...rolling over me

Jesus! What a help in sorrow! While the billows o’er me roll,

Even when my heart is breaking, He my comfort, helps my soul.

Hallelujah! what a Savior! Hallelujah! what a friend!

Saving, helping, keeping, loving, He is with me to the end.

---J. Wilbur Chapman, 1907

While I have spent a few days on beaches in Hawaii and New England, and lived as a child close to the Atlantic beaches and marshy waterways of Charleston, and I’ve enjoyed Atlantic coast vacations from the Carolina barrier islands down to St. Augustine, I’m most familiar with Gulf Coast beaches. I’ve seen the waters stirred up ugly café au lait in front of a storm, foam blowing up onto the sand. I’ve seen them full of jellyfish or stinging nettles, too bothersome to play in. I’ve seen them placid as a lake, glassy green surface reflecting a yellow sun. And occasionally I’ve seen the perfect Gulf beach day, the one from all the tourism ads --- azure sky, sapphire water, dazzling-white sand, even some waves breaking thirty yards out. And while I’ve been knocked down by the surf in Hanauma Bay, and cut to shreds by what passes for sand in the frigid surf on Wingaersheek Beach, this Gulf is my experience of the sea.

So when I picture sea billows rolling over me, I have no context from real life. And so I turn to the beautiful classic surfing films The Endless Summer and Morning of the Earth. Oh. Those billows. Wow. The kind of waves that carry tons of water volume in them, the kind that can crush you. Those. Even when life is doing to my heart what those waves do to surfers who catch the wrong edge, Jesus. Even then, Jesus. When I’ve had to let go control of what happens next --- because, let’s face it, the wave is in control --- even then, Jesus. When I am not sure when the end will be, or which way is up, and I’m not too sure the tumbling will stop, Jesus.

Saving, helping, keeping, loving. To the end.

...for all the days that are

You are my shepherd, 
you meet needs I do not know.
You find peace for me in lovely places,
rest where waters refresh instead of threaten;
my spirit regains its wholeness in your care.
Because of who you are 
you help me walk the path.
When the trail cuts the valley, 
and shadows grow purple and deep,
your presence and your promise
keep my fear at bay;
your protection, even your teaching,
are a comfort in the dark.
You set a fellowship table in the open,
refusing to let me treat the other as enemy;
you set me aside for a special thing;
it is so much, I can't take it all in.
My God, your good grace and mercy 
will be my traveling companions 
all my life long;
and I will count your dwelling as my
place of abiding for all the days that are.
Psalm 23 (para. laca)

...overwhelmed, battered, bathed

My soul has found its low place,
lost to yesterday and yesterday,
so I labor to recall you from 
beautiful days, from times of 
close ease. I do remember you.
The deep places in me echo 
with the thunder of earth's  deep places;
I'm overwhelmed, battered, bathed
where the waters fall away.
By day, your steadfast love;
by night, your song;
my spirit returns to you.
---Psalm 42: 4-8 (para. laca)

I have found myself at my lowest when I have forgotten the track record of the One who walks with me. It is easy for us, I think, to get beaten down, or worn down, and forget to remember. And, once we get rusty at calling to remembrance, we lose our backward vision. We panic, and grope, and grasp for a handhold on this path, all the while feeling we must have been abandoned.

Then the thunder of yearning from the deep spaces of our souls is matched by the thunder of our filling; the provision, the meeting, and the cacophony batters us, cleanses us, restores us. We know the hesed, the steadfast love, that both nourishes and challenges us, by day. And by night, when darkness tugs at the edges of our awareness and threatens our tenuous, newly-reclaimed security, we hear faint strains of a song, the middle-of-the-night song that calms and soothes us back to sleep, safe in the arms of the One who loves us.

...to turn on the light

Do not, Mystery and Mercy, keep from me
what you alone can grant;
wrap me in the safety of your
strong and steady love,
let me feel the 'yes' of your faithfulness.
For the darkness of the world 
tangles around me,
enmeshed with my own 
inner shadow spaces,
until vision is a memory,
or a dream;
the shadows innumerable, 
my weakness takes my breath away.
You would delight to see me
delivered, relieved of
threats from the world,
and of my own weaving.
---Psalm 40:11-13 (para. laca)

It is so easy for me to get 'wrapped up', entangled, knotted, in the bad things happening out there. World things that happen because we are part of this world. Stuff that goes down in this broken world. Things people do that they have no business doing. Some of those things, they do to me. I know, right? And it makes me want to cry out, "God help us!" And sometimes I do. And once in a while I get a little more selfish, and I want to cry, "God help me!" 

