As I set my email auto responses for a week of vacation, I decided to share some new year’s resolutions regarding email.
1. I’m going to think twice about hitting the “reply to all” button. I wish it could tape it like a light switch. In addition, I wish I could tape everybody else’s “reply to all” button.
2. I’m not going to check my email more often than I pray. The Book of Common Prayer suggests that four times a day is adequate.
3. I will try to answer my emails within 24 hours, unless it’s my day-off, and then I’ll try even harder not to check email on my day-off.
4. I will do my best to treat my email like paper: read, respond, and file or delete.
5. I will not forward email messages that I wouldn’t bother to share on the phone, especially stupid jokes, cutesy stories, and chain letters. I hope you will make the same promise.
6. I will think twice (maybe even 3 times) about sending email messages written in the middle of the night. Actually, I never do this, and I wish wouldn’t either.
7. I will pick up the phone and call you more often. I like the sound of a human voice, and I’m forgetting how to dial.
And now, I will sign off and wish you a very happy new year!
In the year of 1969, when Richard Nixon was President and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, when spring was interrupted by the peace march on Washington and summer welcomed the music of Woodstock, in the year that Sesame Street debuted and the first Wal-Mart opened, I sat in a classroom with fifty other adolescents watching the movie Let My People Go, a documentary about the Holocaust and the founding of Israel. At the end of the film, a young rabbi tried to elicit responses from a stunned and silent class of usually loud and obnoxious ninth graders. I’ll never forget the moment when he looked at me, the only kid with a non-Jewish parent, and said: “Tracey, you could have passed. What would you have done? Would you have died for your faith or denied it?” I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know what it meant to live or die for one’s faith. I didn’t really know what my faith was. So I just stared back at him and finally said, “I don’t know.”
That accusatory statement, “You could have passed,” followed by the probing question, “What would you have done?” has haunted me all the days of my life. It has permeated my dreams and kept me awake at night. It has stood with me in the pulpit, and has influenced every major life decision I have made. And just when I think I have put the accusation to rest and answered the question, it re-emerges as a beast from the deep recesses of the ocean called my unconscious. It is the angel with whom I wrestle causing me to walk with a limp. It is the burning bush in front of which I stand barefooted. It remains the blinding flash of light that knocks me off my feet and forces me to my knees when I try to run away.
I think of myself as half-Jewish and half-Christian, and I consider my rich interfaith heritage a mixed blessing. It has always drawn me from the center to the edge of organized religion – especially Christianity and Judaism. And yet, even as a child, I wanted to be a clergy person. I just wasn’t sure whether I should be a rabbi or a minister.
I have always loved being in the house of God, and I am equally at home in both church and synagogue. As a youngster, I also liked pretending that I was a preacher. I can still remember setting up the chairs in our family room, placing my stuffed toys and dolls in straight rows, putting on my robe, and preaching to the silent and complacent congregation of inanimate worshippers. At bedtime, I said (and to this day I still say) both the Schema, passed on to me by my Jewish grandmother, and the Lord’s Prayer, taught to me by my Christian mother. And, from both sets of parents and grandparents, as well as rabbis and priests, religious school teachers and youth group leaders, I learned to live by the Great Commandment: love God with all your heart, soul and might, and love your neighbor as yourself.
Growing up, I often felt like the young boy in The Life of Pi. He had a deep curiosity about God and religion. After exploring various religions in his native India he concluded: “Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat wearing Muslims.” At the insistence of the priest and the imam that he had to choose one religion, Pi responded, “All religions are true, I just want to love God.” And so it was for me. I found truth in both Judaism and Christianity, and I just wanted to love and serve God.
By the time I was in ninth grade, I was attending daily chapel at school, Saturday worship at the Reform Jewish synagogue, and Sunday worship at the Episcopal Church. No wonder I couldn’t answer The Question asked by the rabbi that day. I could see more similarities between the Reform Judaism and Episcopal Church of my youth than I could find differences. After all, both religions worshipped God, prayed with a book, read from the Bible, sang beautiful music, lit candles, shared bread and wine, worked for justice, and taught a message of faith, hope, and love. As Paul wrote in his letter to the church in Corinth, when it came to religion, “I saw in a mirror dimly and knew only in part.”
In my mid-twenties, I felt pushed, pulled and prodded by the Spirit to the Union Theological Seminary, a divinity school in the middle of New York City where diversity, interfaith respect, spiritual rigor, and academic inquiry was (and is still) highly valued. My first semester in seminary could be likened to a non-stop wrestling match with God. Exhausted from taking on someone bigger and stronger than me, I found myself walking down 42nd Street one day asking God to let me go. And then it happened.
A voice called out to me from within me saying, “I’m not going to let go of you.” I went into a McDonald’s restaurant, ordered my usual cheeseburger-fries-and coke, and began frantically scribbling down a conversation with this voice from nowhere. The voice called me by name, confronted me with my own issues and private wounds, answered lots of questions, called me to my vocation, and reassured me when I protested.
