I was reminded today that William Sloane Coffin once wrote that the gift of the Incarnation isn't just about what God became in Jesus: it's also about what we can still become in the fullness of our own time.
For some, the "becoming" might be measured boldly: a grand stretching of wings, a courageous stepping out beyond safe borders, or a total commitment to integrating one's core values with everyday living. But sometimes, perhaps most times, our "becoming" is more reliably measured incrementally. An alcoholic in recovery may feel that twenty-five days of sobriety doesn't measure up well against years of addictive behavior. Someone who has a record of poor decisions may labor under the weight of self-judgment to the point of negating every good choice they do make. But the truth is that each and every new day of sobriety, each and every life-affirming choice, is a towering success that warrants celebrating with the angels.
Who are we to become? Every choice we make to listen to (and act upon) the still, small voice of God that speaks faithfully within us is an act of Incarnating God's Word for us. After all, Christmas reminds us that God is not only in the grand scheme of things, God is present in the details.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
In the Twinkling of an Eye
“I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” 1 Corinthians 15:51
It’s funny how some moments in life come and go without our hearts’ noticing, while others imprint themselves on our memories forever. One of those unforgettable moments came for me in the early evening hours of November 15, 1995. Laurie had given birth to Brynne a few hours earlier. There we were, the two of us, friends and lovers changed into parents! In the twinkling of an eye.
And time felt as though it had stopped, as time does when you’re surrounded by holiness. After being whisked off to the nursery for further observation, our firstborn daughter~all seven pounds and fourteen ounces of her~was wheeled up alongside the bed in which I was resting in a clear plastic bassinette, wrapped tight in her hospital blanket and beanie. There we were, father and daughter now, products of a miracle too readily forgotten all these years later. There we were, each of us on our side, looking each other in the eye. No words needed to be shared. We were wrapped in mystery and love.
It was in that moment that my mind flashed forward about forty or fifty years. I suddenly imagined us in reversed roles: I, much older now, lying in a hospital bed for some reason or another, nearing the end of my life, and she, a grown up Brynne, sitting by my bedside, holding my hand silently, the two of us looking one another in the eye. In both scenes, the real one, and the imagined one, there was a lump in my throat and I was on the brink of tears. Tears welling up from an overflowing of love: the first in awe of the birth I that had taken place; the second in awe of the countless blessings that rise to our awareness when death is near.
Those who know me know that I am a hugger. As I reflect back on this moment, I am struck by the fact that there was no hugging involved. I know why now: in both scenes, our relationship was being held in the embrace of God. Love’s instinct is to cling, and cling we do to those we love in both life and memory. But at times of transition, whether it’s adolescence of leaving home or getting married or dying, love is also required to let go. We do it reluctantly, of course. But as people of faith we do so in the deep, deep knowledge that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us – and our relationships – even when we can’t hold on any more.
On this cusp of Advent, I am especially moved by all the letting go that God did throughout the Gospels. God let go of control over what would happen to Jesus from the moment Jesus was born right through the Crucifixion. And I wonder whether Mary had one of those “flash forward” moments too as she gazed on her son in the manger. All we know is that Mary pondered many things in her heart, knowing somehow that she too would have to let go one day. I suppose that’s what we’re doing here tonight: keeping vigil together somewhere between cradle and grave, between manger and cross, pondering it all in our hearts and hoping to make it through. Knowing that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us even when we can’t hold on any more.
Over the years my parishioners have taught me that one of the keys to making it through grief is letting go of the question “why?” and learning to ask the more relevant question, “what now?” And then you figure it out, a day at a time. You get up in the morning. You breathe. You brush your teeth. You brew your coffee a little stronger. You go to work or read the paper or go for a walk. You cry, you pound the walls, you say your prayers, you answer the phone a little more warily than you used to. You do whatever you have to do, often wishing you didn’t have to.
But most of all, you cherish the ache. That’s right, hug the ache you feel in your soul and in your chest close to you. That ache in your heart, as painful as it is, is an ache you would take any day and twice on Sunday if the alternative were to never have loved the one you love. Hug the ache close because deep within your ache are the seeds of the divine ache that was so great it compelled God to send a son…so that we here might feel God’s embrace as close to us as our love is to us.
Hug that ache, and let it move you from the old love into a new love, whatever form it takes. Because we were created for love. Paul said it well in First Corinthians: “As for prophecy, it shall end. As for tongues, they shall cease. But love never ends.”