And sometimes I do.

And God, Mystery and Mercy, says "Here I am." Which isn't always as satisfying as, "I hereby slap the baddies with tough karma and the flu!" But, then, God is God, and maybe plays the game a few moves ahead of us.

And there is this other thing. With all the darkness in the world, we sometimes can't let well enough alone. We go around creating more, and hiding it away in the nooks and crannies of our own souls. Friends, those shadowy places inside of us? They are at least as dangerous and threatening as the darkness the world tries to wrap around us. They push against us from the inside, sending out tangles of pain and hurt that interweave with the hurt and pain winding around us from the outside, and we are caught in the middle, left breathless and helpless, bound by the shadows. We can't even remember what it was to see clearly, or picture what it might be like to see again.

But the story doesn't end there. The great mystery and mercy is that, in the moment of our night-blindness, when we are bound by darkness falling on us and coming from us, there is One who is pleased to cut us loose, and turn on the light.

Praise be.

...just in time

You satisfy both my hunger and my thirst,
I've cast my lot with you.
Looking back, I see my path
gently leading me just so.
Bless you, who inspire me 
from the soul of my knowing.
With you clear in my view,
no one will move me.
Deep gladness fills me, 
joy seeps from my pores;
even my body finds peace, sure peace.
---Psalm 16:5-9 (para. laca)

People are so disillusioned with...everything today. Is there anything that does not disappoint? Products, 'miracle' or otherwise, don't work as advertised. Movies, games, books, TV series are boring, formulaic, derivative. Food is fattening, or tasteless, tainted, genetically-modified (or not), or produced without benefit of fair-trade scrutiny. Modern medicine doesn't cure all of our aches and pains, and hasn't found answers for some of the killing questions of our human race; vaccines save countless lives, yet are blamed for gaps in prediction from year to year. Relationships fail to anticipate every need, for closeness, space, bonding, independence, validation. Is it any wonder we are disappointed people?

There is always the chance, though, that we are looking for the wrong things, in the wrong places. When I come to this clearing in the pathway, I can't help but see that I've been led to this place, shepherded away from danger and guided toward treasure to discover. There have been tears, there have. But here in this clearing there is gladness, for this moment. And now, face upturned, there is joy starting somewhere deep. Here in this clearing on my path, for now, there is relief and peace for my body, the house of my spirit.

I have been gently led here, just in time for this moment. And I can't help but believe there is more to come. Thank You.

...you have dreamed my future

You, you my solid center and my shelter,
because of your nature
lead me, urge me on.
I am entangled;
be my rescue and my refuge.
My spirit flies to your safekeeping;
you have dreamed my future,
Ever-Presence.
---Psalm 31:3-5 (para. laca)

There is a kind of parent I dream of being. It's the fierce mother bear when I need to be, hackles up when there is no doubt about the danger around. It's the sage teacher, asking the right questions at the right times. The cheerleader on the sidelines, my kids' biggest fan. The safe place to fall, when life does what life does. And most of all, I'd like to be the parent that dreams my child's future. I'd like to look into her newborn eyes, his infant face, and see past the hurt and disappointment sure to line life's pathway; and I'd like to dream a future that redeems all of that for them, a future that makes costly sense of the suffering that might come. I'd like to be the parent who could plant that dream of the future in my child, to instill in her the knowledge that she is valued, that he is bought and paid for.

Because knowing you are redeemed? That kind of dream sets you free.

