Beyond our ken

Christmas Eve 

Be still, then, and know that I am God.

Psalm 46:11

The sprinkling of snow on the lawn that greets me this morning is a surprise and a delight. A gift. in my part of the world, snow on Christmas is the icing on the cake. In other parts of this country, this world, of God’s creation, the rituals and traditions of this feast differ.

God speaks to us in sign and language that meets us in various times and places, even when the divine is beyond our ken. The Incarnation, God become flesh, is not for one. Christ is the savior of the world.

Come, Jesus.

Finding the way

Thursday of the Fourth Week of Advent

Great is our Lord and mighty in power;

there is not limit to God’s wisdom.

Psalm 147:5

The final twists and turns of the Advent journey are to be expected. I think of the story of Mary and Joseph turning down this road and that, looking for a place they did not know they would find.

The manger evokes so many images. Unexpected. Unpleasant. Squalid. Shameful. Humble. Down-to-earth. Ordinary. Everyday. Holy. So perhaps we should not think of it as unfortunate, but as meet and right. God was born into the space where there was room. Wisdom will find a way.

And perhaps this means I am where I need to be now. A bit uncertain, not sure of the exact way forward or where I will find the newborn Christ, nevertheless taking the risk to be faithful. Come, Jesus.

Image by Alex Hu from Pixabay

Sun of righteousness

Wednesday of the Fourth Week of Advent

He shall have pity on the lowly and poor;

he shall preserve the lives of the needy.

Psalm 72:13

Today began as most Wednesdays have for over a year now, with healing prayer.  Our zoom prayer group began as a response to someone who was hospitalized in August of 2020, when no one could with confidence safely gather in person or visit health care facilities. We found comfort and strength in gathering then, and still do.

Each week we pray for those who have asked for our prayers, for those we know of who are suffering, and for each other. And we pray for the world.

God’s merciful healing has been evident to us; praying together has deepened our faith and our friendships. And with the birth of our Savior now just a few steps away, we know more clearly that God’s will for all people is health and salvation. The sun of righteousness comes with healing in its wings.

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Unfathomable

Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Advent

All the earth bows down before you,

sings to you, sings out your Name.

Psalm 66:3

The intricate patterns bare branches trace across the winter grey sky. The rusty orange of remnant leaves. The pools of bright warmth the sun casts inside and out. The sharp freshness of cold air.

All around me God’s creation reveals beauty, possibility, and connection that is more than I can fathom. And with awe I await the most unfathomable gift, given once, given still. Come, Jesus.

Image: Giotto's Adoration of the Magi

Dawn road

Monday of the Fourth Week of Advent
 
For God alone my soul in silence waits;
from the One comes my salvation.
Psalm 62:1

 

When I wake the moon is still bright, and I sit in contemplation as the light of the sun slowly warms the horizon, indigo giving way to orange-pink and then dawn blue. One light exchanging space with another in an ancient rhythm.
 
And by the grace of the one who created the light and its reflection, a heaviness in my soul has been replaced with quiet anticipation. I am filled with the assurance that I am no longer trying to be ready; I am simply walking the last bit of the Advent way.
 
I don’t know how God does this. But with a relief on the edge of tears I give myself over with awe and gratitude. Come, Jesus.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Night waking

Saturday of the Third Week of Advent

Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you keep me safe;
you stretch forth your hand against the fury of my enemies;
your right hand shall save me.
Psalm 138:8

In the night, I am wakeful. Enough to get out of bed and go downstairs. This is most unfortunate because the Christmas cookies a colleague a gifted to my husband call my name. I know the sugar will not help me sleep, nevertheless….
 
When I was a new mother, I wrote a prayer for night waking for toddlers. I wanted even the youngest to have both the gift and the reassurance of God’s presence in the wee hours. Across centuries and cultures, people have engaged in rituals and prayer practices for the middle of the night, facing into the trepidation, facing into mystery.

Now in my own night waking, I seek peace and pray for the morning to come. Now the pace of Advent hurtles toward the longest night and the dawning of Grace.

 

Image by Angeles Balaguer from Pixabay

Plaint

Friday of the Third Week of Advent

 

What is the crying at Jordan?

Who hears, O God, the prophecy?

Dark is the season,

dark our hearts and shut to the mystery

The Hymnal 1982, #69

 

 

In the early morning, while it is still dark, I hear the cry of the windchimes and the creaking of the corners of the house. I lie wakeful, in the liminal space just removed from sleep.

 

In the cry and the rush of the wind I hear also the journeyer’s plaint. The start is left long behind, the end does not seem in sight. Caught in a curve of the path, a passage cut through rock with no apparent egress, an effort with no discernable progress.

 

I know the only way through is forward. I know I have come to the end of this journey before. I know this space of darkness will not last. I know the sun dawns.

 

And with this knowledge, I step into the day, that much closer a full-on encounter with holy mystery.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Distraction

 Thursday of the Third Week of Advent
 
My eyes are fixed on you, O my Strength;
for you, O God, are my stronghold.
Psalm 59:10
 

As I watch the morning brighten outside our front window, I also see and hear the traffic increase. So many people on their way somewhere, most in a hurry. People always drive too fast down this residential street.
 
