Getting a Hand Up at Christmas

Getting back to the Celtic roots that generates the impetus for this blog I share with you an incident in the life of the Celtic saint Brendan. He is the one called the Navigator, a sixth century monk who spends most of his life in a small boat made of leather and wicker and called a coracle. Brendan believed that God had sent him on a mission to an earthly paradise similar to the one God had given to Adam and to Eve, and though he sailed into and out of many ports,he never found his Eden. Near the end of his life, around 580 A.D., he meets up with a Welsh monk named Gildis and they talk into the wee hours of the morning. At the end of the conversation, Gildis stands up, and for the first time, Brendan sees that Gildis has only one leg.  The other was gone from the knee down.  He was hopping sideways to reach for his stick in the corner when he lost his balance.  He would have fallen in a heap had not Brendan lept forward and caught him.  In gratitude, Gildis nodded at Brendan, and said, “I am as crippled as the dark world.” To which Brendan replied, “If it come to that, which of us is not, my dear Gildis?” And the truth that Brendan offers next transcends both calendar and culture, for his words to Gildis are these: “to give each other a hand when we are falling, is perhaps the only work that matters in the end.”


During my sojourn out in California and Nevada, I invited Ann Weems to come to Zephyr Point Conference Center on Lake Tahoe and facilitate a retreat for pastors in Sacramento Presbytery. Over the course of working out the details, setting the agenda, etc., Ann and I developed quite a relationship, and there will be more about what when on at that retreat in a later posting, but for now, I share with you one of her poems from her book Kneeling In Bethlehem:

                   Some of us walk into Advent tethered to our unresolved yesterdays.

                   The pain is still stabbing.  The hurt is still throbbing.

                   It is not that we don't know better.  It is just that we

                   Cannot stand up any more by ourselves.  On the way to Bethlehem,

                   Will you give us a hand?

        

         One of the images of God we often see in medieval stained glass windows is that of a hand descending from the clouds of heaven. Is it too hard to imagine that “hand” becoming a child who becomes a man who stretches out his hand to steady us when we are falling? And if God in Christ can do that for us, perhaps it is not too great  a stretch to imagine that this is what he wants us to do for each other.  That we give a hand in order to keep someone else from falling. That maybe someone we barely know, and yet we know enough that someone's hand is needed to help steady this person for whatever lies ahead. Or that someone could be a person whom we know quite well - a spouse, a parent, a child. And we become aware that a hand reaches out across a room and draws the other closer, a hand that reaches across a sofa to connect with another to say, “I’m sorry. Please take me back. I do not want to fall any further.”

When I was working in Northern Ireland in the summer of 2006, at a place called Corrymeela, I encountered another image of the Hand of God. Corrymeela is a retreat center for groups working on reconciliation issues.  In part, it deals with the issues of Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland, but it also works with issues in families to effect reconciliation. In the chapel at this retreat center is this charcoal drawing. I found it haunting then, and I find it haunting still.  The hand of who – a child, a man, a woman? – falling physically, mentally, psychologically, emotionally? And who is it that holds on to the hand that appears to be reaching out for something, or someone, upon which to hold on to – is it God, is it you, is it me?

Over the next twelve days (Christmastide), we will be giving – and receiving – gifts.  What greater gift can we give or can we receive than a hand that lifts us up; than a hand that lifts someone else up and keeps them from falling any further. God offered that hand to a world that had fallen into the depths of sin, and a world that continues to fall; a hand that keeps us from falling outside the pale of his grace. It is this image of God, incarnate in the Christ, which I envision whenever I hear Josh Gorban sing “You Raise Me Up.” With the orchestra behind him, the lyrics soar to a crescendo, and then, almost in a whisper, Gorban sings: “…You raise me up to be more than I can be.”

In this Christmastide, do you need to receive the gift of a hand up to keep you from falling further into whatever darkness may be swirling around you? Can God work his grace through someone else that you may be raised to a greater self-understanding? Or do you perhaps need to give the gift of a hand up to someone whom you know is falling and does not need to fall any further, that they might rise above the waves of self-doubt that are consuming them?  Can you think of a better gift that you might give … that you might receive … at this time of year?


