I Can See Clearly Now...a sermon for Lent 1B

Rev. Teri Peterson

I Can See Clearly Now…
RCLPC
1 March 2009, Lent 1B
Genesis 8.6-12, 15-19, 9.8-17

At the end of forty days Noah opened the window of the ark that he had made and sent out the raven; and it went to and fro until the waters were dried up from the earth. Then he sent out the dove from him, to see if the waters had subsided from the face of the ground; but the dove found no place to set its foot, and it returned to him to the ark, for the waters were still on the face of the whole earth. So he put out his hand and took it and brought it into the ark with him. He waited another seven days, and again he sent out the dove from the ark; and the dove came back to him in the evening, and there in its beak was a freshly plucked olive leaf; so Noah knew that the waters had subsided from the earth. Then he waited another seven days, and sent out the dove; and it did not return to him any more.
Then God said to Noah, ‘Go out of the ark, you and your wife, and your sons and your sons’ wives with you. Bring out with you every living thing that is with you of all flesh—birds and animals and every creeping thing that creeps on the earth—so that they may abound on the earth, and be fruitful and multiply on the earth.’ So Noah went out with his sons and his wife and his sons’ wives. And every animal, every creeping thing, and every bird, everything that moves on the earth, went out of the ark by families.
Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, ‘As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.’
God said, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh. When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.’ God said to Noah, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I have established between me and all flesh that is on the earth.’


When I was a Camp Fire Girl, one of the things we did a lot of was singing. I remember learning a song about Noah’s ark—perhaps you also learned this song? The chorus is the best part—“Rise and Shine and give God the glory glory!” The verses include such classics as “the Lord said to Noah, there’s gonna be a floody floody” and “God told Noah to build him an arky arky.” It’s a classic children’s song, isn’t it? I even found verses I never learned when I checked out websites like childbiblesongs.com. The song tells the whole story, from the ark to the animals going in by twosie-twosies, to the rain and flood and the sun coming out again.

Well, the song tells most of the story, anyway. There are a few key parts left out. Because really, this story isn’t a children’s book, at its core it doesn’t belong in a children’s song—it would be better off starting “it was a dark and stormy forty days and forty nights…” because it’s nearly that sinister. You see, before God has Noah build the ark and bring his family and all the animals in, God looks at the world, the world God created and called good just a few chapters before, and sees only corruption and anger and violence. The world lacks compassion and hope and care. And so, in the face of overwhelming disappointment, God decides to counter violence with violence. The divine retribution is complete devastation—nothing will be left…except Noah, the 7 members of his family, and two of each living animal. That’s it—everything else will be utterly wiped out, drowned, washed away in the flood of God’s grief and anger.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember that verse in the song.

After the rain stops and the waters begin to subside, after the ark comes to rest on the top of a mountain, Noah begins sending out scouts—first a raven, then a dove. When the dove comes back with an olive branch, a sprouting twig of hope from below the tree line, a sign of spring, of new life, then Noah knows it’s nearly time to go. And then, just as all these animals come out of the ark, family by family, God speaks.

It seems that God is a pretty fast learner—much faster than we are. God looks around at the fresh new world, shiny and clean, and sees more clearly than ever before that this won’t work. Now that the rain is gone, God sees that the creation will always be slightly less than perfect, will always be disappointing because people have free will, will always contain the seeds that can grow into violence just as easily as they can grow into compassion. The question about those seeds is what kind of water they get, and the flood waters of violence will not stamp out violence. God sees clearly now that redemptive violence is a lie—fighting violence with violence will always fail. In the words of Ghandi: an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.

And so God hangs up the bow—a weapon, a vehicle for violence—facing away from the earth. God chooses a different path, a path based on covenant and creation and love. This covenant to never again use violence against the world is made not just with Noah and his family, but with all the creatures of the earth too. In this dawn of the new creation, this springtime of the covenant, God promises to look forward with hope, and asks us to do the same.

You might be wondering what all of this has to do with Lent. Well, the word “lent” is an old saxon word for Spring, and refers primarily to the lengthening of the days. The word was adopted by the church in the middle ages to refer to the time of preparation for Easter (the old word was a very long Latin name). Lent, the springtime of a new covenant, the time when we sit in the ark while God prepares a new thing around us, the time when we look for twigs of hope sprouting in the darkness and chaos around us.

One of the hardest parts about Lent, I think, is the sense of inevitability. We journey through these forty days, this time in the wilderness, this time of preparation, and every year, without fail, we come to the part of the story that is all death and darkness and despair. Every year, without fail, Judas betrays, Peter denies, and Jesus prays on the cross. The story is never going to go differently. Whatever we do, whether we give something up or take something on or drape our sanctuary in black or let our Alleluias fall silent, it’s going to be the same.

This is also one of the best parts of Lent, in my opinion. Because no matter what we do, no matter how dark the world is, no matter how deep the despair, Friday will always give way to Sunday, when light rather than darkness pours out of an empty tomb. God is indeed doing a new thing, making a new creation, marking that creation with a new covenant, no matter what we do. We sit in the ark, we pray in the wilderness, we wander through the desert, and all around us God is doing a new thing, pouring out love and grace and compassion with arms spread wide in welcome, because no more will God rain destruction—the only thing that can overcome despair is hope, the only thing that can overcome darkness is light, the only thing that can overcome violence is love.

So maybe this story does belong in children’s songs and storybooks after all. It’s a story of learning and growth, a story of a commitment to compassion and love, a story of God making a promise and keeping that promise. For all the violence and destruction, for all the nonsense words of the song, there’s also hope for a new creation—even now it springs forth, in olive branches, in lengthening days, in rainbows.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

kiva!

I just tried to go re-lend some money I've had paid back on Kiva, only to discover that every single loan is funded!  That's so great!  

And yet, I'm a little sad that I can't go perusing the small businesses around the world and help them out.  But happy that everyone's fully funded!

thanks

Today I just want to say "thanks" to all of you who are my friends.  I really appreciate you guys/gals!  And, as I'm in the process of getting to know a new--ish friend better (someone who really needs friends), I want you all to know that you're awesome because now I have the capacity to be a good friend too!

Also, to those of you who may work in seminary-type environments:  please start telling students that parish ministry is very isolating, even if you're not serving in a geographically isolated area.  It's hard to make friends when you're fresh out of the tight-knit group that is a seminary class.  It's hard to make friends when you're the pastor (or pastor's spouse).  It's hard to make friends when you don't have disposable income or much free time.  Most people don't seem prepared for that shock of isolation, and have no tools for coping other than a telephone call to other friends who are similarly isolated.  People need to know this so they can at least mentally prepare a little!  

