Holy Lingering

Hodie Christus natus est....

A thought in progress... or working it out as I write....

Today is Christmas day and as much as I protest the gluttony of consumerism that has been misappropriated to this holy day, I totally pigged out on an absolutely delightful brunch buffet (I certainly got my money's worth!) at one of my favorite haunts.  Only the requisite amount of token guilt followed as I waddled to my car :)

While I often find myself critiquing thoughtless cultural assimilation, I certainly can enjoy the festivity of the holidays, the beauty of the tree-lights, the tastes of nog and the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and oranges, the sounds of lovely carols and bells and organ pipes resonating, and candles and creches, and the beautiful white vestments and the sound of wrapping paper rustling, and the feel of thin, softness of tissue paper . . . so many sensual delights at Christmas.  

I suspect many hold this tension of the holiday season - the playful delight of the familial rituals of Christmas (its decorations, foods, stories of old, gatherings with friends) on the one hand; on the other hand, a spiritual yearning to hold fast to what is deep and meaningful in these rituals without succumbing to the consumerism and superficial obligations of the season (tit for tat gifts, general cards with more sentimentality than substance, over-indulgences that leave us feeling guilty or uncomfortable, unreasonable expectations that leave us exhausted, etc....).  In the midst of these poles exists a range of emotions that would seem inharmonious if we were less aware of how complex the human mind and heart can be, and how adept at managing (or mismanaging) such an intricate web of feelings, like depression and glee, anxiety and peace, stress and renewal, loss and fullness.... 

If Christmas were only a time of spiritual renewal without all of the hubbub, and one in which we only felt positive and happy emotions, I think we would miss part of the wonder of Christmas.  At Christ's coming, people were busy and distracted, gifts were given, travel didn't go as planned, and the world was groaning for justice just as it is now.  People were suffering and dealing with the the death of loved ones, and suffered from addictions, just as they do now.  In spite of that, many people still found love and hope, a vision of peace, and a source of joy, by the sign of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.  Christ is never born in a perfect world.  In such a world no Christ would be needed.  But the act of celebrating is in itself no small thing - it is a way of proclaiming that we have something to celebrate, and that one cannot celebrate (that is, to incarnate one's joy) unless one really has hope and love and the peace that is lasting.

This Christmas day I am challenged as I write to hold the tension of my desire to critique cultural-christmas with Christ's christmas.  I need not bah-humbug the few minutes of delight that are prepared for so frantically, because in themselves they can be inspiring and lift our souls, and the work to attain them are acts of love and generosity and gratitude for that to which they are preparing.  But I can and do need to do such preparing and celebrating in a mindful way, aware that it if I do not choose to hold before all of those preparations and celebrations the birth of Christ then the work and glee are meaningless.  If I don't seek to make my life a celebration - a substantiation of what we talk about at Christmastime - then all the fray is meaningless.  But if we let our life by our actions become an incarnation of the Incarnate, I do not doubt the world will be illuminated for the purposes for which it was created, and that the places shrouded in darkness will find the Light which no darkness can overcome.

Advent 2a

Trying to learn to spend time not spending time, but being.  Today is the second Sunday of Advent, and John-the-Baptist gives us a grizzly eschatalogical Jesus - axe in one hand, winnowing fork in the other.  Jesus comes to cute us down to root, to shuck us of our scaly, dry, protective chaff.  Liberation - feeling the the masks, the protective layers, the husks we no longer need, peeling back, revealing the beauty with which God created each of us.  Today I preached, and invited people to consider the images of the creches that most of us see - pastoral scenes - that contrast with image given to us by John the Baptist, through Matthew.  Holding the tension of the pastoral image of Jesus and family in the nativity scene and the winnower, axe-grinder.... we need that tension, we need the creativity that comes from meditating on peace, while allowing Christ to open us up, to break us open with love.  