Jerry

Christmas As Improvisation

Some years ago, I was over at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary along with members of my colleague group for a seminar as a part of our participation in the College of Pastoral Leaders. The theme of this seminar was “Improvisation,” and how that related to excellence in ministry. The leadership of the event made good use of several jazz musicians as well as some local artists from the Austin area. I have never been a big jazz fan, but I am learning to appreciate it more and more at this point in my life. I am intrigued by the way improvisation works within the mind and fingers of an artist or a musician. I had to admit that this whole idea of improvisation in ministry was a compelling concept. Now in this Advent/Christmastide season, I find myself drawn to share some thoughts on how our respective ministries might be strengthened by a little (or a lot of) improvisation. One of the definitions of improvisation that I took away from that Austin experience is this: “improvisation is the art of transforming what you have before you into something so glorious that it takes your breath away and people cannot help but be awed in its presence.” Generally speaking, in the visual arts or in the auditory arts, there is always a central theme around which the artist shapes his or her creation. If the artist, or someone familiar with the artist's work, wants to do some improvisation on that person's artistic creation, it must be done in a manner that this central theme is not lost. As we think about improvisation in ministry, and ministry in this particular season, the central theme of Christmas is salvation – for unto us a child is born … and he shall save his people from their sins. In a post modern, post Christian culture, I have found that even within Christian communities, we barely give lip service to the gospel message of salvation; in the grand scheme of what seems important at this time of year, how many of us give much thought to salvation? On one of the radio stations here in Houston that plays continuous Christmas music, the words from “Silent Night” were changed from “our savior is born,” to “the savior is born” and I wonder how many people caught the change. In the original, it is personal; in the change, it is not. In a commentary on National Public Radio, Adam Gopnik spoke of how he was into all the glitz and false piety he saw around him there in his home of New York City from the middle of November through the month of December. I believe Gopnik saw something of the improvisation of it all; there is still a thread, a theme, an idea of the nativity that pointed to something beyond the ornamentation at Rockefeller Center and the window displays along Fifth Avenue. It is the idea of rebirth and renewal tied so deeply to the rhythms of the season and to the rhythms of human existence that somehow keeps us connected amidst the increasing secularization of the holiday. He finishes with these words, “You go to war, or towards peace, with whatever Christmas you’ve got.” At first I thought Gopnik's summation was a bit lame, but I kept turning his words over in my mind. You and I probably want the Christ-event, the experience of Christmas to be more than it has been in the past. We find ourselves speculating, "wouldn't it be great if only ..." But the harsh reality is that we each move forward with whatever thread of the Christmas story that we can hold on to, because when everything is said and done, it is really all that we've got. The other day I went to visit one of our members who is recovering from surgery, but now is facing more problems seemingly unrelated to the surgery. She is alert and conversive, but she is scared. She told me of bible verses he had learned as a child, and she keeps reciting them over in her mind, sometimes not remembering the complete verses, but able to link them together into a mental meditation. She is not able to read in her current condition, but her mind is clear. When she told me about reciting these verses in her head, even when they were not complete, I responded to her, "...well, Janice, sometimes you just have to improvise." Her eyes lit up and she smiled, "That's it, pastor, and you know, that's okay - even that helps push the clouds of fear and uncertainty away." As any of us seek to make sense of the ills and the problems that beset us; sometimes the best we can do is improvise: we go into any situation that is before us with whatever we've got. But the glorious thing about this is the way it points us to a more excellent ministry than we might otherwise have provided to those to whom God sends us; sometimes, with what little we may have to work with, strange and wonderful events may be so transformational that they take our breath away. In December of 2008, up in Sutter County northeast of Sacramento, California, not too far from where we were living at the time, in a small community called Paradise, a family set out to cut their own Christmas tree. A snow storm blew in, and they became disoriented and lost in the storm. Other family members did not know exactly where they had traveled in search of that tree. Finally, after two days in the harsh elements of the high Sierras, and just before another storm was to hit, they were … saved. In their hunt for the perfect tree, they lost their way. In their hunt for lost souls, their rescuers found their way opening up to them; a way that led to salvation. In their search and rescue efforts, the people of Paradise, California never lost the thread of hope which was woven into each frustrating hour of their search. In a situation like this, when they are not exactly sure where their efforts would take them, they were able to keep the music of this rescue operation playing. Perhaps they did not recognize it at the time but each person on that snow covered mountain was improvising on the theme of hope, and they kept working that theme until- what they had before them turned into something so glorious that it took their breath away and people could not help but be awed in its presence - they who were lost are now found; they, whom others thought were dead, are now alive. Paul writes in Philippians: “… our citizenship is in heaven and it is from there that we are expecting a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. In this Christmas miracle in the high Sierras, I could not help but be struck by a bit of dramatic irony. When Paul writes “our citizenship is in heaven,” some translations would use another word for heaven: “paradise.” It is from there that we in the Christian faith are expecting a savior. And so it was for that family who was lost and so it was for their neighbors who set out to rescue them, all of whom called "Paradise" home. The central theme of this Advent/Christmas season is still salvation, whether or not we give much thought to it with all the distractions that surround us. But maybe this year amid the constant drone of secular Christmas music over the airwaves and in the malls and stores where you shop, you might just hear, or even better, experience an improvisation on that central theme of the Christmas story that will transform whatever Christmas you've currently "got," into something so glorious that it takes your breath away and you cannot help but be awed in its presence. Jerry

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An Advent Reflection -"Of Battles and Babies”

It has been some time since I last posted, but part of the problem has been getting blogger.com to recognize this blog as one that I have had since 2007, and that I was not trying to start a new blog. And another part of the problem is budgeting the time to just "get 'er done."