And to those of you looking for friends in a new place:  it's hard, but please do it.  It's so worthwhile to have good friends who can support you, challenge you, and all around make you a better person. Take my word for it, I'm lucky to have a bunch.

lesser is More--a sermon for Ordinary 6B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
lesser is More
2 Kings 5.1-14
February 15 2009, Ordinary 6B

Naaman, commander of the army of the king of Aram, was a great man and in high favor with his master, because by him the Lord had given victory to Aram. The man, though a mighty warrior, suffered from leprosy. Now the Arameans on one of their raids had taken a young girl captive from the land of Israel, and she served Naaman’s wife. She said to her mistress, ‘If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.’ So Naaman went in and told his lord just what the girl from the land of Israel had said. And the king of Aram said, ‘Go then, and I will send along a letter to the king of Israel.’
He went, taking with him ten talents of silver, six thousand shekels of gold, and ten sets of garments. He brought the letter to the king of Israel, which read, ‘When this letter reaches you, know that I have sent to you my servant Naaman, that you may cure him of his leprosy.’ When the king of Israel read the letter, he tore his clothes and said, ‘Am I God, to give death or life, that this man sends word to me to cure a man of his leprosy? Just look and see how he is trying to pick a quarrel with me.’
But when Elisha the man of God heard that the king of Israel had torn his clothes, he sent a message to the king, ‘Why have you torn your clothes? Let him come to me, that he may learn that there is a prophet in Israel.’ So Naaman came with his horses and chariots, and halted at the entrance of Elisha’s house. Elisha sent a messenger to him, saying, ‘Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored and you shall be clean.’ But Naaman became angry and went away, saying, ‘I thought that for me he would surely come out, and stand and call on the name of the Lord his God, and would wave his hand over the spot, and cure the leprosy! Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them, and be clean?’ He turned and went away in a rage. But his servants approached and said to him, ‘Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, “Wash, and be clean”?’ So he went down and immersed himself seven times in the Jordan, according to the word of the man of God; his flesh was restored like the flesh of a young boy, and he was clean.


When I moved to Egypt, I discovered something I’d been told, but could still only figure out for myself. Egypt is a study in contrasts—incredible poverty across the street from incredible wealth, tourist-brochure blue seas and golden sands next to the gut-wrenching air, water, and land pollution of an overpopulated developing nation, the ancient and amazing pyramids of Giza across the street from a modern, two-story no less! McDonald’s.
This story, in some ways, reminds me of those contrasts I found in Egypt, beginning with our reaction to it. This is a shocking story—shocking enough that when Jesus references it during his first (and last) sermon in his home church, the people try to throw him off a cliff! But why?
I could practically hear the collective groan in our subconscious when you all heard the words “Second Book of Kings.” Be honest, now, how many of you tend to think of books like second kings as part of our holy scripture that doesn’t make much sense, full names that are hard to pronounce, and stories that don’t mean anything to us…more the stuff of skimming than of reading over and over?

And yet, as people of the book, we claim that these stories we read are part of our story, and we are part of the story that this book tries to tell, whether we like it or not. But still, that’s not so shocking—people are bored by the Bible all the time…what is it about this story that’s throw-him-off-a-cliff worthy? It seems so harmless—Girl says “hey, we have a prophet who can heal!” Guy says “oh, excellent, let’s check that out.” Prophet says “go take a bath already.” Guy does, he’s healed. Done.

If only things were that simple.

Before the story begins, the Aramean army, apparently aided by God, has just obliterated the northern kingdom of Israel—there’s practically nothing left. The people are quiet but wary. The king is a figurehead, perfectly aware that he has very little power. The Arameans have taken some prisoners of war, including women and children, and one of these children is now a slave in the house of the four-star general who planned and executed this war.

But the general has a problem—he has a skin disease. He’s probably tried to keep it a secret as much as possible…but things like this get out. Now, Naaman is a very rich man, but visiting every doctor and magician in Syria hasn’t helped. Naaman can still do his job, he can still attend the king’s court, he’s just itchy. But to the Israelite prisoner of war slave girl, leprosy is something very different—it’s an affliction that means that Naaman can’t be whole, he can’t be ritually clean, he can’t be a full part of the family or community. It’s something that needs to be cleansed immediately. So she offers her suggestion…

She’s a young girl—nothing more than property, a plaything. A slave girl—easily disposed of if she’s insolent or not useful. A prisoner of war—an inferior being, captured from an inferior people. A nameless young thing, advising the most powerful man in the middle east, and Naaman takes her seriously.

As if that’s not shocking enough, Naaman gets permission from his king to go back to Israel to seek out this prophet. So he loads up his carriages and chariots, his baggage train, his money, his offering to placate the king he knows perfectly well has been demolished by Naaman’s own power. In other words, he loads up the spoils of a war he’d just won, a symbol of his power and might, and he rolls on down from Damascus to Israel, through towns and villages with his military escort and his wagons of money looted from those same towns and villages. No wonder the king tore his clothes when he read the letter—between the letter demanding that the king heal Naaman and the intimidation of the military baggage train, he must have known he was in trouble.

And then in steps Elisha, a prophet unlike any Naaman has known. In Naaman’s world, prophets belong in royal courts, they’re in the employ of the king, their job is to tell the king what he wants to hear. But these Israelites are strange people, and that’s not how Elisha works, so off Naaman goes to Elisha’s little hut, where another surprise awaits. He pulls the chariots, the wagons, the carriages, the horses, the military escort, the money, the extra clothes, up to the door of a mud brick hovel, knocks, and waits…only to be greeted by a servant and given instructions to take a bath and go home.

A servant???? Where is the magician? Where is the royal prophet? Doesn’t he know who Naaman is? Doesn’t he recognize the chariots and soldiers that were here such a short time ago? Doesn’t he recognize the general who led a successful war right here on this land? Doesn’t he know that there’s better water to be had everywhere besides here, in this literal backwater, an inferior country overrun with inferior people? I suspect I too would storm away in a rage.

Again, servant to the rescue, and again Naaman listens…and the man who came looking for a magical cure, laden with possessions and burdened with power, finds healing, naked and shivering in a muddy polluted stream. The one who thought power and might could save him finds that only when he’s alone in the river, powerless and vulnerable, dripping with mud and water—only then is true power revealed. Grace abounds, but the earthly trappings may blur our vision more than water in our eyes would.

