...throwing open heaven's door

Good Christian friends, rejoice with heart and soul and voice!

Now ye hear of endless bliss: Jesus Christ was born for this.

He has opened heaven’s door, and we are blest forevermore.

Christ was born for this, Christ was born for this!

---Medieval Latin caril, 14th cent.

In their masterful score for the movie Frozen, the writing team of Robert Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez penned a line that sticks in my head, and in my heart. The context was a blossoming romance, but the line applied to all kinds of interactions before the movie was finished. It is, simply, genius:

            Love is an open door.

If I ever talked with the Lopez duo, I believe I might ask them if they are fans of medieval Latin carols. I’d ask, because this carol, from as early as the 14^th century, really contains the message on the lips of so many little ones (and bigger ones) after Frozen became a world-wide sensation. In this carol, we hear the good news—Jesus was born to fling open heaven’s door. Jesus did it then, over two thousand years ago, and Jesus continues to do it today—throwing open heaven’s door, leaving it wide open (Jesus…were you born in a barn???)…almost as if just anyone could go walking in.

Like he was born for this, this kind of endless bliss. Like, like love is an open door.

...being enough

A confession? This time of year gives me an inferiority complex. I continually seem to come up short, run late, disappoint myself.

Advent beckons to me, to come away, to quiet myself, to slow my breathing, to wait in stillness for the world to turn upside down. And year after year, my already tumped-over world gets in the way of my good intentions. And year after year, my 'meant to's turn into 'should have's, and anticipation becomes regret.

Christmas beckons, with its glitter and sparkle, its jingle and laughter. And year after year, I run out of calendar on the way to making magic. Just-right gifts don't get bought, wrapping paper stays wrapped around the cardboard tube, carols remain unsung. What good is being a visionary, with these feet of clay?

I want to believe, though, that what I bring is enough. That this broke-down season, this cobbled together holiday, this Charlie Brown tree of a practice that is my attempt, despite my best intentions--that this offering is enough. Leonard Cohen wrote:
     Ring the bells that still can ring
     Forget your perfect offering
     There is a crack in everything
     That's how the light gets in.

Still trying. But I will be the one, bringing up the rear, toting my imperfect offering.
It's enough. Thanks be to God.

...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

...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.

...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.

...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.

...straw against the chill

There within a stable, the baby drew a breath
There began a life that put an end to death.
And in the frozen stillness, a mighty voice is heard:
"God is here among you! Human is the Word!"
It was so long ago, but we remember still:
Star upon the snow, straw against the chill.
A planet dancing slow, a tree upon a hill,
Star upon the snow, straw against the chill.
---Bob Franke

Emmanuel. God with us. Here. Now. All the straw we'll ever need against all the chill we'll ever encounter.

...again, for the first time

Can I, will I forget how Love was born
and  burned its way into my heart: 
unasked, unforced, unearned:
to die, to live, and not alone for me.
---Jaroslav J. Vajda, 1986

I'm guilty. Every once in a while, when I hear a certain story start up, the tale winding out of a certain mouth, I'll think, "Not again. How many times do I have to sit through this same old tired yarn?" Folks may say, "Stop me if you've heard this..." but they don't really mean it. People like telling their stories, and as a culture we may be gradually returning to finding value in the stories of everyday people. Programs such as StoryCorps, and radio shows/podcasts like The Moth and Talking History promote the valuing and sharing of oral history and story as both cultural record and art form. And of course, not so many centuries ago, stories were the way cultural histories and beliefs were passed from generation to generation.

Do we ever have that been there, done that thought about the stories of our faith? "Nah, I've heard that 'Baby in a manger' story before; just gonna skip the service this Christmas." "Ehh, I know how that Jesus story turns out; no need to show up for Good Friday and Easter." Well, strictly speaking, we do know how those stories go --- we've heard them plenty of times. And we may, once in a while, even have a 'not again' feeling about those stories. We could say them in our sleep. We could set them to rhyme. We could draw pictures of them. We could sing songs about them. Chances are, we may have done some of that.

Here's the thing, though.

This Love? This new-born Love that seeps into our souls without us having to quest for it, to earn it, to wrest it away from anyone else? We will forget. 

We will forget. 

And so, we go to church, and we listen to the stories, again, for the first time. And the story is new. And it is old. And we will remember. And we will forget.

We will forget.

And we will listen again. Because in the repeating, we are made new. Every single time.

...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.

...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."