Everyday Boy

Fourth Sunday of Advent

I was happy to find an archive of sermon notes from Jazz Vespers to help me reflect on this Advent season.  This afternoon Reverend Gary focused on Joseph's role in the Christmas story:

Even our small decisions matter.  I remember reading Robertson Davies' novel, Fifth Business - though it is the title rather than the story itself that lingers in my mind.  Fifth business is a reference from the world of opera, a description of a minor role or action on which, however, the rest of the story hinges.  The fifth business person is not the hero, the heroine, the love interest, or the villain - no, this person plays a minor, supporting, background kind of a role, but without that person, the plot doesn't get rolling.  They are needed to kick-start the action, or to shift it in a particular direction - and then after that, well, the story has a life of its own.  Joseph is, I think, a fifth business person - like most of us.  Not the big stars, with our names in lights - but absolutely necessary for what unfolds.  So when we make even a small decision in the name of love and trust, then the story receives new life.

Now scientists who specialize in chaos theory know this well. They understand that the smallest of events can, further down the line, have a huge impact on what actually comes to pass.  I gather that a major step was taken in the development of chaos theory in the mid-sixties by one Edmund Lorenz.  He was a man determined to work out weather patterns; he figured that if scientists could predict the movement of the stars and comets, then surely they could figure out what next week's weather was going to be.  So Lorenz worked out all the mathematical formula, mixing together wind speed, barometric pressure, humidity… you name it, it all got fed into the computer.  And it seemed to be working, and the computer was generating the most interesting of weather patterns.  But then Lorenz wanted to rerun a section from the middle of the program, and so rather than start over from the beginning, he simply re-entered the equations and numbers at the half way point.  Then, he re-started the computer program and went off for a coffee break.

When he returned, however, the weather pattern that was being generated was completely different from what had been previously predicted and churned out by the computer. Lorenz couldn't figure out what had gone wrong.  He checked the hardware, the wiring, the equations… and eventually he discovered the one variation between the first and the second outcomes, between a blue sky and a thunderstorm.  In the interest of speed, Lorenz had rounded off one number… from 0.506127 to 0.506.  Who would ever have thought that 0.000127 could make such a complete and total difference in what happened?!  Joseph's yes….perhaps a 0.000127 kind of a decision.  The kinds of decisions we all make, every day of our lives.  Background, fifth business, 0.00127 kind of people… whose decisions are exceedingly important.  Who, unbeknown-st to ourselves, (but not to God) might well change the course of history.

Some months ago I was having coffee with my youngest daughter Zoë.  Definitely a kind of Joseph moment of listening, loving, biting back words of advice. But I did share with her a random quotation that had stuck in my brain like a burr.  It comes from Jack Kornfield, who said, "When you come to the end of your life, there are only two questions to ask - "Did you live fully?" and "Did you love well?"  Zoë pondered, nodded, then smiled and said, "There's a third - Did you make a difference?"  Yes.  And maybe Joseph would tell us that all three questions are really the same question.

God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot

Joy: I know
you exist - ...

Alison Pick, Question & Answer

I remember listening to these words pierce through the darkness of the Banff Centre's Eric Harvie Theater during a poetry reading, and immediately being captured by the words.  I find it so easy to fall into despair these days, even just by scanning the headlines of all the major newspapers.   It was the Third Sunday of Advent yesterday, so I headed back to the Jazz Vespers Service at St. Andrews Wesley United Church, where the candle of joy was lit.  Joy to the world...  They had a large ensemble jazz band which radiated the essence of joy in their big band sounds a la Benny Goodman.

Afterwards, I went to see the film adaptation of C. S. Lewis's The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe.  It seems like such a long time since I've read the book when I was a kid.  I had vague recollections in my mind of how the story goes, so seeing it all translated into a motion picture was a bit strange, like seeing an old dream come to life in your waking hours.  I enjoyed it like I did the latest Harry Potter film, as they both brought me back into the world of imagination, magic and child-like wonder.  Seeing the character of Tumnus and the other magical creatures of Narnia come alive on screen was a joy in itself, but the script and screenplay fell short of the fullness of the allegory that I thought Lewis wrote.  Or perhaps I've just outgrown the story or don't quite remember it as it is.  I've read reviews that both praise and tear down the film for it being an allusion of Christ dying for our sins, but for me it seems to merely raise some more questions.  Over the years I've seen this imbalance in mainstream Christianity (or rather perhaps the perception of it) that seems to focus so much on Christ crucified - that the birth, life, and resurrection of Christ is lessened.  However, I do feel a need to rectify my own theology around the sacrifice of Christ for my sins, which I hope to reflect on more this month.

Anyway, there's a song that comes to mind that was introduced to me a couple of years ago by a friend, that was written by Leonard Cohen, and performed by Buffy Sainte-Marie.  It captures the essence of The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe for me... the magic behind the death and resurrection of Christ.  Just reading it doesn't do it justice, so I recommend finding a recording of it; it's called God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot.  It's a poem/mantra from Cohen's second novel, Beautiful Losers.  While the lyrics do say, God never died - which throws up some theological difficulties, I still find that it captures the mystery and beauty behind the death and resurrection of Christ.

Second Sunday Of Advent

And in despair, I bowed my head
There is no peace on earth, I said
For hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men

I went to Jazz Vespers again yesterday.  The candle of peace was lit.  I felt physically tired this past weekend because some co-workers had to call in sick with a flu going around, and I ended up working fifty hours over five days.

