New Year's Eve music is its own special genre: hopeful songs, wistful songs, starting-over songs, never-again songs, one-too-many drinking songs, gimme-some-lovin' songs, funny-resolution songs and depressive songs all vie for space to tell us they truly tell it like it was.
Feeling Good doesn't quite fit any of these categories, even though the words have a straightforward starting-over theme. In contrast, the music behind the lyrics has this minor-keyed lurch and grind that gives it a lot more gravitas than the words themselves convey. It's a song of mixed emotions, mixed times - an apt song for a moment when the old and new overlap in onelong night.
What I hear is someone who's had a rough time - maybe a really rough time - and has now made it to the other side. Or maybe what I hear is someone who has found new strength, new drive, new determination. Or maybe what I hear is someone just that so overjoyed that the freedom and hope they feel within is echoed in every movement of Creation. What I hear in all of these possibilities is someone who can hope onward into the future because she/he knows from where she came and can still look around her and truly be 'feelin' good.'
Maybe this was a wonderful, blessing-filled year for you, and the best possible thing 2012 could bring is another year like it. Maybe it's just been a good year: good changes, good vibes, full of possibilities and adventures despite some rough spots. Maybe it hasn't been a good year at all, or a downright drag-yourself-to-the-finish one. No matter what, hoping onward requires knowing from where you've come well-enough to look clear-eyed at the present and the future, and maybe even claiming this very moment as really and truly "good."
2011 is drawing to a close. Whatever it's meant to us, a new year rises to greet us with new promises and possibilities. How is Creation calling to you about possibility, hope and freedom?
Feeling Good by Nina Simone; video by Tamara Connolly
Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad;
let the sea resound, and all that is in it.
Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them;
Let all the trees of the forest sing for joy.
- Psalm 96: 11-12
In these final hours of a passing year, may we reflect, rejoice, laugh and welcome a new year, 'a bold world,' of freedom and grace.
But now, says the LORD— the one who created you, Jacob, the one who formed you, Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine. -Isaiah 43:1
The self-reflective nature of this song is resonating with
me today. Beginning with Ellie Goulding’s opening lines “I had a way then,
losing it all on my own. I had a heart then, the queen has been overthrown,"
moving to Lupe’s jolting entrance with “So, what are you going to stand for?”
He proceeds to answer the question of himself while reflecting on the history
and culture that inform his choices. The song is packed with allusions and
commentary, which may or may not ruffle your feathers.
Regardless, for me, the model holds. This is the time of
year when we reflect, look at our lives, spare a moment for a little critical
analysis. For me this is less than comfortable territory and, many years, gets
relegated to the minutes that elapse between some party-goer asking about my
New Year’s resolutions and me shoving food in my mouth to buy thinking time.
But what if that wasn’t it this year? Can I take some moments to look at myself
and assess honestly? What has been overthrown
in my life? What is calling me home? What
do I see that needs to be illuminated?
And what am I wrestling? Maybe these
aren’t even my questions but they are an entry point.
Lupe Fiasco (feat. Ellie Goulding and Bassnectar)
**Some strong language
One way we hope forward is to summon the courage to question
ourselves.
Though it is not the case
for our friends in the southern hemisphere, I do frequently reflect on the
placement of Christmas (and in fact celebrations in many religious traditions) during winter months. In the short, dark
days when we become sedentary and quieted and ruminative, comes a celebration,
a hope, a light. It is that light of Christmas that illuminates my reflection,
that hope that gives me courage to question and boldness to look honestly at
myself. For when Christ , Divine Love,
was born into the mess and poverty of a stable, it meant that Divine Love could
dwell in the mess of my life too; and if God’s grace is great enough to hold
the world in a reparative embrace, then that grace can also surround all that I
discover within myself.
So, I am taking some moments this week to live into that
love and grace and ask some questions-
Where am I? How am I? What am I standing for? How am I affecting the lives of others? How are others affecting my life?
