Author: Rosemary Lovelace

First Sunday after Christmas – Bill Harkins

Isaiah 61:10; John 1:1-18

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.

He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. (John testified to him and cried out, “This was he of whom I said, ‘He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.'”) From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen.

I bid each of you good morning, Happy New Year come Wednesday, and a heartfelt welcome to Holy Family on this first Sunday after Christmas!  Just a week ago we heard the lovely narrative from the Gospel of Luke, telling us of the earthly origins of Jesus in the form of the birth and infancy narratives of which we are all so fond. The Gospel of John, in contrast, does not include an account of the birth of Christ as do Luke and Matthew, who are ever the storytellers. They charm us with angels and shepherds, a virgin birth in a stable, a villain named Herod, and heroes in the form of peripatetic kings. In John, who is more of a theologian, we are given in these first 18 verses pure poetry in the form of a lovely Christological hymn and a dazzling, paradoxical conundrum: the light by which everyone sees came into the world, yet the world did not see it. Our culture sometimes bears this out. Last year a friend of mine made his way to a local store on Christmas Eve to get a couple of strings of new lights for an unexpectedly tall tree, and an extra stocking-stuffer or two. The employees were already pulling down the Christmas displays and decorations. My colleague asked one harried, soon-to-be former elf about it, and he said “When this place closes in an hour or two, Christmas is over.” My Methodist erstwhile next door neighbor, who delighted in what I called my Epiphany burning bush, teased me every year when I celebrate the 12 days of Christmas—beginning with Christmas Day—with additional lights lovingly placed on the humble boxwood in my front yard. I suspect even the Chickadees at my feeder thought I was bit nutty.

Is John right in saying that the light came into the world, and the world did not see it? Does that include us? John tells us that the Word became flesh in the form of Jesus of Nazareth, the Word that is the source of light and life for the world—and the innate goodness of creation is made manifest in this light…this life…this Word made flesh. So, John is not concerned with the birth narrative of Jesus so much as with the cosmic dimension of the always already there Word of God, made manifest in the birth of Christ. Indeed, in verse 14 we find the consummate expression of Johns Christology: “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” The Logos—the Word—became part of human history and dwells—the literal translations is “pitches a tent”—among us, even now. From this fullness—this abundance—we have all received grace upon grace. It is important to remember that law, instruction, and guidance for living were given through Moses, but grace and truth have now become flesh in the form of Jesus. Through the Incarnation, Jesus became one of us so we could see, hear, and touch the living Word of God, and participate in that Divine fullness. Yet, John cautions us that this light came into the world unperceived. What are we to do with this paradox?

The theologian Ronald Goetz has suggested that trying to find a systematic consistency in the Gospel of John is ultimately not the point. Rather, he suggests, John is holding up a mirror which reflects the true nature of faith—and the gratitude for the fruitful tension that comes with it. Poets know this better than most of us, I suspect. Robert Frost once observed that “heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in position to look too close,” like seeing a flower from the window of a speeding train. One may not know the variety of the flower, but one understands the essence of its beauty. Like such fleeting glimpses, Goetz suggests, God’s revelation cannot be in-errantly recorded, processed, or made serviceable.” Yet, in faith, we “see” that it may be the most real and abiding thing we possess.

Each year, on the night after the winter solstice, my running buddies and I ventured into the darkness of the trail, with our headlamps lighting the way until we reached a place we affectionately called “Beech Cove.” Deep in the woods, alongside a lovely brook, we turned off our headlamps and let the darkness settle in around us. The water could be heard in a new way, and Orion became visible above us. Wendell Berry, our American treasure, wrote this about the dark: “To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet, and dark wings.” Anyone who has spent time in the woods at night will know the truth of this poem, and its paradoxical lesson that we know the light, in part, because we are willing to become familiar with the dark. And, sometimes we know the dark by virtue of the fact that we are human, and vulnerable, and in spite of this, amid our darkest moments, we see glimpses of light.

And this is where the Gospels of John and Luke speak to one another, in dialectic fashion perhaps. The incarnation we observe and celebrate in this season means nothing less than that God is no longer a God of the sky, relegated to Orion’s realm, but rather walks in the rhythm of humanity. Now, in Christ, we can gaze upon God, both human and divine, just as light—the Word—is both particle and wave, and in seeing Him we see who we were meant to be.

So there is more to the cry of the infant in that cold, dark stable than meets the eye, and sometimes, even if through a glass darkly, we glimpse that something more. John, in his paradoxical insistence that the world cannot see the light which supposedly enlightens it, would not deny that even our unknowing, at times uncaring world sees glimpses of the light, if only in our plastic, neon crèches. Despite the sometimes self-indulgent crassness of the season, are there not times when we can see glimpses of our own best selves reflected in the glimpses of light that we can barely make out? We are reminded of W.H. Auden’s similarly paradoxical Christmas Oratorio in which he wrote: “To those who have seen the child, however dimly, however incredulously, The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all…we look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit our self-reflection.” This being human can be so very hard, until we remember that we are held in the hands of a God who chose not to leave us alone. Grace. That’s the word. Sometimes, in the darkness, despite ourselves, we catch a glimpse of it…and of the light from which it comes.