What about Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus? Aren’t they better than all the waters of Israel? Could Naaman not wash in them? It’s not like the Jordan is a magic river. It’s a muddy and polluted trickle of water in some places. It’s not clean, it’s not beautiful, it’s not special. What makes it special this time is actually two things, both having to do with Naaman, not with the river. Remember that Jesus said, “there were many lepers in Israel, but only Naaman the Syrian was healed.” Why? First, he agrees to go in the water. Remember, leprosy to Naaman wasn’t something that needed cleansing, he thought he needed curing. Did you catch what Elisha said?—“your flesh shall be restored and you shall be clean.” But how could getting dirtier in the Jordan, rather than cleaner in his own sparkling rivers, help anything? But he does it anyway. We’ll never know whether Abana or Pharpar would have been good enough…he doesn’t seem to have tried them first, since he was looking for the wrong kind of cure. Second, and more important, in order to wash seven times in the Jordan, he had to leave everything else, from his baggage to his wealth to his escort, on the shore. He had to shed his power to find shalom—and then his flesh was restored, and he was clean.

The whole time he’d been suffering from dis-ease, Naaman had been looking in the wrong places, asking the wrong questions, living on the wrong side of the contrast. He went to the king, having taken the advice of a prisoner slave girl. He demanded magic, having sought out a prophet. He brought more money than anyone in Israel had, seeking grace that can’t be bought. He expected a show of power equal to his, and instead found a different kind of power, a power found in weakness and vulnerability—in a slave girl, a prophet’s messenger, a servant, a muddy river. The lesser the person or task, the more powerful they are, and the more shocking the story becomes.

It’s hard to summarize what we all do while looking for God, looking for grace, looking for healing, any better than the Indigo Girls did:

We go to the doctor, we go to the mountains,
We look to the children, we drink from the fountains,
we go to the Bible, we go through the workout,
We read up on revival and we stand up for the lookout
There’s more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
The less I seek my source for some definitive,
The closer I am to fine.

May our eyes be opened to look in the right places, to expect surprising grace, to find wholeness in the undefined mystery of faith.
Amen.

Some of the music for the service this week: 

at 830:

 

at 830 and 930: a song called "River of Mercy" that I can't seem to find a video of...but includes the words "flow, river of mercy, wash away my fear...run through me like the sea crashes into the sand...pour, river of mercy, healing water flow..."

and, at all three services, after the sermon/during the offering!!

confession

no, I don't have anything juicy to confess--I don't have enough free time to really get into too much trouble.

But last week, while I was at the Celtic Spirituality for Today conference, led by Philip Newell and John Bell, we had some interesting discussion on the topic of confession.

I have to tell you, I'm Reformed.  Very Reformed, particularly when it comes to liturgical issues and the theology behind our liturgies.  One of the things about Reformed liturgies is that they pretty much always have a prayer of confession somewhere near the beginning--we prepare to encounter the living Word by confessing that we don't get it right, that we don't live the way God calls us, etc.  This is one of the things that helps me when people say that Christians are hypocrites--"not really," I say, " because we admit out loud every week that we don't do it right."

But Philip Newell, who is from the Church of Scotland and is also Reformed, said one day that, "in no other relationship do we begin every encounter with the other by saying what s***bags we are.  If we do have a relationship where every encounter begins that way, it's probably not a healthy relationship, it's probably very sick and won't last."  He says this is the result of the way we have thought of Original Sin, which is a whole different blog post and is also a discussion that involves looking at our tradition from a different angle.

So, back to the confession thing:  If, in fact, we do begin our encounters with God by confessing (and it is up close, too, even in the acronym for prayer: ACTS--adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication...sometimes with ID added--intercession, dedication), and if in fact that could be construed as a mark of an UNhealthy relationship with another, then we have a problem.

Is it possible that the reason people *feel* so unworthy, the reason that people *feel* that they have nothing to offer, the reason people *feel* that God hates them...could be because we have a liturgical tradition that reinforces that feeling every week?  Yes, I know, we offer words of assurance, declarations of forgiveness, etc, but...is it possible that the words of the confession are sticking more, and polluting our relationship with God, a relationship based on love, not shame?

I do think prayers of confession are important.  But I'm beginning to wonder if we need them every week after all?  (I know, I know...call up my Reformed theology professor and out me as a heretic now!)  Or do we need something else...something that nurtures our loving relationship with God rather than (even subconsciously) plants more seeds of shame?  Hmmm....

RGBP Friday Five: HGTV edition

WillSmama is buying her first house!  She says: It is a new-build and so some of the fun was picking out upgrades and major decor items to my taste rather than walking into a previously owned home that needed to be upgraded room by room (pink and teal tiles in the bathroom, anyone?). As much as decorating is not my thing, I did try to embrace the moment because just how many times do you get to have a do-over on kitchen cabinets/floors/countertops?

And so, my questions to you this fine Friday involve your home past, present or future...

1) If you could, what room in the place you are currently living would you redo first?

probably the kitchen.  I would love different cabinet doors and more counter space!  But then, who doesn't?  I also sort of want to take down the wall between the kitchen and living room and make it a half wall (like the one in between the kitchen and dining room) and make it into an L shaped bar instead--extra counter, extra seating, more open feel in a pretty open space already--what would there be to not love?

2) What is the most hideous feature/color/decor item you have ever seen in a home?

hmmm...for the moment, I'm going to have to go with the viney wallpaper in the kitchen at one of the condos I looked at before buying this one.  It was basically floor-to-ceiling grapevines on the wall paper.  a little busy for my taste...

3) What feature do you most covet? Do you have it? If not, is it within reach?

hardwood floors.  It could be within reach if I could just save up, oh, several thousand dollars...

4) Your kitchen - love it or hate it? Why?

Most of the time I really love it, actually--I just don't like the cabinet doors (you have to open them in the right order or else the flap that hides the inside, which is attached to the other door, blocks your progress in opening AND makes a loud slamming very likely!) or the countertops (fake wood laminate).   I LOVE the sink (which I had my grandpa replace the same day I moved in) and the appliances and even the layout.  It needs a little more counter space, or else I need to get way more organized so I don't have so much stuff on the counters!  

5) Here is $10,000 and you HAVE to spend it on the place you are living now. What do you do?

Excellent!  New floors, new trim, and crown molding, here I come!  Also the paying off of the new windows (not yet installed)--woohoo!


