Here it is, a few days before Christmas. I have been lighting the candles and saying the prayers and going about my duties and my days, meeting with people and reading but not taking as much time for intentional reflection as I'd like.
A couple of days ago I went to visit a shut-in, and I brought my old confirmation Bible along with me instead of the newer, shinier translation. It's still in pretty good shape, even though it is about 50 years old. And I read out of that old translation, about Caesar Augustus and swaddling cloths, and I remembered back to when I made it my mission to memorize Luke chapter 2, out of this very translation.
I think I was ten or eleven years old, and I don't remember why I took up the challenge to memorize these passages. It wasn't required for a Christmas pageant; my parents were not encouraging me to memorize scripture passages. I didn't go to a parochial school either. But somehow, one December I decided that this was what I would like to do: memorize as much of the Christmas story as I could.
Every day I would crunch through the snow on the way to school, and I would start out with chapter 2, verse 1, and see how far I could get. I didn't know who Quirinius was, or where Syria was, and I didn't know that the word "Caesar" meant "Emperor", but I plowed through the verses, understanding more or less, getting a little farther every day.
"In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled. this was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria."
I think I may have made it all the way to verse 14, in the end. Every day I walked and recited, I recited and walked. It was December.
I suppose it was my Advent discipline, although I would not have said so at the time. At the time, I don't think I knew what an Advent discipline was. And I'm not sure that the process of memorization itself yielded any special insights into the scriptures -- at least not at the time.
I think back to that year. I have been a pastor now for twenty-five years. At the time I tried to memorize the Christmas story I had no idea how my life would turn out. I had not an inkling that I would be doing this work, that I would be reciting the story myself every single year.
A few years ago, in another congregation, I was visiting a shut-in just a few days before Christmas. He was a retired pastor who had served our congregation. Recently he had had a stroke, and this hearty active man was now in a nursing home, barely able to speak.
I came with communion and the Christmas story. His wife joined us. She was there every day, all day, just staying with him. And when I began to read from Luke chapter 2, he started saying the words along with me.
By heart.
Every once in awhile he would fade out, but he always came back strongly on three words, "in a manger". And while we were speaking together, reciting together, I noticed that those three words, "in a manger" -- were repeated three times in that one chapter. How could I have been reading those words all these years and not noticed this.
There is so much in the Christmas story -- the shepherds and the angels, the long journey to Bethlehem, "Glory to God in the highest!" And in the middle of it all is the manger. The child is lying in a manger.
This is the sign. This is the sign of Christmas. It is the manger that carries the child.
All those years ago, I trudged up and down the streets, and I memorized the words, not knowing where the words really led. And then one day, many years later, they led to the manger. The lowly place.
And the words became food: the bread of life. In a manger.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Friday, December 20, 2019
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
Foreign Languages
On Friday, my day off, my husband and I drove south into Houston to attend the annual Christmas Bazaar at the Norwegian Seaman's church. In some ways, going to this event seems a lot like going home: my home state in Minnesota has a large Scandinavian-American community, and the decorations and the flavors and the sounds had a comforting familiarity.
And yet, it wasn't exactly the same. This wasn't a church for people with a nostalgic, distant memory of their homeland, but for strangers and sojourners, people getting used to a new country. Instead of feeling like the closed ethnic communities in my home state, there was an international flavor as we bumped into people from all over the country. We talked to Minnesota Swedish Baptists and Wisconsin Lutherans and Norwegian immigrants planning a pilgrimage to the northern regions of the United States over the Christmas holiday.
While milling around a large crowd shopping for Scandinavian Christmas decorations, I happened to overhear some familiar sounds. I recognized the sound of the Japanese language, although (sadly) I didn't understand any of the words. I turned around and noticed four women perusing the Swedish linens and the Christmas trolls.
It has been over thirty years since I left Japan, after three and a half years as a missionary and teacher. I recognized the sound of Japanese. But I no longer understand the actual words. Still, I wanted to make a connection.
'Are you from Japan?" I asked (in English).
"Kyoto," they told me.
"Ah," I answered. "I lived in Japan a long time ago." I emphasized word "long" so that they would not misunderstand that I was fluent in any way.
"Where did you live?" one of the women asked. "Tokyo," I answered, ".... and Kumamoto."
"Ah," they answered. (Kumamoto is not known as a haven for foreigners.)
We all nodded to one another in the Japanese way, and then we parted. It was a small encounter. I didn't find out why they were here, or for how long, or how they found this place. It was almost as crowded in the church as in a crowded train in Tokyo; hardly room to turn around, much less to have a conversation.
A little later I was standing in line to buy some Christmas decorations. Right in front of me was one of the four women from Kyoto. She had some small decorations, and I said, by way of making conversation, "Those make good gifts."
"Not gifts," she answered. Then there was a pause, and she said the word, "Souvenir."
I paused too, and I remembered something -- one word -- in a language I (mostly) no longer understood. I remembered the word for souvenir in Japanese. "Omiyage?" I said.
I remembered what it was like to be a tourist and a teacher and a missionary, and the "omiyage" that I brought home. A Japanese ningyo, a handkerchief with flowers, a teacup, a pair of bamboo chopsticks. I was buying memories, hoping that so many years later, I would remember something about living in that strange place.
And there is so much that I have forgotten. I recognize the sounds, but I no longer understand most of the words.
But there is omiyage. There are souvenirs, and somehow they still do the job: they make real the memories that seem so far away. Was my life transformed on that narrow island so long ago, when I taught students English and Jesus, and saw God in their faces? Did I listen to church services in Japanese, and join the members afterwards for curried rice served by the pastors wife?
Sometimes it surprises me how spiritual we think we should be. After all, we believe that God became flesh and blood, and that his disciples touched him and he touched them, and that they ate and drank together. And when he left, I wonder if there were times when they forgot what the sound of his voice was like, or forgot the meaning of his words.
But there are still souvenirs -- things we taste and touch -- that suddenly bring the meaning back to us. All we need is a word -- or a phase sometimes -- "Bread of Life" or "Good Shepherd" -- to remind us that we once spoke a foreign language, and hoped for a better country.
And yet, it wasn't exactly the same. This wasn't a church for people with a nostalgic, distant memory of their homeland, but for strangers and sojourners, people getting used to a new country. Instead of feeling like the closed ethnic communities in my home state, there was an international flavor as we bumped into people from all over the country. We talked to Minnesota Swedish Baptists and Wisconsin Lutherans and Norwegian immigrants planning a pilgrimage to the northern regions of the United States over the Christmas holiday.
While milling around a large crowd shopping for Scandinavian Christmas decorations, I happened to overhear some familiar sounds. I recognized the sound of the Japanese language, although (sadly) I didn't understand any of the words. I turned around and noticed four women perusing the Swedish linens and the Christmas trolls.
It has been over thirty years since I left Japan, after three and a half years as a missionary and teacher. I recognized the sound of Japanese. But I no longer understand the actual words. Still, I wanted to make a connection.
'Are you from Japan?" I asked (in English).
"Kyoto," they told me.
"Ah," I answered. "I lived in Japan a long time ago." I emphasized word "long" so that they would not misunderstand that I was fluent in any way.
"Where did you live?" one of the women asked. "Tokyo," I answered, ".... and Kumamoto."
"Ah," they answered. (Kumamoto is not known as a haven for foreigners.)
We all nodded to one another in the Japanese way, and then we parted. It was a small encounter. I didn't find out why they were here, or for how long, or how they found this place. It was almost as crowded in the church as in a crowded train in Tokyo; hardly room to turn around, much less to have a conversation.
A little later I was standing in line to buy some Christmas decorations. Right in front of me was one of the four women from Kyoto. She had some small decorations, and I said, by way of making conversation, "Those make good gifts."
"Not gifts," she answered. Then there was a pause, and she said the word, "Souvenir."
I paused too, and I remembered something -- one word -- in a language I (mostly) no longer understood. I remembered the word for souvenir in Japanese. "Omiyage?" I said.
I remembered what it was like to be a tourist and a teacher and a missionary, and the "omiyage" that I brought home. A Japanese ningyo, a handkerchief with flowers, a teacup, a pair of bamboo chopsticks. I was buying memories, hoping that so many years later, I would remember something about living in that strange place.
And there is so much that I have forgotten. I recognize the sounds, but I no longer understand most of the words.