Well, the Gospel of John presents us with quite a different view of Christmas than we find in Luke—different, yes, yet deeply, literally eloquent and equally full of promise, if only we are able to get it. John’s narrative is not so specific; no little town of Bethlehem, no humble manger, no cattle lowing, no shepherds or wise men. Yet we have this incredible, miraculous, life-giving statement that the Word became flesh. God became like us, so that we know God, and God might fully and completely know us…our experience, including our hesitant, uncertain efforts to bear that light into darkness. Jesus risked the vulnerability of becoming human, like us, and in so doing now takes on all the frailties and finitude of flesh-and-blood humanity. Each human soul, my sisters and brothers, is sacred and unique, and Christ dwells there, too. Christ has pitched a tent in each of us, in the particularity of our being, the sacred landscape of our souls. As our collect for today puts it, God has poured upon us the new light of God’s Incarnate Word. Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives. Amen

Christmas Eve – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Luke 2:1-20

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see– I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

In the name of the God of light and creation, whose loving care surrounds us on this night…Amen. Grace and Peace to you, and welcome, one and all, to Holy Family on this Holy Night! I especially want to extend greetings to those here tonight visiting family and friends. We are blessed by your presence among us, and we welcome you on this Christmas Eve.

“But Mary treasured all these words, and pondered them in her heart.” The beauty of this passage from the last part of Luke’s narrative has remained with me for several days. Perhaps this is because our Advent preparations have asked us to be more intentional about cultivating a sense of wonder at the mystery of the season. We, too, have pondered in our hearts the coming Incarnation and its meaning for our lives here, and now. Indeed, the beauty of Luke’s narrative never fails to draw me in with its rich images and moving and mysterious story. We recall the timeless images of this infant in a humble stable, the shepherds’ arrival, and the images of Joseph and Mary huddling together, being present with their son. As is so often true with Gospel narratives; however, Luke’s story of the birth of Christ is not limited to what we first hear or see.

In this season of wonder we need only use our imaginations to fill in some of the gaps in the narrative. Luke doesn’t mention the pain of childbirth, for example, or the radically life-changing event that has occurred in the lives of this young couple: the cries of the infant, the exhaustion and anxiety, the fears that both parents must have felt. And then there are the shepherds. In our mind’s eye we tend to romanticize about them, don’t we—and perhaps the author of Luke does too. We do well to remember that shepherds were not at the pinnacle of society in the day of Jesus’ birth. It’s not as if these guys dropped in from a party at the local Country Club to see the infant who in just a few years would certainly be joining the membership roles there. No, they were marginal, nomadic folk, eking out a subsistence living on the land. They showed up at the stable of Jesus’ birth at the suggestion of angels, no less, and I wonder what Mary’s response might have been. Was she concerned about their earthy appearance? Did she feel moved to shelter the child from these strangers? But the angels did choose them to be the first witnesses of God being born into the world. And we might wonder about this, too. We might ponder in our hearts, as Mary did in hers, that the least in society would be chosen to proclaim a mystery that would transform millions of lives and change the course of history. And I found myself thinking about Joseph, and identifying with him, perhaps most of all. I imagine Joseph worried over many concerns as these events unfolded: his fears about what others were thinking and saying about this child born out of wedlock, what this might mean for the honor of his family as he returned to his ancestral birthplace; and, moreover, the disturbing questions of finding a safe place away from home for the birth to occur—and ending up after all in a stable.    

And then there is this whole business of being “registered,” because the Emperor Quirinius decreed that it be so. Several years ago, I found myself at the local county tag office, standing in a long line that stretched outside into the cold, waiting to “register” my car. I found myself irritated at having to wait, angry that because of a glitch in the system our attempt to do this by mail had failed and feeling that I was somehow above this use of my time. I looked around at my fellow sojourners in line and I began to watch and listen. Most of them were speaking Spanish, and so I could only make out some of what they were saying. Partly because of the language barrier I felt a little isolated and lonely, even in this crowd of people, and I found myself wondering about this. Here, only 4 or 5 miles from my home, I felt like I was in a different world. I thought about the dislocation Mary and Joseph must have felt—the fear and anxiety. I wondered if Joseph was angry about the emperor’s census decree: the seeming arbitrariness of it and the great imposition it had on his young family. I recalled how frightened I was when our first son was born. Vicky and I were both graduate students, living in a new city, poor and scared. Our plans had been radically altered by this new life. And we took our son back to the small house we rented off-campus, and we knew that our world had changed forever. I thought about all of this as I waited there in line, waiting to be registered, and I tried to imagine the exponentially greater sense of fear and dislocation Mary and Joseph must have felt. And Mary treasured all these words, and pondered them in her heart…As Mary watched the world, one already radically altered, become stranger by the moment and filled with mystery—there seemed no end to the ways that God was turning their lives upside down. So even in “reading between the lines” we find that this story, one that we hear year after year, brings good news into our midst, wherever we may be, regardless of what’s going on in our lives. For some among us the light and warmth of this space on this evening may seem a sanctuary amid stressful and storm-tossed lives. At times Christmas may occur in our reflection on the long memories of youth, and relationships gone by. For many, this is a time of gathering with friends and family, sometimes in joy, sometimes with anxiety and trepidation: often with a mixture of both.

And what of Joseph… a different kind of father in that culture, to be sure. A friend of mine reminds us that Joseph is the father who braved the ridicule of his society for this child and the boy’s mother. Instead of simply being ‘a righteous man’ by refusing to ‘expose her to public shame,’ Joseph was a just man who refused to ‘dismiss her (and her child) quietly.’ Rather than the standard formulas about female virtue, he trusted a dream that overwhelmed the categories he had been taught about women and men, virtue and righteousness. Having your categories upended, like who’s a sinner and who isn’t, my friend says, is always a good hint that the force we often call the Holy Spirit might be present. The Bible calls scrambled categories metanoia, having your mind changed, often translated ‘repentance.’ I like to think that Jospeh played a big role in teaching Jesus the glory of connection with others and the joy of intimacy.

