This is no time for a child to be born,
With the earth betrayed by war and hate
And a comet slashing the sky to warn
That time runs out and the sun burns late.
That was no time for a child to be born
In a land in the crushing grip of Rome
Honor and truth were trampled by scorn—
Yet here did the Saviour make his home.
When is the time for love to be born?
The inn is full on planet earth,
And by a comet the sky is torn –
Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
There is a star over you, and over all whom you know.
Christmastide of Joy
by Samuel H. Miller
"The stars are easily forgotten in the cities. Unseen, obliterated by blazing lights and high buildings, they swing their splendored arch silently across the heavens. Yet they belong to the human scene. They lend to it a sense of cosmic perspective. Though we dwell on a tiny earth, we are companions of the stars, caught in the same vast web of creation. This is indeed no picayune destiny, except we make it so.
And now the Christmastide of joy rises to its full, and the story is told again of how the humblest of mortals, the Son of man, was born with a star standing over the manger where he lay. Read the story as you may, make of it what you will, but do not miss the daring implication that the farthest reaches of the universe wait upon the humblest occurrences of this world. There is a star over you, and over all whom you know. There are eternal implications in the scenes of earth; do not miss them -- they are for the guidance of the wise. This life is a web of beauty and strength, holding the stars and little children together in a mighty purpose, larger than our understanding."
from What Child is This: Reading and Prayers for Advent/Christmas by Samuel H. Miller
by Samuel H. Miller
"The stars are easily forgotten in the cities. Unseen, obliterated by blazing lights and high buildings, they swing their splendored arch silently across the heavens. Yet they belong to the human scene. They lend to it a sense of cosmic perspective. Though we dwell on a tiny earth, we are companions of the stars, caught in the same vast web of creation. This is indeed no picayune destiny, except we make it so.
And now the Christmastide of joy rises to its full, and the story is told again of how the humblest of mortals, the Son of man, was born with a star standing over the manger where he lay. Read the story as you may, make of it what you will, but do not miss the daring implication that the farthest reaches of the universe wait upon the humblest occurrences of this world. There is a star over you, and over all whom you know. There are eternal implications in the scenes of earth; do not miss them -- they are for the guidance of the wise. This life is a web of beauty and strength, holding the stars and little children together in a mighty purpose, larger than our understanding."
from What Child is This: Reading and Prayers for Advent/Christmas by Samuel H. Miller
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Little Abysses
I am reading a novel by one of my favorite authors, Nicole Krauss. It's called Great House, and it is sweeping and melancholy. Or maybe it is not so much melancholy as nostalgic, bittersweet. Nostalgia is from the Greek roots nostos, meaning homecoming, and algos, meaning pain, or grief, the pairing of which makes me think of the kind of pain that is born of deep loving in the face of loss. We all lose our original sense of home at some point, and remember it with a deep and grieving love. That's what makes nostalgia a beautiful kind of sadness, because it's sense of loss is so intrinsically linked with our sense of rootedness and belonging. We can't really have one with out the other.
Anyhow, I wanted to share this passage, which lept out at me, and which maybe has something to do with nostalgia. These lines are spoken by an elderly man who has just lost his wife. They are sad, and perhaps even melancholy, but I find them beautiful too.
"There is a fallacy that the powerful emotion of youth mellows with time. Not true. One learns to control and suppress it. But it doesn't lessen. It simply hides and concentrates itself in more discreet places. When one accidentally stubles into one of these abysses, the pain is spectacular. I find these little abysses everywhere now." (Great House, page 55)
Anyhow, I wanted to share this passage, which lept out at me, and which maybe has something to do with nostalgia. These lines are spoken by an elderly man who has just lost his wife. They are sad, and perhaps even melancholy, but I find them beautiful too.
"There is a fallacy that the powerful emotion of youth mellows with time. Not true. One learns to control and suppress it. But it doesn't lessen. It simply hides and concentrates itself in more discreet places. When one accidentally stubles into one of these abysses, the pain is spectacular. I find these little abysses everywhere now." (Great House, page 55)
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Darkness deserves gratitude
These days the sky begins to darken before 4pm in the Boston area. The sun is slow to rise in the morning as well. Every year people complain about how depressing it is, and I am usually one of those people.
But this year I am thinking about the rich and velvety beauty of darkness, and about the many things that can only grow in the dark. Benedictine nun Joan Chittister has said "Darkness deserves gratitude. It is the alleluia point at which we learn to understand that all growth does not take place in sunlight."
This reminder brings to mind a particular touchstone image of mine, the line from UU hymn and anthem Spirit of Life -- "roots hold me close, wings set me free." I think of the deep networks of roots that can only grow underground in the deep dark soil. I think of the sense of new life that we now await in the season of Advent, and how that new life grows in the safe, echoing, dark of the womb.
Last Advent I preached that we need not wait to bring new light into the world through acts of compassion. Today I'm thinking, yes, we need the acts of compassion, but maybe there is something to be said for working in the dark -- waiting, growing roots.
