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. 45 Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!”
• As Christmas draws near, anticipation builds. The passage is full of “blessing” and promises nearing fulfillment.
• Luke’s Gospel, more than the other Gospels, gives voice to the women in the story. Even in our day, we realize that not everyone in our world is given an opportunity to speak. Not all voices are honored.
• Today, be in touch with your voice. What would you say is your true voice? From where did that voice come? What does that voice sound like when you truly “speak” into the world (whether with your words, actions, life, or stance)?
• Think about some people you know or are around regularly who have little voice or power. What is it like for you to be around those persons? In what ways do you encourage their voice? If you were honest, are there ways in which you stifle their voice?
Showing posts with label voice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label voice. Show all posts
Saturday, December 21, 2019
Monday, December 17, 2018
Third Monday of Advent - December 17, 2018
God's Word in the Outsider
Numbers 24:2-7, 15-17
Matthew 21:23-27
Today's readings have a "who-do-you-think-you-are?" feel about them.
The Old Testament reading from Numbers introduces Balaam, the prophet, to our Advent experience. But Balaam is not a prophet of Israel. He is an outsider. He has been called a prophet for hire. The king of Moab, Balak, hires Balaam to curse Israel, with the promise of a great reward if the curse allows Balak a military victory over Israel. Balaam commits to speak what he hears. He will not be bought. He will not curse when all he hears is blessing. Four times he blesses, when all Balak wants to hear are curses. Ultimately, Balak gives up on Balaam and sends him home. Balaam stays faithful to the revelation of God, despite the personal consequences.
In the Gospel reading, the chief priests and elders question Jesus' authority to teach in the Temple. Jesus was not a part of the religious institution (the Temple hierarchy) and was not credentialed to lead the people. The question, "By whose authority do you do these things?" implies a snarky, "Who do you think you are?"
In both stories, God's word comes to those who stand outside the normal institutional structures, those who are not insiders, those who are non-traditional.
God's word usually shows up where we do not expect it. God's Spirit is revealed to us when we are not looking.
All of us have our own predictable prompts -- places, experiences, practices -- to which we run when we want to hear a word from God or when we need to discern our next step forward.
Advent invites us to be alert for the unexpected, to wander off the grid, to look outside the usual, to move away from the norm. Certainly you may hear God's voice in an Advent sermon or a Christmas musical. But don't miss God's word in the red kettle bell-ringer . . . in a child's face . . . in a greeting from the stranger . . . in an act of kindness at the grocery . . . in a phone call from a longtime friend.
For Reflection:
Be alert for how God's word comes to you today. Especially be attentive to persons who are outside religious structures, who have little training or credentials in God-speech. In short, notice those whose authority comes from God, not from institutions or power structures.
Numbers 24:2-7, 15-17
Matthew 21:23-27
Today's readings have a "who-do-you-think-you-are?" feel about them.
The Old Testament reading from Numbers introduces Balaam, the prophet, to our Advent experience. But Balaam is not a prophet of Israel. He is an outsider. He has been called a prophet for hire. The king of Moab, Balak, hires Balaam to curse Israel, with the promise of a great reward if the curse allows Balak a military victory over Israel. Balaam commits to speak what he hears. He will not be bought. He will not curse when all he hears is blessing. Four times he blesses, when all Balak wants to hear are curses. Ultimately, Balak gives up on Balaam and sends him home. Balaam stays faithful to the revelation of God, despite the personal consequences.
In the Gospel reading, the chief priests and elders question Jesus' authority to teach in the Temple. Jesus was not a part of the religious institution (the Temple hierarchy) and was not credentialed to lead the people. The question, "By whose authority do you do these things?" implies a snarky, "Who do you think you are?"
In both stories, God's word comes to those who stand outside the normal institutional structures, those who are not insiders, those who are non-traditional.
God's word usually shows up where we do not expect it. God's Spirit is revealed to us when we are not looking.
All of us have our own predictable prompts -- places, experiences, practices -- to which we run when we want to hear a word from God or when we need to discern our next step forward.