As I see so often in my clinical work this season can, at times, be one of depression, loneliness, and fear. Regardless of where we are, we can hold on to the wonder of this new birth among us, and in us. This is the mystery and miracle of the Incarnation: God being born into humanity—into each of us: no matter where we find ourselves. And we are reminded in the Gospel of Luke, if we use our imaginations and think of similar instances in our own lives, that this birth doesn’t happen only when the house is in order. It doesn’t happen when the mess has been cleaned up in anticipation of guests, and our world is a tidy place. Rather, Jesus is born into a world as messy and difficult and broken as ours may be at times. He is born into a community and a family that experiences fear and anxiety, torn by conflicts, transitions, and uncertainty, waiting to be “registered” for reasons that are not always clear indeed, reasons that may have to do with the arbitrary indifference of the powers and principalities. The Christ who is Incarnate among us demands that we resist giving in to despair. He is born into a place where those who first bear witness to who he is and what he represents are not those with political power, nor are they scholarly professors or the debutante crowd. Rather, they are those living on the margins of society. And like Mary, we are called to treasure all these words, and with a sense of wonder, to ponder them in our hearts.

Well, recently a group from Holy Family visited a local long-term care and rehabilitation center, where we sang seasonal songs, shared Christmas cookies, and distributed gifts to the residents. There was some confusion about the time and date of our arrival due to some administrative changes at the facility, but despite this initial anxiety all went well. During our visit, I recognized an elderly resident whom I met last year; let’s call her “Susan” to preserve confidentiality. She says very little, and she walks a lot, but when she does talk her refrain is “I need help.” At first, I would sit next to her and ask, “Susan, how can I help you.” Inevitably, she did not answer. But this year, I finally realized that what she most needed was for someone to “see” her, to pay attention to her…to sit alongside her. And so, finally, this year, I got it. The real help Susan needed was for someone to simply show up, and be present, and acknowledge that she existed. This year I simply sat down next to her on the sofa in te atrium, and I was quiet. Silently, she reached out and took my hand, and she was quiet too. This is the antithesis of simply being “registered.” When we allow ourselves to imaginatively enter into this story of the Incarnation we find that it shines light into all the dark and scary places of our lives: lives lived in relation to a God to whom all desires are known, and from whom no secrets are hid. The coming of Christ breaks open the darkness, rearranges our perceptions of the world, and invites us to live our lives in response to a deeper truth. Here’s the truth of the message of the Incarnation: Let the Word of Christ dwell in you. Most of us, most of the time perhaps, think of the Word as being in a book, rather than the Word of Christ being in each of us. A newborn life radically changes the lives of any family—as it did for Mary and Joseph. An encounter with a stranger in need can change our lives and invoke life-giving compassion for all. Tonight, we celebrate the Word made flesh, dwelling among us. Like Mary and Joseph, we are called to be co-participants in the transformation of our lives, and the lives of those whom we encounter. We have indeed seen a great light. As we treasure all these words and ponder them in our hearts, let that light shine forth in each of us. I pray that it may be so for us all. Amen

Fourth Sunday of Advent – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect of the Day:

Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation, that your Son Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for himself; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

The Lesson:  Micah 5:2-5a

You, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah,

who are one of the little clans of Judah,

from you shall come forth for me

one who is to rule in Israel,

whose origin is from of old,

from ancient days.

Therefore he shall give them up until the time

when she who is in labor has brought forth;

then the rest of his kindred shall return

to the people of Israel.

And he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord,

in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.

And they shall live secure, for now he shall be great

to the ends of the earth;and he shall be the one of peace.

Canticle 15:

The Song of Mary

Luke 1:46-55

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,

my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; * 

for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.

From this day all generations will call me blessed: *

the Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name.

He has mercy on those who fear him *

in every generation.

He has shown the strength of his arm, *

he has scattered the proud in their conceit.

He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, *

and has lifted up the lowly.

He has filled the hungry with good things, *

and the rich he has sent away empty.

He has come to the help of his servant Israel, *

for he has remembered his promise of mercy,

The promise he made to our fathers, *

to Abraham and his children for ever.

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit: *as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be for ever. Amen.

The Epistle: Hebrews 10:5-10

When Christ came into the world, he said,

“Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired,

but a body you have prepared for me;

in burnt offerings and sin offerings

you have taken no pleasure.

Then I said, ‘See, God, I have come to do your will, O God’

(in the scroll of the book it is written of me).”When he said above, “You have neither desired nor taken pleasure in sacrifices and offerings and burnt offerings and sin offerings” (these are offered according to the law), then he added, “See, I have come to do your will.” He abolishes the first in order to establish the second. And it is by God’s will that we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.

The Gospel: Luke 1:26-38

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.” Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. I bid Grace and peace to each of you. And a warm and heartfelt welcome to Holy Family on this Fourth Sunday of Advent. There is a wonderful image in the texts during Advent that is evocative of so much, for me, as we journey to the manger. It has to do with the willingness of Joseph to remain steadfast, to be present in the fullness of the moment at hand, and to abide in relationship with Mary, and soon with Jesus, and ultimately, with all of us. He does so in the face of much ambiguity and several contested narratives, and as such, he provides a role model both for fatherhood, and for leadership.

We recall that in the version of this story from Luke appointed for today, Mary is visiting her cousin Elizabeth, who had her own challenges around the birth of their son John—she and Zechariah—and Elizabeth says that upon hearing Mary’s greeting the child in her womb leaped for joy. This is such a lovely image indeed, and it appeals to both the neuroscience nerd in me and the pastoral theologian side of me. John Gottman, a researcher and Marriage and Family therapist in Seattle, has created a program called “Bringing Baby Home,” in which he gets expectant mothers in their third trimester and their spouses or partners together with other couples for parenting groups. This is especially geared for young fathers who may feel disconnected from both mother and baby after the baby’s arrival. Among the research results were these findings:

• Both fathers and mothers who took the program (compared to those that did not) showed greater sensitivity and responsiveness to their infant’s signals. This was particularly true for fathers. In some cases grandparents, aunts, uncles, and others also took part.
• Several indicators of father-infant attachment security were rated more positively in families who had taken the program.
• 1-year-old babies in the workshop group were rated as responding more positively to their fathers’ soothing (this is likely to reflect something about father-baby interaction quality as well as infant temperament).
• Fathers who took the program reported being more involved in parenting and feeling more satisfied and appreciated for their parental contributions.