-as I hope
forward into the New Year.
May we question courageously, secure in the hold of God's grace.
At the turn of the year when all hope seems to fade deep within the bleak chill icy cold comes a voice in our ear for to be unafraid and have faith all that's lost shall be found...
...no more dwell in sadness but do trust in our hearts that the New Year will right everything We do say with one voice we do pray with one heart for the promise that Christmas doth bring.
-Song of Forgetting
I am not one to laud people’s ability to affect their own
destiny, or suggest Oprah-style that one can order up a new life with the
universe (Not that I don’t believe in
self empowerment, I just frequently find a troubling lack of social analysis in
these claims). But I do believe that our
days are full of possibility.
I think of how many different people came into my life this
last year: a couple new friends, a whole staff of coworkers that seemed like
they’d be daily fixtures forever (until our store closed), and countless people
who I encountered only once. And that
was only my public life; how many schemes did I work on and abandon, plans did
I form and put in motion? Dreams, failures, redirection, losses of family
members, of a job, of a clear path toward my goal. The unpredicatbility of life
is what makes it rich with possibility.
This time of year reminds us that things change, the year
cycles and, though for some of us it might travel similar paths, each step is
ripe with the potential of our own choices and the power of our connected
nature.
The Song of Forgetting weaves together images of ending and
beginning with a sense of hope and possibility.
In the white hollow silence as a
new day is born and all the fair world lies asleep tied up with a prayer
for the promise that Christmas doth bring.
This is perhaps the promise the angel gave to Mary “nothing will be impossible
with God;” or the promise of Mary’s son, that God is with us; or the promise
that God, whose Love came to transform the world, is also interested in loving
us to newness.
This Christmas gift, this sense of hope and possibility, that comes more easily to us
at the New Year, is something that calls to us the whole year through, echoing in the birth of each new day. It beckons us again, when the first spring shoot polks out of the snow, when babies are born, when we begin a task again for the eighth time, and on
each day in between.
May we hear the call of possibility and the song of hope in each day of the coming year.
It may seem strange to put a pop dance song in a Christmas lineup. There are no 'silver bells' here, but there is plenty of cowbell. This song is basically about liberation through a great beat, singable lyrics and a will to survive - and if this theme seems a little thin to you, just hold on for a minute.
One of the reasons the A.M. Project came into existence is because I know in my own journey how many times a good song has "saved" my life. Sometimes prayer or meditation works, sometimes worship works, sometimes a talk with a friend does the trick, but sometimes when we're lost in the circles of our own thoughts, a good song on the radio can resuscitate us back to reality. This is no insult to more "certified holy" forms of rejuvenation; it merely acknowledges what many of us already know: music moves us.
A danceable song, lyrics that seem to speak right to us, hum-able tunes... whether we more often listen to R&B, bluegrass and soul, hip hop, dance pop, classical or jazz, those of us who love music love it because of its power to stay with us, to change us - to help us.
This is all we got tonight
This is all we got tonight
We are young and still alive
And now the time is on our side
The Advent Music Project could very easily have been a collection of Christmas classics and new Christian rock favorites and indie Christian gems where the lyrics were always clearly about Jesus and God and the Christmas miracle. Honestly, this would have made our reflection-writing task much easier! But we didn't take on this project to find God only where God was already obvious; we wanted to find God, Jesus, Advent and Christmas in a few places no one had thought to look yet.
As with many good pop songs, the lyrics to Free Energy are both extremely literal and also open to the listener's personal experience. 'We are young and still alive' can be a rally cry for anyone from 9 to 90, and 'now the time is on our side' can speak to each of our hopes and longings. So if we let go of our prejudgments about what "makes" Christmas music, isn't this the kind of song we could imagine the shepherds singing on the way back to their fields - the world and its possibilities suddenly opened up before them by a baby and his family camping in a manger?
