The Longest Night

Tonight at 7 pm at St. Paul's Memorial Church in Charlottesville, we are holding a worship service in a way that we have not done before. We are calling it "The Liturgy of the Longest Night," mindful that today is the Winter Solstice, and mindful that this is a time of year that is difficult for many (including yours truly).

Not everyone finds the Christmas jollies so jolly.

But we are also mindful that the nights now turn shorter and the days turn longer. Some churches call this service "A Blue Christmas," but as we talked about it at St. Paul's, that just seemed, well, too blue. Tonight is still Advent, still the time of waiting before the dawn. The light comes even in the darkest night, and even a glimmer of hope can shine into our hearts.

For many, this is a hard season because of a loss of a loved one, or the loss of a job, or a health issue that is gnawing on body and mind. This is also a time of anxious waiting for many -- a son or daughter away  at school or in a job in a far off city, or in uniform on a battlefield, or aboard a ship-of-war at sea. Or maybe you are like me, living here in Charlottesville with family far away.

Santa down the chimney doesn't seem to ring quite right for some.

So whatever it is that you wait, come join us tonight. We will pray, listen, sit in silence, light candles, hear music, and provide healing prayers for those who seek them. Come join us at St. Paul's tonight, the longest night, but marking the night when the darkness begins to recede and the days begin to brighten.

The Monday Funnies

Warning: Today's Monday Funnies is in very poor taste, and parental discretion is advised. The overpaid bloated staff in the Jokester Department here at Fiat Lux Productions has scoured the land far and wide for the worst, most hideous, tasteless Nativity sets ever created. We had more than two-dozen entries, but here are the worst of the worst. . .

Yes, made out of bacon and pork products

Made with pats of butter

Precious!

Christmas has gone to the dogs

Dungeons and Dragons Nativity set

Quackers

Marshmellow Nativity set - Yumm!

Rubber Ducky, Your the One!

Ticking Nativity

Happy Feet Christmas

Miss Piggy does Christmas

Schmores Nativity - More Yummm!

This one freaks me out:
Jesus in a snowglobe

Vegetales has gotten only stranger.

And how we cry at all these Nativities

"How is it they live for eons in such harmony?" (but we don't)

I am not preaching today -- but if you are in the area, please come hear Pastor Nik in the pulpit. Today is sometimes known as "Mary Sunday," as the lessons will make clear: 2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16, Canticle 15, Romans 16: 25-27 and Luke 1: 26-38.

Our friend Karen in Tennessee sent this other day. Enjoy your Sunday . . .

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“We are fields before each other.”

~ St. Thomas Aquinas ~

How is it they live for eons in such harmony -

the billions of stars -

when most men can barely go a minute

without declaring war in their mind against someone they know.

There are wars where no one marches with a flag,

though that does not keep casualties

from mounting.

Our hearts irrigate this earth.

We are fields before

each other.

How can we live in harmony?

First we need to

know

we are all madly in love

with the same

God.

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And one more item today: Steven Charleston, the retired Bishop of Alaska, and who I admire greatly (and who I would love to have come preach at St. Paul's), wrote this on his Facebook this morning, and I pass it along to you:

"The incarnate story begins in humility. That is the first step in our own spiritual narrative. But how to take it? Not once, but over and over, as our life shifts through age and place. It is not feigned innocence or submission. It is what my ancestors believed was the gyroscope of the holy, the sense of inner balance that held a tension between pride and resignation, between limitation and possibility. What gave life to the sacred was a vulnerable power. That same divine energy resides incarnate in each of us, a hope that knows it can change the world, if only it is willing to seek shelter in the poorest home it finds."

Art by Flor Larios

International prayer service simulcast Saturday from Bethlehem and the Washington National Cathedral

Door at the Church of the Nativity,
Bethlehem;
photo by Lori K. Richardson

Please consider yourself invited tomorrow to this worldwide gathering of prayer in Bethlehem to be broadcast simultaneously with a prayer service at the Washington National Cathedral, via the Internet. Here are the details:

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Bethlehem - D.C. prayer service set for Dec. 17   Simulcast to link Christmas Lutheran Church, National Cathedral   [Anglican Commons] The fifth annual simulcast prayer service linking the congregations gathered in Bethlehem's Evangelical Lutheran Christmas Church and the nave of Washington National Cathedral - with online viewing access worldwide - is set for Saturday, Dec. 17, at 10 a.m. Eastern Time (7 p.m. local time in Bethlehem, and 7 a.m. Pacific). Online viewers may log in  here for the liturgy featuring prayers, readings in Arabic and English, and hymns alternating between Bethlehem and Washington, D.C. Lead partners are the Lutheran and Anglican churches in Bethlehem and Jerusalem, and Palestine/Israel Advocacy Group at Washington Cathedral. The service also raises funds for the Bright Stars of Bethlehem Center for its work in education, health, the arts, and social services. Clergy scheduled to participate include Christmas Church pastor Dr. Mitri Raheb in Bethlehem; Bishop Suheil Dawani and other leaders of theEpiscopal Diocese of Jerusalem; and the Rt. Rev. Munib Younan, bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land; bishops Mariann Edgar Budde of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington and  Richard H. Graham of the Metropolitan Washington D.C. Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, the Rev. Canon Jan Naylor Cope, cathedral vicar; and the Rev. Canon John L. Peterson. Viewship also is promoted within the Diocese of Jerusalem and its companion dioceses of Washington and Los Angeles, and the Anglican Church of Canada, its partner province. Anglican Commons is a new volunteer effort featuring mission companions and the shared newsfeed of the Digital Faith community. Christmastide features will focus on the church's mission of "acompanamiento," or accompaniment, in El Salvador.

