Walking in February A warm day after a long freeze On an old logging road Below Sumas Mountain Cut a walking stick of alder, Looked down through clouds On wet fields of the Nooksack— And stepped on the ice Of a frozen pool across the road. It creaked The white air under Sprang away, long cracks Shot out in the black, My cleated mountain boots Slipped on the hard slick —like thin ice—the sudden Feel of an old phrase made real— Instant of frozen leaf, Icewater, and staff in hand. “Like walking on thin ice—” I yelled back to a friend, It broke and I dropped Eight inches in ~Gary Snyder “Thin Ice”from No Nature
Everyone is treading on thin ice right now, unsure where to go next.
The trouble with overheated action and rhetoric in the middle of winter is that we all end up at risk of breaking through, no matter where we try to tread.
When we allow ourselves to be put in such peril, when we hear the creak with each step as a warning, we deserve to be doused by the chilly waters beneath our feet.
Lord, have mercy on us as we call your name in our fear and distress. Help us recognize the cracks forming with each step we take.
Put us on our knees before you and lead us to safety. Only you know where we need to be rather than where we are. You’ll be there to pull us out of the mess we’re in.
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Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “Snow-Flakes”
Snowflakes cover all, settling in around us, drifting about the tucked corners of a downy white comforter
Watching as heaven comes to earth, plumps the pillows, cushions the landscape, and tries to lighten our grieving hearts.
I know dark clouds will gather ’round me I know my way is hard and steep But beauteous fields arise before me Where God’s redeemed, their vigils keep ~from Wayfaring Stranger
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To clasp the hands in prayer is the beginning of an uprising against the disorder of the world. ~Karl Barth
Whatever happens. Whatever what is is is what I want. Only that. But that. ~Galway Kinnell “Prayer”
Ah — a resting place, where we come to understand it is not required of us to wrestle constantly and passionately with our God — nor pursue relentlessly all God’s decrees as we understand them, but only that we listen and wonder and hope and pray, that we might, perhaps, make just a little difference, one quiet grey day. ~Edwina Gateley “Just a Little Difference”
There is much shouting and gnashing of teeth going on in our country right now – some from the streets, some from computer keyboards and screens, and some from inside the echoing halls of government and a certain white house.
We need to stop shouting and clasp hands in prayer.
Nothing can right the world until we are right with God through talking to Him out of our depth of need and fear. Nothing can right the world until we submit ourselves wholly, bowed low, hands clasped, eyes closed, articulating the joy, the thanks, and the petitions weighing on our hearts.
An uprising is only possible when our voice comes alive, unashamed, unselfconscious, rising up from within us, uttering words that beseech and thank and praise. To rise up with hands clasped together calls upon a power needing no billions of funds and no weapons of destruction and no walls to keep people in or keep them out.
He is the Word, come to overcome and overwhelm the shambles left of our world. Nothing can be more victorious than the Amen, our Amen, at the end of our prayers.
Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses. ~C. S. Lewis from The Weight of Glory
photo of San Juan Islands by Joel DeWaard
We are united by our joint creation as the Image of God. Not one of us reflects God more than another but together form His body and His kingdom on earth.
Dr. King’s words and wisdom continue to inform us of our shortcomings sixty years later. We flounder in our flaws and brokenness; so many question not only the validity of equality of all people of all shades, but even doubt the existence of a God who would create a world that includes the crippled body, the troubled mind, the questioned gender, the genetically challenged, those never allowed to draw a breath.
Yet we are all one, a composition made up of white and black keys too often discordant, sometimes dancing to different tempos, on rare occasions a symphony.
The potential is there for harmony, and Dr. King would see and hear that in his time on earth.
Perhaps today we unite only in our shared tears, shed for continued strife and disagreements, shed for injustice that results in senseless killings, shed for our inability to hold up one another as holy in God’s eyes as His intended creation, no matter our color, our origin, our defects, our differences and similarities.
There are no gradations in God nor in His intended harmonious creation. We can weep together, anticipating the day when the Lord God wipes all tears away.
How many times each day do I wonder at the miracle that is each breath, each step, each meal, each good night’s sleep, each wakening, each song, each hug?
That it happens at all is a miracle, I tell you.
And why do we notice it most when it is no longer a given – when we have suddenly lost the daily gifts we take for granted.
So we who wake on an ordinary Sunday today, our home and church and family not in the path of a fire, our communities not in danger, we thank God for His daily miracles and pray that His people will help comfort and care for those who weep.
God’s children begin as soft as a holly blossom, turning blood red as its berry, fully surrounded by prickly leaves.
Christ was sent to bleed like us for us, to wear a thorny crown and bear wounds by smoothing over all our sharp edges.
