People often quote, "Be still and know that I am God." I'm pretty decent at the "know that I am God" part, but I'm not so good at the "be still" part. I'm a fidgety person. I wiggle, I move my hands, I doodle, I play games on my phone or computer, but it's really hard for me to just be still. So this evening, for a few minutes, I worked to just be still. I sat, without doodling or playing a game. For a few minutes, I just sat, petting the dog. It was both difficult and a relief.
This is part of why actually observing Advent is such a challenge. We're trained, practiced, in busying ourselves. We are, I think, better at multi-tasking than we are at sitting still. Advent calls us to be still, to turn inward and work on our hearts and our lives. Unfortunately, it's the same time of year that society tells us to be frantic, to be in perpetual motion on outward works. I feel the tension in the church, too. As much as this season calls us to quiet meditation and repentance, the church calendar of events requires us to be out and about, doing service and sharing in fellowship. And, while we offer extra worship opportunities to help people re-focus, for church staff it has the opposite effect.
I'm not good at being still, and the more things I have on my plate, the more difficult it becomes. Which is why, at 1a.m., I'm still not in bed. Yet, being in the quiet of the night, when the phone isn't ringing, when the sounds of passing cars have died away, when there is nothing to tempt me to watch TV, I can be still. I can sit and read, or write, or pray. I can, for a few minutes at least, be still.
I wish for you, whether it's morning or evening or the middle of the day, to find a moment of stillness this season.
This isn't exactly insightful or inspiring. It's just whatever I'm thinking about when I sit down to my keyboard. But, if you're interested, read on. Feel free to leave comments, too!
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Monday, December 06, 2010
A Prayer for Dark Days
Gracious God,
As the days draw short and the weather grows cold,
we wonder where you have gone.
In the light of the summer it was easy to see your face.
In the blooming flowers of spring we are assured of your new life,
and in the blazing leaves of autumn we see the color of your creative power.
But in the winter, when the cold winds threaten to blow us away,
when the dark consumes and lingers, you seem so far from us.
When the bad news comes, when the pain overwhelms,
when the loneliness surrounds, when the despair envelopes,
where is your light?
We are searching the skies.
We are scouring the earth.
We are waiting--where are you?
The hymns promise radiant beams from heaven afar,
but we would settle for a single candle bringing light to this hospital bed.
The hymns promise heavenly hosts singing alleluia,
but we just want to hear our loved one's voice again.
The hymns promise joy to the world,
but we long simply for comfort in our hearts.
Come.
Come bring light to overcome our darkness.
Come bring love to end our loneliness.
Come bring healing to relieve our pain.
Come to us, for we long for your presence.
Come, Lord Jesus, come.
Amen.
As the days draw short and the weather grows cold,
we wonder where you have gone.
In the light of the summer it was easy to see your face.
In the blooming flowers of spring we are assured of your new life,
and in the blazing leaves of autumn we see the color of your creative power.
But in the winter, when the cold winds threaten to blow us away,
when the dark consumes and lingers, you seem so far from us.
When the bad news comes, when the pain overwhelms,
when the loneliness surrounds, when the despair envelopes,
where is your light?
We are searching the skies.
We are scouring the earth.
We are waiting--where are you?
The hymns promise radiant beams from heaven afar,
but we would settle for a single candle bringing light to this hospital bed.
The hymns promise heavenly hosts singing alleluia,
but we just want to hear our loved one's voice again.
The hymns promise joy to the world,
but we long simply for comfort in our hearts.
Come.
Come bring light to overcome our darkness.
Come bring love to end our loneliness.
Come bring healing to relieve our pain.
Come to us, for we long for your presence.
Come, Lord Jesus, come.
Amen.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
The Long Pedal on the Right
It's Sunday evening and, to be perfectly honest, I'm wiped out. Today I led two morning worship services, taught confirmation class, helped with the Advent Festival, and led the evening worship service. All of those activities, added to the lingering stress of not knowing what's going on with my car and the ongoing pain in my back, leaves me with very little to say this evening, and almost nothing deep or even clever.
As I look at my calendar for the next three weeks, it seems as though someone has stepped on the accelerator. Events and responsibilities are flying at me faster and faster, and it feels like something, I'm not sure what, is going to slip through my grasp. I have this nagging fear that I've somehow forgotten to write something down and will therefore forget it, leaving someone in the lurch and making myself look silly. Plus, the acceleration will continue until we hurtle madly into Christmas Eve.
That's probably how we lose track of Advent. With all of the stuff that has to be done in December, particularly in the church, the time flies. It's no wonder, with this pace, that Advent tends to get overlooked. A little part of us, if we're willing to admit it, just wants all of this stress and preparation to be finished so we can get to the Christmas (or, in the case of the church, post-Christmas) relaxation.
Today, Advent looks like the chaos that used to descend on my household pre-vacation. Everyone would be running around the house, bumping into each other in the hallway with suitcases and laundry baskets, trying to check items off the to-do-before-we-leave list. Everyone was tense, stressed, irritated about that missing sock, or concerned that there's not enough trunk space. For people working in the church, Advent can take on that same tinge: everyone has three too many things on the to-do list, everyone's a little on-edge with the concern that they might not get it finished in time.
I am blessed that the staff I work with by and large handles Advent pretty well. Instead of letting that stress bubble over, most of the time, we let it out in laughter and offer one another support. And many of our laity help, too. So, for the people who made me laugh today, who offered a helping hand, who stepped in to lift things I couldn't manage, who provided Tylenol when my back was screaming, who were flexible with extraneous noise and changing schedules, who gave hugs, who stepped in to make things work, I am thankful.
As I look at my calendar for the next three weeks, it seems as though someone has stepped on the accelerator. Events and responsibilities are flying at me faster and faster, and it feels like something, I'm not sure what, is going to slip through my grasp. I have this nagging fear that I've somehow forgotten to write something down and will therefore forget it, leaving someone in the lurch and making myself look silly. Plus, the acceleration will continue until we hurtle madly into Christmas Eve.
That's probably how we lose track of Advent. With all of the stuff that has to be done in December, particularly in the church, the time flies. It's no wonder, with this pace, that Advent tends to get overlooked. A little part of us, if we're willing to admit it, just wants all of this stress and preparation to be finished so we can get to the Christmas (or, in the case of the church, post-Christmas) relaxation.
Today, Advent looks like the chaos that used to descend on my household pre-vacation. Everyone would be running around the house, bumping into each other in the hallway with suitcases and laundry baskets, trying to check items off the to-do-before-we-leave list. Everyone was tense, stressed, irritated about that missing sock, or concerned that there's not enough trunk space. For people working in the church, Advent can take on that same tinge: everyone has three too many things on the to-do list, everyone's a little on-edge with the concern that they might not get it finished in time.
I am blessed that the staff I work with by and large handles Advent pretty well. Instead of letting that stress bubble over, most of the time, we let it out in laughter and offer one another support. And many of our laity help, too. So, for the people who made me laugh today, who offered a helping hand, who stepped in to lift things I couldn't manage, who provided Tylenol when my back was screaming, who were flexible with extraneous noise and changing schedules, who gave hugs, who stepped in to make things work, I am thankful.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Christmas Tree
This afternoon I finally got around to decorating for Christmas. I pulled my Christmas tree out of its place in storage, along with the boxes of ornaments and nativity sets, and set about putting them up.
I love decorating the Christmas tree. There are people who organize their tree decorations according to color scheme, but I am not one of those people. My tree is a mishmash of ornaments of different ages, colors, styles, sizes, and materials. There are little wood figurines next to ceramic spheres, tinfoil symbols next to plastic churches, paper snowflakes next to sparkly pipecleaner shapes. But each one has a story. The tree, with all of the ornaments on it, is like a collection of short stories, since each ornament comes with its own narrative, a snippet of my life and history. And almost all of the ornaments remind me of people.
