Keeping the Season

Lead Kindly Light
by John Henry Newman

Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on.
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

Meantime, along the narrow rugged path,
Thyself hast trod,
Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike faith,
Home to my God.
To rest forever after earthly strife
In the calm light of everlasting life.

--

Lead Kindly Light - setting by Dan Forrest

"Advent Calendar - 24th Dec" by Paul Bommer, on Flickr

The Greek word chronos means "time" in a quantitative sense, chronological time, time that you can divide into minutes and years, time as duration. It is the sense that we mean when we say, "What time is it?" or "How much time do I have?" or "Time like an ever-flowing stream," in one of the hymns that we sing. But in Greek there is also the word kairos, which means "time" in a qualitative sense—not the kind that a clock measures but time that cannot be measured at all, time that is characterized by what happens in it. Kairos time is the kind that you mean when you say that "the time is ripe" to do something, "It's time to tell the truth," a truth-telling kind of time. Or " I had a good time"—the time had something about it that made me glad. The ancient poet who wrote the Book of Ecclesiastes was using time in a kairos sense when he wrote of a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to keep silence and a time to speak.

-Frederick Buechner, originally published in The Hungering Dark and later in Listening to Your Life.

"L'interminable/The never ending/La interminable" by Elf-8, on Flickr

In Blackwater Woods
by Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-in New and Selected Poems, Vol. 1

"Our Lady of Spring 2015" by Stephen B Whatley, on Flickr

Too Much to Ask
by Luci Shaw

It seemed too much to ask
of one small virgin
that she should stake shame
against the will of God.
All she had to hold to
were those soft, inward
flutterings
and the remembered sting
of a brief junction--spirit
with flesh.
Who would think it
more than a dream wish?
an implausible, laughable
defense.

And it seems much
too much to ask me
to be part of the
different thing--
God's shocking, unorthodox,
unheard of Thing
to further heaven's hopes
and summon God's glory.

--in Wintersong

photo by C. Nolan Huizenga, on Flickr

In Little Bethlehem (Winds Through the Olive Trees)
traditional, 16th century

Winds through the olive trees,
Softly did blow.
'Round little Bethlehem,
Long, long ago.

Sheep on the hillsides lay
Whiter than snow,
Shepherds were watching them,
Long, long ago.

Then from the starry skies
Angels bent low,
Singing their songs of joy;
Long, long ago.

For, in a manger bed
Cradled we know,
Christ came to Bethlehem
Long, long ago.

"Fall Sun" by maxine1313, on Flickr

Hebrews 1:1-4
Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being, and he sustains all things by his powerful word. When he had made purification for sins, he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high, having become as much superior to angels as the name he has inherited is more excellent than theirs.

John 1:1-14
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.

He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

--
As the first birds start to sing their song over Bethlehem, Mary opens her eyes. Joseph is not yet stirring, and the newborn Jesus is still sleeping, tired from all the work of entering the world. The first ribbons of daylight creep through the cracks in the ceiling, and in the rising light of dawn, Mary feels all of the anxieties of the night lift away.

The darkness had been full of hard things: a hard journey over the hard ground; the sharp pains of labor; the rough disappointment of hearing that there was no room; the sting of fear that comes with being vulnerable, homesick, and in pain in the deep middle of the night, when the shadows are darkest and when the world seems most uncertain.

But it is morning now. The morning is still and clear. The rising of the herald star is now eclipsed by the rising of the sun; light upon light. There is a softness here, a hush, a waking moment to ponder all the wonders of the night. For the first time, Mary can see every detail of her baby boy's face; each soft curve of his cheek, each eyelash as it flutters, every wisp of downy hair.

What has come into being with him was life, and the life is the light of all people. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

Light was the first miracle of all creation - in the beginning, when the world was a formless void and the Spirit of the Lord hovered over the face of the waters, God spoke into the darkness and said, "Let there be light." And there was light. And it was good.

