“Follow the lights. And if you can’t see the lights, follow the people who are following the light.” Father Bruno Barnhart, OSB Cam, Midnight Mass Christmas 2009
The Magi are cresting my file box.
For the past several weeks, the wise ones have been on the move in my home, making their way over mountains and rough places, on their way to the manger.
My son Ian set them out when I was cooking dinner one night. Piece by piece he unpacked the figures of our nativity scene and positioned them in their proper place. When I came over to admire his work, the Magi were right there with the shepherds, Jesus and Mary, glowing in the light of our tree.
The next day Ian thought better of it. “No, this is all wrong,” he announced. “Jesus is not supposed to be here. And the Magi are still a long way off.”
Dutifully I heeded his concern and set Jesus in an empty bowl on my altar, explaining that “Jesus is back in the hand of God.” Ian meanwhile moved through the house collecting obstacles for the Magi’s journey. In front of the manger, he set torn pillows from our old couch, my yoga bolster, a cardboard file box, and a plastic trash can. Then our Nativity scene was no longer a tidy decoration tucked tastefully away in a corner of beauty but an obstacle we had to traverse in the course of our daily lives.
One day, Ian decided that the Magi needed some help. He strung a line of tiny Christmas lights along their path to encourage their steps.
Still, the Magi fell off the path lots of times – when kids raced by in a chase, when I was carrying laundry on my hip, when David was on his way to get the phone. Someone would knock a pillow and then down would go one of the wise ones. At first, Ian cried whenever the travelers were upset. But gradually, we all got used to getting them back on track.
So it has gone all Advent. Slowly, slowly, the Magi have been making their way, traversing my house and mind.
Most years, I pay close attention to Mary’s journey. I too was once pregnant in December. I too once followed a call that radically upset my life. In years past, Mary’s story has inspired me and encouraged my own attempts to respond to the mystery of the incarnation. But not this year. This year, I am watching the Magi.
They have climbed the cushion that is leaking stuffing and can see the star Ian hung above the manger.
I remember the times in my life when I have seen a vision and begun to move toward it. Like the day I sat at a table on a farm in Mississippi and saw how rich, poor, black, white, brown, young, and old can gather as family. Like the moment when I inherited money and knew it was supposed to move as a currency of Christ’s love and justice in the world. Like the evening when I sat in a circle of friends and saw how a relationship between a man and woman can be - a partnership between spiritual companions united by their love of God. Like the day my sons and I watched a bi-racial man inaugurated and saw how the American people can embody a spirit of hope.
The visions I have seen come complete. As if I could just step into them. As if there were no obstacles to cross. As if there were not all the stuff in me and the world that makes it so hard to bring the visions God gives to life. The magi are nearing the top of my yoga bolster. The manger is within sight.
In real life, I don’t get to just step into the visions I see. The journey is long, difficult, and necessary. If I want to participate in how God is being born today, I must be converted first and that happens somewhere between the moment when a vision is given and when it becomes reality.
It’s Christmas Eve. The Magi are crossing the curved lid of the plastic trash can. It is the most slippery part of their trek. Somehow Ian has found a way to balance them on top of the mess. They are almost there.
So many times the evil spirit uses the garbage of life to distract me, going after my weak spots to convince me that what I see is impossible, unrealistic, foolhardy or insane. The closer I get to where God is moving the stronger that voice becomes. It is easy to slip and get lost in the mess.
The wise ones keep walking.
They make it. Every year, they arrive at the crèche with their well known gifts: myrrh, gold, and frankincense. I see too that they have something else: their willingness to see and to walk the journey all the way through.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Mas de Ti in Half Moon Bay
We arrived at the local Methodist Church in our finest dress clothes. Roddy and Ian wore new slacks and pressed white dress shirts. I was in my red blouse that amazes me with its ability to transform my typical house-maker look. Life on the coast is pretty casual, but last night felt special. We had been invited to perform with our church’s choir at a Christmas gathering of coastside choirs. We honored the invitation by making ourselves beautiful.
Detlef, the choir master, provided each of us with a gold, hand-painted silk scarf as a thread to tie us all together. We needed it. Our crew was a collection of farmers, local rock musicians, artists, prep and public school children, and Silicon Valley business people who share a love for that special something that happens in the small coastside community of Pescadero. While we waited for all of us to arrive, Roddy, Ian and I played with ways of wrapping ourselves up in the extravagant gift that flowed from a Magi’s sight.
