The End of Advent, The Beginning of Christmas

The days of Advent quickly move into the days of Christmas. The Church calendar does not pause long for nativity before moving into the real-world situation into which Christ was born.

December 26 was the day of remembrance for St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr. The reading for Monday was Matthew 10:17 - 22.

December 27 called to mind St. John the Evangelist, with the reading for the day from the Resurrection of Christ (John 20:1 - 8).

Today, December 28, remembers The Holy Innocents (Matthew 2:16 - 18), the two-year-old children who were slaughtered by Herod in his fear and paranoia over the report of the Magi about a new "king" being born.

In short, the readings for the week are sobering reminders that the birth of this King has serious consequences, and that not everyone was willing to sing "Glory!" at the birth. Life moves on. We're not frozen at a manger, but carrying the real presence into the life we live everyday. Christ inhabits all the moments of our lives.


For now, this blog will be dormant until next Advent, when we will make the journey once again.

But in a couple of months we will begin the season of Lent, and make a different kind of journey together. For that pilgrimage, I'll offer daily postings at A Daily Lent (www.dailylent.blogspot.com).

My year-round, ongoing blog is Only a Sojourner (www.onlyasojourner.blogspot.com).

I look forward to continuing the journey with you!

The Feast of the Nativity of Our Lord -- December 25, 2011

Luke 2:15 - 20

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.


You know as well as I do that simply showing up in a place does not guarantee an experience of what is happening in that place. It is possible to be there, but not really be there.

For example, I've sung hundreds of Christmas carols in my lifetime. Most of the time I get to the end of a carol without any thought whatsoever of what I've just sung. The words pop out automatically, without thought or consideration. I've sung them so often that I have to force myself to drop into them if I want to hear their message.

Or, to take another example, I've said the Lord's Prayer thousands of times. It's possible to get to the end of the prayer and not have any consciousness of a single thing I've just prayed.

I do believe there are things we should do simply because we should do them. And most of us don't have the wherewithal to give intense mental scrutiny to every parcel of life, to every word or sight or sound. We would be exhausted from such intensity.

But many of us live at the opposite extreme. We give little or no attention to things that happen in the present moment. We're living in what has already happened in the past . . . or we are planning for some anticipated moment in the future.

Here's my problem: God-orchestrated sounds are all around me, but I don't hear them. God-shaped sights appear to me constantly, but I don't see them.

The text for today comes at the end of the traditional texts about the Nativity of Jesus. It hinges, not on the proper nouns that name the people involved in the scene (angels, shepherds, Mary, Joseph, baby), but on the verbs that describe the action post-birth.

The verbs that catch my attention (and thus, draw the action) are the simple action words, "see," "hear," and "tell." You'll find several occurances of them in the text.

You can show up in a place, but not see the miracle or the revelation.

You can show up in a place, but not hear the message or the angel chorus.

And if you don't see or hear, you have nothing to tell.

"The shepherds praised and glorified God for all they had seen and heard."

So I'm taking a moment today, this Christmas Day, to ponder what I have seen and heard in recent days. I've heard lots of honking on streets and in parking lots. I've seen bright multi-colored lights on houses and lots of red-taillights on streets and highways. I've heard lots of frustrated people in stores. I've heard tired children and seen frustrated parents.

But if I filter my hearing and seeing through a God-lens, what sounds and sights am I aware of then? What people have I seen that have become gift to me? And what people have I seen who have received my gift?

What have I heard that brought me joy and life? What sounds filled me with peace?

What I have seen and heard gives me something to tell: "Jesus Christ lives within us and around us! The mystery of God is real and lives among us! Thanks and praise be to God!"

Christmas Eve -- December 24, 2011

Luke 1:67 - 79

His father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and prophesied:
“Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel,
because he has come to his people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a horn of salvation for us
in the house of his servant David
(as he said through his holy prophets of long ago),
salvation from our enemies
and from the hand of all who hate us—
to show mercy to our ancestors
and to remember his holy covenant,
the oath he swore to our father Abraham:
to rescue us from the hand of our enemies,
and to enable us to serve him without fear
in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.
And you, my child, will be called a prophet of the Most High;
for you will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him,
to give his people the knowledge of salvation
through the forgiveness of their sins,
because of the tender mercy of our God,
by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven
to shine on those living in darkness
and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the path of peace.”


The Song of Zechariah, also known as the Benedictus, is prayed daily each morning in the Liturgy of the Hours. I have prayed it from prayer books and in monastic settings for years. Its words are ingrained in my consciousness. They have been life to me.

The Benedictus is also a wonderfully appropriate Advent prayer. The images fit perfectly with this season of watching for light and waiting in hope.

So for the last three years I've used this prayer as a centerpiece for the weekly Contemplative Worship experience of which I am a part. I personally find it to be a beautiful expression of Advent hope for myself and the world. Others have responded well to it, as well, and found life in its words.

Last weekend, a worshiper in that service noticed that we were still using the Benedictus in worship, especially the last two verses, once or twice in each service. This person noted that had used the same prayer last year in worship, also. She was simply making the observation about the Canticle's prominence in worship.

I responded to her comment by saying, "Yes, we've used it for three years now . . . and we're going to keep saying it until we get it right!"

We all laughed. Of course, I didn't mean, "Until we all say it the right way," or "Until we get the cadence right," or "Until the intonation suits me."

I meant, "We're going to say it until we really open ourselves to its truth."

That is, until we live in the truth that one has come to us to save us from enemies, both enemies in the outer world, but mostly enemies in our internal world . . .

. . . until we open ourselves to worship God without fear and intimation, but in mercy and loving-kindness . . .

. . . until we really get the mercy and compassion of God as it is extended toward us without condition, and then live in it more than talk about it . . .

. . . until we live in the light of God, no matter how dark our situations or our "shadows of death" seem.

. . . until our feet our guided onto the path of peace, so that we not only speak of peace, but actively live into the peace of God for all people.

The Church has been praying the Benedictus daily for centuries. We're still trying to "get it right." And we'll be praying it for a long time yet to come.


A Meditation

On this eve of the birth of Christ, try this for a meditation:

Read through the Canticle of Zechariah once more.

Pick out the line or phrase that seems to have your name written on it.

Pull that line out of the prayer, and then stay with it for a few moments.

Take several tries at putting it into your own words. Paraphrase it.

How is that line being lived out in your life?

Whisper the line quietly several times, until you sense the phrase sinking from your head down into your heart.

Then carry that line with you as a breath prayer through this Christmas Eve.

The Fourth Friday of Advent -- December 23, 2011

Luke 1:57 - 66

When it was time for Elizabeth to have her baby, she gave birth to a son. Her neighbors and relatives heard that the Lord had shown her great mercy, and they shared her joy.

On the eighth day they came to circumcise the child, and they were going to name him after his father Zechariah, but his mother spoke up and said, “No! He is to be called John.”

They said to her, “There is no one among your relatives who has that name.”

Then they made signs to his father, to find out what he would like to name the child. He asked for a writing tablet, and to everyone’s astonishment he wrote, “His name is John.” Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue was loosed, and he began to speak, praising God. The neighbors were all filled with awe, and throughout the hill country of Judea people were talking about all these things. Everyone who heard this wondered about it, asking, “What then is this child going to be?” For the Lord’s hand was with him.


I find Christmas joy rivaled by Christmas angst. The difficulties and challenges of relationships the other 364 days of the year are intensified under the spotlight of an expectation of "joy, peace and celebration."

It's hard to be in relationships in a healthy way. Each of us brings old patterns and assumptions into our interactions with others. Sometimes we lock others into old expectations and leave little room for the new or the fresh or the surprising to emerge.

Zechariah and Elizabeth birthed a son. The old pattern, adopted by friends, family members, and towns-people was that the parents would give the baby a family name, so that the family line would be passed on in that naming ritual.

God's invitation to Zechariah and Elizabeth, however, was toward another name, a name representing the new thing God would do with this boy . . . and ultimately with the one this boy would precede.

It takes courage to step out of old patterns, to walk against prevailing opinion, to swim upstream when all expectations run against you like a strong river-current. It is easier to adapt and go along, not breaking with tradition. But tradition alone is rarely the wineskin that contains the fullness and expansiveness of the Gospel.

