Some Advent Reflections (1)

Dec 2, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

In the spirit of Advent – the beginning of the church year – I decided to begin something (again): I went to church.

Not having been on a Sunday morning for nearly a year, it was an odd yet very familiar and comfortable experience. I saw many faces I recognized, most of which I haven’t seen for a long time. I sang songs I recognized, most of which I haven’t heard for a long time. I felt home…even though this particular community of faith is new for me.

This morning felt like an appropriate start for Advent – the season of beginnings, of anticipation, of expectation of God’s coming, of God’s longed-for presence. Though my theology tells me that God is with me whether I ever darken the door of a church or not, there was something right and good about knowing Emmanuel (God with us) in a sanctuary with candles, bread and wine, music, and others. I’m grateful.

But wait, there’s more…

I’ve been thinking about the acknowledgement and celebration of Advent as a discipline for myself this year. Perhaps going to church this morning sparked that reality; nevertheless, it’s my desire and intent to be able to post some reflections using the daily texts (though I’ll extend myself enough grace here at the outset to acknowledge that I may not get to this every day…).

So, I begin.

Sunday, December 2 Scripture Readings:
Psalm 111, Amos 1:1-5, 13-2:8, 1 Thess. 5:1-11, Luke 21:5-19

With the exception of the Psalm, these are some scary verses – all doom and gloom, warnings of God’s wrath, and projections of what life will be like at the end of all things. In the Old Testament reading we hear words of anger, war, judgment, fire, exile, battle cries, much harm to pregnant women. In 1 Thessalonians, Paul speaks of the Lord coming like a thief in the night and…again with the pregnant woman
language…with destruction coming on people suddenly as labor pains on a pregnant woman. And in Luke, Jesus speaks of nations rising against nations, of being betrayed by family and friends, of being hated.

Not really the messages we like to read – especially in a season filled with happy Christmas carols, jolly Santa’s, twinkling lights, and present purchasing.

What are these passages about? Why the first readings of Advent? What are they trying to say?

These verses, in many ways, articulated the reality that people already knew. The Israelites had been waiting for deliverance, for their Messiah, for a very long time. They knew much about God’s anger, judgment, and the experience of exile. In such a state wouldn’t one anticipate and long for God-with-us, Emmanuel even more passionately? Wouldn’t advent be a beginning deeply hungered for? And in Paul’s day, a church in early beginnings, fits and starts, and much persecution, wouldn’t the be hungry for a message that reminded them that the Divine was yet to come; to be alert and on the watch for God-with-us, Emmanuel? As Jesus prepared his disciples for his imminent departure, would they not hunger for the signs that would let them know that he was going to return; that God-with-us, Emmanuel would come and reign?

Advent: a season of anticipation.

Advent: a season of acknowledging what is – in our fear, in our disappointment, in our dashed expectations, in our tired-of-waiting state.

Advent: a season of hungering for more – for God-with-us, Emmanuel.

In the midst of what is we can take heart. We can encourage one another. We need not worry. We will be cared for. We need not fear. We can stand firm. That is good news. That is, indeed, God-with-us, Emmanuel.

About Connection and Stamps (and God)

Jul 24, 2007 | Spirituality

about reconnecting:
Just a few minutes ago I finished writing a note to a person I haven’t been in touch with for over 15 years. I have no idea
what has taken place in that amount of time, no idea what has occurred, who has been loved, who has died, what tears
have been shed, what laughter has sprung forth. What I do know is that all of the same realities have been true for me:
love, death, tears, laughter. What would it be like to re-connect now? Would we have similar stories to tell or vastly divergent ones? Would we know what to say? Would we even recognize one another?

and a stamp:
As I placed the stamp on the envelope and put it in the slot in my door to be picked up by my mail carrier, I realized that really, regardless of whether we connect face-to-face, we have reconnected. My thoughts and curiosity have enabled that and aren’t dependent on reciprocation.

My musings above lead me to wonder about God.

How often do we understand God as the one who receives our note? As one who needs to respond in order for connection to have occurred? I wonder what would happen if I/we began to understand God more as the (re)connection itself, the
curiosity and the desire and the virtual (but no less real) connection that occurs just in thinking of another…and caring? Of course, it doesn’t have to be one or the other; God is undoubtedly both – responder and respondent, connection and re-connector. And even more, I’m guessing God is the one writing and stamping the notes, thinking the thoughts, caring – far more than me.