I struggle to focus on my prayers. I could move to another part of the house and away from the distraction. But I like the light here. This is the brightest room in the house, and as we continue to move toward the darkest day of the year, I ache for more light.
 
It seems these days neither my eyes nor my attention are fixed anywhere for long. And I realize behind my distraction I am waiting. Waiting for change, waiting for restoration, waiting for….
 
And still. Still, I know that beyond the uncertainty lies my Strength, my Stronghold, my Light and my Hope.

Image by C B from Pixabay

Promised light

Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent

 

This is my comfort in my trouble,

that your promise gives me life.

Psalm 119:50

 

I look at my list of what needs to be done and it all seems manageable. And yet I keep coming up short. Time is not my concern; I do not feel rushed, but burdened. Once again the landscape shifts and I am reminded that I am not in familiar territory, that the way forward must be discerned.

 

Nevertheless, the Advent promise of light and life breaking into the dark spaces and hours continues to beckon, enabling my steps, my breath.

 

The coming of Christ does not depend on me—it is exactly the other way around.

Image by LoganArt from Pixabay

In the midst

Tuesday of the Third Week of Advent

We have waited in silence on your loving-kindness, O God,

in the midst of your temple.

Psalm 48:8

As I wait in line to check-in, I notice the man across the hallway, chatting easily with the woman near him. At first, I think he is a hospital employee; then I notice that he is wearing a volunteer badge. As I move forward to his area, he greets me warmly. And after a harried day, I am comforted by his ease. I thank him for what he is doing and he smiles broadly.

The room is full of volunteers and hospital personnel, giving shot after shot. Booster for me, first or second vaccinations for children ushered in by grateful parents.

There is no holiday rush here, no crankiness. People wait patiently, the workers are kind and pleasant, the space calm and hope-full.

In a time when I can feel so lost along the way, this moment brings healing balm to my soul, as well as protection to my body. And I am reminded that God’s light and loving-kindness can be found in the midst.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Rest for the weary

Monday of the Third Week of Advent

Rise up, and help us,
and save us, for the sake of your steadfast love.
Psalm 44:26
 

As the early afternoon sun warms the room, I think I will just sit for a minute. My body has been asking for a nap for the last hour, but I have resisted. Like a toddler, I don’t want to give in. Maybe I will miss something. And also, there are much better uses of my time.

But the truth is I am bone weary. Still hesitant, I finally lay down and close my eyes. And wake three hours later.

Mary, pregnant, walked the 90-some miles to Bethlehem. Maybe she rode some of that time--on a donkey. So, I’m also sure the mother of Jesus took breaks along the way. If the theotokos, the God-Bearer, could rest on the way to that most holy night, then so can I.

None of us is impervious to the travel fatigue of Advent. Sometimes the help that our loving God offers us is communicated through our own human bodies telling us it is time for sleep.

Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

Whose longing

Saturday of the Second Week of Advent
 
As the deer longs for the water-brooks,
so longs my soul for you, O God.
Psalm 42:1
 

The late afternoon sun makes the deer nearly invisible, and I am almost upon them before I see them. A young buck and I look at each other. I am surprised that he is not more startled, that he stands still, examining me. As if he is trying to decide whether it is worth his time to move away. Whose land is this anyway?
 
Whose indeed?

I tend to think of the paths I walk as my own. My journey. My exploration. My way. Perhaps all I can realistically claim as my own is my yearning. My longing for God leads me to seek out the holy. The afternoon sunlight, the deer, this moment, each journey, every path: all belong to God who spoke creation into being.

Image by hashan from Pixabay

Unassembled

 Friday of the Second Week of Advent

You have not shut me up in the power of the enemy;
you have set my feet in an open place.
Psalm 31:8

I want to whisper this confession hoping no one will notice. I set up my Advent wreath only recently, well into the second week. I had all the materials ahead of time. The hand-dipped candles, three purple, one rose. The base our oldest handcrafted for us. Greens, including holly, readily available a few steps from my front door. 

We sat down for meals and prayed while the pieces lay unassembled on a side table.

Unassembled. This is how I often feel these days. All my parts seem to be here: mind, soul, priestly craft, aging body, vision. Yet I cannot seem to get them all to work together at the same time. 

But perhaps unassembled also means ready. Ready for the holy one to make of me what she will.

Precarious

 Thursday of the Second Week of Advent
 
If they stumble, they shall not fall headlong,
for the Lord holds them by the hand.
Psalm 37:25

 

I take my steps hesitantly. The stairs down from my friend’s porch are wide and sturdy; nevertheless, I find I feel somewhat uncertain because while the steps are broad, the handrail is out of reach. When did my balance become so precarious?
 
As a child, stumbling into a fall meant a skinned knee. As a mature (ahem) adult, the consequences are scarier. Yet, at the same time, my stumbles in my spiritual life seem less hazardous than when I was younger. Now I know that God is there every time. Even when I doubt.