Thanksgiving is just a couple days away and the beginning of Advent is this Sunday. In doing some homework on this posting, I came across something that Billy Graham wrote some years ago:

The year was 1809, a time of the great Napoleonic Wars in Europe. During that year, there came into the world a host of heroes of the future: British Reformer, William F. Gladstone; the poet Alfred Lord Tennyson; American writer and jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes; Felix Mendelssohn, the composer; and Abraham Lincoln, born in Kentucky. But nobody was thinking about babies. Everybody’s mind was on the great battles being fought in Europe. Yet today we look back in hindsight and ask ourselves: “which was more important, the battles or the babies of 1809?” The day that Lincoln was born, one of the locals was asked what was happening in the village. The reply was, “nothing, nothing at all – except a new baby born over at Tom Lincoln’s place. No sir, nothin goin’ on ‘round here.”

(the Lincoln cabin where Abraham was born in 1809)>>>

As we move into this Advent Season of 2009, we are all called to be midwives in this period of time that is pregnant with possibilities. As pastors or laity, it has been placed upon us to prepare the way that Christ might be born again; to be for us a living hope.

Perhaps each Advent Season has its challenges for the church and the culture it strives to reach, but I cannot remember a time when this year of 2009 has posed so many challenges for the church and for our global community. Economic battles are before us, military battles still are being waged in Iraq and Afghanistan, theological and doctrinal battles continue in our churches and in the courtrooms. With all the battles to fight – whether it is 1809 or 2009 – who has time for babies?

In one of his earliest sermons, Frederick Buechner writes about the Innkeeper in Bethlehem, someone who could have been a midwife, who could have helped bring this Child of God into the world, but didn’t. “Later that night, when the baby came, I was not there,” the Innkeeper said. “I was lost in the forest somewhere, the unenchanted forest of million trees, a million other things to do …So, how am I to say it … when he came, I missed him.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was filled with sorrow at the tragic death of a family member in a fire in 1861. The Civil War broke out that same year, and it seemed this was an additional punishment. Two years later, Longfellow was again saddened to hear the his own son had been seriously wounded as a lieutenant in the Army of the Potomac. Sitting down to his desk, one Christmas Day, he heard the church bells ringing, and ringing. It was in this setting he wrote:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head
There is no peace on earth I said
For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep,
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep.
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.

In this Advent time, maybe we could spend less time thinking about the battles before us and more time honing our skills of midwivery – if indeed that is a word. God is not dead, nor does he sleep. God, I believe, weeps over our willfulness to do battle. Our politicians are more skillful at military strategy than in diplomacy or statesmanship. Peace on earth is a pandering comment more suited to greeting cards and beauty contestant responses than to a true and realistic expectation. Will there ever be a time, let alone in our lifetimes, when the child of which Isaiah prophesies will lead the hunter and the hunted into that peaceable kingdom? And I, ever the cock-eyed optimist, must answer "yes!" But what concerns me as I get older, but no less busy, is that I will have become like the Innkeeper - that I might be lost somewhere in a forest of a million trees, such that when he does come, I will miss the moment because of being too self-absorbed in things that really in the grand scheme of God's kingdom do not matter. What if … we in our churches and in our offices and in our schoolrooms, gave more thought to how a re-birth of Christ in our midst might change our perspective on the battles we face both now and in the coming year? With a Child of God to be born again into our midst, who has time for battles?

Jerry

Blessed Assurances

[ The image which accompanies this posting is a bronze sculpture of St. Francis sending birds off into flight. I photograhed this in the chapel of Correymeela, a retreat and conference center located in Ballycastle, Northern Ireland. For me it speaks of grace and redemption; a blessed assurance of God's presence within and among us]

I have been a devoted fan of Niall Williams ever since I stumbled upon his book As It Is In Heaven during my first visit to Ireland in the late ‘90s. There is a wistful search for significance and for that elusive experience of grace in his prose that I have found quite compelling. In his most recent book Only Say the Word, he writes these words:

I think that out of collapsed faith, out of hurt from the absence of response from God Himself, I write the words the way I used to say prayers, that something may happen, that the pages and their words be a kind of redemption. It is outlandish, I know. I would not say it out loud … but I want [a book] that is in fact a quiet kind of sacrament, a slow ritual of telling, of confession, say, and offering and consecration, that brings communion of a kind and grace with it."

Williams is an Irish writer who draws upon his Celtic heritage as well as the Christian traditions which he and his family practice. What the main character “Jim” is struggling with is the writing of what he describes as “a short book about love.” But really it is about coming to terms with the experiences his life journey has provided as a husband, a father, and with a sense of failing to be what he most wanted to be. So, in his writing, he is searching for redemption.

