The irrational season

I love Mary.

I think she's the bravest human being ever. I try to place myself in her sandals--those of a 14-or-so-year-old good girl, future mapped comfortably for her, brave enough to risk everything...her husband, her parents' goodwill, her whole social circle, her daily bread, her very life, because an angel passed on a message from God...which probably was not a form even as comforting and recognizable as Dan Akroyd and John Belushi "on a mission from God."

Weird. Seriously. This strange creature just zooms in on a little Segway-cloud and asks her for everything she has: her past, her present, her future. And--get this--she says YES.

The biggest, most reverberant "yes" the world had ever known. Madeleine L'Engle described it thus:

This is the irrational season
when love blooms bright and wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason,
there'd have been no room for the child.

I love that. The irrational season. This Advent, the phrase "irrational season" feels real-er to me than it ever has before. For Americans, things are shaky. The buttresses are cracking (pardon the expression...the 5th grader in me really couldn't resist). Rational beings from every sector seem to exist in a state of barely-controlled panic as wars continue, epidemics rage, and the economy grinds to a near-halt. This is an extremely up-close-and-personal reality for several people I care about, and I'm aware of my own family's precarious position as state budgets tighten and jobs are lost, because we both work for the state. I like my house. I like knowing where my next meal is coming from.

And yet...

Reason is not the only influence here. Reason speaks in the voice of safety, of manageability, of stability. God's voice is very different. God calls us out into deep water and promises to teach us to swim. That's a radical thing. In Jeannette Lindholm's words,

Unexpected and mysterious is that gentle word of grace.
Ever-loving and -sustaining is the peace of God's embrace.
If we falter in our courage and we doubt what we have known,
God is faithful to console us as a mother tends her own.

Still more radical to me than God's call and promise is Mary's "yes." God is big. Mary was little. God, I'm assuming, had a longer view of the situation than Mary did. And she signed up for the whole thing, unhesitatingly.

We churchy types are taught to revere Mary, the Virgin Mother of God. As if her sexuality (or lack thereof) were the thing that makes her extraordinary. I think that, rather than seeing her as a prim guardian of purity, it makes sense to see her as a most open soul, generous and humble and brave. What a mighty heart she had, able to open wide enough to contain the mystery of God's presence and brilliance and grace, though her own life was thrown into such complete chaos by any practical measure.

What an amazing response to ponder deep in our own hearts in this irrational season.

We are called to ponder myst'ry and await the coming Christ,
to embody God's compassion for each fragile human life.
God is with us in our longing to bring healing to the earth,
while we watch with joy and wonder for the promised Savior's birth.

Wonderful advent calendar

Can be found here.

Dark is the night

During my first semester of seminary a painting hung in the chapel, behind the altar. The painting was entitled "Incarnation," and it took a pretty good swipe at my theology on that topic. I wish I could post an image here, but I'll try to describe it.

First, it was about eight feet tall by three wide. The bottom third was mostly black, with some gravel embedded in the paint. The top section was varying shades of deep blue. From the top center down to the horizon, there was an straight-but-uneven, energetic swath of yellow and white varying from 4-8 inches wide, streaming directly and forcefully downward into the black earth, where it became an orange glow.

In other words, a field of deep darkness, through which came a stroke of glory so powerful that it turned the very earth to embers where it struck.

Sweet-smelling straw, gentle animals and smiling humans...not present. Just radiance and power.

It got me thinking. About the meeting of heaven and earth. About the story that I knew by heart, with the sentiment removed. About the starkness of the contrast between light and dark, despair and hope.

I couldn't form words around it for quite a while--not until I'd experienced some despair firsthand. A couple of years later, my personal ground was laid; I was at the lowest point of my life, and trying to re-energize myself at the St Olaf Conference on Worship, Theology and the Arts.

I had signed up for a hymnwriting workshop led by the wonderful Mel Bringle. On the first day of the workshop, we were supposed to write a text to go with a particular tune (Bill Rowan's STILL WATERS, to be precise). It could have been about anything, as long as the syllabic count and speech rhythms matched the line. This text flowed from my green felt-tip, almost of a piece. It was finished by day's end; the easiest writing I've ever done. It's about the world that so desperately needed (needs) that stroke of glory and light, which I'd come to understand as I hadn't at first view of the painting.

Dark is the night, quiet and cold;
all earth waits for Love's bright dawn.
Send us your light, promised of old:
oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Whisper of wind, blow through the trees:
heaven's breath, meet flesh and bone!
Stir us again, life-giving Breeze:
oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Rupture the night! Sing in the stars,
Radiant One, make us your home!
Bathe us in light; blaze in our hearts:
oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Oh, come, Lord Jesus, come!

Blessed Advent, everyone.

Conspiracy theology

Yep, you heard me--not a theory, a theology. A living, breathing, do-something-meaningful, embodied theology.

For behold, I bring you sensible tidings of great sanity and compassion:




More information is available at www.AdventConspiracy.org.

Because, after all, that McGiftcard may not be as powerful as you think, where the spreading of joy is concerned: