Waiting for Christmas Carols

Maybe it’s because I spent many an Advent waiting for something to be different, or maybe it’s just that I’m a bit of a liturgical nerd, but Advent is such a meaningful season for me, and one of my Advent practices is to listen, not to Christmas music, but to Advent music. I have an Advent playlist that someone else curated but that I have copied into my own music service provider. The songs speak of the need for a redeemer, of waiting, of darkness, of hope, and of preparation. The songs come from a variety of sources, but the themes of Advent are woven through them.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas music, but waiting for it until it is actually Christmas makes listening to it that much more special. When you consider that Christmas candy and decorations have been in the stores since before Halloween, it’s an act of resistance to not listen to Christmas music until Christmas Eve! And it’s not like I shut it out altogether. I sing it at church or when caroling, and I hear it when I’m in any store. I do love Christmas carols, and I savor the singing of them. It’s just that I appreciate the story that Advent music tells.

Advent holds powerful memories for me, memories of such deep longing for life to be different, for ridicule and loneliness to not be such a prominent part of my life. The scriptures of Advent, in speaking of hope and waiting and light shining in darkness spoke to my heart when I was waiting in my own difficult circumstances. I held them as treasure as I sat in the early morning dark with the Advent wreath lit before the house awoke for the day. I dared to hope in those hours before daylight.

I am grateful that my life is different now, but every Advent that rolls around reminds me of those years of longing in the darkness and I think of others who are in situations where they struggle to hope that things can change, that life can be different, that a savior is coming because God loves them and does not leave them alone. My Advent playlist reminds me that there is still a need for a savior, that the baby born in Bethlehem continues to matter to many who need a reason to hope.

There will be plenty of time for Christmas carols, and like the light, they will break into the season of Advent in various ways and places. But I, for one, will wait to play them, and instead, will play songs about waiting and preparation and the light that is coming. If you are interested in what I’m listening to, here’s a link to the playlist.

Pauses

Each time a story ends

There is such a long pause before another begins.

                                                          --Robert Bly, from “Looking at the Stars”

 

Those pauses seem interminable, even if only days:

the pause between test and result,

diagnosis and treatment plan, breach of trust

and forgiveness, death and resurrection.

Though the new story may truly start

at the end of the old, there is a time,

disorienting, when one knows not what to do,

when you are frozen in limbo,

when no path is visible. The shock

of ending holds us fast, and though painful,

it is good to be held, to be kept from

stumbling any deeper into the chasm

between stories. The pause has its own story.

Listen.

The Practice of Waiting

 

Waiting is a topic we often consider during the season of Advent. I’ve read numerous Advent meditations that talk about the importance of waiting, the need to wait, the practice of waiting as a spiritual discipline. If we faithfully practice Advent, we are brought back time and time again to the need to wait. It is part of preparing ourselves for the coming of Emmanuel each year at Christmas.

 Of course, waiting is not the favorite pastime of anyone I know. And waiting is not exclusive to Advent. We spend a lot of time waiting for things. Some might say waiting is a “necessary evil” but I wouldn’t call it that.

 I mentioned in my last blog post that I had learned some lessons from nine weeks of not being able to drive because of a broken shoulder. One of the lessons I learned, or at least became more familiar with, was waiting. I waited on the sidewalk outside my apartment most days, looking for my ride for that particular day. It gave me an opportunity to be present. I watched the trees change colors. I watched clouds in the sky. I saw different people walking down the street. I observed the work of remodeling that was happening at a building near me.

 As a child, I remember learning a rhyme about crossing the street. It began: Stop, look, and listen. Standing on the sidewalk each day, waiting for a ride, gave me the opportunity to stop, look, and listen, a practice I can do anywhere, anytime I’m waiting, if I’ll just stay awake and aware.

 There was another gift of waiting. It was a waiting that curbed impulsiveness. Because I was dependent on others to take me to the grocery store, I had to be attentive about keeping a running list of what I needed. I couldn’t simply jump in the car to pick up one or two items. It caused me to recognize how impulsive I can be. Because I had to wait, I learned to improvise or do without ingredients. Not a bad practice.

 I realized just how much time I can waste making little trips back and forth to the grocery store. I recognized that impulsivity is a barrier to imagination. When I have to wait, there is time and space for creative problem solving. That’s a practice that can apply not only to meal preparation but to other areas of life. Waiting gives space for ideas to germinate.

 As we wait during Advent, I challenge you to see this practice of waiting as creative process. Stop. Look. Listen. Improvise. Think about things differently. What can grow in you while you wait?

Wait: Eastertide's Final Lesson

 

A Reflection on Hope for Maundy Thursday

Disruption -Elizabeth & Zechariah

We are not the first to experience a disrupted holiday season.

Good

If you who are evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good things to those who ask him.   Matthew 7:11

What is good does not always seem that way in the painful moments.