I heard a story once about a minister who visited an elderly widow. Her home was extremely modest, and her health was failing. And yet she was full of smiles and kindness. And it struck the young man visiting her that here was a woman whose husband had deeply loved her. She reminded him of a rock that has sat out in the sun all day long absorbing the heat of the sun’s radiation: and that even after the sun has set, the rock retains the heat it has absorbed well into the night, radiating it back out into the world.
All the awesome things in life happen in the twinkling of an eye. Children are born and become lovers and parents who age and eventually die, and somehow the cycle keeps on going. Perhaps that’s because there is so much love still radiating from all of us, even in the middle of the night. Radiating because before we loved one another, God loved us. And loves us still.
It’s funny how some moments in life come and go without our hearts’ noticing, while others imprint themselves on our memories forever. One of those unforgettable moments came for me in the early evening hours of November 15, 1995. Laurie had given birth to Brynne a few hours earlier. There we were, the two of us, friends and lovers changed into parents! In the twinkling of an eye.
And time felt as though it had stopped, as time does when you’re surrounded by holiness. After being whisked off to the nursery for further observation, our firstborn daughter~all seven pounds and fourteen ounces of her~was wheeled up alongside the bed in which I was resting in a clear plastic bassinette, wrapped tight in her hospital blanket and beanie. There we were, father and daughter now, products of a miracle too readily forgotten all these years later. There we were, each of us on our side, looking each other in the eye. No words needed to be shared. We were wrapped in mystery and love.
It was in that moment that my mind flashed forward about forty or fifty years. I suddenly imagined us in reversed roles: I, much older now, lying in a hospital bed for some reason or another, nearing the end of my life, and she, a grown up Brynne, sitting by my bedside, holding my hand silently, the two of us looking one another in the eye. In both scenes, the real one, and the imagined one, there was a lump in my throat and I was on the brink of tears. Tears welling up from an overflowing of love: the first in awe of the birth I that had taken place; the second in awe of the countless blessings that rise to our awareness when death is near.
Those who know me know that I am a hugger. As I reflect back on this moment, I am struck by the fact that there was no hugging involved. I know why now: in both scenes, our relationship was being held in the embrace of God. Love’s instinct is to cling, and cling we do to those we love in both life and memory. But at times of transition, whether it’s adolescence of leaving home or getting married or dying, love is also required to let go. We do it reluctantly, of course. But as people of faith we do so in the deep, deep knowledge that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us – and our relationships – even when we can’t hold on any more.
On this cusp of Advent, I am especially moved by all the letting go that God did throughout the Gospels. God let go of control over what would happen to Jesus from the moment Jesus was born right through the Crucifixion. And I wonder whether Mary had one of those “flash forward” moments too as she gazed on her son in the manger. All we know is that Mary pondered many things in her heart, knowing somehow that she too would have to let go one day. I suppose that’s what we’re doing here tonight: keeping vigil together somewhere between cradle and grave, between manger and cross, pondering it all in our hearts and hoping to make it through. Knowing that the One who is beyond our grasp holds us even when we can’t hold on any more.
Over the years my parishioners have taught me that one of the keys to making it through grief is letting go of the question “why?” and learning to ask the more relevant question, “what now?” And then you figure it out, a day at a time. You get up in the morning. You breathe. You brush your teeth. You brew your coffee a little stronger. You go to work or read the paper or go for a walk. You cry, you pound the walls, you say your prayers, you answer the phone a little more warily than you used to. You do whatever you have to do, often wishing you didn’t have to.
But most of all, you cherish the ache. That’s right, hug the ache you feel in your soul and in your chest close to you. That ache in your heart, as painful as it is, is an ache you would take any day and twice on Sunday if the alternative were to never have loved the one you love. Hug the ache close because deep within your ache are the seeds of the divine ache that was so great it compelled God to send a son…so that we here might feel God’s embrace as close to us as our love is to us.
Hug that ache, and let it move you from the old love into a new love, whatever form it takes. Because we were created for love. Paul said it well in First Corinthians: “As for prophecy, it shall end. As for tongues, they shall cease. But love never ends.”
I heard a story once about a minister who visited an elderly widow. Her home was extremely modest, and her health was failing. And yet she was full of smiles and kindness. And it struck the young man visiting her that here was a woman whose husband had deeply loved her. She reminded him of a rock that has sat out in the sun all day long absorbing the heat of the sun’s radiation: and that even after the sun has set, the rock retains the heat it has absorbed well into the night, radiating it back out into the world.
All the awesome things in life happen in the twinkling of an eye. Children are born and become lovers and parents who age and eventually die, and somehow the cycle keeps on going. Perhaps that’s because there is so much love still radiating from all of us, even in the middle of the night. Radiating because before we loved one another, God loved us. And loves us still.
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