When it was our turn to perform, Detlef explained to the audience that we were singing a song in Spanish as a way of honoring the ancient couple that had to travel to their homeland to register with the authorities and as a way of honoring the fact that the ancient drama is still played out in the lives of our Mexican neighbors who come to our communities fleeing extreme poverty or oppressive governments.
Up until then, I had heard our song “More of thee, Less of me” as a mystical pondering about the way that the human heart can open to the larger mystery of love when the ego finds its proper place in the psyche. As Detlef spoke, I felt again the connection between the mystery of incarnation and my life’s commitment to respond to the global realities of our time in a way that finds connection where the systems of our world seek to divide.
My eight year old’s voice was the first one to ring through the church. I was surprised by the fullness of his voice. Naturally shy, Ian typically sings quietly. Detlef had taken time to coach him in proper breathing, so when he opened his mouth, his thrill at being invited to solo came through. Later, my older son sang the second verse alone perfectly. Standing behind them, I could not witness the way they embodied the music. This time I delighted in the bright smiles in the faces of the adults in the pews watching my boys.
When we got to the part of the song, where the discipline of early refrains gives way to joy, we surrendered to the fullness of the sound and had fun.
Later, back in our seats, I was aware of how privileged I felt to be a part of this crew. I loved the way everyone was welcome. I loved the fact that we did not need to be perfect to be wonderful. And I loved the fact that the children got to shine. What a gift to be invited to sing in the choir of the love at Christmas time!
Detlef, the choir master, provided each of us with a gold, hand-painted silk scarf as a thread to tie us all together. We needed it. Our crew was a collection of farmers, local rock musicians, artists, prep and public school children, and Silicon Valley business people who share a love for that special something that happens in the small coastside community of Pescadero. While we waited for all of us to arrive, Roddy, Ian and I played with ways of wrapping ourselves up in the extravagant gift that flowed from a Magi’s sight.
When it was our turn to perform, Detlef explained to the audience that we were singing a song in Spanish as a way of honoring the ancient couple that had to travel to their homeland to register with the authorities and as a way of honoring the fact that the ancient drama is still played out in the lives of our Mexican neighbors who come to our communities fleeing extreme poverty or oppressive governments.
Up until then, I had heard our song “More of thee, Less of me” as a mystical pondering about the way that the human heart can open to the larger mystery of love when the ego finds its proper place in the psyche. As Detlef spoke, I felt again the connection between the mystery of incarnation and my life’s commitment to respond to the global realities of our time in a way that finds connection where the systems of our world seek to divide.
My eight year old’s voice was the first one to ring through the church. I was surprised by the fullness of his voice. Naturally shy, Ian typically sings quietly. Detlef had taken time to coach him in proper breathing, so when he opened his mouth, his thrill at being invited to solo came through. Later, my older son sang the second verse alone perfectly. Standing behind them, I could not witness the way they embodied the music. This time I delighted in the bright smiles in the faces of the adults in the pews watching my boys.
When we got to the part of the song, where the discipline of early refrains gives way to joy, we surrendered to the fullness of the sound and had fun.
Later, back in our seats, I was aware of how privileged I felt to be a part of this crew. I loved the way everyone was welcome. I loved the fact that we did not need to be perfect to be wonderful. And I loved the fact that the children got to shine. What a gift to be invited to sing in the choir of the love at Christmas time!
Thursday, December 8, 2011
The Immaculate Conception
Today is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. It is a sacred day for me because it celebrates a mystery that brought me life in a very difficult time.
In the Catholic Tradition, The Feast of the Immaculate Conception celebrates the fact that Mary was conceived without original sin. I once heard a Jesuit preach that the mystery at the heart of this feast is not just about Mary; it is also about each one of us. He said that the Immaculate Conception celebrates the fact that inside of each our hearts, there is something that was conceived without sin. The mystery is about believing in that part of us.
In my bedroom, a painting of The Immaculate Heart of Mary by C. Bosseron Chambers hangs above my prayer candles. The artist has merged the imagery of Mary Immaculate with devotion to the Sacred Heart. Mary stands with her cloak held open. The pure white fire of her sacred heart looks like it’s burning through her dress. Her face is serene and calm.
I found this painting in a book about Mary that turned up the day I told my family that I had decided to separate from my husband. Sharing the fact that my marriage was over was difficult, as my family is one where people do not get divorced. I felt like a failure.
That night, after a long day of explaining myself and sitting with my family’s grief, anger, misunderstanding and pain, I found the picture of Mary. I was struggling to regain some sense of who I was, so I went to a closet in my parents’ home and rummaged through items from my childhood that I had stored there. On top of my journals was the book about Mary. I opened to the painting of The Immaculate Heart of Mary.
