A drop of golden sun

Just saw the animated movie Tangled for the first time on Christmas Day (a gift to my six-year old niece). Sorry, but I am not a fan. I know, I know - curmudgeon. It’s not that it wasn’t funny - it was! It was even laugh-out-loud funny in many places. All the “girls” watched it together, while all the guys watched Captain America in the other room. Quite the gender-specific activity.

The problem with me (perhaps I should say, one of the problems) is that I tend to be analytical about everything. My friend Kris, who writes wonderful and funny stories about adventures with her children, said on her blog that I have “enough meaningful thoughts for ten people.” It was meant as a compliment. Of course (being analytical), I couldn’t help wondering if it makes me sound like a geek’s geek. But really, Kris, thanks - you are very kind!

Anyway, my analytical brain kicked in while watching Tangled. The plot hinges on this golden drop of sunlight that falls to earth and becomes a magical flower. Right away I’m thinking, why only one drop of sunlight? What made this one so special? What conditions created it? Why did it become a flower and not a special stone?

And then, the “old woman” finds it and discovers it will make her young and beautiful again - provided she sings it a special song. Well, I’m sorry, but how did she figure that out? How did she know it was a song? And if you realized that a flower would give you magical powers if you sang it a special song, how long might it take you to find the right words, not to mention the melody? And that was only the beginning. Primarily, however, I couldn’t find the point of the movie, and when it was all over, I had nothing to take with me, although I had been entertained. It was just over. (Having a lot of deep and meaningful thoughts means I like movies that provide material for those thoughts. It's a problem.)

Haute Sphere - Nativity by Sylvain Dubuisson

Funny thing, though. Today I came across a news story about a nativity scene created by a French artist. It is completely abstract, and called the ‘Haute Sphere.” It is a geodesic dome of porcelain, surrounding a golden halo resting on a bed of sand. At first when I looked at it I just thought, okay, whatever. But then I let myself contemplate it a bit, and wouldn’t you know, I thought of Tangled and the drop of golden sunlight. 


Maybe there is a little deeper meaning in that story (unintentional on the part of the writers) that I can take with me after all. What if the Incarnation was like a drop - the only drop ever - of sunlight, of God-light? The golden halo of the Holy Spirit, nestled on the earth in a bed of straw. The child, born of this sun-drop, through Mary, with powers unimaginable: the power to restore, to save lives. And there’s even a special song:

Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts! 

Heaven and earth are full of your glory. 

Hosanna in the Highest! 

Blessed is he who comes in the Name of the Lord. 

Hosanna in the Highest!

Well, how about that.  Guess I got something out of Tangled after all.

Pregnant... hope, that is

Her story was so similar to mine, even though she is much younger. She has a certain gentleness that I did not recognize right away, did not realize was born of her grief. It came to light in class one day, as we were discussing the moral issues surrounding reproductive technologies such as surrogate motherhood. Suddenly we were linked, joined together in the sorrowful sisterhood of women who desire but cannot have children of our own bodies.

Pregnancy and motherhood are integral parts of Advent and the Christmas story. The scripture readings this week have been about Elizabeth, the barren woman who becomes miraculously pregnant; Hannah, the barren women who pleaded with God and becomes the mother of Samuel; and Mary, the young virgin who becomes miraculously pregnant and will give birth to the Son of God.

All this longing, all this expectation, all this... pregnancy! Yet even those of us who never carried a child inside (which includes all the males of the species) can understand this; we all have hopes and expectations.

It is Christmas Eve; soon we will celebrate the birth of Jesus. It has been a difficult autumn, and I am deeply in need of celebration! I need my Christian family, I need candles, incense, music, prayer. I need worship! I need hope; I need to remember that longings do get fulfilled, that they will be fulfilled.

Expectant Mary - waiting in hope for the coming Savior

Talking about infertility in class this fall brought me to a surprising realization: my own empty womb has been a gift. It is a gift because it has forced me to struggle, to not take life for granted, and because it helps me to understand the suffering of others. It makes me deeply human. 

Yet the inability to get pregnant does not have to mean actual "infertility."  The biological emptiness often yields many different kinds of fruit. I think of the friends who’s journey of infertility led to the gift of five (five!) adopted children. Or the childless classmate who devotes herself to helping teens. Or my own clumsy attempts to bless the children born of others, including the precious daughters brought to me by my husband.

I have been reminded again this Advent about longing, about expectant hope, and about fulfillment. I have learned once more that sorrow is a preparation for joy. My stress has been high, and so my longing has been deep. I will celebrate Christmas with all my heart! And I will keep longing for Jesus’ return with a pregnant, joyful hope.

A Hymn for Advent

EACH WINTER AS THE YEAR GROWS OLDER 
By William & Annabeth Gay (1969)

Each winter as the year grows older, 
We each grow older too. 
The chill sets in a little colder; 
The verities we knew 
Seem shaken and untrue. 