But there is omiyage. There are souvenirs, and somehow they still do the job: they make real the memories that seem so far away. Was my life transformed on that narrow island so long ago, when I taught students English and Jesus, and saw God in their faces? Did I listen to church services in Japanese, and join the members afterwards for curried rice served by the pastors wife?
Sometimes it surprises me how spiritual we think we should be. After all, we believe that God became flesh and blood, and that his disciples touched him and he touched them, and that they ate and drank together. And when he left, I wonder if there were times when they forgot what the sound of his voice was like, or forgot the meaning of his words.
But there are still souvenirs -- things we taste and touch -- that suddenly bring the meaning back to us. All we need is a word -- or a phase sometimes -- "Bread of Life" or "Good Shepherd" -- to remind us that we once spoke a foreign language, and hoped for a better country.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Holding Hands with Jesus
It doesn't seem so long ago that I was in their living room, praying and talking. It was a difficult diagnosis. Terminal cancer. Three to six months, was what the doctor said.
They had had other plans for the future. He wanted to build a house for his wife and their teenage daughter. But he thought he had more time.
It wasn't so long ago that I was in their living room, talking about how they were going to spend the next three to six months, hoping to find a treatment that would give them just a little more time, and just a little less pain. Time to have friends help them finish a house -- their dream. Time to see children and grandchildren. Time to be alive.
And then this week I was there again, because he had decided to stop treatment, and go on hospice. We talked, and shared communion. He was on hospice, but he still had time.
Yesterday I was back. He was no longer talking. We prayed with him, and sang to him, and read scripture. Romans 8. Isaiah 43. John 10. "My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me," we read. "As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul length after thee," we sang.
His wife pointed out one of his hands. It was outstretched, and clenched, as if he was holding someone's hand. With one hand, he would hold on to us. But with his other hand, he was holding on to Jesus. Or Jesus was holding onto him.
It is December 21st. Just three days until we light the candles, and sing Silent Night in the dark. Just four days until the Feast of the Nativity, December 25, when the Word became Flesh and dwelt among us. I think about what I learned in Greek class about the word "dwelt", and that it meant "tabernacle". It was a reference to the Old Testament, when God lived in a tent, a tabernacle, a temporary shelter. In Jesus, God tabernacled with us, in a temporary shelter, human flesh, like ours.
I think about this man who was dying, and his savior, who also wore our mortal flesh. He is a Savior we can hold hands with. That is what the incarnation means. It is about the baby in the manger, the baby we can hold, and it is about the one who holds us, really and truly.
It is so close to Christmas I can feel its breath, I can almost see the flickering flames of the candles that we hold while we sing. It is so close to Christmas, so close that I can almost reach out and hold hands with Jesus. I can feel his small fingers around my finger, I can see his hands touch a blind man, I can see his hand grasp the hand of a dying man -- and hang on.
Maybe this is all we can do in life: hold hands. Hold hands with one another. and hold hands with Jesus.
They had had other plans for the future. He wanted to build a house for his wife and their teenage daughter. But he thought he had more time.
It wasn't so long ago that I was in their living room, talking about how they were going to spend the next three to six months, hoping to find a treatment that would give them just a little more time, and just a little less pain. Time to have friends help them finish a house -- their dream. Time to see children and grandchildren. Time to be alive.
And then this week I was there again, because he had decided to stop treatment, and go on hospice. We talked, and shared communion. He was on hospice, but he still had time.
Yesterday I was back. He was no longer talking. We prayed with him, and sang to him, and read scripture. Romans 8. Isaiah 43. John 10. "My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me," we read. "As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul length after thee," we sang.
His wife pointed out one of his hands. It was outstretched, and clenched, as if he was holding someone's hand. With one hand, he would hold on to us. But with his other hand, he was holding on to Jesus. Or Jesus was holding onto him.
It is December 21st. Just three days until we light the candles, and sing Silent Night in the dark. Just four days until the Feast of the Nativity, December 25, when the Word became Flesh and dwelt among us. I think about what I learned in Greek class about the word "dwelt", and that it meant "tabernacle". It was a reference to the Old Testament, when God lived in a tent, a tabernacle, a temporary shelter. In Jesus, God tabernacled with us, in a temporary shelter, human flesh, like ours.
I think about this man who was dying, and his savior, who also wore our mortal flesh. He is a Savior we can hold hands with. That is what the incarnation means. It is about the baby in the manger, the baby we can hold, and it is about the one who holds us, really and truly.
It is so close to Christmas I can feel its breath, I can almost see the flickering flames of the candles that we hold while we sing. It is so close to Christmas, so close that I can almost reach out and hold hands with Jesus. I can feel his small fingers around my finger, I can see his hands touch a blind man, I can see his hand grasp the hand of a dying man -- and hang on.
Maybe this is all we can do in life: hold hands. Hold hands with one another. and hold hands with Jesus.
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
The Twelve Books of Christmas, January 3
For the 10th Day of Christmas, I have chosen one of my favorite Christmas stories: "Christmas Moccasins" written and illustrated by Ray Buckley. It is a Christmas story in that the gift given is on Christmas Eve. but it is also a story of being wronged and forgiving; it is a story of extravagance; it is a story of our baptismal vocation, and how difficult and necessary it is.
It is also a story told from a Native American perspective. The grandmother in the story is both steeped in the Christian faith, and also in the traditions of her community. The story speaks about the particular way the grandmother prays, and also the value of the beautiful beaded moccasins she makes.
The story begins one winter as the grandmother and the boy are beat up by two teenagers as they walk in the woods. The youths steal their coats and grandmother's moccasins. The grandmother lost two toes to frostbite, walking home.
What will be their response? What will they do?
This book is a Christmas book, but it's about more than Christmas. It is about how faith can inhabit our whole lives, from one degree of glory to another.
The illustrations are also as gorgeous as the story.
It is also a story told from a Native American perspective. The grandmother in the story is both steeped in the Christian faith, and also in the traditions of her community. The story speaks about the particular way the grandmother prays, and also the value of the beautiful beaded moccasins she makes.
The story begins one winter as the grandmother and the boy are beat up by two teenagers as they walk in the woods. The youths steal their coats and grandmother's moccasins. The grandmother lost two toes to frostbite, walking home. What will be their response? What will they do?
This book is a Christmas book, but it's about more than Christmas. It is about how faith can inhabit our whole lives, from one degree of glory to another.
The illustrations are also as gorgeous as the story.
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
The Twelve Books of Christmas, January 2
I thought for a long time before deciding on the book for today. It is not a picture book, but a compilation of short stories for children, called "A Newbery Christmas."
The stories in this book are by Newbery award winning authors like Madeline L'Engle, Lois Lenski, Katherine Paterson (my favorite), Eleanor Estes, and Rachel field. Some are excerpts from longer books, such as Eleanor Estes book, "The Hundred Dresses", a story about a little Polish girl who is poor and made fun of and claims she has one hundred dresses in her closet. It is a story not entirely about Christmas -- but it is a story about gifts in all of their varieties.
I first encountered Elizabeth Yates' lovely story, "Once in the Year" in this book, and then I found the original version. Katherine Paterson has a story from one of her two (now out of print) books of Christmas stories. Ms. Paterson originally wrote these stories for her husband, a Presbyterian minister, to read on Christmas eve. The story in this collection is "Woodrow Kennington Works Practically a Miracle", about a boy having trouble with his little sister on Christmas Eve, and how exasperated he gets, and how mean he is to her, and how he breaks the TV set, and fixes it again and, well... I guess you just have to read it so see how Woodrow practically works a miracle on Christmas eve.
A Newbery Christmas is out of print, and it's a pity. But the book is still available if you have a mind to look for it. There are plenty of stories, and authors, to discover. It is a book to read and savor over many days of Christmas, and many Christmases.
Some of the stories are overtly religious, (Paterson's) and some evoke memories of Santa and family celebrations. Some bring us back to Christmases past.
P.S. this book does not have illustrations.
I first encountered Elizabeth Yates' lovely story, "Once in the Year" in this book, and then I found the original version. Katherine Paterson has a story from one of her two (now out of print) books of Christmas stories. Ms. Paterson originally wrote these stories for her husband, a Presbyterian minister, to read on Christmas eve. The story in this collection is "Woodrow Kennington Works Practically a Miracle", about a boy having trouble with his little sister on Christmas Eve, and how exasperated he gets, and how mean he is to her, and how he breaks the TV set, and fixes it again and, well... I guess you just have to read it so see how Woodrow practically works a miracle on Christmas eve.