What baby, though cramped in the warm womb,

thinks being pushed through the birth canal is good,

thinks emerging into light and chill and noises loud and harsh is good?

Does the caterpillar wonder at the cruelty of having the build its own coffin,

the chrysalis that seems the end of its life of freedom?

Good can’t always be discerned, foreseen;

sometimes, often, it is entered into blindly.

It is not willingly chosen.

Transformation comes disguised as chaos, upheaval, disorientation,

fraught with questions beginning with

why.

Sometimes good is only seen in hindsight,

as one flies on colorful wings,

or experiences the vastness of light and love.

Holy Saturday

1 Kings 19:11-13

Holy Saturday recalls those times of waking up

to find no miracle. What you hoped was a dream

isn’t.

The pain of loss sharp, acute.

The storm has wreaked its havoc.

Life as it was is gone

forever.

Shock and disorientation immobilize.

The mind too numb to imagine new.

Be still.

Wait.

Listening

1 Samuel 3:1-10

I’m here.

Listening. It’s enough

for me that you know

I’m here.

Listening.

A Prayer

Mark 14:36

On the other side of suffering, I see your transforming work, O God. But when I read this single verse, Jesus’ plea to you, I go back to my season of suffering and my wish to run away from it.

A wise guide spoke hard truth to me when she said to stay with my pain. Let it be my teacher. I did not want to hear those words, but I received them. I lived them, through days and weeks and months, walking the thin line between despair and hope.

I did not numb myself to the pain, but felt it as fully as I was capable of feeling it. And even for that, I was derided by the same ones whose words and deeds had already exiled me.

But because I did not numb myself, did not avoid the pain, I now sing with unfettered joy the song of salvation and new life. I am redeemed and reborn! Thanks be to God! Amen.

The Speed of Growth

Mark 4:26-32

Let nature take its course—

not a popular word in a society of speed.

Consumed with size and strength and speed,

we are like mechanics, manipulating the

engine of life to meet our demands for

more, faster and bigger. We override the

Creator, who glories in the smallest flower,

the speed of a snail, the delicate strength of a spider web.

We want bigger chickens, faster answers, more choices.

We cannot content ourselves with a Kingdom that grows by itself,

that revels in smallness, that is revealed in the simplicity of seeds

and birds and bread.

Life begins small and is only authentic when unforced.

Depth and strength require time, not speed.

The Kingdom comes in its own time.

Let Nature/God take its course.

Endurance

James 5:7-11

O God, waiting is hard. But harder than waiting is unknowing.

With the Psalmist I cry “How long?” And will the journey even take me

to a place I want to be? It seems all I see is the interminable question mark.

Yet in the waiting, in the unknowing, I experience compassion and mercy.

There is hope for fruit from the seeds of suffering. So Lord, cultivate in me

patient endurance and courage. Maybe these are the fruits you want to give me.

If so, may I feast on them until they nourish and strengthen me.

Over vs Through

I bought an Italian Parsley plant a few weeks ago. I put the pot in a sunny window, gave it water, and hoped it would thrive there. I snipped leaves off for several recipes that first week.

All seemed to be going well with my little plant until I returned from a weekend retreat. Yellow leaves greeted me on my arrival, even though there was still water in the dish under the pot. I got the scissors and began to trim the dying leaves, which took almost all the leaves off the plant. I wasn’t sure the plant would survive.

But just a couple of days later, I noticed lots of new leaves. The severe pruning allowed the plant to be healthy and grow. Had I simply repotted the sick plant, or just continued to water it, without any pruning, I am convinced it would have died completely.  

That little plant reminds me that avoidance of difficulty, or glossing over one’s pain (think Monty Python—“It’s only a flesh wound”) does not create the opportunity for growth that going through difficulty, enduring the pruning, or feeling the loss makes for us.

When we are seriously wounded, healing takes time and attention. You wouldn’t tell someone with a broken leg to just get over it. The leg has to be set, protected and immobilized, so the bones can knit back together. The inner wounds of bullying, betrayal or rejection are no different. Wounds take time and attention to heal. Ignoring them or pretending they don’t exist is just as unhealthy as wallowing in self-pity.

A friend told me that cancer was the best thing to happen to her. She let go of her go-go pace, allowed her body to rest, and spent time with God. Her spiritual growth through the process of chemotherapy was tremendous, and she is a different person now—filled with a peace and wisdom that only time, reflection and stillness can bring. She told me how she felt sad watching others who, while undergoing chemotherapy, tried to maintain their lifestyle at the same level of activity as before their treatment. She said they missed the gift that their treatment offered—to go deeper with God. They were focused on getting over cancer. My friend focused on going through.