As I’ve shared from the pulpit on more than one occasion, when I pleaded for more clarity, the voice said, “I was Jesus on earth, but I’m still God, and I’m here with you now.” Though I didn’t comprehend it fully, it was a Trinitarian statement to which I could give my heart. When I questioned why the voice was talking with me, I heard, “Because you’ve been asking for it.”
It was true. I had been asking, begging, even challenging God to be clear with me, to help me answer the question asked by the rabbi. And here I was – on a cold January afternoon, sitting in a McDonald’s Restaurant on 42nd Street in Manhattan, having this private conversation with a voice.
At the end of our time together, I asked, “If you’re inside of me, then how can you be God?” The voice replied in words I will never forget, “I’m inside of anyone and everyone who wants to know me. And, if the world would hear and follow me, my kingdom would come.”
With that comment, the conversation ended. I got up and walked home in quiet amazement, wondering if I had really spoken with almighty God. Like Mary, I kept silent and treasured these words, pondering them in my heart.
A few days later, one of my professors, the late Dorothee Soelle, told our class that faith is a two-way street: it is both a gift from God and our decision to accept the gift. I didn’t know if I had talked with God, but in a letter to a friend I wrote, “If I don’t accept the voice of God on faith now, I don’t think I’ll ever get a more direct message.”
While struggling to make sense of that afternoon conversation in a McDonald’s, I have been faithful to the voice for nearly thirty years. And while it’s led me down some complicated paths and strenuous journeys, as this evening’s reading from the Gospel of Matthew suggests, throughout my ministry, I have encountered God come to earth, sometimes in faces, stories, and disguises that I have found disturbing and threatening.
After my McDonald’s conversation, I claimed Jesus as my way, my truth and my life in God, and the Episcopal Church as my spiritual home. In Jesus, I experience the unconditional love that God has for each and every one of us, especially those who aren’t sure where they fit in the great scheme of things. In the Episcopal Church, I discovered a lively religious tradition committed to proclaiming in word and action God’s justice, love and mercy for all creation. I also found an inclusive community of faith that embraced me, received my gifts and talents, and welcomed my questions of faith and reason. Along the way, I fell in love with our rich heritage of common prayer, the beauty of Anglican music, the grandeur of cathedral architecture, the mystery of the Eucharist, the expansive and yet intimate nature of our worldwide communion, and the power of faithful witness in the public square. Over the years, I have come to appreciate our church’s ability to deal with ambiguity, volatility, messiness, complexity, uncertainty, and change.
When I graduated from seminary and was about to be ordained a deacon, my bishop and hero Paul Moore told me: “All you have to do is love them, really love them. That’s all you have to do.” That’s been the best and most challenging advice I ever received. I am profoundly grateful for the love I have been able to give as an Episcopal priest, and more importantly, for the love I have received, much of which is present in this cathedral tonight.
Twenty-five years is a long time. But then again, it seems like just yesterday that I learned to recite the ancient words of the Schema and the Lord’s Prayer. It seems like just last week that I opened the Bible for the first time, and began to talk with the God who knit me together in my mother’s womb and will be with me even beyond the day I die.
Yes, I’m still wrestling with God, but I’m also struggling to sing with angels. And, though I still “see in a mirror dimly…and know only in part,” this much I truly believe. God searches us out to know us and to love us. God discerns our thoughts from afar and takes them to heart. God traces our journeys and our resting-places, and is acquainted with all our ways. Indeed, there is not a word on any of our lips, that God does not know. For the voice of God is inside of anyone and everyone who wants hear it. And, if humankind would hear and follow that voice, and strive to be the eyes and ears, hands and feet, voice and heart of the Holy One, God’s reign of peace on earth would truly come. It has been my calling and my vocation to invite (and maybe, push, pull and prod) those whom I encounter along the way to listen, really listen, to that voice inside of each of us, and then follow where it will lead. For this sacred task, I am profoundly humbled, honored and grateful.
The Trinity Advent Meditations have always been an important gift of the season, and once I want to express my profound thanks and admiration to the men, women, and children who take the risk of writing, editing and sharing them with us.
Back in 2003, a woman in the cathedral congregation, named Tracy Leisman wrote these words in an Advent meditation entitled, “The Greatest Gift.”[i]
I think Mary and I have something in common, both of us being unwed mothers-to-be and all. Did people look at her belly first and then her face with a mix of judgment, trepidation and joy in their expression? Did they smile at her with pity and ask if “this was a good thing?” I wonder if she was thinking what I think when people ask me that…Could a new life, a new beginning, a new birth ever be bad?
I suppose it could. But it’s hard for me to imagine right now, just days from my due date and dying to see the face of that little creature that kicks, tumbles and rumbles all day every day. I think of nothing else…
Even though getting pregnant was a bit of a surprise to me, it wasn’t altogether shocking to my family. They all said that I’d wanted a child for a long time. After all, I’ll be 38 by the time this child and I are face to face. Elizabeth was in the same boat when she became pregnant with John the Baptist. The Bible tells us that Zechariah fell silent because he could not believe that God had blessed him with a child, but Elizabeth rejoiced at the anticipated birth…She immediately believed that in spite of being “on in years” and barren, God had blessed her with a child. Not a moment of hesitation. I had the same reaction, a single motherhood notwithstanding.