BONUS: Why do you think there was such a surplus of ugly bathroom tile colors showcased in all homes built from the 1950's right through the early 80's?

hmm...magazines influencing people?  lots of color blind interior decorators?  surplus of ceramic dyes in the system made the ugly tile cheaper?

thinking out loud about church

So our current Adult Education offering (well, one of them--the one I'm teaching) is a study of the book "A New Church For A New World" by John Buchanan.  This past week we talked about how The Church (the institution) interacts with The World.  We talked about three main ways Protestants (and Presbyterians in particular) have interacted with the world--through acts of charity/mercy/compassion, through engaging with social/cultural issues, and through attempts to transform society/politics.  We reviewed church history (from Acts through Constantine through Reformation through to now) and ways the church has engaged the world around (or not) throughout history.

We also talked about whether we are successful as The Institutional Church at engaging The World.  One of the things I said that I didn't realize I thought until I said it (one of the pitfalls of being an off-the-charts E, and think-out-louder) was that something important happened to American Presbyterians in the 16-and 1700s:  the frontier opened and there were many opportunities for sharing the gospel and engaging the new emerging world.  Unfortunately, Presbyterians were still requiring clergy to be educated in Europe (the old world).  At that moment, we lost ground and we lost the ability to engage the new world because our clergy was trained for the old world (and slowly, to boot).  

And I said:  "I'm not sure that we ever caught up."  

I think that might be true, though I hadn't really thought about it before.  I haven't entirely fleshed out this thought, but it does seem that though we (the Presbys) have managed some pretty good things (lots of acts of compassion, missionaries, working for education, etc) and even had a brief heyday in the 40s/50s, we really have no Institutional ability to attempt to engage with social/cultural issues or have political relevance.  I know many (all?) mainline churches are thinking about this, but I just started wondering whether this might actually have started when we made the choice to insist on an old-world education for new-world clergy.

That's as far as the thought goes right now--I keep hoping I'll have more time to contemplate this, but alas other things happen and I don't have the chance to think really.  I do know that what I said at the end of the class, to follow up on thinking about this, is that I think the only way the Church will be able to engage the world in any credible way in the emerging world will likely be one-to-one (like back in the Old Days, aka before Constantine) because Institutions are no longer the primary way of changing the world.

Why I didn't like the Lord's Prayer at the Inauguration

I've had a number of conversations about this, and I know they're ongoing elsewhere, but I just wanted to add my two cents, if that.

I felt at the time and still, 24 hours later, feel that Rick Warren's prayer overall was nowhere near as awful as I'd expected (in fact I was actually sort of impressed by it), until he started in on the Lord's Prayer.  

I don't feel the inauguration, or any other civic event in this country, is the place for that prayer for one simple reason:

Though Warren was invited to pray as a Christian and from his Christian faith, he was praying on behalf of all those gathered (just as any person who prays in public is praying on behalf of the congregation, not just him/herself).  In this case, all those gathered included the 2 million who were present as well as many millions more who gathered via television all around the world.  And when he began to pray a prayer that only a portion of us could pray along with, he crossed the line.  He was no longer praying the prayer of the people, he was praying the prayer of the Christian.  And, though I am a Christian, I still found that to not be okay, because now my brothers and sisters around the world who were gathered to pray (or not, if that's not what they do) had to stop praying with us because it was clear that it was OUR prayer, not theirs.

Whether it's a part of his tradition to end every prayer, even invocations, with the Lord's Prayer (which I highly doubt--every prayer? really?), is up for debate.  And even if it is, I'm not sure it would have been okay in this situation--every tradition is fluid, every tradition rises to the occasion it finds itself in, and this occasion required praying on behalf of millions of people, many of whom couldn't pray along with him anymore at the end.  

And that's why I'm saddened that he chose to use one of the highlights of our faith in a venue that excluded rather than included.  The end.

In other news:  when are we going to insist on calling it an "opening prayer" rather than an invocation (the purpose of which is to invoke, to call in, the presence of God) when that's not really what's going on?

putting the past in the past, for real

Today our country steps forward, making an ex- out of a public official (at last).  We look forward with hope, with cautious optimism... (and some people with downright fear).  This week our congregation holds our annual meeting, reviewing last year's report and looking forward to next year via the budget, the mission statement, and the election of a Pastor Nominating Committee.  So, as we celebrate today with parties and parades and speeches, as we review and leave the past and step into the future, it occurs to me that it might be time to wrap up last year's loose ends on my blog.  So here goes....

On my way to Christmas Vacation in CA, I read two more books to round out the year:  The Last Wife of Henry VIII, and An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England.  The first was your standard princess book, and of course I loved it.  The second proclaimed that it was funny and witty, which I suppose it was.  What I missed while I was perusing the airport bookstore was the last review quoted on the back cover that said, "Darkly comic."  That seems more accurate--it was mildly depressing.  Although every time I try to summarize the book for someone, or tell them about it in any way, I do crack up laughing.  So maybe it was funny, but on the plane it was depressing.  Who knows.

Anyway, that brings my total of 2008 books to 62.  I have a feeling that I'm forgetting at least one, but nonetheless that's pretty good.  I think I'll be keeping track this year too, and since I've already read 2 books this year I should probably get on that.

Is there any other business I need to clean up/tie up/etc before we move forward to the new year in earnest?  I thought I had two or three things, but I seem to have forgotten them while looking up the links for those two books.  hmm....

Does anyone know how to save my link list as another page?  Does blogger have other pages?  Or should I just transfer the whole list into one post and start again for 2009?

Pancakes!

Today's Friday Five at the RGBP is all about one of my favorite foods--pancakes!

So...pull up a chair to the kitchen table and tell us all about your pancake preferences.

1. Scratch or mix? Buttermilk or plain?  Well, scratch is always better but usually I use Bisquick, and modify into buttermilk.  mmmm....

2. Pure and simple, or with additions cooked in?  usually I prefer pure and simple, though the occasional berry pancake is pretty awesome.

3. For breakfast or for dinner?  Or????  You forgot lunch!

4. Preferred syrup or other topping? How about the best side dish?  Cheesy though this sounds, Mrs. Butterworth's.  It reminds me of being a kid.  Or else I like berries and whipped cream on top!  The best side dish is easily Gimme Lean "sausage" (vegetarian!).  Closely followed by hashbrowns (the shredded kind) of course!!!

5. Favorite pancake restaurant?  Hmm....probably Richard Walker's, where they have the fabulous apple pancake (german pan-filled style).  But when I go there I usually order french toast or an omelette...and extra hashbrowns!