Peace.  A friend's son died last week at the age of twenty-nine years after a five year bout with cancer.  It's sobering to think of as he's just one year older than me.  Peace. One youth tried committing suicide recently, another was committed to a hospital psychiatric ward, while another was released.  Peace.  A friend is looking for a job with hope and expectation.  Peace.  I decided to shave my head, as I seem to be inheriting my maternal grandfather's receding hairline.  Coincidentally, I found out that my uncle has lost his hair with his recent administration of chemotherapy.  He's been diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma.  Peace.

Don Stewart & Company were belting out renditions of Silent Night and O, Holy Night.  I thought of the many different folks I know, working, playing, breathing and dying in many different corners of the world... the stars are shining brightly.  I've also been listening to a CD a friend made a couple of Christmases ago with John Gorka singing a rendition of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem Christmas Bells.  Difficult words to accept sometimes:

Then pealed the bells, more loud and deep
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men

Reverend Gary spoke of being open to what God would have us birth into the world, that Christ may again be born - now, again, like so long ago.  Once again I go back again to Dorothy Day's words:

It is no use saying that we are born two thousand years too late to give room to Christ.  Nor will those who live at the end of the world have been born too late.  Christ is always with us, always asking for room in our hearts.

But now it is with the voice of our contemporaries that He speaks, with the eyes of store clerks, factory workers, and children that he gazes; with the hands of office workers, slum dwellers, and suburban housewives that He gives.  It is with the feet of soldiers and tramps that He walks, and with the heart of anyone in need that He longs for shelter.  And giving shelter or food to anyone who asks for it, or needs it, is giving it to Christ...

If we hadn’t got Christ’s own words for it, it would seem raving lunacy to believe that if I offer a bed and food and hospitality to some man or woman or child, my guest is Christ.  There is nothing to show it, perhaps. There are no halos already glowing round their heads - at least none that human eyes can see.

So we are not born too late.  We can serve Christ by seeing him and serving him in friends and strangers, in everyone we come in contact with.

First Sunday Of Advent

In this season of Advent, we are called to wait.
Waiting is hard.
We expect things instantly.
We are very busy, and there is so much to do.
Calm us down, O God.
Help us to listen to Your voice of this season -
hearts open to Jesus Christ coming into our lives in a new way.
Help us to be patient with one another, and with ourselves.
Help us now, O God, as we pray in silence,
asking for strength and patience

A prayer recited at St. Andrew's-Wesley Church

I went back to St. Andrew's-Wesley Church to attend their Jazz Vespers service, and was reminded why I love this service so much: the large, colorful stained-glass all around and above you, the soulful music and down-to-earth musicians, and the simple yet profound liturgy and reflections offered to us in silent reverie. It's one of the few churches where silence and reflection feels so natural. Tonight, a band called Out of the Woods performed, consisting of an acoustic guitarist, a stand-up bassist, a percussionist, and a floutist/soprano saxaphonist who sang a Maya Angelou poem called Equality as well.

It's heart-warming knowing candles of hope are being lit around the world today, and hearing the words take heart was comforting too. My heart goes out to some of our youth at our shelter who are struggling these days, as well as to folks who are mourning the passing of loved ones, and a relative who's undergoing chemotherapy for leukemia. Such things seem heavier to bear with winter's darkness growing longer and longer, so lighting candles always seems like a fitting way to say to such darkness (as Mary Jo Leddy writes) we beg to differ.

The minister had good words for us to act on: slowing down in this holiday season of hurry; waiting as a pregnant woman would for the birth of her child, full of joy and expectation; and preparing our hearts and ears for the words God may reveal to us in the days leading up to Christmas. He surprised me by reciting a wonderful poem by Carla Funk, in a way that you would expect only at a poetry bash of some sorts, not at a Sunday afternoon church service in a cathedral. It drew my whole being into the moment, making me think of how God might speak to us, and how we might proclaim the glory of everyday life.

Messenger

All mouth and throbbing with the need
to speak, they arrive, heels printing into the earth
a colon: the introduction of much
to come. They stand outside
dreams at the foot of your bed, scrolls of their tongues
unfurling, important, blessed tongues
written with indelible ink.

(What does it feel like to carry God's
tongue in your mouth? A single word of light
as a dandelion spore, heavy as gold
brick?) Lantern throats glow each breath.

Listen. Someone is dying. Even this
made beatiful.
                            Proclaim the glory of everyday
life, bruises and the sweet flesh of earlobe. Swallow
the love you are given.
                            Hear me. Unto you a gift is given, no
strings attatched. You are favored. You are
whole.
              Fall on your face and seek wine in the dry
valley. Find flesh among bones. Miracles
are prepared for the tasting.

And you startle at their voices, each
syllable a firefly in the ear, flicker and spark
upon waking. This may have been a dream, this
may have been more.

(68)

From Blessing The Bones Into Light, 1999.

Ash Wednesday

I appreciated Karen's reminder that today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.  I hope to be a bit more mindful of the Liturgical calendar, and the rhythm it brings to each season.

Last year I found a series of articles by Joan Chittister through the National Catholic Reporter, covering each of the Sundays leading up to and including Easter.  I found them to be good reminders throughout Lent. The first article begins:

Lent is not an event. It is not something that happens to us.  It is at most a microcosm of what turns out to be a lifelong journey to the center of the self.

The purpose of Lent is to confront us with ourselves in a way that’s conscious and purposeful, that enables us to deal with the rest of life well.  It is not a penitential season.  It is a growing season.  It requires us to determine what is worth dying for in our own lives and what it may be necessary for us to become if we really want to live.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, then, Lent is not a series of behaviors.  It is a series of questions that, year after year, is designed to measure our progress on the way to fullness of life.