Pray for peace in the Holy Land

Palestinian students from United Nations schools in the Jericho area create an aerial image in the shape of Pablo Picasso’s Peace Dove, at the foot of the Mount of Temptation just outside the West Bank city of Jericho on November 25, 2011. The UN initiative was done in conjunction with the world-renowned aerial artist, John Quigley, to send out a peace message to the world.
Photo credit: Ahmad Gharabli/AFP/Getty

Down by the riverside the people come from far and wide

Today at the 10 am worship service we have our wonderful children's Advent-Christmas Pageant (and no sermon!).

Albrecht von Gaudecker and a great group of kids have worked long and hard to bring this season's pageant, so I hope you will come if you are in the area.

I am preaching at the 8 am worship. The lessons for today are Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11, Psalm 126 , 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24 and John 1:6-8, 19-28. Here in my sermon:

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Today we make the acquaintance once again of John the Baptist, that pleasant fellow who is definitely not jolly old Saint Nick. John the Baptist, as you know, wears clothing made of camel’s hair and he has a leather belt and he eats insects. 

Although his name is “John the Baptist,” he is not a Southern Baptist or an American Baptist or any other kind of modern Baptist. 

He might better be called “John the Baptizer” because that is what he does. He stands in the river baptizing people. 

But before we completely dismiss John the Baptizer as someone who has trouble translating into the 21st century, I’d like to point out something remarkable about John Baptizer:
John the Baptizer draws people to him – many, many people from far and wide. 

In Mark’s gospel mentioned last week, that all the people of Jerusalem and all the people of the Judean countryside come to John the Baptizer. 

This week we get the version in John’s gospel. Not only do the common people come to him, the Temple authorities are so thoroughly perplexed they sent emissaries to question him, and they wonder if he is the messiah, or maybe the prophet Elijah. 

John the Baptizer has captivated all Israel, from the bottom up. 

That is an amazing fact. The gospels are saying, not so subtly, that the people of Israel are having trouble seeing the holy in the holy city.

People are having trouble finding the holy in their homes and work, and they wonder if the holy can be found outside their regular modes of organized religion. 

Maybe that has a ring of familiarity for us? 

And then these ancient people are willing to walk a very long distance to find this holy man standing waist-deep in a muddy river in the desert. 

Something very, very powerful is happening with John the Baptizer, and all the people of Judea have come from far and wide to experience it. 

These people long ago may dress and speak differently than we do. But I would also guess they have much in common with us. 

They have experienced the ups and downs of life, and they are searching for the same things we are, and they probably walked for days to reach the river Jordan and find this John the Baptizer. 

When they get there, John tells them something extraordinary: What you seek is with you already. Look up, open your eyes, God is everywhere and was with you all along.
The word repent means to “turn around,” and that is the great and wonderful irony of this story. 

People walk miles into the desert to find what they had all along. Turn around, see what has always been with you. 

John the baptizer tells the people, who have come so very far, that all they really needed to do is turn around to see God. 

The Holy was with them all along and never had left them, even when life looked bleakest. John declares the same good news that comes from the prophet Isaiah:

“The spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted.” 

Then John the Baptizer washes the people – baptizes them – in the river as a symbol that their life has begun new again, that it is never too late to see and experience God. 

And John tells them something more remarkable, that God will soon walk among them as a human being, as the One who will wash them in Holy Spirit.

“I baptize with water. Among you stands one whom you do not know, the one who is coming after me; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” 

How will we know this? 

By being awake in this time of Advent before the dawn. 

John the Baptizer is still standing in the river, telling us to sharpen our eyes and ears. Look and listen for God all around you. What you seek is already with you. The One who comes is already here, and is washing you in holy spirit,

Be awake. You really don’t have to travel far to find what you seek. Look for the dawn of Christ’s light in life, and in everyone you meet, today, and in the days to come.
Amen.

Photograph above of the Jordan River Valley, courtesy of GLOWA, an international research project working on maintaining sustainable water resources in Jordan River region.

The Eternal Now and the two baskets

Our friend Barbara Crafton, who was with us this past weekend for an Advent retreat at St. Paul's, sent this missive this morning. Barbara puts in writing much of what she reflected upon in her time with us: the "doctrine of the two baskets."

I summarized her ideas in an earlier post, but this is much better coming from her:

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THE TWO BASKETS
By Barbara Crafton

If it is so -- as it surely must be -- that God has no past, present or future, but encompasses all of these in an eternal NOW, that the One who "has the whole world in His hands" holds everything material but is neither held nor limited bit anything, then it must also be the case that we are also in it. Already. It is not an afterlife, at the end of a linear progression of minutes, years and centuries; it is an also life, existing all around the life we know, and containing it.

It is as if there were two baskets, a large one and a small one. The smaller basket sits in the larger one, which easily holds it. We live in the smaller basket: we and everything we love and hate, we as we are now, and we as we were. We as we shall be. The world as it was before we arrived, and as it will be when we have departed it. The universe from its first inorganic breath to the final sigh of its extinguishing. What was, is now and what shall be -- it is all in the smaller basket, our beautiful home.

We love it here. Almost all of us never want to leave. We count our departure from it as tragedy, the departure of those we hold dear as unbearable loss. Many of us refuse even to discuss that ending: won't make out a will, won't see the life insurance agent, won't choose a healthcare proxy. Won't even say the word "died.". And the ending of the universe that contains us? We find it inconceivable.