What if 'this is all we got tonight' isn't a minimalist statement, but a free-wheeling confession that all we need is what we have because we've been freed from all our fears? What if it was better-known that the angels loved a good cowbell-enhanced rock song just as well as harps and flutes? What if we could acknowledge that at Christmas we are free to rock, free to dance, free to dare new things, because once and for all we have been shown that time is on our side, that God is bringing about astounding acts of mercy and grace, hope and love, freedom and wisdom all around us, and is urging us to just join the chorus and sing along:
The Lord is my light and my salvation -
so why should I be afraid?
The Lord is my fortress protecting me from danger -
so why should I tremble?
- Psalm 27:1 (NLT)
This Christmas-tide, let us not be afraid to rock, to dance, to shout with the knowledge that, despite all brokenness and waiting, in the end we have been shown in Christ's birth that timeis definitely on our side.
The angel said to the shepherds, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord." [And] suddenly a multitude of the heavenly host appeared with the angel praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace...!"
- Luke 2:10-14, adapted
Why is there so little joy in our churches around Christmas? Joy isn't the same thing as adoration and praise, although these are close sisters. It's also not the same as quiet inspiration, although this, too, is related. Joy is an attitude, not an action; it's about nearly irrepressible delight, amazement, wonder, or understanding. In a Christian context, joy is about connection with the divine story in a way that is radically moving, that literally shakes up our foundations and brings us to our feet - or to our knees.
Yes, I'm happy about pancakes on Christmas morning or opening presents, and delighted by family and calm feelings of peace. Or maybe some years I'm not - maybe Christmas is painful and awkward for me that year. But I believe that joy can break out for us all into any situation - even though it rarely does.
Trouble is, we can't just BE more joyful. The miracle of joy is that it can't be manufactured or forced - it is utterly authentic or it is nothing. All we can do is be open to it, be awake to the story of our faith and be convicted about its meaning in our lives. In the end, joy comes, unbidden, from the place where our deepest hopes and convictions meet resounding outside affirmation - like the angels appearing to frightened shepherds to put an emphatic exclamation point on God's promises of love and redemption.
Sister Rosetta Tharpe was one of the earliest rock n' roll musicians in the U.S., though she's rarely credited for it. She grew up on the preaching circuit with her mother learning to play guitar and never left the gospel spirit in which she was raised. What I appreciate so much about Sister Rosetta is her joyful, almost infectious delight when she sings and plays - she rolls back her eyes, sways, wails on the guitar and just generally invites us join her in a playful conspiracy of rejoicing:
Up above my head,
I hear music in the air,
Up above my head,
there is music in the air
Up above my head
I really do believe (I really do believe)
There's joy somewhere
All in my home,
there is music in the air...
What would it look like if we could catch the spirit of this kind of praise and delight -- this great joy -- more often in our lives, homes and communities? Maybe it would look like Sister Rosetta or maybe it would be quieter or more subtle, but either way it would be real, meaningful and - most important: visible.
This carries us back to the heart of Christian evangelism - which isn't some sickly, cloying Vote-For-Jesus campaign or mere self-aggradizing proselytizing, but which simply starts with the act of living of our lives as if this Christmas story mattered - as if it gave us genuine hope and real joy.
The Advent Music Project didn't feel like a complete project unless we followed the Christmas star all the way into the manger and to Epiphany. So this week, as Christmastide begins, we're thinking about Hoping Onward into the twelve days of Christmas, into a new calendar year, and beyond. So we ask ourselves: how do we hope onward and delve deeper into the story of Jesus' birth so that we don't just abandon him in the manger when the parties and food and gifts have ended?
One possibility of hoping onward might be to re-embrace the possibility of joy in our lives and Christian communities. We might remember and experience 'The Twelve Days of Christmas' this year as if there were some strange and wonderful music about to break out overhead, announcing good news of great joy. We might sing the songs as if they meant something, we might worship wholeheartedly and try to live -at least for a moment - as if we really mean it when we said that we believe that Emmanuel was born again this Christmas Day, inviting all Creation to join with us in the angels'playful conspiracy of rejoicing, as well.