I do love this time of year, I enjoy the Christmas music, the parties, singing Christmas and Advent hymns and carols, and cheer, the little kids learning the stories and songs, and acting them out. But I also like to complain - the rudeness in stores, the tension and frustration among so many, especially those who are poor and trying to meet unrealistic expectations or desires to give to those they love, the loneliness that comes in the midst of the holiday fray, sadness for lost loved ones co-mingle  with the nostalgia as old ornaments are unpacked.  I cling to the increasing light of the wreath: hope, peace, joy and love, as I anticipate the

lighting of the Christ candle.  Once again, I find myself with competing emotions, competing desires.  The work of advent, for me, includes wanting to hold the difficult feelings as a source of compassion for others, while striving to open my life to lessons of scripture that are heard once again.  Thank you, God, for the gift of love, for incarnation, for the grace of the threshing floor.

 

 

harry potter and storage unit D48, HWY 39N

    In the last Harry Potter book, book VII, Harry breaks into a vault in Gringot's Bank, where he is looking for one of the horcruxes.  There is an enchantment on the items stored in the vault, so that when they are touched, they multiply like the brooms in Fantasia.  Locked in the vault with multiplying things, they start falling over stuff, which again multiplies.  It seems the weight of things will crush them.  I know how they feel.  That's what stuff does when it gets out of hand.  It suffocates.  Jesus did, after all, say take nothing with you - just go!  Oh to be a pilgrim again!

... as Advent approaches, I want to again renew my efforts at simplifying my life.  There is a pamphlet at church called "De-cluttering as a Spiritual Discipline" (or something similar).  I read it hoping it would help me figure out how to do that.  Instead, it just reinforced my theologizing on why.  

     There's only one way to de-clutter, spiritually or otherwise.  Dump crap.  Get rid of it.  Stop
hording. Refuse to pay for storage. Refuse to allow precarious, avalanch ready closets from increasing the dearth of things, things, things, and more things.  They grow exponentially.  Some of us ascribe to them sacred meaning, psychological symbolism, imbue them with worshipful memories, souvenirs of people and places and events in our lives.  Some of us get lazy and just buy new things instead of organizing things or looking for them when we can't find them.  We don't have shredders and we don't want someone rummaging through the landfill (who does that?) and finding our credit card bills....

    I'm delighted that in just a few hours this morning and afternoon, my brother and I were able to tackle the third and final *paid* storage unit that belonged to my father (there were free storage places, like little sheds he bought and put behind the house, etc.).  But we were confronted with some difficult truths as we did... my brother and I had to confront our own hoarding tendencies this time, as we found quite a few boxes of our own things tucked away, and wrestled with whether or not we really wanted to throw away the twenty-year old collection of ten-years worth of Boy's Life, or Field and Stream, or World Magazine.  Did we really want to toss out our own sacred junk?  We did, but was had to face in ourselves our own proclivities.  Now, much of what we loaded in a borrowed Chevy pick-up was placed behind this truck (-->), and is probably now burried, either under dirt, or under other people junk. Or both. Thanks landfill, sorry Earth.

    This was good. This was important. This was also healing, as we lightened our own collected burdens, while helping alleviate some of my mother's burden of dealing with a lot of things my dad left behind when he passed a year ago.  It was also good because we got to see some neat things that belonged to my dad, some things that reminded us of things we loved about it, things that made us laugh or smile through the years.  I think my favorite were some beautiful black and white photos he took and developed himself.  He would have made a wonderful artist. 

    Well, the storage unit is nearly empty - a few more things we are going to take photos of and toss out, a few more large items we needed to move together, and my brother had an appointment to spend some important time with our uncle hunting, so we decided we'd just do a half day today, and finish up tomorrow as an act of thanksgiving, to earn the turkey endorphins we are about to consume!  I can't wait until I can peer inside, and see it totally empty, swept clean of the cobwebs, as empty as the tomb - things liberated, our being liberated from things.

may i have your attention please....