The contrast of Mary, a young virgin, and Elizabeth, an older, childless woman, is a beautiful prelude to the coming of Christ. Elizabeth will give birth to the last of the Old Testament prophets. In essence she represents the past – but a wonderful past filled with promise of the new life within her. It’s not a past to be discarded, because in that past lies the foundation of the present and the future.
Almost at the same moment that I rejoiced about being pregnant, I felt loss. A loss of the old self, my former life. It was as if I had died and was reborn with a new present and a new future. But my past is not to be discarded either, because I am the foundation on which this present and future person will be molded. I think that’s why women, and men, feel a sense of purpose when they become parents. It’s God’s way of allowing them to contribute to the future.
On the third Sunday of Advent in 2003, Tracy gave birth to a beautiful baby boy and named him Ethan Daniel. Tragically, Ethan only lived for five hours. It was nothing that doctors could have predicted or medical science could have prevented. Surrounded by his mother, father, aunts, uncles and grandparents, a few hours after his birth and minutes before his death, this newborn infant was baptized and received the grace of new life in Christ. In the waters of baptism, he was buried with Christ, shared in Christ’s resurrection, and was reborn by the Holy Spirit. A few minutes later, Ethan, wrapped in swaddling clothes, died in his mother’s arms and was literally born again to the promise of eternal life.
Ethan’s death was a tragedy. There are no other words to describe it. After nine months of planning and preparation, watching and waiting, in anticipation of a Christmas baby, things fell apart and life was shattered. Friday, December 14 would have been Ethan’s 9th birthday. And on that day, twenty children in Newtown, Connecticut, along with 21,000 other children under the age of five around the globe died[ii] ( and for most their families (especially their mothers), life was shattered and overcome by tragedy. Read the rest of this entry »
The poet Mary Oliver once wrote: “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” In her poem “Sometimes,” she elaborated on this thought. “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”[i]
The scripture readings appointed for the last Sunday in Epiphany are about paying attention. In 2nd Kings, Elisha pays attention as Elijah ascends to God, thus receiving the promise of inheriting a double share of his mentor’s spirit. The text tells us that, Elisha “kept watching.” The word “watch” means to pay attention to what you see. As Paul writes in his second letter to the church in Corinth the Gospel of Jesus Christ is unveiled to those who pay attention to what they see and are willing to believe.
This powerful gospel story (Mark 9:2-9) is also about paying attention. Jesus, standing with Moses and Elijah is transfigured before their very eyes. And after Peter once again misses the mark by suggesting that they build dwellings, that they create a permanent structure on the mountaintop, God intervenes. Speaking from the clouds the divine voice says, “Listen.” The word listen means to “pay attention to what you hear.”
Are you paying attention these days? Are you really paying attention – to your life, your world and your God? Are you watching and listening to the word and wisdom of God?
At our annual Shrove Tuesday pancake supper, a group of middle-aged adults started talking about favorite junk food from our childhood. On the top of the list for a number of folks were Krispy Kreme donuts. As I drove home, trying to focus on my Ash Wednesday sermon, I had junk food on the brain, and my ruminations turned to McDonald’s french fries. By the time I got to my house, I literally had a craving for those perfectly constructed, remarkably uniform, four-inch-long strips of Idaho russet potatoes soaked in sugar, corn syrup, and hot water; fried in oil; drenched in salt; and served in a little paper bag or box. And then I remembered my Lenten commitment of mindful eating.
But I couldn’t get those French fries out of my mind. I could have gone out and feasted on McDonald’s french fries. After all, it was still Fat Tuesday. But instead, I sat down with Food and Faith, one of the books I intended to read to inspire my mindful eating discipline. The book fell open to an essay by John Ryan and Alan Durning about the journey of a box of McDonald’s French fries that began on a one-half square foot of sandy soil in the upper Snake River valley of Idaho.[i]
I learned that during its 150-day growing period, my potato was watered repeatedly with a total of seven and one-half gallons of water from the Snake River. My potato was treated with a variety of fertilizers and pesticides to make it look so uniform and perfect. Much of the fertilizer’s nitrogen leached into the groundwater, making it unfit for even fertilization, and some of it washed into the streams that feed the Snake River.
Once my potato had grown to maturity, it was harvested by diesel-powered farm machinery and trucked to a nearby processing plant. Half of my potato’s weight (mostly water from the Snake River) was eliminated in the processing. The processing itself created an additional two-thirds of a gallon of wastewater that included 1/3 gram of nitrogen, and was then sprayed on a field outside the plant and sank underground.
After my potato was processed into those uniform four-inch-long strips, it was frozen with hydro fluorocarbon coolants and electricity generated by a dam on the Snake River. It then was shipped, along with lots of other bags of frozen four-inch-long strips of potatoes, in a refrigerated 18-wheeler to my McDonald’s – one of 33,000 worldwide.
