Advent III: The Curtain

Everyone has memories of childhood Christmases.  Remembering special traditions, the looks and smells of our decorated houses, hearing particular music, and watching favorite movies can bring us back to cherished Christmas, to places deep within, places that feed our souls each year.

One of the most vivid memories I have is of a carol sing held at a huge house down the road from ours. I think the entire town was invited, or at least it felt that way, and food and drink abounded.

At a specific moment, two men gathered in front of the piano in the grand living room, while my father sat at the keys. Together, the three would lead us through the nativity story with carols sung throughout. Their telling of the familiar story brought it new life, and the carols filled the room and our hearts with deep joy. It made me want to sing loud, but I was too embarrassed to sing at all.

One year, I realized the windowsills behind the elegant curtains were two feet deep, wide enough for me to sit in cloistered safety and hear the story and sing the carols with no one seeing or hearing me. It felt as if I had God all to myself, and that spiritual intimacy behind the curtain is something I long for still.

Looking back, I wonder if that moment didn't influence my faith more than I realized. Today, when sitting quietly each morning, trying to get myself together spiritually, I wonder if I’m not trying to recreate the feelings behind the curtain, of having God to myself. Such intimacy is something to be treasured, for sure, but our lives of faith call us to more than private time with God, as this season vividly reminds us.

We are called to stand where people can see us, sing so people can hear us. In other words, we are called to come out from behind the curtain and join others in telling the tale and singing the song.

This Christmas (and beyond), may we do just that!

Advent II: The Door

It was a definitive moment. The soon-to-be-grown-up daughter exited her room, shut the door, and looked at her mother and said: “I can’t do it anymore.” With further discussion, the mother learned her daughter meant she could no longer live in her make believe world. Her time playing with dolls had come to an end, playing house was a thing of the past, and dressing up as a princess was over as well. In other words, she could no longer live in a world of magic, wonder, and mystery.

It was a sudden, dramatic declaration, but I suppose each of us has reached such a moment when we, too, have walked away from magic, wonder, and mystery into a world of fact, logic and reason (also referred to as “the real world"). The door from fanciful childhood dreams into the sensible thinking of adulthood was open to us all at some point, and, in one way or another, we went through, closed the door, and walked down the hall, leaving the deepest longing of our hearts behind.

And why not? Life is hard and challenges us in countless ways, leaving no time for dreams. Life is not as simple as we once hoped, our simplistic black and white world becomes a confusing, often unfair, grey. Life’s limits bring our optimistic horizons closer, and we’re left wondering if this is all there is to life? Faced with such a world, it’s no wonder we pull the door closed.

This season, however, offers the invitation to open the door once again. It speaks of a world beyond our imagination, one where angels sing, shepherds kneel, and wise men offer gifts. It is not a story that denies the grey of life, but enters the grey with the primary colors of childhood in ways we will never fully understand.

Emmanuel, God with us, is a promise that seems too good to be true. It’s like magic lighting darkness with a star, like wonder being wrapped in swaddling clothes, and mystery curling its finger as if to invite us down the hall to open the door once again.

Advent I: Getting Stoked

Sitting before a fire reconnects me to the whatever lies within and beyond. Flames dancing rhythmically lure my soul away from daily concerns to eternal hopes. The sounds and smells add to the domestic liturgy and help create a time as sacred as any worship.

Flickering flames and hissing wood cause me to rise and tend the fire. I reach for a tool, move logs, and soon the fire burns strong again. All it needed was attention, a bit of rearranging, and more air. In other words, all it needed was to be stoked.

That’s good advice for those of us seeking stronger spiritual lives. We're drawn to the fire within, the flame not of our making, and its flame dances and lures us from the mundane to the sacred, from details to purpose.

Keeping such a fire burning strong, however, requires attention, rearranging, and increased air. Like the fire before me, the flames within diminish, logs hiss, over time. It's then we're called to rise, grab a tool, and stoke the fire.

The tools are many: Reflection and prayer can increase our attention, reading Scripture, a spiritual book, or speaking authentically with a friend can rearrange the "logs" of our lives, and walking, listening to music, or attending worship or a support group can provide much needed air.

Sometimes our attention is piqued, our lives rearranged, through no doing of our own. A loved one becomes ill, jobs are lost, marriages crumble. Such struggles challenge us at our core, but such moments sometimes become the very things that cause our internal flames to burn stronger.

No matter the tool, this is the season to increase our attention, move logs, and find more air. In other words, this is the season to get stoked.