“Glory be to you, O God of the night,
for the whiteness of the moon
and the infinite stretches of dark space.
Let me be learning to love the night
as I know and love the day.
Let me be learning to trust its darkness
and to seek its subtle blessings.
Let me be learning the night’s way of seeing
that in all things I may trace the mystery
of your presence.”
~J. Philip Newell

The coldness of winter has, opened the door, walked in and taken up residence in Minnesota. This has made for incredibly clear nights, a vast expanse of dark blue sky which holds a brilliant moon longing for fullness. Last night as I drove home, the darkness having descended hours before, I felt the pull of that moon. Over the weekend, it will become a glistening, white orb shining its wholeness on us. If we are about the work of staying awake in these Advent days, we would do well to take notice. To stop what is driving us.To pay attention to what fullness might look like. To listen to our own longing for wholeness. Even in the midst of deep darkness.

I still held that image of last night’s sky when I read these words of John Philip Newell this morning. I thought of how the moon seemed so beautiful last night, not because of the light, but because of the dark sky which surrounded it. The contrast made both the night sky and the evolving moon more than either could be alone. It is something to be reminded of, I think, something to ponder not only in these days before the full moon but also in this season when we speak of ‘waiting for the light’. Or as we in the Christian household often say:”Waiting for the Light.”

As I read this prayer as a part of my morning practice, what captured my attention was the phrase ‘let me be learning’. Perhaps it does not sound so unusual with Newell’s Scottish accent. But I can say definitively that I may never have spoken the words ‘let me be learning.’ That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have said it or that I certainly shouldn’t have done all it implies.

When I think of my experiences of Advent, there are so many times I would have been well served by saying aloud to myself or others such things as ‘let me be learning’ to listen more deeply and speak less often. Let me be learning to open myself to the movement of the Holy, not only in the lights and tinsel, but in the dirt and grime along the sidewalks. Let me be learning to let go of the need to create the perfect Christmas for my family or others. Let me be learning to notice the looks on the faces of children and breathe in their wonder and anticipation. Let me be learning to look for one small way the unfolding story of the Christ Child’s birth still holds hope for me. Let me be learning to take more moments to be restful and fewer to be in motion. Let me be learning how this season urges me to allow the presence of God to be born in my life, in my living.

All of these learnings hold the gifts of both darkness and light. They are illuminated and shadowed to create a fullness that, in the end, can only be experienced in the presence of these contrasts. I cannot work hard enough, plan adequately or force the wholeness by trying to shine more light or by hiding in the darkness. This is pure mystery.

Let me be learning to understand this.

” God is a great underground river that no one can dam up and no one can stop.”
~Meister Eckhart, 13th century mystic

Over the last several days I have been watching the river freeze. On my morning drive into the church, I have been aware of the slow, yet deliberate, ice that has been forming on the Mississippi River. For those of you who might think this ranks right up there with watching paint dry or grass grow, I beg to differ.

First of all, more than a week ago there were small, circular groupings of ice pieces. They seemed to want to hang out together in the middle of the river. The ice floes moved downriver with a slow, meditative pace. I am sure there was some ice at the edges of the river but for the most part the ice was gathered in these little mandalas of frozen water moving in a Zen-like fashion.

Today, everything was much different. Vast sections of the river now are covered with a solid sheet of ice. What is interesting is that these icy sheets are mostly at the bends of the river. The curves that make up the landscape between Minneapolis and St. Paul are punctuated with glistening ice that moves swiftly into moving water. I have no idea why the ice freezes in this particular way. But I am fascinated by the pattern and process.

As I was cruising along this morning, one eye on the road, careful of the slick spots caused by this weekend’s snowfall, and the other on the process of ice formations, I began to think about the strength of the still flowing water beneath and between this ice. This is a mighty river and I have seen its force and fury many times. Certainly that same power is still present. It has just collided with other powerful forces. Things like temperature, sunlight, darkness, the rhythm of the seasons.

All this ice-gazing, of course, caused me to think of how sometimes in my life things seem to be frozen in time. Or at least at a standstill with ice forming and knocking about and into my best laid plans. In those paths that have taken a turn this way or that, something powerful moves in and paralyzes whatever dream I held or hope that had such promise. These circumstances seem to derail, not only my action, but my spirit. Does this at all sound familiar to you?

But what I often forget at frozen times like these is that there is a powerful strength that moves beneath all the icy formations. Perhaps the curves or twists have held something captive and stopped me in my tracks but the breath, the creative spark, the sheer will, still moves around and past whatever is frozen in me. Sometimes it is only a matter of relaxing into the moment, of not forcing something that is not yet ready to be born. Other times it is the wisdom to hitch myself to ‘the Great Underground River’ that the Christian mystic Meister Eckhart speaks of. To allow my hopes and dreams to be carried by a force greater than myself.

At some point very soon all traffic on the river will be halted for the winter. Come to think of it, this may already have happened. I have not seen a barge making its way up or down the river for some time. When that time comes, the only prudent and logical thing to do is to stop and wait for the right moments of spring to begin to move the waters once again. The rhythm of this resting and waiting is firmly embedded in the wisdom of the way the world works.

Until then my work and the river’s is to learn from what has come to a standstill and to remember the powerful current that flows beneath and within.