In the end only dark makes light possible, and the opposite is true as well. But this year, I'm going to sit in the quiet dark for a while before I light up the tree. Then maybe my heart will have grown large enough to fully receive its glow.
But this year I am thinking about the rich and velvety beauty of darkness, and about the many things that can only grow in the dark. Benedictine nun Joan Chittister has said "Darkness deserves gratitude. It is the alleluia point at which we learn to understand that all growth does not take place in sunlight."
This reminder brings to mind a particular touchstone image of mine, the line from UU hymn and anthem Spirit of Life -- "roots hold me close, wings set me free." I think of the deep networks of roots that can only grow underground in the deep dark soil. I think of the sense of new life that we now await in the season of Advent, and how that new life grows in the safe, echoing, dark of the womb.
Last Advent I preached that we need not wait to bring new light into the world through acts of compassion. Today I'm thinking, yes, we need the acts of compassion, but maybe there is something to be said for working in the dark -- waiting, growing roots.
In the end only dark makes light possible, and the opposite is true as well. But this year, I'm going to sit in the quiet dark for a while before I light up the tree. Then maybe my heart will have grown large enough to fully receive its glow.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Disinfecting
As my silence on this blog communicates, this has been a busy month for me. Busy and somewhat full of stress and anxiety. My time of prayer this morning found all of these feelings reaching their boiling point. Anxiety manifests itself very powerfully in my body, and I needed to engage my body in finding peace.
So I tried a new visualization. Breathe in love, breathe out the fear. I kept my knitting God by my side to keep an eye on things, and I breathed.
And it hurt.
Breathing in love was like pouring hydrogen peroxide over all the sore spots that have been festering inside. Breathing out fear was a cry of pain.
I stuck with it, because there was obviously some infection happening, and I needed to let love bubble away and do it's work.
Just breathe in. Just breathe out.
When I stopped, I felt clean and pink and very raw. And vulnerable.
And that's how the knitting God and I left it, for today. Although she did give me a scarf, to protect my heart.
So I tried a new visualization. Breathe in love, breathe out the fear. I kept my knitting God by my side to keep an eye on things, and I breathed.
And it hurt.
Breathing in love was like pouring hydrogen peroxide over all the sore spots that have been festering inside. Breathing out fear was a cry of pain.
I stuck with it, because there was obviously some infection happening, and I needed to let love bubble away and do it's work.
Just breathe in. Just breathe out.
When I stopped, I felt clean and pink and very raw. And vulnerable.
And that's how the knitting God and I left it, for today. Although she did give me a scarf, to protect my heart.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
On Taxes
A rant....
Recently, our congregation had a visit from a wonderful stewardship consultant, who talked with many of our lay leaders about the idea of church stewardship. His definition was something like this... Think about where your congregation has been, where it stands now, and how you want it to be in the future. Then think about what you need to do to make that happen, knowing that this is YOUR church. How do you want to take ownership of it? Taking ownership means that you give your time and your energy and, yes, your financial gifts, in order to ensure that the church, which really amounts to each of us, all together, is able to do it's work in the world.
In this way, giving financially to a church is a way of saying, this is my church and I want it to be vibrant and healthy, and to live on and do its important work for many years to come. And it's a gift that gives back ten-fold, because it's a way to deeply experience belonging. You give here, because you belong here, and what a spiritual gift that sense of belonging is!
And I was thinking about this the other day as I watched a campaign ad on TV that talked about how much everyone hates taxes. And when I saw a sign from the Stewart/Colbert rally that said " I hate taxes, but I like roads, schools, etc. so I pay them." And I was frustrated, because even the argument for paying taxes invokes the idea of necessary evil. What if instead somebody was out there saying, you know what? I DON'T hate paying taxes. I am glad to be paying taxes because this is my country, and my fate is wrapped up in the fate of every other person in it, and I want us to be vibrant and healthy, and I want my country to be a better place for my children.
To all these people who say with entitlement, "This is MY country," I want to say "Yes! This is your country... so take some ownership! Know that a country is a collection of people, and that if you say this is your country, you are saying these are your people. Be committed to their well-being. Be a steward of this country as it passes beyond you to the next generation. Support it. Be generous. Give in gratitude, because you have a place to belong."
Recently, our congregation had a visit from a wonderful stewardship consultant, who talked with many of our lay leaders about the idea of church stewardship. His definition was something like this... Think about where your congregation has been, where it stands now, and how you want it to be in the future. Then think about what you need to do to make that happen, knowing that this is YOUR church. How do you want to take ownership of it? Taking ownership means that you give your time and your energy and, yes, your financial gifts, in order to ensure that the church, which really amounts to each of us, all together, is able to do it's work in the world.
In this way, giving financially to a church is a way of saying, this is my church and I want it to be vibrant and healthy, and to live on and do its important work for many years to come. And it's a gift that gives back ten-fold, because it's a way to deeply experience belonging. You give here, because you belong here, and what a spiritual gift that sense of belonging is!