It is in the nature of baskets to have holes, is it not -- openings between the strips of wood or straw or grass that have been woven together to form them? If you were in the smaller basket, you might, from time to time, peer out one of the openings to see what's out there. Sometimes you see it in a state you call dreaming. There's something out there, that's for sure, and sometimes you get a glimpse. But the opening through which you peer is small, and you can't really get a good look. And who cares what's out there, anyway? You like it here. Everything you love is here, in the smaller basket.

One day, though, the smaller basket begins to crumble. Soon you stand amid the shards of it. You look around and see that you are in another basket. You see, in fact, that this is the very place you saw, those times when you peered out of the tiny openings in the smaller basket. Oh, you say to yourself, I know this place! I have always been here. Everything I loved has always been here. Everything is here.

All our times are there. All our loves. All our possibilities, including the ones that never bore fruit here in the smaller basket. Everything has always been there. As you have aged, loss has stabbed you many times, and you have bled freely from the wounds. But take heart. The fragile loves we clutch in a vain attempt to hold them here? They all wait there, just outside the basket's thin walls. The smaller basket is pregnant with us.

Our first birth into this world is frightening, I think -- a perilous journey through an impossibly narrow opening. It must be terrifying for the little traveler -- even a year or two later, you try to put a turtleneck on a toddler and it evokes an unpleasant memory. But the journey inaugurates the life we love. It's worth it.

We live in fear of our second birth, the one we call death. But it is probably the same: a transition from one state to another, from the rules of one world to a world in which they do not apply.

So be of good cheer. And stay tuned. What we see is not all there is.

Photo of Barbara Crafton at St. Paul's Memorial Church, Dec. 4, 2011, by Gwynn Crichton.

The One who made the Pleiades and Orion, and turns deep darkness into the morning: Into our Advent blues

Confession time: I am struggling with Advent this year. Maybe it is because it has “come like a thief in the night.”

Wasn’t it just a couple of weeks ago that it was hot and sticky and we were on our way back from Jerusalem?

Advent has come on very suddenly this year, or so it seems to me. The days get shorter, the sky seems gloomy and blue most of the day, and the sun sets much too early.

And it is more than that: I am once again searching for the meaning of Advent. Yes, I know, it is the season before Christmas, the time of expectant waiting for the Light of Christ to come into the world, the time before the dawn. I know all that.

But can’t we just we skip past all that, light the tree, have few angels and wise men, and open a few presents?

And what to make of the very starchy readings we get in the Daily Office lectionary?

Take, for example, the prophet Amos who this week is calling down wrath upon Israel for worshipping false idols and ignoring the poor (Amos 5:8-9):

“The one who made the Pleiades and Orion, and turns deep darkness into the morning, and darkens the day into night, who calls for the waters of the sea, and pours them out on the surface of the earth, the Lord is his name, who makes destruction flash out against the strong, so that destruction comes upon the fortress.”

Then we have Jesus, who is in full-throated scold mode today, telling the parable of the king who throws a wedding party and the guests don’t show up (Matthew 22:1-14). So the king invites people off the streets, and then gets angry all over again when one of the street-people is dressed wrong. The king orders the badly dressed guest to be bound hand and foot and “throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

What does any of this have to do with Advent and the bright lights of Christmas on the horizon?

It occurs to me that Advent is a Holy Saturday season, but stick with me a bit so I can explain this.

Holy Saturday is the day after the crucifixion (Good Friday), and the day before the Resurrection (Easter). Holy Saturday is the in-between-time of expectation of dwelling in the emptiness of the desert. Holy Saturday is that moment when Jesus goes to find people living in the darkness, even dwelling in Hell itself, so he can bring them with him into the light of Resurrection and Easter.

That is exactly what Advent is about. It also makes Advent very different than Lent.

To get to Christmas, we have to go to the emptiness of the desert and the emptiness of our souls.

This Sunday we will travel to the desert in the remarkable opening stanzas of the Gospel of Mark 1:1-8, where John the Baptist stands in the desert and “the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him.” (Mark 1:5)

The throngs come hoping to have an experience of God in the middle nowhere, in the place of desolation. They go to the desert to find the “the one who made the Pleiades and Orion, and turns deep darkness into the morning, and darkens the day into night.”

If we can get past the wrath and scolding of the readings this week, we might hear these ancient people reminding us to look for the blessings in the empty places – in the deserts where we might dwell. That is hard stuff, especially if you are lonely or dwelling in a personal darkness.

Yet even in the darkness of Advent, there God dwells, and that is what John the Baptist tells people when they find him: Look around (“repent”), God has been with you all along, wake up and see.

That is a message of hope.

Advent is an in-between time in the desert, and also a time to wake up and see the blessings right in front of us. It is a time to look for the blessings especially in times when it is hardest to see. Maybe start with the simple things. This morning I looked out at the Ragged Mountain range to see the bright light of dawn dancing on the tree tops. That was an amazing blessing, a gift for the eyes that will never look quite like that again.

I am convinced that the parable Jesus tells today in Matthew 22:1-14 fits in Advent because it is a Holy Saturday story. Again, stick with me for a few moments on this. Some interpretations render the King of the story into a metaphor for God, and the point of the story becomes about metaphorically wearing the right clothes when encountering God. Be ready, and that is certainly a good message for the season.

But what if the King in the parable is not a metaphor at all? What if the king is a selfish worldly king? And what if you don’t have the right clothes?

And go another step. Who is the badly dressed guest thrown out of the party and into the darkness?

What if the badly dressed wedding guest is Jesus himself, cast into the darkness before the dawn where he might find those who are lonely, hurting, and not fitting into the edicts of the worldly kings or wearing the right clothes? What if this is another story of Holy Saturday, when Jesus goes to find people living in the darkness, even dwelling in Hell itself, so he can bring them with him into the light of Resurrection and Easter?