Bonus: Any tasty recipes out there, for pancakes or other special breakfast dishes? Bring 'em on!   There's a woman in my church who makes French Toast Casserole, which is probably one of my top ten breakfast foods...but I don't know how to make it.  sorry...

what i did on my christmas vacation

I hung out with this little cutie, played games, pretended to be a marshmallow (a vegan one, of course) trying to get away from the fire so we didn't become a s'more, etc.

For the record, Max (who's 3-1/2) said to me at the beginning of this marshmallow game:  "I can't eat marshmallows because they're made with gelatin and gelatin comes from animals."  That's awareness!

We went to the San Diego Zoo one day.  It was 70 degrees outside at the end of December!

We saw tons of cool stuff, including lots of Galapagos Tortoises.  At every enclosure, Max looked in and then said, "are they real?????"

So cute.

And, of course:

In addition to standing in line for half an hour to see the pandas, we did get to see gorillas, monkeys, birds, tortoises, turtles, elephants, giraffes, and many other fun things!!

Toward the end of the day, it started to get chilly, especially in the shade, so I gave Max my fleece.  So here's my fam walking around the zoo--Dad pushing, Susan rubbing her fingers to warm up, and Max "wearing" my fleece.  :-)

A couple of days later, dad and I made the drive back to San Diego (75 degrees!) for a visit to the Wild Animal Park, designed to look like a nature preserve in Africa or so

mething, and where you can go on "safari" without leaving the country.  It was pretty excellent!

The day after our safari, we spent a day at Disneyland, happiest place on earth.  

It was completely mobbed, but still fun!  

The best rides at Disneyland/California Adventure are:  Indiana Jones!, Soaring Over California, and what Max calls the "5-4-3-2-1 roller coaster"--the only big fast true roller coaster over there, actually called California Screaming.  Also good:  Space Mountain.  The gumbo is good!  Fantasmic is fun.  The Castle contains a gift shop, of course.  It's A Small World has been revamped with a deeper canal and new boats (the boatload of average americans is too heavy for the original now!) and with a new coat of paint on all the inside.

In addition to all this stuff, I got to eat lots (mmm, Mother's chicken-free salad, Del Taco, Koshary, and all kinds of Susan-made yumminess!), sleep some, and even read. I did finish two books on my way there, so I need to finish my Reading Challenge 2008 posts.  Maybe that's tomorrow....

I love vacation.  I want to go on vacation again tomorrow.  Alas, no.  I came home to a funeral to conduct, a Sunday to preach/celebrate communion, and the big choir party!  Good times, many many good times.  

let there be light--a sermon for Epiphany

(we are singing We 3 Kings...("guide us to thy perfect light")...and the choir is singing "True Light" which incorporates "this little light of mine"...that might help this sermon make a little more sense.  It's more tied to the rest of the service than usual--picks up a lot of other language that I might not use in a different setting...)

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
let there be light
Matthew 2.1-12
January 4 2009, Epiphany

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.’ When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, ‘In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: 

“And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,

are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;

for from you shall come a ruler

who is to shepherd my people Israel.” ’
Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, ‘Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.’ When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure-chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.


Well, another Christmas has come and gone—mostly. Contrary to popular belief, Christmas isn’t a day or even a month leading up to a day, but a 12 day season beginning on the 25th and ending on the eve of Epiphany…tomorrow night. Which would make today the 11th day of Christmas…I don’t know about you, but I’m looking for 11 pipers piping to make an appearance any minute now!

Well, okay, so for most people the decorations are down, the 11 pipers piping are not coming, and where would we put them anyway? The new stuff is put away, the wrapping paper recycled. But here in church we’re still celebrating! We’ve read the Epiphany story a couple of days early, all the better to get ready for Tuesday! If you’d like to worship and pray on the actual Epiphany day, you can come to Taize Tuesday night for more singing and celebrating the light that shines in the darkness. In the meantime, we read this story and contemplate, again, just what all this might mean. Strange stars, strange men, strange gifts.

I’m sure you’ve all heard the joke about the wise men—that if they’d been women they would have asked for directions, arrived on time, cleaned the stable, brought a casserole, and thought of practical gifts rather than those strange things the strange men brought. And those things are probably true—though they miss the point a little bit. There are already three wise women in the Christmas story—Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist, who recognizes the mother of her Lord before he’s even born; Mary, mother of Jesus, God-bearer; and Anna, the prophetess in the Temple who proclaims who Jesus is going to be for his people. And there are already women who care for Jesus throughout his life in the story—women who provided for him out of their resources, women who opened their homes to him, fed him and his disciples, washed his feet, came to the tomb to anoint his body (probably with frankincense and myrrh, actually), and believed the angels who said he was risen. There are lots of wise women around.

I think the story of the wise men is different. It’s a story of following a star, wishing and hoping—of following light that leads to light. It’s a story of how God has made Godself known in the world. It’s a story of an epiphany—a revealing. God, who said “Let there be light” and there was light, has revealed the true light to the world in a small child. This is all part of one story—from before the creation, through all the shenanigans of the Israelites, to the birth of Jesus, through his life, death, and resurrection, all the way to us. Jesus, light of the world, wasn’t God’s “plan B”, something God decided after seeing that the first way didn’t work—the Son was there with the Creator and the Spirit when the words “let there be light” began the first day, and knew that he’d be coming to live with us to show us what real light looks like.

And so, the Epiphany—the revealing of light for the world. The wise men, however many there were, came from far away—they weren’t Jews, they weren’t people who’d been reading Isaiah and waiting for the Messiah, they were men who looked for light. Each night they looked at the sky, gazing at stars, hoping for a sign. And one night, there was a new light. What makes the wise men wise is that they knew that this new light was not the thing they were looking for—it was a map, a guidepost, a beacon. Following the star would guide them to perfect light, and so they went.

Why would they be looking for light? Why do any of us look for light? During these darkest days of the year, light is fleeting. During dark times in our lives, light can be almost painful. Sometimes dark is comfortable because light would show the unknown, the thing we fear. But then again, on a dark and stormy night or a foggy morning, a light can be a life-saver, hope made visible. And light is always stronger than darkness—no matter how small the light, it can’t be made darker just because of the surrounding darkness. A dark room doesn’t put the candle out—in fact, the darker the room, the brighter the candle appears. The same with the stars—the darker it is, the brighter the stars appear. Here in Crystal Lake it can be hard to see stars sometimes, but not as hard as it is down in the Loop! Out in the middle of nowhere—out on a farm in Montana or an island in the midst of the sea or up on a mountain—it’s so dark that you can see millions of stars, sometimes even the band of the Milky Way shining.