A Newbery Christmas is out of print, and it's a pity. But the book is still available if you have a mind to look for it. There are plenty of stories, and authors, to discover. It is a book to read and savor over many days of Christmas, and many Christmases.
Some of the stories are overtly religious, (Paterson's) and some evoke memories of Santa and family celebrations. Some bring us back to Christmases past.
P.S. this book does not have illustrations.
Monday, January 1, 2018
The Twelve Books of Christmas, January 1
For this 8th day of Christmas, I recommend a very simple Christmas book: "The Nativity", with pictures by Julie Vivas. It is simple because the text is the Christmas story from Luke. It is unusual because the pictures are so bright and whimsical. We don't often associate the word "Christmas" with "whimsy." There is also a sort of ordinary-ness to the pictures. The shepherds look unkempt. The baby looks joyful, full of surprise at being born. Mary and Joseph look like peasants, wearing ragged clothes. There is a wonderful series of pictures near the beginning of Joseph trying to lift a very pregnant Mary onto a donkey.Bethlehem looks over-crowded. The shepherds who peer over the baby's crib look filled with wonder.
I can well imagine that some would prefer a more dignified and obviously reverent book about the nativity. There is a place for the books where Mary and Joseph and Jesus are all wearing haloes, reminding us of their holiness. But this book reminds us of their humanity. Their ordinariness.
This is New Year's Day, as well as the 8th Day of Christmas. This book invites me to see the grace of God in unexpected ways and unexpected places -- and unexpected people -- in the new year. Today the year is new-born, filled with wonder and possibility. Today look again into the eyes of the new-born Jesus, and be born into his life.
Sunday, December 31, 2017
The Twelve Books of Christmas, December 31
On this 7th day of Christmas, I'm recommending a book called "The Miracle of Saint Nicholas" by Gloria Whelan, and illustrated by Judith Brown. It is a story that takes place in post-Soviet Russia at Christmas-time. A little boy named Alexi walks past the Church of St. Nicholas in in small village of Zeema. He asks his babushka about the church, and she tells him stories about what Christmas was like when she was a little girl, before the soldiers came and closed the church. Alexi has many questions for his babushka, including "What is an icon?" "Why is the church closed?" "Why can't we have Christmas in our church again?"
Babushka told Alexi that the church has been empty for 60 years. The church has an empty altar now. There is no cross, there are no candles, no bread and wine, no icon of St. Nicholas -- and no priest. There were mice living in the church. "It would take a miracle to open our church", she said.
But Alexi dreamed of Christmas at St. Nicholas. And he worked hard to make it possible. He swept and he cleaned and he made the church ready just in case the people would come, and just in case there could be worship on Christmas.
I will let you read the rest of the story yourself. Gloria Wheelman's prose is evocative and poetic. Judith Brown's detailed pastel illustrations help us enter the Orthodox culture of Russia. This picture book is accessible to small children in its basic story, but its depth makes it compelling to readers of all ages.
I love to find books to give another's culture's experiences of the meaning of Christmas. This book helps me understand the depth of the incarnation, in a country where faith was suppressed for a time, but did not ever die.
Babushka told Alexi that the church has been empty for 60 years. The church has an empty altar now. There is no cross, there are no candles, no bread and wine, no icon of St. Nicholas -- and no priest. There were mice living in the church. "It would take a miracle to open our church", she said.But Alexi dreamed of Christmas at St. Nicholas. And he worked hard to make it possible. He swept and he cleaned and he made the church ready just in case the people would come, and just in case there could be worship on Christmas.
I will let you read the rest of the story yourself. Gloria Wheelman's prose is evocative and poetic. Judith Brown's detailed pastel illustrations help us enter the Orthodox culture of Russia. This picture book is accessible to small children in its basic story, but its depth makes it compelling to readers of all ages.
I love to find books to give another's culture's experiences of the meaning of Christmas. This book helps me understand the depth of the incarnation, in a country where faith was suppressed for a time, but did not ever die.
Saturday, December 30, 2017
The Twelve Books of Christmas, December 30
Today is the 6th Day of Christmas. Today's Christmas book is one that just came out this year. It is called "Nativity", by Cynthia Rylant. I saw it in an airport bookstore, and resisted temptation, but then decided that I just had to have it.
There are Christmas books that are unusual because they tell more of the Christmas story than you expect. For example, I have an old book illustrated by Maud and Miska Petersham, called "The Christ Child." This book tells the Christmas story but it does not end when I think: the book continues with the flight into Egypt and return afterwards. These episodes are not usually featured in a Christmas book. Usually you just get the manger and the baby, the shepherds and angels, and perhaps the wise men.
Nativity is unusual because of what it includes as well as what it leaves out. The story is elliptical. It begins, not with the manger, but with the shepherds and the angels who hear the good news, and come to visit the baby. And after telling this portion of the Christmas story, Rylant shifts to one scene from Jesus' adult ministry: portions of the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount.
"Blessed are the poor," Jesus says, "for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
"
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
That's all. Just those two scenes from Jesus' life.
The humble birth -- and the one who preaches humility.
The meekness and poverty of the nativity -- and the meek shall inherit the earth.
And as for being pure in heart -- have we, like the shepherds, been to the manger, and seen the baby?
Have we seen God?
Like I said, it is a very unusual Christmas book.
There are Christmas books that are unusual because they tell more of the Christmas story than you expect. For example, I have an old book illustrated by Maud and Miska Petersham, called "The Christ Child." This book tells the Christmas story but it does not end when I think: the book continues with the flight into Egypt and return afterwards. These episodes are not usually featured in a Christmas book. Usually you just get the manger and the baby, the shepherds and angels, and perhaps the wise men.
Nativity is unusual because of what it includes as well as what it leaves out. The story is elliptical. It begins, not with the manger, but with the shepherds and the angels who hear the good news, and come to visit the baby. And after telling this portion of the Christmas story, Rylant shifts to one scene from Jesus' adult ministry: portions of the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount."Blessed are the poor," Jesus says, "for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
"
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
That's all. Just those two scenes from Jesus' life.
The humble birth -- and the one who preaches humility.
The meekness and poverty of the nativity -- and the meek shall inherit the earth.
And as for being pure in heart -- have we, like the shepherds, been to the manger, and seen the baby?
Have we seen God?
Like I said, it is a very unusual Christmas book.
Friday, December 29, 2017
The Twelve Books of Christmas, December 29
This is the fifth day of Christmas. For today I have chosen a Christmas book that I found several years ago, "The Huron Carol", by Frances Tyrell. Tyrell has illustrated the little-known carol, which was originally written both in Huron and in French, as a way of telling and singing the Christmas story with the Huron Indians.
From the back of the book: "Father Jean de Brebeuf (1593-1649) worked among the Huron Indians in the villages around Fort Set Marie, where Midland, Ontario now stands. During his twenty-two years there he translated many books into the Huron language. But he is best remembered for this telling of the Christmas story in the setting of the Hurons."
The pictures and the carol imagine the Christmas story taking place in the setting and among the Huron people. Instead of shepherds, the first visitors are hunter braves; the wise men from the east are chiefs who bring gifts of fox and beaver pelt for the baby. The pictures also show the hunters traveling by snowshoe and the traditional dwellings of the Huron Indians at that time. The pen-and-ink drawings are intricate and accurate, even to the constellations in the sky. At the back of the book, the first verse of the carol is presented in three languages: English, French, and Huron.
I love this book because it speaks the mystery of the incarnation so beautifully: that Jesus was born into a particular time and place, but his incarnation means that he is born among us, in all of our particular times and places. This book reminds me to notice and give thanks for Emmanuel: God with US -- and to notice the particular and intricate beauties of our lives -- and of other lives, not known to us. Jesus has come for ALL of us.
There is a newer version of "The Huron Carol", with a different illustrator. It also looks like a beautiful book, and I would recommend it. But this earlier one remains my favorite.
From the back of the book: "Father Jean de Brebeuf (1593-1649) worked among the Huron Indians in the villages around Fort Set Marie, where Midland, Ontario now stands. During his twenty-two years there he translated many books into the Huron language. But he is best remembered for this telling of the Christmas story in the setting of the Hurons."