Well, you get the idea, and what this tells us, among other things, is that something is happening at the level of neurochemistry and neuroplasticity—changes in the infants’ brain in utero—which is life-giving for all. We are hard-wired it seems, for connection and community, in ways that are incarnational, embodied, and deeply human. And connection, relationships of deep meaning that are supportive and nurturing, are at the heart of our readings for today. Relationships give birth to empathy, and compassion, and this gives meaning to our lives.

The astounding legacy of our combined evolutionary status as mammals is the power to impact the lives of people we love and whose lives touch ours, as our relationships activate certain neural pathways, and the brain’s inexorable memory mechanism reinforces them. Who we are and who we become depends, in part, on whom and what we love. Elizabeth loved her cousin Mary, and she loved what her intuition told her about the fulfillment this new life would bring to fruition. In Matthew’s Gospel we see demonstrated so well that Joseph loved Mary, and chose to remain steadfast. This is a model for us all, whether we are parents, grandparents, cousins or kin of some other kind, or not, as we seek to remain faithful in times of uncertainty, transition, ambiguity, and difficulty.

When we get to this wonderful drama in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, dear ones, the visitation of Mary to Elizabeth, and Joseph’s role in the narrative are fundamentally about this “leap of joy,” and about staying in relationship rather than needing to be right. And these are narratives of abundance of which we can partake, and pay forward. Both Mary and Elizabeth had remarkable experiences surrounding their pregnancies, and they share the awareness of Divine involvement. Mary’s song of praise, the Magnificat, rings down through the centuries, a fulfillment of Micah’s prophecy, and the validation of a God who cares for all creation and loves it into redemption with justice and grace.

The early Christian church used the story of the visitation in Luke as a foundation for the Incarnation. Luke includes it as part of the birth narrative because the church was seeking to explain and affirm that the birth of Jesus was not just another one of those “virgin births.” Many rulers had claimed similar origins to justify their deification. The forming church wanted to clarify the God incarnate, human and divine, as an affirmation of humanity, and that is what begins to attract people to this remarkable gospel and to Jesus. And Joseph is a reminder to me that my role as a father is a calling—a vocation in the deepest sense of that term—which is a sacred gift. My sons are grown now, and Vicky and I now have four grandchildren, so the circle of life goes on, and my role as father has grown to include being a grandfather. I am so very grateful for all that my sons have taught me. The times when I have been most at risk as a father have been those times when I was tempted to privilege being right over staying connected…staying in relationship. Because you see, it is possible to do both. Joseph taught us this, and in order to do this he had to suspend disbelief long enough to see the miracle of the Incarnation unfold. I pray that we might do the same, especially when we are scared, and feeling vulnerable, and alone.

This last Sunday of Advent gives us a brief time to reflect upon and kindle within ourselves the light of the incarnate Lord. The foundation is laid for what we will find at the manger. Now let us prepare to join the shepherds and the angels in great joy over what God has done for us. Who knows how this may shape us, and at what levels, in the year to come? The Incarnation is finally about being present here, and now, and as fully as we can to what the world offers us. In one way or another, every wisdom tradition I know says that we can cultivate a mindfulness of being present to this moment. It’s just a matter of opening our eyes and appreciating what I call “secrets hidden in plain sight.” But we can’t do that when we’re obsessing about the past or the future, or about what we don’t have, or allowing a thousand distractions to prevent us from noticing the gift of “here and now.” Imagine where we might be had Elizabeth, or Joseph, or Mary…or Jesus, had not been present to the moments at hand.

Here’s a poem from William Stafford that reminds us to pay attention to such simple gifts as what the present might offer, respecting and receiving them for the gifts they are. Look around, he says, “starting here, right in this room,” and see what we’ve been given. He’s not advocating passivity. He’s advocating receptivity and gratitude, without which life becomes hollow, and without which the Incarnation is only a possibility we have not lived out in our own lives.

You Reading This, Be Ready

by William Stafford

Starting here, what do you want to remember?

How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?

What scent of old wood hovers, what softened

sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world

than the breathing respect that you carry

wherever you go right now? Are you waiting

for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this

new glimpse that you found; carry into evening

all that you want from this day. The interval you spent

reading or hearing this, keep it for life—

What can anyone give you greater than now,

starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

I am so grateful that Elizabeth, Mary, and yes, Joseph too, found ways to be present with the gift of the Incarnation. It is indeed a gift that keeps on giving, then, now, and always, all wrapped up into this moment of mystery, grace, and transformation. Amen.

Third Sunday of Advent – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect of the Day:

Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and forever. Amen.

The Epistle: Philippians 4:4-7

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this third Sunday of Advent. In Paul’s letter to the Philippians appointed for today, we witness as a lovely thank you note from jail morphs into a teachable moment to a congregation in conflict. Paul was never one to let an opportunity to instruct his fledgling congregations pass by. So he tells them “stand firm, rejoice, pray and do not be afraid to ask for what you need; be grateful, and show gentleness. “Do not be anxious,” he reminds them, “the peace that passes all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” As hopeful as they are, these can be difficult words to hear, especially in light of recent world events and the fear, anxiety, and suspicion they engender. I’m sure some in Philippi were shaking their heads, too. And yet, his letter is not unmindful of the realities of suffering and conflict. Indeed, we know that Paul was in jail when he wrote it, and a visitor brought him news of conflict amidst the congregation back in Philippi, which must have seemed to Paul so very far away. Political and religious polarities were everywhere then, too. The readers of the letter were experiencing persecution and had begun to disagree and argue among themselves.

