The Gift of Love

  I enjoy the quiet of Christmas day.  The heat pump is enjoying the weekend off, so I am holding and sipping a hot mega-mug of coffee in front of the fire listening to some music from WBHM.  I have not tried to write anything for awhile. There was just too much noise. It was easy to write things that would be cheered by some and condemned by others. Great for the ego and a lot of fun sometimes.  But suddenly it seemed impossible to write anything helpful. That is a bit of a lie. Truthfully I was a little afraid. 

But on this day I am reminded once again that there is no place for fear if I am to celebrate the loving God who comes, even now, and who came as a baby,  born into the most ridiculous fearful circumstances. But Mary and Joseph were told not to fear. The shepherds were told not to fear. And it appears that they  overcame their fear.  So obviously, I have to just get over it. And maybe you do too.

So indulge me and let me tell you what I am being reminded of today. 

The whole thing started with love. For God so loved. It is a love that will never end.  What did, what does, God love?  The world.  That is pretty much everything.  All of creation. This magnificent, beautiful, interwoven complex work of water, earth, heavens and life. Including every human being that ever drew a breath and ever will. This little baby that we sing about, celebrate in worship and in giving gifts, was God coming to love creation to redemption, including all of humanity, all of us.

That precious baby in the manger grew up. Jesus did a whole lot of teaching before we killed him.  Sometimes, it seems to me, we forget that part.  It seems we want to graduate without going to class.   Being saved is a wonderful thing.  Being told how we should live is a different matter.  But fear not. We are in good company. The disciples and others were notorious for having suggestions of their own.  Those conversations with Jesus never went well.  And it is the same for us. All of us. 

So what does Jesus want of us?  Sometimes in my prayers I arrogantly ask God what am I to do?  Inevitably God speaks to my heart. Thankfully God is patient. God reminds me that Jesus has already come to redeem the world. Another saviour is not necessary. Jesus taught us, with a perfect life and the most perfect words ever spoken with such economy, what is required of us.  To love as God loves, that is, universally, sacrificially, abundantly and unconditionally. To serve all as Jesus did, humbly, and without regard to status. To forgive.  And not to judge, God will take care of that.

Jesus told us to stand with the oppressed. To set the captives free. To take care of the poor and all in need. To welcome the stranger.

So, most of the time the answer to my prayer is "Well, Bob, I've already told you what to do. I'll let you know if I need something specific." 

That's pretty much it. And it is enough. The love that Jesus taught us about is the answer we pray for, especially in times like these.  

It all began with Love. God's love.  But the answer we so desperately seek has already been given to us. By the one who was born in the manger.  Certainly it is empowered by God's love. But it is our sharing of God's love with the world, sharing our love,  as Jesus taught, that is the answer we seek.  

This truth causes more controversy than anything else I have ever written about, and it will, until we give it a try.

This truth is why Jesus was born.  And why he was killed.

Merry Christmas.

Go, look and listen

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

A perfect morning to sit on the sofa and drink coffee.  It is wet and cold and dark outside.  But here on the inside the heat pump hums gently in the background, a curl of coffee vapors climbs out of the pot and fills the room, and the sofa, conformed by many other mornings and evenings of our time together, calls me once again to sit down and get comfortable.

And so I do. At this time of morning on this kind of day I like to keep the house a little dark while I sit, the only light being the grey of early morning filtered through thick rainy clouds, and one lamp on the table next to the sofa, filling the corner of the room with soft light.

Even soft light reveals hard things. Light is light. It reveals truth. It extinguishes darkness.  And this morning, as I nestled into my comfortable place, the light was gently brutal as it directed my eyes.  There in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall for several months waiting to be hung, illuminated by the lone lamp in the room like a museum piece, was a block print by Birmingham artist Debra Riffe.  I bought it because it provoked me.  I suppose I let it sit out of the way for months because I did not want to be provoked.  But the light grabbed it this morning.  This lively, artful expression that so provoked me deserved better.  But it was hard to fit into my comfortable corner of the world, at least in a place high enough to be noticed.

This art form sometimes creates a look similar to a theater or concert poster.  In this print there stands an older African American man playing an acoustic guitar strapped around his neck.  The poster reads "I ain't fixin' ta sit down."

I do not presume to know what brought the man in the print to make that proclamation.  In my mind's eye I see the man to be of an age that our years of life would overlap, and so honestly, it would be willful ignorance if I could not form a general idea of reasons for his defiance or the message of his music.  

There are a few things I can learn from the print leaning against the wall of my den.  There are songs of life being sung all around us. It is important that there is time and space for the songs to be sung, but more importantly,  that those songs be heard by those who need to hear. 

But it is just a print.  Ink on paper.  I cannot hear the notes of the music being played, the specific words being sung by looking at the print.  The artist has done her job.  She provoked me to want to hear the old man's song.  Thank goodness for the light of this morning.

I must leave my comfortable corner to hear the songs. I might want to turn away.  I might want to sing along. 

But before I do anything, I must go and listen. 

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Can't see the forest for the trees, or is that poison ivy?