'May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in the Lord, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.' - Romans 15:13
To inaugurate the next twelve days of Christmastide on the A.M. Project, enjoy the Christmas story in the voice of those who might know it best of all...
(Best watched full-screen, if possible)
May our hearts and lives be full this day, may we find peace, and may we keep in mind the wonderful inspiration that 'then there was a party!'
Joseph 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. -Luke 2:5-7
(Anna) Maybe this isn't the most reverent thing to say on Christmas Eve, but babies often remind me of Cracker Jack boxes. They may not all look the same, but there's really no telling what they'll become. Reprobate, saint, mediocre wishy-washer... they all just start out as, well, babies - complete with personalities but not yet shaped by the marks of fate upon their skin. So pause the manger scene for a minute and flash forward thirty or so years: what do we see now? Does it even really matter on Christmas night?
Yes, it matters, because if I can't get it in my head that I'm welcoming a child who isn't just going to sit quietly in a crib forever, but will one day be the pushy, annoying, rabble-rouser that doesn't just implicate people I don't like but who pushes back on me as well, well then I might as well just open my gifts and be done with it. But, if even for a fleeting moment, I can hold on to the fact that there is both something real and pure about the lavish gift of love and peace offered in that silent night in the manger, AND that there is something complicated, messy and uncomfortable about this baby's birth that will (and already had) upset the order of the world -- then I've truly held Christmas in my hands. When it feels almost impossible to hold this paradox in mind, I just remember that the almost-impossible and the nearly-incredible are what lie at the heart of the Christian faith - as this night where God who comes as a human and showers us with 'love, love, love.. all around' so wonderfully proves.
(Lindsey) Every good story has a conflict. Great works of literature, Disney movies, the good story of a friend, they all have something with which the main character must contend: bad guys, hardship, or even her/himself. But this story, this baby, brings our literary preferences pretty close to home. It flips the script. Jesus (as baby, man, God) is the conflict, the scandal, the sticking point upon which the world's way of being trips and topples - and is the conflict over which we still trip and tumble and are upended.
The story of this night unfolds into the life of Christ - among a long list of characters: 'less-informed authorities,' cynics, jeering neighbors, demanding family members, those who seek violence as a means to peace, people who love their traditions more than anything, and those who will not risk. I have at times inhabited many of those characters in the stories of my own life. But this story is not (only) a great literary work, a moralistic tale, or the story of a friend - this story is more. It is an axis of wonder, a place that we return to year after year, a mysterious truth that we spin round and round. The wonder of it is this: that the conflict and chaos, the resolution, the love, the frailty and the fear are all present as God's grace embraces the world. That in spite of (or, I believe, because of) this complexity, both present in the world and present in us, the Creator came to walk among these 'characters' -- and comes still to walk with us now: the uninformed, the violent, the cynical, the fearful.
And so we fall silent on this Christmas Eve in the face of a love that is bigger than we understand. And we dwell for a moment in the wonder that God, in whom all things hold together, became a small baby and reached out to embrace all things in the hold of grace.
May we be embraced by wonder as Grace is born again to us tonight.
and such happiness in the coming year." -What Christmas Means to Me
Let's not forget the joy. During Advent there is a lot of ambiguity, a lot of facing of brokenness, hoping for the future, all of which AMP has pressed into for almost four weeks now. But lest we get stuck in that loop and forget, today let's give ourselves a little permission to live into the celebration. There is much to celebrate in this season. Now to be clear, I am not referring to the happiness of receiving that gift you really wanted, or the temporary truce, glad-to-be-good-right-now moments at some of our family gatherings, or even the warmth we extend to guests at the soup kitchen; these are wonderful moments but they can easily turn, becoming moments of disappointment, toppling into patterns of brokenness or passing into cold inconstancy. We observe moments as a doorway into a deeper and more abiding celebration.