Wake up, look around. The blessing is right in front of you.

Maybe the prophet Amos has it exactly right:

“The one who made the Pleiades and Orion, and turns deep darkness into the morning, and darkens the day into night, who calls for the waters of the sea, and pours them out on the surface of the earth, the Lord is his name.”

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Photographs: The Pleiades star cluster, photograph by NASA;  Mono Lake in the Mojave Desert of California, photograph copyright by Gary Hart.

Please join us for a day with Barbara Crafton on Saturday

On Saturday at 9 am, we will be treated at St. Paul's to a day with Barbara Crafton, a noted author and retreat leader who also is an Episcopal priest. I hope you can come -- the day is free (lunch on your own).  Not long ago, Barbara described what she does when leading a "quiet day," and how all of us can be our own retreat leader. Enjoy:

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QUIET DAY
By Barbara Crafton

The format is usually the same from place to place: I give several talks, with a little back-and-forth talk together after each one, and a period of quiet time in which retreatants can think their own thoughts about what has been said. Most of them are in silence while they do this, but they can talk quietly if they want to -- we're all adults, and there is no Quiet Day Silence Police. I only ask them please, to talk about things that matter and please, not to talk about church business -- that will all still be there when we're finished, and some of it will be even worse than it was when you came.

Usually I ask for a room in which I can speak to people in private, should anyone desire to do that. A sacristy or somebody's office is fine -- all I need is a door and two chairs. If the door's open, come on in. If it's closed, just lurk near it and it will be open soon.

At lunch, we talk -- normally, I ,mean, as in conversation. About halfway through lunch, I usually read from one or two of my books. Then another cycle of talk and silence. Sometimes there's a Eucharist at the end. Usually there is not -- just a blessing and good-bye.

It is remarkable how restorative just one day spent in this manner can be. No phones, no media, no power point, no small groups tediously reporting back -- these things are fine for a conference or a workshop but not for a retreat. They are work, and a retreat is the opposite of work. A retreat isn't making something, though we do often talk about "making a retreat." Rather, a retreat is taking -- taking a gift God continually offers but which we are usually too busy even to see, let alone accept. We make room for ourselves and God in a retreat. Room for joy and room for sorrow, room for truths we may not have understood before. Or, maybe, truths we have understood all too well and sought to avoid. Central among these truths is the fact that we are beloved of a God who understands us better than we understand ourselves.

In a sense, all retreats are self-directed, even retreats led by a retreat conductor. You alone determine how far you wish to go -- or if you wish to go any distance at all. Some people just sit, soaking up silent refreshment against the busy world to which they will soon return. Some talk. Some probably doze off. And some are transformed forever.

Many people make it their business to go on retreat at least once a year. Put it in your calendar, as if it were a meeting, or a continuing education experience, as if it were something you had to do. Find a convent or monastery near you. Don't be afraid to cross denominational lines -- they are far less important to God than they are to us. Ask a clergyperson to help you find the right place for you. Even a day is good -- a weekend is better, of course, and a week is pure heaven.

Do it. Plan your retreat today, and then go. Even if it's just a day. Your spirit needs and deserves it.

Advent: The time before the dawn

Today is the First Sunday of Advent, the season of expectation, the time before the dawn of Christmas and the birth of Christ. Advent is sometimes mixed up with Lent, but that is a mistake.

Advent is a time of prayerful introspection and preparation, but it is more than that. Advent is the time of waiting and looking outward for the light on the horizon. It is a time to especially think not of ourselves but what we can do for others, especially the poor, the sick and lonely.

In the Anglican tradition, the color blue is used to mark the liturgical season: the deep Indigo blue before dawn and the traditional color of Mary.

Today is also the beginning of a new church year -- and so let me wish you a blessed and happy New Year! We are now in Lectionary Year B, the year that explores the Gospel of Mark, the first of the gospels to be written. I will have much more to say about this extraordinary and often overlooked gospel as the year progresses.

I am not preaching today. I hope you will join us to hear the Rev. Dr. Ann Willms, our associate rector, who is preaching. The lessons for today are: Isaiah 64:1-9, Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18, 1 Corinthians 1:3-9, and Mark 13:24-37.

For your pleasure, I leave you with a reflection written by Joan Chittister:

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What is Advent About?
By Joan Chittister

A friend recently gave me a textile wall-hanging from Peru that makes clear that the process of finding God in the small things of life is as profound as it is simple. A pastoral scene of palm trees and rural lean-tos has been hand-stitched by peasant women, quilt-style, across the top of a felt banner. Under it is a calendar of thirty small pockets, each of them filled with something we can’t see. Every day until Christmas, we are invited to find the part of the scene that has been pocketed for that day and attach it to the scene above, one piece of hand woven cloth adhering to the other as we go.

Some of the pieces are of benign and beautiful things; some are not. There are bumblebees and angels, wild animals and dry straw, a branch-laden peasant man and a weary-looking woman. But there at the end of the days, as common as all the rest of the items in the scene, is the manger, the sign of the One who knows what life is like for us, who has mixed His own with ours. Now, we can see, all our expectations have been worth it.

Advent is about learning to wait. It is about not having to know exactly what is coming tomorrow, only that whatever it is, it is of the essence of sanctification for us. Every piece of it, some hard, some uplifting, is sign of the work of God alive in us. We are becoming as we go. We learn in Advent to stay in the present, knowing that only the present well-lived can possibly lead us to the fullness of life.