For what is our hope, our joy, or the crown in which we will glory in the presence of our Lord Jesus when he comes? Is it not you? Indeed, you are our glory and joy. 1 Thessalonians 2: 19-20
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He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power of love. . . . We can never say, ‘I will forgive you, but I won’t have anything further to do with you.’ Forgiveness means reconciliation, and coming together again. ~Martin Luther King from The Gift of Love
I was your rebellious son, do you remember? Sometimes I wonder if you do remember, so complete has your forgiveness been.
So complete has your forgiveness been I wonder sometimes if it did not precede my wrong, and I erred, safe found, within your love,
prepared ahead of me, the way home, or my bed at night, so that almost I should forgive you, who perhaps foresaw the worst that I might do,
and forgave before I could act, causing me to smile now, looking back, to see how paltry was my worst, compared to your forgiveness of it
already given. And this, then, is the vision of that Heaven of which we have heard, where those who love each other have forgiven each other,
where, for that, the leaves are green, the light a music in the air, and all is unentangled, and all is undismayed. -Wendell Berry “To My Mother”
It’s no wonder that this culture quickly becomes littered with enormous numbers of broken and now irreparable relationships. Politics itself becomes a new kind of religion, one without any means of acquiring redemption or forgiveness. Rather then seeing some people as right and others as mistaken, they are now regarded as the good and the evil, as true believers or heretics. ~Tim Keller from The Fading of Forgiveness
The heart’s reasons seen clearly, even the hardest will carry its whip-marks and sadness and must be forgiven.
So few grains of happiness measured against all the dark and still the scales balance.
The world asks of us only the strength we have and we give it. Then it asks more, and we give it. ~Jane Hirschfield from “The Weighing”
photo by Bob Tjoelker
Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Luke 23:34
To think of the love God shares through His forgiveness, granting infinite grace that knows no bounds: this is a heaven where even mere reflected moonlight heals the tangles and knots we make of our lives.
His Light rises to illuminate and soothe our sorrows and regrets, as our sins are unraveled, smoothed, forgiven, and forgotten.
This year’s Advent theme is from Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s sermon on the First Sunday in Advent, December 2, 1928:
The celebration of Advent is possible only to those who are troubled in soul, who know themselves to be poor and imperfect, and who look forward to something greater to come. For these, it is enough to wait in humble fear until the Holy One himself comes down to us, God in the child in the manager.
God comes.
He is, and always will be now, with us in our sin, in our suffering, and at our death. We are no longer alone. God is with us and we are no longer homeless. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer – from Christmas Sermons
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Oh, then, on that spontaneous, light-filled day, the world will begin singing again after our dim, silent millennial waiting— —you and me and every one of us. After the dark days the sun will be no longer reluctant in his shining (we’ll lift our faces to him, believing him to join with us, jubilant, peering from behind the heaving clouds). Then will our old limbs run and climb again with new vigor, and even the ancient barns, settling deeper in their fields, will sway and creak their praise in unison with the thunder, and the storms of wind and hail, while the old horse nickers in his stall, shaking his white mane at us, we standing by the barn door to greet him, full of joy. We’ll even see fish leaping and eagles soaring, ascending the sun-glanced air.
At the autumn in-gathering, the ground will boil with fallen apples, their fermentation making the feeding cattle tipsy. And in the frost-whiskered creeks, swimming the in-creeping tide, wood ducks will once again nudge each other along, making beatific bird music. And then—Spring! When it is all, everything, thawing, leaping, calling us back in time, in tune, as we, with the whole passionate earth chorale, will practice our scales for the ultimate performance. We’ll be, every one of us, overflowing with a brilliant, unstoppable, alleluia joy, singing songs that we’ll need not rehearse, since by then we’ll know all the tunes and words by heart, with love brimming over our souls’ rims, like wine. And together, leaping, rampant with a vertical energy, and freshened voices and a brand-new score, and well-tuned, enthusiastic instruments, and our almighty Lord leading us, we’ll sing, and keep on raising heaven’s roof without ever needing to stop. ~Luci Shaw “The Quickening” in Christian Century
Great are thy tender mercies, O Lord: quicken me according to thy judgments. Psalm 119:156
…because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace. Luke 1:78-79 from the Song of Zechariah
So it is written: “The first man Adam became a living being”; the last Adam, a quickening spirit. 1 Corinthians 15:45
Some women have described it as a fluttery feeling, the separate life announcing itself with months to go before making its entry into the outer world.
I like to pretend that I remember that sensation, My womb, your chrysalis, your new energy making its presence known washing over my heart like a silky wave.
Soon, you may wonder what was that? Mark that moment well— it is the first of many steps that he will take moving away from you. ~Marietta Calvanico “The Quickening”
There is a distinct and memorable moment in pregnancy, around 16 weeks gestation, when there is an undeniable awareness of movement within the womb–initially a fluttery feeling, but then over the next few days, there are irresistible tickly sensations, then rolling, then pushes.
This is referred to clinically as “quickening”–an emphatic evidence of life within–and a profound acknowledgment that one’s life is no longer one’s own. It is now shared.