By the time I finished reading the essay, I should have lost my taste for a bag of those golden brown French fries, but I didn’t. However, I decided to begin my Lenten practice of mindful eating a day early.
In the traditional gospel reading from Matthew 6 appointed for Ash Wednesday Jesus, reminds us of three essential principles of Christian mindfulness: fasting, almsgiving, and prayer. Using french fries as my metaphor, I want to explore with you what he’s talking about and how it might apply in our daily lives.
In the abstract, there is absolutely nothing wrong with eating french fries. Now, I wouldn’t go as far as Ray Kroc, one of the founders of McDonald’s who wrote in his autobiography that the french fry was “almost sacrosanct” for him. However, I might agree that ”its preparation [could be] a ritual to be followed religiously.”[ii] If I grew a potato in my own organic garden, relying largely on rain water and no fertilizer; if I harvested that potato myself; if I washed it in my sink with small amount of tap water; if I sliced it into imperfect four-inch-long strips; and if I fried it in a little unsaturated oil; and if I sprinkled just a little sea salt, then my french fries wouldn’t be so bad.
Moreover, if I had grown my own potato and processed it myself into a plate of french fries, I would have been mindful of, and attentive to, the soil, the sun, the rain, my neighborhood critters, my body, and my environment. Once I got used to not coating my food with sugar and corn syrup, I’m certain it would have tasted better. And, for every calorie eaten, I might have burned up a few in the effort of tending my garden.
Knowing my gardening skills, I would have been saying a lot of prayers for my garden to grow. And if I had a decent crop, I could have shared my produce with others less fortunate.
But what if I didn’t have a garden? Well, I could have grown my potato in a community garden, or purchased it from a local farmer, a CSA or a farmer’s market. Moreover, as a discipline, for every potato eaten, I could give one or two cents to a local or global hunger program.
The point is, that in deciding not to buy my french fries in a box or bag from McDonald’s (or some other fast food restaurant), I would be making the decision to be mindful in my eating, prayerful in my choices, and attentive to the needs of the rest of the world.
As I reflect on Jesus’ advice for practicing self-denial, I have concluded that it really is about paying attention – paying attention to how we eat, how we pray, and how we share the gifts we have been given.
Lent is a time to focus on this practice of mindful living. It is a season to renew those good new intentions and begin taking steps in the right direction. In AA, they say – 90 meetings in 90 days. That’s the amount of time it takes to break an old habit and form a new one. The Lenten-Easter cycle is just that – 90 days: 40 days of Lent and 50 days of Easter. That’s 90 days to begin again and start anew. And, if one falls off the wagon, so to speak, you can start over. After all, we belong to a religion of second-chances and start-overs. It’s really a matter of intention, attention, mindfulness and practice.
As for me, I’m going to work on mindful eating as my Lenten practice and hope that it sticks. I think I’m also going to plant some potatoes this spring. I should be able to plant my crop on St. Patrick’s Day – right in the middle of Lent and harvest my potatoes after Pentecost. In the meantime, I’m going to do my best to avoid those tempting McDonald’s french fries.
What about you? What are going to take on or give up this Lent as you pay attention to practice mindful living in the name of Christ?
[i] “French Fries by John C. Ryan and Alan Thein Durning, Food and Faith (Living the Good News, The Morehouse Group, 2002), pp 123-125)
[ii] Ray Kroc, Grinding it Out: The Making of McDonald’s (1992)
“A certain day became a presence to me; there it was, confronting me – a sky, air, light: a being. And before it started to descend from the height of noon, it leaned over and struck my shoulder as if with the flat of a sword, granting me honor and a task. The day’s blow rang out, metallic – or it was I, a bell-awakened, and what I heard my whole self saying and singing what it knew: I can.” (Denise Levertov, “Variation on a Theme by Rilke,” 1987)
Whenever I hear these words, penned by the poet Denise Levertov, I am reminded of the sacrament of baptism, and today I am especially reminded of Jesus’ baptism. I can imagine our Lord as a young man who decided one day to abandon his carpentry tools, leave his hometown of Nazareth, and wander into the wilderness to meet up with his cousin John the Baptizer at the River Jordan.
The Great River Jordan at Nazareth - Muddy and not-so-wide - Tracey Lind 2004
This famous body of water is more like a meandering creek than a big, wide river. Yet, this is the river that Jesus’ spiritual ancestor and our spiritual ancestor Jacob crossed to be reunited with his brother Esau. This is river that Jesus’ spiritual ancestor and our spiritual ancestor Joshua crossed when he led God’s chosen people into the Promised Land after forty years of roaming in the Exodus. This is the river where Jesus’ spiritual ancestor and our spiritual ancestor Elijah took off his cloak and struck the water so that he and Elisha could cross on dry land. This is the great River Jordan whose name was derived from a Hebrew verb that means to descend, go down, or pour out.