Out of context, the exhortations of Paul connote an unrealistic attitude toward life, a Pollyanna religion that ignores the harsh realities of being human and perhaps a more realistic call for a stoic like serenity. But as my erstwhile New Testament colleague and friend Charlie Cousar has said, “Paul’s call for gratitude and peace emerge from and are directed to what some would call the dark side of human experience.” And yet, they end in hope. To that end we might ask of the text some tough theological questions: How, exactly, is the Lord near as Paul assures us? Is God coming soon, or is God already present – or both? How can we possibly not worry? Is prayer the antidote to worry? And what, exactly, does it mean to have the peace which passes all understanding? How do we know it when we see it, or more to the point, how can we find it? Can we cultivate this, and is it the same as happiness? William Alexander Percy, in his hauntingly lovely Episcopal hymn, says “The peace of God, it is no peace, but strife closed in the sod; yet let us pray for but one thing — the marvelous peace of God.” And John the Baptist, who cannot be cleaned up and sanitized for any family Christmas card, gives us a dose of prophetic tough love in today’s Gospel that is anything but peaceful yet ends in hope. What might these paradoxical messages mean, especially during this season of hopeful anticipation?

Well, I may have dug a theological hole out of which I cannot extricate myself, but let’s find out. I actually find Paul’s message to the Philippians to be, in part, a meditation on the relationship between gratitude and the kind of peace to which he refers, and with which our dismissal blessing sends us out each week. We pray that we might embody that peace which passes understanding, to serve others as the Body of Christ in the world, respecting the dignity of every human being. The mystic Meister Eckhart once said that if the only prayer we pray is one of gratitude that would be enough. I believe there is a clear, compelling correlation between gratitude and the kind of peace for which Paul asks us to pray. I believe that what theologians might call transcendence—or a kind of otherworldly peace which we can experience here, and now—is deeply connected to gratitude—or to what Paul in this passage is calling “thanksgiving.”

Recently, one of my favorite authors, the neurologist and writer Oliver Sacks, died of cancer. He was 80 years old. In a remarkable series of brief essays published in the New York Times, he shared coming to terms with the end of life, and his deepening sense of gratitude. Sacks has been described as a Copernicus of the mind and a Dante of medicine who turned the case study into a poetic form, and this was demonstrated through his writing over the course of his long and fully lived life. He managed to embody Donald Winnicott’s autobiographical prayer: “O God, my prayer is that I will be fully alive when I die.” The essays have now been published in a lovely volume entitled, simply and appropriately, “Gratitude.” In the first essay he writes:

At nearly 80…I feel glad to be alive… I am grateful that I have experienced many things — some wonderful, some horrible — and that I have been able to write… to receive innumerable letters from friends, colleagues and readers, and to enjoy what Nathaniel Hawthorne called “an intercourse with the world.” I am sorry I have wasted (and still waste) so much time; I am sorry to be as agonizingly shy at 80 as I was at 20; I am sorry that I speak no languages but my mother tongue and that I have not traveled or experienced other cultures as widely as I should have done.

And here, he writes in a way that echoes the tone of Paul’s wonderful and mysteriously complex letter to the Philippians:

Over the last few days, I have been able to see my life as from a great altitude, as a sort of landscape, and with a deepening sense of the connection of all its parts. This does not mean I am finished with life. On the contrary, I feel intensely alive, and I want and hope in the time that remains to deepen my friendships, to say farewell to those I love, to write more, to travel if I have the strength, to achieve new levels of understanding and insight.

Such intensity of aliveness, Dr. Sacks observes, requires a deliberate distancing from the existentially inessential things with which we fill our daily lives — petty arguments, the stark polarities of politics, the news, which so often seems to repeat itself. With his characteristic mastery of nuance, he points to a crucial distinction:

This is not indifference but a kind of Holy detachment — I still care deeply…I rejoice when I meet gifted young people — even the young doctor who biopsied and diagnosed my metastases. I feel the future is in good hands.

In these lovely essays Sacks, like the Apostle Paul, demonstrates deep self- awareness, an appreciation for his own shadow—that is, for the parts of himself he would rather remain unconscious and hidden—which now he has integrated into a healthy and whole self. Writing as he does from the prison of his own suffering and impending death, he reaches beyond the walls of that imprisonment to a peace—a kind of transcendence—and evinces hope borne of gratitude. He also demonstrates, as does Paul’s letter to the Philippians, what Ignatian spirituality refers to as “Holy Indifference,” or a kind of clarity about what is most important without trying to manage the outcome. Theologian Richard Rohr calls this capacity for gratitude, amidst ambiguity and suffering, a significant developmental achievement. And so it is. Ultimately it is the birthplace of Paul’s peace that passes all understanding. Rohr writes: The study of neuroscience and brain development indicates that we are wired for transcendence, for the ever bigger picture, but it is all highly dependent on being exposed to living models and personal nurturance as we move from one stage to the next. Rohr says that we all need living models and we can cultivate gratitude. And this cultivation can literally rewire our brains. I suspect this is what sustained Paul in his prison cell. He discovered, in gratitude amidst suffering, an aliveness that no prison cell could contain. I find two of these living models in Paul, and Oliver Sacks!  Richard Rohr reminds us that this is a good argument for some form of church community—for what we are celebrating and cultivating right here, in this season of Koinonia.