The pictures and the carol imagine the Christmas story taking place in the setting and among the Huron people. Instead of shepherds, the first visitors are hunter braves; the wise men from the east are chiefs who bring gifts of fox and beaver pelt for the baby. The pictures also show the hunters traveling by snowshoe and the traditional dwellings of the Huron Indians at that time. The pen-and-ink drawings are intricate and accurate, even to the constellations in the sky. At the back of the book, the first verse of the carol is presented in three languages: English, French, and Huron.I love this book because it speaks the mystery of the incarnation so beautifully: that Jesus was born into a particular time and place, but his incarnation means that he is born among us, in all of our particular times and places. This book reminds me to notice and give thanks for Emmanuel: God with US -- and to notice the particular and intricate beauties of our lives -- and of other lives, not known to us. Jesus has come for ALL of us.
There is a newer version of "The Huron Carol", with a different illustrator. It also looks like a beautiful book, and I would recommend it. But this earlier one remains my favorite.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
The Twelve Books of Christmas, December 28
This is the 4th Day of Christmas, and, for some of us, a day when we remember the Holy Innocents, those babies killed after Jesus was born, while Herod was looking for him. So, today's recommendation is perhaps an unusual one, the book "Refuge". This books touches on the beginning of the Christmas story, and tells all of it from the donkey's point of view. The donkey brought the man and woman to Bethlehem, where they found refuge among strangers. The shepherds and the angels came, of course, and then: the man had a dream: a dream of danger, and the little family was on the road again.
They pass the shepherds and sheep on the way, and they take comfort from one another until they reach their refuge: Egypt.
It is really a simple and beautifully told story. There are some things that are over-simplified, of course -- it sounds like the wise men came shortly after the shepherds, when in reality, that happened somewhat later. But the focus of the story is that the Holy Family has to flee.
Most of the illustrations are in black and white, with flashes of color interspersed. It tells a part of the story we don't usually think too much about.
But this is Christmas too: Danger -- and Refuge. Telling this story helps keep our sentimentality in check, and remember that there are children all over the world who are still in danger, and families who still need refuge.
They pass the shepherds and sheep on the way, and they take comfort from one another until they reach their refuge: Egypt.
It is really a simple and beautifully told story. There are some things that are over-simplified, of course -- it sounds like the wise men came shortly after the shepherds, when in reality, that happened somewhat later. But the focus of the story is that the Holy Family has to flee.
Most of the illustrations are in black and white, with flashes of color interspersed. It tells a part of the story we don't usually think too much about.
But this is Christmas too: Danger -- and Refuge. Telling this story helps keep our sentimentality in check, and remember that there are children all over the world who are still in danger, and families who still need refuge.
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
The Twelve Books of Christmas, December 27
My book recommendation for today may seem unusual, as it is not really a Christmas book. It is a winter story set in the Ukraine, based on an old folk tale. My recommendation for today is Jan Brett's book, "The Mitten."
It is a lovely, whimsical story about a boy who received a pair of pure white, hand-knitted mittens from his grandmother. (This is not, by the way, a Christmas present.) She is worried because a pure white mitten will get lost in the snow. And that is exactly what happens.
As soon as the boy loses his mitten, a tired mole finds it and takes refuge inside the mitten. Not long afterwards, a snowshoe rabbit also finds this refuge, and before we know it, there are many animals from the forest inside that mitten, as it stretches to many many times its normal size.
But grandmother's stitches hold.
At the end, of the animal sneezes and all of the animals are released from the mitten, which finds its way home.
But I want to focus on that stretched-out mitten, with all of the animals inside, as a wonderful image of the mystery of the incarnation.
How is it that the great and infinite God became so small, that God could fit inside a new-born baby? It is impossible, just like the folktale. And yet -- God is with us in this tiny baby.
It is a lovely, whimsical story about a boy who received a pair of pure white, hand-knitted mittens from his grandmother. (This is not, by the way, a Christmas present.) She is worried because a pure white mitten will get lost in the snow. And that is exactly what happens.
As soon as the boy loses his mitten, a tired mole finds it and takes refuge inside the mitten. Not long afterwards, a snowshoe rabbit also finds this refuge, and before we know it, there are many animals from the forest inside that mitten, as it stretches to many many times its normal size. But grandmother's stitches hold.
At the end, of the animal sneezes and all of the animals are released from the mitten, which finds its way home.
But I want to focus on that stretched-out mitten, with all of the animals inside, as a wonderful image of the mystery of the incarnation.
How is it that the great and infinite God became so small, that God could fit inside a new-born baby? It is impossible, just like the folktale. And yet -- God is with us in this tiny baby.
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
The Twelve Books of Christmas, December 26
I am thinking about posting a recommendation for a different Christmas book every day here Today is the 2nd Day of Christmas, and the book I am recommending is called "Good King Wenceslas", a picture book by John Neal and illustrated by Tim Ladwig. John Neale wrote the hymn, Good King Wenceslas in 1855, and this beautiful picture book is an illustration of the hymn, and accompanying story.
I remember singing this carol at our school's Christmas program, and having a vague idea of the story behind it, that the King was walking through through the snow in order to help someone who was poor, and the page (what was a page?) was following him and walking in his footsteps, and his footsteps were warm.
The pictures bring the story to life. There are some pages without words, only pictures showing the preparation of the meal they would bring to the peasant's door.
The front pages of the story related something I never knew: King Wenceslas was a real person, a tenth century king, from Bohemia, now part of the Czech republic. There is a statue commemorating him in Prague.
A Historical note at the end of the book tells us a little more about the king, one who was known especially for his kindness and compassion to children, orphans, and slaves.
There have been other books illustrating this lovely carol as well. Here are a couple of examples:
Good King Wenceslas
Good King Wenceslas
As well, Tim Ladwig has illustrated a number of books for children, including The Lord's Prayer, Psalm 23, and The Beatitudes: From Slavery to Civil Rights.
I remember singing this carol at our school's Christmas program, and having a vague idea of the story behind it, that the King was walking through through the snow in order to help someone who was poor, and the page (what was a page?) was following him and walking in his footsteps, and his footsteps were warm.
The pictures bring the story to life. There are some pages without words, only pictures showing the preparation of the meal they would bring to the peasant's door.
The front pages of the story related something I never knew: King Wenceslas was a real person, a tenth century king, from Bohemia, now part of the Czech republic. There is a statue commemorating him in Prague.A Historical note at the end of the book tells us a little more about the king, one who was known especially for his kindness and compassion to children, orphans, and slaves.
There have been other books illustrating this lovely carol as well. Here are a couple of examples:
Good King Wenceslas
Good King Wenceslas
As well, Tim Ladwig has illustrated a number of books for children, including The Lord's Prayer, Psalm 23, and The Beatitudes: From Slavery to Civil Rights.
Sunday, December 24, 2017
The Perfect Gift
A friend told me recently that she had found the perfect gift for her husband, who is a wonderful cook. It is a cookbook that has just come out. All of the recipes are by chefs who are immigrants, and all of the proceeds help to advocate for immigrants and refugees to this country. Her husband is passionate about the recipes and the cause.
It is, indeed, the perfect gift.
I think about this sometimes: the perfect gift. It's the one that I want to give. The exact perfect gift: the thing that you would never ask for, but want, nevertheless. The perfect gift is not the one that is on the list of "things you want for Christmas" (although they are good too.) The perfect gift isn't necessarily expensive. Being pricey isn't what makes it perfect. It might be small, or it might be large. It just fits the person, perfectly. It is something they want, without knowing it.
One year I gave everyone in the family scarves for Christmas. They weren't terribly difficult to make, but it was more time-consuming than I thought it would be. I'm not sure they were exactly the "perfect" gifts, but I wanted to give something that had a little bit of myself in it, so I knitted all these scarves. One of them I just barely finished before the 4:00 service on Christmas Eve. I'm actually not sure it was long enough, even now.
I want to give the perfect gift to everyone every year, but, to be truthful, I'm not sure I hit the mark that often. I remember thinking I had something good for my mom one year, the year that my dad died. Then my mom opened the Christmas present from my niece and nephew, pictures of them when they are small, put in a frame. And she cried. And I knew that they had given the perfect gift.
This is the season of gift-giving, and there are times that my heart just wants to give something to everyone. Toys for children! Books for everyone! Something hand-made! Then there are other times when it just seems overwhelming, and I wish I could be content with Grace. Just the gift of life, of other people. Just the gift of laughter, tears, someone who will not abandon you. Just the gift of the herald angels singing, Glory to the newborn king, the gift of candles glowing, the gift of the silent night, the gift of the baby, joy to the world.
