torn steel undercarriage away from my car in the hope I might make it home...or, anywhere. A young couple stopped, and the husband ended up having me drive (in reverse, natch) to the house where they were headed so that he and his friend could try to help. We got there, and it was a Christmas party I was interrupting. Guys rolled up their sleeves, tools were retrieved from backs of trucks and under seats, and these guys crawled around and under my car...in the dark...in the cold...and I held the beer they'd been carrying into the party. They came to my rescue that night.

This afternoon, at the urging of facility staff in Gadsden who were certain that a blizzard was on its way ("Don't be silly," I said, "everything will be fine..."), I narrowed my work schedule and saved some paperwork for home. It couldn't hurt to hit the road earlier than my normal dark-thirty, I suppose. I had been enjoying the beautiful views of several inches of pristine, heavy snow blanketing the campus I was working all day long, but I'd been watching the asphalt too, and it wasn't icy.

So imagine my surprise when, on driving south, I run into more heavy snowfall, and several inches accumulated and slippery on the highway. Cars and SUVs covered in deep wet snow huddled like turtles where they had slid off into the medians and ditches. I topped a hill just past Sylacauga (I know, right?), and saw brake lights stretched out ahead, disappearing into the distance. Now, I'm a bit of a survivalist, and I knew what to do. Right there at the crossroads stood a lone filling station, and it was attracting a crowd. Being a survivalist, my gas tank had been filled up before I left Gadsden; no, I had stopped to use the restroom. If I'm gonna be stuck in traffic, the last thing I need is to need a restroom break! On the way back out into the blizzard (yeah, you heard me call it a blizzard--I was wrong), a voice from the checkout line said, "Jackknifed tractor-trailer. Whole road's blocked. You better wait in here." As I turned around, the older man said, "If you wait here for a few minutes, I'm gonna go open up the church so people can come stay warm." A young couple were in front of him, waiting to buy Bud Light and a bottle of moscato. The young man said he was headed around through Goodwater, and would eventually intersect with the highway south of the wreck site. I could follow them. When I expressed hesitation about driving my small sedan on hilly back roads, he said I'd be ok if I just stayed in his tracks. And he'd watch for me.

And I did. And he did. And I was.

Sometimes the people we need appear when we need them. It may be luck. But I have a feeling it is more an inclination of the heart.

Helpers. May we look for them. May we thank them. May we be them. 

Hold my beer. 

...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.

...stretched, and squeezed

I don't know if it is the time of life in which I find myself, or the vocation into which I seem to have fallen, or maybe it is just me. But whether as an adult with experience, a parent of young adult children, or a case manager facilitating teens with troubled histories, I seem to spend a lot of time thinking about, and listening for, and offering thoughts on love.

What does love do in a life? Can we pick it up and lay it down, like a tool or an activity? Does it light up our lives, always? Is it sweet? Does love always look the same in every circumstance? What does love ask, demand, require of us? What are we allowed to ask of love? 

I have found that from time to time love squeezes. Sometimes this feels reassuringly close, sometimes uncomfortably constricting. Is it while I am growing into love? Is it support until I am confident enough to live full in love? I have been wrapped snug in love, and I've been bruised by it.

For me, the knowledge that has become bedrock truth to me over years is that love stretches. It abides in a heart that contains it; but through the very exercise of it, love expands. And the heart stretches. And that enlarged space contains more and more compassion, and more and more passion for goodness in the lives of others. And I know this to be a wholly good transformation of the heart. But there are times that the stretching will ache, too.

The Advent heart, home to Love, continually shaped by love. Stretched, and squeezed.

...wait and work

Are you a do-er? Or a be-er? Do you make things happen, or watch to see what happens? 

Advent is pretty big on waiting. Each year, we wait anew for the story to unfold--the prophets' words, the angels' whispers, the shepherds' trusting quest, the magis' calculations and dogged pilgrimage from away, the brave mother, her faith-filled fiance, the hush of the stable. And over it all, that star, silent, beckoning. The world holds its breath, waiting on the time to be right, nearly past right, for the Baby.

And there is another Advent waiting, another yearning. Again the prophets' words, this time about the birth of a world remade, a world replete with justice, compassion, peace. A world where war and weeping, where betrayal and disregard, where enriching some by injuring others, are faint and fading memories. The world holds its breath, waiting on the time to be right, nearly past right, for the realm the Baby, grown,  promised was near at hand, within us.