We all need living role models of gratitude. How important we are for one another! To gather enlightened, transformed, loving people together, Rohr says, is essential, so they influence and transform one another. Beyond models, we also need nurturing: mothering and fathering, loving, and partnering at the critical transitional stages of our lives. ”Hopefully,” Rohr writes, “life and God bring new opportunities–through experiences of great suffering and great love–to “rewire” our brains.” Paul knew, and demonstrated in his letters from prison, that we need one another in community, and we need opportunities for gratitude. Some of you have heard me talk of my maternal grandmother, whose farm was a sanctuary for me in so many ways, and who taught me to cook. My football buddies teased me about knowing my way around the kitchen. But I said to them, “You don’t get it. When I imagine God feeding us, I see my grandmother.” I’m not sure this helped my cause with them. But the last time I ever saw her she insisted we bake her pound cakes together. Two weeks later she was gone. And I still love to cook. Forgive me the Eucharistic overtones, but her recipe for pound cake was a gift of hope, and gratitude, and a heavenly slice of transcendence. The gifts that emerged from her kitchen were an extended love letter to God. They came from her own suffering and were an Incarnational embodiment of the outward and visible signs of gratitude. Mary Oliver says in one of her lovely poems, “Someone once gave me a boxful of darkness. It took me years to realize that this, too, was a gift.” Paul is saying the same thing, as is Oliver Sacks, as was my grandmother, who did not have an easy life. Each is telling us that out of human suffering, and the prisons we so often create for ourselves and one another, hope abides, and transcendence—the peace that passes all understanding—is born. It does not come from us, but we can experience it, and we can cultivate it, and give it away. William Alexander Percy was right. The peace of God is no peace like we understand in earthly terms, because it is not of this earth. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it, as we are reminded in John’s lovely prelude to his Gospel. In what remains of this Advent season, I invite each of us to write our own letter, perhaps out of our own awareness of struggle or suffering or our own human limitations—perhaps in spite of something that would imprison us—and find in it—out of it, rather some hope, and thankfulness, and send it out into the world, perhaps to someone in particular, perhaps simply a letter to God that no one else ever sees. In so doing we will cultivate the light of gratitude, and hope, and nothing can overcome that light. Not if, as Paul suggests, we stand firm, rejoice, pray, and are not afraid to ask for what we need; if we are grateful, and show gentleness. “Do not be anxious,” he reminds us, “the peace that passes all understanding will guard our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” I am in gratitude for this community and for each of you, Amen.

Second Sunday of Advent – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Collect of the Day: Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

Luke 3:1-6    ¹In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, ²during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. ³He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, ⁴as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. ⁵Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; ⁶and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”

In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all, Amen. Good morning and welcome to Holy Family on this Second Sunday of Advent. Advent’s familiar themes of waiting and hopeful expectation have a different ring this week. Is it possible that sometimes we in church make of Advent an aesthetic: a carefully rendered “experience” that is beautiful, tasteful, and moving while missing or at least masking its intimate, immediate connections to our sometimes messy, broken, world?  Traditionally, Advent contained elements of penitence and reflection much like that of Lent. In fact, a perusal the 1928 Prayer Book will reflect this in ways that I find compelling.

The penitential aspect of Advent helps, I believe, to balance a season co-opted by those who desire only sweetness and light, often for marketing purposes. In fact, as a clinician I find this to be the single most salient cause of the holiday blues: the season demands too much of all of us, and depression, as Carl Jung taught us so well, can sometimes be a sane response to untenable demands. Advent captures the grand sweep of history, and I love the juxtaposition of the passages from Isaiah with those from Matthew. “The voice of one crying in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.” And thankfully, John does show up.    

Indeed, Advent is a tone poem in two parts. Early on, the season directs us toward the future: the second coming of Jesus—the ascension in reverse. We watch and pray for the consummation of the whole cosmos in Christ: history redeemed and fulfilled. No more tragedy, numbness, grief and loss. No more terrorism. No more injustice. No more seasonal depression. As Isaiah put it, “the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.” Creation, finally and fully, will be healed. Yet, as the season progresses the second movement of the tone poem emerges. We are directed by the Church to turn our gaze to the past—to the first coming of Jesus. We exalt Emmanuel—God among us and with us—as the saving event of human history. And it happens right where we live, in the messiness of our daily lives and, indeed, the unfolding of history.

Then we hear the Gospel for this morning and the image shifts, doesn’t it? We find ourselves on the banks of the River Jordan face to face with John the Baptist, this earthy free-range prophet who crashes our joyful Advent gathering like an unwanted guest at our proper Advent party. And, what’s worse, John doesn’t tell us to rejoice. He doesn’t mix and mingle in tasteful Episcopal fashion, drinking hot cider and eating Christmas cookies. No, he tells us to repent. He stands in the middle of fellowship hall, during coffee hour, tracking mud, flotsam, jetsam, and leaves onto our carpet, and smelling of sweat, honey, and the river water dripping from his animal hides and sandals. Paul told the Philippians, and by extension tells us, not to be anxious about anything. John tells us to flee from the wrath to come. And, quite understandably everyone in the Gospel is asking, “What shall we do? What has to change if we are to survive the events that lie ahead? We are told that the axe is already laid to the root of the trees, and fire is prepared for the burning of the chaff. Where are Johnny Mathis and Mel Torme when we need them? What about the Yuletide carols being sung by the fire and folks wrapped up like Eskimos? John’s message to “repent!” is very different from “rejoice!”

So, I began to think about times when I have received wonderful gifts—word of acceptance to college, say, or a “yes” to proposal of marriage…the births of my sons; the word that I would soon begin a new job as a professor, and the moment that Bishop Alexander and my colleagues from the Diocese and Emory and Columbia all laid hands on me and my brother Thee at our ordination. These were moments of both rejoicing and repentance, because with these gifts came new life and new, responsibilities.