The mail will be picked up soon and I’ll wait to see what happens. Either way, connection has occurred. I’d love to experience God this way – not waiting for a response, but experienced as re-connecting, present in everything – every thought, every memory, every love, every death, every tear, every laugh…even in a stamp.

Happy 50th Anniversary!

Jul 11, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters

This past weekend my siblings, our families, and nearly 100 others celebrated the 50th anniversary of my parent’s wedding. Stunning. Mind-boggling.

Given that I’ll never celebrate that milestone, and knowing even some of what I do about the complexion and landscape of their years together, I find it even more amazing. All the hearty congratulations, the expressions of pride and honor, and the tears of joy and love that were shed do not even begin to signify the reality of what those 50 years have held. How does one even begin to capture or understand all of what this means? It’s impossible, really.

And it would have been completely impossible for my parents to ever imagine, 50 years ago, what their celebration would look like and feel like. How could they have known of the story that would be told in their lives – separate and intertwined? How could they have known of both the heartache and joy that awaited them in the birth and then life of the three of their children – and then four grandchildren? How could they have anticipated the ways in which they would disappoint, wound, celebrate, surprise, and care for one another?

It’s impossible. And that’s what I love about it. In a world that often leaves us skeptical and doubting; wanting assurances, answers, and safe bets, their marriage embodies blind faith…not always their own, but always God’s on their behalf. Sometimes because of their efforts and perhaps more times than not, in spite of them, their relationship has endured, stretched, and grown. Amazing. Stunning.

And maybe not so impossible. Maybe celebrating 50 years together reminds us that we’re really not in control and still, beauty, life, and love exist, survive, and even thrive. Maybe just being in relationship period – any relationship is completely impossible but sometimes, many times, it’s something that happens, lives, breaths, and continues anyway…a good news of sorts that calls us again and again to something larger than ourselves, Someone larger than ourselves.

For me, my parents 50th was and is the gospel lived out. To celebrate their years together renewed my belief in and commitment to God’s crazy love for us; a love that is amazing, stunning, and impossible – and frankly, is the only thing that enables our own.

Happy 50th, Mom and Dad. I’m so proud of you and love you very much.

This Father’s Day

Jun 17, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

I find myself in a sort of a gray place today. Granted, it’s the Seattle area and the skies are often as they look today: filled with clouds, overcast, chilly. But it feels like more than that.

It’s Father’s Day. My daughters are with their dad – and, therefore, not with me. A new experience this year. Maybe that’s part of it.

In an effort to shift to a brighter or at least clearer space I spent some time reading the liturgy of the week. I came across this excerpt from The Orthodox Way by Kallistos Ware. It touched the gray and invited some grace-filled shafts of warmth and sun…

The actress Lillah McCarthy describes how she went in great misery to see George Bernard Shaw, just after she had been deserted by her husband.

 

I was shivering. Shaw sat very still. The fire brought me warmth…How long we st there I do not know, but presently I found myself walking with dragging steps with Shaw beside me…up and down Adelphi Terrace.

 

The weight upon me grew a little lighter and released the tears which would never come before…He let me cry. Presently I heard a voice in which all the gentleness and tenderness of the world was speaking. It said: “Look up, dear, look up to the heavens. There is more in life than this. There is much more.”

Whatever his faith in God or lack of it, Shaw points here to something that is fundamental to the spiritual way. He did not offer smooth words of consolation to Lillah McCarthy, or pretend that her pain would be easy to bear. What he did was far more perceptive. He told her to look out for a moment from herself, from her personal tragedy, and to see the world in its objectivity, to sense its wonder and variety, its “thusness.” And his advice applies to all of us.

However, oppressed by my own or others’ anguish, I am not to forget that there is more in the world than this, there is much more.

I bought more flowers for the front porch yesterday. When I got up today I spotted them as I picked up the Sunday paper. They made me smile. I bought a few more when I went to the grocery store this morning – wanting even more of their color, their warmth, their reminiscent glimpsing of Eden. They permeate the gray and offer me heaven in the hear and now. As will my daughters when they return from their time with their dad. As will my parents and my brother as they visit here this afternoon. As will even gray skies as I recognize their Creator.

How like God to speak through George Bernard Shaw to Lillah McCarthy. And to me – on Father’s Day. “Look up, dear, lookup to the heavens. There is more in life than this. There is much more.”

Indeed, and not just in the heavens, but all around.