Thursday, December 25, 2008

Christmas 2008: A Poem


INCARNATION
Christmas 2008

The Word takes flesh in inward hours
when Mother nurses Child and prays
that children everywhere will joy
through length of days.

The Word takes flesh in seasons when
no spring rains fall, when harvests fail,
when winter eats our hopes, when we
learn life is frail.

The Word takes flesh in newborn love,
in days of wonder, in the long
fidelities that losses test,
in trust grown strong.

The Word takes flesh in burning years
of war, when splintered heartbreak learns
the price of lust for others’ lands
whose lives greed spurns.

The Word take flesh in questions and
in doubts that ask why buildings fall
on playgrounds, why a loved one dies,
if this is all?

The Word takes flesh in darkness
and in light, in tears and pain,
in laughter bubbling like the sun
through falling rain.

The Word takes flesh in living centuries
of human struggle to discover how
to weave the hours into real life. The Word
still takes flesh now.

©2008 Abbey of St. Walburga

Saturday, December 20, 2008

The Unasked Question


Jesus told a story once, about a man just bursting with success. He surveyed with satisfaction all the grain piled up to the roof of his barns, the yield of the land he owned. Only one thing troubled him. The barns were full, but the harvest was not yet all gathered in. “Where would he put the waiting wheat?” he asked himself. Left in the fields, it would rot. “I know,” he answered himself. “I’ll tear down these barns and build bigger ones to hold all this harvest gold.” Then he made plans for the perfect retirement: “And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; take your ease, eat, drink, be merry” (Luke 12:19). (He was obviously a man much given to talking to himself.) However, God had plans for a different kind of retirement: “Fool! This night your soul is required of you; and the things you have prepared, whose will they be?' (Luke 12:20). The moral of the story, Jesus says, is this: “So is he who lays up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward God” (Luke 12:21).

The man’s real problem, it appears, is the limited circle of his conversation. He talks to himself, listens to his own advice, and acts on it. He does not even think of consulting God. There is a telling passage in the book of the prophet Isaiah. Here God is speaking to the city of Jerusalem as it prepares for a siege: “In that day you looked to the weapons of the House of the Forest, and you saw that the breaches of the city of David were many, and you collected the waters of the lower pool, and you counted the houses of Jerusalem, and you broke down the houses to fortify the wall. You made a reservoir between the two walls for the water of the old pool. But you did not look to him who did it, or have regard for him who planned it long ago” (Isaiah 22:8-11). In other words, you asked yourself what you needed to protect the city, and you listened to your own answer: you gathered weapons, you strengthened your defenses, you collected water. But you did not ask me, who gave you the city and lived there with you. The Jerusalem war committee had a good reason not to ask God. God had already told them to trust in him and not in their own utterly inadequate resources for war against a far more powerful enemy, Babylon. They didn’t like that answer, so they didn’t ask the question. Perhaps that was the rich landowner’s strategy also, for he belonged to the nation whom the prophets had chastised in God’s name for centuries for hoarding wealth rather than using it to care for the orphan and the widow and the starving poor. If you don’t ask, you won’t hear the unwanted answer you suspect is coming.

We see a different version of this story in the life of Joseph, husband of Mary. When Joseph discovers that his betrothed is pregnant with a child not his, he finds himself in a dilemma. According to the law, she could be stoned to death, although scholars say that it is not clear how often that law was invoked by the time of Jesus. Even if she was not condemned to death, she would certainly be disgraced. So, apparently, he asks himself what he should do.

He is a just man, St. Matthew tells us, and does not want to see her shamed publicly. So he answers his own question by deciding to divorce her quietly. (It is a little difficult to imagine how this might save her from public disgrace—she is still a single pregnant mother, probably a young teenager.) That night, of course, God sends an angel with a different answer: “Behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, "Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit; she will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:20-21).