So you see, dear ones, part of what the new life of Advent means is that the old life just won’t work anymore. Becoming a parent or a grandparent, accepting a new job, receiving the gift of baptism or the gift of the Christ child—each of these means both rejoicing and change—repentance, if you will—from our old ways of being in the world. Rejoice! Repent! These are the words that come with the new territory of all great gifts. In one of Mark Twain’s short stories the Mississippi River shifted one night, during an earthquake at the New Madrid fault, cutting through a narrow neck of land. Those of you who have been to West Tennessee know that Reelfoot Lake, a birdwatchers’ paradise, was formed by this very event. It is said that for a time the Mississippi ran backwards, so great was the upheaval of the earth’s crust. In the story, an African-American man who went to bed a slave in Missouri woke up to find himself east of the river, in Illinois, a free man. He had been granted a new life. I imagine we each have stories of being granted a gift of some kind that changed things forever, and if we think about it, we will recognize that with that gift came a new set of responsibilities. John the Baptist offers some suggestions in terms of what to do with the remarkable gift of baptism—and with the anticipation of the new life in the One who baptizes with the Holy Spirit—the One whose birth we anticipate, and of whom Isaiah spoke: “Look at who you are, and where you are,” John says; “begin there.”

As Wendell Berry says in this lovely poem:

“The Wild Geese”

Horseback on Sunday morning,

harvest over, we taste persimmon

and wild grape, sharp sweet

of summer’s end. In time’s maze

over fall fields, we name names

that went west from here, names

that rest on graves. We open

a persimmon seed to find the tree

that stands in promise,

pale, in the seed’s marrow.

Geese appear high over us,

pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,

as in love or sleep, holds

them to their way, clear

in the ancient faith: what we need

is here. And we pray, not

for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye,

clear. What we need is here.

—Wendell Berry

Rejoice, and Repent. They do go hand in glove this time of year, my friends. Don’t wait to be somewhere else, or to be someone else, or to be doing something else. What we need is here. Let’s begin with the Advent road we are on, and walk that road, and so allow God to transform the real lives we are living right now. John did not tell even the despised tax collectors or the hated and feared Roman soldiers that they had to go somewhere else to begin. Those occupations were no barriers to change, to repentance. Because you see, repentance and rejoicing are—in light of the gift of the Child for whom we wait—one and the same. Both have to do with transforming the life we are already living. Rejoice and Repent, and be quiet in heart, and in eye, clear. As it is so often with so much, this is our response to the ambiguity of the world around us. Rejoice, for what is happening is wonderful. Repent, because from now on, everything will be different. Amen.

First Sunday of Advent – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Luke 21:25-36

Jesus said, “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this first Sunday of Advent, as we begin a new year in our liturgical calendar. Advent is a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the coming of Christ from two different, but related perspectives. It offers those gathered as the Body of Christ an opportunity to share in the anticipation of the nativity of Jesus, and to be alert for his Second Coming, as we hear in the lovely and prophetic words of Jeremiah, “The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.” And Luke, in today’s Gospel, writes of “the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory.” Today’s readings seem to take on heightened meaning given the uncertainty of our times, including our own season of transition between rectors at Holy Family. These changes and uncertainties can add to our anxiety about the present, and our wish to know what the future will bring. How can we be prepared? What are the signs of today that carry the seeds of what will be tomorrow? And perhaps at the heart of this for many of us, what is, and is not, under our control? Businesses, governments, and educational institutions, including the institution where I taught for many years—hire consultants to predict what is to come, and offer advice as to how best prepare for it. This desire to predict the future is what prompts horoscopes and palm readers, and I recently saw an ad for a brand of watch which read “connected to eternity.” I am not a Greek Scholar, but I do know that chronos—or sequential, chronological time—and Kairos—which is the appointed time in the purpose of God, or sacred time under the aspect of eternity—are not the same kind of time. It is the former with which we are often confronted in this busy, sometimes hectic season, and the latter with which our liturgical season of Advent is primarily concerned. Sometimes in our cultural, chronological anxiety we begin Christmas right after Halloween, and we confuse Advent with Christmas, which is, in a way, like skipping from Palm Sunday to Easter without observing Holy Week. We forget to wait, and pay attention, and we risk losing the only moment we have, which is this moment, here and now.

Amid our anxieties about the future, there’s probably no Christian teaching that’s caused more excitement and confusion than what is often called the “second coming of Christ.” And sometimes I wonder if we confuse that Advent with the beginning of Advent we observe today. They are related, but not the same. In one of my favorite Peanuts comic strips, Linus and Lucy are standing at the window looking out at the rain falling. Lucy says to Linus, “Boy, look at it rain…What if it floods the whole earth?” Linus, the resident biblical scholar for the Peanuts gang, answers, “It will never do that…in the ninth chapter of Genesis, God promised Noah that would never happen again, and the sign of the promise is the rainbow.” With a smile on her face, Lucy replies, “Linus, you’ve taken a great load off my mind.” To which Linus responds, “Sound theology has a way of doing that.” Yes, “sound theology,” the teachings of scripture and the Church, rightly understood, can help ease our anxieties about this doctrine. And sound theology can also be the occasion for us to think about hope, and waiting, and especially about what we can and cannot control. We need not worry unnecessarily, but we do have some responsibility to watch, and wait, and hope, and pray; and, to work for justice and peace. That’s the Advent we observe today.

Scholars call passages like this one from Luke 21 apocalyptic literature. It was a style of writing that used vivid, striking images to convey a message of hope and faith. It was used especially during times when God’s people were being severely oppressed. The Book of Revelation, for example, was written at a time around the end of the first century after Christ, when Christians were being persecuted by Rome. John, who wrote it, was on the isle of Patmos, exiled there by the Romans because he refused to deny his faith. So he writes to his suffering churches, using words and images he understood and his readers would understand but that the enemy would not understand. It’s a kind of code, really, and it can be confusing to us in our context. But when you put it all together, it’s saying, “No matter how bad it looks, don’t give up the faith. Hang in there, for God is in control. So watch and work and pray. God is with us now, is both here, now, and is coming again.” That’s Kairos time. That’s Advent time.