...till mercy showers down

To you my gaze is lifted,
you sitting among the stars!
As a servant looks to his master,
as a maid looks to her lady,
my eyes search yours,
until mercy showers down.
Mercy, my Own, mercy,
for more contempt is 
more than I can bear.
---Psalm 123:1-3 (para. laca)

There is something about meanness and people. Okay. Not all people, but lots of us. Me. I'm guilty sometimes. Maybe you? I'm mean. Now sometimes it's when I feel I've been backed into a corner, and I am in counterattack mode. And sometimes I'm just mean in my head, and the rest of the world never hears a word of it (ok, straight up, this is where I'm the meanest). Rarely, the mean spills out and burns someone else --- either the target of my mean, or an unlucky innocent bystander. This is not a side of myself that makes me proud, even when it is couched in the dubious humour of sarcasm. And I think mean is epidemic in our culture right now. If it were medical, we'd be marching on Washington for a cure, wearing color-of-the-day ribbons, having thing-a-thons to stamp it out forever. But, since all we have to do to stop it is to, well, stop it, the culture of mean continues to lurk around every corner, waiting to pounce.

In this world rife with contempt, communion with the Author of mercy is precious. My God, can you imagine what mercy would be worth to someone beat down by contempt? Maybe everything? And haven't we all, every one of us, had our fill of contempt? Find your wild place, and sit, and wait...till mercy showers down.

...to make holy

When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

---K

There are lots of ways to look at the rough patches and tragedies in our lives. Some folk choose to look at everything that happens as God’s distinct will, some look at bad stuff as karma or payback. I see the bad things that happen as part of the price of being truly human in this world. For me, this resonates with my observations, with history, with my own life experience, and with my belief in a loving God.

In today’s hymn, with its text from the 18^th century, the hymnist speaks from the viewpoint of a strong, caring God to a searching believer. We will be called, no choice about it, through our life experiences, to journey through deep waters; but we will not go alone. God goes with us through our troubles and distress, to bless and even to make holy those experiences that try us the most. To me this says that God can bring some worth out of even the most tragic, worthless, hurtful situation.

What a hopeful thought from a loving God!

...here I linger

Open my eyes to your ways,
set my feet on the paths you clear.
Beckon me with truth, help me learn,
for you are my saving Way:
here I linger until you lead.
---Psalm 25:4-5 (para. laca)

Linger. Stay. Abide. Wait. How hard is this for you? How long are you willing to wait? How long before you begin to fidget, doodle, fuss, daydream, grumble, toe-tap, throat-clear, or whine? Does it depend on what you are waiting for? How special does it have to be for you to wait patiently? What if you are not sure at all what you are awaiting? What if you are waiting for something you hope for, that you pray you will recognize when it happens?

As we wait in this holy season, how do we sit in our uncertainty? Do we wait in expectation? Trepidation? Do we wait hungering and thirsting to be filled? Searching for a true north? Dare we wait in a silent void, with no voices, no flashing arrows, no yellow brick road? Shall we wait 40 days, while other voices whisper to us from other hills, while the yellow eyes of desert creatures shine unblinking in the night?

Here I linger, until you lead...

...held close in her mother's embrace

Name, my heart is not racing, 
my gaze doesn't search the stars;
my mind doesn't dwell on 
what will always elude me.
Instead, my soul is silent and still, 
content as a weaned child held close 
in her mother's embrace.
---Psalm 131:1-2 (para. laca)

When I nursed my babies, there was a closeness between us, a symbiosis, that is like nothing I have ever shared with any other person. These tiny beings grew in me for months, dependent on my body for every bit of life. Then, the sudden violence of separation. From the warmth and closeness of the womb, shadowy and quiet, to the cold and glare of real life. From that moment of birth, of separation, when somehow one being becomes two people, the search begins. The unquenchable thirst --- for nourishment, yes, but for more. When a babe snuggled into me, it was also in search of that warm, dark place that had been home for so long. Every nerve, every sinew was laser-focused on latching on and settling in, drinking urgently, as if life depended on it. Because life depended on it.

And there were times when I was weary of it. The inconvenience of entertaining a toddler while nursing a baby, all balanced on a toilet in a dirty bathroom stall at McDonald's. The messiness of nursing. The on-call-ness of it. The soreness of it. The way brushing my baby's cheek could set off the craned neck of a Pavlovian response, feeding time or no. The Pavlovian response of my body to the sound of my own baby's cries. There's a weariness about it, no doubt.

But in a little while, or a lot, you and your baby find, together, that the time has come for moving on, to a sippy cup with a whale on it, or a cow, or to a bowl of strained peaches or rice cereal. Nursing, when it happens, loses the frantic searching quality of early infancy, and it is time. Your babe is not a babe, but a child, weaned.

