Where We Belong

Every year, I like to talk about the Christmas creche. That beautiful nativity scene we create in a stable or barn, with all the characters of the Christmas story from scripture.

You may have one. They come in all shapes and sizes, from tiny ones you can hang on a tree or find in a snow globe, to life size figures you can put on the lawn. Some churches and communities even do a “live nativity,” with real people and animals creating the tableau.

There’s usually at least the baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a stable or cave where animals are kept, as it says in the Gospel of Luke. There may also be animals, especially sheep, they come with the shepherds, but there may also be a donkey, a cow or two, maybe even a few chickens and a pig. It’s supposed to be a stable, after all. With the shepherds, you might find the magi. There’s at least three, to cover the three gifts, and they might have arrived on camels, if you’re getting really fancy. And there could be an angel, too, overlooking them all. And a star - don’t forget the star - that sits above all that. 

Some even throw in an innkeeper or a Roman soldier or two. And a Little Drummer Boy.

Of course, it’s not likely that all these would have been there. At least, not all at the same time. Or at all, because that part of the story isn’t part of the scripture story - we made it up. And remember, that full manger scene is created by conflating two different accounts from two different gospels. Then there’s the reality of what life was really like in first century Judea.

I know, don’t ruin it! Most people don’t want to know that. Reality spoils this lovely pastoral vista we’ve created.

Does it? 

The story of how everyone got there is full of the unexpected. It’s full of challenges, even hardship, mystery, wonder. In a world full of conflict, oppression, hate and anger, a young couple, still trying to get to know each other, find themselves far from home. It’s late, there’s nowhere to go and she’s having a baby, a baby that’s, well, hard to explain. And yet, here he is and they wonder, with joy, at this tiny little miracle.

It sounds like they did it alone, but maybe there were hands to help them on the way. People who believed in them, people who didn’t know them but offered them hospitality and kindness. Then there were people who heard the news, people who knew something was happening, change was coming. Maybe they weren’t alone, after all.

Maybe everyone belongs at the manger because Jesus belongs to everyone.

The reality is that we all can find a place there. For some, it may be a beautiful, quiet pastoral scene, warmed by a gentle light. For some, it may be a place of refuge, a stop on a hard fought journey, shrouded in darkness. For some, it may be a place of peace and joy, for some a place of comfort and rest. For some, it may be the only place you feel you belong.

And you do. Everyone does.

There's Something About Mary

Do you know Mary? She’s a poor young woman from a small town who meets an angel.

The angel tells her she is filled with grace and God is with her. Mary wonders about that. She’s not really feeling it today and she’s got chores to do. 

The angel says that God thinks she’s pretty amazing, so she’s going to have a child who’s going to be pretty amazing. Mary nods and wonders how that’s going to happen, seeing how she’s engaged, but they’re waiting and she’s not, well … and the angel interrupts her and says the Holy Spirit will take care of it. She says okay, I serve God, so let’s do that.

She’s super excited and runs off to tell her cousin Elizabeth, who’s also pregnant under pretty unusual circumstances (she’s really old, thinks Mary). When Elizabeth sees Mary, she’s pretty excited. Her baby’s kicking pretty hard and she says he knows Mary’s pregnant and it’s the messiah she’s carrying. How awesome is that?

Mary says that’s pretty awesome. It is. So’s Mary.

That’s a pretty free paraphrase of Luke 1:26-45. But even in the scripture account, it’s pretty clear that Mary’s awesome. But maybe not in the way tradition describes her.

I wonder if what we think we know about Mary is less about what we actually know from scripture, and more about what we imagine from tradition. Mary has a variety of titles, like the Blessed Virgin Mary or Mary the Mother of Jesus, that confirm her role in the story. She’s most often described as holy, gently, meek, mild, humble and blessed. “Gabriel’s Message,” a well known Victorian carol describes her as both “a lowly maiden” and “most highly favoured lady.” The timid figure in most Christmas creches has her posed kneeling beside the manger, hands pressed together in prayer and adoration.

Okay. But the story might well tell us something else. 