Jesus, spiritual descendant of Jacob, Joshua, and Elijah, waded in those waters and God’s very spirit was poured out upon him. When he ascended from the muddy water of this very river, our Lord Jesus commenced his public ministry as anointed servant, savior and Son of God.
According to the Gospel of Mark, it was on the occasion of his baptism Jesus finally knew who he was, to whom he belonged, and what he had to do. Like the story of creation in the first chapter of Genesis, at his baptism Jesus stepped down into the dark, formless and murky water, the Spirit lighted upon (or as some have suggested dive-bombed onto) his shoulder and the Son of God emerged and began to create in God’s very own image.
Did Jesus know what was about to happen when he submerged into the water of baptism? We’re not told. In fact, if you were reading the Gospel of Mark like a novel, you won’t even yet know whom Jesus was. For this is Chapter 1, the beginning of the story of Jesus Christ.
So for a moment, suspend your knowledge of Jesus as Son of God and your faith in him as Lord and Savior, and just consider him a thirty-year-old man coming from a small town to met up with his cousin John. Perhaps, he stood on the shores of the river and watched for a while as men and women were submerged in the flowing water. Perhaps, he sat on the riverbank and listened to John’s prophetic words of repentance. Perhaps, there was a lull in a baptism business and nobody was around but John, and Jesus greeted him with a big hug and caught up on family news for a while. Or perhaps, Jesus caught John by surprise as he stood in turn in line to be baptized. Who knows?
What we do know is that Jesus chose to be baptized by John in the River Jordan. He chose to dive deep into the muddy and murky water, to go below the surface to the place of darkness and chaos in order to submit and surrender to God’s way. We also know that, “just as he was coming up out the water, he saw the heavens tear of apart (literally, schism) and the Spirit descend like a dove on him.” (Mark 1:10) To borrow Denise Levertov’s metaphor, “it leaned over and struck [his] shoulder as if with the flat of a sword, granting [him] honor and a task.”
Surfacing - Tracey Lind - 2005
According to this Gospel account, it was an epiphany of divine power, divine love, and divine claiming of humanity. According to Mark’s account of this event, when Jesus was baptized and came out of the water, God entered the earthly realm in a powerful in-breaking and tearing apart of the boundary between human and divine.
Can you imagine it? Can you see what Jesus saw and felt – the full force of the divine descending and tearing apart all that separates humans from the Eternal One? And then, can you envision a dove with its big, fluffy feathers descend upon your shoulder like the “flat of a sword” anointing you and claiming you as God’s very own beloved child.
Coming up from the waters of baptism, God took hold of him. What could he do? In the film Patch Adams, a doctor played by Robin Williams who wants to heal his patients with humor, laughter and joy played said, “When a dream takes hold of you, what can you do? You can run with it, let it run your life, or let it go and think for the rest of your life about what might have been.” Was he going to run with God and let God run his life, or was he going to let God’s Spirit go and for the rest of his life think about what might have been?
And so it is with each and every one of us. At some point in your life, God will take hold of you. One day, if you surrender to it, God will call you to the dark and murky waters of creation, land upon your shoulder, and you will finally know what you have to do and begin, for God wants to claim all of humanity as chosen vehicles of grace. In fact, I believe that God needs all of us to fulfill the divine dream for humanity. But each one of us has to make ourself available to be claimed and anointed by the transcendent and yet intimate power, and perhaps even frightening grace of God.
I always say that baptism is our first and most important ordination. That’s why, at Trinity Cathedral, we give big certificates to those upon whom baptism is conferred – to remind of us our ordination to the priesthood of all believers. Baptism is our call to run with Jesus and minister in Christ’s name, witnessing to the power of God’s love. It is our commission to be disciples of our Lord, to follow the way of the cross. It is our call to seek unity and community with one another, to bless and care for one another, and to serve one another.
Can you imagine what would happen if we took seriously our ordination of baptism? Can you imagine what would happen if all the baptized really lived as if we were by anointed by God? Can you imagine what would happen if we would claim the dream given us, receive the divine presence, and welcome the Spirit as she descends from the heavens, leaning over and striking our shoulders “as if with the flat of a sword, granting [us] honor and a task?” Can you imagine “The day’s blow [ringing] out…[and yourself] a bell-awakened….saying and singing what it knew: [You] can?” What a world it would be!
A Winter Pond - Tracey Lind - The Feast of the Baptism of our Lord - 2012
Every Christmas Eve, at our 5:00 p.m. service, I tell a story about a character who I’m sure what at the manger that night so long ago. Here’s my 2011 character – Elsie, the Cow.
Elsie, The Christmas Cow - Tracey Lind - 2011
Of course, I was there. Everybody knew I was there. That’s why I’m in a lot of Christmas carols, and I always make an appearance the Christmas pageant. I’ll bet you’ve never seen one without my smiling face.
My name is Elsie. I was there when Jesus was born. I was minding my own business, enjoying my dinner when all this commotion began.
My owner, the innkeeper, opened the door to my stable. It was dark outside, and he had a lantern. With him were a man and a very pregnant woman. They had a donkey laden with blankets. He had a water gourd hanging off his saddle, and a couple of side bags filled with bread, cheese and olives.