To go through, we have to let go. We have to relinquish our timetable, our sense of control. When we go through loss, pain and wounding, when we allow the pain to teach us, we learn that there is much we no longer need. Pruning makes space for something new, something that cannot grow without enduring the difficult.

Jesus fully went through his suffering. He drank it, without any self-pity, to the last drop. He died, the ultimate pruning, but he rose from the dead. And how did the disciples know for sure it was him? Because he rose with his wounds. He bore the scars in his resurrected body, a constant reminder of the suffering he endured.

Jesus, my parsley plant, and my friend remind me of the gift of going through, of allowing the pain to give us new life.

The Power of Withdrawing

Jesus returned in the power of the Spirit . . .

                                                                Luke 4:14a

After forty days in the wilderness, Jesus emerges with power, ready to begin his ministry. I think about the preparation that his time in the wilderness gave him. Would we ever think of withdrawing as a way to access power? I have heard many people say they were fearful that if they took time away from the activities (be it work, volunteer service or recreation) they would be forgotten, deemed nonessential, or would lose the discipline to show up.

Withdrawal seems so passive to us, and most of us don’t like to be passive. I remember several years ago hearing someone say he did not want to call a retreat by that name. Instead he wanted to use the word “advance.” Advance does sound more assertive than retreat, and we might think that advancing would make us more powerful. Withdrawing or retreating, stepping out of the fray of daily activity, may not seem like the way to power.

Our cultural tendency to grit our teeth and push forward as if we are superhuman is not the way of Jesus. If we want to follow Jesus, we have to cease our breakneck pace of life. We have to move with intention and attention. We have to stop, rest, withdraw and pray. To receive the power of the Spirit requires that we lay aside our own notions of power, our tendency to take matters into our own hands.

To follow Jesus, not run ahead of Jesus, requires that we trust that the Spirit will empower us, that we can withdraw, wait and rest, setting aside our arrogant notions of how things should be and instead entrusting God with our being and doing.

It is why following Jesus is so hard for us. We have to follow, not lead!

Advent Words

More than any year I can recall, this year I have resonated deeply with the words of Advent. The lectionary texts have inspired me, particularly those that speak of one who will come and make things right, who will overcome evil and bring rest to the weary, who will upend the world’s values of power and influence and bring a kingdom where gentleness and goodness prevail. The recurring encouragement to not be afraid has been what I needed to hear.

Each week as I’ve reflected on the words accompanying the Advent candle for that week—hope, peace, joy and love—the themes have worked their way into my spirit. Daily I’ve considered what they mean for me, particularly with regard to the unsettledness in my life and in the world this year.

And the words of two Advent hymns have been on almost continuous loop in my head: Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus and People, Look East. The first speaks to my own desire to be freed from the fears that arise in difficult times as well as my longing for Christ. The second hymn, People, Look East has been a recent find for me, and, probably because I like birds so much, the third verse has been a favorite:

                Birds, though you long have ceased to build, guard the nest that must be filled.

                Even the hour when wings are frozen, God for fledging time has chosen.

                People, look east and sing today. Love, the bird, is on the way.

The reminder that God comes in unlikely times and seasons encourages me to remain hopeful and watchful, because God doesn’t work in predictable or even reasonable (as we think of reasonable) ways. After all, it was an unwed young woman that God chose to be the mother of Jesus, and an elderly woman was chosen to be the mother of John the Baptist.

When life is difficult, when we earnestly try to live a faithful life only to be misunderstood, criticized or bullied, we truly cry, “Come, Lord Jesus!” When illness, vocational uncertainty, death or broken relationships weigh heavily on us, we long for the coming of a savior to guide us, heal us and comfort us in our sorrow. And even if things are good for us now, we hear the message of Advent for those who are not in an easy stage of life. Savoring the words of Advent prepares us to celebrate Christmas with deep joy and faith, to know that God’s inbreaking in the world changes everything.

Advent Stillness

Stillness does not come easily to most of us. It is hard enough to be still on the outside, but just try to sit still for even five minutes and you’ll likely find that your mind’s activity is making you as tired as if you were actually moving physically.

Our culture devalues stillness, equating it with a lack of productivity. We’ve lost touch with the concept of fallowness, the practice of allowing a field to rest, so that it can be renewed. When a field lies fallow, it is then better able to provide the goodness seeds need for growth. In this season of winter, we see the bare limbs of a tree and know that even though it appears that nothing is happening, the tree is being made ready for spring’s new growth. Nature can teach us about stillness.

I struggle to be still. I know the value of stillness, but the mindset that activity equates to productivity is so culturally ingrained that it takes great discipline to overcome it and invite stillness. Last Sunday afternoon I chose to sit outside in the yard rather than take a walk. Walking feels more productive to me than sitting, but my spirit was renewed as I felt the gentle breeze on my skin, listened to the birds sing and watched the lengthening shadows fall across the yard.