Two months ago, I turned 65, and instead of retiring, I took a new call as a parish pastor, and do not plan to retire any time soon. The number “65” used to have a certain iconic significance with respect to being over the hill, out to pasture, etc. But that is no longer the case. However, it is a benchmark in my own faith journey to look at my life in a way similar to the way Niall Williams looks at the lives of his characters and to say that I continue in the ministry “that something may happen” and thus lead me to an awareness of “a kind of redemption.” I came to the awareness while we were out in California that all of life is – or can be – sacramental. That is to say that the lives we live and the people we encounter along the way can be handled in such a way that we remember, that we reconnect with the holiness of our faith and know that we have been blessed in this life and in the people who populate these lives of ours, even when there is tragedy; even when we fail. Being blessed is not about having adorable children, a perfect golf swing, a trophy spouse. Blessings in a life that is lived sacramentally will also include, but not be limited to, heartache, loss, stress, or anxiety. The word "blessing" recognizes the existence and deity of God. It tells us that we can be aware of His existence and have inner happiness because of who and what he is, regardless of the circumstances in which we find ourselves. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing to his good friend Eberhard Bethge, noted that Biblical persons who received God’s blessing also endured a great deal of suffering:

“…but this never leads to the idea that fortune and suffering, blessing and cross are mutually exclusive and contradictory.”

These words were written while Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran pastor, was imprisoned by the Nazis in Tegel prison in Germany. Within a year he would be executed just weeks before the war in Europe ended. For this martyr to the Christian faith, blessing always includes the cross. The Blessed Assurances that we seek from within our faith must take into account the elements of sacrifice and suffering. Sacrament in our faith, takes the elements of life – the bread, the wine, the water – as that which God consecrates as he continuously builds on the relationship between the sacred and the profane. Like the blessing that was bestowed upon Abraham, he was blessed that through him, all nations might know of the blessings of God; we too have been blessed to make his name and his nature known beyond our little corner of the kingdom. In writing to some people who occupied powerful positions in Italy, Francis of Assisi stated:

“keep a clear eye toward life’s end. Do not forget your purpose and destiny as God’s creatures. What you are in His sight is what you are and nothing more.Remember that when you leave this earth, you can take nothing that you have received … but only what you have given; a full heart enriched by honest service, love, sacrifice and courage.”

Offering a blessing for anyone, even those we do not know, comes from a spiritual attitude of love and appreciation for that person. God makes the initial move towards us because of an innate attitude to love. He provides us his graciousness, his gift of salvation, his spiritual gifts, all of which are manifestations of his love towards us which we receive sacramentally. Or at least we should receive them as such. Maybe each of us in some way is writing our own “short book on love;” maybe we see this in a cathartic way as a means for redemption for all the times we have fallen short in the relationships that really matter in this life. "65" is not a bad place to be; and it is better than the alternative of not “being” anywhere! For those of you who are younger and those of you who are older, maybe this posting will help you in your own quest for redemption. We all of us have a love story to tell – or to write – and for many of us there is a need for absolution which opens us up to receive the redemptive love of God. Only then are we comfortable with where our stories are taking us, and the blessings that surround us.

The Easter Light

On Easter Sunday, my friend Jack McNary preached an inspired Easter message which he entitled “Opening Day.” But it was his message to the children which got my imaginative juices moving, and wich led to this posting of Celtic Crossings. He brought out an egg which he had obtained at a local store; a bit oversized, sort of the size of a turkey egg. Very nondescript until he flipped a small switch and a light came on inside the egg, and pastel shades of light began to flicker through the “shell” of the egg. And so the message to young and old, big and small, was the opening day for the light of the world; the light which death could not contain, nor could the world extinguish; the “Easter Light” emerging from the “shell” of the garden tomb.

There are many legends which surround Patrick’s mission to bring Christianity to Ireland. One which comes to "light" in this context is Patrick’s confrontation with King Leoghaire at the Hill of Tara on Easter of 432 A.D. For the Celtic king and his druid advisors, this particular day and night was a pagan recognition of samhain, or the darkness that comes into the world. It was a kind of scary, mystical time not unlike our Halloween, and no fires were permitted across Ireland until samhain was over. In his novel I Am of Irelunde, Juilene Osborne-McKnight provides this insight into Patrick’s ministry:

At first light, I rode alone on horseback to the plains of Tara, ringing the little bell. When enough people had gathered around me, I spoke the message I had composed in my prayers.
“The people of Eire have known many gods. Some are gods of darkness. They feed on death and war; anger them and they will turn against you like a storm. Some are gods of light and laughter; if they are pleased with you, good fortune may come your way. “But I bring you an unchanging God. My Lord will stand with those who love him. …Tonight is samhain night. Tonight you fear the darkness that comes through the door of the world. But I tell you that tonight the Light that banishes all darkness will ignite in Eire. Tonight the fire of the Lord God will burn in the darkness. Tonight, the Light that can never be extinguished will be lit at the heart of Eire.” Then we went and gathered much wood. We set our torches to the tower of wood. The flames rushed high into the night, sparks rushing toward the stars.

The Druidic prophets warned the king that if that fire were not stamped out, it would never afterward be extinguished in Ireland. So, Leoghaire summoned Patrick and his faithful followers to come to him at the Hill of Tara ...

“Great King of Eire!” I cried. “I know that you fear my God and the changes that he will bring, but I tell you that these changes will be gentle, like these green stems Son, and the Spirit has carpeted all of Eire with his own name.”