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

Last Saturday I worked in my yard. Actually it used to be my yard.  I like to think of it now as a second growth forest.  That's a real thing, look it up.  I'm thinking of putting up one of those dignified woodsy roadside signs at the foot of my driveway, maybe made of cedar, that declares my yard to be a Certified Alabama Second Growth Forest.  Not really.  I'm going back out there after while and get to work, just as soon as it gets hot enough.

Last Saturday I was cutting up a fallen tree.  After I finished I was not ready to put away my chain saw since it was running fine and one must take advantage of that good fortune when it arises.  At the edge of my once and future yard stands a hickory tree.  I really love trees, especially hardwoods, and in particular hickory and oaks, so no, I was not thinking about cutting down this beautiful tree.  On the contrary, I sensed that the time had come for a risky maneuver to save the life of the hickory.  Sure it was dangerous, but I had been putting it off for awhile.  It was time to slash the grossly monstrous vines that were attached to the tree like the sea creatures that made up Davy Jones beard in the Pirates of the Caribbean.   The ugly tentacles climbed and crept to the top branches, displaying the vines' oily deep-green leaves and clusters of berries like a pirate's flag at the top of a conquered mast.  There was no skull and crossbones.  But there should have been.  These vines were poison.  Poison Ivy.

Perhaps that's a little too dramatic.  But seriously, I am very sensitive to poison ivy resin and the mere thought of cutting through those hairy one and two inch vines was enough to shorten my breath and raise whelps on my skin.  On the other hand, I have seen what these insidious vines can do to otherwise healthy trees.  They kill them.  Slowly.  The green leaves of the vines become entangled with the leaves of the tree, so it is difficult to notice that the tree is dying, limb by limb, until it is too late, and most of the green that remains belongs to the poison vine, and not the tree that still supports the vine, even to death.  

I checked on the tree this morning.  Now it is easy to distinguish between the leaves of the choking vine and the leaves of the tree.  The leaves of the vine are now wilted and withered, all the way to the top of the tree.  I had no idea how far the poison vine had invaded the hickory tree.  I hope I cut the vine in time.

Last week I cut the big, hairy, ugly vines near the base of the tree.  The vines above the cut were dead this morning, all the way to the top of the tree.   But below the cut in the vine there was already new growth. Three leaves. One jag on one edge. Deep, oily green. Heading up the tree.  The vine is still rooted in the soil, just like the tree. 

And that's the problem.

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Wake up, it's getting light

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

Everything is still on the hill this morning.  Not a creature is stirring, not even a possum. The gentle light of the rising sun is kind, like a parent letting an adolescent child sleep late on the first days of Christmas break.  Nothing is moving, frozen by the cold air of the night.  But the still and quiet are beautiful, and welcome.  My plan is to blow a mountain of leaves off the hillside later, but they are still frozen to the ground, so dagnabbit, I will just have to lie here and drink coffee for awhile.   My heart is being warmed, literally, by my bowl of coffee that sits on my chest as I write while lying back on my sofa, custom fit to my body from hundreds of mornings of waking up.  Like the world outside my windows,  I have not completely committed to starting the day.   I will leaf here soon enough.  Sorry about that.  Not really.

I have never been more ready for Advent.  In my Christian faith tradition, United Methodist, Advent is a period of time, the first month or so of the Christian year before Christmastide (not to be confused with Crimson Tide), a time of waiting and preparation. Advent is a time for pausing to remember the coming of Jesus into the world, and to wait,  prepare for and anticipate what God will do next.

Like my Christmas shopping, my intentional observance of Advent is getting a late start this year.  Some of my prayers of late have included remembering, mostly out of a desire for assurance, and anticipation, mostly out of a desperation for God to do something.  So perhaps Advent for me started out of necessity rather than intentional liturgical practice. 

Maybe that is the way it is supposed to be.  Maybe that's the way folks felt 2000 years ago.  Desperate hope for many came from remembering when God did mighty acts centuries before, and anticipation of the time when the promises of God would come to pass.  There was liturgy back then too.  Judaism, the faith that Jesus was born into and practiced, included liturgy of remembrance and anticipation long before Jesus was born.  Faithful Jews knew it well.

But I wonder if the Jews at the time were much different from me.  The liturgy and scripture that was so dear and familiar to them informed them of how it was supposed to be.  But maybe the world around them made it real.  Oppression. Poverty. War. Cruelty. Inhumanity.  The ancient histories and promises had told them where hope was to be found.  But the mean world required that the hope of history become real in the present. The pain of the present required that the promises be fulfilled now.

I doubt that there is anyone who is not weary of the battles of this world right about now.  But in the darkness even a small light is bright.  Perhaps that is why we are moved to tears by unexpected hopeful signs, or small acts of kindness recounted on social media or acted out in the check out lane, or why we linger to talk instead of passing hurriedly by when an old friend greets us on the street, or why our hearts melt from the grins and giggles of an innocent child, eyes filled with the wonder.

So, this year, as always, it is good and healthy to pause, to remember,  to watch and wait, to anticipate.  Because there is light in the darkness.  It started as the tiniest, white-hot, pin-point of light that appeared in Bethlehem a long time ago. 

And it has pierced once and for all the darkness of our long night.  And is still warming up our world.  Like a gentle parent, waiting for us to wake up.


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