This is one of the reasons friendships and family life are such challenges. Those closest to us are also those most likely to lock us into old patterns, old ways of naming and being named, old ways of relating. When God stirs a heart and a person begins to change inwardly, living into fresh patterns or new ways of being, all these old patterns are challenged. Other people get uncomfortable . . . threatened . . . confused . . . offended.

This story of Zechariah and Elizabeth naming John helps me to step into my own experience of Christmas with a bit more courage. More than being locked into the old patterns, it invites me to live into the fresh thing God is doing in me, in others, and in the world.

The Fourth Thursday of Advent -- December 22, 2011

Luke 1:46 - 56

And Mary said:
“My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful
of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Mighty One has done great things for me—
holy is his name.
His mercy extends to those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;
he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought down rulers from their thrones
but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things
but has sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever,
just as he promised our ancestors.”

Mary stayed with Elizabeth for about three months and then returned home.


This Song of Mary has been prayed by the Church for centuries. It is known as the Magnificat (Latin for "magnifies") and is a part of the daily prayer offered in churches, homes and monasteries in the Liturgy of the Hours (or the Divine Office, what I have described elsewhere as a kind of "touchpoint" prayer).

Two things about the prayer stand out to me today. Both speak to Mary's stance toward God.

First, with the exception of the first two lines, Mary's song was about what God does in the world. In the first two lines Mary sang, "My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God." That is, grammatically she is the subject of each line: "My soul glorifies" and "My spirit rejoices."

But in the rest of the song God is the subject of each statement. She witnessed to the work of God in the world. It seems like an important piece of the prayer to meditate on . . . that Mary located God at the center of life, as the initiator and sustainer of the world. God is squarely placed as the Source and Wellspring of life.

Second, notice that when Mary placed God as the subject of the goodness that breaks out in the world, she only mentioned God's goodness towards her one time. She was not fixated on "what the Lord has done for me," though she acknowledged that "the Might One has done great things for me."

Rather, Mary was busy noticing what God was doing in the world . . . among those who were powerful and proud . . . with rulers and among the humble . . . giving goodness to those who were hungry and creating hunger for goodness in those who had much . . . helping and remembering God's people.

This seems to be a radical departure from the contemporary practice of measuring God and/or spirituality by my life, my growth, my perception. So much of faith becomes egocentric, wrapped up in I, me, my and mine.

Yes, there is an inward dimension to spirituality that is necessary, but there is also the movement outward in Christian spirituality, away from self toward what God is doing in the world. Spirituality gives us eyes to see those God-fingerprints and feet to follow those God-footprints. Mary had a sensitivity to God's work, and she prayed it.

Her sight was not limited or provincial, but was much broader, much more expansive. She saw God alive and working in the world, and doing so in a way that most people missed.

Her prayer is worth spending time with these four days before Christmas.

The Fourth Wednesday of Advent -- December 21, 2011

Luke 1:39 - 45

At that time Mary got ready and hurried to a town in the hill country of Judea, where she entered Zechariah’s home and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the baby leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. In a loud voice she exclaimed: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear! But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!”


"Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!"

There are moments when I'll believe anything from God, when I can hear and trust even the most improbable things from God's hand.

A few years ago, before I was a part of The Center for Christian Spirituality, I had a vision for building a retreat center and out of that facility offering retreats, classes, spiritual direction, workshops, conferences . . . basically all the things I now have the opening to do through The Center for Christian Spirituality in Houston.

I met with architects and builders in order to hear about costs and projections. I wanted to know how large the mountain was that I was about to climb. Serious. I believed this thing was going to happen, and any day!

The cost? $20 million. At least, that's what I heard. So I prayed the $20 million. It started off sounding far away. To this day, I have no idea what $20 million looks like, but -- I'm serious -- it seemed like no big deal to me. I was convinced that God wanted this retreat center to happen, and I was sold out that God would provide whatever was needed to bring it to pass.

Talk about faith!?!? I believed in this!

[It's a different meditation if I have to write about the perils of claiming something is God's will, or that I've heard God's voice, or that I'm following God's calling . . . and then come in on the back side to realize that it wasn't God's voice at all, but rather Jerry's wishes. I'll save that reflection for another time.]

Then I went to another meeting with an architect, and he said something like, "This $2 million has really put this project out of reach. I don't think it's going to happen."

TWO million?? What?? Are you kidding me? I've been wrestling with this thing for TWENTY million, and you're telling me that $2 million is out of reach?

Well, the retreat center did not happen, not for $20 or even $2 million. Instead, God opened doors at Chapelwood United Methodist Church in Houston to begin The Center for Christian Spirituality.

[By the way . . . I've noticed how quick God was to get me out of the fund-raising business!!]

My point is that for a moment in time, I believed. I really believed. I trusted that "all things are possible with God." I've had other short moments of that kind of trust along the way, maybe not as grand as that one example, but a few here and there where I've really trusted that God was big enough to do what seemed impossible to me.

But I don't really live there all the time. Those moments, for me anyway, give way to the rest of my life, to all the undulations of daily life, to the ordinary tasks of each day and the mundane details of daily living. It's very easy for me to lose an "all-things-are-possible" mentality in favor of ordinariness. I don't intend that life be this way, it just is. I'm up and down, trusting and not trusting, hearing then deaf, seeing then blind.

So it's one thing for Mary to believe God's design when Gabriel shows up on her doorstep and invites her to step into this venture with God. She says, "Yes." She believes. "Here I am, your servant. Let it be done to me as you have said."

It's another thing for Mary to continue to live into this design, to continue to step into this invitation from God . . . even when life is very normal, very routine . . . like when she's visiting friends and relatives (Elizabeth). When Mary shows up in this text, she is still living into the invitation that Gabriel offered, even though he is now off the scene. Mary seems to trust, even in the mundane things of life.

I've heard Paula d'Arcy say, "God comes to us disguised as life." Trusting the extraordinary in the midst of the ordinary is not always easy. In fact, rarely is it easy.

But there is another thing in this passage that strikes me. It is Elizabeth recognizing and affirming Mary's trust. Elizabeth blessed Mary for holding her faith, continuing on in trust, even though she doesn't fully understand what that means. In acknowledging Mary's bent toward God and her ongoing belief in what God had promised, Elizabeth blessed Mary.

The Fourth Tuesday of Advent -- December 20, 2011

Luke 1:26 - 38

In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.”

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.”

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May it be to me according to your word.” Then the angel left her.


This passage, which was the Gospel reading for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, is repeated today.

I wrote two days ago about Mary and the elaborate back-story the Church constructed centuries ago about her life, as if to justify her "favor" with God on the basis of her merits. In short, the Church formulated a "history" for Mary that was pristine enough that she stood out as the one who deserved to be the Holy Mother of God. As I said then, that historical reconfiguring of her life doesn't witness to God's grace, but rather to her goodness. I don't think that's how God works in human life. Grace and favor are always about God's choosing, not Mary's deserving or our deserving.

Further, I don't need that back-story to know that Mary is perhaps the best New Testament model for the contemplative life available to us. She modeled a life of radical trust and union with God. Let me explain.

She was simple. She realized she had not earned this "favor." She took things that happened to her and around her, and she "pondered them in her heart." She "treasured them in her heart." That is, she didn't make a huge, public show of her connection to God. She didn't parade her interior life in the public eye. She didn't make a fuss about what she notices of God's work in the world. She didn't flaunt her holiness. She didn't showcase her experience of the Divine in front of others. Rather, she drew her God-experience into her heart and let it incubate there.

Mary did what her Son would later suggest we all do when we go to prayer. In the Sermon on the Mount he taught us not to pray in a way that draws attention to ourselves (on the street corners and busy intersections of life), but to withdraw to our secret room, that is, to our inner room where we meet the Father in private.

Mary got it.

She is a esteemed as the Mother of God not because of the intricate story the Church imaginatively told about her, but because of what we know from the report of Scripture.

In fact, her words at the conclusion of this text are probably the best mantra for the contemplative life I know. They state simply and succinctly the essence of life with God, the very fundamentals of union with God.

"Here I am. Let it be with me according to your word." Or, "Let it be to me as you have said."