He was not what we asked for, not what we wanted, or at least, not what we think we wanted. In the end we rejected him, in one way or another. He is a baby who will create peace, and make a lot of trouble. He will bring new life, in a world that mostly wants to stay the same.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His Heaven.
No hear may hear his coming
But in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him still
The dear Christ enters in.
It is, indeed, the perfect gift.
I think about this sometimes: the perfect gift. It's the one that I want to give. The exact perfect gift: the thing that you would never ask for, but want, nevertheless. The perfect gift is not the one that is on the list of "things you want for Christmas" (although they are good too.) The perfect gift isn't necessarily expensive. Being pricey isn't what makes it perfect. It might be small, or it might be large. It just fits the person, perfectly. It is something they want, without knowing it.
One year I gave everyone in the family scarves for Christmas. They weren't terribly difficult to make, but it was more time-consuming than I thought it would be. I'm not sure they were exactly the "perfect" gifts, but I wanted to give something that had a little bit of myself in it, so I knitted all these scarves. One of them I just barely finished before the 4:00 service on Christmas Eve. I'm actually not sure it was long enough, even now.
I want to give the perfect gift to everyone every year, but, to be truthful, I'm not sure I hit the mark that often. I remember thinking I had something good for my mom one year, the year that my dad died. Then my mom opened the Christmas present from my niece and nephew, pictures of them when they are small, put in a frame. And she cried. And I knew that they had given the perfect gift.
This is the season of gift-giving, and there are times that my heart just wants to give something to everyone. Toys for children! Books for everyone! Something hand-made! Then there are other times when it just seems overwhelming, and I wish I could be content with Grace. Just the gift of life, of other people. Just the gift of laughter, tears, someone who will not abandon you. Just the gift of the herald angels singing, Glory to the newborn king, the gift of candles glowing, the gift of the silent night, the gift of the baby, joy to the world.
He was not what we asked for, not what we wanted, or at least, not what we think we wanted. In the end we rejected him, in one way or another. He is a baby who will create peace, and make a lot of trouble. He will bring new life, in a world that mostly wants to stay the same.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His Heaven.
No hear may hear his coming
But in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him still
The dear Christ enters in.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Impatience
It is Advent, for a few more days anyway, and, I will confess that I haven't been feeling all that advent-y this year. For some reason or another. Perhaps it's the Texas weather, all sunshine and rain and no snow (except for that one extremely unusual Thursday evening.) I don't think that's it, though, because this is my third Advent in Texas, and I don't remember feeling this way the last two years.
Maybe it's the fact that Advent is so short this year. We light the fourth Advent Candle in the morning, and bam! by sundown it is Christmas Eve. I love a long advent, with time to reflect over all of the candles, with time to think deep thoughts about wonder and waiting, making time and space for the coming Christ, who is also present.
There is this one small thing, though, every Sunday. For some odd reason, I decided, on the first Sunday of Advent, to wrap up a number of sunglasses and give them out to the children, and invite them to see differently this season. Advent is for seeing in a different way. I am terrible at wrapping gifts. I will do almost anything to avoid it. But I got a roll of Christmas wrapping paper and wrapped up the sunglasses, and put the under the tree. (Don't judge me. Yes, our church Christmas tree is up before Christmas.)
That first Sunday I had the children look for the present under the tree, and a couple of them ran over and picked it up and brought it back, and we opened it together.
This description, though, does not do justice to the event: the children tore, ripped, clawed open the box, in their excitement. It was momentary pandemonium. (To their credit, they carefully put the wrapping paper pieces in a basket afterwards.)
I decided to wrap up a different present the two next weeks as well. A gift under the tree. The children opened it with great joy and wonder and haste. We could all feel their excitement, even if all the box contained was a play microphone. It didn't matter! There was something unknown in there and they wanted to find it!
They were impatient.
I know that Advent is a time of waiting, but sometimes it seems so sedate, and when I saw the children, I caught a glimpse of wildness, and I thought: maybe Advent is really a wild season, not a tame one. Maybe Advent is full of things we cannot control, and maybe the things we are waiting for are also wilder than we imagined. What if we were opening a box of peace on earth? What if the gift God offered us contained healing and hope for all the things that hurt our hearts, for all the things that endanger our world?
Would we be impatient too? Would we claw it open just to see what is inside?
For a few more Days, it is Advent. For these next few days, Lord, let me not be sedate. Let me be impatient to know what is inside your love. Not just for me. But for this whole terrible and beautiful world.
Maybe it's the fact that Advent is so short this year. We light the fourth Advent Candle in the morning, and bam! by sundown it is Christmas Eve. I love a long advent, with time to reflect over all of the candles, with time to think deep thoughts about wonder and waiting, making time and space for the coming Christ, who is also present.
There is this one small thing, though, every Sunday. For some odd reason, I decided, on the first Sunday of Advent, to wrap up a number of sunglasses and give them out to the children, and invite them to see differently this season. Advent is for seeing in a different way. I am terrible at wrapping gifts. I will do almost anything to avoid it. But I got a roll of Christmas wrapping paper and wrapped up the sunglasses, and put the under the tree. (Don't judge me. Yes, our church Christmas tree is up before Christmas.)
That first Sunday I had the children look for the present under the tree, and a couple of them ran over and picked it up and brought it back, and we opened it together.
This description, though, does not do justice to the event: the children tore, ripped, clawed open the box, in their excitement. It was momentary pandemonium. (To their credit, they carefully put the wrapping paper pieces in a basket afterwards.)
I decided to wrap up a different present the two next weeks as well. A gift under the tree. The children opened it with great joy and wonder and haste. We could all feel their excitement, even if all the box contained was a play microphone. It didn't matter! There was something unknown in there and they wanted to find it!
They were impatient.
I know that Advent is a time of waiting, but sometimes it seems so sedate, and when I saw the children, I caught a glimpse of wildness, and I thought: maybe Advent is really a wild season, not a tame one. Maybe Advent is full of things we cannot control, and maybe the things we are waiting for are also wilder than we imagined. What if we were opening a box of peace on earth? What if the gift God offered us contained healing and hope for all the things that hurt our hearts, for all the things that endanger our world?
Would we be impatient too? Would we claw it open just to see what is inside?
For a few more Days, it is Advent. For these next few days, Lord, let me not be sedate. Let me be impatient to know what is inside your love. Not just for me. But for this whole terrible and beautiful world.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
The Christmas Program Prelude
For some reason, lately I have been thinking about the Christmas program in my first parish. It was on Sunday morning on the third or fourth Sunday of Advent. Sometimes the Sunday School teachers would ask me for advice about the program; was there a theme or a script that I knew about? Sometimes they had their own idea, and I had very little input, except to open and close with prayer.
What I am remembering right now, though, is not the program itself, but the prelude. No one asked me about this either. The Christmas program prelude was a tradition that had begun long before I arrived, and it would continue whether I approved of it or not. No one was asking permission.
The regular organist did not play the prelude on that particular Sunday. Instead, the prelude was played by any chidden who were taking music lessons and wanted to play. They ranged in age from four to twelve, and were all ability levels. Some children played Silent Night with one finger. Some children played a recital piece. They were mostly piano students, but there was occasionally a flute, or a violin.
I keep thinking about the Christmas Program Prelude, and contrasting it with the impressive music at some of the larger churches around. But I wonder if there is room for the Christmas program prelude.
Every church has different strengths and different faults. But some churches have a particular strength: the ability to recognize the gifts of all ages, and even welcome them.
What I am remembering right now, though, is not the program itself, but the prelude. No one asked me about this either. The Christmas program prelude was a tradition that had begun long before I arrived, and it would continue whether I approved of it or not. No one was asking permission.
The regular organist did not play the prelude on that particular Sunday. Instead, the prelude was played by any chidden who were taking music lessons and wanted to play. They ranged in age from four to twelve, and were all ability levels. Some children played Silent Night with one finger. Some children played a recital piece. They were mostly piano students, but there was occasionally a flute, or a violin.
I keep thinking about the Christmas Program Prelude, and contrasting it with the impressive music at some of the larger churches around. But I wonder if there is room for the Christmas program prelude.