Mary isn’t afraid of the angel Gabriel. She’s “perplexed” and “ponders” what the angel’s greeting might mean. Sure, Gabriel says “don’t be afraid,” and maybe she ought to be, but she just isn’t. Earlier in the story, Gabriel visited Elizabeth’s husband Zechariah to tell him that their son would be John the Baptist. Zechariah is described as terrified and overwhelmed with fear. He also doesn’t believe the angel and, as a result, Gabriel makes him mute until after John is born. Mary doesn’t doubt it happening, she just wants to know how. It seems that Zechariah, a priest in the temple whose job is literally serving God, is shown how to truly serve God by a poor peasant girl.

And then there’s dealing with her family and Joseph. Even if they believe her story, it’ll be hard going with the community. There’s the journey to Bethlehem and giving birth among animals in a stable.

Maybe Mary’s young and inexperienced, but she wonders, she ponders things, she’s a deep and spiritual character. She’s strong and brave, faithful and true to God. She’s strong enough for a rough journey and an unexpected, uncomfortable birth. Mary “found favour with God” not because of her place in society or any title and not because of her age or lineage (which is never mentioned), but because of who she was. Do you know that Mary?

Peace and Peace and Peace

Peace. Please. Peace.

The theme of the second Sunday in Advent is peace. I hope we think about it more than just one day, of course, and talk about it as much as we can. Just like that, even: Peace. Please. Peace.

In fact, I have been, and it occurs to me that I misspoke the other day. In reflecting on peace, I said that, in churches, we tend to talk about peace one of two ways. We talk about the peace which is the practical end of conflict, the “world peace” of everyone just getting along with no wars and peace and justice for all. That would be awesome.

Or we talk about peace within ourselves, the inner peace of knowing God’s presence (however we might know God) and love in our lives. This is the spiritual peace of knowing the divine (again, however you might describer that) and being grounded in a sense of love and grace. It’s the sense of contentment that comes with the awareness of who and how we are in the world. That would also be awesome.

I went on to say that the key word here is “or.” How often we set them apart, even having separate days for them as if they’re exclusive. They’re not.

There’s no “or” here. If anything, it’s “and.” At this point, I’d even say it’s “AND!”

Imagine how different the world could be if we were all able to approach conflict, disagreement, dissent and difference from a place of our own sense of inner peace. If we knew ourselves and loved ourselves and were at peace with ourselves, wouldn’t we approach the world differently?

Instead of simply reacting, we might patiently seek understanding. We could restrain fear and anger and replace it with curiosity and calm. Instead of rage and violence, we could offer grace and love. Instead of suspicion and punishment, we’d offer care and kindness. Peace in the world out there would begin in the world within us, a world which began in love, a world that began in good.

True peace can’t be imposed, enforced or even negotiated. It’s found in relationships built on our awareness of the peace within, shared with the world around us.

I still stand by that. How I misspoke was that I missed one. There’s three ways we talk about peace in church, and it’s that third way which can be both most helpful and most damaging. Depends on what we do with it.

Paul writes to the Philippians “and the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:7). I’m quoting the King James Version here, just because it’s the one that’s always stuck in my head since I was an Anglican kid. I’d always hear it as part of the blessing. And I always thought, well, that explains it. No wonder we can’t find peace. It’s a mystery we don’t understand.

But it isn’t. We may not understand it, in the same sense that we don’t completely understand love - Paul again, this time to the Corinthians, “for now we see only a reflection, as in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully” - but that doesn’t mean we dismiss it or give up on it. Because it isn’t about understanding in our heads.

We want to reason it out, explain it and implement it. But we can’t because, like love, it comes from the heart, not the head. What we can do is be open to it, welcome it, engage it and live it.

Living into Hope

Many churches have an Advent wreath and light a candle each week for the four Sundays leading to Christmas. A fifth candle, a white one in the middle, is for Christmas Day, itself. Those Sunday candles could be purple or blue, and each week has a theme: Hope, Peace, Joy and Love.  The candle for the Sunday of Joy is often pink, celebrating the most festive of the Sundays.

Hope, Peace, Joy, Love - pretty important themes, not only in the Christmas story, but in the life of Jesus. And in our lives, too. In fact, the connectedness of the Advent wreath should remind us how those things are uniquely and intimately connected, not just on an occasional Sunday, but every day, all year long.