Here I am. I am where I am. My soul is not in the past, locked into old narratives. Neither am I living in the future. I am not in some other geographical location. I am where I am, physically and spiritually. I am who I am.

It is a real gift for any of us to say, "Here I am," to be present without distractions, to allow all the aspects of our personhood (body, mind, soul and spirit) to show up in the same place at the same time.

This is so hard for me to do, but Mary not only said it. She did it.

Let it be with me according to your word. A surrender. But more, an openness to the design of God in her life, to the action of God which was mysterious and beyond her comprehension. Yet, she did not shut out God's hand. She did not close the door to God's invitation.

This is the stance of the contemplative, who steps into the cloud or walks into the darkness not knowing what is ahead, not knowing what she will find, but trusting the One who calls and invites, believing that even if the Divine work is not fully understood, it is still good and life-giving. Even when the God-path is unrecognizable, it is still a path that leads to life, wholeness, and the essence of what it means to be fully human.

You might want to make these two simple sentences your prayer for the next week. Carry the prayer on your heart. Whisper it with your lips. Let the depth of the prayer anchor you for the week.

"Here I am. Let it be to me as you have said."

The Fourth Monday of Advent -- December 19, 2011

Luke 1:5 - 25

In the time of Herod king of Judea there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly division of Abijah; his wife Elizabeth was also a descendant of Aaron. Both of them were righteous in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commands and decrees blamelessly. But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both well advanced in years.

Once when Zechariah’s division was on duty and he was serving as priest before God, he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to go into the temple of the Lord and burn incense. And when the time for the burning of incense came, all the assembled worshipers were praying outside.

Then an angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped with fear. But the angel said to him: “Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to call him John. He will be a joy and delight to you, and many will rejoice because of his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He is never to take wine or other fermented drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born. Many of the people of Israel will he bring back to the Lord their God. And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.”

Zechariah asked the angel, “How can I be sure of this? I am an old man and my wife is well along in years.”

The angel said to him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news. And now you will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their appointed time.”

Meanwhile, the people were waiting for Zechariah and wondering why he stayed so long in the temple. When he came out, he could not speak to them. They realized he had seen a vision in the temple, for he kept making signs to them but remained unable to speak.

When his time of service was completed, he returned home. After this his wife Elizabeth became pregnant and for five months remained in seclusion. “The Lord has done this for me,” she said. “In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.”


The birth of John the Baptist to Zechariah and Elizabeth is no less improbable than the birth of Jesus to Mary and Joseph. Zechariah and Elizabeth were advanced in age and found the report that they would be parents to be completely ludicrous.

Zechariah responded to Gabriel's message with fear and hesitation. You and I might have responded the same way.

Zechariah's response to the angel's message was typical in the Bible. When angels showed up on the scene it signaled that some kind of change or alteration was coming. The persons involved in the angelic message would need to adjust their lives if they were to fully participate in what God was bringing to pass in the world.

Zechariah hears a message that his life is going to be turned upside down. God will do something amazing in his life, but it would require his participation and obedience. It scared him. It would be enough to scare any of us.

Most always, the God-invitation is to let go of old ways of being and doing. We are invited to let go of the things we hold onto for meaning and purpose.

Letting go is frightening. It threatens our sense of self. We are afraid that without the thing we are giving up, we won't know who we are.

"If I let go of this, what will be left of me?"

"Who will I be then?"

It is scary to move into a place where I have no idea what is going to happen . . . no control and no capacity to influence outcomes.

This is authentic faith . . . stepping forward, carrying our fears with us, but at the same time walking into the room that is not yet lit and trusting that somehow we will find God there.

I suspect this was Zechariah's fear, and that it became his faith, the source of his beautiful Benedictus (The Canticle of Zechariah in Luke 1:67 - 78).

And I know Zechariah's fear (and faith) is not that different from mine, and probably yours, too.

The Fourth Sunday of Advent -- December 18, 2011

Luke 1:26 - 38

In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.”

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.”

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May it be to me according to your word.” Then the angel left her.


"Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you." . . . "Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God."

Mary was perplexed and pondered the words. I imagine myself receiving this greeting, this statement of being favored by God.

What did I do to deserve this?

Why am I favored?

I immediately want to make the "favor" about something I've earned, a reward for some kind of good I have done or something I have accomplished.

"I've been faithful in my little bit . . . so now I'm receiving some favor." There is a deep well of that kind of deserving living within me.

The Church didn't help us with this one through the centuries, making up an elaborate back-story about Mary and her lineage with the intent of showing how perfect Mary was, how spotless and sinless she was. The point was to suggest that Mary was chosen for this role because she deserved to be chosen by God . . . that this was a reward for her meticulous and morally perfect life.

The implicit message was that you could only be chosen by God if you were morally perfect. You could only be "favored" if you were sinless. You could only bear God's Son in the world if you measured up. You could only receive God's grace if you were completely blameless.

Many of us have lived underneath these overt and subtle messages from the Church for a lifetime. We have heard the messages and internalized them, so that now the message of deserving and perfection comes not only from the Church, it also comes from within us.

Followers of Christ everywhere have lived under these false, "anti-grace" messages for centuries.

If indeed the choosing of Mary by God was a graced choosing, then the Church's imaginary back-story has to be thrown out.

You get a hint of the radical grace (the language of "favor") in the story by noticing Mary's reaction to the "grace-greeting." She was perplexed. She had to ponder it. Apparently, she couldn't find any rational reason for the choosing. She couldn't understand what she had done to deserve this "favor" or grace.

If the Church through the centuries had really allowed this to be a story of grace, the back-story about Mary might have remembered that she was a rebellious teenager, often in trouble with parents and authority figures, and living counter to the social (and religious!) norms of her day.

In fact -- though I have no evidence for my imaginative re-interpretation -- the scenario I have suggested may be closer to Mary's truth . . . which would explain, perhaps, her perplexity at Gabriel's greeting, and what she had to ponder in her heart.

Because in the end, for whatever her actual history, the "favoring" did not rest on Mary's merits, but on the God who extended the "favoring."

Likewise, when I enter the passage and hear that I, too, am favored, this favoring does not exist because of what I have done or who I am; but rather it comes to me (and you!) because of who God is. That's how it always is.

I don't need to understand it or analyze it or pick it apart. I am invited simply to rest in it. Like Mary . . . "Here I am . . . let it be to me as you have said."

The Third Saturday of Advent -- December 17, 2011

Matthew 1:1 - 17

This is the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham:

Abraham was the father of Isaac, Isaac the father of Jacob, Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers,

Judah the father of Perez and Zerah, whose mother was Tamar, Perez the father of Hezron, Hezron the father of Ram,

Ram the father of Amminadab, Amminadab the father of Nahshon, Nahshon the father of Salmon,

Salmon the father of Boaz, whose mother was Rahab, Boaz the father of Obed, whose mother was Ruth, Obed the father of Jesse,

and Jesse the father of King David. David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah’s wife,

Solomon the father of Rehoboam, Rehoboam the father of Abijah, Abijah the father of Asa,

Asa the father of Jehoshaphat, Jehoshaphat the father of Jehoram, Jehoram the father of Uzziah,

Uzziah the father of Jotham, Jotham the father of Ahaz, Ahaz the father of Hezekiah,

Hezekiah the father of Manasseh, Manasseh the father of Amon, Amon the father of Josiah,

and Josiah the father of Jeconiah and his brothers at the time of the exile to Babylon.

After the exile to Babylon: Jeconiah was the father of Shealtiel, Shealtiel the father of Zerubbabel,

Zerubbabel the father of Abiud, Abiud the father of Eliakim, Eliakim the father of Azor,

Azor the father of Zadok, Zadok the father of Akim, Akim the father of Eliud,

Eliud the father of Eleazar, Eleazar the father of Matthan, Matthan the father of Jacob,

and Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary, and Mary was the mother of Jesus who is called the Messiah.

Thus there were fourteen generations in all from Abraham to David, fourteen from David to the exile to Babylon, and fourteen from the exile to the Messiah.


Once you realize where this passage is headed, it takes some real intention -- and patience! -- to read all the way through the genealogy. It's easier to skip it, or to scan it for recognizable names before moving on.

The story of Jesus' birth and life is more than Gabriel's announcement to Mary, more than Mary and Joseph's long-distance trek to Bethlehem, more than shepherds in the fields and heavenly hosts and strange visitors from the East bearing gifts.