I can't stand taking phone calls when I am talking to people.  And usually, unless it's work related and I know the number means I need to answer, I try to avoid doing so.  But, I fall into the trap all too often... especially with texting.  Same when eating.  I think that being grateful for real relationships, and really being grateful for good food and the fruit of the earth that God has given means trying to be really present - present to the people in our lives, the people we are with at the moment, and the good gifts around us.  Thanks to some of those restaurant and bookstore owners who know the value of what they are providing is not merely in the register, but in the environment they are trying to create - a place in which people can be truly present to what they are doing and where they are at the time.  We don't give that kind of attention as much as we should, especially when we are spending time with people who are important to us, or doing something really important (and that includes driving)!  

Jesus, the more I read and study the Word, I see had a knack for doing just that - for really being present to the people around him, noticing them, noticing not just externals, but looking deep within.  Jesus used meals as time to share intimately with some of those he loved - the ones that took time to be with him.  I wonder if there had been cell phones in his day, what kind of attention the disciples would have paid him.  I can just imaging Peter texting someone "OMG, JC says wine=blood.
 LOL!" Or, Judas, "Hold on Garden Coup, seder taking 4-ever!".  Instead, Jesus shared with the disciples that night what has become the sacrament of giving thanks, the sacrament of the kind of hospitality that is authentic presence to guests: the euacharist - the thanksgiving.  

This Thanksgiving week, I am going to try to give thanks by practicing being authentically present to moment, and the people and beauty around me at the time, and will be intentional to let God know that I appreciate being, and being here.

kinda-beyond the gloss-over of Turkey Day

I'm kinda over the peaceful image of Native Americans and 'Pilgrims' (how I dislike the term pilgrim to describe early immigrants, but. . . .) - though perhaps as a vision of future reconciliation?  Anyway, I still get a chuckle out of the cuteness of crafts made by children in our pre-school, and this year, it was Totem Poles, teepees, and turkeys. A "T" theme for "T"xgvng.  Do you remember your own preschool days?  What crafts did you make?  

I remember, as a first grader, being given the outline of two pilgrims, one man and one woman, and we were to color them in and cut them out to hang up on our fridges.  Of course, there weren't really many options for creativity. I mean, come on, pilgrims wouldn't be caught dead in pink, right?  And though the buckle on their shoes would always be colored gold, it hardly would have been considered bling - more of an austere brass, I suspect - only then only functional, not really an ornament like, say the Pope's prada.  So, really, you only needed two crayons:

• Black (for the bulk of the outfit that would include an unbecoming dress for her, and funny knee-high pants and a coat that didn't exactly have tails but came down longer than guys wear them now for him).
• Gold, for said shoe and belt buckle, and hat buckle.
• White - even though there was a white crayon in the box, we didn't need it as the paper was white. Because, of course, the pilgrims were white.  If we were going to color Native Americans, of course we would have used "Indian Red" - that's back in the days before we were more creative and less racist in naming our crayons.

We'd hardly be given the chance to color a pilgrim with a green pant and a seabreeze blue jacket, or a coral bonnet for the ladies.  Non-caucasion races would probably have been politely corrected by teachers (no dear, the pilgrims weren't brown, they were white.... the harsh lessons the role of brown-folks in US History would not be learned for a few more years).

The result was a room full of thirty male pilgrims, and thirty female pilgrims, all clad in black and white with tony bits of gold.  If we were lucky enough to have the crayon that was called "flesh" or "skin" (or whatever they used to call it before they realized that beige was not the only skin color, and that in fact most people who were beige were actually pink, so you might as well just pull out a pink crayon, which would have been really funny, because pink was used for pigs and flowers).  Hanging in the windows, a parade dedicated to the craftiness of complete un-creativity.  

I remember in the first grade I spilt chocolate milk on mine, and so mine was crinkly and stained.  Oh well. At least it would have stood out.