Remember, though, that what these words mean in the context of biblical Jesus may not be what we think they mean in day to day use. Take hope, for example. We can hope that our team wins the game or that this year’s Christmas party will be as good as last year. We hope that it doesn’t snow, if you’re driving somewhere, or that it does, if you’re a skier or snowmobiler. We hope the plane’s on time or the food’s good or our health’s good. Regardless of the scale, from the insignificant to the deeply meaningful, this is about desire. It’s wishful thinking, speculation about a desired outcome, the probability of which might range from long-shot to possibility. At best, we use the word “hope” to mean optimism, confidence in the possibility that’s ahead.

And there’s nothing wrong with that. Acknowledging possibility and living into opportunity is a good thing.

But that’s not the hope of Jesus. This hope isn’t about optimism, but certainty, not wishful thinking but knowing. God is with us. God loves us and God’s love and grace is for all, truly, unconditionally, for all, and so we come from God and return to God. Call God “God,”or love, spirit, higher power, network of life, the oneness in which we all have our being, whatever you will, God is with us. In that sure and certain hope, “we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28).

Maybe it’s like that candle we light. The flame itself is a beautiful thing, but more importantly, in its light, we see. The world is illuminated and we see the possibilities, opportunities and desires in which we live. Hope lights the path that allows us to see where we’re going, but we’re the ones who need to choose the direction, take the step and do the travelling. Hope connects us to the world in a real way, not in wishes, hopes and dreams, but in the true and very real living out of them.

It may feel, sometimes, like the darkness is overwhelming the light, and seeing our way forward is a challenge. That’s when it’s important to remember that hope is only the first candle, linked to the others and to Jesus and that hope is more than a solitary light. That light is in all of us and even in the shortest, darkest days of winter, it will shine again tomorrow.

The Beginning is Near

The end is near. I don’t mean that in the Book-of-Revelation-apocalyptic-end-of-the-world way that street corner preachers anticipate. I mean the end of the year. And, in case you’re concerned about the amount of ground that has to be covered between now and December 31, I mean the official church year. 

What we call the Liturgical Year ends with the last Sunday before Advent, which is the beginning of the church year. The new year then begins with a time of preparation for Christmas and ends with a Sunday many churches call Reign of Christ or Christ the King Sunday.

The idea of this day is to set aside a moment to consider how Christ reigns in our hearts and in our lives. Pope Pius XI started it in October, 1925, and it was moved to the last Sunday of the church year in the 1970’s. 

It’s a great idea, if you ask me, taking the time to consider that right before we get ready to celebrate the coming of Jesus into the world. 

Except …

The language of kingship and reign and kingdoms conjures up images of hierarchy, structure and power over others that aren’t the Jesus I know. The Jesus I know was all about power with others, not over others, showing us the power within each and every one of us, the power that can be shared, the power that is equitable, just and caring, the power that serves the world, it doesn’t control it. This is the power of love. 

That’s the constant through every ending and beginning, through every transformation or change, experience or growth. When we understand that, when we know that, then there’s nothing to fear. Each ending is followed by a new beginning, each beginning has an end. 

The end of a year being followed by the beginning of a new one is an obvious example. So is the dawn of a new day when the previous one has ended. The transforming power of the seasons is another example. It’s winter. For now. Soon it will be spring, and summer and fall and then winter again, for the first time. It happened again, but it’s an all new one. It always is.

But there are other endings where it’s harder to see the new beginning ahead, more difficult to embrace it. The end of lives, relationships, jobs, careers - all things come to an end. But in the constancy of love, there is hope for each new beginning. 

I started quite flippantly referring to the way we tend to perceive the Book of Revelation. “The end is near “means the end times, the end of all things, the great apocalypse. Except that’s not the point of the book. The point isn’t the anticipation of a horrific end of all life, but the hope of a new beginning and a new life greater than we can possibly imagine.

“Love never ends,” Paul writes (1 Cor. 13). Everything else does, it has to so that we can begin anew. It’s the power of love, ruling our hearts and lives, that carries us through each ending and new beginning.

Roots Hold Me Close

In the Gospel of John, Jesus describes himself with a number of statements that begin “I am” something. I like that he doesn’t say “I’m like” this or that, he says “I am.” It just feels like he’s being more direct, more connected to the thing and then I feel more connected to the thing. Sure, it’s a metaphor, but I just feel a deeper connection - “I am” is just more powerful than “I’m like.” To me, anyway.

Maybe it’s because it reminds me of God talking to Moses back in Exodus. Remember the burning bush conversation? Moses asks God for a name to tell the people who sent him and God says “I am who I am … tell them, ‘I am’ has sent me to you.” Maybe that’s the deeper connection. And connection is the point of Jesus saying that. 

