Spirituality Out of the Box
A website of Inspiration, fueled by the creative work of Chip Bristol
Brushstrokes are meditations designed to let our souls breathe together. Offered weekly, brushstrokes seek to inspire us all to look at life more deliberately. Written not by someone with all the answers, but one wanting to ask questions along side others, I hope whatever I offer points readers beyond my words to something, or someone, greater than ourselves.
If you are fed by a particular brushstroke, please let me know and share the reasons why. Also, please share them with others and encourage them to subscribe so our spiritual circle widens.
When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers (and sisters),
To make music from the heart.
Howard Thurman (1899-1981)
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it.” JOHN 1:5
When I lit the candle, I became more aware of the dark. Despite the sermons I’ve heard this season, the meditations I’ve read, that single moment delivered the Advent message I most needed to hear.
As I write, it’s the shortest day of the year. There’s more darkness than light, but it also marks the moment when that all begins to change. Light begins its crawl back to its rightful prominence. It reminds me of what John wrote about darkness not being able to consumed the light. Although the short days feel like a flicker, the darkness only reminds me of light’s importance.
Last night I went and spoke at the local rehab center. Looking at the weary faces and glossy eyes, I was overwhelmed by the sadness before me. Darkness wears masks. As we sat together, laughs broke through, people smiled and nodded while we spoke of a not-too-distant hope. It was only a flicker, but when surrounded by the darkness it burned bright.
Watching the news these days is particularly difficult. Darkness seems to be everywhere I look and it’s shrouding the things I love about our country, and the friendships I treasure, most. The promise of “peace on earth and good will to all” sounds like a cruel joke when heard in concert with greed and disdain for others. Turning off the TV, my phone rings. My daughter wants to have me over for dinner and a movie. My starving soul is also offered a meal.
I can’t control the darkness no matter how hard I try. All I can do is light a candle. All I can do is change my focus. Maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.
For behold . . .
I was blessed to attend a small k-3 primary school called “Miss Mason’s School.” Located in an old mansion, our classrooms were the living room, den, and bedrooms. The place was magic not only because of the location, but the woman who founded the school. I’m sure she was a great educator, but what I remember most was her ability to tell a story.
At no time was that more apparent than on our third-grade ski trip up in Vermont. This annual rite of passage that took us away from our parents for a weekend was both exciting and frightening. To help us make it through without overwhelming homesickness, Miss Mason would sit with us in the dark and tell us a story as we tried to fall asleep. I do not remember any details of the stories, only the magical way they made me feel. Suddenly, the darkness was no longer frightening, and we were carried away to a place where dreams and life seemed to become one and the same. Our hearts calmed while our imaginations awakened.
In this season of Advent, I can’t help but wonder if that wasn’t how it felt for the shepherds as they sat in the darkness and longed to be home. An angel appeared in the dark, we’re told, bringing “good tidings of great joy for all people.” It must have sounded a lot like Miss Mason taking a deep breath and saying, “Once upon a time.” Their hearts must have calmed while their imaginations awakened as they heard the good news that spoke to the deepest longing within them : you do not need to be afraid . . . a great story is unfolding . . . it’s going to change you and the world forever.
Advent is many things, but chief among them is that it is a season to tell and hear stories. Maybe a grandparent tells of Christmases long ago, a parent describes when he or she was a child, or a child makes up a story about snowy wood in a forest just through a wardrobe.
In the end, however, all stories have a common source (at least the good ones do) and regardless of the details, they bring good tiding of great joy for all people: the darkness that surrounds us is nothing to fear, we were created by the greatest story-teller there is, and we’re invited to hear the “song of angels” once again and find our way into the great story as if for the first time.
It’s enough to get us to sit up, cross my legs, and listen up!
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