Every church has different strengths and different faults. But some churches have a particular strength: the ability to recognize the gifts of all ages, and even welcome them.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Searching for Christmas
"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," was one of my songs, growing up. My dad and I would sing it in the car, while we were going to get the Christmas tree. We would drive along the snowy roads of suburban Minnesota, past twinkling lights and shopping malls, and we would sing "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" with all of the gusto we gave to the sacred songs.
Back then, I thought I knew what Christmas looked like. It looked like the creche in our living room, with the figures I loved to move around, so that I could tell the story. It also looked like the snowflakes on the window, the ribbon candy and peanuts they gave us in Sunday School, the angel wings and haloes, the tinsel on the tree. It looked like the eighth floor of the department store downtown where we bought each other presents. It looked like the whole extended family gathered around the table, a tree full of presents. It looked like the new clothes we wore to the Christmas eve service. It looked like snow. I was dreaming of a White Christmas, even while I was singing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."
This year I am serving a congregation in a different region of the country. It doesn't look much like my conception of Christmas here. Most of my Christmas decorations are still in Minnesota. There is not room for a tree in my apartment. I will not be surrounded by extended family this year; there will be no snow. And I have caught myself wondering: what does Christmas look like?
I would like to know it when I see it.
It is still Advent here, but not for long. Soon people will be gathering to sing the carols and to hear the story, snow or not. Some of them will be coming with extended family, reunited for the holiday. Some will come alone. Others may not come at all, will stay at home, wondering what Christmas looks like. If the children aren't coming home, if there is no snow, if you don't have a festive meal with family, if you don't have a tree, if your Christmas this year doesn't look like the Christmases you remember: What does Christmas look like?
I would like to know it when I see it.
So I am searching for Christmas right now, which is to say I am searching for a light in the darkness, the door that is open, the hand that will not let go. I am searching for a pure note in the silence, tears of joy and grief, an unexpected gift, the word 'yes.' I am searching for Christmas, by which I mean the smell of fresh hay, new babies and night air, the sound of whispers, the sight of snow, or a star, or a lightning bug. The Word made flesh. Where I am. Not just memories.
I am searching for Christmas right now. The Word made flesh. Where I am. Where you are.
Back then, I thought I knew what Christmas looked like. It looked like the creche in our living room, with the figures I loved to move around, so that I could tell the story. It also looked like the snowflakes on the window, the ribbon candy and peanuts they gave us in Sunday School, the angel wings and haloes, the tinsel on the tree. It looked like the eighth floor of the department store downtown where we bought each other presents. It looked like the whole extended family gathered around the table, a tree full of presents. It looked like the new clothes we wore to the Christmas eve service. It looked like snow. I was dreaming of a White Christmas, even while I was singing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."
This year I am serving a congregation in a different region of the country. It doesn't look much like my conception of Christmas here. Most of my Christmas decorations are still in Minnesota. There is not room for a tree in my apartment. I will not be surrounded by extended family this year; there will be no snow. And I have caught myself wondering: what does Christmas look like?
I would like to know it when I see it.
It is still Advent here, but not for long. Soon people will be gathering to sing the carols and to hear the story, snow or not. Some of them will be coming with extended family, reunited for the holiday. Some will come alone. Others may not come at all, will stay at home, wondering what Christmas looks like. If the children aren't coming home, if there is no snow, if you don't have a festive meal with family, if you don't have a tree, if your Christmas this year doesn't look like the Christmases you remember: What does Christmas look like?
I would like to know it when I see it.
So I am searching for Christmas right now, which is to say I am searching for a light in the darkness, the door that is open, the hand that will not let go. I am searching for a pure note in the silence, tears of joy and grief, an unexpected gift, the word 'yes.' I am searching for Christmas, by which I mean the smell of fresh hay, new babies and night air, the sound of whispers, the sight of snow, or a star, or a lightning bug. The Word made flesh. Where I am. Not just memories.
I am searching for Christmas right now. The Word made flesh. Where I am. Where you are.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Advent Four
Today we lit all four advent candles, a complete circle. At each service we had a family group come up and light the candles together, children and teens and parents taking turns, everyone making sure that everyone else had a chance.
We are getting near to Christmas Eve, but as for me, I somehow wish we could just keep on lighting candles every week, more and more.
Maybe we could make a wider circle, or maybe a long line of candles, lighting another one each week, each one taking a turn, making sure everyone got a chance.
That's one of the things that struck me this year. In the groups that were lighting candles, they were careful that everyone would get a chance. It wasn't a small thing. It was a Big Deal. A family came to light the candles and asked if their cousin who was visiting could help. A mother and son asked if a disabled member of the congregation could help. They wanted to make sure everyone who wanted a turn could take a turn.
There should be more candles, every week. We should still go on lighting them, until everyone gets a chance. After all, it is always Advent, in some ways; there are things we never stop waiting for.
At the first service today, when we lit all four candles, we had some trouble. They were real candles, and the wicks had burned low, and we could not get all of the candles to light. We tried and tried and tried, until the song was ended and there was this silence while we kept trying to pass the flame to the last two candles.
In the silence the congregation was standing and waiting. We had finished singing the verse of O Come O Come Emmanuel. Someone brilliant had lifted of the metal pieces off of the top of the last two candles, so that we could see the wick and light them. And in the silence I thought that everyone let out a collective breath.
It was all right. The circle was complete, for today. Everyone got a chance.
But still we wait. Even after Christmas, there will be waiting. There will be waiting for peace. There will be waiting for love. There will be waiting for an answer, for healing, for the footsteps of someone coming home. There will be waiting for your chance, for someone to hand you the fire, so that you can light the candle.
Someday everyone will have a chance. Everyone will get their turn. Everyone will be recognized for their created beauty.
In the meantime, make the circle wider, and let us keep lighting candles in the dark.
And the word became flesh, and dwelt among us.
Full of grace and truth.
We are getting near to Christmas Eve, but as for me, I somehow wish we could just keep on lighting candles every week, more and more.
Maybe we could make a wider circle, or maybe a long line of candles, lighting another one each week, each one taking a turn, making sure everyone got a chance.
That's one of the things that struck me this year. In the groups that were lighting candles, they were careful that everyone would get a chance. It wasn't a small thing. It was a Big Deal. A family came to light the candles and asked if their cousin who was visiting could help. A mother and son asked if a disabled member of the congregation could help. They wanted to make sure everyone who wanted a turn could take a turn.
There should be more candles, every week. We should still go on lighting them, until everyone gets a chance. After all, it is always Advent, in some ways; there are things we never stop waiting for.
At the first service today, when we lit all four candles, we had some trouble. They were real candles, and the wicks had burned low, and we could not get all of the candles to light. We tried and tried and tried, until the song was ended and there was this silence while we kept trying to pass the flame to the last two candles.
In the silence the congregation was standing and waiting. We had finished singing the verse of O Come O Come Emmanuel. Someone brilliant had lifted of the metal pieces off of the top of the last two candles, so that we could see the wick and light them. And in the silence I thought that everyone let out a collective breath. It was all right. The circle was complete, for today. Everyone got a chance.
But still we wait. Even after Christmas, there will be waiting. There will be waiting for peace. There will be waiting for love. There will be waiting for an answer, for healing, for the footsteps of someone coming home. There will be waiting for your chance, for someone to hand you the fire, so that you can light the candle.
Someday everyone will have a chance. Everyone will get their turn. Everyone will be recognized for their created beauty.
In the meantime, make the circle wider, and let us keep lighting candles in the dark.
And the word became flesh, and dwelt among us.
Full of grace and truth.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Rain, Mud, Light
Sometimes I have to remind myself that rain is just rain. I got here not long after the Great Rains which flooded Houston and made me rethink my plans to move several states away. There have been some serious rains since then, the kind where you have permission to stay home and read books and watch old movies. But sometimes, it's just rain.
So I was invited to the 80th birthday party of a member of my congregation yesterday. It was in an area of town I am not familiar with yet. But, I have GPS, right? No problem. I also noticed that it was supposed to rain. Actually, it was supposed to rain quite a lot. But, it was just rain.
So I went to the birthday party, where I was greeted very warmly by the family and introduced as the new pastor, and given appetizers. Several other members of the congregation were also there. It was quite a celebration, and quite a crowd, although a bit soggier than they had hoped. There was a tent in back yard, and we were out there when it was dripping, and then turned into a downpour, and just kept on raining.
We all crammed into the house for the main course and dessert, for a birthday toast and for more conversations. And it just kept on raining. But, it was just rain.