We repeat this miracle every morning - from darkness, light rises with each new dawn. Today, once again, the sun has risen, in hazy streaks of light that tumble over the bluffs and reawaken the sleeping earth from its nighttime dreaming.

But this morning, the light seems different, doesn't it? Somehow it is clearer, holier, filled with the shimmer of deep miracles; in the light, we get our first real look at the tiny, red, wrinkled face of the newborn Jesus. I'm not sure whether it is the gravity of this baby's divinity that makes our hearts soften, or whether it is merely the effect of being in the presence of an impossibly tiny, fragile, untried, adorable baby. But either way, don't you feel your heart soften just a little when you, like Mary, take your first deep look at the baby Jesus, our newborn savior, God in a wee bit of flesh?

We live in a world that keeps its edges sharp. We tend toward cynicism instead of good will, sarcasm instead of genuineness. We take pride in having hard noses and being hard-headed and drawing hard lines. Politicians and news media drive us toward establishing clear, fear-filled boundaries between races, religions, political ideologies, and worldviews. We are told that we will succeed if we are tough, unrelenting, and defensive instead of vulnerable, soft, and considerate.

But against all of these hard edges, the light of Christ spills over into our world with shifting edges, moving into all the dark corners, spreading over hills and valleys, uncontained, unrestricted, making fuzzy the edges of our shadows, making permeable the boundaries of our hearts and minds. That’s what light does! It flows and fills; it cannot be captured or hoarded. Light has power to banish darkness; brightness to bring clarity; gentleness to rouse us from dark nights of the soul.

The soft light of Christ’s dawn does not just rise over Decorah this morning.

The light of Christ’s dawn rises over children awakening in refugee camps and over homeless families in makeshift shelters.

It rises over Democrats and Republicans and Independents; democracies and monarchies and parliaments.

The light of Christ rises over Israel. And over Palestine.

It rises over peaceful, sleepy small towns and war zones and crime-ridden corners of giant cities.

The light of Christ rises over farmers and police officers and bankers and electricians; piano teachers and custodians and stay-at-home-parents and CEOs.

It rises over Lutherans and Catholics and Methodists and Presbyterians; over Jews and Muslims; atheists and agnostics.

The light of Christ rises over shrinking ice caps and barren forests; over flourishing farms and rolling seas.

It rises over those who have spent this dark night in fear, in grief, in anxiety, or in sleeplessness. It rises over those who slept deeply and in peace. It rises over those who have worked the night shift and over children who awoke in the wee hours of the morning, wide awake with excitement.

John tells us that Christ, the true light coming into the world, is the light that enlightens everyone. Christ is the light that opens our eyes to see a world that God loves, deeply. And Christ is the light that calls us to serve and love all people and all places that the light touches.

Just as Scrooge’s heart was enlightened by his visions, softening him to become a person of compassion and generosity; just as the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes after hearing the Whos down in Whoville singing in the morning light, so also does the birth of Christ call us toward enlightened eyes that see one another and the world with new softness, new compassion, new love and generosity and graciousness of spirit.

My prayer today, for you and for me, is that this Christmas morning might re-enliven us in our God-given calling to love one another. That we might take the risk of being vulnerable and crossing boundaries, just as God himself crossed the boundary between heaven and earth to become a fragile human baby in our world. My prayer is that we might not draw up walls and fences around the light, but instead be bearers of the light, vessels for Christ, vehicles for the ongoing illumination of the world.

I bless you and commission you for this task, in the words of poet Jan Richardson:

Blessed Are You Who Bear the Light

Blessed are you
who bear the light
in unbearable times,
who testify
to its endurance
amid the unendurable,
who bear witness
to its persistence
when everything seems
in shadow
and grief.

Blessed are you
in whom
the light lives,
in whom
the brightness blazes—
your heart
a chapel,
an altar where
in the deepest night
can be seen
the fire that
shines forth in you
in unaccountable faith
in stubborn hope
in love that illumines
every broken thing
it finds.

Amen.