And your child still comes to you in the shadows, nestles into you, head tucked into the space under your chin. You still wrap your arms around your child, you breathe together, you rock back and forth. There is no more frantic striving, none of the urgent needing of infancy. In its place, there is stillness. There is silence. There is contentment.

...into the wild places

And he was blown by the Spirit into the wild places. 
He was there for 40 days, long enough to know, 
tempted by what would have distracted Him from finding.
And the creatures there were wild things,
and angels were close by.
---Mark 1:12-13 (LACA)

This (very loose) poetic paraphrase of Mark's story of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness relates an episode from Jesus' life that has always fascinated me. Jesus, fully human, fully God. Both at once. The fully God part is, for my mind, much too vast to ever adequately unpack. The fully human aspect of Jesus' nature means, to me, that Jesus learned and grew, much as we ourselves do. So I wonder if, as the Holy Spirit compelled him into the desert following his baptism in the Jordan by cousin John, he thought to himself, How bizarre. What? What is it you want from me, Spirit? What shall I do? Who do I ask? How will I know? Am I enough?

Am I enough? Who of us hasn't been blown into our own wild places, forced to face the great silence, and wait with the wild things? Who of us hasn't counted off the days, 10, 15, 30, until the days were enough --- enough --- enough? Felt the rhythm of enough-ness in 40? Hasn't felt tempted by the glittery, shimmering thats lurking just off our path of finding?

Don't fear the 40 days. There is One gone before us into the wild places. And there are angels close by.

...fully known, fully loved, at home

There are depths of love that I cannot know till I cross the narrow sea;

There are heights of joy that I may not reach till I rest in peace with Thee.

Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord, to the cross where Thou hast died;

Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord, to Thy precious bleeding side.

---Fanny J. Crosby, 1875

There are lots of sayings, maxims, proverbs, and mottos around the concept of ‘home’. Many of them are cross-stitched on pillows, and the rest are internet memes. I’ll admit, I have my favorites. From the musical The Wiz, “When I think of home, I think of the place where there’s love overflowing.” And another of my favorites goes something like, “Home. Where the people who know you best still let you in at the end of every day.” There is just something about being home, of being fully known and fully loved, just because you are.

I think hymnist great Fanny J. Crosby may have been thinking of home when she penned this verse nearly 150 years ago. Here in this life we get glimpses and glimmers of love and of joy. We know communion with God, and fellowship with others. We find purpose and fulfillment in pouring out our lives in service for a needy world. But there is a knowing, an immersion, that may only fully happen when we leave this part of life behind, when the things that bind us to this world let us go.

Or, as St. Paul said, “Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.”

Home. Draw me nearer, Lord, to Your side.

...borne safe

When ends life’s transient dream,

When death’s cold, sullen stream shall o’er me roll,

Blest Savior, then, in love,

Fear and distrust remove;

O bear me safe above, a ransomed soul.

---Ray Palmer, 1830

There are some days inspiration flows easily. There are others when I sit and stare at the screen (or the composition book page if I’m rocking it old school) and it stares back at me. Then there are days when the text bounces back to me, twisted fantastically, as if by a funhouse mirror, distortions and warps making it hard to grasp meaning.

Guess which afternoon it’s been? This verse from the beloved mid-19^th century hymn pulled me toward it, then reflected back at me: “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream; merrily, merrily merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” Yep. Talk about a brain freeze.

So, I scrolled down on my page, past those first two lines of the verse (out of sight, sort of out of mind). And got to something I could hold onto, something that would hold onto me. In love Jesus, in the midst of our fear, ransoms our souls. In love the Savior, our distrust notwithstanding, bears us safe through the transient dream of this life.

Let me be wholly Yours.

...not the end

Lean on me when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on;
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on.
---Bill Withers

You may have been following the viral saga in the Humans of New York photo series of Vidal, Principal Lopez, and their school in Brownsville, Brooklyn, the Mott Hall Bridges Academy. 13-year-old Vidal mentioned the influence on his life of Principal Lopez, who had elevated this school and its students to a place of pride and achievement in its neighborhood. As often happens with photo subjects in this series, Lopez was then located and interviewed as a subject herself, and it soon became clear that the story was more complex than your average feel-good 'education saved me' story.

