Stay Awake!

I awoke early this morning.  Call me strange, but there's some anticipation I experience when I know a new season is rolling in.  And today is the first Sunday in Advent.  A new candle was to be lit.  And it was.  But somewhere in the pre-dawn, I began to "slip."  Okay, so it's not unusual for me to pull the blanket off the back of the couch, throw it over my feet and slide down within its warmth, and then wake to find myself late for whatever's next.  In fact, after the activities of this past week, this morning would have been such an opportune time.  I even thought about it as I felt my eyes getting droopy. 

And then I remembered this morning's Scripture.  It focused on staying alert.  Keeping awake.  Why?  Because Jesus could be returning at any moment!  Matthew 24:37 says it this way: Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.  Truly, the most basic formulations of the Christian faith include this expectancy.  You can hear it in the communion liturgy: "Christ has died.  Christ is risen.  Christ will come again."  In our Apostle's creed: "... He will come again to judge the living and the dead..."  There's no getting around it; Jesus will come again.  And that's what we do this Advent.  We wait.  We expect.

Advent colors are not the hues we associate with this season of the year.  They are not green and red, but purple, moody and dark.  The music is not major, but minor.  Its theme is not "deck the halls," but "Repent!"  It is a season focused on the coming of Jesus -- not only to Bethlehem some 2000 years ago but futuristically on a white horse.  Yet while we wait and while we anticipate, we also look.  And as we do, we find Him in our midst right now.  We see Him in our spouses, in our children and grandchildren, in our neighbors and bosses, in the girl behind the cash register, in the homeless and the weary and the tired.  We begin to recognize Him in our daily chores, in our time spent with friends, in our pains, and in our sufferings.  In fact, every moment of our lives can become an Advent.  A time when the Lord is near ... present.  But we must stay awake ... and look.

So my prayer for you this first morning is that you would be blessed with a spirit of Advent.  That He would awaken your senses to His presence in the here and now, and that as He does, you would become a sign of love, hope, joy and peace in a world that seems chaotic and out of control and that desperately needs Him.

Blessings to each of you this Advent morning.

Just an ordinary moment....

The End of One Season ... Welcomes Another

The last 24 weeks on the Christian calendar have been what is known at Pentecost ... or Ordinary Time.  According to Sarah Arthur in her introduction to At the Still Point, "If Advent, Lent and Easter are the glitzy celebrities at the liturgical party, Ordinary Time is the plain auntie collecting dirty wine glasses afterward.  We almost forget she's there."  After all, Advent announces the coming of the Savior of the world with the scenes of a wild man dressed in camel hair.  Christmas heralds "Joy to the World! The Lord is come!!!" Lent is marked with ashes and fasting ... and mortality.  Easter, of course, is the highlight: He is risen!  He is risen indeed!  But except for the initial wind and fire falling upon the disciples in Jerusalem, Pentecost is marked by ... well, by ordinariness.  As the longest season of the liturgical year, it really has no high points; it boasts no showy colors or costumes. 

Pentecost provides a pause.  But it's a pause worth taking. 

As Enuma Okoro wrote:

This ordinary time is

gifted in its quiet, marked passing

Christ slips about

calling and baptizing,

sending and affirming,

pouring his Spirit like water

into broken cisterns,

sealing cracks and filtering our senses,

that we may savor the foolish

simplicity of his grace.

During this time, an E.B. Browning quote, ...Speak Thou, availing Christ! -- and fill this pause, stayed tucked inside the wreath surrounding my morning candle.

George Herbert's poem remains taped to a print on my bathroom wall.

Listen sweet Dove unto my song,

And spread thy golden wings in me;

Hatching my tender heart so long,

Till it get wing, and fly away with thee.

I've meditated upon Elizabeth B. Rooney's prose:

Must we use words

For everything?

Can there not be

A silent, flaming

Leap of heart

Toward Thee?

And what about the poetry of the Greek Synesius?

May my soul, her want perceiving,

Turn her gaze to where Thou art,

And in all Thy fullness find Thee

Food to satisfy the heart.

And lastly, "Love" by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,

Who made the eyes but I?

Truth, Lord, but I have marred them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:

So I did sit and eat.

And thus I have. 

But tonight marks the end of this journey ... this Ordinary Time ... this pause.  It has been good.  And it has been necessary.  But now the Thanksgiving wreath and orange pumpkin candle have been replaced by purple and pink and white.  Ordinary is replaced with anticipation.