There is a back-story, a story to know behind and beneath the major plot-line. Matthew began his Gospel, not with a suddenly-appearing, angelic-inspired birth narrative, but with a genealogy, as if to remind us that Jesus had a history and that his coming was in continuity with what God had been doing in the world for centuries.

I, too, have a history, just as you do. God chose my parents to bring me into the world . . .

. . . a father who had been raised in a small town on the northern plains of Oklahoma, a country-boy who enjoyed his privacy and loved wide-open spaces, but who ended up making a life in the city as a very recognizable public person. I don't know that he ever reconciled his desire for a hidden, quiet life with his public persona. I learned competitiveness from him, and a love for books.

[I never remember a time when there was not a stack of books beside his chair in the den. Some of my earliest memories growing up were of going to bookstores with him as he selected his next batch of reading material.]

. . . and a mother whose entire life was wrapped up in her husband and three sons. She shuttled her boys to school and practices, was homeroom mother for three classes at once, never missed a play or assembly that had to do with her sons, and may have never missed a game her boys played in, no matter how far away it might have been. Some of my earliest memories include being scared of the dark at a very young age -- imagining boogey-men and ghouls outside my bedroom window in the night sky -- and being so frightened that each night's bedtime was fresh trauma. She would sit outside my door in the hallway where I could see her from my bed . . . reading a book or writing letters, and stay there until I fell asleep. It was her presence that made a scared little boy feel safe, certain that the mystery outside my window would not overwhelm me.

I have a spiritual history, too, other names of those on whose shoulders I've stood . . . names like Ignatius and Benedict . . . Sr Adeline and Sr Ann . . . Peterson and Keating and Rohr . . . Hopkins, Oliver, Rilke and Stafford.

Perhaps we would find some space today to consider our genealogy . . . or at least to reflect on our own spiritual history.

Who am I? And how did I get here? What is my back-story?

The Third Friday of Advent -- December 16, 2011

John 5:33 - 36

“You have sent to John and he has testified to the truth. Not that I accept human testimony; but I mention it that you may be saved. John was a lamp that burned and gave light, and you chose for a time to enjoy his light.

“I have testimony weightier than that of John. For the works that the Father has given me to finish—the very works that I am doing—testify that the Father has sent me."


"Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words."

I first saw those words almost two decades ago, finding them attributed to St. Francis of Assisi. The words seemed to fit Francis, he who was a Troubadour for the Lord, an engaging, charismatic doer of the Gospel. Francis ordered his life around the Sermon on the Mount. He was not known as a speaker or a teacher or a writer, but rather as one who embodied the Gospel of Jesus Christ. His influence was the fruit of a life that had been transformed by God from the inside-out.

In truth, the saying is apocryphal. As far as I can tell, you won't find it among the relatively meager collections of Francis' writings. Again, he was first of all a doer, not a writer.

But the truth of the saying is not diminished by its unknown origins. It says to us that "preaching" is not what we ordinarily think of when we hear the word. It is only secondarily a matter of speech. Preaching is mostly our living, the quality of our lives, the way the Gospel is enfleshed in our actions, the life of Jesus within each of us.

As one of my mentors says, we are each a "living experience" of Christ's life in the world.

So in the text for today, Jesus pointed out that John testified about the identity of Christ, the long-expected one. John's testimony was a "bright and shining light" that lit the world for many people. John testified about Jesus with his words.

Jesus' testimony, though, was weightier than John's (v. 36). What was Jesus' testimony? It was what he did . . . his actions, works, deeds . . . his healing, touching, engaging.

There was a holy witness, a testimony in how Jesus engaged life, how he valued people, how he treated those underneath the weight of society. Jesus testified about God by his very stance toward life.

It causes me to ponder about the time I've spent in my life in the formal act of "preaching", mostly using rhetoric from pulpits within the confines of church buildings . . . when perhaps I should have been building a pulpit in the world.

The Third Thursday of Advent -- December 15, 2011

Luke 7:24 - 30

After John’s messengers left, Jesus began to speak to the crowd about John: “What did you go out into the wilderness to see? A reed swayed by the wind? If not, what did you go out to see? A man dressed in fine clothes? No, those who wear expensive clothes and indulge in luxury are in palaces. But what did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet. This is the one about whom it is written:

“‘I will send my messenger ahead of you,
who will prepare your way before you.’

I tell you, among those born of women there is no one greater than John; yet the one who is least in the kingdom of God is greater than he.”

(All the people, even the tax collectors, when they heard Jesus’ words, acknowledged that God’s way was right, because they had been baptized by John. But the Pharisees and the experts in the law rejected God’s purpose for themselves, because they had not been baptized by John.)


Who in your life will speak the truth to you? Who can you turn to for an honest assessment of what the shape of life looks like? Who can hear your truth and speak back to you in honesty?

These are not easy questions. And coming upon people who can be our personal "prophets" is not simple. Not everyone in our life-world does this for us.

We each need "prophets." Prophets, at least the Old Testament-style, were not fortune-tellers or prognosticators. They were those with special gifts of perception and intuition, those who were able to read the times. They surveyed the landscape, taking into account real-life events and shifts, then spoke into people's lives with blunt honesty. Always the intent of the prophet was to redeem, not to "bash-and-burn."

But because they spoke so forthrightly, they were often despised by the people who desired a softer, gentler word. I suppose if you interpret the line I just wrote, you could say that most people wanted -- and continue to want in our day -- someone to lie to them about life as it is, rather than tell them the truth.

Our human dilemma is that we so easily deceive ourselves. While that self-deceit may be a part of our wounded humanity, it also means that we will never be fully aware of ourselves, of the pulls and tugs that are the hidden motivations within us . . . the subtle impulses to power and control . . . the manipulative words we use to get affirmation in certain key relationships . . . our own emotional landscape that is very often unknown to us. We drop emotional landmines all around and then explode when someone unknowingly bumps into one of them.

Emotional and spiritual maturity are so very difficult and taxing. They are such hard work!

For that reason I need people in my life who see me from the outside, not pulled by my manipulations and hidden motivations, people with whom I can be honest about those tugs and who can help guide me through the terrain of my own spiritual and emotional being.

I see a person regularly -- once a month -- for spiritual direction. I invite her honesty. I don't go to her in order for her to "guide" me by making decisions for me or telling me what to do or where to turn. I ask her to help me see, to help me be aware of God and my life. I ask her to be honest with me. I may sometimes need a soft and comforting presence, but mostly from her I need honesty and help in seeing more clearly.

If this text is an indication, I sense that John the Baptist was this kind of honest, no-frills, shoot-straight presence. I need him in my life.

The Third Wednesday of Advent -- December 14, 2011

Luke 7:18 - 23

John’s disciples told him about all these things. Calling two of them, he sent them to the Lord to ask, “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?”

When the men came to Jesus, they said, “John the Baptist sent us to you to ask, ‘Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?’”

At that very time Jesus cured many who had diseases, sicknesses and evil spirits, and gave sight to many who were blind. So he replied to the messengers, “Go back and report to John what you have seen and heard: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor. Blessed is anyone who does not stumble on account of me.”


I'm guessing that this passage is included as an Advent reading because of the line, "Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?" Advent is about coming or arrival. So the "one who is to come" is about an arrival, that is, the one adventing among us . . . and John is particularly interested to know if Jesus is this one who was long-expected (the Jewish Messiah), or if someone/something else might be coming to save the people.

"Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?"

Let me offer this question in a contemporary, free translation: "Whose Advent is this? Is it your advent (coming), or does it belong to another?"

In our modern world you can hear all sorts of things this year about what is coming . . . about who or what can save us. We are approaching an election year, after all!

"Elect me. I'll create jobs!"

"I have a plan . . ."

"The more you spend, the better it is for the economy."

Everyone has a solution . . . the President and those who are seeking nomination to run against him . . . agencies and institutions . . . philosophies and idealogies . . . religious groups and social action causes . . . each, in their own way, embody for some people "the one who is to come."

In the Gospels, John seems very disappointed in Jesus, because he did not fit the typical expectations for "the one who is to come."

