...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.