Perhaps it's fine to start with all that, as long as we really do build in the stories of other peoples, and their versions of the story/stories... but what I don't remember in first grade is spending all that much time thinking about what Thanksgiving - or rather, giving thanks - is all about.  That, if I remember, I got from church.  Looking past the cut out pilgrims, or the five-fingered turkeys, or the teepees made from popsicle sticks, there is a greater symbol of giving thanks, and that is our generosity towards those in need, our humility in receiving and caring for the world's resources, and our rituals of saying and celebrating 'thank you'. Perhaps that's why for us Christians, or at least for Episcopalians and some other types of Christians, Eucharist (greek for 'thanks dude/ette') is our principle Sunday service.  We practice giving thanks, so we can live grateful lives.

New Orleans

Well, New Orleans is the home of king cake, and today is Christ the King Sunday.... though, I realize King Cake is associated with the magi, and not the Christ, still, since I am flying into New Orleans tomorrow, it seems to me a good opportunity to pause and give thanks for the king of my life, for being a royal heir in the rain of God, and for the opportunity to travel and visit with some of the folks I love.  Last year, I flew out of New Orleans after going home to help my mom with some cleaning after my father passed away.  We will celebrate his life on the anniversary of his death this week, as well.  

The Gospel lesson today ended with Christ's assurance from the cross for one of those crucified with him: 'Truly, today you will be with me in paradise.'  I can give thanks this Christ the King Sunday that among those dwelling in the paradise with God are many whom I love, and I can give thanks for the assurance through hope that they are well, and that I, too, shall be with them one day in the mysterious journey beyond this life.

I look forward to having a beignette at the Cafe du Monde (the last time I had one there was with my Dad!), and taking time to remember on Thanksgiving the blessings of this life.

 

Well, there's the rambling thoughts of a mind thinking about weddings, travel, Christ the King, Thanksgiving, deceased loved ones, friends, Jesus, and New Orleans food :)

Is there more to life? Ask the woman selling flowers.

     While in New Zealand for a retreat last September, on my way to Torbay, where Vaughan Park Retreat Centre is located, I stppoed in Devonport for coffee and at the pastry-shop, there was an advertisement on the glass door.  I noticed it because it was for a group about which someone had just asked me, and I thought it odd that I should be immediately thereafter confronted with an ad for it in a pastry-shop window!  "Is there more to life?" inquires a man who, in the main frame of the flier is looking over mountains he apparently has just climbed.... Is there more to life?  

     Across from the door in which the ad hung was a playful statue, on which people had hung various memorabilia - silk flowers, real flowers, and a scarf: a
memorial to a flower-peddler, who evidently brought some joy to this neighborhood.  Evident not only because a statue was dedicated to her, but because people continued to decorate it,  and in her death, as in life, this woman's spirit lives in the delight evoked by the playfulness of the statue, and the joy evidenced by the continued contributions towards the testimony of this person's life.

signs and symbols

Last summer, I had the opportunity to serve as chaplain at "God Camp", the Episcopal Diocese of Hawaii`'s summer camp program for youth.  I always enjoy being around the energy of these young Christians, and seeing how the camp has a positive impact on their lives.  This year, they took  some scrap boards and used them to make two signs for their gathering space, using colored sand and decorative glass beads.  One was a sign that read "God Camp", and the other a cross.  I took a close up of the cross, in the center of which is a fish.  

I like that there are spokes leading off and into the center, where lies the tiny ubiquitous symol for (especially Christian), fishes.  

We have to live with the irony that what was an instrument of ugliness and torture is also a emblem of great beauty.  I flitter-flutter back and forth between appreciating crosses as beautiful decorations, jewelry, wall-ornaments.  I have several that I hang in my bedroom, some of them gifts and some of the recuerdos from pilgrimages, some are found or even made.  It's certainly not all of my crosses, but a nice collection.  They give me pause each evening, and usually each morning (depending on how groggy I am), to reflect on one of the main arteries of the heart of Christianity: the cross and the resurrection (the second main artery being the Incarnation, his life and teachings!).  Co-mingling on that wall are crucifixes and empty-crosses, I have before me both the inhumanity of the crucifixion, and the fullness of humanity restored in the resurrection.  Beauty and ugliness co-mingle, as did Christ's sorrow and grief, as they old hymn says.