When race and class cry out for treason, 
When sirens call for war, 
They overshout the voice of reason 
And scream till we ignore 
All we held dear before. 

Yet I believe beyond believing, 
That life can spring from death: 
That growth can flower from our grieving; 
That we can catch our breath 
And turn transfixed by faith. 

So even as the sun is turning 
To journey to the north, 
The living flame, in secret burning, 
Can kindle on the earth 
And bring God's love to birth. 

O Child of ecstasy and sorrows, 
O Prince of peace and pain, 
Brighten today's world by tomorrow's, 
Renew our lives again; 
Lord Jesus, come and reign!

Anticipation

I remember vividly the year the biggest box under the Christmas tree was for me. Me! Not that I am competitive or anything ;-), but when you are fourth in a family of six, there's always competition for the biggest something (it took until I was in college to realize I didn't always actually want the biggest piece of pie). The gift did not disappoint, either: Betsy McCall Fashion Designer, right up my artistic alley (thanks, Mom!). Somewhere long ago I lost all the design sheets and templates, but I still have the light box - it is one of my most  treasured possessions, and I even occasionally still use it. 

Children get Christmas right, even though they sort of get it wrong, too. They know how to anticipate it. They make Christmas lists and start getting excited well in advance. When I am around little ones I can sense this almost palpable shiver, a contagious energy that helps everyone around them look forward to the big day. If they still believe in Santa there is another dimension to their excitement, an imaginary other-world excitement about icicles and elves and shimmering North Pole villages.

On the other hand, as kids we're mostly just excited because we are anticipating the presents. Imagine if just seeing packages under the tree now was enough to get our hearts racing. And think how great it would be if we still could love just about anything and everything we get!! But, alas, I got older, I developed preferences, and I got disappointed - not the right color, not the right style, not right..So I shifted my expectations from the material part of Christmas to the spiritual, the whole "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" thing. Now, I don't want to sound overly cynical or unspiritual, but Christmas still remained un-wonderful for me. For a few years I allowed myself to get overwhelmed by cookie baking and present making and shopping and stuff, stuff, stuff, before I stopped having such high expectations of myself. And a few words to remember that "it's all about Jesus" didn't stand a chance against the effort of squeezing Christmas celebrations into a few days off work.

Advent Candles

But lately the inevitable growing up and losing my childhood excitement over Christmas has been replaced with a new excitement: Advent. Advent, strangely enough, was not part of either my family or church traditions (we were in what I now call  a "liturgy free zone"). But I have recently - finally - figured out the gift of Advent. It is four weeks focused on anticipation, a relatively long and leisurly opportunity to get my heart ready for the biggest and best Gift of all.

The most important thing to remember about Advent is that it is NOT about anticipating the birth of Jesus. Because if it was, we would just be pretending, since he’s already been born. Advent is for remembering that Jesus is coming back – the second coming, his promise to return. Advent is simultaneously a preparation for celebrating the first coming and a kind of “am I ready?” check-in for the second.

Can't wait!

Silly Goose

Lucy did not appear on the lakeshore this morning, honking to announce her arrival, as she has for the past two and a half weeks. We can only assume that she was bagged by a goose hunter, as the season opened today. Not that it is legal to shoot a domestic goose - it most certainly is not. But Lucy was a wanderer, a free-spirit, apparently, of the farm goose world, and she took her chances with the wild things. Ultimately it was the humans who could not be trusted.

We don’t really know if she had ever been given a name by the people who raised her. I christened her Lucy - not very imaginatively, I’m afraid - after she appeared several successive days in our yard. We called around - 4-H clubs, the Extension office - but could find no clue as to where she came from. We even drove around the area looking for farms with poultry, but no luck. For a couple of days Lucy was joined by another female Pilgrim goose (which I named Polly), but Polly only came along for a couple of days, and then disappeared again. Polly was actually meaner-tempered, more suspicious, and honked a lot. I can only assume she did not care particularly for the free life and went home, wherever that was.

It was a tremendous amount of fun learning about Lucy - her breed, the Pilgrim, is relatively rare, and they are known for being mild-tempered. The first few days she stayed close to the lake, and would quickly swim off if anyone came close. Eventually she started coming closer to the house, and once even nested under the deck - leaving, naturally, lots of squishy evidence behind. But usually just before dark she would fly away, low across the water, to a small floating island of reeds about a half mile away (as the goose flies). It is out of sight of the house, so we only know about the spot because we were on our neighbor’s boat when suddenly the two geese (Lucy and Polly) went cruising by, and we saw where they landed.  First thing in the morning she would come back, climb up the bank, and honk - not too much, just enough to let us know she was "home."

Hubby is more of a farm person than I; he did not grow up on a farm, but near them, and had plenty of animals around. He fed her some cracked corn, and changed water in a pail for her every day (she frequently would stand by the pail and honk). I am more of a silly animal romantic, like the little girls who fall in love with horses but don’t know anything about their care and feeding. 