I was the only person decorating my tree this evening, but I was not alone. As I put up the miniature wooden sled and the puzzle-style Santa face, I thought of Harold, now-deceased neighbor who taught me to do jigsaw puzzles and who carved those ornaments. As I put up the Hallmark ornaments from the 90s, I remembered my parents giving me each of them to commemorate another Christmas celebration. As I put up the tinfoil and pipecleaner ornaments, I thought of my seminary friends, and the evening we spent together making decorations for my bare, Charlie Brown-like Christmas tree in Atlanta. There are ornaments on the tree from my sister, from my high school friends, from my elementary school teachers, from vacations I've taken. There are ornaments donated to me by the friends and kind church folks who heard that I didn't have enough ornaments for the 7.5-foot tall tree I purchased last year.
Here, decorating my tree this evening, I was surrounded by the communion of saints, or at least some of them. These are people from all over the country, and even the world, who are helping others to live and grow in faith. They have sung praises to God with their hands and their gifts, and you can see it in these symbols, these ornaments on the tree. You can argue that buying Christmas trees and ornaments is a sign of the commercialization of Christmas if you want. But on my tree I see songs of praise and signs of love, most of them inexpensive and handmade, but more beautiful, in my sight, than any matching ornaments could be.
I love decorating the Christmas tree. There are people who organize their tree decorations according to color scheme, but I am not one of those people. My tree is a mishmash of ornaments of different ages, colors, styles, sizes, and materials. There are little wood figurines next to ceramic spheres, tinfoil symbols next to plastic churches, paper snowflakes next to sparkly pipecleaner shapes. But each one has a story. The tree, with all of the ornaments on it, is like a collection of short stories, since each ornament comes with its own narrative, a snippet of my life and history. And almost all of the ornaments remind me of people.
I was the only person decorating my tree this evening, but I was not alone. As I put up the miniature wooden sled and the puzzle-style Santa face, I thought of Harold, now-deceased neighbor who taught me to do jigsaw puzzles and who carved those ornaments. As I put up the Hallmark ornaments from the 90s, I remembered my parents giving me each of them to commemorate another Christmas celebration. As I put up the tinfoil and pipecleaner ornaments, I thought of my seminary friends, and the evening we spent together making decorations for my bare, Charlie Brown-like Christmas tree in Atlanta. There are ornaments on the tree from my sister, from my high school friends, from my elementary school teachers, from vacations I've taken. There are ornaments donated to me by the friends and kind church folks who heard that I didn't have enough ornaments for the 7.5-foot tall tree I purchased last year.
Here, decorating my tree this evening, I was surrounded by the communion of saints, or at least some of them. These are people from all over the country, and even the world, who are helping others to live and grow in faith. They have sung praises to God with their hands and their gifts, and you can see it in these symbols, these ornaments on the tree. You can argue that buying Christmas trees and ornaments is a sign of the commercialization of Christmas if you want. But on my tree I see songs of praise and signs of love, most of them inexpensive and handmade, but more beautiful, in my sight, than any matching ornaments could be.
Conversation
I visited Colonial Williamsburg today. The interpreter who led us through the Randolph House spoke about the importance of conversation during the colonial era. There were few other amusements, so it was important at the table and following dinner to be able to discuss the events of the day in an informed and articulate manner.
It was an interesting contrast to the dinner with friends I enjoyed this evening. Not that my friends are ignorant or inarticulate, but in our era it's considered impolite to discuss politics at the table. We usually talk about sports or celebrities or people we know. We don't discuss politics or current events because those things are too divisive. But it makes me wonder if, by not engaging in political dialogue, we've lost the ability to talk civilly about politics when we disagree. Or did we stop talking politics because we lost the ability to disagree politely?
I long for the day that we'll be able to find concensus without hurting each other, but I don't think we can get there on our own. I mean, even the colonists, who seem to have been better at it than we are, ended up going to war over their disagreements. So I pray that God will intervene. Come, Lord Jesus, come.
It was an interesting contrast to the dinner with friends I enjoyed this evening. Not that my friends are ignorant or inarticulate, but in our era it's considered impolite to discuss politics at the table. We usually talk about sports or celebrities or people we know. We don't discuss politics or current events because those things are too divisive. But it makes me wonder if, by not engaging in political dialogue, we've lost the ability to talk civilly about politics when we disagree. Or did we stop talking politics because we lost the ability to disagree politely?