The way to the manger is both certain and precarious. 

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

In the midst

Wednesday of the Second Week of Advent

My soul melts away for sorrow;
strengthen me according to your word.
Psalm 119:28

I pick up a handful of dirt outside the mausoleum. It has rained recently, so the earth is damp and clumps a bit. We gather for the final prayers and I release the dirt from my hand, slowly scattering it onto the coffin. A small ritual marking a momentous rift.

Again and again I travel within the landscape of grief; sometimes it is my own, sometimes I am accompanying others, often is startles me with its unaccountable timing and intensity. Sorrow can be numbing, cleansing, overwhelming, necessary, inexplicable, healing.

The prophets pave the Advent way with reminders that mourning is not our end. I hold fast to these words of comfort--about putting away the garments of sorrow, about being gathered home, about being cherished by the Almighty. The Word is coming, and is already here. The Holy One is in the midst of us. 

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Path of faithfulness

Monday of the Second Week of Advent
 
All the paths of the Lord are love and faithfulness
to those who keep his covenant and testimonies.
Psalm 25:9
 

The day dawns and remains grey which seems to match my own slowness of spirit. 
 
The Advent cry of making the way straight, of filling in valleys and leveling mountains,  evokes in me a yearning for the smooth path. Of a spiritual journey that does not include the ups and downs. Of progress that continues unabated. Of a way forward that requires less effort, where despondency is not a roadblock and I do not stumble.
 
Yet, so often, the obstacles in my path do more than call me up short; they increase my understanding of God’s love, forgiveness, gentleness. According to the prophet Baruch this leveling of ground is so that we may walk safely in the glory of God. I think that safe and easy are not always the same thing.
 
I wrap my shawl more closely around me against the winter day, and I pull close to me also God’s promise of love and faithfulness.

Detaching

Saturday of the First Week of Advent 

Some put their trust in chariots and some in horses,

but we will call upon the Name of the Lord our God

Psalm 20:7

As I scan the store aisles, I have to coach myself into calmness. Shopping this time of year can be a fight for my soul. It is difficult not to be pulled into the advertising frenzy. I am surrounded by shimmering appeals telling me what I want. What my family wants. What love looks like. Telling me things will be scarce so I need to act quickly. Increasing my heart-rate, but doing nothing for my sense of well-being.

Advent is set aside for preparation because it takes time and attentiveness to get ready for the Savior. Preparing space in our hearts and lives does not happen with the flip of a switch. For me, the Advent journey seems to always include intentionally detaching myself from the misleading claims of power and once more putting my trust in God.

Disrupted time

Friday in the First Week of Advent

My footsteps hold fast to the ways of your law;

in your paths my feet shall not stumble.

Psalm 17:5

As I complete my transaction at my local pharmacy, the person at the counter offers me a free wall calendar. I hesitate for a moment, and then the man waiting behind me says, “How else will you know what day it is?”

How else indeed. But will this calendar be enough? I would have to dependably cross off each day to keep track of where I am. Because, still, after almost two years, I find my sense of time disrupted.

Advent too is a time of disruption. The scripture readings for this season offer visions of doom and prophecies of hope. Themes of devastation and restoration ride in tandem, and before we get to the joy of the manger, we must join John the Baptist in making straight the way.

Holy way, holy disruption, holy time. I do not need to keep track of time or of God. It is the One we await who keeps hold of me.

Open space

Thursday of the First Week of Advent

The Lord brought me out into an open place,
and rescued me because the Holy One delighted in me.
Psalm 18:20

I slow my breathing as I less-than-gracefully ease into my yoga practice. The day has been simultaneously ordinary and hectic and I know I need this restorative time. I listen to the sure and soothing voice of my friend and teacher as she guides us through transitions from one posture to the next.

If only I had been this attentive to the transitions of my day. It began with holy conversation and prayer, yet I soon began to pick up burdens along the way. I’m pretty sure I am not meant to prepare the Advent way by collecting every rock I stumble over.

My body and soul hold on to so much. Clearing the path for the coming of Christ requires letting go. 

I deepen my breathing. I slow my movements. I still myself in the space opened by sacred encounter. Until the holding releases into resting and I am at peace.

Treasuring tenacity

Wednesday of the First Week of Advent

I treasure your promise in my heart,
that I may not sin against you.
Psalm 119:11

As evening comes I await that moment  when I can set down my work for the day and just be. I have spent the day going to and fro without much in-between time. I am still unused to this busyness, this return to more movement that has come as we learn to navigate the territory of pandemic. Which on some days is not navigable at all.

Yet, even on the days I laugh out loud at the doctor’s office when asked if I am experiencing any feelings of sadness or despair, I know that I am not completely lost; that all is not lost. God’s promise of love and redemption remains firm, withstands all assaults of numbing and indifference.

And in the space of inaction I wend my way inward, gently probing my heart to assure myself that the treasure remains. That despite my falling short, my missing the mark, my sinfulness, tenacious hope holds fast, refusing to die.