In Advent and at Christmas, we REJOICE in the message of the babygod, whose birth was joyfully announced to the shepherds so long ago; the message of hope that the world will be redeemed, the message of grace that we are beloved by our creator. This is the ABIDING JOY to which we return each year, that it might be born in us anew as we peer into the manger.
This joy undergirds our season, runs through the hustle and bustle of our days and waits quietly in our moments of pain and longing. This joy peeks out at us from the usual places: candles burning low and singing sweet Silent Night as well as unexpected places like an impromptu conversation or a moment of stillness late at night. For me, rocking a sweet baby girl, sharing a meal cooked with love, laughing at my coworker's truly hilarious joke, all these things and more, are reminders to rejoice this season. These mostly small moments, and few big ones, point to the Love that holds the world in it's grasp, the peace that grow as Love connects us, and the hope of the promise that Love transforms us all. That's what Christmas means to me and that is worth celebrating.
As we draw close to Christmas, let us savor the moments of joy, big and small. Listen to Stevie, smile, dance a little, if you feel it. This is a season of joy, what does that mean to you?
"Do not be afraid, I bring you good news of great joy that shall be for all the people" -Luke 2:10
For I am convinced that neither life nor death, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
- Romans 8:38-39
Sometimes less words are better; in the case of talking about dwelling in to God's love made manifest at Christmas, maybe too many words just flatten the mystery. So just a handful:
It's possible that Alexi Murdoch's Orange Sky is a song about romantic love or love for a parent, but the language is almost confessional in tone -- 'in your love, my salvation lies, in your love.' No matter the subject, this is not an individualistic, self-interested love - but rather a love that wraps into an entire system, a community. It is salvation that includes the brother and sister standing by, that allows the speaker to find hope and strength and recognize a home place.
Alexi Murdoch, Home
It's 'a long road we've been walking on,' and sometimes it's easier to let our 'strong minds' carry on in the belief that we are alone, that our broken hearts are fractured too completely... but we know better.
Here is what I know now:
The Love that comes at Christmas comes something like in this song, both intensely personal and yet wholly communal. The love of Christ's birth isn't inward-facing, but saves us to be with others and the world. This love saves us not just by some feat of "substitutionary atonement" or sacrificial suffering, but also simply by being what it is: the love of God made so real and immediate that it needed to take on flesh in order to look us truly and fully in the eyes. This is what I know now: we are loved beyond our imaging, beyond height and depth and all powers, and that this is love that has power and force to free and save us - even from ourselves. In this end, this love is where I live; this love is my home that doesn't save me or take me from the earth, but roots me more fully in the here and the now of things, alongside my sisters and brothers, creatively, openly, communally loving and being loved into the world that is sill being born this season.
May we dwell in the knowledge that our salvation lies in the love God which is so elemental, so radical, that it became human and dwelt among us.
Hello Mr. Montgomery, good to see you out on the street.
Been so long since we touched the ground
of this restless little town.
Good people, gather round, on Christmas Day.
There must be smoke coming out of every chimney,
the kindest words rolling off of every tongue,
And of all the gifts that you could give me, your love is still the greatest one.
- Pete Droge, On Christmas Day
The weather has been unseasonably warm in Southeast Michigan this month. The prediction is that it will not snow before the end of the week here, and while I am mourning my white Christmas a bit, I have appreciated the increased number of people who seem to be out and about enjoying this weather. There is something I just love about leaving my office and greeting the neighbors as they sit on their porch in the late afternoon, or going to a holiday street festival downtown and running into friends, or even being able to take a walk on a Saturday morning and stop to pet the Johnsons’ dog as I pass their house. This proximity and connection to others is usually more difficult in the cold weather months here and I am grateful for the reprieve, however long it lasts.