I long for the day that we'll be able to find concensus without hurting each other, but I don't think we can get there on our own. I mean, even the colonists, who seem to have been better at it than we are, ended up going to war over their disagreements. So I pray that God will intervene. Come, Lord Jesus, come.
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Thursday, December 02, 2010
The Ultimate Gift
Tonight I went to the UNOS Tree of Life ceremony. For those of you who aren't familiar, UNOS is the United Network for Organ Sharing. The Tree of Life ceremony honors organ donors and their families, organ recipients, and those who are still waiting on the transplant list. We were privileged to hear the stories and thoughts of a transplant recipient, a man who is waiting for a liver transplant, and a woman whose husband had been an organ donor who saved the lives of four people. But perhaps the most moving part of the ceremony was the naming of people who gave "the ultimate gift", that is, upon their deaths, they donated vital organs to save the lives of others. A UNOS representative read the names of all those who had given "the ultimate gift" in Virginia in the last year, and members of donor families were invited to put Christmas ornaments on the tree in honor of their loved one.
It was a beautiful event. And when the representative read the name of a beloved church member, my breath caught. I had forgotten that this dear woman had donated her organs, but it shouldn't have surprised me. She had been such a passionate, loving, strong woman, a survivor of her own medical crises, so it seemed fitting to me that her final gift had been helping others to survive and live full lives.
On the way home, I got to thinking about the phrase "the ultimate gift". It, of course, has Christological connotations, and it parallels the language often used to talk about military personnel who are killed in battle. But it's also Biblical. Christ said that the greatest gift is to give one's life for one's friends. This is the same idea, but instead of friends, soldiers and organ donors give their lives and lifeblood for not just their friends but for strangers. These are incredible acts of love, and it seems so fitting for us to celebrate them in the same season that we're celebrating God's great gift of love through the incarnation.
For all of these gifts of life, I say: Glory to God! Amen.
It was a beautiful event. And when the representative read the name of a beloved church member, my breath caught. I had forgotten that this dear woman had donated her organs, but it shouldn't have surprised me. She had been such a passionate, loving, strong woman, a survivor of her own medical crises, so it seemed fitting to me that her final gift had been helping others to survive and live full lives.
On the way home, I got to thinking about the phrase "the ultimate gift". It, of course, has Christological connotations, and it parallels the language often used to talk about military personnel who are killed in battle. But it's also Biblical. Christ said that the greatest gift is to give one's life for one's friends. This is the same idea, but instead of friends, soldiers and organ donors give their lives and lifeblood for not just their friends but for strangers. These are incredible acts of love, and it seems so fitting for us to celebrate them in the same season that we're celebrating God's great gift of love through the incarnation.
For all of these gifts of life, I say: Glory to God! Amen.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
And then "BAM!"
Today was an average, ordinary day. I went to the office, did my usual work, and was looking forward to a quiet evening at home when, four blocks from the church, WHAM! As I was stopped, waiting at the end of a line of cars turning left, I was rear-ended. The man in the car behind me was distracted, looking at his GPS, and he didn't see my brake lights ahead of him. So, instead of getting home before six, throwing together some dinner, and rearranging the furniture so I could put up the Christmas tree, I spent an hour by the side of the road filling out forms, talking to police officers, and answering questions in the back of an ambulance.
It was a totally new experience for me. I mean, sure, I've been in car accidents before, but this time: a) it was on a major road, b) there were more than two cars involved, and c) the police and EMS were called. So it was thoroughly surreal to stand in the cold on the side of the road, surrounded by flashing red-and-blues and rubberneckers. On one hand, it was a little scary and painful, and it's frustrating and inconvenient. On the other hand, I don't seem to be injured besides some whiplash and my car is drivable and (thanks to insurance) will get fixed.
But the whole thing seemed ironic since I'd just written on my blog yesterday about how so much of what shapes us is so gradual and imperceptible that we don't even recognize its effects until much later. This was definitely not one of those things. While I'm sure its ripples will be less obvious and I may not recognize them for a long time, the accident was an obviously big event, with immediate consequences. (Hello, aching back!)
