"The angels keep their ancient places-
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis ye, your estranged faces
That miss the many-splendored thing."
~Frances Thompson, The Kingdom of God

This past Sunday in worship, we invited people to think about the story of Christmas and the various characters and elements of this familiar and mysterious telling that shapes our faith. The question we asked people to consider was this: "Where is love shown by Mary, Joseph, the Magi, the shepherds? Where is love shown by the Star of Bethlehem, the sheep and other animals present in the stable? Where is love in the many journeys taken?" It became a wonderful way to hear people's ideas of the self-giving love that is at the root of our faith tradition.

All Sunday afternoon something kept nagging at me as I thought back about the morning's worship. And then it hit me: We had forgotten the angels! We had left out the messengers of God that had startled the shepherds, foretold the journey to both Mary and Joseph, those winged ones that hover in every artist's rendering of the manger. We had not asked: Where is the love shown by the angels?

I am not sure what to make of this omission. Perhaps we were focusing on the concrete, the visible. And yet so much of our life is moved by the invisible, the unseen forces that guide us and connect us. The idea of angels does not fit our rational mind. And yet I know that there are messengers of God all around. Some I see every day in the faces of people I know and love. Another messenger is present in the red-tailed hawk that flies across my path awakening me to beauty and out of anxiety. And then there is the rare moment when a stranger looks into our eyes with a presence that causes us to stop and remember who we are, to be fully present in the gift of the moment. This messenger of God, this angel, startles us into the gospel story of our own lives by their attention to us. It is a wake up call, much like the one offered to the shepherds who could have stayed put tending sheep but instead chose a journey that would change their lives forever. That is the love shown by angels.

Today I will try not to forget.

"For God will command the angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone."  Psalm 91:11,12

"This is the irrational season, when love blooms bright and wild. Had Mary been filled with reason, there'd have been no room for the child." Madeleine L'Engle

I am sure that, on this day last year, I probably used this very same quote to begin my Pause post. I think of it every year on this day. Today is our younger son's birthday and these are the words we used on his birth announcement. They had always been meaningful to me but now they are even more so.

Birth is a powerful experience for anyone at any time of the year. But to have an infant in your home at Christmas holds a special power. Singing the traditional carols, full of the images of birth, stirs sweeter feelings. Hearing the familiar story causes you to examine the trusting, irrational nature of Mary and Joseph in new ways. Identifying with their plight, their searching, their amazement at the child they hold between them, becomes even more poignant. Angels sing, people bring gifts, the world stops for a little while to welcome the child. And as parents you are simply left to 'treasure all these things in your heart.'

Reason, for the most part, plays very little into the choice to bring a child into the world. If we allowed ourselves we could each think  of countless reasons against it. And yet we continue because, I believe, each child is not only an expression of the love of two people, but also the expression of our hope in the world. Our hope that as humans will do better……as parents, as families, as neighborhoods, as nations, as faith communities. Our hope, someplace deep within us is that this child, our child, will know a more peaceful world, a more just world, that they might in fact be a part of its creation.

It is an irrational thought,in some ways. But then so is faith, and hope and love and how many of us would want any less of these three in our lives?This sweet child, now a man, who came into our lives eighteen years ago today, has filled our home with all these things and much more. He has made us laugh uncontrollably and filled us with immense pride. He has challenged us to see things in new ways and completely confounded us at times. He continues to bring a gentle spirit to our lives and to our home. His smile lights up our home and my heart.

And for all this, I am irrationally grateful.

I have always, as I remember, been an early riser. I was one of those college students that actually got up early,often to the dismay of my roommate. There is something about early morning to me that seems more sacred than other parts of the day. I like being able to move through the house in darkness or semi-light knowing that my neighbors are still sleeping. I like the quiet of early morning and the brooding anticipation of what the day might hold. I may have inherited this from father who, even in retirement, rose before five a.m. to meet his buddies for coffee at a local diner. Unlike him, however, I do not want to talk to anyone early in the morning. I want to be held in the silence.

This past week in my little hermitage in the woods I enjoyed rising early even more than usual. I awoke to the vast expanse of the night sky filled with visible stars and planets overhead, of particular note Jupiter and Mars seeming so close you could reach out and touch them as they spooned with the crescent Moon. I made coffee and started a fire in the wood stove to take the chill of the cold morning. I moved about the small space in a contemplative fashion, noticing, touching, holding. Snuggled in my soft chair, I held the words I read with a special care. It is a way I would like to begin all mornings.

The poet Mary Oliver writes in a poem titled 'Why I Wake Early':
"Hello, sun in my face,
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety-

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness."