Because Principal Lopez shared that, when contacted by HONY staff about Vidal's comments, she had been composing her resignation letter. She was tired, depleted, beaten down and worn out by the demands and expectations of having to accomplish too much with too little, day after too long day. "I was broken," she said. Broken. Not incompetent. Not uncaring. Not even burned-out, really. Broken. And then. And then, Vidal. Vidal, sharing how a principal had changed his life by changing his school culture. Because a HONY photographer asked the right question of the right random person walking down the right random street. And then. And then, the responses. Likes, hundreds of thousands of them. Positive comments. Scholarship offers for the local school, from all over the place.

 Principal Lopez' resignation letter was not delivered. The Academy is reenergized.

In carpentry, beams often become weak or broken in places or ways that preclude their being removed or replaced; they cannot function adequately, but cannot be replaced with new wood. In such cases, a new beam is placed alongside the weak or broken beam, strengthening it for continued service. In the field, this practice is called sistering. In carpentry, a useful practice. In life, none of us can do without it.

Because, sisters and brothers, we're all broken. But brokenness is not. the end. of the story.

...my kind of river

Like a river glorious is God’s perfect peace,

Over all victorious in it’s bright increase;

Perfect, yet it floweth fuller everyday,

Perfect, yet it groweth deeper all the way.

---Frances Havergal, 1874

I have never floated on the Mississippi River, but I’ve read Huckleberry Finn. There is a vivid description of the river that stays with me. Huck and Jim are floating on their raft down the river, intending to veer into the Ohio where it joins the Mississippi. Neither has ever seen the Ohio, or that part of the Mississippi; when they realized that the time for paddling hard upstream of the Ohio was nigh, it was obvious that the river was too wide, too deep, too inexorable to fight against.

I thought of this passage when I read the hymn text for today. This river of God’s peace is no shallow, meandering, drought-sickened rivulet. This river, this peace, is a powerful force, growing deeper and fuller in its completeness. This peace is not a resigned, mousy resignation to the ‘true’ powers in the world. It is the force that is able to sustain life, overpowering the unrest in the world with its current. This peace is the true force to be reckoned with.

That’s my kind of river.

...a little bit of a mess

Come, ye weary, heavy-laden, lost and ruined by the fall;

If you tarry till you’re better, you will never come at all.

Let not conscience make you linger, nor of fitness fondly dream;

All the fitness He requireth is to feel your need of Him.

---Joseph Hart, 1759

I have never had a maid or cleaning service (visit my house and you’ll know it!), but I have heard several folks speak of “cleaning up for the maid to come”. It always makes me smile a little, but I sort of know the impulse. Maybe it is the same urge that overcomes folks with disorganized piles of random receipts just before they meet with their accountants. There is something in us that will admit we are needy, but not too needy. We need Jesus’ salvation and life-changing power, but we don’t want to need it too much. Sure, we’re sinners, but not sinners.

This hymn, one of my favorites from that era (1800’s American), reminds me all the time that I need Jesus, and that if I wait around to acknowledge my need till I’m more worthy of Christ’s attention, time will pass, and I may never approach the intimacy with God that Jesus offers me. I need not dream of fitness; Jesus is ready to accept me as I am…poor…needy…ready.

...doesn't love a wall

Nothing in height or in depth
which befriends or befalls us,
nothing in life or death
which forbids or forestalls us,
nothing can limit the love of our saviour, Jesus.
---John L. Bell, 1998

 "You must be this tall to ride this ride." "You must be born after this date to _______ (play in this league, enter kindergarten, see this movie, buy beer)." "Sale price: $2.99. Limit 4." "Whites only."

Oh, we humans love our limits. We love to put them on others --- what are rules, really, but limits imposed on society? Sometimes with good reason, sometimes for no discernible reason at all, we hem others in with lists of rules --- the 'thou shalts' and 'thou shalt nots' (we especially love the 'thou shalt nots'!) --- like bright strings of barbed wire keeping cattle contained in a field.

The funny thing is, we also seem to like to set limits on ourselves, or to let someone else set them for us. If there are no rules, we would have to invent some. Something about staring out across that open prairie scares the daylights out of us. Like the neighbor in Robert Frost's Mending Wall, we murmur under our breath, "Good fences make good neighbors," and keep on stacking stones to divide us from limitlessness.