But the point isn’t the star, or the candle—it’s the true light that these smaller lights symbolize. The candles on the Advent wreath are not the light of the world, they’re a symbol of that light. The star the wise men followed was not the light, it was the guide to the light. The true splendor and glory were to be found in a child, a helpless wonder in a crib who was joy and peace and light for all the world.

So where is the star now? Where is the guide to the light? Where is the beacon shining in the night? How will we know our way to the manger when we are looking for the true light of the world, the deeper meaning of God’s words “let there be light”?

I suspect each of us could answer this question differently. Some might say we no longer need a star, now that the revelation of God’s light has been given to us already. Some might say the symbols of our faith—the cross, the table, the baptismal font—are the sign that points the way. Some might say the story of God’s work in the world, of God’s interaction with people, the story of Scripture, is the guiding star. And all of those are true and good and right.

There’s one more thing I want to think about though…I wonder if we might be the star? We, the community of God’s people, the body of Christ, the gathering of those who’ve heard the calling. Could we be the star, the candle that gives off even a feeble light, a sign that shows the way? I know the church has often gotten things wrong, done horrible deeds, perpetuated hate and darkness rather than love and light. But I still wonder—are we the beacon that points to the light of the world? And is that where our beacon points? Are we a symbol of hope, a guide to the perfect light? Is it possible that we are the ones we’ve been waiting and looking for?

God said “let there be light”—and there was light. The wise men followed a star, light leading to light. Jesus said, “You are the light of the world.”

May it be so.

Amen.

going to the warm

I'm headed to the airport for a trip to SoCal--see you on the sunny side!

Merry Christmas, all!

Reading Challenge 2008

I keep forgetting to post about this book (much like I kept forgetting to return it to the library...).  But I did in fact read it a couple of weeks ago now:  Borg and Crossan's The First Christmas.  

It was pretty good--no stunning revelations, for me anyway, though.  I can't say it made me think of Christmas differently, but I can see how it would do that for some people.  Anyway, if you're looking for a slightly different way to view the story and its purpose, here's one.  I like their exposition of the birth narratives as parables or overtures--probably because it's similar to how I teach about the Christmas stories!  :-)

Now on to fluff for the holidays--lots of travel coming up, so I should be able to finish a couple more books before the end of the year!

Bad Joke--a sermon for Christmas Eve

Just a draft right now...still have all morning and half the afternoon to edit!

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Bad Joke
Luke 2.1-20
December 24 2008, Christmas Eve