The man was explaining to my owner that they had come into town to get registered for taxes. He wasn’t very happy about it, but there was nothing he could do but comply with Roman law. He said that the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem had been crowded with travelers, just like him and his fiancé.
The man and my owner were talking about those awful Roman officials, watching over the parade with spears and swords – behaving as if revolution was about to erupt.
The man (I think his name was Joseph) thanked my owner for the hospitality, and they parted company. Some hospitality – My owner didn’t give him a room in the inn. He insisted that this pregnant woman (I think I overheard her called Mary) sleep in the barn – my inn, so to speak.
Joseph and Mary, along with their donkey came into the stable and hung the lantern on a peg in the wall. Joseph helped Mary settle in on the floor, taking some of my hay to make her a mattress.
I introduced myself to the donkey and learned that his name was Michel. I offered him some of the hay in my manger and some water from my trough. We were getting acquainted. Michel was telling me how exhausted he was. After all, he had walked for several days on some terrible roads, carrying a pregnant woman on his back. What a beast of burden he had become.
Eventually, everybody settled down. I went back to eating dinner and was interrupted again. Mary started screaming, “The baby’s coming, the baby’s coming.” Joseph went looking for help. Fortunately, it didn’t take him long to find the local midwife, who by way helped me deliver my last baby calf.
Siphrah is a good woman, and a real beauty (just like her name implies). She patted me on the head and asked after my calf, now a grown cow herself, providing milk for a family down the road.
You know what happened next.
Siphrah sent Joseph to get hot water and rags for the birth. She got Mary to squat and begin to push and push and push….
The stable got really hot with all the activity. But who am I to complain. I always have a temperature of about 102 degrees – yes, I’m a warm-blooded lady to be sure. Mary was huffing and puffing, and Joseph (who had never witnessed a birth) was sweating up a storm.
It also got awfully noisy in the barn. Mary was screaming. Siphrah was shouting, “Push!” Joseph was whimpering under his breath. Michel started to bray. A couple of lambs that were sitting in another stall started to bleat. Squealer, the pig started to grunt. And I began to moo.
Then, it happened. A baby was born. Siphrah pulled him out, wiped him off, patted him on the back. He then SCREAMED, startling and silencing the rest of us. His was a greeting that would echo down through the ages: “Hello world, it’s me!”
Siphrah swaddled him in rags and placed him in his mother’s arms. She turned to Joseph and asked, “What will you name this child?” And without hesitation, Joseph responded, “Jesu” (or Jesus as he’s become known to you). Remembering the words of the angel, he said, “Yes, we will call him Jesu,” which means “God delivers.”
After Mary held him for a few minutes, she fell asleep with exhaustion. Siphrah picked up the little baby and held him in her arms, wondering who he really might be and who he might become.
Meanwhile Joseph came over to me and asked for a favor. He wanted to use my manger – my food trough – now half-empty from sharing my dinner with Michel. He wanted it as a cradle or a crib for his newborn son. What could I say, but “Sure.” At least I could offer some hospitality to this little baby. Joseph freshened the manger with new hay and gently laid the infant in it.
As curious as a cow is, I kept looking at his face. In fact, I got so close that my wet nose nuzzled his warm, little cheek. When I looked into his eyes, I just knew he was special. Cows have a special sense of intuition.
And then, this little song came into my head:
Away in a manger, no crib for His bed,
The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.
The stars in the sky looked down where He lay
The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.
The cattle are lowing, the poor Baby wakes,
But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes;
I love Thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky
And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.
Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay,
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray!
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care
And take us to heaven, to live with Thee there.
And that’s the story of Christmas from the perspective of Elsie, the cow.
Like many great ideas, necessity was the mother of this invention. It was 2008, the stock market had plummeted, and everyone was feeling strapped and not wanting Christmas to be too costly. So we came up with some simple rules for family gift giving – every present had to be under $10, recycled, or homemade. Once the rules were communicated and agreed upon, everybody went to work.
Christmas Day arrived and we had the best time. My mother made fudge, and then we wrapped up her barely-used collection of purses for every woman and girl in the family, and to the men she gave a slightly-used briefcase or backpack. Emily’s parents gave away very special items from their home, and the room filled with shouts of glee as sons, daughters, grandchildren and in-laws unwrapped precious books from childhood and special pieces of family furniture or silver that had been lovingly polished anew. The farmers in our family presented frozen pork chops and sausage from Ralph the 4-H pig, dilly beans from their garden, figs in earl grey tea, pickled quince and fresh eggs from a new flock of chickens. I gave photographs in recycled frames, and Emily made incredible batches of olives brined in a secret recipe of spices and oils. And nobody spent more than $10 on any gift.
We set up a table for a CD Exchange, and what was one person’s tired music became another’s great discovery. And then, over eggnog and olives, we had the funniest Yankee Swap and watched a family of girls fight over a Jane Austin CD collection that ended up being a box without the CD’s (we just found those last week in the attic).