I wonder how we, too, are let down . . . finding out that Jesus does not share our political outlook . . . or our marriage to capitalism . . . or a work ethic that says, "whatever you have, you've earned" . . . or a nationalism so proud that it turns its back on the little and least.

If we were honest about our expectations, we too might consider walking away from Jesus disappointed. We might be tempted to look for another.

Either that, or take him as he is . . . not as we want him to be.

The Third Tuesday of Advent -- December 13, 2011

Matthew 21:28 - 32

“What do you think? There was a man who had two sons. He went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work today in the vineyard.’

“‘I will not,’ he answered, but later he changed his mind and went.

“Then the father went to the other son and said the same thing. He answered, ‘I will, sir,’ but he did not go.

“Which of the two did what his father wanted?”

“The first,” they answered.

Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you. For John came to you to show you the way of righteousness, and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes did. And even after you saw this, you did not repent and believe him.


As I listen to this passage, I find myself within it.

I think of the promises I've made to God and others, especially the ones that I made with a deep earnestness. Some of them felt at the time like life-long commitments. They were made with such fervor and dedication . . . at summer camps in my younger years, or during the revival services, or in the emotionally-charged prayer gathering, or in the quiet of my personal prayer time.

"I'll never do that ____ again!"

Or, "I'll always . . ."

Usually the fervor of those decisions and impulses lasted a few days, but then I became the one who said, "I'll go out," but did not go.

By the same token, there have been plenty of instances when I've resisted God's invitations, plenty of times when I've ignored the persistent God-calls, hanging on as tightly as I could to life-as-I-knew-it, to what I had in that moment, to my understanding of life and self. Then, in the midst of ignoring or resisting or saying, "No, I will not go!", some events -- not of my own making -- have broken down the barricades. And I actually ended up doing what I had resisted.

I became the one who said, "No, I will not go!," by ended up going anyway.

So my life is not lived cleanly one way or the other. This is yet another biblical story in which I don't have the liberty to choose one character as my model over another. I am both of these people, both the one who says, "No," then goes anyway . . . and the one who says, "Yes," but does not go.

I have one foot in both camps. My life is not cleanly one or the other. I might as well recognize that about myself.

The Third Monday of Advent -- December 12, 2011

Matthew 21:23 - 27

Jesus entered the temple courts, and, while he was teaching, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him. “By what authority are you doing these things?” they asked. “And who gave you this authority?”

Jesus replied, “I will also ask you one question. If you answer me, I will tell you by what authority I am doing these things. John’s baptism—where did it come from? Was it from heaven, or of human origin?”

They discussed it among themselves and said, “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will ask, ‘Then why didn’t you believe him?’ But if we say, ‘Of human origin’—we are afraid of the people, for they all hold that John was a prophet.”

So they answered Jesus, “We don’t know.”

Then he said, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things."


I sometimes say to people that the longest journey they will ever take is the 16 inches from their head to their heart.

Of course, that's a metaphorical journey, but the point is that for those of us who spend a lot of time in our head thinking about, understanding, and figuring out, a life that involves the heart and soul can seem very foreign. In fact, many of us resist that life.

We are a society and generation that lives with the belief that having the right knowledge is the key to life. If you just know enough, or know the right things, you can succeed and get ahead. We measure people by how much they know. We formally give them titles, even add to their names: "Dr.", "Rev.", "Ph.D.", "Prof.", "J.D.", and so on.

We value formal education and use it to rank people, to place them in an appropriate slot in a tiered-system of worth.

I'm not against education or knowing.

I am against giving it ultimate authority in our world.

So in the text for today, at least these two things happened:

First, the chief priests and elders were completely given to games of the mind, figuring out and discussing who Jesus was and how he had the credentials to do what he was doing. These accusers -- really trying to entrap Jesus -- lived in a world where figuring things out, then debating or discussing them, was the norm for life. In that sense, they were very much like we are in the 21st century.

But Jesus resisted their head-games by proposing for them a question they could not answer, a riddle they could not solve.

Second, Jesus appeared on the scene without formal credentials. He had no authority in the traditional sense, no external validation -- degrees, positions, formal titles -- for who he was and what he was doing. His validation was internal, experiential, and these leaders who lived in a world of rank, status, and external validation had no frame of reference for this One who lived only with the internal validation of the Father.

The text challenges what I value.

The text challenges how I see people and relate to others by virtue of title and position.

The text affirms the inner authority that comes from experience and personal engagement with God.

I'm trying to make a 16-inch journey.

The Third Sunday of Advent -- December 11, 2011

John 1:6 - 8; 19 - 28

There was a man sent from God whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe. He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light.

Now this was John’s testimony when the Jewish leaders in Jerusalem sent priests and Levites to ask him who he was. He did not fail to confess, but confessed freely, “I am not the Messiah.”

They asked him, “Then who are you? Are you Elijah?”

He said, “I am not.”

“Are you the Prophet?”

He answered, “No.”

Finally they said, “Who are you? Give us an answer to take back to those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?”

John replied in the words of Isaiah the prophet, “I am the voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way for the Lord.’”

Now the Pharisees who had been sent questioned him, “Why then do you baptize if you are not the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the Prophet?”

“I baptize with water,” John replied, “but among you stands one you do not know. He is the one who comes after me, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie.”

This all happened at Bethany on the other side of the Jordan, where John was baptizing.


"Who are you?"

It's a huge question for John . . . and for us. It may be the single question we spend a lifetime answering.

You'll notice in today's text that John spends a lot more time answering who he was not than he did making a statement about who he was. The Gospels witness that right up to his death, John had some uncertainty about who he was and who Jesus was. For all of his bluster and fiery talk, John had his doubts.

"Who are you?" And, "What do you say about yourself?" They are not necessarily the same question. If "who are you" has to do with my core identity, with the real me that lives at my center, then "what do you say about yourself" deals with my self-perception and my self-understanding.

In most of us, this self-perception can be a little blurry -- we don't always see ourselves clearly.

Our self-understanding can be very limited -- how is it that sometimes I can see others so clearly, I can see the life-giving and life-stopping paths in their lives, but not see them in my own life?

"Who are you?" Each of us has a unique, God-given, God-created, God-blessed identity that lives at the core of us. It lives within us, sometimes hidden, and it awaits expression. It is the purpose for which we live. Living into that identity is what animates our days and gives us energy. It gives us a reason to get up every morning.

Mostly, it has little to do with what you do day-to-day for a paycheck . . . though what lives at the core of you will animate all that you do, including what you do for a paycheck. It has everything to do with the image of God within you, your soul, your interior landscape.

Who are you? And, what do you say about yourself?

The Second Saturday of Advent -- December 10, 2011

Matthew 17:10 - 13

The disciples asked him, “Why then do the teachers of the law say that Elijah must come first?”

Jesus replied, “To be sure, Elijah comes and will restore all things. But I tell you, Elijah has already come, and they did not recognize him, but have done to him everything they wished. In the same way the Son of Man is going to suffer at their hands.” Then the disciples understood that he was talking to them about John the Baptist.


We are trained to see what we see. We see what we expect to see, or what we want to see. We miss subtle changes or shifts, sometimes things that have been right before our eyes for a long time.

A few years ago I read something Helen Keller shared. One line in particular stuck with me.

“Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. 'Nothing in particular,' she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.”

"The seeing see little." That's the line.

"Elijah has already come, but they did not recognize him." Teaching about Messiah included the understanding that an "Elijah" would precede Messiah in order to prepare the way. John the Baptist was "Elijah" in the sense of preparing the way for Jesus, yet people did not recognize him. They missed him.

Spirituality is about seeing, recognizing, noticing. It begins with seeing what is evident before us. Certainly there are times when we might see invisible, subtle things, but we don't have to begin in that deep water. Begin by seeing what is already visible in you and around you. Begin by noticing what shows up on your doorstep, what manifests itself in your life-world.

You don't have to possess x-ray vision to see, or put on 3-D glasses. Just pay attention.

A sunset will catch your attention.

The flock of birds will call your name.

Suddenly one day you'll notice the specific words or attitude of a particular person who triggers your anger.

You'll recognize a piece of wisdom intended for you . . . after you've heard it five times from five different sources over a 24 hour period.

Begin there. Of course, there are other things, more subtle things, more invisible things to pay attention to. But you have to start somewhere.