From behind the king, there is movement, and druid Dubtach comes forward, a man whose “word could kill a man or save him, stop a war or cause it to begin.”

“I will take the baptism of the One Who Comes!” he cried.
Leoghaire groaned.
“Why have you chosen this?” I asked softly.
Dubtach smiled.
“I believe in the Word,” he replied.
They tumbled after him then, … the druids and then Ethni and Fedelm, the daughters of Leoghaire. When he tried to stop them, Ethni placed her hand on her father’s arm.
“You have told us to abide by the wisdom of our tutors, father. See where they take the baptism. We are women of Eire. We decide for ourselves. We choose the White Christ of Padraig (Patrick).”
At last Leoghaire could bear no more.
“Halt!” He stood and raised his hand.
“Patricius, I give you permission to preach throughout Eire the doctrine of the new God, for I see that it will not be stopped.

And so that Easter Light of a bonfire set in opposition to a pagan ritual continued to burn and was never extinguished in those Celtic lands. But for us today, the Easter Light is more than a bonfire set on hill to illuminate the darkness. The Easter Light is the power at work within us to bring about God’s will and purpose in a troubled land. The Easter Light is what gives power to the fainthearted, and strengthens those who feel powerless; it is what renews the strength of those who wait upon the Lord; it is the Light for those times when all other lights fail us. The tomb could not contain it; the darkness cannot overcome it. It is the “Light” which the Lord has blessed; let us rejoice and be glad in it!

A Season of Epiphanies

At the beginning of this month, the 6th of January to be exact, Christians celebrated the Day of Epiphany. This is the Twelfth Day of Christmas or the day to celebrate the arrival of the magi with their gifts for the new king born in Bethlehem of Judea.


Epiphany is a revelatory moment; an inspired insight into what God is revealing in us and around us.

That day we had a meeting here at our offices and when the meeting was over, I was asked to close it with prayer. In the context of the prayer, I referenced epiphany, and prayed that we as a group in particular and the larger church in general, might indeed experience not just this day of divine revelation, but rather a “season of epiphanies.” The response to the prayer was “wow, what an idea!; we do need more than a day to reflect on what God is revealing to us.” Thus it is that I found the next subject for CelticCrossings.

Epiphanies are more than just a burst of insight; most epiphanies I believe are calls to pay attention and to respond in some appropriate fashion. When St. Patrick was a young man growing up in Wales, he was captured by pirates and taken to a Celtic land we now know as Ireland. There he was kept as a slave and forced be a sheep herder. After enduring this period of slavery for about 6 years, Patrick had a vision, an epiphany; a moment of clarity of what God wanted him to do. Acting on that vision, Patrick was able to escape and return to his native country. Upon his return, he gave himself up to religious studies with the idea that God was calling him into the priesthood. But then Patrick had another epiphany. This time the insight which came to him called him to return to the land where he had been enslaved and to bring the gospel message to the people of Ireland. Indeed, through these revelations, God made it clear to Patrick that his call was not to the priesthood, but to the mission field.

This past week, the artist Andrew Wyeth died at the age of 91. I have long admired Wyeth’s artistic perspective, and at one point in my life, I lived not too far from his home in Chads Ford, Pennsylvania along the Brandywine River. In an interview on National Public Radio some years ago, Wyeth described his own process for getting into a subject to paint:
“It’s an enlightening, it’s a flash … and after you have that flash, of course comes the hard work of finally pulling it together and putting it down with as great simplicity as you can.”

I think of my own writing, now in these CelticCrossings postings, and before in my sermon preparations; I am at my best when there is that epiphany moment: that flash of insight into a biblical passage or into a cultural event or into a life experience that seems to come from beyond my own acumen and needs to be recorded. God the Creator reveals some new insight, and I try to listen and then to respond.

My favorite Irish author is Niall Williams. He wrote the critically acclaimed novel As It Is In Heaven, and his most recent work of fiction is John, a novel that depicts the last days of the apostle John’s life, first on Patmos, then in an area near Ephesus. John has had his revelation, the epiphany which led to the apocalyptic letter to the churches of Asia Minor. Now, towards the close of the novel, Williams offers his own fictional account of how John embraced these flashes of enlightenment from God and responded by bringing forth his own unique version of his experience of the Word made flesh:
He knows as he has not known before what is finite and what infinite. He knows that for light darkness is needed, and that his hundred years is not an end, but a beginning only. He raises up his hands as though to word sent long ago response is now received. … ‘Hall’luyah, Hall’luyah,’ he cries, and the disciples look to one another in awe and joy of what immanence is made manifest. Here is rapture and revelation. …
John sees.
And in that moment John knows the testament is not himself but the Word and what remains and what will remain to the last is just this … what gift he bears is not a narrative, is not a telling of what happened, but something other; it is a vision for all time, it is the very cornerstone of the vast church that looms in his mind.
He sees.
He sees and is humbled and uplifted both. … He says, ‘The Lord is with us.’ Then he asks that one of them write what he will tell.
He sits. A light is lit.