Advent relieves us of our commitment to the frenetic in a fast-paced world. It slows us down. It makes us think. It makes us look beyond today to the “great tomorrow” of life. Without Advent, moved only by the race to nowhere that exhausts the world around us, we could be so frantic with trying to consume and control this life that we fail to develop within ourselves a taste for the spirit that does not die and will not slip through our fingers like melted snow.

It is while waiting for the coming of the reign of God, Advent after Advent, that we come to realize that its coming depends on us. What we do will either hasten or slow, sharpen or dim our own commitment to do our part to bring it.

Waiting — that cold, dry period of life when nothing seems to be enough and something else beckons within us — is the grace that Advent comes to bring. It stands before us, within us, pointing to the star for which the wise ones from the East are only icons of ourselves.

We all want something more. Advent asks the question, what is it for which you are spending your life? What is the star you are following now? And where is that star in its present radiance in your life leading you? Is it a place that is really comprehensive enough to equal the breadth of the human soul?

–from The Liturgical Year by Joan Chittister

Barbara Crafton and her Almost-Daily eMos

Next Saturday we will be graced with the words and presence of Barbara Crafton, who is an author of several books, workshop leader and much more. She will lead us in an Advent retreat day at St. Paul's.  For those who follow her, you know she sends an email every day or two with a reflection or two. She gets to the heart of things in a gentle way. She puts all of her writing on a website called The Geranium Farm.

Her email missives are called the "Almost-Daily eMo." She sent this the other day explaining how it got its name; those of you who write with regularity may also recognize yourself in this. Please join us with Barbara at St. Paul's on Dec. 3 from 9 am to 3 pm (lunch on your own) and she will be preaching the following day.

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WRITING THE EMOS
By Barbara Crafton

In the new living room of a new house on a new street, some things are still the same. The dark of early morning outside the window. The crackle of burning logs. The ancient words of Morning Prayer. The steaming cup of tea. And the expectant page, waiting for words.

All day, every day, ideas appear. Ideas, or fragments of ideas. Some matriculate and some do not: I forget all about them and they never become essays. Many matriculate but never graduate -- my files are full of lonely paragraphs who have yet to become essays. But some of my ideas actually do graduate and find meaningful work -- there they are on the page, the fortunate few who realize their birthright promise.

I can write on assignment -- tell me what you need and I can probably pound out something that will suit. Writing the eMos is different: there is no assignment. I have read that yeast floats through the air, and that if you set out a paste of flour and water you can catch enough of it to leaven a loaf of bread. The eMos are like that: images and ideas float through the air, and some of them germinate.

The extent to which the germination of an essay depends on receiving is a little frightening. You can't sweat your germ of an idea into existence: you can only wait for it to appear. But you can become more skilled at recognizing the spores that will form it -- there are millions of them, and you learn to see them as they swirl toward you. Over time, it takes less and less to prime the pump. A single image, a lone word can be enough. You have grown fertile in your receptivity, easily impregnated with words that become sentences that become paragraphs that become pages. You do parent your writing, even if you do not sire it: this or that decision about this or that adjective, this or that fragment, the stretch for the very word you want -- these things you learn by doing, over and over. And by reading. And by listening to the way real people really talk.

In the early morning dark, by the fire -- this is still where it happens best for me. Music used to be part of my writing process, but I now seem unable to read or write to it. And I notice that my writing is slower-- my brain is showing its age. But that's all right. It'll have to be. We work with the instrument we have, not the one we wish we had.

Every once in a while, somebody writes and asks how the Almost-Daily eMo got its name. "Almost-Daily" speaks for itself, I guess: a hedge against the spottiness of my output. And "eMo"? Parishioners over the years have called me "Mother Crafton". I grew accustomed to it long ago. The abbreviation for "Mother" is "Mo." Kids in my parishes, and many who were not kids, took to calling me "Mo." I liked this, and still do. Anything good enough for the Three Stooges is good enough for me.

So an eMo is an electronic visit with Mo. Crafton. That's all.

Advent: Shopping binge or making a real difference?

Six years ago a group of young people got together to see if they could make Advent and Christmas become something more than a shopping binge. They wanted to see if they could make a difference, a real difference, to the millions of people around the globe who contract fatal diseases because they don't have access to clean water.

They came up with Advent Conspiracy.

I think this is amazing. From a simple idea has come an enormous global movement, and we can be apart. Some Episcopal churches have taken this and begun a fund-raising effort called Wine into Water, raising money for clean water efforts by Episcopal Relief and Development. In the new year, we will hear more about that. For now, please watch this video, and then click HERE to learn more about Advent Conspiracy:

[AC] Promo 2011 from Advent Conspiracy on Vimeo.

The Christmas story through the eyes of children

Here is a bonus for your week, the Christmas story as told by the children of St. Paul's Church, Auckland, New Zealand. This is worth a few minutes of your time. Enjoy!

The Heart-in-waiting

This poem came across my email the other day and so I thought I'd share it with you:

The Heart-in-waiting

Jesus walked through whispering wood:
'I am pale blossom, I am blood berry,
I am rough bark, I am sharp thorn.
This is the place where you will be born.'

Jesus went down to the skirl of the sea:
'I am long reach, I am fierce comber,
I am keen saltspray, I am spring tide.'
He pushed the cup of the sea aside

And heard the sky which breathed-and-blew:
'I am the firmament, I am shape-changer,
I cradle and carry and kiss and roar,
I am infinite roof and floor.'

All day he walked, he walked all night,
Then Jesus came to the heart at dawn.
'Here and now,' said the heart-in-waiting,
'This is the place where you must be born.'

By Kevin Crossley-Holland, from Selected Poems, 2001; Photo by Ina Hramacek.