Spiritual practices like prayer, spiritual reading, silence and solitude help us learn to see with our hearts.

Find a spiritual friend or a spiritual guide who sees just a bit more than you do, and invite them to help you pay attention. Or just hang out with them. Seeing doesn't happen by osmosis, but we do learn to see from those who are already seeing.

The Second Friday of Advent -- December 9, 2011

Matthew 11:16 - 19

“To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others:

“‘We played the pipe for you,
and you did not dance;
we sang a dirge,
and you did not mourn.’

For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her actions.”


The immediate setting of these Jesus-words is a playground or a marketplace where children are playing a variation of "follow-the-leader." But the game is not getting off the ground because the "followers" are not following the "leaders." The leaders are giving the cues, but the followers -- who are peers, or playmates -- are not responding.

John the Baptist gave cues, inviting people to repentance, but many did not respond.

Jesus gave cues, offering a heavenly feast, but many did not like the company he kept, and were offended that if they "attended" the feast they would have to sit at the table with ne'er-do-wells.

So the cues were rejected, the implicit rejection of those who may not have said "no" with their lips, but who said "no" because of their refusal to participate.

Thus, it is the last sentence of the saying that stands out to me today: "Wisdom is proved right by her actions," or "Wisdom is vindicated by her deeds."

Truth is not determined by its number of adherents, by the number of people who give ascent to its propositions. Truth is not determined by how many people follow the leaders cues.

Truth is truth, and ultimately it is witnessed in what it does.

In other words, the truth of God is not determined by how many people follow or do not follow along . . . it is not determined by who follows. The witness of Truth is what it does, how it operates in the world. It is not determined by the ones who follow (or do not follow).

I'll make this more personal. Who God is, is not determined by my response to God. Who God is, is not determined by who I think God is. God's Being is not contingent on whether or not I listen to God, follow God, obey God, link my life to God. . . .

It is human hubris, for instance, to think that debate or theological inquiry has any ultimate benefit. I get it that our lives are shaped in some respects by what we believe; but does the fact that I believe some doctrine or theological concept ultimately make that concept more valid? Does my belief -- or non-belief -- change its truth?

Whether I follow or not, Truth is truth.

Whether I believe or not, Truth is truth.

What is wise and true is borne out in actions and deeds, whether I go with it or not.

The Second Thursday of Advent -- December 8, 2011

Matthew 11:11 - 15

Truly I tell you, among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist; yet whoever is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he. From the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven has been subjected to violence, and violent people have been raiding it. For all the Prophets and the Law prophesied until John. And if you are willing to accept it, he is the Elijah who was to come. Whoever has ears, let them hear.


Jesus confuses our notions of who is "great" and who is "least." And he seems to do that intentionally, because the kingdom of heaven knows no rank, no hierarchy of greatness.

In his daily life, Jesus repeatedly confused the social stratum. Those who thought they were "much" were shown to be "not-so-much," and those who were considered by society and religion to be "little and least" were considered the most receptive and most open to the in-breaking of God into the world.

Those who come to an expression of religion or spirituality hoping to become "somebody" are fishing in the wrong lake. You already are "somebody," and going to church or taking on some religious practice is not going to make you more of "somebody."

There is too much ladder-climbing in the contemporary Church, as if certain belief systems or affiliation with religious groups could get a person ahead. In fact, the contemporary Church has played on that "onward-and-upward" mentality, promising in different ways that those who believe certain things or participate in certain congregations will be more successful in business or will have a better family life or will win more football games.

Christianity is not a road-map for getting ahead in life. It does not contain a hidden code for becoming "great."

Jesus does not exist to make your life "better" (whatever that means!) or to make you more "successful" (whatever that means!).

I'm thinking that Jesus used the terms "greatest" and "least" in this discourse about John the Baptist just to confuse the categories a bit, as if to say, "You know, the categories of 'greatest' and 'least' don't matter nearly as much as you think they do. You thought John was great? In a sense he was, but he was also the least. And these people you think are little and least? Yeah, they're the ones who are great.

"So why don't you just ditch the categories? Why don't you just treat all people like people, and not treat some like they were "somebodies" and others like they were "nobodies. That's how it is in the kingdom of God. If you're going to live in it, you might as well get used to it now."

The Second Wednesday of Advent -- December 7, 2011

Luke 1:26 - 38

In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.”

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.”

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May it be to me according to your word.” Then the angel left her.


This passage draws me toward Mary in a couple of ways. For one, she is one who is graced, who is favored, not because of what she has done, but because of who God is.

That's how grace and favor tend to work, much to our dismay. So much of modern life is built upon what we deserve and what we earn that the notion of grace and favor are totally outside our understanding. Western Christians have a difficult struggle with authentic grace, because it completely eliminates anything that I do to merit or become worthy.

Real grace doesn't preach well in the Church, neither does it sell well, nor does it keep the "faithful" in line. It is too unpredictable, too loose . . . too much initiated from God's side.

But mostly today I'm drawn to verse 31, to the simple statement of Gabriel to Mary: "You will conceive and give birth to a son."

That is the promise of spiritual conception, not only for Mary but for every one of us. In fact, you could probably image the spiritual life as the ongoing process of conceiving and then giving birth to God's life within each one of us. At a very basic, foundational level, that's what life is about. God's life, God's work, God's indwelling is conceived within us . . . and then our lives become about how that life, work and indwelling are birthed in our own life-worlds.

How is God embodied within you and me?

How are our lives expressions of incarnation, as Christ dwells within us?

In the twentieth century, Thomas Merton found some old Advent sermons preached by Bernard of Clairvaux in the 12th century. Merton ran with Bernard's idea that there are three Advents of importance.

The first was the Advent of Christ into human history. This is the past event we remember and celebrate at Christmas.

The third Advent is the coming of Christ at the end of the age. This Advent is still in the future.

It is the second Advent that may be most crucial, according to Bernard and Merton, and it is also the Advent to which we give least attention. This middle Advent is the birth or coming of Christ into our lives and into our world at every moment. Christ is continually coming, constantly being conceived and birthed in our world. We may or may not see and participate in those conceptions and births, but nonetheless they are real and they are all around us.

Perhaps the most compelling invitation for us today would be to hear the invitation to conceive and give birth to Christ in our own life-worlds, to live into the reality of this current-day Advent as a time of God's breaking in, no less than God broke in centuries ago in Bethlehem, and no less than God will break into human history at some time in to future.

The Second Tuesday of Advent -- December 6, 2011

Matthew 18:12 - 14

“What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish.


You've probably thought these thoughts about some folks you know and perhaps you've said these things about others. I know I have . . . both thought them and said them.

"He'll never change."

"You're wasting your time helping her."

"I don't think there's any hope for him."

My tendency to give up on people, to write them off, stands in stark contrast to God's relentless pursuit of every human being. God never gives up on anyone. No one is beyond God's reach. No one is a lost cause to God. No one is so lost that God cannot find them. No one is forgotten to God. No one is too little or lost.

Jesus' simple story says this very plainly.

Maybe this is simply the quintessential story of grace, the story of how God never will believe that we are beyond living in oneness with him. God's nature is to overwhelm us with a generosity that extends to every person.

That includes me. And you.

The Second Monday of Advent -- December 5, 2011

Luke 5:17 - 26

One day Jesus was teaching, and Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting there. They had come from every village of Galilee and from Judea and Jerusalem. And the power of the Lord was with Jesus to heal the sick. Some men came carrying a paralyzed man on a mat and tried to take him into the house to lay him before Jesus. When they could not find a way to do this because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and lowered him on his mat through the tiles into the middle of the crowd, right in front of Jesus.

When Jesus saw their faith, he said, “Friend, your sins are forgiven.”

The Pharisees and the teachers of the law began thinking to themselves, “Who is this fellow who speaks blasphemy? Who can forgive sins but God alone?”

Jesus knew what they were thinking and asked, “Why are you thinking these things in your hearts? Which is easier: to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up and walk’? But I want you to know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins.” So he said to the paralyzed man, “I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home.” Immediately he stood up in front of them, took what he had been lying on and went home praising God. Everyone was amazed and gave praise to God. They were filled with awe and said, “We have seen remarkable things today.”