“If you have ever had occasion to be out early in the morning before the dawn breaks, you will have noticed that the darkest time of night is immediately before dawn. The darkness deepens and becomes more anonymous. If you had never been to the world and never known what a day was, you couldn’t possibly imagine how the darkness breaks, how the mystery and color of a day arrive. Light is incredibly generous, but also gentle. When you attend to the way the dawn comes, you learn how light can coax the dark. The first fingers of light appear on the horizon, and ever so deftly and gradually, they pull the mantle of darkness away from the world. Quietly before you is the mystery of a new dawn, the new day.”
~John O’Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

At a meeting I attended last night, our convener began the meeting with this reading. Afterwards I headed home and went straight for this book to reread these beautiful and evocative sentences. I was so struck with them, not only for their poetry, but because I had spent the hour or so before the meeting sitting in a cafe watching this very movement of light and darkness. I had watched the seemingly quick descending of the darkness of the day. I had watched the sky go from pale blue to shades of crimson and orange(where does that come from?) as it moved into a deep, velvety blue. The only contrast was the brilliant white of the waxing moon. The whole process had seemed like an experience of watching an enormous painting being created before my very eyes.

‘If I had never been to the world and had not known what a day was’, what might I have thought was happening? This is a concept that is nearly impossible to get your head around. And yet, in my observation, I was as clueless to the miracle of beauty that was happening as I might have been if I had never been to the world. All I could do is what humans, I believe, were created to do: observe, gasp, wonder, praise. It is the work of psalmists from the beginning of our walking-upright position in the world.

In this northern hemisphere we are walking in the darkest days. We may try to ward it off or enhance its beauty with colorful light displays that adorn homes and buildings everywhere. These holiday displays only make the darkness more pronounced. But the profound darkness also makes the lights more magical. Light and darkness are indeed strange, yet imperative, dance partners.

John O’Donohue also points out the very mysterious way in which the arrival of light in the morning is preceded by the very darkest time of the night. It is as if the Universe is saying: “Watch this. This is how dark it can really get.” All this to make us even more appreciative of the light’s arrival.

Of course, light is both reality and metaphor. We speak of people who bring light to our lives. In this season of Advent we speak of the Christ Child who will come to bring light to the world. What might we learn about the light and darkness of our days by remembering how light and dark actually work and dance with one another? Is there comfort in our knowing, in our understanding? Or does this knowledge bring on a greater fear of darkness, a more desperate longing for light?

My sense is that the answers to these questions are shaped by individual experience more than a common one. But for those who are in what they feel are the darkest days, my prayer is for a memory of the miraculous working of light. The ‘darkest before the dawn’ knowledge. And for those who are standing in the light, my prayer is for an appreciation of the gifts of both darkness and light. Those dancing partners which surround us at all times, pulling us in, spinning us, moving us gracefully and often with fits and starts. All the while holding us in the gentle and gracious Light of Holy Presence.

May it always be so. Blessed be.

“Made from earth I am
and in love with the ground,
but this urging persists,
an aching where you etched
onto tendons muscles bone nerve
a longing for leaping
a yearning to soar.”
~ Jan L. Richardson

This afternoon has been spent rifling through books looking for poetry and readings for several upcoming worship services. Anyone walking by my office must have been reminded of Bob Cratchitt bent over his desk, focused on the stacks of coins he counted for Ebeneezer Scrooge. Instead of coins, I was surrounded by books tipped open and laying askew. I think my hair may have even been a little wild where I had run my hands through it in a desperate search for the perfect expression of an Advent Sunday or Christmas Eve or Day, which happens to fall on a Sunday this year. It will be a busy 24 hours!

I was looking for phrases that expressed ‘dreaming’ to illuminate our church theme of “We Are Those Who Dream”. In my page flipping, my eyes fell on the poem above. While it did not really fit the theme, it caught my attention and I read it aloud to no one in particular but myself. It seemed to suit my mood, my frame of mind.

It snowed overnight, you see, and that always stirs something of the creative spirit within me. I know that to many people this seems odd. Creativity is for warm weather, for lazy summer days when you can loll about allowing fresh ideas to spring up like blooming flowers popping up all around. Creativity is for September, when that school-gene gets resurrected, as the possibilities of a new year of learning are underway. Creativity is not for cold, dark, snowy days when morning comes too late and evening too soon.

But the creative spirit almost always creeps into my life in the first days of cold and snow. For me, there is something about rising early and seeing the palette of deep, blue sky punctuated with tiny, glittering stars. Yesterday, as I fetched the morning newspaper from the stoop, I stood outside in my pajamas staring up at the morning’s arrival. A plane moved quickly across the middle distance, its light competing with the stationary, shining stars. A satellite moved slowly in a meditative pattern between the silver-light of distant stars. I breathed in the cold air, allowing my lungs to fill with its freshness, and exhaled my visible presence back into the day, signing on for being alive yet again.

Perhaps it is this kind of recognition that overcomes me and keeps me ‘in love with the ground’, that makes me incredibly thankful for being made of earth. Perhaps it is this loving that also nudges at the urging, the aching to leap with the joy of the gift of life and a yearning to make the most of this blessed miracle of walking in the world. Perhaps it is this Advent season that keeps me always on watch for how the Holy is filling the empty spaces or the overstuffed moments of my day. That habit God has of taking something plain and ordinary and filling it with More.

Whatever it is, I am grateful for it. For this persistent Creator that breathed me into being and holds me with a love that will not let me go. Not in summer. Not in spring or autumn. And certainly not in the early days of winter when the cold calls like a siren from the lakes that are icing over all around.

And what about you? What is yearning to soar within you these Advent days? How is the One who is ‘etched onto your tendon muscle bone nerve’ moving in your life?

May blessings abound from darkness of morning till darkness of night.