Advent begins.  The end of one season welcomes another.

Just an ordinary moment...

A Love Nest

In the dark stillness of the morning, I find myself drawn into a love affair. I do not know his face -- only his voice. But each day finds me listening for and anticipating the rich melody of love. It's only 5 notes ... 3 tones to be exact. For the musical connoisseur, that would be D-C-A-A-A. Sometimes it's short and staccato-like; at other times boisterous and dramatic. Regardless, it's as if he sings for me. Calls to me. And when I hear it, my ears become receptors, my senses come alive and my spirit leaps.

And I answer ... with my own mimicking whistle.  

Where or what he is, I do not know. I just recognize for this period of time, we are both hidden ... from the world and from each other -- in our own little gardens enclosed. But there is sweetness. There is connection. There is communion. And for today, the sound of his song is enough. 

As light breaks and the day rises to meet the sun, there is a hushed reverence, and I find myself alone once again. Yet the melody remains within me ... and it is enough. 

Desires are satisfied.

O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the cliff,

Let me see your face, let me hear your voice;

For your voice is sweet and your face is lovely.

Song of Songs 2:14

Just an ordinary moment...

Sacred Ground

I've been walking on sacred ground lately. Not the kind that has ornate walls or stained glass windows. Nor have I visited any Indian mounds in recent past. This one has just been a basic home with rockers on the front porch and a fruit bearing pear tree in the back. It belonged to my daughter-in-love's mother who passed away on Sept. 10 at the age of 59. Far too young. So I've been helping do what one does when such happens. And in the process, finding the need to maybe take off my shoes.

We began the difficult task in the kitchen ... after all, it was "safe." The patterns may be different, but we all have dishes, basic pots and pans, and cooking utensils. The living room provided ample opportunity to find out what kind of movies she liked to watch; what kind of books she liked to read; and what kind of music she liked to listen to. The walls of the back room revealed her past love of horses. And turned down pages in the cookbooks revealed her favorite recipes. But it wasn't until we began dusting off boxes and opening closet doors did the need to remove my sandals become increasingly evident.

Dolls she had cradled as a child ... a brown paper bag full of letters written to her love when he was away ... a well loved lamb that dated back to her childhood ... a worn teddy bear, the kind with real button eyes ... a tiny song book compiled for US soldiers and sailors, with her grandfather's name, battalion, and station inscribed in it -- in his own handwriting -- which he carried while serving in WWI ... teachings on deliverance ... century old hymnbooks ... an unfinished baby blanket for a grandchild she will never hold ... poems from her own pen ... a poinsettia Christmas pin attached to a favorite coat ... a family picture album she had made for her mother so many years ago ... a well-used Bible that remained right next to her bed until the day she died. Quite frankly, I found moving that off its place on the nightstand the most holy act of all.

At times, my daughter-in-love and I have laughed so hard we have snorted. At others times, we've shed tears. We have sneezed. We have rolled our eyes. And yet sometimes, many times, silence has been the only appropriate response. But if the truth be known, I've learned more about this woman in the last 6 weeks than I knew in the previous 6 years. And I'm honored and grateful for the privilege.

Sacred ground. It comes in all shapes, forms, and fashion.

Just an ordinary moment...

Hi, Daddy!

Her voice rang out amid the silence of a congregation full of worshipers. "Hi, Daddy!" It was the first time my 3-year-old niece had been in a worship service when her daddy was singing in the choir. When she saw him, she was thrilled. Again the voice rang out a little louder. "Hi, Daddy!" And again with a bit more shrill to it each time. "Hi, Daddy!!" Completely oblivious to the "reverence" and sobriety of the moment, this child gave way to the excitement of seeing her daddy.

"Abba" is the Greek term for daddy. It's the word Jesus Himself called His Father when He was praying in the garden before His crucifixion. It's a term of intimacy ... familiarity. Just as it was for my niece to her daddy this particular morning.

After the choir sang, the members dispersed into the congregation to sit with their families. My brother was no exception. He leaned over the first pew to where his little girl sat with her mother and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the nursery -- which is where 3-year-olds go during the sermon time. But she didn't care. She was in her father's strong arms, and she was delighted. One could tell by the tight grip she had around his neck and the wide smile on her face. After all, she worships her daddy.

Just an ordinary moment...