Usually when I think of healing, it has to do with a cancer diagnosis that has been reversed, blindness that has given way to renewed sight, tumors that have been diminished, or getting up unannounced from the wheelchair to walk across the room.

I am conditioned to think of healing as the reversal of some physical ailment that God has overcome. Often that reversal comes within the context of someone praying desperately for God's intervention.

This is healing, but a small part of healing. Too seldom, I remember that healing can happen in most every realm of life and is not limited to physical difficulties or maladies.

In the Gospel story for today, "the power of the Lord was with Jesus to heal the sick." No surprise there. We readily acknowledge Jesus as a healer.

What may be a surprise is the manner in which the healing took place, or rather, the context of the healing. For the healing in this story is a spiritual healing, effected by Jesus proclaiming that the lame man's sins were forgiven. "Friend, your sins are forgiven."

Probably the most important healing any of us could experience would be this kind of spiritual healing, this healing of soul. Physical healing may be limited to those who have specific bodily needs.

Spiritual healing, on the other hand, is available to everyone. And it may be that the beginning of this soul-healing is forgiveness.

What kind of weight is lifted when you know yourself to be forgiven, when you receive pardon. It brings not only relief, but cause for celebration.

The times I've been forgiven by others -- I mean, really forgiven -- there is such a tremendous freedom I can't even describe it. The liberation is huge. The sense that I had been carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders -- or within my heart -- and that then the overwhelming weight had been lifted off me, was like no other experience I've ever had.

If you've had the experience of being forgiven in a relationship or of a significant debt or over a wrong you've committed, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

I love the response of the onlookers, who witnessed this spiritual/physical healing, and could only say, "We have seen remarkable things today."

Yes!

The Second Sunday of Advent -- December 4, 2011

Mark 1:1 - 8

The beginning of the good news about Jesus the Messiah, as it is written in Isaiah the prophet:
“I will send my messenger ahead of you,
who will prepare your way”—
“a voice of one calling in the wilderness,
‘Prepare the way for the Lord,
make straight paths for him.’”

And so John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. The whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem went out to him. Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River. John wore clothing made of camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. And this was his message: “After me comes the one more powerful than I, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie. I baptize you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”


According to Mark's Gospel, the beginning of the Good News about Jesus Christ is not Jesus, but John.

John lived into the words of Isaiah that a messenger would come to "prepare the way" for God's anointed. I have the sense -- slightly tongue-in-cheek, I'll admit -- that John came to do the dirty work, to talk about sin and repentance and confession in order for Jesus-meek-and-mild to come in love and healing.

I don't totally believe that, yet, I do affirm how difficult it can be to talk about sin and repentance and confession. I've never been able to do that well, to preach to others about their sinfulness without coming to a stark realization of my own. I sense that many of us are like that.

To be sure, I've been around some folks in my history who LOVE to talk about sin, who've found it energizing to blast other people for their "badness." Frankly, their eagerness to talk about sin and to make people feel bad in order to feel good seemed more than a little perverted to me.

Yet, confession and the intentional openness needed to receive forgiveness stand as the bedrock spiritual practices of any honest and growing life.

I find it so easy to be self-deceived, to not see myself as I truly am. I live in a cloud of illusion that I am either worse or better than I truly am. In confession, I simply say, "God, this is who I am. . . ." I tell the truth about myself. I present myself just as I am, in both my gifts and my fault, in my strengths and my weaknesses.

With God there is no need to clean up, dress up, or pretty up as I would to meet the Queen. I simply come just as I am. And I speak just who I am to God. In the coming and the speaking, an honesty arises that opens me to mercy, the generosity of God.

John didn't have to be a compelling preacher or a convicting speaker in order to get a response in the desert. He somehow had to convince the people to be honest about themselves in preparing for the anointed one.

The First Saturday of Advent -- December 3, 2011

Matthew 9:35 - 10:1, 6 - 8

Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.”

Jesus called his twelve disciples to him and gave them authority to drive out evil spirits and to heal every disease and sickness.

These twelve Jesus sent out with the following instructions: “Go rather to the lost sheep of Israel. As you go, proclaim this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give."


The harvest is plentiful, Jesus said, but the workers are few.

So I ask in my prayer this morning, "What is the harvest in my life?"

"Where is the harvest in my life-world?"

And then, "How am I invited to step into that harvest? What do I have that could make some impact on that harvest?"

I think of the lives of some people with whom I have the privilege of walking this journey, and especially those who are at significant crossroads. The planting and cultivating seasons have been long and drawn out, and now it seems to be harvest time. How am I invited to step into harvest with them?

I think of the harvests in my work . . . not always easily seen or readily apparent, but present, nonetheless. The holy can get lost in the mundane, and sometimes in the ridiculous. But there are harvests there, as well.

I consider harvests in relationships . . . family and friends and some new relationships . . . and ask, "What is my place in that harvest?"

My mind goes to those who are facing challenges related to health or vocation or relationship. Some are grieving the loss of a loved one, and their grief is still fresh . . . they are entering a period of a different kind of harvest. Will there be workers for those harvests? Am I "sent" to be one of the workers?

I pray for the attentiveness to hear my name when God calls, and for the openness and availability to go as I am sent, and for the courage to trust the resources God has given me for harvest.

Friday of the First Week of Advent -- December 2, 2011

Matthew 9:27 - 31

As Jesus went on from there, two blind men followed him, calling out, “Have mercy on us, Son of David!”

When he had gone indoors, the blind men came to him, and he asked them, “Do you believe that I am able to do this?”

“Yes, Lord,” they replied.

Then he touched their eyes and said, “According to your faith let it be done to you”; and their sight was restored. Jesus warned them sternly, “See that no one knows about this.” But they went out and spread the news about him all over that region.


With the advent ("coming") of Jesus into their life-paths, these two blind men asked for "mercy." They did not ask for sight. Perhaps their cry out to Jesus was an implicit plea for healing, but then, maybe it was just what it was: A request for mercy.

I'm having a hard time coming up with synonyms for mercy . . . maybe "generosity" is a close cousin . . . maybe the same words I would use for "grace" come close. Forgiveness and pardon are somewhere in the mix.

When I ask for mercy, what is it I'm asking for?

Maybe "mercy" simply stands of its own and cannot be defined by something else.

I do know that there are few things I need more than mercy. I need God's mercy, the generous, merciful wholeness of the One who holds all things together. If mercy is a central aspect of who God is, then I need mercy.

I also need to be merciful toward myself. I need to honestly acknowledge my limitations, the boundaries of my human personhood. That self-mercy is essential if I am to live a life that is fully human. I am Jerry, not God, and I need to mercifully allow myself to be Jerry, not God.

I need the mercy of others, the generosity of those I've harmed both intentionally and unintentionally.

Mercy is a major foundation for life. The recognition that I need mercy is not a sign of weakness; rather, it is an expression of the desire to live a life that is fully human.

Thursday of the First Week of Advent -- December 1, 2011

Matthew 7:21, 24 - 27

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only those who do the will of my Father who is in heaven." . . .

“Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”


Life is rarely "either/or." Motivational speakers, comedians, and preachers who say, "There are two kinds of people in the world . . ." are generally blowing smoke.

Most all of us live somewhere between the two poles, somewhere between the two extremes.

In this text, Jesus was not dividing the world into those who hear and put into practice on the one hand . . . and those who hear and do not put into practice on the other hand.

Instead, I believe he was making a statement about outcomes. He painted a vivid portrait of what life is like for the person who hears his words and puts them to practice. And he painted an equally vivid picture of what life is like for the one who does not build life upon the solid foundation of his words.

There is another realization that strikes me from this passage, too. If I'm completely honest, I cannot say that I am either this person or that person. I cannot choose from between these two types of people described by Jesus.

And the reason I cannot choose between them is because I am both of them.

There are times when I hear God's voice well, when my own capacity to hear God and see God is clear and unobstructed. In some of those times, I have the resolve to adjust my life to what I hear from God. I find the courage to live into God's design for me. I am enlivened by God's Spirit to grow more fully into the person God created me to be.

But there are also times when I do not hear from God, when I am preoccupied and distracted, when I fail to pay attention to God's still, small voice. Or there are times when, even after hearing what God says, I refuse to let go of what I hold in my hands. I get attached to security or applause or the approval of others. Then, when my center of gravity is somewhere other than God, I stubbornly resist God's prompting, leading or guiding.