Because it is our way, then, to set limits, we fail at comprehending a limitless God. Because it is our way, we spend our energy stacking stones at what we perceive to be the limits of God's powerful love. "Good fences make good neighbors. Good fences make good neighbors. Good fences make good neighbors." We spend our waking hours stringing glinting, razor-sharp barbed-wire at the edge of our conception of the limits of God's mercy.

And all the while, God stands, smiling, one step over the fence. One step beyond our limits. Because nothing can separate us.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall...

...if only God would speak

God is calling through the voices of our neighbors’ urgent prayers:

Through their longing for redemption and for rescue from despair.

Place of hurt or face of needing; strident cry or silent pleading:

God is calling --- can you hear? 

---Mary Louise Bringle, 2003

“Oh, how I would like to hear God speak clearly!” “I’m just waiting on a sign from God.” “It would have been so much easier to live in Jesus’ time --- we could hear straight from his lips what he wanted from us!” If you have not been the speaker of one of these comments (or something similar), you have surely heard folk who have said these things. If only God would speak, and tell us exactly what we need to know!

In this very new hymn, Mel Bringle posits that God is speaking to us in our modern age. God is speaking through the natural beauty of the world, through music and art, through hymns and carols. She also states that God is speaking to us, pleading, in the voices of those with needs and hungers living among us. God speaks to us in the tragedies and injustices of the world in which we live.

Jesus even addressed this kind of God-speak in Matthew 25. The ‘church people’ asked him, incredulous, “When in the world did we ever hear your voice, Jesus, calling out to us in need or pain?” And Jesus said, “Anytime you heard the cry of your fellow humans, of basic needs, of care and concern, of human dignity, that voice was mine.”

God is calling.

...winter's clear anatomy

I love to see, when leaves depart,
The clear anatomy arrive.
Winter the paragon of art,
That kills all forms of life and feeling
Save what is pure and will survive.
---Roy Campbell

If you look out any window where you chance to be right now, odds are you'll see them. Tree skeletons. Tall ones, narrow as rails. Squat ones, bones a tangled mess. Huge ancient ones, central trunks it would take two of us, three, to embrace, with tired arms nearly sweeping the ground, full of stick bundles long abandoned for cozier, deeper climes. Looking, for all the world, like death. No life here, not in these bones.

But we know. We, who've been around the sun a few times ourselves. We know there is life in those dead-looking tree skeletons. We know they are resting, for a season. Waiting. We know that to count them out now, because they look done, finished, over, would be a grand mistake. We know the purest sort of life is hidden in that bareness, waiting for its time. Distilling, concentrating, becoming more itself, more true, the life waits.

Don't discount the bare trees of winter.

...no such thing as an Incredible Hulk for Jesus

Be strong in the Lord, and be of good courage;

Your mighty Defender is always the same.

Mount up with wings as the eagle ascending;

Victory is sure when you call on His name.

---Linda Lee Johnson, 1979

Be strong. In January, it’s hard to get away from this message. Fitness equipment that some well-meaning soul gifted for Christmas cries to us petulantly from the box. TV commercials for decadent football playoff snack spreads battle for air time with ads for gyms and P90X, whatever that is. And you’d better get with the program quick, before the last of your resolution withers away in the cold grey light of February. Be strong.

And when people say to ‘be strong in the Lord’, we are tempted to think of the same process; some sort of spiritual calisthenics, some program we can work, to ‘bulk up’ spiritually to live and serve in a way pleasing to God. Like there is such a thing as an Incredible Hulk for Jesus.

But instead, we are given here the image of an eagle, a mighty and powerful bird, strong for sure. Isaiah used the soaring eagle as a symbol of those whose strength is renewed by God. The thing is, while the eagle covers great distances at a time, it doesn’t do it by flapping its powerful wings. It catches currents of warm rising air called thermals, and glides, even soars, to great heights and for great distances, without exhausting its own finite stores of power. The eagle’s strength comes from relying on thermals to carry it.

Where does your strength come from?