Jesus is called the “second Adam” through his death and resurrection, a quickening spirit now shared with us, so much more than the simple life and breath of the first Adam.
The Spirit lives and breathes within us, fluttering and rolling, pushing us from inside. We are startled by its presence, amazed by its insistent touch from within. Pregnant with possibility due to God’s tender mercy, we will never, never be the same again.
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This year’s Advent theme is from Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s sermon on the First Sunday in Advent, December 2, 1928:
The celebration of Advent is possible only to those who are troubled in soul, who know themselves to be poor and imperfect, and who look forward to something greater to come. For these, it is enough to wait in humble fear until the Holy One himself comes down to us, God in the child in the manager.
God comes.
He is, and always will be now, with us in our sin, in our suffering, and at our death. We are no longer alone. God is with us and we are no longer homeless. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer – from Christmas Sermons
Come, O come, Thou quickening Spirit, God from all eternity! May Thy power never fail us; Dwell within us constantly. Then shall truth and life and light Banish all the gloom of night.
Grant our hearts in fullest measure Wisdom, counsel, purity, That we ever may be seeking Only that which pleaseth Thee. Let Thy knowledge spread and grow, Working error’s overthrow.
Show us, Lord, the path of blessing; When we trespass on our way, Cast, O Lord, our sins behind Thee, And be with us day by day. Should we stray, O Lord, recall; Work repentance when we fall.
Prompt us, Lord, to come before Him With a childlike heart to pray; Sigh in us, O Holy Spirit, When we know not what to say. Then our prayer is not in vain, And our faith new strength shall gain.
If our soul can find no comfort, If despondency grows strong, And the heart cries out in anguish, “Oh my God, how long, how long?” Comfort then our aching breast, Grant it courage, patience, rest.
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Find a quiet rain. Then a green spruce tree. You will notice that nearly every needle has been decorated with a tiny raindrop ornament. Look closely inside the drop and there you are. In color. Upside down. Raindrops have been collecting snapshots since objects and people were placed, to their surprise, here and there on earth.
…even if we are only on display for a moment in a water drop as it clings to a pine needle, it is expected that we be on our best behavior, hair combed, jacket buttoned, no vulgar language. Smiling is not necessary, but a pleasant attitude is helpful, and would be, I think, appreciated. ~Tom Hennen from “Outdoor Photos”in Darkness Sticks to Everything
… We are, as we have always been, dangerous creatures, the enemies of our own happiness. But the only help we have ever found for this, the only melioration, is in mutual reverence.
God’s grace comes to us unmerited, the theologians say. But the grace we could extend to one another we consider it best to withhold in very many cases, presumptively, or in the absence of what we consider true or sufficient merit (we being more particular than God), or because few gracious acts, if they really deserve the name, would stand up to a cost-benefit analysis.
This is not the consequence of a new atheism, or a systemic materialism that afflicts our age more than others. It is good old human meanness, which finds its terms and pretexts in every age. The best argument against human grandeur is the meagerness of our response to it, paradoxically enough.
And yet, the beautiful persists, and so do eloquence and depth of thought, and they belong to all of us because they are the most pregnant evidence we can have of what is possible in us. ~ Marilynne Robinson from “What Are We Doing Here?”
These past three weeks I’ve been trudging along feeling cranky – each step an effort, each thought a burden, taking every opportunity to grump about myself, the state of the weather, politics, and of course, death and taxes.
It has been raining and gray here most of the past month with raindrops hanging from every branch. I am preserved in the camera eye of the raindrops I pass, if only for an instant – each drip snapping an instagram selfie photo of my upside-down piss-poor attitude.
It wouldn’t hurt me to stop rolling my eyes and cringing at the world. I might even try on a smile in a spirit of grace and forgiveness, even if the events of the day may not call for it. At least those smiles, reflected in the lens of each raindrop, will soak the soil when let go to fall earthward.
Planting smiles drop by drop: this inundating rain is a gift of grace to heal my grumbles – pregnant evidence of the beauty possible if I let it shine forth.
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God empties himself into the earth like a cloud. God takes the substance, contours of a man, and keeps them, dying, rising, walking, and still walking wherever there is motion. Annie Dillard from “Feast Days” in Tickets for a Prayer Wheel
Soon we will enter the season of Advent, an opportunity to reflect on a God who “takes the substance, contours of a man”, as He “empties himself into the earth like a cloud.”
Like drought-stricken parched ground, we prepare to respond to the drenching of the Spirit through the Son, and be ready to spring up with renewed growth.
He walked among us before His dying and subsequent rising up. He walked among us again, appearing where least expected, sharing a meal, causing our hearts to burn within us, inviting us to touch and know Him.
His invitation remains open-ended, His heart preparing us for our eternal home.
I think of that every time the clouds gather, open up, and empty. He freely falls to earth, soaking us completely, through and through and through.
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