Financial necessity changed our family Christmas. The holidays have become more creative, thoughtful and less hectic. Christmas changed our family attitudes about consumption and gift-exchange.
10RH = Christmas -> Try it with your family.
Reprinted from The Cathedral Connection, December 2010
Richard Rohr writes, “The word of God confronts, converts, and consoles us—in that order.” (Daily Meditation: Advent – November 28, 2011)
God’s living and active word comes to us as a voice crying in the wilderness, a two-edged sword, a kiss of peace, water to quench our thirst, and food to satisfy our hunger. The divine word can be both tender and tough, plain and complex, threatening and safe, provocative and reassuring, challenging and comforting. One thing I know for certain, or at least I believe for sure, is that God has spoken and is still speaking, even or perhaps, when we least expect to hear God’s voice.
This word of God challenged the prophet Isaiah to cry out to his people. When asked, “What shall I cry out,” God responded, “Lift up your voice with strength…and say: ‘Here is your God’ who like a shepherd comes to feed the flock, gather the lambs in his arms, carry them in her bosom, and gently lead them on their way home.
These words of confrontation, conversion and consolation were spoken by an anonymous prophet living amongst his fellow Jewish exiles in Babylon in the middle of the sixth century BCE. The powerful empire of Babylon captured Judah in 597 and destroyed Jerusalem in 587. Most of the city’s residents were deported to Babylon, where eventually, they were permitted to live in community – much like the settled refugee camps of Thailand, Palestine, Darfur, Kenya, and Nepal. The elders would have remembered the former days of freedom, but two generations would have been born and raised in exile, some in relative comfort and even privilege, not knowing of the land of their parents and grandparents. Over this sixty year exile, the Babylonian Empire weakened, and former ally Cyrus, king of Persia, became an enemy. In 538, without much struggle, Cyrus occupied the city of Babylon, and soon thereafter, issued a decree that the Jews were free to return home to Jerusalem.
The prophet Deutero-Isaiah (Isaiah the Second or Isaiah, Jr.) probably wrote to his fellow exiles shortly before Cyrus’ occupation of Babylon. His message was nothing less than a promise of complete restoration: a homecoming after a long exile, a return to power after a long season of subordination, and a message of hope to a people who had grown complacent and hopeless.
Comfort O comfort my people. What did “comfort” mean to this exiled community? The Hebrew word for “comfort” literally means to “prepare” or “turn away from suffering.” After two and one-half generations of life in captivity and exile, many had forgotten or deferred the dream of freedom. So Isaiah was compelled to tell his people that there was a better way.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem Isaiah had to “speak tenderly” lest his complacent and disillusioned people would not open their hearts to his message of hope and promise. He had to convince his exiled community that there was an alternative reality to the one they had come to know and accept. So the message, spoken tenderly, was nonetheless confrontative and challenging. To get his brainwashed community to think, act, and speak differently, Isaiah (like many prophets) employed and provoked what biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann, calls “poetic imagination.”
In the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord, Make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Contrary to popular opinion, the highway is not a modern invention to accommodate automobile travel. The highway was a special feature of the city of Babylon. According to archeological findings and Babylonian hymnody, Babylon was characterized by its great processional highways, broad avenues for the gods and rulers to triumphantly enter the city. Every resident of Babylon, native or foreign-born, would have first-hand knowledge of the majestic highways of the city that were as commonplace as our modern freeways.
The wilderness and the desert were equally familiar images in the mind of the exiled Jewish community. The story of the Exodus the wandering of the Hebrew people in the desert wilderness of the desert for forty years. was then, and remains to this day, the formative event of the Jewish people. Every Jewish man, woman and child could recount and imagine it.
The prophet Isaiah, a good and faithful Jew, took a symbol associated with the might of the oppressor and subverted it with sacred memory to empower the oppressed, insisting that God is more powerful than any imperial rule. With that literary technique, he got the people’s attention.
The gospels borrow this imagery to introduce Jesus to us. He is our highway through the wilderness of our lives and our road out of exile and captivity to the powers and principalities of sin and death. When John the Baptist (also a faithful Jew) announced, “Prepare the way of the Lord, make the path of the Lord straight,” he was speaking to a people, again living under the yoke of oppression, and thus reminded them of their sacred memory.
It was a different time (500 years following the Babylonian exile), a different place (first century Palestine), and a different empire (Rome), but it was the same oppression. Once again, a Jewish prophet reminded a Jewish people of their history – the story of exodus, exile, and homecoming. Again, invoking poetic imagination, he “comforted” a beleaguered people by telling them to convert or turn away from oppression and prepare for something new that was about to happen. The Word of God, more powerful than any imperial rule or economic-military might, was about to be enfleshed and come among them and baptize them with the power of its divine Spirit. Empowered by the Spirit and encouraged by the Word, one could begin to imagine the miracles that would transpire, the wonders that would happen, and how the world might be turned upside down.