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, 

‘Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favors!’
When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, ‘Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.’ So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

~~~~~~~

So a middle aged man, a pregnant teenager, and a donkey walk into a barn…
It sounds like the beginning of the world’s worst joke, but in fact it’s the beginning of the greatest story ever told.

This is a story many of us know well—a story of light and life and love and joy. The baby, surrounded by a chorus of angels and shepherds and sweet farm animals. The mother, wondering and pondering. The human father, silent and stoic.

It’s also a story that is, frankly, a little strange. I mean, this is an act of God we’re talking about here. God became a human being, joined us on earth, showed us what real power and real love and real service look like. God, who created the heavens and earth and all that are in them with just a word. God who parted the Red Sea. God who inspired the psalms and the glorious writings of the prophets. God—all powerful, glorious, wonderful, awe-inspiring. Wouldn’t you expect a big-budget Broadway musical for God’s entrance into human life? Even if that musical included being born a helpless infant, it seems like the guest list at least would be more carefully controlled. Philosophers, maybe, playwrights, musicians, definitely an emperor or king or at least a prince. They would arrive with majestic elephants and camels leading a caravan of exotic animals, money, and priceless art, singing and dancing in perfect time.

Instead we get something that begins like a bad joke—a peasant carpenter, his suspiciously pregnant fiancée, some smelly shepherds, a dirty barn, and a food trough for a crib. Not a dancing hippo in sight—instead we have cows and sheep and donkeys. No fancy clothes, no behind-the-scenes orchestra, no emperor or prince, not even a room in the inn. The angel chorus appears to the shepherds, but that’s as close as anything from Broadway gets to the stable.

Why would God, almighty, glorious, powerful, God, choose to enter the human scene in this way? Why not have fanfare and trumpets and dignitaries? Why peasants? Why peasants in an occupied country? Why peasants displaced from their ancestral home? Why shepherds for the welcoming committee? Why enter the world as the poorest of the poor—homeless, displaced, disgraced?

God often works in strange and mysterious ways, as many of us can attest. But I really think this is the strangest way God has worked—to solve the problem of distance, of our misunderstanding of power and love and covenant by joining our human condition at the lowest possible rung of the ladder. To change the world, to bring light and life and hope that cannot be overcome by even the darkest valley, by starting with the lives of ordinary people. This is so opposite the way we think, it’s hard to grasp. But this is at the heart of the Christmas story, at the center of the Incarnation—God became human not as a powerful leader, not as a military general, not as a wealthy landowner, but as a poor, innocent, helpless, vulnerable child. A child who needs love, and who gives love unconditionally. A child who changes everything—his parents’ life, his surroundings, his friends and disciples. A child who will grow up to bring hope to a distressed people. A child who will grow up to shatter the chains of death and darkness with light and life.

And that, friends, is what makes this night so holy. Not just the fact that a baby was born, though that is always a miracle and a holy event. Not just the fact that the baby was God’s word, God’s love, here on earth for us. But the fact that this baby who is God’s word and God’s love will grow up among ordinary people, will do and learn ordinary things, and yet will be the most extraordinary human being ever known. And he will change the world through love, through light, through hope, through grace, one ordinary person at a time. Unlike most of the gods prevalent at the turn of the millennium, God isn’t just for the rich, for the amazing, for the powerful. Instead we see on this night that God is with us, Immanuel. The angels say they have good news of great joy for all the people—not just the wealthy, but all the people, even shepherds, lowest of the low. This is God, turning the system on its head, surprising the whole world with grace and with the good news that power isn’t about might, isn’t about strength, isn’t about violence. Power, God-style, it turns out, is about love—love come down to earth to pour itself out for us, that we might love one another.

And so we celebrate on this holy night—we celebrate that God’s love came down to earth and lived among us, not in a palace or a castle, but in a stable, in a village, in borrowed homes, in a tomb. And that love is so strong, so real, that no darkness, no despair, no hate can overcome it. What began as a bad joke ends as a Broadway musical, full of light and life and joy. It is indeed the greatest story ever told—the story of a tiny baby born in a stable, who is in fact the Son of God, light that came into the darkness, saving grace of all the world.

Thanks be to God.
Amen.

Good Things--a sermon for Advent 4B

Rev. Teri Peterson
RCLPC
Good Things
Luke 1.26-38, 46-55
December 21 2008, Advent 4B

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, ‘Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.’ But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob for ever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.’ Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’ The angel said to her, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.’ Then Mary said, ‘Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.’ Then the angel departed from her.
…
And Mary said,

‘My soul magnifies the Lord, 

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, 

for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; 

for the Mighty One has done great things for me,

and holy is his name. 

His mercy is for those who fear him

from generation to generation. 

He has shown strength with his arm;

he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. 

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,

and lifted up the lowly; 

he has filled the hungry with good things,

and sent the rich away empty. 

He has helped his servant Israel,

in remembrance of his mercy, 

according to the promise he made to our ancestors,

to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hail, Mary, full of grace—the Lord is with you! These words of the angel to Mary have been passed down through the ages in the story and in prayer. We Presbyterians have a hard time with Mary—the last line of the Hail Mary prayer, the one that asks Mary to pray for us, was added to Luke’s words in the year 1555 and has colored our vision of Mary. We don’t believe she’s better than anyone else, we don’t believe she was special, we don’t believe she prays for us. Those things would, actually, obscure the thing God has done.

Hail, Mary, full of grace—the Lord is with you. Hello, unmarried teenage girl. Hello, poor peasant girl. Hello, piece of property nearly ready to be transferred to another family. Hello, lowest of the low in your society. You are full of grace. The Lord is with you.

Mary wasn’t special, she wasn’t the winner of the Mother-of-God sweepstakes, she wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. She was a peasant teenager in a backwater village in an occupied land. And yet the angel comes and says “Hail, Mary, full of grace—the Lord is with you.”

Mary, at this point, is confused. She’s wondering what on earth this angel is talking about—full of grace? The Lord is with you? Found favor with God? What could this mean? Why is he talking to her? What kind of nonsense is he saying about having a baby?

So she asks what seems a simple question—after all, poor teenage girls in backwater villages still know some basics of biology. But the answer is anything but simple, anything but obvious, anything but good sounding. The angel doesn’t say “well, when you and Joseph are married, then your first son will be the child I’m talking about.” The angel says, in essence, “the fact that you are an unmarried virgin teenager is irrelevant—nothing is impossible for God.”

It’s hard to imagine what Mary was thinking at this moment. Was she imagining what it might be like to finally be someone important? Was she imagining what Joseph’s reaction would be when she turned up pregnant? Was she imagining the consequences that might come if she were discovered alone with a strange man—angel or not—in her room? Or did she somehow know, deep inside, what this would mean for her, for Joseph, for her baby, for her people?

Mary’s response to the angel is the classic prayer of the ages: “Here I am, the servant of the Lord, let it be with me according to your word.” We always imagine that she said it with joy and wonder, with anticipation and love. We never imagine that she says it like this, “here I am, the servant of the Lord,” complete with an eye-roll. We never imagine that Mary thought of this as a burden to bear, something she was forced to do. Even when we talk about the culture of her time, about how Mary could very easily have been stoned to death for this conversation, let alone the results, we don’t get any sense of burden. Hail, Mary, full of grace, the angel says. God-bearer, the Church calls her. “Yes,” Mary says, and it is done.

And then she goes to her cousin Elizabeth’s house, and one of the first things she does is sing a song about God’s goodness. She treats this whole experience as a blessing, not a burden. She borrows parts of her song from Hannah, who was so overjoyed to finally have a long-wanted child that she couldn’t help but burst into song. Mary and Hannah couldn’t be more different, and yet Mary sings, with her ancestors and her whole people, a people longing for freedom, for promise fulfilled: “the Mighty One has done great things for me,” and “surely all generations will call me blessed” and “he has lifted up the lowly and filled the hungry with good things.” Good things? Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you, the angel said.