But this is no idle waiting. This waiting comes with hammer and nail, with shoe leather and caring hands. Waiting for the realm of heaven to be made manifest is no 'sit back and watch' sort of waiting. It is active waiting, waiting with your work clothes on. It is catching a vision of the realm of heaven, and risking your current status, privilege, advantage to usher that realm into being. To be co-laborers with God in welcoming the household of love, enough for all the world.

This, too, is Advent. Wait, and work.

...gritty and pretty

I spent a few quiet moments last evening sitting still in my music room, in the dark, staring into the twinkly white lights of the big Christmas tree. I was transfixed, watching the tiny lights glint off beloved figures of angels and miniature musical instruments, each ornament holding memory of place and time. Plus, I was too exhausted to move, so the sitting still felt pretty inevitable. 

Everything was so sparkly...so perfect...so pretty.

Reluctantly I got up to make my interview list for today's site visit, walked into the darkened den to get my file case...and ran full force into the tall, heavy, still-boxed-up Christmas tree for the den! Flipping on the light, I remembered that the entire room was pretty full of decoration boxes, yet to be unpacked. I had wrestled them down from the storage on Saturday, and there they sat, mostly.

My holiday home is a combination of gritty and pretty. Matter of fact, so is my life. How about yours?

Jesus was born into a world of beauty and of cruelty, wealth and poverty, ease and strife. As he grew, he didn't shrink from either gritty or pretty--he made himself at home in the midst of what real life brought.

Jesus took on the wholeness of being human--gritty, pretty, all the plainness in between--and lived in our rooms. The ones with the decorated trees, and the ones with unpacked boxes.

...solid gold and super glue

Every year, unboxing the Christmas ornaments is an exercise in breath-holding. Because some of these ornaments date from my childhood years, age and wear and the elements sometimes get the better of them. And I always end up with a small bunch of ornaments laid on the kitchen counter, precious because of the memories they hold, but bearing the wounds of a year on the shelf. It's then that I make one of many holiday pilgrimages to the store for super glue.

My holiday decorating is a balancing act between the precious and the pasted-together.

When I think of the Biblical account of Jesus' birth, I think things might have felt much the same for the cast of characters. so many details feel cobbled together with tape and glue: a man and his really-pregnant with definitely-not-his-baby almost-wife shows up in his kinfolks' town, and finds no one to take them in; angels sing the most glorious birth announcement to clueless shepherds, who were generally suspicious in polite society; magi are wise enough to follow star charts to a new king, and clueless enough to blab about it to the murderous, jealous current one.

And in a surprising synthesis of solid gold and super glue, Love was born. 

And every little thing is gonna be alright.

...don't look for that, here

Christ’s is no earthly kingdom; it comes from heaven above.

His rule secures our freedom, and justice, truth, and love.

Hope, peace, and joy our treasure, God’s love above all measure,

Hosanna to the Lord, for He fulfills God’s word!

---Mikael Franzen, 1800's, tr. Philip M. Young, 2005

Not that kind of kingdom. Not that kind of king.

Those who followed Jesus when he walked the paths and skirted the shores of the Holy Land so long ago got it wrong. They looked for power (as they understood power), might (mainly military), the overturning of Roman rule and the restoration of the rightful place of the people of God (top of the heap). It was the lore on their lips, the dream in their hearts, the birthright they claimed. Now was the time, and Jesus was their man/king/savior.

We still get it wrong today. Every time we long for power more than compassion. Every time we ransom the welfare of ‘the least of these’ for another rung on the social ladder. Every time we trade the divine undercurrent of joy for cheap momentary happiness. Every time we look to Jesus as a vendor to supply us our momentary desires rather than the Vine to connect us to the life that is truly Life.

Because Christ’s is not that kind of kingdom. And Jesus is not that kind of king. 

Don’t look for that, here.

...the harmony of rising

Lift every voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring, ring with the harmonies of liberty;

let our rejoicing rise, high as the listening skies, let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,

sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;

facing the rising sun of our new day begun, let us march on till victory is won.