Lucy would only come close to us if we were giving her pieces of bread - this clearly was something she knew about, and loved - in fact, she would come running (waddling really fast, that is). I loved looking at her beautiful feathers, and wished I could get my hands in them. I once got her to come close and then tried to pet her, but that was not to be tolerated, and it took a bit more bread before she would get near me again.

I am a vegetarian, so I grew weary of neighbor’s jokes about her being our Thanksgiving dinner. In a completely inconsistent way, however, I did lust after her feathers a bit: she would have provided enough for a nice goose down pillow. We were amused by her personality - she honked whenever a car came in the driveway; she would preen herself by splashing her head in the water in the pail, instead of just going into the lake. Silly goose! She liked hanging out near us, or seemed to - maybe it was just the possibility of bread.

We did think about catching her - we actually tried once, unsuccessfully. Lack of confidence, I think, and concern about hurting her. Of course, now she’s probably dead, so that was probably a misplaced concern.

It was hard not to get at least a little mad and sad this morning. Perhaps I am the silly goose for growing fond of a creature that appeared out of nowhere and that we were unprepared to shelter; silly for letting my heart get a little involved; silly for thinking she might be okay despite waking to the sound of shotguns; silly to hope the hunters would spare her.

There always danger in loving, I think, whether people or animals. Pets die, friends die, spouses die. To be open to love is to risk grief and regret. But it's better to be silly, if that’s what it is, than never to experience the wonder of a beautiful living, created thing.

Really Seeing You

God has developed such a compassionate heart in some people that they can clearly see the face of Christ in every person they encounter.  (I think of Mother Teresa and the Missionaries of Charity, and how they see Jesus in every poor person they minister to in Calcutta. Or Saint Francis kissing the leper.) 

Not so with me. When I look at others, I usually see myself. I treat them as mirrors, and look at them to see how I appear, or what they have for me, or how they will treat me. When I do see them, it is rare that I see Christ!  I mean, really – look at how they act, what they are wearing, what they are saying! How is that Jesus? 

If I work really hard at it, if I remind myself that I am supposed to see Jesus in other people, then I can muster up a bit of love, some fellow feeling and compassion. Were someone to be rude to me, however, I think it would evaporate in a heartbeat. On those occasions when my own image recedes and I actually see the person in front of me – those are good days. I want more of those days.

Girl Before a Mirror (Picasso)

Paul says (1 Cor 13:12) that we only see “but a poor reflection as in a mirror” (NIV); some translation say “as in a mirror, dimly,” or as many of us have heard it, “through a glass darkly” (KJV). I wonder if that doesn’t mean the only way we can see God is through other people. We need to learn to see him there, no matter how flawed the reflection. Paul goes on to say, “now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”  

When we see other people, we rarely see them as they really are – we mostly see ourselves. We don’t “know” them. When I do come to know and like someone (particularly if I like how they are to me) I might be able to “see” Jesus in him or her. But it’s a struggle to see Jesus in strangers, in people who get in my way, or make me uncomfortable. What would be thrilling to me would be to learn to see people as “lovely” even without knowing anything about them, just because God loves them.  That would be like seeing God.

One day we will be able to see God face to face. I believe on that day we also will be able to see others as they truly are. No more mirrors! We will not only know and be known by God, but we will be able to know each other. Until then, I'll just have to keep trying.

Brownies and the Atonement

There’s a half-price shelf in the bookstore at the Liturgical Press offices that I scour anytime I’m on campus during business hours. Last week I found a slightly damaged copy of a new book by Susan Pitchford, called God in the Dark. It did not take much of a perusal to determine that I had found a treasure - sensitive, thoughtful, deep...and funny. Today I started to read it, and although I’m not very far yet, I'm enjoying it very much. 

Here’s a quote from the second chapter (“The Good News, Part Two”):

• I once had a dream in which I was invited to a friend’s family party, where everyone had brought a different type of brownies - one for every theory of the atonement. The ones I tried were the "penal substitutionary atonement brownies," which were so sinful and deadly that you’d better let Jesus eat them for you.

I think using brownies to explain all the different theories of who Jesus is and why he died would be awesome! (Liberation theology brownies would use only Fair Trade chocolate, of course). 

I spent two weeks this summer in a class studying the development of doctrine and exploring ideas about Jesus Christ. It’s heady stuff - and I mean that in every way you can imagine. We covered the history of the earliest Christians and how they worked through what they had just experienced. We examined the intersection of major periods in human history - the Enlightenment, Reformation, Industrial Revolution, modernism - with theology. (It is truly fascinating that the way ordinary people as well as theologians think about Jesus is deeply influenced by their context, especially scientific development.) 

Ultimately, from the moment the angel announced the Incarnation to Mary, everyone who ever encountered Jesus asked the same question: “Who is this guy?” 

I left the class with more questions than I had when we started - which I think (and I know our professor would agree) is a good thing. Because whatever you think of Jesus, whoever you think he is, he’s more than that. 

To journey with Jesus means to keep on trying to figure him out - brownies, anyone?