One that I always think of at this time of year is when Jesus says “I am the true vine … I am the vine; you are the branches.” (John 15:1,5) It's multilayered and not without its challenges, but to me, that just reminds me of how vines work: long stems, busy tendrils, clingy roots, dense leaves. It speaks to an intimate relationship, a connectedness that is deeply rooted, nurturing and mutually beneficial. Health and wholeness in this image is a dense, complicated, bushy plant.

That might seem a less than appropriate image at this time of year: where we live, it’s almost winter. Those dense, bushy vines with their long stems and clingy tendrils are now hard, brown, leafless - and lifeless - stems, curled up and frozen. Their time is done. They seem dead.

But they’re not. They’re waiting. Those roots, hidden in the ground, are just waiting to spring back to life again. Those roots that anchor the vine, that draw nourishment from the soil and feed the vine, those roots that connect the vine to the earth are just waiting to bring life to the vine. And they will: spring will come.

We don’t have any control of when winter comes to our lives. Sometimes it’s seasonal, sometimes it’s grief, the cold of loneliness or hurt. Sometimes maybe it’s a blizzard of busy that threatens to overwhelm us, wear us out or disconnect us from the world around us.

But. We are part of the vine. We have roots. And when those roots dig deep into love, they bring us life. When we remember that they connect us to the earth and to each other, they bring us life. Even when cold winds blow or frost tries to break us, roots anchor us and hold us up. Even when it feels as though winter is never-ending, it will, and spring will come and roots will find the water and nourishment we need for new life. Not to return to the old life, but to grow and thrive in a new day.

Dig deep. Reach out. Roots hold us close to the earth, close to each other. Roots hold us close to God, the spirit of life in all things.

Moses Had a Choice

I wonder what Moses was really thinking when God spoke to him through the burning bush and told him he had to go back to Egypt. He certainly didn’t seem keen.

Moses was born into a Hebrew family in Egypt, the son of slaves. You might know the story from Sunday School, of how Moses was hidden in a basket on the river and the daughter of the pharaoh finds him. If not, check out the book of Exodus for his life story.

Pharaoh’s daughter decides to raise him in the palace as her own. He lived a privileged life of luxury while the Hebrew people - his people - were oppressed, working as slave labour. As an adult, he sees an Egyptian beating a slave and responds with anger, killing him. Fearing the pharaoh, he runs away, wandering for awhile, lost and alone until he finds himself in Midian. He settles down there, meets his wife, builds a family, caring for sheep for his father-in-law. It’s a good life, a comfortable life far from Egypt, far from the suffering of Hebrew slaves or fear of punishment for his actions. Thank goodness he could leave that all behind.

And then, God says “I have a job for you. I need you to go and lead the Hebrew people  out of Egypt and into freedom.” 

I imagine Moses first response was more likely “me and what army?” But God says nope, just you. And me, I’ll be with you. Moses comes up with a few reasons why he shouldn’t go. But God has answers and God’s sending him on a mission. Why wouldn’t he want to go?

Well, life was good for Moses. It was peaceful and prosperous and all that other stuff was far in the past. Midian was a long way from Egypt and Moses didn’t seem to hear the cries of his people as clearly as God did. Why would Moses want to give up his new life to go back there? And how’s this going to work again? I’m just going to tell Pharaoh to let them leave and the people will follow me? I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.

It isn’t. It’s going to be dangerous, it’s going to be hard, it’s going to be a struggle. And Moses has no idea how it’s all going to work out.

But I wonder if, in that moment, Moses realized that the peace he thought he’d found wasn’t whole. I wonder if he didn’t begin to think that true wholeness isn’t just in the self, but in how one offers oneself to the peace of others. And sometimes that’s a struggle.

Martin Luther King Jr. is often credited with saying that true peace isn’t the absence of tension and conflict, but the presence of justice. I think that’s what God was calling Moses to, to bring justice and freedom, to bring equity and opportunity.

Moses had a choice and he could have said no. His life was peaceful and prosperous, but he chose to give that up in order to help others find that promise as well.

Remembrance Day reminds us of those who sacrificed in war for that same reason. And in today’s world, we’re surrounded by so many people in need of justice and peace. What will we choose to do?