I'm seldom one or the other. At any given moment, there are elements of both surrender and resistance within me. I imagine it's the same for you, too.

We might as well be honest about that.

Wednesday of the First Week of Advent -- November 30, 2011

Matthew 4:18 - 22

As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will send you out to fish for people.” At once they left their nets and followed him.

Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him.


This short, simple passage has long held my attention. It has been a significant text in my own wilderness wanderings as I've sought direction for my life. I don't always hear clear guidance for the next part of my journey, but I seem to always be buoyed in knowing that Jesus continues to seek me out and bid me to follow him.

And I'm continually challenged by the immediacy of the response to his invitation. "At once" these men left what they were doing . . . my own discipleship is most often much more hesitant and stuttering. For me, that's what happens when I stay too much in my head and close out my heart and soul.

For today, though, there is something else that catches my eye for prayer. Of all the significant things going on in the text, I'm drawn most to the work and the relationships.

Jesus entered the lives of these men in the course of their daily work, that is, what they did day after day. And I notice that in the context of their daily work, he gave them a different way of doing their work, or a different nuance for their work: He made them fishers of people . . . or at least he invited them to fish for people. It was a variation on their chosen vocation. Jesus gave them a way to live out their vocations, only in a way that was a bit out of the mainstream, a way that was counter to conventional wisdom.

He also came to them in the midst of human relationships . . . notice all the references to siblings and parents in the text. Jesus invited them to a holiness or a life-stance that was not divorced from ordinary relationships, but rather which was lived out in the context of ordinary, human relationships. Life with God may not remove us from family and friends as much as it gives us a different way to be in relationship with them.

Both of these items seem significant, both work and relationship. God's call or invitation does not necessarily come in the lofty air of retreat or the beautiful chorus of the stirring hymn or anthem. It does not need to come in the moving sermon or in the confluence of events that are working out in our favor. Rather, in the ordinariness of daily work and relationship God comes.

Most any of us can be moved by the beautiful sunset, the awesome vista, the proverbial handwriting across the sky; but, it takes a depth of vision and a more practiced seeing and listening to come to that same soul-stirring in our everyday work or in the midst of common relationships.

So these are my questions for the day:

If I listened to how God were inviting me in the midst of my daily work, what would I hear?

If I listened to what God is saying to me through my near relationships (spouse, children, parents, siblings, close friends), what would I hear?

Tuesday of the First Week of Advent -- November 29, 2011

Luke 10:21 - 24

At that time Jesus, full of joy through the Holy Spirit, said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure.

“All things have been committed to me by my Father. No one knows who the Son is except the Father, and no one knows who the Father is except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.”

Then he turned to his disciples and said privately, “Blessed are the eyes that see what you see. For I tell you that many prophets and kings wanted to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it.”


I think of the times when I've seen or heard something that seemed fresh or new to me . . . something that seemed like a brand new insight, a new awakening, or a deeper connection to something I had been longing for.

Often in the aftermath, I realize that the awareness or the awakening had been knocking at my door for a long time, and that I had merely been asleep every other time it had appeared at my door. It was not a matter of the slowness of God's revelation, but a matter of my inability (or unwillingness) to listen or to see.

I have come to see that the world is alive with God, "charged with the grandeur of God," as Hopkins said. But my capacity to see is distorted or stunted or in some way deficient. So time after time, I have to be invited to see and to hear. My lens gets foggy, dusty, and I must clean out the system in order to fully participate in what may already be there.

The desire to see and the longing to hear is not enough. I have to put myself in a position to see and to hear. I have to ask God to help me cultivate in my heart an openness, to be trained in attentiveness, so that when God speaks or shows, I am able to hear or see.

When I am able to hear and see, then I can respond.

Monday of the First Week of Advent -- November 28, 2011

Matthew 8:5 - 11

When Jesus had entered Capernaum, a centurion came to him, asking for help. “Lord,” he said, “my servant lies at home paralyzed, suffering terribly.”

Jesus said to him, “Shall I come and heal him?”

The centurion replied, “Lord, I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed. For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and that one, ‘Come,’ and he comes. I say to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.”

When Jesus heard this, he was amazed and said to those following him, “Truly I tell you, I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith. I say to you that many will come from the east and the west, and will take their places at the feast with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven."


What do you think you deserve in the world?

What do you think you deserve from God?

The questions are not easy. Most of us would say one thing with our lives and something different with our lips. Our lives vacillate between the extremes of acting as if we were the center of the universe on one hand, to feeling that we are wretched sinners and completely unworthy of anything good and beautiful on the other. Most of us spend our lives swinging between these two poles.

Jesus offered to act on behalf of the Roman soldier, but the centurion's response betrayed where he was on the worthiness-spectrum at that particular moment. "Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only speak the word and my servant will be healed."

I imagine that what we feel we are worthy of goes mostly unspoken, yet it seasons much of what we do, say, and believe in life.

These words have been with me for years, primarily because every time I stand behind a Communion Table I repeat a variation of them. I was drawn to the words long ago, having heard them in the Mass of the Roman Catholic Church and in the Eucharistic liturgies of the Anglican Church.

I was drawn to the line, though, because as I stand at the Table of Christ I need to be reminded of who I am. I am not worthy to stand behind that Table, nor to hold that Bread and Cup in my hands, nor to take them into my body. . . . But this meal is not about my worthiness. It is not about whether or not I deserve to be there, because I don't deserve to be there any more than the next person deserves to be there.

I say the words to remind myself that I come to Christ by the generous, gracious invitation of God and not on my own merits. I am both worthy of nothing God offers me, and at the same time worthy of everything God offers me.

So at the Communion Table I speak these words: "Lord, we are not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and we shall be healed."

Richard Rohr is fond of saying, "God doesn't love you because you are good; God loves you because God is good."

It's probably important to bring to consciousness what we feel we are worthy of in the world -- just so we can know our inner landscape and the interior pulls that jerk us around.

But at some point, it's totally a waste of time to try to figure out what we are worthy of. The question won't really get us anywhere.

In God, we are both worthy of nothing . . . and worthy of everything . . . and all at the same time. You might want to linger in that mystery for awhile.

The First Sunday of Advent -- November 27, 2011

Mark 13:33 - 37

Be on guard! Be alert! You do not know when that time will come. It’s like a man going away: He leaves his house and puts his servants in charge, each with an assigned task, and tells the one at the door to keep watch.

“Therefore keep watch because you do not know when the owner of the house will come back—whether in the evening, or at midnight, or when the rooster crows, or at dawn. If he comes suddenly, do not let him find you sleeping. What I say to you, I say to everyone: ‘Watch!’”


You cannot read this passage for the First Sunday of Advent and not be jolted by Jesus' calls to alertness, watchfulness and wakefulness. "Take heed!" he says.

"Stay alert!"

"Don't go to sleep!"

The repetition itself catches my attention. Jesus obviously was well aware of the human tendency to drift mindlessly, without aim and intention. How easy it is to fall into the rut of tearing pages off the calendar, watching the days slide by without an awareness of God, ourselves, or others. I sleepwalk.

In my prayer, the passage invites me to consider where I am sleeping. In what ways am I merely passing time, trying to get through one thing in order to give attention to the next?

I realize, for instance, that I can look forward to a certain event on my calendar so much that I miss the days leading up to the event. Sometimes it's a vacation or a particularly significant retreat or an opportunity to hear a certain speaker . . . I get so focused on the thing I'm looking forward to, that other days become pages on a calendar that are ripped aside in order to speed along the days. And those are days that will never be returned to me. It's one significant way I sleepwalk.

My work can be that way, also. I can invest most of my attention in teaching a class or leading a retreat or being with a small group . . . and miss other things that are going on around me. And sometimes the work events are not even that exciting and energizing, but I find myself lunging from one to the next, laying aside what I've just completed in order to race toward the next thing. To me it feels like survival, not alertness.

In this text for the first day of Advent, I hear an invitation to wake up, to be alert. I hear God inviting me, at least for this Advent season, to stay awake.

And I'm asking God to show me what spiritual practices or disciplines I can carry through this season that will serve to help me stay alert.