We are in the darkest days of the year here in the northern hemisphere. Children go to school in darkness and return in the waning light of day. Supper is always eaten in the dark. In these Advent days of waiting, of preparation, we rest in the darkness knowing that it holds a great gift yet to be discovered. We pray to be kept from 'ever-darkness'. We long to be held in the 'great hands of light'. May each of us start our day in happiness and kindness for our own sake and for the sake of the world.

Stay warm this weekend………………..

I headed out for a long walk through the winter woods
yesterday. The paths here are groomed and easy to follow as they wind through
the now bare birch and the evergreens which give the only color against the
deep blue of sky. As I laced up my boots and put on my heavy coat, I also
followed the directions taped to the door:”Remember to wear your orange vest
when leaving your hermitage!” I reached for the blaze orange which would make
me visible to any hunters that may still be out. Though the season is over, so
I was told, there are still some who might be about. Putting aside any fashion
sense, I zipped up this big, bright vest and began my silent walk.

 The path led me past fallen trees that had been arranged to
make the path more visible. I thought of how lovely it would be with more snow
to offer the contrast to the pines and birch. As I walked I was aware of how
conspicuous I felt. It was like I was shouting “Look at me! Look at me!” It had
not been my intention when I planned this woodland walk. I had wanted, instead,
to become a part of the woods, to become aware of my part of the fabric of the
forest. But my vest made me ‘other’. There was no mistaking that an alien was
present in the natural landscape. While I was safe, I also felt sad to not have
blended into and become part of the beauty of the woods, of the earth.

 Walking out of the woods, I made my way to the open field
where people had built a rock and prairie grass labyrinth for walking prayer.
An ornamental archway marks the opening of the labyrinth. Attached to the
archway hangs a small brass pine-cone bell. I gently rang it to signal my
entrance. I began my slow, meditative walk offering prayers for family,
friends, the work my colleagues and I were doing here at the retreat center. I
reached the center of the labyrinth and the small pile of stones where people
had left smaller stones, a charm with an angel imprinted a coin with John 3:16
printed on it, visible talismans of their own prayers. Nestled within the
larger stones were pieces of paper. I resisted the impulse to pull them out and
read them believing they were meant for the Holy and not for me. As I stood at
the center of this ancient path, my eyes fell on the brightness of my vest. At
first I wanted to laugh….walking the labyrinth in blaze orange!  It seemed so silly.

 And yet what my heart wanted was for my prayers, for my
walk, for my living, to be noticed by the One who holds me gently in this life’s path.
And in that spirit, blaze orange seemed the perfect attire.

“O God, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and
when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path
and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is
on my tongue, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay
your hand upon me.” Psalm 139

For the last few days I have been on retreat in northern Minnesota at a lovely
center called Dwelling in the Woods. It is tucked away, down country roads, some
paved, others now hard, gravelly surfaces. As I drove here snow spit from the
sky making little dancing waves of white in the spill of my headlights. I
arrived at dusk and settled into my hermitage, one of those small, cozy places
that causes me to beg the question, what do we really need with such large
living spaces? The simplicity, the attention to beauty is all around in my
space, aptly named, The Loft, because in order to make my way to my bed, I have
to climb a small winding staircase to the angled-eaved space above. The tiny
kitchen has everything needed for a simple, hearty meal. A wood burning stove
is already laid for novice fire-builders…that would be me.

 As the first evening drew to a close, I felt myself growing
weary from a full day. Walking toward my hermitage, I was not prepared for how
dark it would be without any of the city lights that normally accompany me
everywhere. It seemed unbelievably dark even with a flashlight. As I turned off
the lights to go to sleep, I was plunged into total darkness. I thought of all
the people throughout time who had gone to sleep in just such darkness. I
thought of all those who have this experience even now in places where
electricity is still a luxury. Enveloped by the deep darkness I fell asleep
with little difficulty and rested in a way that is unfamiliar.

A friend told me last week about a collective of people who
are dedicated to helping people find the darkness they feel is important for
all people to live healthy, whole lives. It sounded like such an odd concept.
Who are these people? And yet last evening, as I tucked myself into my little
bed and was plunged into just such darkness, I had a glimmer of understanding.
I wonder if all people might sleep better in this kind of darkness and would
awaken more ready to face the daylight. 

"Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide;The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me."  Henry Francis Lyte

"When one person in a family, in a parish, in a workplace begins to practice being really alive and present in the present moment, not trapped in distractions in her head or lost in his heart, that person is like a burning candle carried into a dark room. People in that person's family or workplace had been sitting in the dark, without even realizing it, thinking that darkness was as bright as things could get. But now, because of the beaming brightness of that person's recollected and whole presence, they are able to see and know deep within themselves just how much more there can be to their religion or their faith. But still, it is only one candle, and the room is still dark. When the flame is passed from person to person until there are many candles burning, then we can really see!" ~Gregory Fruehwirth, OJN, Words for Silence:A Year of Contemplative Meditations

I began reading this lovely book of meditations this past week by Fr. Gregory, a member of the Order of Julian of Norwich,.He is an Episcopal monk living in Wisconsin.The meditations follow the liturgical church year. This paragraph caught my attention, not only for the lovely words, but for the idea that we can become 'burning candles' for one another. What a beautiful thought!