And I was thinking about this the other day as I watched a campaign ad on TV that talked about how much everyone hates taxes. And when I saw a sign from the Stewart/Colbert rally that said " I hate taxes, but I like roads, schools, etc. so I pay them." And I was frustrated, because even the argument for paying taxes invokes the idea of necessary evil. What if instead somebody was out there saying, you know what? I DON'T hate paying taxes. I am glad to be paying taxes because this is my country, and my fate is wrapped up in the fate of every other person in it, and I want us to be vibrant and healthy, and I want my country to be a better place for my children.
To all these people who say with entitlement, "This is MY country," I want to say "Yes! This is your country... so take some ownership! Know that a country is a collection of people, and that if you say this is your country, you are saying these are your people. Be committed to their well-being. Be a steward of this country as it passes beyond you to the next generation. Support it. Be generous. Give in gratitude, because you have a place to belong."
Monday, November 1, 2010
On my heart...
"God send us a real religious life, which shall pluck blindness out of the heart, and make us better fathers, mothers, and children; a religious life, that shall go with us where we go, and make every home the house of God, every act acceptable as a prayer."
-- Theodore Parker
How do you carry the house of God with you? How do you live your prayer?
-- Theodore Parker
How do you carry the house of God with you? How do you live your prayer?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Why I Pray
Last night after dinner, James and I were sitting on the couch chatting. Once a thought was nicely tied up and spoken, James paused for a moment and then said "I want something" with a question mark in his voice. "Are you still hungry?" I asked. "I don't think so." "Do you want something to drink?" "I don't know." "Do you want something emotionally?" "I don't know."
"Prayer helps." I said, because I knew exactly how he felt. Probably we all do. A moment of longing for something that you can't identify. An unnamed desire of the heart striking like a gong and silencing everything else for an instant.
I remember feeling this when I was a child. I didn't know if I wanted a hug from my parents or if I was just thirsty. In the end neither parental affection nor a cup of juice would quite suffice. What I wanted was to feel a connection to a source of love deeper even than any person can satisfy.
Maybe you call the source of love God. Maybe you call it human interconnection. Maybe you call it something else or nothing at all. But I think you know the thirsting, hungering, wanting that won't be satisfied any other way.
And that's part of why I pray. To lean in to the longing. To make space for it in my day. Otherwise what many have called the 'God shaped hole' in the soul begins to fester. We try and fill it with a thousand different things that only fall through the gap.
What if instead of papering over that hole, we widened our hearts and made it even bigger? All the more room for love... God's love and yours too. I think prayer can do that. If we work really hard at it. If we don't give up.
"Prayer helps." I said, because I knew exactly how he felt. Probably we all do. A moment of longing for something that you can't identify. An unnamed desire of the heart striking like a gong and silencing everything else for an instant.
I remember feeling this when I was a child. I didn't know if I wanted a hug from my parents or if I was just thirsty. In the end neither parental affection nor a cup of juice would quite suffice. What I wanted was to feel a connection to a source of love deeper even than any person can satisfy.
Maybe you call the source of love God. Maybe you call it human interconnection. Maybe you call it something else or nothing at all. But I think you know the thirsting, hungering, wanting that won't be satisfied any other way.
And that's part of why I pray. To lean in to the longing. To make space for it in my day. Otherwise what many have called the 'God shaped hole' in the soul begins to fester. We try and fill it with a thousand different things that only fall through the gap.
What if instead of papering over that hole, we widened our hearts and made it even bigger? All the more room for love... God's love and yours too. I think prayer can do that. If we work really hard at it. If we don't give up.
Monday, October 25, 2010
God is sitting next to me, knitting
One thing I love in any continued relationship is the time that eventually comes when you can sit together quietly, doing different things, but feel together while doing it. I've experienced this with family, with friends, with my husband. You are sitting on the couch together, and you are reading a book and she is reading the newspaper. Or you are in the kitchen cooking something and he is sitting at the table doing some work. And you're not saying anything, but the love that binds you together in that moment is palpable. You are distinct but connected. It feels comfortable and safe.
A few days ago, for a moment I found that with God. I sat down to pray and meditate, and an image came powerfully to mind. I was sitting on my cushion on the floor, a chalice lit in front of me, my breath coming evenly. And I imagined God as an older woman, sitting next to me in a chair, knitting. We weren't interacting, but underneath our sitting and our knitting was a current of confident love. I knew she was there, with me, and we would sit there as long as we needed.
Now I can't wait for the time in the morning when I can go to my cushion and sit with God for a while. And maybe she will knit me a pair of socks, to keep my feet warm.
A few days ago, for a moment I found that with God. I sat down to pray and meditate, and an image came powerfully to mind. I was sitting on my cushion on the floor, a chalice lit in front of me, my breath coming evenly. And I imagined God as an older woman, sitting next to me in a chair, knitting. We weren't interacting, but underneath our sitting and our knitting was a current of confident love. I knew she was there, with me, and we would sit there as long as we needed.
Now I can't wait for the time in the morning when I can go to my cushion and sit with God for a while. And maybe she will knit me a pair of socks, to keep my feet warm.
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