These chance meetings and times of visiting, are what I pop into my head when I listen to today's song. Though the song embodies a kind of nostalgic, small town culture that isn't really part of my Christmas past, I do connect with the themes of gathering together, prioritizing relationships and recognizing the blessedness of knowing and being known to those around you. I hear Pete Drodge singing into his time and culture, the tidings of comfort and joy from our carols and hymns of old.
On Christmas Day
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This past Sunday, my pastor preached about God’s love for people throughout time. He referenced the many stories of our ancestors in faith that tell of God being with the people: Abraham, Moses and the Israelites leaving Egypt, wandering in the desert, the judges, kings and prophets. For all time people of faith have believed that God is with us, but the Christmas story brings us a new idea about God. This time God isn’t just with the people, God becomes one of the people, inhabiting a body; the Eternal Creator wrapped up in flesh, in struggle, in joy, in the experience that is human life. There was a shift, pastor said, from God from being with us to God being within us.
The last statment has occupied much of my own reflection these past days. I am compelled by this belief, the incarnation, not just God’s coming to earth as a baby human, but the added wonder that God is embodied in us, in our living and loving and connection to one another. This season offers a sacred call to us, to celebrate the coming of God to dwell with us, walking among us so many years ago; but it also calls us to celebrate a God that comes to dwell with in us each day. There is a way in which even our modern culture around Christmas keeps traces of this wisdom for us, as we sing good tidings, give charitably, send greeting cards and reconnect with family and friends.But beyond that, a wonderful part of our Advent preparation is dwelling in our relationships and our connection to others; looking into the kind words, wishes for peace, and time spent together, and seeing the invitation, love and presence of our God Incarnate.
Holy One, dwell within us, as we dwell with each other, looking toward the celebration, peace and joy that you are bringing to the world.
We've been reckless, we've been good, doin' most of the things we should -- but the picture is much bigger than we knew... - Over the Rhine
Here's what I like about Advent: it puts things in perspective. At all times of the year people get sick, have surgeries, fight with family or spouses, break up with girl or boyfriends, lose jobs, get great news, give birth, feel lonely or frustrated or lost... but it all seems to matter more with the backdrop of Advent and Christmas. Things take on a weight and a poignancy that rarely gets equaled elsewhere in the year.
In this final week of Advent, the Advent Music Project is considering, How do we dwell into this Christmas-tide? My first instinctive response: We dwell into Christmas by dwelling into everything else - especially the difficult stuff -, too.
In our church communities we often have this urge to leave the unruly, disquieting issues of world affairs, broken relationships, and scattered hopes back at the beginning of Advent when in fact, that is exactly what we should bring right into the center of the quiet manger scene. As somebody was observing the other day, that "peaceful" manger-scene we carry in our collective imagination is really a moment of quiet in what's truly been a chaotic, stressful story involving an unexpected pregnancy, discernment in a marriage, travel, overbooked lodgings, and then... labor.
We usually politely ignore this last part of the story, maybe because it's disconcerting to think of Mary not looking perpetually calm and beatific, but I'm pretty sure that was not the expression she wore when Jesus was, you know... "about to emerge." I actually find this rather helpful, since I can get panic and confusion, dismay and even a little fear (let's remember Mary was likely between 13 and 15 years old, after all) ... it's the peacefulness that I sometimes have a hard time embodying.
Last December I worked every single day between Thanksgiving and Christmas managing a book store. There was no "Advent," there was CHRISTMAS... yelled in my ear for almost a month. So I can tell you, my physical and emotional fatigue walking into a late-night Christmas Eve service (the first time I'd been to church that season) was extreme. I had literally been forcing myself to not think about how miserable this month was making me, and suddenly I was in a dark room with people who wanted to sing and think about Jesus... and proceeded to surprise myself by crying during the whole service.
Maybe this sounds crazy to you. Maybe you've yet to experience a really terrible Christmas season, and God bless you if so. Or maybe you know exactly what I'm talking about, only much worse. I've talked to people who were sitting in inpatient behavioral health units during Christmas, people who were undergoing surprise chemotherapy at Christmas. It happens. All. The. Time.