It’s so human to get confused in our anxiety about what the future will bring. In fact, many claim to know too much about it. I believe this is one of the problems at the heart of some religious views that claim to know, and have more control over those events, than is possible. It’s not a bit confusing or mysterious to some, when and how things will end, which impacts choices made here, and now. And yet of that day and hour, Jesus said in Mark 13, the angels do not know, nor the Son. And when he was asked in Acts 1 when the end times would take place, he tells them, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. Here’s what you are to know. You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come.” I don’t know about you, but I am wary of religious claims in our context that promise more than Jesus himself said he knew. The other mistake the church makes is in treating this teaching too lightly or dismissing it altogether. Some see it as an outdated doctrine that causes more trouble and confusion than it’s worth…suggesting that it’s no longer relevant for us. Both of these extremes make for questionable theology. As is often the case, there is a wonderfully inclusive both/and at work here, and it can assist in our observance of Advent.

The Grammy-award-winning singer Mary Chapin Carpenter recently suffered a health crisis. As she reported on NPR, she was admitted to the emergency room after experiencing chest pain. A scan revealed blood clots in her lungs. People told her that she should feel lucky because a pulmonary embolism can be fatal. But instead of feeling lucky, she fell into depression. In her essay, “The Learning Curve of Gratitude,” on NPR’s Weekend Edition, Carpenter said,

“Everything I had been looking forward to came to a screeching halt. I had to cancel my upcoming tour. I had to let my musicians and crewmembers go….I felt I had let everyone down. Burt there was nothing to do but get out of the hospital, go home and get well. I tried hard to see my unexpected time off as a gift, but I would open a novel and couldn’t concentrate. I would turn on the radio, and shut it off. Familiar clouds gathered above my head, and I couldn’t make them go away with a pill or a movie or a walk. This unexpected time was becoming a curse, filling me with anxiety, fear and self-loathing. All the ingredients of the darkness that is depression.”

For those of us who are members of Christ’s body in this place, dear one’s, the season of Advent affords the opportunity to begin again, with hope, the next leg of our journey as believers in faith, to see even challenging times as in their own way, a new beginning. It is an opportunity to think about the future by paying attention to what is here, and now, in this moment. In his Gospel, Luke writes of a time when nations are perplexed at the signs in nature and its awe-inspiring power, when men “faint with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” The reading ends with the sprouting of the fig leaf as a sign of an upcoming summer—the season of growth and life that springs forth and is in stark contrast to the dead of winter. These days as I run in the woods, now almost winter-like in appearance, I am reminded that the tender green buds of the leaves that will adorn these same trees in spring are already there, just visible to the eye upon closer inspection. Indeed, it is the gentle push of these new leaves to come that causes the autumn leaves to let go.

Gratitude can participate in healing—the Latin root of which is salve—from which we get our word “salvation.” Gratitude can “save us” from ourselves and heal those things that keep us separated from each other, and from God. As it happened, Mary Chapin Carpenter found healing and restoration through gratitude, at the grocery store check-out line:

One morning, the young man who rang up my groceries and asked me if I wanted paper or plastic, also told me to enjoy the rest of my day. I looked at him, and knew he meant it. It stopped me in my tracks. I went out and sat in my car and cried. What I want, more than ever, is to appreciate that I have this day, and tomorrow and hopefully the days beyond that. I am experiencing the learning curve of gratitude. I don’t want to say “have a nice day” like a robot. I don’t want to get mad at the elderly driver in front of me. I don’t want to go crazy when my internet access is messed up. I don’t want to be jealous of someone else’s success. You could say that this litany of sins indicates that I don’t want to be human. The learning curve of gratitude, however, is showing me exactly how human I am.

What a lovely phrase this is—the learning curve of gratitude—and how deeply it resonates with the Good News. This earthly sojourn, dear friends in Christ, takes place between illness and health, Samaria and Galilee, Egypt and that land over Jordan, in campground. It is lived between those places where we live most of our lives and where we are all at home. We are, all of us, as the song says, sovereign wayfarers, “just going over Jordan, just going over home.” We suffer most from those things that would separate us from others, from ourselves, and from God. Yet Christ bids us draw near, makes us whole, and restores us to life with others and to God in reconciling us to all. Gratitude is one means by which this happens. Meister Eckhart, desert father and mystic, once said that “If the only prayer we ever pray is one of gratitude that will be enough.” Learning curves of gratitude indeed.

The prevailing cultural narrative in this season makes it so hard for us to wait, and we are so often in a hurry. I am among those who struggle with this. In Spanish, the verb esperar means both “to hope” and “to wait.” A gardener friend tells me that the Esperanza plant flourishes in harsh conditions, and blooms in gold and orange—hopeful waiting indeed. Waiting in silence and creating sacred space for hope to grow, and compassion to blossom, is a practice we can cultivate. As the old song goes, building upon a passage we heard in Luke’s Gospel just a few weeks ago, “Got my hand on the Gospel plow, won’t take nothing for my journey now. Keep your eyes on the prize…hold on, hold on.” Already and not yet, present moment, and the prize to come, Advent now, and Advent not yet arrived.… find a vantage point, somewhere in the midst of things, from which you might watch, and wait, and prepare. Advent, like its cousin Lent, is a time for reflection, preparation, and waiting—in anticipation of Emmanuel, God with us, here, now, already, always, alleluia. Amen.