Blue Christmas at Church of Our Saviour

Our friends at Church of Our Saviour (1165 Rio Road, Charlottesville) are offering this worship service Wednesday at 7 pm, and I thought you might like to know about it. The time conflicts with our Community Night, but maybe this is the place you need to be this week. Here is the information:

Blue Christmas

Is this Christmas season a difficult one for you? You are not alone – join us for a quiet, reflective service for solace and strength.

Christmas time can be a very lonely, depressing, "blue" time for those grieving the loss of loved ones, loss of a job, health or other losses. It may be “blue” for those who are all alone when others are partying and gathering with family members.

Many people feel out of step with what society demands at this time of year. Then there are those years in our lives when we hurt during the Christmas season and just can't get into the traditional festivities.

It is at such times that we need to make the space and take the time to acknowledge our sadness and concern. We need to know we are not alone.

If you or someone you know finds Christmas a difficult time, Church of Our Saviour invites you to attend a Blue Christmas service on Wednesday, December 15, at 7:00 pm in the main church.

Join together to listen to prayers and scripture that acknowledge God's presence, even in times of sadness and struggle. God's Word comes to shine light into our darkness regardless of where we are, and we can lay our burdens before our Savior and Mediator at the time of year we celebrate His birth. The service will include special music, including our own Canterbury Bells.

The service will be followed by light refreshments and fellowship. Please accept this invitation to be with us, to experience the hope that is Christmas. The doors will be open to all. Feel free to invite others to come with you as your support, or if you know that they, too, are hurting at Christmas. If you have any questions, please contact Carolyn Voldrich at the church (434-973-6512).

Directions:

From downtown Charlottesville and the Rt. 250 Bypass: Go west on Park Street, which becomes East Rio Rd., After passing a set of gas stations on the right, look for the stone chapel with the red tile roof on the right. Right past it, turn right onto Huntington Rd. and into the church parking lot.

From Route 29: Turn east onto Rio Rd., toward downtown Charlottesville. After approximately one mile, turn left onto Huntington Road and into the church parking lot.

You and I do not face the works of darkness alone

Putting on the "armor of light" is the theme of Advent. I've been thinking much about that since Sunday when those words shaped the opening "collect," or prayer for the day.

I've been looking for that light all week, and finding it here and there in conversations, in walks in the woods, in the quiet moments by the fire at home. I've felt the Holy presence among many of you as we've talked about the things that matter, and laughed about some of things that really don't.

It is getting colder now in Virginia, and most of the leaves are off the trees. In a matter of a few weeks, the landscape has gone from technicolor to sepia and is now heading into a black-and-gray dreariness. Morning frost tinges the brown leaves that cover our front yard. The darkness of winter is descending, and finding sunlight is an ever-present challenge. I do pine for the open expanses of the West this time of year, the glistening spires of the Sierra Nevada, the deep blue-green of the Pacific. Those places seem so very distant now.

My priest friend Barbara Crafton from New Jersey wrote something earlier this week that struck a chord with me, and I share it with you:

Into this discouraging landscape comes news: you are not alone is your struggle to live your life. You do not face the works of darkness alone. No, you're not all-powerful and unerring. Yes, there are many things about you that you wish were other than they are. But fear not: you have armor. You have help in putting aside that which is not life-giving.

Christ comes "in great humility," we notice. The first coming is not a clash of cymbals, but a baby's cry. An infant, who can't even feed himself, who has no accomplishments, from whom nobody can expect anything. Good idea: the powerlessness we expect in four week's time is the powerlessness I feel. A community of love will raise this Child, a mother and father will care for him and guide him. He will not have to make it on his own, as I do not. And within His weakness, with which I identify so completely? Nothing less than the might that created the universe and everything in it.

Please join me tonight for a special conversation about our mission and future as a church

Please join me tonight, and each Wednesday evening in Advent, at St. Paul's for a special conversation about the book Christianity for the Rest of Us, by Diana Butler Bass. We will meet at 7 pm after our Community Night dinner, and please come even if you haven't read the book.

You can also join in this conversation on a special blog by clicking on the book cover just to the left or by clicking HERE.

I chose this book hoping to start a conversation involving all of us about our mission and our future here at St. Paul’s. Why are we on this corner? What is God calling us to be in our second century as a parish? How will we live out our baptismal covenant to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?”

The book surveys how 15 very different churches are living out their mission in their own particular way. Some are large, others small, but all are growing spiritually and inclusively as each hears God’s call to them. The book is not a strategic plan or a statistical survey of membership growth. Rather, Butler Bass takes us on a tour of what congregations can be when faithfully hearing God’s call and being courageous enough to act. Each congregation is very different, but all of these congregations have this in common: they began by recognizing not only who they are, but whose they are, and they responded after much prayer and discernment.

I am not asking us to critique the book, but to use the book as a catalyst for our own conversation about our mission as a parish. This is very informal; it is not a committee or a task force. It is not a focus group. We won’t be marking butcher paper on the wall. But I hope we will find insights from our collective wisdom and experience – and will be open to asking the deep hard questions about our mission and ministry that we share together. And I expect we will hear a surprise or two along the way. I hope you can join me tonight and each Wednesday evening of Advent.

Nativity art by He Qi.

Putting on the Armor of Light this Advent in our daily life

My usual practice each morning is to get up about 6 am, hit the button on the coffeemaker, feed the cat, and then settle into my favorite chair and read the "Daily Office" biblical readings and prayers assigned for Morning Prayer. I try to meditate and pray with the readings, and sometimes those prayers take me surprising places.

This past Sunday -- the First Sunday of Advent -- I did as I usually do. But the readings weren't speaking to me, and my mind wandered to the day ahead and all of the details of our Sunday services.