Waiting and watching—Advent words that we are often too harried to embody—speak to me of fallowness, a stillness pregnant with meaning. In this stillness I let go of the false notion that what God wants most is my activity and realize that it is my heart that God longs for, a heart softened by stillness, a heart prepared to be the birthplace of Christ.

Pain and Pearl

Each of us needs an opportunity to be alone, and silent, to find space within the day or in the week, just to reflect and to listen to the voice of God that speaks deep with us.

                                                                                --Cardinal Basil Hume

That phrase—speaks deep with us—I first overlooked because this quote is part of a larger quote I read, and then upon rereading it, I misread it. Finally, I saw it for the treasure that it is. Here’s my reflection around it, out of what I’ve been experiencing in my life in recent months:

Be still, still enough to get past the surface junk, the masks that fool even me. Get past the ego, the place at which it all gets quite painful and ugly, the place where I understand deeply and humbly that I am the vilest offender, the chief of sinners, broken beyond repair by my own hand. It is then, at that moment, that God can come and begin to speak deep with me, picking up the shards of my shattered image of myself. Instead of gluing them back together to make a rough, bumpy replica of what I was before, God tosses those aside and instead picks up what I could not see, blinded as I was by the brokenness. God picks up the pearl lying amid the broken pieces, breathes life into it, and holds it close to God’s heart.

The pearl, born of suffering and love, is the seed of God in me, there all along, but not visible to me until I was still and silent and alone for long enough that all that blinded me to it was seen by me for the falseness that it is.

God has been speaking deep with me in this season, in the desert, both words of challenge and words of affirmation, all of it truth, deep calling to deep. I can’t prove it’s God, yet I know for certain it is. The pearl is love, my true self. Even when it is trampled by swine, cast aside for shinier baubles, or abused by those who would try to selfishly hoard it, it lasts. It was created in suffering, so it can withstand suffering. It is divine, so it cannot be possessed by manipulation or force.

I am learning of this pearl within me. It is in all of us, but it is hard work to find it, and most of us will not choose the work; it must be forced upon us, unbidden and unwanted. Even then, we can choose to mask the pain of it with distraction and denial, rather than live with the pain of being stripped, broken and exposed in all our filth and ugliness.

Even if we stay with the work, the painful work, long enough to hear God speak deep with us, long enough to discover the pearl, it remains elusive, unpredictable and undomesticatable, because it is enlivened by the Holy Spirit. The pearl’s discovery is not an arrival, but a threshold, a place of beginning again, not without its own pain, but with a wisdom that can only happen through the hard work of being broken.

Now

What will be I do not know,

only now, only what is.

The candle’s flame,

a quiet space,

a broken heart,

breath moving in and out,

witnesses to this moment.

Worship now.

Shed tears.

Love.

Suffer.

Live. This is life.

Empty Fullness

Sliver of moon, like a bowl

appears empty, full of darkness.

I know, but cannot see

its wholeness

its roundness

its completeness.

Earth’s enormous shadow

obscures the truth.

No empty bowl, but whole,

filled with God, hidden,

icon for my empty soul—

wholeness I cannot see

but real. Presence not felt

but known.

States of Heart

In When the Heart Waits, Sue Monk Kidd writes about how Mary, Martha’s sister, defied social taboos by entering the circle of men gathered around Jesus. Jesus doesn’t run her off but holds her up as an example of right devotion and focus. He recognizes the state of her heart.

A whole village in Samaria comes to know Jesus because Jesus defied taboos by being alone with a woman, and a Samaritan woman at that, shocking the disciples upon their return. Among many other instances that rile the Pharisees, Jesus eats at Matthew’s house with a whole gang of riff-raff. He’s right there in the midst of their raucous dinner, interacting and I’m sure, enjoying himself.

It was not only after Jesus’ resurrection that he walked through locked doors and broke open the gates of hell. He lived a life of freedom, challenging structures that choked out life and love and growth during his ministry on earth.

When we get caught up in appearances and propriety, I wonder if we put the gospel on lockdown. We substitute rules for grace, laws for love, fear for freedom, and caution for trust. We don’t allow people to risk and dream bold dreams for Christ because we’ve locked them into a prison of rules to keep them safe. We disregard mercy because it’s messy. It takes time to learn the state of someone’s heart, and most of us are so busy being good people that we don’t have time to look into another’s eyes and hear the cry of their heart.

Because Mary was bold enough to follow her heart, we have an example that shows us what Jesus desires from us—our still, listening selves, not people so busy doing for Jesus that they don’t know Jesus. We would do well to be as attentive as Mary, both to Jesus and to one another. You do not learn the state of another’s heart by their conformity to rules. The story of the rich young man, who followed all the rules but could not follow Jesus, shows us that. When a person desires to be with Christ at any cost, they will leave appearances and propriety in the dust in order to be with the One they desire most of all.