What I love about We're Gonna' Pull Through is that because the issue they need to "pull through" never gets identified, it can become all of our issues. I love that there's some humor in here, there's some solidarity, there's some small admission of hope:
maybe, sorta', kinda'
if I really had to say,
something good is on its way...
We're Gonna Pull Through - Over the Rhine (lyrics HERE)
This is the permission we need: to dwell into the difficult places we can't just leave behind in Advent, we can't just stop feeling and we can't just fix. Life isn't that simple, and the picture is always 'bigger than we knew.'Instead, what we can do is give ourselves some space to deal with what we're ignoring without trying to solve it, and then... lay it in the stable door.
In the end, this is where the fabled peace of that manger-scene comes from: from a mother who lays aside her pain and her fear for the future to look into the eyes of new and marvelous life. From a father who lets down his guard and dwells into the moment with them. From a child who carries all the hopes of a thousand generations as if it were weightless because it is carried in love. This is where we lay down our hearts and realize that it is this releasing, even for a moment, that allows us to make it through. This simple act gives us the grace of perspective - a reminder that these things do matter, and that there's hope for it all.
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.
- John 14: 27
May we remember that the manger scene isn't a place to keep out our real lives, but a place to fearlessly invite the mess of the world that we may receive healing, peace, and grace from the God of Love.
Names are important to me. I am named after two of my great-grandmothers, one from Syria, one from Mexico. One a proud Orthodox Catholic, the other a proud Presbyterian. One who braved emigration and raised her family in New York, the other who raised a family on a farm in northern Mexico. Both strong. Both women of faith.
These two names from my great-grandmothers make up what is traditionally called my "Christian" name, but there's another part to what I consider my true Christian name. At my home church, when a baby, child, or adult gets baptized, they say, for instance, "Anna Marina, child of the covenant, I baptize you..."
This is my second name. I am a Child of the Covenant which stretches from a man asked to count the stars in Genesis, has a twist in the middle, and picks up in my tradition with Jesus of Nazareth. I am a Child of the Covenant since before I knew what it was, before I claimed it back, before I did anything to deserve it.
Why is this important? Because generally I don't do anything to deserve it. Because mostly I spend my days screwing things up, getting things wrong, and making a mess. This is no self-loathing; I'm just a human, and that's what we do: we make a spectacular mess of things. Life is hard on us, we're hard on ourselves, and at the end of the day sometimes all we can say is: wow, that's not what I wanted to do at all.
Born into a Light - Ryan Adams and the Cardinals ( approx. lyrics HERE)
What I try to remember during Advent is that I've been caught up in a story that began before I was born, and which will carry on after me. That my mistakes matter, but they're not the end of the world. That my "worthiness" has nothing to do with my belovedness. That I was born into a Light, and am therefore both known for all my shortcomings and also surrounded by the glow of grace. That my name is 'Anna Marina, Child of the Covenant,' and that is a name and a bond that will not let me go, no matter what.
It's a rich, amazing inheritance, but it's also one that I sometimes hide from because it's a little embarrassing. Jesus? Well, yes, but...
So I also challenge myself: if I've been given this gift of a name and an inheritance of grace, how can I take courage and claim that tradition back? To be bold and say again, "Yes, I believe in all the slightly strange but wonder-inspiring stories in this ancient book. Yes, I believe that God's Spirit is at work here, in this Bible, in this broken Church, in my patched-together, imperfect life. Yes, I believe that this little baby who grew into a flinty, challenging, grace-filled man was God. Yes, I claim this wonderful, foolish, backward truth, because it claimed me, and because it names me."
May we remember our claiming, our naming, in our Advent walk and gather our spirits and voices to claim the story and the name of Christ in return.
"Think of us in this way, as servants of Christ and stewards of God’s mysteries."