Now, I could talk about the distractions in our lives, or how we miss important things approaching until they hit us, or the way God sometimes appears in big momentous ways. But instead, this evening, I'm thinking about Charlie. Sort of, anyway.
I arrived home this evening an hour later than I expected, hungry and shaken and sore, and there was Charlie. After a day in his crate, Charlie was hyper. He wanted to run around and play with me. I was in pain and didn't want to move or throw a ball, or have a dog jump on me, but there's really no way of explaining that to a puppy, especially when you don't look any different.
I think often in life the people we see, even the people we know well and love, are walking around in pain. Whether it's because of a loss or difficulty, because they're lonely, hurt, or sad, they're not quite whole. They don't feel up to playing, and small things set them off because there's already so much wearing on their hearts and minds. And there I am, like Charlie, trying to get them to engage or play or act according to my wishes. It's a selfishness bred of obliviousness, but it's where I usually live. The playfulness is fun, but it can come at a cost to myself and others.
I hope that the puppy-ish playfulness comes with the other of Charlie's great strengths: loving. Once he calmed down, Charlie settled in next to me on the couch with his head flopped across my lap. He didn't ask for or expect anything, he just cuddled in beside me as a warm, quite presence. I hope that, once I get past my obliviousness, I can also be that loving. I hope that, once I recognize someone's pain or need, I can sit with them in it. I pray that I can offer them what several of my friends and family members offered me today after the accident: reassurances, offers of care, and willingness to listen. In short, love in practice. It's a gift for which I'm profoundly thankful, and a gift which I hope to share with others.
It was a totally new experience for me. I mean, sure, I've been in car accidents before, but this time: a) it was on a major road, b) there were more than two cars involved, and c) the police and EMS were called. So it was thoroughly surreal to stand in the cold on the side of the road, surrounded by flashing red-and-blues and rubberneckers. On one hand, it was a little scary and painful, and it's frustrating and inconvenient. On the other hand, I don't seem to be injured besides some whiplash and my car is drivable and (thanks to insurance) will get fixed.
But the whole thing seemed ironic since I'd just written on my blog yesterday about how so much of what shapes us is so gradual and imperceptible that we don't even recognize its effects until much later. This was definitely not one of those things. While I'm sure its ripples will be less obvious and I may not recognize them for a long time, the accident was an obviously big event, with immediate consequences. (Hello, aching back!)
Now, I could talk about the distractions in our lives, or how we miss important things approaching until they hit us, or the way God sometimes appears in big momentous ways. But instead, this evening, I'm thinking about Charlie. Sort of, anyway.
I arrived home this evening an hour later than I expected, hungry and shaken and sore, and there was Charlie. After a day in his crate, Charlie was hyper. He wanted to run around and play with me. I was in pain and didn't want to move or throw a ball, or have a dog jump on me, but there's really no way of explaining that to a puppy, especially when you don't look any different.
I think often in life the people we see, even the people we know well and love, are walking around in pain. Whether it's because of a loss or difficulty, because they're lonely, hurt, or sad, they're not quite whole. They don't feel up to playing, and small things set them off because there's already so much wearing on their hearts and minds. And there I am, like Charlie, trying to get them to engage or play or act according to my wishes. It's a selfishness bred of obliviousness, but it's where I usually live. The playfulness is fun, but it can come at a cost to myself and others.
I hope that the puppy-ish playfulness comes with the other of Charlie's great strengths: loving. Once he calmed down, Charlie settled in next to me on the couch with his head flopped across my lap. He didn't ask for or expect anything, he just cuddled in beside me as a warm, quite presence. I hope that, once I get past my obliviousness, I can also be that loving. I hope that, once I recognize someone's pain or need, I can sit with them in it. I pray that I can offer them what several of my friends and family members offered me today after the accident: reassurances, offers of care, and willingness to listen. In short, love in practice. It's a gift for which I'm profoundly thankful, and a gift which I hope to share with others.
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