“God has filled the hungry with good things,” Mary sings. This is so lovely and wonderful and Christmasy, isn’t it? The next line, though, brings us up short: “God has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” The whole song is like this—pulling down the mighty and lifting up the lowly, looking with favor on the lowest of the lowest servant—a peasant woman in an occupied land. This is no gentle Mary, meek and mild, sweet Christmas carol. This is a song about what God is doing through Mary, the ordinary peasant girl Mary—keeping God’s promises, doing a new thing, a thing that people who have earthly power are not going to like. There have been times when this passage of scripture was outlawed by governments because it was considered too subversive—times as recent as 20 years ago in some places in Latin America. People with earthly power do not like Mary’s song, it does not sound like good news, especially coming from a poor village girl. And yet Mary sings it, in spite of the outlawing, in spite of the danger she’s in when people find out her shocking news, in spite of the cultural norms that make her even more of an outcast than she was before she met the angel. And thousands of years later, recognizing Mary’s ability to see the blessing in this burden, still we read and pray these words: Hail, Mary, full of grace.

But remember, Mary isn’t special, she isn’t perfect, she isn’t Miss Nazareth 4BC, she isn’t different from us. And here’s where the message of Mary gets hard. Mary was asked to do a very tangible thing, to bear God, to birth God’s love into the world, to proclaim that God’s promises are fulfilled and that is good news to the poor, to sing that being full of grace is a blessing, not a burden. Aren’t we all asked to do the same? Ann Legg shared a Meister Eckhart quote with us at Team Night, and I think it asks this same question. 700 years ago, Eckhart asked, “What good is it to me if Mary is full of grace if I am not also full of grace? What good is it to me for the Creator to give birth to the Son if I do not also give birth to him in my time and my culture?” I would push us to ask not only “what good is it to me” but “what good are we to the world if we do not give birth to the Son in our time and culture?”

Bearing God is not, as Mary found, easy. It involves saying yes, first of all. Did you notice that the angel did nothing until Mary gave her consent? And then it involves nurturing and loving, sharing and letting go, pain and sadness, difficulty and wonder, burden and blessing. Mary was, in the most literal sense, full of grace—full of the wondrous gift of undeserved love, given from God to us. How can we too be bearers of God in the world? How can we too stop thinking of obligation and the things we “should” do as Christians, and start thinking of our calling as a blessing? Perhaps when we hear the angel say, “Hail, people of God, full of grace—the Lord is with you.” The Lord is with us, and we are full of grace—may we bear that grace into the world as a blessing.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.

for Sunday

I'm using this poem on Sunday, and thinking about it in relation to the Annunciation and Magnificat, the idea that Mary seems to think of being the God-bearer as a blessing rather than a burden, and possibly the subversive nature of what God is doing through her (and through all of us each day).  I thought I'd share the poem with you.  It came from the Iona Community publication Hay and Stardust and is by Anne Lawson.

Is this what you had in mind Mary?
Is this what you dreamed of,
idly planned and chattered of with the girls in Nazareth?
Did you dream that your first child would be
born out of wedlock
of an unknown father?
Born miles from home
in a place fit only for animals?
Is this the birth you dreamed of for your first child?

Did you dream your firstborn son would be
greeted by strangers?
Greeted by shepherds,
Outcasts of society?
Greeted by wise men
from strange far-off countries?
Greeted by the host of angels?
Is this the welcome you dreamed of for your son?

Did you dream of this life for your firstborn son?
A birth in a stable?
A desperate flight for safety?
A life as a refugee?
A peripatetic life?
A life in which other women cared for him?
A life with no wife, no family?
A life lived in the shadow of hostility?
A life ending in a criminal’s death?
A horrific death?
Is this the life you dreamed of for your son?

Did you dream of your own life?
A happy marriage?
A growing family?
Sons and daughters to care for you in your old age?
Did you dream of this for your own life?

And if you had known, in those days of idle teenage chatter,
as a girl in Nazareth,
what you know now,
would you have said “yes” to God’s angel so quickly?

Mary, did you say “Yes” to God’s angel so quickly?
Did you offer yourself to God so fast?
Was there no feeling of wanting to think?
No sense of anger, injustice even,
that God could take your body and life so easily?
Did you really understand all that was being said?
All that was being asked?
And would I have been so willing?
Would I have been so willing to offer myself to bear God’s Son?
To bear the shame and disgrace
of bearing a child of an unknown father outside of marriage?
Would I have watched my own son die?
Would I have lived with the wound of knowledge,
a sword which pierced my heart?
Would I have lived with the burden of unknowing?
I doubt it.

Thank you, Mary, that you did.
You heard and looked, observed and listened.
Lived with the pain of unknowing.
Lived with the shadow of the cross.

Not as a stained glass window saint,
not as some saccharine-coated statue,
but as a flesh-and-blood woman
who knew what it meant
to bear the burden of unknowing,
and was prepared to live the pain
of bearing God.

two days to sign

self-aware much?

So, I'm a 7 on the enneagram.  There are some gret things about being a seven.  but, as with any personality, there are downsides too.

When sevens are stressed, they tend to move to the negative traits of a 1 (the perfectionist type).  One of the typical traits of a 7 moving to the negative side of 1 during stress is to think in terms of black and white and to KNOW they have the truth/are right/whatever.  They also tend to feel a pervasive, low level of irritability during this kind of stress.

When I re-read this (my small group is currently exploring implications of our personality types for our spiritual lives and practices), I laughed out loud and then started thinking about my previous post and other positions of my liturgical high horse.  I think some of this is going on...and I know the root of the stress, which is not going to go away (and, worse, this is of course self-perpetuating because obsessing about ideas/projects/people/situations/etc is another of the characteristics sevens in this situation work against).  So the question is:  how can I be conscious enough to stop myself when I see these traits coming out...and how can I move myself more toward the positive parts of my 7 self?

hmm..

(more info on the enneagram here)

liturgical theology of time

That's what I think is at the root of the carols-vs.-no-carols during Advent argument.

I am one of those people who does NOT want to sing Christmas carols in worship during Advent.  You can sing them elsewhere, you can hear them on the radio and in stores and in the Christmas specials that are no doubt all over TV.  But not on Sunday morning in Advent.

I have likened it to premature births--generally not good (though in the last month it's slightly  more okay for the baby and also many moms are READY!!).  The argument there is "Jesus has already been born--we're waiting for something different now."  

I have likened it to singing happy birthday a month before your birthday--generally not done.  What happens to the anticipation if you sing early, get your presents early, etc?  

But really, I think this is about conceptions of time.  

I think of time as cyclical, as opposed to linear.  This is born out by our liturgical calendar, which brings us the same stories at nearly the same time every year.  But the story is never exactly the same--we never hear it or experience it or live it the same way one year to the next.  It's not a circle, it's more of a spiral.  The place looks familiar but isn't exactly identical.

Cyclical time, when it comes to Christmas, is important because Advent is when we prepare for the Incarnation.  No, we're not technically preparing the way Mary did 2012 years ago.  But every year we need the time to prepare for God's breaking-in again.  Yes, the Word is incarnated in us as the Body of Christ every day, not just once a year.  But this is the time when we intentionally take time out and think about that, prepare, anticipate, wait.  How can we do that if we're busy singing about how it's already happened?  Where's the anticipation, the pain of waiting, if we're all GLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORIA! all through advent?  

If time is linear, then fine--sing the Christmas carols through all of Advent, because what we're really waiting for is something off in the future, not something that happens repeatedly in us.  We're waiting for God to do something we can't see yet.  We're waiting for GOD to do something further on down the line.

But if we're preparing for the word to be part of us, for us to be part of the action of the Word, yet again, then hold those carols, sing in minor keys, plaintively chant "O Come, O Come" and "how shall we meet you?" and wait for it.  It seems like it would be worth it.  Because we're coming around again to this reminder that, in many ways, WE are now the ones we are waiting for.  WE are the body of Christ in the world.  WE are preparing OURSELVES to be the incarnation of God in the world.  And that's going to take some work, not some jumping ahead to the main event.  Every year it's going to take work.  Every day, even.  Maybe every minute for some of us (aka me...).  The fact that the baby Jesus has already been born is irrelevant, because that isn't just some event that happened several marks back on the timeline, it's something we pass by every year on the spiral, something we re-live because it matters.  Jumping to it early only allows us to forego the hard work in ourselves and our communities.  We might as well light all the candles on the wreath, since we're not willing to wait for the light or walk through darkness to get there.

In so many ways, I think this is a symptom of the culture and the church being afraid of darkness, silence, grief, waiting...it's about instant gratification and instant grief recovery and refusal to be in the quiet dark places because they're too scary and too hard.  But even though we can just turn on electric lights, even though we can fill our ears with carols and our homes with beautifully wrapped stuff, even though we can party and eat and shop, we can't rush the work of Incarnation.  It happens when it happens.  Here's hoping we don't miss it, or miss out on being part of it, while we're singing cheery carols in the dark days.

One final, snarky argument:  would you sing "Jesus Christ Is Risen Today!" in Lent?  (okay, I'm done now...)