Sadness Amidst Celebration
Matthew 17:10-13
This strange Advent text comes on the heels of the Transfiguration, where Peter, James, and John see Jesus talking with Moses and Elijah on the mountain. When Peter wants to memorialize the moment with three monuments, the heavenly voice makes sure these three figures are not given equal standing: "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!"
The text then turns to a discussion of Elijah and his role in the coming of the Messiah.
It seems like a glorious moment . . . Moses and Elijah conversing with Jesus . . . the voice of God declaring Jesus as the Beloved . . . the desire to celebrate and remember by erecting commemorative booths.
Then Jesus drops a bomb . . . his own suffering and death (v. 12). Indeed, in the Gospels, the story of the Transfiguration marks a turning point in the narrative. From this moment onward, Jesus' face is turned toward Jerusalem and the cross. His journey takes on a new urgency, a resoluteness.
We feel something of the shock, the bummed feeling of skipping merrily through Advent when a reading like this is dropped among us, reminding us that the end of Jesus' short life will be a cruel death. We don't want to hear this message as we sing "Joy to the World" and "Silent Night," as we hang lights and put out stockings, as we carefully place the creche which depicts the vulnerable baby, Jesus with Mary, Joseph, and barnyard animals.
While we may not want to hear this news about Jesus, I imagine it resonates with each of us. Every one of us will experience some empty chair around the Christmas table . . . whether the grief is fresh or lingers from decades ago. Persons we love will not be there.
As a pastor, I learned decades ago that more people die in December than any other month. Funeral home directors know these dynamics well, and staff for them. Frequently I would be away with my family for Christmas, only to receive a phone call that a beloved church member had died. I would make the trip back to Bonham or Houston to be with the family. It was almost routine. Sadness seemed to go hand in hand with celebration.
Pancreatic cancer took my own father just a couple of days before Christmas 20 years ago. I remember someone in the family -- I don't remember who -- saying, as we all gathered at mom's house shortly after hearing the news, "What are we going to do about Christmas this year?" Exactly!
Even now, Christmas is the most difficult time of year for my mother. I suspect that holds true for many of us.
Jesus is honest about being fully human. Birth, life, and death are somehow intertwined. We are not given the choice of choosing only those aspects of life that are easy or pleasant. Only when we allow ourselves to be where we truly are -- even in our sadness and grief -- can we move onward with him. Loss and grief are part of life, even during Advent.
It's okay to be where you are.
For Reflection:
Spend a few moments today thinking about those persons who will not be with you for Christmas. Some of them have passed to the next life. From others you are separated by many miles.
In your own quiet space, simply whisper the name of each person who comes to mind. If you'd like, cup your hands in front of you, as if you were holding them out to God as you quietly say their names.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Saturday, December 15, 2018
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Magi: Journeys That Shift Everything
Something in the very act of journey transforms those who push through resistances, who weather obstacles, and who persevere through the fatigue and relentless dailyness of staying on the path.
In the world of spiritual journeying, there really is no firm destination. If you do arrive at what you think is a destination, it will look much different than you envisioned. And then, once you feel you have arrived, the destination changes, always stretching out before you.
Here is T. S. Eliot’s poem, “The Journey of the Magi.”
The Journey of the Magi
T. S. Eliot
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
[T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962, p. 99.]
Eliot uses the Magi’s journey as a metaphor for a spiritual journey, a journey which deepens and rearranges all of life, including one’s relationships and stance in the world. Those who know Eliot better than I do claim that he was rediscovering Christian faith when he wrote this poem. The poem very well could be Eliot’s spiritual journey. It resonates with my life’s pilgrimage, as well.
Eliot’s poem is darker than Mary Oliver’s “The Journey” (yesterday’s post). Eliot doesn’t flinch at the difficulty of the journey, and the ongoing resistance the traveler faces at every turn.
In the first stanza, Eliot introduces the challenges in a number of different images . . . “a cold coming” . . . “the worst time of year for a journey” . . . “a long journey” . . . “the ways deep and the weather sharp” . . . “the very dead of winter.”
The journey is not for the faint of heart, for “a hard time we had of it.” Resistance to moving onward comes in a number of forms: “night fires going out” . . . “lack of shelters” . . . “cities hostile” . . . “towns unfriendly” . . . “villages dirty” . . . “charging high prices.”
As Mary Oliver noted in yesterday’s poem, the most formidable obstacle to our exploration is often summarized as “the voices singing in our ears.” Mary Oliver wrote that those voices are “shouting their bad advice.” For T. S. Eliot, they are saying, “This is all folly.” The voices sometimes come from family, friends, co-workers, or those who find journey a waste of time. And just as often, they come from within us, our own interior, whispering voices that seek to convince us to stop, go back, stay safe.
In Eliot’s vision of the Magi-journey, the road is long and full of obstacles. The arrival at the end of the second stanza is, well . . . underwhelming.
“And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.”
For me, the crux of the poem comes in the third stanza, Eliot’s reflection on the experience of journey. In Matthew 2, the Magi were led by a celestial light to the birth of Christ. But Eliot, imagining a journey that is more interior, suggests that at the end of this journey there is both birth and death. While he had thought they were different, this journey draws the two experiences together, two aspects of the same life-experience which are both necessary for a complete life.
This is a birth and death that changes a person deep within, that alters his or her fundamental stance toward all of life. This death (letting go) and birth (new life) shifts one’s relationships, attitudes, and loyalties.
Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, wrote this about Eliot’s poem:
What happens when a birth – Jesus' 'birth', as the poet starts re-discovering Christian faith – changes everything? The bizarre fact is that it can feel as if nothing has really changed, except that you have a sense that no one else has noticed what has happened – because something certainly has. 'Birth or death?' A new start that is felt only as the death of all that has been familiar; and yet the old world goes on, galloping aimlessly like the old white horse. Eliot never wanted to present religious faith as a nice cheerful answer to everyone's questions, but as an inner shift so deep that you could hardly notice it, yet giving a new perspective on everything and a new restlessness in a tired and chilly world.
When Williams says, “an inner shift so deep that you could hardly notice it, yet giving a new perspective on everything,” he is writing about the nature of a life that is becoming, growing, and evolving deeper into God in a way that makes a difference in relationships with God, self, others, and the world.
In Eliot’s poem, that deep inner shift is noted by the Magi returning “to our places” but “no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation.” So deeply has life shifted that upon returning home to their families, friends, and neighbors, they feel surrounded by “an alien people clutching their gods.”
By the end of the poem, though the journey is over, it’s not yet over. “I should be glad of another death.” To journey onward will lead to other deaths and other births. In truth, the invitation to journey and growth never ceases. We will not arrive . . . not until our last breath.
For Reflection:
Take a few moments to reflect on your own experience of being changed by a spiritual journey in a way that causes you to feel like an “alien” among family, friends, and neighbors. Has that experience caused you to take a different stance toward your own spiritual journey? Does it make you reticent to move onward?
If needed, take a moment to touch and embrace the Magi within you again . . .that spirit of exploration and adventure . . . the courage to move beyond what you have seen and what you know . . . the part of you not afraid of mystery and the unknown.
In the world of spiritual journeying, there really is no firm destination. If you do arrive at what you think is a destination, it will look much different than you envisioned. And then, once you feel you have arrived, the destination changes, always stretching out before you.
Here is T. S. Eliot’s poem, “The Journey of the Magi.”
The Journey of the Magi
T. S. Eliot
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
[T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962, p. 99.]
Eliot uses the Magi’s journey as a metaphor for a spiritual journey, a journey which deepens and rearranges all of life, including one’s relationships and stance in the world. Those who know Eliot better than I do claim that he was rediscovering Christian faith when he wrote this poem. The poem very well could be Eliot’s spiritual journey. It resonates with my life’s pilgrimage, as well.
Eliot’s poem is darker than Mary Oliver’s “The Journey” (yesterday’s post). Eliot doesn’t flinch at the difficulty of the journey, and the ongoing resistance the traveler faces at every turn.
In the first stanza, Eliot introduces the challenges in a number of different images . . . “a cold coming” . . . “the worst time of year for a journey” . . . “a long journey” . . . “the ways deep and the weather sharp” . . . “the very dead of winter.”
The journey is not for the faint of heart, for “a hard time we had of it.” Resistance to moving onward comes in a number of forms: “night fires going out” . . . “lack of shelters” . . . “cities hostile” . . . “towns unfriendly” . . . “villages dirty” . . . “charging high prices.”
As Mary Oliver noted in yesterday’s poem, the most formidable obstacle to our exploration is often summarized as “the voices singing in our ears.” Mary Oliver wrote that those voices are “shouting their bad advice.” For T. S. Eliot, they are saying, “This is all folly.” The voices sometimes come from family, friends, co-workers, or those who find journey a waste of time. And just as often, they come from within us, our own interior, whispering voices that seek to convince us to stop, go back, stay safe.
In Eliot’s vision of the Magi-journey, the road is long and full of obstacles. The arrival at the end of the second stanza is, well . . . underwhelming.
“And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.”
For me, the crux of the poem comes in the third stanza, Eliot’s reflection on the experience of journey. In Matthew 2, the Magi were led by a celestial light to the birth of Christ. But Eliot, imagining a journey that is more interior, suggests that at the end of this journey there is both birth and death. While he had thought they were different, this journey draws the two experiences together, two aspects of the same life-experience which are both necessary for a complete life.
This is a birth and death that changes a person deep within, that alters his or her fundamental stance toward all of life. This death (letting go) and birth (new life) shifts one’s relationships, attitudes, and loyalties.
Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, wrote this about Eliot’s poem:
What happens when a birth – Jesus' 'birth', as the poet starts re-discovering Christian faith – changes everything? The bizarre fact is that it can feel as if nothing has really changed, except that you have a sense that no one else has noticed what has happened – because something certainly has. 'Birth or death?' A new start that is felt only as the death of all that has been familiar; and yet the old world goes on, galloping aimlessly like the old white horse. Eliot never wanted to present religious faith as a nice cheerful answer to everyone's questions, but as an inner shift so deep that you could hardly notice it, yet giving a new perspective on everything and a new restlessness in a tired and chilly world.
When Williams says, “an inner shift so deep that you could hardly notice it, yet giving a new perspective on everything,” he is writing about the nature of a life that is becoming, growing, and evolving deeper into God in a way that makes a difference in relationships with God, self, others, and the world.
In Eliot’s poem, that deep inner shift is noted by the Magi returning “to our places” but “no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation.” So deeply has life shifted that upon returning home to their families, friends, and neighbors, they feel surrounded by “an alien people clutching their gods.”
By the end of the poem, though the journey is over, it’s not yet over. “I should be glad of another death.” To journey onward will lead to other deaths and other births. In truth, the invitation to journey and growth never ceases. We will not arrive . . . not until our last breath.
For Reflection:
Take a few moments to reflect on your own experience of being changed by a spiritual journey in a way that causes you to feel like an “alien” among family, friends, and neighbors. Has that experience caused you to take a different stance toward your own spiritual journey? Does it make you reticent to move onward?
If needed, take a moment to touch and embrace the Magi within you again . . .that spirit of exploration and adventure . . . the courage to move beyond what you have seen and what you know . . . the part of you not afraid of mystery and the unknown.
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