Advent invites us to be alert for the unexpected, to wander off the grid, to look outside the usual, to move away from the norm. Certainly you may hear God's voice in an Advent sermon or a Christmas musical. But don't miss God's word in the red kettle bell-ringer . . . in a child's face . . . in a greeting from the stranger . . . in an act of kindness at the grocery . . . in a phone call from a longtime friend.
For Reflection:
Be alert for how God's word comes to you today. Especially be attentive to persons who are outside religious structures, who have little training or credentials in God-speech. In short, notice those whose authority comes from God, not from institutions or power structures.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Magi: Journeying Deeper into the Heart of the World
The spiritual life lends itself to the image of journeying. Early Christians were called "people of the Way," which in itself is a path or journey symbol. Movement on a path signifies growth, becoming, and exploration.
In the narrative of Christ's birth, the Magi represent those who embark on a significant journey, following a mysterious heavenly light, though they begin the quest without knowing the particulars of the pathway, nor what would await them at the destination.
In my experience, a few stars have appeared in the outer world, inviting me to go, to follow, to explore beyond the edges of what I had known. More often, though, the stars arose within me, and I was drawn to follow. In fact, most of the time I would describe the experience as "I HAD to follow" . . . as if I really had little choice . . . as if this prompting was so compelling that I had to honor it.
As I have thought of the Magi in the narrative and the Magi within me, Mary Oliver's "The Journey" has come to mind.
The Journey
Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
[Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, p. 114.]
For me, the poems contains a couple of pivot points. The first comes in the opening lines: "One day you finally knew / what you had to do, and began."
I've had occasional flashes in which I suddenly knew what I had to do . . . "one day . . ." But more often, the sense of "finally knowing what I have to do" has come over time, through life's lengthy wisdom. And that sense usually arises not because of something I read, something I hear from another person, or anything else that comes from the outer world. The impulse to go, to journey, to take the next risky step most always comes from within me.
And yet, I can go long days, even years, knowing what I have to do and still not doing it. The pivot for me in these opening lines is, "and began." She starts. She moves. She takes the first, most difficult step.
And the journey begins. It does not begin as long as the Magi study the star from their rooftops in Persia. It does not begin as long as they are pulling out books from shelves to study the meaning of new constellations. It does not begin as long as they sit in the coffee shop discussing with other wise persons the meaning of new stars and their alignments. The journey commences when they step onto the path . . . when they actually take off in pursuit of they-know-not-what.
"though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice . . ."
I've never met someone who wasn't familiar with the "voices of bad advice" that shout from around us . . . the voices that call our journey folly, that tell us to "get real," that remind us of all the ways were are disappointments, that not-too-subtly express confidence that we'll fail or have to turn back, that try to shame us into getting in line.
But the more insidious voices have always come from within me in a doubting, even accusing tone.
"What if you fail?"
"Can you deal with the uncertainty?"
"Wouldn't you like to know how the story ends?"
"You've never done this before."
"You're crazy!"
"What gives you the right to do this?"
Still, in the landscape of Mary Oliver's poem, you go on, despite the voices. "But you didn't stop. / You knew what you had to do."
"It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones."
You go onward because it is "already late enough." Enough of life has passed. You press forward, even though the storms of the many years have left your path littered, blocked, and cluttered with "branches and stones."
"But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own . . ."
Stars burn through clouds and appear finally, within eyesight, to help navigate the trek. And a new voice arises from within us, but only as we leave the old voices behind. We recognize slowly -- "little by little" -- as we walk away from the old and stale that this new voice is our own, the voice that has always been within, but which we now slowly recognize.
This, for me, is the second pivot point in the poem . . . the leaving behind -- of voices and terrible melancholy -- and the discovery -- of a previously unnoticed voice.
The poem, it seems to me, describes the Magi-journey. I know it describes the journey I have been invited to make.
For Reflection:
Reading poetry, REALLY reading poetry, is a contemplative exercise. You can't rush through a good poem. The poem invites you to slow down, to listen to words, phrases, and lines with your heart. It invites you to make connections. In a really good poem, you will have the sense that "I could have written those words." (This is one reason I've always loved this poem . . . I know Mary Oliver wrote it, but it is also MY poem for the way it describes my own journey.) Good poetry offers the reader many doors through which to enter the landscape of the poem.