I may not have mentioned that people were parked all over in the yard. There was not enough room in the driveway.
At some point, I thought it might be good if I went home. I still had a couple of things to do to get ready for the Sunday services. I heard some mumbling about some people being stuck. I got worried.
There was a crowd of people outside. They had flashlights. There were cars stuck in more than one place in the yard and the driveway. They were together working on strategies to get the cars out of the mud. Some of the strategies were wet, and muddy. But people were working together, to get each other out of the mud, to get unstuck, to get home.
It was still raining.
I noticed that I was parked on the grass. So I checked to see if I was stuck and found out that I could get my car off the grass. There was a little issue of where I would go after that. The party's hostess volunteered that her son could lead me with his flashlight, so I would know where I could drive and where I could not drive.
That's what he did, standing in the rain, getting sopping wet. He walked right in front of my car, showing me just where to go and where to avoid, where the narrow path was that I needed to drive on, and where I would be on solid ground.
It is Advent, and suddenly I think about the promise that God will come. I don't know why it is that I think it. Maybe it's the dark night, or the figure with the light, walking ahead of me. Maybe it's the mud, and all of the people getting stuck, that makes me think of God's humanity, the incarnation. God came here to share all of it: the mud, the rain, the icy cold, the darkness and the danger. God came here to share all of it: the fear of being lost, the pain of loneliness, of sorrow, of death: and to redeem it.
It is Advent, and in the dark, muddy, rainy night all I can think of is Emmanuel.
God is with us.
So I was invited to the 80th birthday party of a member of my congregation yesterday. It was in an area of town I am not familiar with yet. But, I have GPS, right? No problem. I also noticed that it was supposed to rain. Actually, it was supposed to rain quite a lot. But, it was just rain.
So I went to the birthday party, where I was greeted very warmly by the family and introduced as the new pastor, and given appetizers. Several other members of the congregation were also there. It was quite a celebration, and quite a crowd, although a bit soggier than they had hoped. There was a tent in back yard, and we were out there when it was dripping, and then turned into a downpour, and just kept on raining.
We all crammed into the house for the main course and dessert, for a birthday toast and for more conversations. And it just kept on raining. But, it was just rain.
I may not have mentioned that people were parked all over in the yard. There was not enough room in the driveway.
At some point, I thought it might be good if I went home. I still had a couple of things to do to get ready for the Sunday services. I heard some mumbling about some people being stuck. I got worried.
There was a crowd of people outside. They had flashlights. There were cars stuck in more than one place in the yard and the driveway. They were together working on strategies to get the cars out of the mud. Some of the strategies were wet, and muddy. But people were working together, to get each other out of the mud, to get unstuck, to get home.
It was still raining.
I noticed that I was parked on the grass. So I checked to see if I was stuck and found out that I could get my car off the grass. There was a little issue of where I would go after that. The party's hostess volunteered that her son could lead me with his flashlight, so I would know where I could drive and where I could not drive.
That's what he did, standing in the rain, getting sopping wet. He walked right in front of my car, showing me just where to go and where to avoid, where the narrow path was that I needed to drive on, and where I would be on solid ground.
It is Advent, and suddenly I think about the promise that God will come. I don't know why it is that I think it. Maybe it's the dark night, or the figure with the light, walking ahead of me. Maybe it's the mud, and all of the people getting stuck, that makes me think of God's humanity, the incarnation. God came here to share all of it: the mud, the rain, the icy cold, the darkness and the danger. God came here to share all of it: the fear of being lost, the pain of loneliness, of sorrow, of death: and to redeem it.
It is Advent, and in the dark, muddy, rainy night all I can think of is Emmanuel.
God is with us.
Friday, December 26, 2014
Lowly
"Do you want me to come right away?"
"Can you?"
I had a relaxing day after Christmas planned. I had a couple of phone calls to make (one about a baptism), and I had to finish a Sunday-after-Christmas sermon. That was all I had planned.
But then the call came in, about a man from our congregation. One of his relatives called to let me know that he had just put himself in hospice care. She thought he would like to have communion.
In my mind I thought that I could probably stop over the next morning, but when I called their apartment and spoke to his wife, she said that he was not eating anything, and that I should not bring communion. It was then that I blurted out, "Do you want me to come right away?"
He was up in a chair when I arrived, looking pale but smiling warmly. We started to catch up about his life and his illness, and how hospice was taking such good care of him. When I mentioned how I had rushed out of church without my communion kit, he seemed disappointed, and his daughter (who was also visiting) said that she could probably find a little wine and some small pieces of cracker.
While communion preparation was underway in the kitchen, I visited with the man and his wife. I asked him his favorite Bible verse; John 3:16 was what he said. It was a verse he thought of when he spent two years as a Mission Builder. He was proud of the work he had done helping build, or remodel three churches, one in Albuquerque, one in Nebraska, and one in Montana. "We spent two years living in trailers," his wife said.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"I was the foreman."
The bread and the wine were ready, so confessed our sins and began the communion service.
"What Scripture would you like me to read? Would you like to hear the Christmas story?"
His daughter thought that was a fine idea. She remembered how he read the Christmas story for the whole family, every year. They read the Christmas story as the family grew, with children and grandchildren tumbling through their home.
So on the second day of Christmas, we read the Christmas story. I asked them which was their favorite part of the story. "I like the shepherds out in the field," he said. "Of course, an old farmer," his daughter said. "I like the angel," his wife said. A long time ago, she got to be be the angel in a church pageant. She got to stand in the pulpit, that holy place, and say the words, "Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!" She has never forgotten it. His daughter said she liked the angels singing. His son-in-law said, "I like all of it." Then we talked and we noticed the part about the manger, how Jesus was laid in a manger. And he said,
"He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to be one of the common, the ordinary. He couldn't be born in a palace, in a rich place. He had to be lowly, to be the lowliest, so that he could reach all of us."
Before we took communion, I asked if there was anything they wanted to pray for.
His daughter started to speak, but then closed her eyes and shook her head. He said, "When I think about my life, my future, I would like to be able to share my faith with my children and grandchildren one more time."
We shared the wine, the bread, the benediction.
I did not finish my sermon.
But I have this: Lowly. He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to reach all of us.
"Can you?"
I had a relaxing day after Christmas planned. I had a couple of phone calls to make (one about a baptism), and I had to finish a Sunday-after-Christmas sermon. That was all I had planned.
But then the call came in, about a man from our congregation. One of his relatives called to let me know that he had just put himself in hospice care. She thought he would like to have communion.
In my mind I thought that I could probably stop over the next morning, but when I called their apartment and spoke to his wife, she said that he was not eating anything, and that I should not bring communion. It was then that I blurted out, "Do you want me to come right away?"
He was up in a chair when I arrived, looking pale but smiling warmly. We started to catch up about his life and his illness, and how hospice was taking such good care of him. When I mentioned how I had rushed out of church without my communion kit, he seemed disappointed, and his daughter (who was also visiting) said that she could probably find a little wine and some small pieces of cracker.
While communion preparation was underway in the kitchen, I visited with the man and his wife. I asked him his favorite Bible verse; John 3:16 was what he said. It was a verse he thought of when he spent two years as a Mission Builder. He was proud of the work he had done helping build, or remodel three churches, one in Albuquerque, one in Nebraska, and one in Montana. "We spent two years living in trailers," his wife said.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"I was the foreman."
The bread and the wine were ready, so confessed our sins and began the communion service.
"What Scripture would you like me to read? Would you like to hear the Christmas story?"
His daughter thought that was a fine idea. She remembered how he read the Christmas story for the whole family, every year. They read the Christmas story as the family grew, with children and grandchildren tumbling through their home.
So on the second day of Christmas, we read the Christmas story. I asked them which was their favorite part of the story. "I like the shepherds out in the field," he said. "Of course, an old farmer," his daughter said. "I like the angel," his wife said. A long time ago, she got to be be the angel in a church pageant. She got to stand in the pulpit, that holy place, and say the words, "Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!" She has never forgotten it. His daughter said she liked the angels singing. His son-in-law said, "I like all of it." Then we talked and we noticed the part about the manger, how Jesus was laid in a manger. And he said,
"He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to be one of the common, the ordinary. He couldn't be born in a palace, in a rich place. He had to be lowly, to be the lowliest, so that he could reach all of us."
Before we took communion, I asked if there was anything they wanted to pray for.