---James Weldon Johnson, 1900

This hymn, penned by the incredible American poet James Weldon Johnson at the turning of the 20^th century, gives me the chills, partly for the inspiration of the text, and partly for the personal history it holds for me. As a very young teacher in downtown Atlanta, I was introduced to this song, as my students often sang it alongside the national anthem as part of their morning inspiration. These children, not just in the singing of this anthem, were often my teachers in those tender years; and these words of hope were often a lifeline for me.

Today when I sat with this text, what came rushing to mind were words from another song. In ‘I Have Made Mistakes’, the Oh Hellos sing:

We have lived in fear, we have lived in fear, and our fear has betrayed us

            And we will overcome, we will overcome the apathy that has made us

Cause we are not alone, we are not alone in the dark with our demons

We have made mistakes, we have made mistakes, but we’ve learned from them.

I see so many beautiful parallels between these two songs. The first truth, one that my own life bears out again and again, is that the past, even the dark, can be a teacher. The voice of hope, the overcoming, is strongly threaded throughout. But what stood out to me the most tonight (is it because we are working on harmony singing in Older Children’s Choir each Sunday night lately?) is the emphasis on ‘not-aloneness’. This world becomes so much less overwhelming when you are holding hands with a brother or sister. And, although you can sing a beautiful melody by yourself, you will never sing beautiful harmony until you sing it with others.

This hopeful, tough, overcoming, rising, life of ours? It is made for life together. And we belong to each other.

...in it, and of it

I want to walk as a child of the light; I want to follow Jesus.

God set the stars to give light to the world; the star of my life is Jesus.

In Him there is no darkness at all; the night and the day are both alike.

The Lamb is the light of the city of God: Shine in my heart, Lord Jesus.

---Kathleen Thomerson, 1966

This text deals with the duality of light, peculiar to religious expression. In the faith view of Christianity, Jesus is a light out front of us, to guide us in the right path. This light guides both our belief and our everyday action, leading us to consider the quality of Jesus’ light to form our own quality of life.

But there is a second aspect to the light that is Jesus. That light exists not only outside of us, to guide, but abides to light our inner lives. Jesus lives and works in the world, but also lives and works in our hearts, both beckoning and urging. This light guides our steps, and illuminates our souls. We are in the light, and made of it.

I want to walk as a child of the light.

...in various wrappings

In our joys and in our sorrows, days of toil and hours of ease,

still he calls in cares and pleasures, “Christian, love me more than these.”

Jesus calls us: by your mercies, Savior, may we hear your call,

Give our hearts to full obedience, serve and love you best of all.

---Cecil F. Alexander, 1852

“Christian, love me more than these.” It seems safe to say the thought of being called to love Jesus more than the temporal pleasures of this world is not uncommon. Here in this hymn we are called from the “worship of the vain world’s golden store,” from idols that keep us from God, from joys, from hours of ease, from pleasures. All the things that distract us from our true selves in Christ seem to fit into one of these categories. All the empty glittery good stuff with which the world entices us seems to be covered.

But then I notice: other distractions are mentioned, and they don’t seem as obvious as the pleasures. There is the “tumult of our life’s wild, restless sea” noted in the first verse, and sorrow, days of toil, and cares. Is Cecil Alexander implying that the cares, sorrows, worries, and busy-ness of daily life can also keep us from devotion to our Savior? I think so.

And now that I think about it, he may be right. The things that distract me from walking in Jesus’ way come wrapped in all sorts of packages. What hinders you from daily following Jesus?

...for ALL the saints

And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,

Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,

And hearts are brave again and arms are strong.

Alleluia!

---William Walsham How, 1864

Some weeks just wear you down. Your good intentions are misconstrued, your to-do list is filled with didn’ts, your best effort isn’t good enough. The half-inch of restoring rain is forgotten in months of choking drought. The dream job you studied for and fought to land has turned into the shackles and chains that threaten to drag you under with the weight of stress and pressure. The last-minute, miracle touchdown drive is replaced in memory by your opponent’s last-second pass-that-defied-logic, and you lose…again.

What keeps me coming back to this place, week after week, when the world doesn’t always make sense? It’s the song I hear in the distance, peculiar to this place---this place filled with the spirits of those gone on before, and the spirits of those in the pew next to me. The song is one of triumph; and our hearts, mine and yours, are brave again, and our arms are strong.

Just in time to tackle another week in the real world, strengthened by the song I hear in this place, among these saints.