So I invite you to read "The Journey" again slowly. Notice words, phrases, and images that speak to you. Sit with it for awhile without trying to make it say anything in particular. Let the poem find you.
Finally, you might consider one or two ways the poem parallels your life experience. What real-life experience do you have of the journey Mary Oliver describes poetically?
In the narrative of Christ's birth, the Magi represent those who embark on a significant journey, following a mysterious heavenly light, though they begin the quest without knowing the particulars of the pathway, nor what would await them at the destination.
In my experience, a few stars have appeared in the outer world, inviting me to go, to follow, to explore beyond the edges of what I had known. More often, though, the stars arose within me, and I was drawn to follow. In fact, most of the time I would describe the experience as "I HAD to follow" . . . as if I really had little choice . . . as if this prompting was so compelling that I had to honor it.
As I have thought of the Magi in the narrative and the Magi within me, Mary Oliver's "The Journey" has come to mind.
The Journey
Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
[Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, p. 114.]
For me, the poems contains a couple of pivot points. The first comes in the opening lines: "One day you finally knew / what you had to do, and began."
I've had occasional flashes in which I suddenly knew what I had to do . . . "one day . . ." But more often, the sense of "finally knowing what I have to do" has come over time, through life's lengthy wisdom. And that sense usually arises not because of something I read, something I hear from another person, or anything else that comes from the outer world. The impulse to go, to journey, to take the next risky step most always comes from within me.
And yet, I can go long days, even years, knowing what I have to do and still not doing it. The pivot for me in these opening lines is, "and began." She starts. She moves. She takes the first, most difficult step.
And the journey begins. It does not begin as long as the Magi study the star from their rooftops in Persia. It does not begin as long as they are pulling out books from shelves to study the meaning of new constellations. It does not begin as long as they sit in the coffee shop discussing with other wise persons the meaning of new stars and their alignments. The journey commences when they step onto the path . . . when they actually take off in pursuit of they-know-not-what.
"though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice . . ."
I've never met someone who wasn't familiar with the "voices of bad advice" that shout from around us . . . the voices that call our journey folly, that tell us to "get real," that remind us of all the ways were are disappointments, that not-too-subtly express confidence that we'll fail or have to turn back, that try to shame us into getting in line.
But the more insidious voices have always come from within me in a doubting, even accusing tone.
"What if you fail?"
"Can you deal with the uncertainty?"
"Wouldn't you like to know how the story ends?"
"You've never done this before."
"You're crazy!"
"What gives you the right to do this?"
Still, in the landscape of Mary Oliver's poem, you go on, despite the voices. "But you didn't stop. / You knew what you had to do."
"It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones."
You go onward because it is "already late enough." Enough of life has passed. You press forward, even though the storms of the many years have left your path littered, blocked, and cluttered with "branches and stones."
"But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own . . ."
Stars burn through clouds and appear finally, within eyesight, to help navigate the trek. And a new voice arises from within us, but only as we leave the old voices behind. We recognize slowly -- "little by little" -- as we walk away from the old and stale that this new voice is our own, the voice that has always been within, but which we now slowly recognize.
This, for me, is the second pivot point in the poem . . . the leaving behind -- of voices and terrible melancholy -- and the discovery -- of a previously unnoticed voice.
The poem, it seems to me, describes the Magi-journey. I know it describes the journey I have been invited to make.
For Reflection:
Reading poetry, REALLY reading poetry, is a contemplative exercise. You can't rush through a good poem. The poem invites you to slow down, to listen to words, phrases, and lines with your heart. It invites you to make connections. In a really good poem, you will have the sense that "I could have written those words." (This is one reason I've always loved this poem . . . I know Mary Oliver wrote it, but it is also MY poem for the way it describes my own journey.) Good poetry offers the reader many doors through which to enter the landscape of the poem.
So I invite you to read "The Journey" again slowly. Notice words, phrases, and images that speak to you. Sit with it for awhile without trying to make it say anything in particular. Let the poem find you.
Finally, you might consider one or two ways the poem parallels your life experience. What real-life experience do you have of the journey Mary Oliver describes poetically?
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