-1 Corinthians 4:1
There is a lot that I don’t know; more that I don’t understand. I’m not even counting the day I was absent from biology when they covered the Mendelian Square. Although, perhaps it was my years of somewhat mediocre scholarship that accustomed me to living in a space of unknowing. On a wider scale, in our modern American culture we don’t really like not having things figured out. There is a way in which we seek to and, in large part, can control our environments by figuring out systems, workings, cause and effect; sometimes. The only problem is that God can not be controlled by us, or figured out, or systematized. God is full of mystery.
Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; caps and bells.
And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng’s clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at tall, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, O Lord, Creator, Hallowed One, You still, hour by hour sustain it.
-Denise Levertov, Primary Wonder
Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence
I usually only hear today’s song sung at Christmas Eve church services. So when I hear it images of people gathered late at night in candlelight come to my mind and it reminds me of a moment during this season that I love. It is an hour when unknowing reigns, when we are ok with giving ourselves over to the mystery,surrender to wonder; when we remember that our faith story tells about a Deity that inexplicably came into the world as a baby and dwells among us still in ways of love and welcome that confound us, sometimes to the point of silence. And perhaps that is the way that we learn to live with mystery, to keep silence and embrace the moments when the Great Mystery surrounds and embraces us.
"Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me - put it in practice. And the God of peace will be with you." - Philippians 4: 8-9
The first time I heard Don't Want to Know, I wasn't sure I liked it. I heard the lines: 'I don't want to know about evil / Only want to know about love --' and thought: well, that's nice, but good luck to ya'. Then there were the verses which are half honest soul-searching and half praying for apocalypse... which all added up to an uncomfortable mix. But then it began to dawn on me: this is a song about living in-between. It's about waiting for destruction and hoping for reprieve, it's about knowing our falleness and seeking scraps of grace. It's about how we sometimes feel about things, rather than what we say about them.
So on the one hand, this is a sad, depressing song: caught between heaven and the grime of the world, we dream about purity, about knowing only of love. Amidst our longings and our fears, we pray for destruction to release us from the tension of living with our doubts. These are the things we think when the "good" church people aren't looking, when there's no one to check our obsessive dreams and our depressive thoughts.
On the other hand, this is a song about hope and defiance: Living in-between we may sometimes have nightmares of the future, but still we hold on to what we can do: which is work bit by bit to focus on what is beautiful, real and good; to transform ourselves from inside out; to hope that by re-forming ourselves we can come to know Love more fully. This is no abstract "pure" concept of love divorced from people and relationship, but a love that lives in the dirt and mess of things as-they-are, that loves God in the midst of questions as-they-stand, and believes in a grace that can snap us from the hypnosis of our depressive obsessions. This is a search for goodness that operates out of a confession of faith and trust in God ('Only want to know about love') but which recognizes that in earthly life our goodness stems not from purity but from acknowledging our brokenness and teaching ourselves the contours of love and grace that help us onward...
Don't Want to Know (John Martyn) feat. The Swell Season (lyrics HERE)
Sometimes it gets so hard for me to listen, / so hard for me to use my eyes...
- (John Martyn)
In these Advent days, how are we listening for this theme in our own lives? How are we re-forming our lives to make a space for a God who comes into the grime and confusion, the depression and the doubts and shows us that in the end Love knows us first? How are we reminding ourselves that being "good" isn't about being 100% perfectly tuned to love's key, but is about seeking the strain of its melody and remembering always that our goodness grows from the root of God's love, nurtured by our actions and hopes...
"...if I could have one wish it would be that we would reconsider how we conceptualize being a good person, and keep in mind that we are not good despite our imperfections. It is the connection we maintain with our imperfections that allows us to be good. Our connection with our personal and common imperfections, being mindful of those personal and common imperfections is what allows us to be good to each other and be good to ourselves."
- Jay Smooth of Ill Doctrine at TED(x) Hampshire College
May we keep hold of Love which is not a purity that burns us clean, but Love which comes gently to our doubt, our brokenness, our dreams of living better, in the form of a child.