His daughter started to speak, but then closed her eyes and shook her head. He said, "When I think about my life, my future, I would like to be able to share my faith with my children and grandchildren one more time."
We shared the wine, the bread, the benediction.
I did not finish my sermon.
But I have this: Lowly. He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to reach all of us.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Worship on the Streets
Last night my husband and I went out into the December night, headed down to a busy avenue in my city. We parked on a dark street, walking past a church and a Mexican restaurant until we saw the bright lights of the theatre: our destination. We got got our tickets and waited in the lobby, munching cookies and listening to a small ensemble play some impromptu Christmas carols. Then, finally, a voice called those with the "red tickets" and we were told to follow our guides back out into the street, to an "undisclosed location", which turned out to be a restaurant across the street, which also housed a small stage.
Walking by the window of the restaurant, we spied a few small girls dressed up in white dresses with wings attached to their backs. They were getting ready for the play.
The first act: the annunciation, preceded by songs. Mary, surrounded by small angels, is approached by the angel Gabriel, who reminded of the Ghost of Christmas future: wraithlike, tall, imposing, with a face like a crescent moon. Mary bowed before Gabriel in obedient awe, and afterwards she and Elizabeth meet, and Mary gets a gift: her mask. There is an announcement of the census; everyone has to return to the place of their ancestors. The procession begins.
The second act: we exit the building and round the corner into another small building where there is a small puppet theatre and a few rows of wooden blocks. There, Joseph dreams, and worries about Mary, and about whether he can care for her and for the baby. He worries about the journey, and everything that will be required of him. The angel Gabriel leaves him a message written on a scrap of paper: "You Can Do it!" the procession continues.
(while we are crossing the street, stopping traffic, one man shouts from his car that we are "ruining the environment", perhaps because his car is idling more than it should. Are we disturbing the peace?)
Now we are at the theatre, where the shepherds are "watching" their sheep (i.e. in the midst of heavy snoring). Small children enter, carrying stars. They surround the sleeping shepherds while the angel choir/army gathers in the back of the theatre, ready to startle the shepherds awake. After they sing their announcement and prepare to journey to Bethlehem, a great star appears, and three greater-than-life-size puppet Kings enter in search of a child. They meet a sinister and worried Herod, who pretends that he too, wants to worship the child.
Now we are out on the street, with Mary and Joseph and the donkey, all following the star. There is the sound of a chorus from the heavenly choir, a hum that rises and stays with us as we walk in the cold and dark night. We see the bright lights at a neighborhood house and approach, but its occupant refuses to shelter us.
So we continue to walk and sing, following the Holy Family, following the lowly family seeking shelter. We continue to walk until again we meet Herod, blocking our way, telling us we cannot come in, we are not welcome. The hum goes up from the crowd again: one note that we all sound together. And then the banner: "We come seeking shelter" which all of us shout. Herod tells us that we are not welcome, that we should go home, that he will not let us pass.
We stand in the cold. But the hum goes up. "We come seeking shelter!" we shout.
Meanwhile, I see another banner approaching, from the other side of the blocked road. The sign shouts "Bienvenido", and as it comes closes the blockade comes down and we are able to keep walking and singing in the darkness. Someone gives me a cup with a small candle. We all walk holding lighted candles. When they go out, we scurry to re-light them.
We are on our way to the church, the sanctuary.
Inside, it is warm, and there is more singing. The star and the lowly family enter, along with angels and shepherds, and stranger and wonderful animals. There are bird puppets flying and a white dove flies and the child appears, and we are all invited to dance. We are all invited to dance and sing and join the fiesta.
And what I remember is walking in the dark, and how the story unfolded, and the yearning and the joy in the songs. What I remember is the darkness, and being out on the street, in the cold, but walking together, shouting, "We come seeking shelter!" What I remember is the lowliness of the holy family, how they processed slowly, how they were turned away. And I wondered: if we truly followed him, out on the street, where people can see, if we truly followed him, would we be turned away more often?
I am still not sure what I experienced last night. Was it a worship service or a performance? Or was it a demonstration? We were out in public, walking the streets, shouting "We come seeking shelter!" just as surely as others, earlier in the day, had shouted, "No peace! No Justice!" For a little while we walked the streets, cold, homeless, seeking welcome, seeking shelter.
"Bienvenido!" was the sign. It was a sign from God, the lowly God, the one who walks the streets, the homeless one who provides shelter, the disturber-of-the-peace who is our only peace.
Meanwhile, come Lord Jesus. Give us courage to join the procession out on the streets, to be rejected and turned away, to be disciples of the lowly God, our only hope, our only peace, in the darkness.
Walking by the window of the restaurant, we spied a few small girls dressed up in white dresses with wings attached to their backs. They were getting ready for the play.
The first act: the annunciation, preceded by songs. Mary, surrounded by small angels, is approached by the angel Gabriel, who reminded of the Ghost of Christmas future: wraithlike, tall, imposing, with a face like a crescent moon. Mary bowed before Gabriel in obedient awe, and afterwards she and Elizabeth meet, and Mary gets a gift: her mask. There is an announcement of the census; everyone has to return to the place of their ancestors. The procession begins.
The second act: we exit the building and round the corner into another small building where there is a small puppet theatre and a few rows of wooden blocks. There, Joseph dreams, and worries about Mary, and about whether he can care for her and for the baby. He worries about the journey, and everything that will be required of him. The angel Gabriel leaves him a message written on a scrap of paper: "You Can Do it!" the procession continues.
(while we are crossing the street, stopping traffic, one man shouts from his car that we are "ruining the environment", perhaps because his car is idling more than it should. Are we disturbing the peace?)
Now we are at the theatre, where the shepherds are "watching" their sheep (i.e. in the midst of heavy snoring). Small children enter, carrying stars. They surround the sleeping shepherds while the angel choir/army gathers in the back of the theatre, ready to startle the shepherds awake. After they sing their announcement and prepare to journey to Bethlehem, a great star appears, and three greater-than-life-size puppet Kings enter in search of a child. They meet a sinister and worried Herod, who pretends that he too, wants to worship the child.
Now we are out on the street, with Mary and Joseph and the donkey, all following the star. There is the sound of a chorus from the heavenly choir, a hum that rises and stays with us as we walk in the cold and dark night. We see the bright lights at a neighborhood house and approach, but its occupant refuses to shelter us.
So we continue to walk and sing, following the Holy Family, following the lowly family seeking shelter. We continue to walk until again we meet Herod, blocking our way, telling us we cannot come in, we are not welcome. The hum goes up from the crowd again: one note that we all sound together. And then the banner: "We come seeking shelter" which all of us shout. Herod tells us that we are not welcome, that we should go home, that he will not let us pass. We stand in the cold. But the hum goes up. "We come seeking shelter!" we shout.
Meanwhile, I see another banner approaching, from the other side of the blocked road. The sign shouts "Bienvenido", and as it comes closes the blockade comes down and we are able to keep walking and singing in the darkness. Someone gives me a cup with a small candle. We all walk holding lighted candles. When they go out, we scurry to re-light them.
We are on our way to the church, the sanctuary.
Inside, it is warm, and there is more singing. The star and the lowly family enter, along with angels and shepherds, and stranger and wonderful animals. There are bird puppets flying and a white dove flies and the child appears, and we are all invited to dance. We are all invited to dance and sing and join the fiesta.
And what I remember is walking in the dark, and how the story unfolded, and the yearning and the joy in the songs. What I remember is the darkness, and being out on the street, in the cold, but walking together, shouting, "We come seeking shelter!" What I remember is the lowliness of the holy family, how they processed slowly, how they were turned away. And I wondered: if we truly followed him, out on the street, where people can see, if we truly followed him, would we be turned away more often?
I am still not sure what I experienced last night. Was it a worship service or a performance? Or was it a demonstration? We were out in public, walking the streets, shouting "We come seeking shelter!" just as surely as others, earlier in the day, had shouted, "No peace! No Justice!" For a little while we walked the streets, cold, homeless, seeking welcome, seeking shelter.
"Bienvenido!" was the sign. It was a sign from God, the lowly God, the one who walks the streets, the homeless one who provides shelter, the disturber-of-the-peace who is our only peace.
Meanwhile, come Lord Jesus. Give us courage to join the procession out on the streets, to be rejected and turned away, to be disciples of the lowly God, our only hope, our only peace, in the darkness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)