Joseph was a just man, that is, an observer of the mosaic Law. He did not exactly ignore God in his debate about what he should do, but he assumed he knew what God would say because he knew his options under the law. (Scholars point out that the opinion that the law obligated him to divorce Mary is not justified, but he could not, as a just observer of the Law, unite himself with a woman who had offended so seriously against it.) But, as far as the story goes, he did not actually ask what God wanted him to do in this troubling situation. God told him anyway, as God told the rich man and the leaders of Jerusalem—and God’s way was not Joseph’s way anymore than it was the way of the landowner or the city: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, says the LORD” (Isaiah 55:8). (One of God’s irritating habits is to answer questions he has not been asked, so persistent is he in his desire to lead us to happiness despite our best efforts to go somewhere else.)

The first moral of Jesus’ story is to lay up treasure not for ourselves but for God, but the second moral goes even deeper: if any of these biblical characters had asked God rather than themselves what they should do, they would have found themselves sent down surprising roads, not always to their own comfort but always to their good. The unasked question is the one that traps us in the dead ends of our own too-small minds.

©2008 Abbey of St. Walburga

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Guadete Sunday 2008


Gaudete Sunday takes its name from the first word of the Latin entrance chant of the Mass: gaudete, meaning rejoice.

Today is also sometimes called "pink Sunday" because the priest may wear pink, or more properly, rose vestments.

Not being fond of pink, the sudden blossoming of color in our chapel put me to thinking. Our Advent wreath is rather a sober affair: a bronze ring, time-darkened to the point where the colored enamelwork has become invisible, hung by black chains from a tall, graceful black tripod. The traditional candles--three purple, one pink--stand out against this darkness, but they too are muted in color. Beneath it, deft hands have planted a gaudete garden: a froth of carnations, white, pale pink, dark rose, against a dense bush of juniper top a pink-wrapped pot set amid folds of medium-rose cloth. Outside the windows, the heavy gray clouds of winter storm are edged in radiant rose by a sun not yet risen.

Rose, I suddenly realized, is a lightening of the red strands that, woven with blue, form the traditional Advent color of purple. Rose offers a hint of light in a season of gathering darkness. Rose makes a promise: the night will end, the day will break, the Sun of Justice will arise out of the Christmas midnight to come. Wait. Hope. These darkening days are not the end of the story.

That's a promise we can use these days. Not only are the days around us growing shorter and the nights longer, but the hope of solstice is waning amid the fears spawned by growing violence and a failing economy. The specter of unemployment sits at many a family table. For the fifth year in a row, there are empty places at those same tables, marking the absence of family members sent off to war. A new government waits in the wings, promising change--but what changes will it bring? What changes can it bring? Will they really better our lot? Will they come in time to save us?

The Advent prophet Isaiah also acclaimed a new government waiting in the wings, a government promising change:


For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given;
and the government will be upon his shoulder,
and his name will be called
"Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."
Isaiah 9:6

That is the government whose coming we really await, the rule for which we really hope, the dawn for which we really long. In fact, it came a long time ago, an inauspicious solstice on a night in Bethlehem, very little noticed at the time. That small dawn, which we will celebrate again this Christmas, is still growing toward the fullness of the promised day we yearn for. The dark clouds still obscure its brightness as they roll in and out, sometimes thinning to wisps, sometimes thickening again to smothering blankets of fog.

Nor are we mere hapless observers of the dramas of our skies. Sometimes the clouds above us are smoke from our own fires, smog from our own freeways, choking fogs from our own battlefields. We can't make the waited sun rise, nor can we prevent it. But we can and do clear the way for the light or force it into hiding behind the oil residue from our ego-driven works of darkness, as the Bible often names them. We, who live at the heart of the rising Sun, are called to light up the world with its blaze, said Jesus. He said that no one lights a lamp and puts it under a bushel basket. He lights the lamps--whatever goodness burns in us--but we can be expert basket weavers, covering it up and even smothering it to ashes because fire does burn what holds it.

I personally would be just as happy to see the pink come and go on this one Sunday of the year. To be part of the work of lightening the heavy purple of the gathering night every day is another matter entirely. However, I recognize, at least some of the time, if I clamp down the bushel basket to hide me safely, I too will have to live in the resulting darkness. And so must we all, if we refuse to burn with the light of Christ, the dawn that edges our night with reflected fire.

©2008 Abbey of St. Walburga