And it got worse; I began replaying conversations from the week that was past. Instead of focusing on the readings, I was rehearsing all of my "shudda saids," as in, "I shudda said this" to So-and-So, and "I shudda said that."

There was something definitely wrong with this picture. I was preparing to lead the people at prayer in another hour, but my own prayer wasn't going anywhere.

I read the lessons again. I focused on the second reading, from 2 Peter 3:1-10 about "The Lord ... is patient with you, not wanting any to perish, but all to come to repentance." This seemed to have possibilities. Still, I wasn't getting very far and my mind wandered.

Then I read the 1 Advent Sunday "collect" -- the prayer with which we would shortly open our Sunday worship: "Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light..."

That's when it hit me hard. The challenge this Advent for me is to see not only the armor of light in myself, but to see the light in others. If we take seriously that God lives in each of us, then seeing that light in others is a primary challenge of living a life of faith.

And that is not always easy, at least for me, especially with difficult and disagreeable people. Instead of "I shudda said this to So-and-So," I should have seen the light of God especially in those people I find the hardest to deal with.

That is a tall challenge. That takes discipline and practice, and prayer.

I think of people who I most admire, for example Desmond Tutu. It seems to me the difference between him and all the rest of us is that he has this extraordinary gift of seeing God's light in others, especially in people who were once his enemies and oppressors. His great ability to see the light in everyone he meets has brought reconciliation and a path of peace to his troubled land and has inspired the rest of the world.

Last Advent, I wrote quite a bit in this space about the challenge of prayer and a variety of ways of praying. In a way, we are continuing that conversation begun last Advent. I am convinced that sometimes the prayer is not my own. Sometimes it is not me who is praying to God, but God breaking through to me with prayer. Sunday was one of those occasions for me.

This Advent I'd like to challenge each of us -- starting with me -- to look for the light of God in everyone we meet. To do that, we need to begin by lowering our voices so we can listen to each other, and go out of our way to be patient and kind with each other -- especially when it is hardest. I will write more about this challenge as we go along.

My prayer for each of us is that we will put on the "armor of light" by looking for it in each other this Advent.

Wake Up Sunday: Advent is here

Today's sermon is based on Romans 13:11-14 and Matthew 24:36-44.

* * *

O Come, O Come Emmanuel.
May the God of Hope fill you with all joy and peace this season.

Straighten up. Open your eyes and ears.

“You know what time it is,” Paul proclaims in his Letter to the Romans, “it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.”

Maybe we should call this Wake Up Sunday.

Or, as a bumper sticker I recently saw says, “Jesus is coming. Look busy.”

We have entered the time of Advent, the season before Christmas.

Today is also the first day of the new year on the church calendar. Our calendar goes from Advent to Advent, so happy new year to each of you.

We mark the beginning of this new season and new year with new liturgical colors. We are following the English tradition by using blue for Advent.

The color is called “Salisbury Blue,” or “Sarum Blue” – Sarum is the Latin name for Salisbury.

Blue has been used for Advent at Salisbury Cathedral in England since the 11th century. No one is quite sure why this blue came to be used at Salisbury – some think it is the color of Mary, and that is probably as plausible an explanation as any, and others say it is “royal” blue – the color of Norman kings.

To me, the color evokes the time of the deep blue sky before the dawn, the time of waiting, the time of awakening.

We are, of course, waiting for the birth of Jesus, the Christ child. We are waiting for Christmas when we once again remember his birth long ago and the light he brings into our world.

We gather and wait in Advent with the traditional hymn: O Come, O Come Emmanuel.

The name “Emmanuel” means “God is with us.”

O Come, God, O come be with us.

Yet the biblical lessons suggest we are waiting for something else. We are waiting for the end of time, the end of history, the second coming, the apocalypse.

Like it as not, that, too, is a part of our tradition. And, like it as not, the Gospel of Matthew compels us this morning to grapple with this tradition.

“You also must be ready,” the gospel proclaims, “for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

Early Christians heard in these words something we may have a hard time hearing: hope for a better world and the day when their oppressors and their poverty would be swept away.

Unfortunately there are some in our world who hear in this a prediction of the “rapture,” the day when the good guys – people like them – will be taken up to heaven – and the bad guys, probably people like me, will be left behind.

It does remind me of another bumper sticker I once saw: “Come the rapture, can I have your car?”

To many of us, this end-times talk may sound a little scary, and it certainly doesn’t sound very Christmassy.

We may rightfully ask how all of the end of time is connected to the incarnation of Christ as a person at Christmas. We might also rightly ask whether the ancient predictions of Jesus coming back were right.

We are not the first to ask those questions.

In the days following the death of Jesus, there was great fascination with calculating the exact day and time Jesus would return and human history would end. The Gospel of Matthew quotes Jesus saying “all these things” would happen in “this generation.”

Early Christians circulated elaborate formulas to predict when this would happen, often using the Book of Daniel as a baseline for calculations. Popular formulas put his return somewhere between 1,290 days and 1,334 days from the crucifixion, or approximately three-and-half years.

The only problem is it didn’t happen that way; 1,334 days came and went, and still no second coming and the end of history. Time marched on.

Not surprisingly, skeptics and scoffers began to taunt the early Christians as being – how shall we say? – crackpots. The careful calculations of the return of Jesus proved to be embarrassing to early Christians.

The gospel writers seemed to hedge their bets. The passage from the Gospel of Matthew we hear today strikes this tone: “Be watchful, you don’t know when the Son of Man will return. Forget about calculating this, it could happen at any time, just like the flood during Noah’s time. Life is uncertain, so be prepared.”