A season of epiphanies. A prolonged time of waiting expectantly for God to break into our consciousness and separate our plans from his plans. A flash of insight. We listen, or hope we listen, and then respond with keystrokes or brushstrokes; voice or footsteps.

I think it behooves us all not to take lightly those revelatory moments called epiphanies, for in that lightning flash of insight, God points us in the direction he would have us go. To paraphrase the words of Andrew Wyeth, after you have that flash, then comes the hard work of finally pulling it together and putting it down with as great a simplicity as you can. May you experience your own season of epiphanies, and may it be a long and fruitful one.

The Christmas Light

In a speech which JRR Tolkien gave at Oxford University in 1955, he apologized for its tardiness, saying that what had hindered him was “the long delayed appearance of a large ‘work,’ if it can be called that which contains … much of what I personally have received from the study of things Celtic.” This large work was, as you might expect, The Lord of the Rings. In this Christmas posting of Celtic Crossings, I offer what has been for me a defining, symbolic moment from this epic work. This small band of distinctly different compatriots who comprise the fellowship of the ring are set to leave the land of Lothlorien to continue their journey. It is then that the elfen Queen Galadriel gives gifts to each man, and to Frodo she gives a phial of light. With this gift she says, “Let this light be for you a light in dark places; let it be a light for you when all other lights fail.” It was a gift, a light which he would need before the journey was over. I think about this episode in The Lord of the Rings frequently, particularly in this season of gift-giving. It reminds me of the importance of giving the things that others need rather than giving only those things they tell us they want.

So what then is this Christmas Light? It is generally considered that bright star that guided the wise men to the place where Jesus had been born. In reality, it is more of an Epiphany symbol than a Christmas symbol, but nonetheless one of the things we associate with the Christ event. As John Henry Hopkins wrote as the refrain for We Three Kings of Orient Are:

O star of wonder, star of night. Star of royal beauty bright; Westward leading, still proceeding, Guide us to thy perfect light.

It seems to me that the Christmas light is not so much celestial as it is spiritual. We come to church on Christmas because the Christ-light shows us the way, guiding us to his perfect light. While a light is to be seen, it’s purpose is to point beyond itself; a beacon in service to those who need to see where they are going; an indicator of where the safe passage exists. As children of God, we are children of the light; we obtain our light from the one who is the light of the world, and then we are instructed to share that light with those who need to find their way through the doom and gloom of a darkening world.

In one of Robert Fulghum’s earlier books, he tells the story of a man from Crete who through patience and forebearance was a light for the healing of the wounds which war had etched into the people of his country. Talking to the author, he says:
“One day, on the road,” the man began, “I found a piece of mirror from a wrecked German motorcycle … By scratching in on a stone I made it round. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine … it became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find …
As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not a child’s game, but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I am a fragment of a mirror who whole design and shape I do not know. Nonetheless, with what I have I reflect light into the dark places of the world – into the black spaces in the hearts of men – and change some things in some people. Perhaps others will see and do likewise …”

And then he took that small mirror, and holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight streaming through the window … and reflected them onto my face.

In this Christmas/Ephphany time, I pray for you the gift of the Christmas light; a light that shines not so much upon you, but as a light that shines through you. Had Frodo not had that light which Galadriel in her wisdom had given him, he would never have completed his journey nor accomplished his mission. Sometimes it is the simplest of objects which reveal the most profound truths, like the mirror in the story above. At this Christmas time, it is not so much that we see the light of that Christmas star, but that we receive that light into our very being. Remember that though the wisemen followed the light of that star to Bethlehem, it was a different light that led them back a different way, that inner light of God's grace. So, as I post this blog on Christmas Eve, may that light be received as a gift to live this life to the fullest; a gift of light for when all the other lights of this world dim and darkness threatens.

Telling the Story

Throughout Ireland, and to a more limited degree in Scotland and Wales, a traveler will often see what are called “high crosses,” a picture of one is included in this blog. Most high crosses contain runes and/or pictographs on each side of the cross which help tell the story of the covenant God effected with his people. In a land of few books, a high cross was often seen as “a Bible in stone” or “a Sermon in Stone” as Celtic artists chiseled out the symbols where the people could understand the gospel of their salvation. These crosses were erected in villages and fields; near monasteries or in wooded glades; wherever people could gather for the reading and/or the telling of the story.

As we move into the season of Advent, that time of preparation of the Christmas event, I wonder about the telling of the Nativity story in our world today. How do you tell the story of the already, but not yet revelation of the Incarnation? How do you build expectancy for someone who has already come? Do you just put theology on the shelf once you have put out your crèche characters on the mantle or the hall table? Do you just let the story tell itself, assuming that since this is the Christmas story, everybody gets it because it has been so prevalent in our Christian culture for generations?