There have been many times in my life when I have experienced the presence of another as a burning candle. To be in the presence of someone who is so fully present to you, so completely attentive that you feel as if there is no place else the other would like to be is a gift. In the harried ways we live much of the time, it is a rare gift. Yet it does happen. These are moments of true grace.

I would love to say that I have the ability to be so in the moment, so present that I, too, can be a burning candle for another. But somehow I feel the distracted life often overtakes me and I don't even send a spark in the direction of those I meet. It is a practice to improve upon and what better time than Advent?  These dark days call to us to be introspective, to slow down and be in the moment where we have been planted. As we wait and watch for the coming of Christmas, what better desire than to be a burning candle?

This idea reminds me of the lighting of candles on Christmas eve. It has been my privilege for many years to be at the front of our darkened sanctuary as the light is passed from one person to another, back each row, until the entire church is lit with burning candles. These candles light the faces of friends, families, strangers…..all beautiful in the golden glow of candlelight. Some faces are smiling, others show the pathway of tears on their cheeks. Some look far into the distance remembering perhaps, while others look out at the beauty that has evolved around them. All faces register wonder.

As we prepare to celebrate the Light of the World, Advent is a time to register our wonder as we are witness to the burning candles among us. It is also a time to be so present to another that we glow.

 Sunday, November 30th,marks the beginning of  Advent in Christian churches all over the world. It is the beginning of the liturgical church year and helps us take the baby steps needed as we head toward Christmas. It is a remarkable season as it tries to help the people of faith mark the birth of Emmanuel, ,God-with-Us, while at the same time looking to the day when the Way of God will be the way of the world. For those of us in the northern hemisphere,these two messages get wrapped up in the darkness of winter days and all the metaphorical images of light and dark that become the walk of our daily path. If this weren't enough to ponder, we have the commercial giants clamoring for our attention and our dollars. It can be an overwhelming time for even the most grounded person.

Today's blog message marks the third year I've reflected on Advent as a part of Pause. It all started out as a simple Advent meditation and three years later I find myself still writing nearly every day. It has become an important spiritual practice for me. But as I began to reflect on Advent this year, I began to think of something Bruce Robbins, our senior minister, said a few weeks ago. He said that reading scripture was a little like peeling an onion. There are so many layers, so many ways to read it, so many levels, so much to take into account in the reading. There are historical and literary perspectives to consider in addition to language translations. There are also the changes that continue to take place in our own lives to consider. As I read these familiar scriptures this year, I am not the same person I was last year or the year before and that impacts my reading, my understanding.In addition to the hoped-for wisdom of living,  each of us have known joys and sorrows, loss and success over the last year. That has changed us in some way

 Jan L. Richardson in her book Night Visions searching the shadows of Advent and Christmas, explains it like this: "As I have grown, I have gained an appreciation for how many ways there are to tell a story. Take the story of Christmas.We can tell it as the story of an unwed mother who dared to enter into partnership with God to bring forth new life; as a political story about the birth of a revolutionary; as a tale about a love that longed so much for us that it took flesh, formed in the dark womb of a woman who share her body and her blood to bring it forth. We can tell it as a story about darkness giving birth to light, about seemingly endless waiting, and about that which lies at the end of all our waiting."

As we begin the walk into Advent, maybe it is a good time to think back over the last year. How are you different than you were? How have you grown, changed ? How will you hear the story of Christmas this year? How will it be
different from before? What has happened in your life that might
help you experience this story in a new way?

The darkness surrounds us. And we are a people waiting for the Light. Waiting…..watching…..hoping……praying….for that glimpse of God-with-us.

"i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)"
~ e. e. cummings

In my opinion this is truly one of the most beautiful poems every written. For me it captures the overwhelming gift of life and the gifts of the Creator to us each and every day. It invites us to grab the brass ring of our living and embrace all the tiny, seemingly unimportant moments and grasp them with both hands. It challenges us to be awake to all that life offers us, all that our breathing, pulsing bodies can experience. If a prayer is to be said at the beginning of every day, I believe this to be as good a prayer as any.