Right there at the epicenter of this rich symbol is the camp-glyph both of sustenance and of discipleship.  The spokes that lead us inward in God's gathering work, by the cross uniting, send us back out "to do the work [God] has
given us to do....".  

Pretty good symbol for God Camp.  

 

empty-tomb-ologizing again: pilgrimage to an empty place

     I love the simple chapel of the Vaughan Park Retreat Centre.  It's not cluttered. It's simple elegance opens, via window, the soul to the wide expanse of the Pacific, inviting us to see without as a way of looking within.  This place is holy to me.  

     This evening, I was reading about a pilgrim's visit to Bethlehem, a beautiful reflection that was part travel diary, part theology.  As the pilgrim described the tiny chimney sized enclosure, in which hangs a tiny star, set aside the spot where the Christ child made his pilgrimage from womb to trough, I recalled my own pilgrimages in the summer of 2001.  I'm still seeking that which I am as yet to find.

     I remember the tiny star in the tiny originating creche.  I'm reminded of how ironically small the markers are in so many places as set against the backdrop of what are often large and dramatic structures (think of the fragile fingers of Mary and Christ in Michaelangelo's pieta against the Vatican!), almost as if to 'pinpoint' a place.

      The casket of St. James in Santiago, which is only slightly larger than an urn, almost like a small treasure chest, rather than a full on 21st century coffin!  The Saint's processional statue is equally tiny, it could be so easily lost in a procession of pilgrims... The small, the empty.  That's what pilgrims find, even if it's not what they are seeking, that's what they get.  Tiny images, tiny relics, fragments of a testimony, all leading back, for the Christian, to a hollowness and hallowed-ness of the tomb, an empty tomb.  

     It's as if the pilgrims' grand visions of holy adventure, of profound revelation, our expectations and our ego, all end up being confronted by the hollow - not only the holiness of our destinations - the hollowness of our own souls.  Maybe it's essential that in order to meet the God who loves the tiny and empty, the outcast and sinner, we must first confront that within ourselves, within our dreams, within our lives, and there, in the emptiness and smallness and even darkness of our shrines, we can begin to climb back out into the light, the fullness, the grandness of God whose love and light fills everything.

letting waves wash over me...

(No pics this time.... my laptop was recently stolen, and most of my photos along with it.  I've some new photos to load soon, and will add.  Thanks to a new friend, Aaron, for provoking me to write more.  I'll try.)

 

11/18/2010, I have some pics now, and have added them in.  Sorry it took so long, but I think these will do :)

... Or... letting the liturgy wash over me, like waves.  Though somewhat distraught about the recent decision of "governor" linda lingle to defer to partisan politics and veto civil rights, the liturgy must go on.  I prayed from all distractions of mind and wanderings of heart, and went on to celebrate Eucharist.  Not only to be called upon to celebrate and give thanks was difficult, but to lead the assembly?

The words, though, like the ocean that I have come to love, washed over and I felt suspended in the undulations of its tide.

     Wondrous are you, Holy One of Blessing,

     all you create is a sign of hope for our journey....

     Grant that we, burning with your Spirit's power,

     may be a people of hope, justice and love.

Earlier this morning, without that particular Eucharistic prayer in mind, I had written in my journal, "Holy Spirit, burn me up." (probably inspired by one of my favorite prayers from St. Augustine: "kindle your fire in us and carry us away."

Jesus is alive, and the Holy Spirit has equipped us with all we need as people of hope to work for justice, and live for love. I recently spent one morning  counting whale sightings for NOAA, amazed at God's creatures great and small, the beauty of the ocean, the power of the land, all the promises of God, and the fecundity of hope shouting out the glory of the Lord from the beauty of Creation.