I have a friend who, when she lived in Houston, would host a really great party early in the Christmas season, and in attendance were a number of Presbyterian clergy. Of course, like so many of us when we decorate for our families and guests, there is often the “Nativity Scene” with all the principals of the Christmas story being present from shepherds to magi to angels to sometimes (gasp!) even a little drummer boy! And there is little baby Jesus asleep in the hay of the tiny manger. Well, true to form, as part of the festive decorations around her home was her own personal Nativity Scene. The day after this one particular party, my friend realized that baby Jesus was missing! Thinking through her guest list from the night before, she narrowed the culprit list down to one or two possibilities. “Where is baby Jesus?” she demanded. “I confess,” one of her clergy friends admitted, “I took Jesus out of the manger, and put him out of sight up on a shelf in your bookcase. There you will find him. But I took him so you can do a better job of telling the story of the birth of God’s son. This is Advent – this is not the time for him to be in the manger …”

For those of you who have a Nativity Scene; a crèche, a manger tableau, however you may describe it, and are planning on putting it out as part of your Christmas decorations this season, consider this possibility: think about this as an opportunity to use these three dimensional characters to be a “high cross” for telling a more authentic story of the Christ-event. Make it a true Advent experience for those who live in your home or for those who will visit. Start with an empty stable (if you have one) if you don’t, just start with an empty space, but one which is designated to be “where it all happens.” In the parlance of Celticcrossings, this is a “thin place” where the sacred and the profane brush up against each other. Here is the place where hope shall blossom where before there had been no hope; there was no story to be told; no eyes to see, nor ears to hear the story God would soon announce to the nations. When the time is right, add the animals which are at home in this place, and add the manger from which they feed. A few days later, Joseph and Mary might be seen in close proximity to the animals, and although it cannot be seen, the story is that Mary is pregnant by the power of God at work within her, and she waits, as do the rest of us to be delivered of this child. When family or guests in your home ask about the emptiness of the crèche, or wonder why this or that piece is missing, tell the story that this world is empty when the presence of God's grace revealed in Jesus is missing, but be patient, let God's Spirit sustain you, for by faith, we all wait for the hope of righteousness which is surely coming.

And, in the fullness of time, Mary was delivered of this child whose name shall be called Emmanuel – God With Us. NOW, the baby Jesus lies in the manger, and the donkey, and the cow, and the other animals begin to have a proprietary interest in this interloper in the stable. The next day, perhaps, you bring the shepherds in to make their appearance on the scene, and you tell their story as well; how they came, ragged, impoverished herdsmen, to see that which had come to pass. And now, perhaps an angel hovers near by, and if angels are there, now is the time to tell their story as well. Like scarlet ribbons, angels are woven throughout the nativity narrative, a plot device whereby they bear the glad tidings which is the message from God to all those of us who have dwelled in a land of great darkness of despair or depression or loneliness or hopelessness, upon us now a grace-filled light has shone forth; to poor, lonely people like you and like I, a seed of hope has been planted.

The story is almost told – but not quite. What of the magi, the wise men from the East? Well, they don’t belong at the stable, truth be told. They did not arrive on the day of his birth, but came along some time later. Theirs is a story of persistence and patience and also one of obedience and expectancy. Theirs is also a story of non-Jews who come to play a prominent place in the story of salvation which unwinds in the life of this young child. As Simeon said in the Temple when Jesus was presented eight days after his birth, and before the wise men showed up astride their camels, “my eyes have seen your salvation which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” There is a place for the wise men, but it is a place when the frenzy of the nativity night has given way to making a home for the young child and his mother. It is to this place that the men bearing gifts arrive. And it is in that context that we tell their story as Matthew meant for it to be told, for the gifts that they bring are not just any gifts, but connote the symbolism of a life of sacrifice, and of service, and, ultimately, of death, The gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh point to the offices of king, priest, and savior: gold speaks of His kingship; frankincense was a spice used in the priestly duties; and myrrh was an embalming ointment anticipating His death.

So now, on the cusp of Advent, you are ready to tell not just one story, but the multiple stories which emerge from the incarnation of God in Jesus Christ. And somewhere in the midst of it all, is your own story of how you came to believe; and in the midst of it all, is my story of how I came to believe. And as we tell our natal stories of new life and new hope we continue to hold on to a fresh anticipation of what this Advent will bring both in us and through us. Perhaps others will hear our stories and may also come to believe that there is indeed someone coming who can bring light into their darkness, hope into their despair, presence into their loneliness. But how will they hear lest someone tell them?

Do you truly believe that they will get the point –or know the true story - just by admiring that crèche that you so proudly display throughout the month of December?

Can I get a word of Thanksgiving?

Given the increasingly dour news about our economy and the need to cut back (expenses) and to cut up (credit cards), I wondered as we move into this season of Thanksgiving, how and why people would feel a sense of thanksgiving. There are so many people caught up not only in a foreclosure crisis, but also caught up in job layoffs. There are so many people who have seen their savings dwindle or completely disappear; who have watched retirement funds telegraph the message to keep working – retirement is not in your future for some time to come. There are people who cannot get credit, or if they can, pay a high premium for it. Will there be people attending church on Thanksgiving Eve, as was our custom throughout our 20 Thanksgivings at Southminster Presbyterian Church, or will they think “why bother; there is so little left in my life for which to offer thanksgiving?” I haven’t gotten completely cynical about human nature, but as a Christian, I have been awed at the spiritual ennui that is gripping the hearts of so many people I see and hear around me.