In the painting, Mary is surrounded by darkness. Only her dress and veil are white. But in the middle of her chest, her heart burns.
That night, I placed the picture of Mary next to my bed. I needed to be held and Mary’s presence comforted me. In the darkness, I could still see the fire of her heart.
During the next few weeks, I did the hard work of going public about my separation and hearing people’s pain and grief about that news. It was a difficult time as I continually came up against judgments and accusations that echoed my own. My sense of my own goodness was thoroughly shaken. I struggled to believe in God because even my image of God felt tainted by my failings.
One day in the midst of this struggle, I heard in my head the words to the Beatles song, Let It Be: “In my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, ‘Let it Be.’” The “she” I could see in front of me that day was the Mary of Chambers’ painting.
Something shifted then. Comforted by Mary and her immaculate heart, I began to sense the purity that remains beyond my fears, my insecurities, and my failings. On that day, I chose to believe in that purity. It was a choice to believe in the Immaculate Conception.
Choosing to trust what remains immaculate in my heart gives me courage to face my shadows. When I can still see my own goodness, I am able to listen to how I have done wrong with an open heart and mind. When I believe that the seed of God’s love lives unsullied deep within me in spite of my worst mistakes, I can confront my deepest fears and pain. The Mary of Chambers’ painting reminds me to believe in the purity in my heart.
On the night that I told my mother what I knew would break her heart, she listened quietly. She gave me some advice and then told me to pray about my situation. As she got out of the car we were sitting in, I started to cry.
A moment later, my mother reopened the door. “No matter what, I want you to remember that you are precious.”
Hail Mary, full of grace.
In the Catholic Tradition, The Feast of the Immaculate Conception celebrates the fact that Mary was conceived without original sin. I once heard a Jesuit preach that the mystery at the heart of this feast is not just about Mary; it is also about each one of us. He said that the Immaculate Conception celebrates the fact that inside of each our hearts, there is something that was conceived without sin. The mystery is about believing in that part of us.
In my bedroom, a painting of The Immaculate Heart of Mary by C. Bosseron Chambers hangs above my prayer candles. The artist has merged the imagery of Mary Immaculate with devotion to the Sacred Heart. Mary stands with her cloak held open. The pure white fire of her sacred heart looks like it’s burning through her dress. Her face is serene and calm.
I found this painting in a book about Mary that turned up the day I told my family that I had decided to separate from my husband. Sharing the fact that my marriage was over was difficult, as my family is one where people do not get divorced. I felt like a failure.
That night, after a long day of explaining myself and sitting with my family’s grief, anger, misunderstanding and pain, I found the picture of Mary. I was struggling to regain some sense of who I was, so I went to a closet in my parents’ home and rummaged through items from my childhood that I had stored there. On top of my journals was the book about Mary. I opened to the painting of The Immaculate Heart of Mary.
In the painting, Mary is surrounded by darkness. Only her dress and veil are white. But in the middle of her chest, her heart burns.
That night, I placed the picture of Mary next to my bed. I needed to be held and Mary’s presence comforted me. In the darkness, I could still see the fire of her heart.
During the next few weeks, I did the hard work of going public about my separation and hearing people’s pain and grief about that news. It was a difficult time as I continually came up against judgments and accusations that echoed my own. My sense of my own goodness was thoroughly shaken. I struggled to believe in God because even my image of God felt tainted by my failings.
One day in the midst of this struggle, I heard in my head the words to the Beatles song, Let It Be: “In my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, ‘Let it Be.’” The “she” I could see in front of me that day was the Mary of Chambers’ painting.
Something shifted then. Comforted by Mary and her immaculate heart, I began to sense the purity that remains beyond my fears, my insecurities, and my failings. On that day, I chose to believe in that purity. It was a choice to believe in the Immaculate Conception.
Choosing to trust what remains immaculate in my heart gives me courage to face my shadows. When I can still see my own goodness, I am able to listen to how I have done wrong with an open heart and mind. When I believe that the seed of God’s love lives unsullied deep within me in spite of my worst mistakes, I can confront my deepest fears and pain. The Mary of Chambers’ painting reminds me to believe in the purity in my heart.
On the night that I told my mother what I knew would break her heart, she listened quietly. She gave me some advice and then told me to pray about my situation. As she got out of the car we were sitting in, I started to cry.
A moment later, my mother reopened the door. “No matter what, I want you to remember that you are precious.”
Hail Mary, full of grace.
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