All that is true – life is uncertain, floods, fires, natural disasters do happen with no warning. It is good advice to keep your fire extinguishers charged and fresh batteries in your flashlights and smoke detectors.

But what of this second coming of Jesus? Did the early Christians get it wrong?

I would suggest that Matthew got it right, but to get there you need to skip to the end of the Gospel of Matthew 28:20 where Jesus says, “I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

And that, I would suggest, gives us another image of this second coming business: Jesus has already come, and is still coming to us every day. Jesus rose from the grave, was seen again by his followers, dwelled with them and in them, and dwells with us still.

Yes, Jesus will come again, but he has already come and will keep coming, and is here now in each of us, and Jesus is present with us even now, gathering with us today at our Holy Table.

And that presents us with a harder challenge than simply waiting for the world to end.

We are beckoned to notice his presence, and to be his hands and feet and heart in the world, this world, the one that is ours, not some other world of popular fiction. We are beckoned to be ready to be builders.

We are beckoned to do as Christ would do, to heal and bring peace and forgiveness. We are beckoned to build a world that is more just and caring, and to do this not in a distant age to come, but here and now.

We are beckoned to do so because we are part of Christ and Christ is part of us. The second coming of Christ comes inside each of us, each day of our lives.

The Christ within us bids us to get busy building the Kingdom of God, not because there is a reward at the end of time, but because that is at the core of our soul.
The Kingdom is already here, but is being born through us, one act at a time, one brick at a time, one day at time.

We build the kingdom, and the only reward we can expect is the reward of being builders.

We build with many tools, and we have many builders here at St. Paul’s. Some of you are builders by being ushers and Eucharistic ministers, choir members and altar guild and flower guild members, or Sunday school teachers for our children, or members of the Shalom group for young adults.

Some of you are builders beyond our walls by serving the sick in hospitals and the homeless on the streets or those who are homebound, or teaming with other faith communities building house through Habitat for Humanity.

We are builders of the kingdom by serving in the workplace and in the classroom and in our own homes.

We are builders with our university community, with our students.

We are builders of God’s kingdom with thousands of acts of kindness, and by giving the best of what we have and who we are.

There is one more challenge that comes with Advent: The opening prayer this morning calls us to “put on the armor of light.”

I believe all of us have that light of God within us, and we are called to look for this holy light in each other. Sometimes that is not easy to see, but that is the prayer God has for us – that we will see God’s light in each other.

So be awake – it is almost dawn before a new day – Christ is risen and with us.

“For salvation is nearer to us now,” Paul says, “than when we became believers; the night is far gone, the day is near.”

Look around you – look for the dawn of Christ’s light inside you and in all you do, in all whom you meet, and everywhere you go.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel.
May the God of Hope fill you with all joy and peace this season. AMEN.

* * *

Advent banner above designed by Rebekah Holton of Minnesota Valley Lutheran High School, 2009

Join me this Advent for a conversation about our ministry and mission at St. Paul's

Recently I asked a few people at St. Paul's to join me in reading Christianity for the Rest of Us, by Diana Butler Bass. I chose this book hoping to start a conversation about our mission and our future here at St. Paul’s. Why are we on this corner? What is God calling us to be in our second century as a parish? How will we live out our baptismal covenant to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?”

Now I would like to invite you to read this book, and join me for conversation each Wednesday evening in Advent beginning on Dec. 1 at 7 pm following our community night dinner. If you can't make our gatherings on Wednesdays, let's continue this conversation on-line. I've set up a special blog for this book discussion, which you can reach by clicking HERE.

The book surveys how 15 very different churches are living out their mission in their own particular way. Some are large, others small, but all are growing spiritually and inclusively as each hears God’s call to them. The book is not a statistical survey or a recipe guide for membership growth. Rather, Butler Bass takes us on a tour of what congregations can be when faithfully hearing God’s call and being courageous enough to act. All of these congregations have this in common: they began by recognizing not only who they are, but whose they are.

I am not asking us to critique the book, but to use the book as a catalyst for our own conversation about our mission as a parish. This is very informal; it is not a committee or a task force. It is not a focus group. We won’t be marking up butcher paper on the wall. I am not looking for recommendations to come from this. But I hope we will find insights from our collective wisdom and experience – and will be open to asking the deep hard question about our mission and ministry that we share together. And I expect we will hear a surprise or two along the way.

Let me tell you a little about the conversations I’ve had so far with a few people at St. Paul’s about the book.

We focused on a number of topics covered in the book, especially discernment of God's calling to us as a parish – how to know when we see it. We talked about the signposts, or markers, we see for how God is leading us in our faith community and in the community beyond our walls. We talked about hospitality and how we are called to be a welcoming community, and how we can build on this strength.

We did NOT engage in problem solving but rather offered ideas and observations about what discernment and hospitality looks and feels like especially to new people here in our parish. We grappled with how St. Paul's is a spiritual home to some, while others struggle to find their place here even after being here for many years.

One of the topics discussed in the book that resonates with many people is how discerning God's presence and guidance often feels non-linear. The destination is not always clearly in sight; the path is as important as getting there. “Discernment is an odd guide, however, for it not only points the way on the journey but it is a sort of destination in itself.” (p. 96)

Where this conversation is going I don't know, and that is also a marker of true discernment. I would like to keep this conversation going and growing, and continue walking the path with you as we see where God is leading our parish. Please join me in Advent in reading this book and being in conversation.

One more thing: Diana Butler Bass will be speaking at St. Paul's, Richmond, April 18-20, and I'd like us to go together to hear her speak. Click HERE for more information about her appearance.