Fast forward to a different time, place, and empire. People are oppressed, nations are at war, cities lie in ruin, the environment is at risk, and many of the faithful are living in exile from their own religious traditions. Are we not living in circumstances akin to that of our our spiritual ancestors in ancient Egypt, Babylon, Palestine, or Rome?
About 18 months ago, I was confronted with the Word of God, “living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword” (Hebrews 4:12) spoken by a community organizer from the Industrial Areas Foundation. He challenged me and other faith leaders in Cleveland to invoke our poetic imagination so that we too might confront the powers and principalities of our day with the might of our sacred memory, the strength of our prayer, and the peaceful force of our collective action. Out of a combination of hope, despair and agitation, I and other clergy agreed to set aside our parochialism and differences; our limited self-interest, cynicism and hopelessness; the mistakes of our past and fear of failure in the future; and instead, made a commitment to rise together and build power for social justice.
One year later, we gathered over 2,000 people of faith and made a public vow to be a prophetic voice for achieving a more just, prosperous and peaceful community for all our citizens. We imagined a place where people are healthy, children are well educated, workers are employed in good jobs, nobody goes hungry, everybody feels safe, and all are treated with dignity and respect – a place that would thrive because all of its abundant resources were working together for the common good. We committed to work together on five broad issues of common concern: education, jobs, healthcare, food accessibility, and criminal justice. We pledged to unite people across lines of race, class, religion and geography to promote public, private and civic-sector actions that we believed would strengthen and improve the quality of life of our communities. As people united in faith and vision, we asked our public officials and private sector leaders to join us in this pledge of cooperation and accountability.
Our faith communities came together to dig deep into our common values and beliefs to lift up the principles of stewardship, justice, love of neighbor as self, repair of the breach and restoration of the streets. We intended to seek the welfare of the city, and demonstrate compassion for the least among us. Organizing across sectarian lines, we promised to work for a common vision based on a common set of values. We pledged to promote understanding of the region’s assets and challenges, carefully research the issues, and build broad support for strategies and public policies that would cause a new vision for the place we call home. We believed we were standing in what the ancients called a “kairos moment,” an appointed time when God was drawing us together to write and realize a bold, daring and enduring vision of city and suburb working together to be made anew.
As people of faith, we united in the desire to see our communities thrive, and we recognized that we have an important role to play and responsibility to fulfill in the making of a just and compassionate future. We knew what God required of us, and we were prepared to honor the promises of our faith traditions.
As we began our work together, the Cleveland Metropolitan School District announced an intention to balance this year’s budget by eliminating funding for early childhood education, high school transportation, summer school, athletics and more. After listening to many voices, including students, teachers, parents, administrators, funders, and advocates; and following private meetings with the Mayor, the School District CEO and the Teacher’s Union President, we called for an education assembly this coming Thursday to state clearly our opposition to such cuts, and hold those charged with educating our children accountable for finding a mutually agreed-upon way to solve the problem without eliminating such services and programs.
In case you haven’t heard the news, I am pleased report to you that on Friday night, the Cleveland Metropolitan School District and the Cleveland Teacher’s Union responded to our call and struck a tentative deal that will restore the proposed funding cuts. By all accounts, our work preparing for our education assembly on Thursday (and the subsequent media attention) created a sense of urgency that allowed this tentative agreement to take place.
It is more important than ever that we pack Olivet Institutional Baptist Church on Thursday evening, December 8 at 7 p.m.
First, we need to celebrate the leadership of CMSD and CTU for making tough decisions that are in the best interests of the community. When leaders respond, we must recognize them as vigorously as we would hold them accountable. Second, we need to ensure that this deal sticks. We can’t let this slide backwards. Finally, we need to communicate the message loud and clear that we do not want to be in this position again next year. All of us — school districts, unions, public policy makers, tax payers, business and civic leaders, and yes, the faith community — need to work together to address the long term structural problems facing our public education. Both CMSD Superintendent Eric Gordon and CTU President David Quolke will be with us on Thursday evening to explain the agreement and talk about what comes next for the school district and how Greater Cleveland Congregations might participate in building a strong, just and sustainable school system for our children.
As we live into this season of Advent, I am again reminded of the power of God’s living word to confront, convert, and console God’s people, and I am grateful for its two-edged sword of challenge and comfort. The Psalmist is astute in his observation: “God will indeed grant prosperity…our land will yield its increase…righteousness shall go before us…and peace shall be a pathway for our feet.” So let us go forward preparing and walking in the way of the Lord. Thanks be to God!
We are in the middle of the great migration. Millions of waterfowl fly right past our house on the Northcoast super highway on their annual journey south. Our little portion of this great lake must be a great fishing ground, because it serves as a rest stop for dozens of varieties of birds every day. First, the scout lands; then the leader of the flock glides onto the aqua runway; and then the entire squad comes in for landing. The sound is almost as loud as an airport at the evening rush hour. They feast on fresh perch and walleye. It’s fun to watch them fighting over a big fish. They splash around and drink up some of the best water in all the world. And then, they’re off again, and we wait for the next battalion to land. Ah, the joys of the living on an inland sea.
Interrupted by God 