...the tweetable moment

As they offered gifts most rare at thy manger, rude and bare,
so may we with holy joy, pure and free from sin's alloy,
all out costliest treasures  bring, Christ, to thee, our heavenly King.
---William Chatterton Dix, c. 1858

Oprah calls it a "tweetable moment". Before Twitter took off, she called it an "aha moment", but natch --- one must keep up with the times. These are phrases used to refer to epiphanies --- manifestations, sudden revealings, inspired discoveries. "God moments", if you will.

And today, on the spiritual calendar, is Epiphany, traditionally celebrated as the revealing of God in Jesus to the Gentiles. We mark the day remembering the arrival of the Magi, scholars from the East seeking a king and finding a child. They brought gifts, traditionally honoring king, God, and sacrifice. In a very obvious way, what was revealed to them changed them.

Our question today, on this Epiphany, is: Will this revealing, this manifestation, this discovery of God in human form change us? Will it bring us to our knees in wonder? Will it, quite literally, floor us?

And, if it does, what will we bring? Gold, frankinscense (whatever that is), and myrrh are soooo taken; and I've got an inkling they'd be hard for the average Jill and Joe to get our hands on. What, then, are our costliest treasures? What is it we hold back in our private reserve for that special occasion that never seems to happen? What is it that is our 'precious', guarded jealously, beyond reason?

What is it we need to offer the Child, in order to be free to serve the world for His sake?

...the call of creation

All Thy works with joy surround Thee, earth and heaven reflect Thy rays,

stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise.

Field and forest, vale and mountain, flowery meadow, flashing sea,

singing bird and flowing fountain call us to rejoice in Thee.

---Henry van Dyke, 1907

Are you a nature lover? Does the glimpse of a backyard hawk, or stone-still owl, or the earth-tone glint of a speckled trout give you pause? Do you climb the mountain because it’s there? Does your heart beat in rhythm with the tide lapping a beach of pure white or coal-black sand? Have you met the steady gaze of a deer at the edge of the wood, and stood, just so, sharing the moment? Do you step out your door on certain days --- those perfect days --- breathe in deeply, and pray a silent “Yes”?

Me, too. And I believe, from the depth of my being, that what we feel in such moments is the call of God’s creation to come away --- to remember the Creator of all this goodness, and us. And to breathe the profound prayer of those who stop to notice; the prayer of thanks and praise.

Both earth and heaven reflect the light of their Creator. And we praise, as blessed witnesses.

...the turning

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

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

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

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

The turning.

...walking out of heaven

For He is our childhood’s pattern;

Day by day on earth He grew;

He was tempted, scorned, rejected,

Tears and smiles like us He knew.

Thus He feels for all our sadness,

And He shares in all our gladness.

---Cecil F. Alexander, 1848

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

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

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

...just what I needed

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

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

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

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

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

...another chance

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

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

Because we still search for a King

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

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

Come, Jesus.

...the whole wide world

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

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

Isaac Watts, 1719

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

Joy to the world…the whole wide world!

...fear find no quarter

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

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

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

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

...peace-flung splendors

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

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

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

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

---Edmund Sears, 1849

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

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

Lo, the days are hastening on…

...about to turn

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

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

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

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

...snow on snow

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

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

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

Snow on snow on snow on snow.

...right from the beginning

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

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

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

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

Right from the beginning.

...just in time

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

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

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

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

The Water. The Light.

Just in time.

...not one more December tragedy

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

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

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

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

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

Because we can. Not one more December tragedy.

...is there peace?

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

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

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

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

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

...wherever it went

And by the light of that same star

The wise men came from country far,

To seek for a king was their intent,

And to follow the star wherever it went.

Nowell, born is the King of Israel.

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

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

Follow the star.

...hope and fear

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

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

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

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

...beside the weary road

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

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

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

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

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

...a not yet world

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

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

Our world does not reflect its Creator. Not yet.

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

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

...to be bound

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

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

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

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

---Charles Wesley, 1744

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

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

Come, thou long-expected Jesus.

...and not look away

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

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

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

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

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

...tidings of comfort and joy

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

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

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

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

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

O tidings of comfort. And joy.

...what's in a name?

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God.

...the moon is there

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

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

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

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

Light is there. We will see.

...fruit basket turnover!

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

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

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

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

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

...hope past hope's believing

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

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

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

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

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

...help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi

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

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

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

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

...speak comfort

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

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

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

A voice, crying in the wilderness...

...set free from fear and failure

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

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

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

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