Tomorrow as people gather to celebrate Thanksgiving, it is a holiday with mixed sentiment. Most people simply love the foods of this day and the simplicity of what it requires. For the most part, there is not much baggage tied to Thanksgiving. We can celebrate it on a purely historical level. We can mark its place in a religious context. We can even see it as the beginning of the headlong fall into Christmas. We can see it as the day to serve others and count our blessings and put that practice on the shelf until next year at this same time.

Or we can plant our feet on the floor in the morning and thank God for the sun's birthday, for bringing us into aliveness after our sleep. We can look out our window and take in the gifts of earth that shine and blow and fly and swim, and sit there in awe and wonder. We can be fully aware of each touch, taste, smell,sight and breath and offer gratitude to the Source. We can look at the faces of those who surround us and name them for the miracles they are. We can Yes! to the life with which we have been graced and make a promise to ourselves to do the same thing the next day and the next.We can strive to keep that promise.

Thanksgiving. It can be a feast of turkey or a Feast of Life. The choice is ours.

"Listening looks easy, but it's not simple. Every head is a world."  Cuban Proverb

Yesterday afternoon I joined nearly 1000 people who gathered to hear Dr. John Francis speak. Dr. Francis is more commonly known as the Planetwalker. He spent 22 years walking…never riding in a car, train or plane…anything that used oil or gas. He began his walking in 1971 as a personal protest after witnessing the devastation of the oil spill in San Francisco Bay.

 When he began walking in protest, he began having conversations with people about why he was doing this. This seemed to often lead to an argument. So he tried another experiment. He decided to stop talking for one day and instead to listen, really listen to people. One day led to 17 years of not speaking and to 17 years of really listening. During this time he received bachelor, masters and doctoral degrees….all while not speaking a word. He even taught college classes without speaking!  Image….

He was an entertaining, fascinating person with a gentle spirit and a visible love of life. As I listened to his story I wondered what might move me to such a change of life. What might cause me to go to such extremes to change the way I do my daily living? And what event, what experience would urge me to stop talking and instead focus on listening with even a hint of the intensity of Dr. Francis? It is a fascinating question to ponder.

Dr. Francis' story is compelling and unique. It is certainly a story of rich extremes. Most of us would not want to inflict that dramatic a change on our lifestyle. And yet each of us wants, I believe, to make some statement with our life and how we live it. We want people to know us, really know us, and what we stand for. We want people to say our name and know what it means. Each of us wants to know that we are doing what we were 'meant' to do, that we are using the gifts planted within us for their true purpose. What is your life statement?

John Francis learned what his life statement was, not by talking about it, but by listening to others and most importantly to himself. In the listening he came to know who he was, what he stood for and how we was called to walk the earth. "Great changes can be made through the power of personal statements, listening, and a willingness to change ourselves.", he says.

He gave me much to think about…..while I walk and…… while I listen.

Last night we attended a musical concert in which our youngest son participated. It was a gala event which included three choirs, a wind ensemble and the orchestra. Each group had one piece they performed on their own but the work everyone was excited about and had come to hear was a mass piece in which all the groups participated. Carmina Burana by Carl Orff is one of those dramatic, big bold pieces of music that grabs even the casual listener.Written in 1935-36, it sets to music 24 poems found in a medieval monastery written by priests and others who had lost their faith in the church and the world.

"O Fortune,like the moon you are constantly changing,ever waxing and waning;hateful life now oppresses and then soothes as fancy takes it; poverty and power it melts them like ice.Fate – monstrous and  empty,you whirling wheel,you are malevolent,well-being is vain and always fades to nothing,shadowed
and veiled you plague me too;now through the game I bring my bare back to your villainy.
Fate, in health and virtue,is against me driven on and weighted down,always enslaved.So at this hour without delay pluck the vibrating strings;since Fate strikes down the strong man,everyone weep with me!"

So goes the most famous piece of the work. Luckily it is sung in Latin so you focus more on the power and beauty of the music and not how depressing the words are! These young people clearly loved performing this piece. Their audience loved listening. What struck me most is that this group of young people, wired by technology since their birth, connected with a piece of music decades old and to words centuries older. As they each did their part to create this monumental piece of music they were a united front. Their family background did not matter, nor the color of their skin.There were students from every economic background on the stage, a few who still struggle with the English language. Some students were certainly more skilled than others, many had had private lessons while others simply signed up for a class they may need to graduate. Yet no one person on the stage could have performed  this piece alone. They needed the talent and the commitment of the person standing beside them. Plainly put, they needed to rely on one another to create something bigger than themselves.

Fate, perhaps, had brought these student musicians together. But what they created in the moment was beautiful and lasting and, I believe, will stay with them for a very long time. The lessons they learned by tackling this challenging piece are the lessons of life: Show up, do your part, stick together, listen well, rest when you need to, create beauty when you can, offer your gifts to the world.

It promises to be a blustery weekend…….stay warm.