After departing in recent blogs from the basic premise of Celticcrossings, I return to that concept that gave birth to this blog and which in so many ways gives focus and direction to my sense of what we should be about within our Christian faith. In the worship services that I attended in both Scotland and Northern Ireland, and those which were part of our worship ministry at Southminster from time to time, the celtic worship liturgy has a free-flowing quality which embraces all of life as both sacred and sacramental. So, at this time of Thanksgiving, even when things seem dark and getting darker, I wanted to share some liturgical prayers drawn from the Celtic traditions upon which you might choose to reflect at this season. The following prayer comes out of the oral, gaelic traditions of the Scottish Highlands:

Thanksgiving

Thanks to Thee, O God, that I have risen today,
To the rising of this life itself;
May it be to Thine own glory, O God of every gift,
And to the glory of my soul likewise.

O great God, aid Thou my soul
With the same aiding of Thine own mercy;
Even as I clothe my body with wool,
Cover Thou my soul with the shadow of Thy wing.

Help me to avoid every sin,
And the source of every sin to forsake;
And as the mist scatters on the crest of the hills,
May each ill haze clear from my soul, O God.

You may not have heard of a Scottish civil servant by the name of Alexander Carmichael, but he did a great service for his native country by collecting and preserving the oral traditions that abounded in the Highlands and the Hebrides in the late 19th century. His work was published in a volume known as the Carmina Gadelica; it is a Latin phrase which means “Gaelic songs, hymns, and incantations.” Carmichael says this about his work:

Whatever the value of this work, it is genuine folklore, taken down from the lips of men and women, no part being copied from books. It is the product of faraway thinking, come down on the long streams of time. Who the thinkers and whence the stream, who can tell? …These poems were composed by the learned, but they have not come down through the learned, but through the unlearned – not through the lettered few, but through the unlettered many – through the crofters and cottars, the herdsmen and shepherds of the Highlands and Islands.

Out of more recent liturgical traditions in the Ionian Community of Iona, Scotland, I offer two more Thanksgiving prayers. For me, they seem so timely and appropriate for those who need both a sense of community and a sense of hope.

Thanksgiving for Community

Thank you for our time in community,
For deep, if fleeting, friendships.
For those conversations late at night,
For the vulnerable intensity lubricated by laughter,
For the freedom to serve others,
And to affirm ourselves
In the face of all that you know and we know of our lives.
And we thank you for all the signs that the churches
With which so many are disaffected
Can yet be your body on earth in the community of creation.

All Shall Be Well

For the greening of the trees
And the gentling of friends,
We thank you, O God.

For the brightness of field
And the warmth of the sun,
We thank you, O God.

For work to be done
And laughter to share,
We thank you, O God,

We thank you, and know
That through struggle and pain,
In the slippery path of new birth,
Hope will be born

And all shall be well.

And it shall all be well, for those of us who keep our eye on prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. There is always an opportunity to give thanks, even if it is only for the freedom to think on these things with a degree of ... gratitude.

To each of you, may this season of Thanksgiving be for you and yours a time of thanksgiving as well…

Being Elected

On the day after the election, I found myself thinking about what just happened in this country of ours. I supported Barack Obama, but that should not surprise most of you who read this blog. I admired and still admire John McCain, and, under different circumstances, could have supported his candidacy. But the direction of this posting has little to do with the individuals and more to do with the process and the significance of being elected. In our Reformed tradition there is a lot of investment in our doctrine of election, and on these first days of a new administration on a national level, and the newly elected officials wherever you live, let’s give some thought to what it means to be among the elect.

My Reformed Theology professor at seminary John Leith wrote these words: “The doctrine of election establishes a community that is not constituted by race, nationality, ethnic origin, gender, or even history. Election takes precedence over every other activity.” In our political process, we Americans use our free will to cast a ballot, and the collective wisdom(?) of that free exercise of will brings about a winner. In the doctrinal idea of election our will does not enter into the picture at all. Out of God’s sovereignty, there is an election the results of which come to us by grace - not by vote nor by an electoral college.

The doctrine of election can have a galvanizing appeal to stir people out of their inherent political apathy to a new or renewed sense of awareness of what God is doing, and, in fact, what God has already done. On Tuesday night, Senator McCain closed his concession speech with “… God bless America,” and President-elect Obama closed his address with the words “… and may God bless the United States of America.” It is standard practice for politicians to invoke God’s blessing on the nation. But what if they, and we, had a strong sense that God is involved in the what, when, why, and who of our political process. Suddenly we are jarred by the radical God-centeredness of the Scriptures and the frightening ego-centrality of our own hearts. Suddenly we are put on a quest to build a way of thinking biblically about God and the world that we haven’t attempted before. In this postmodern era within which many of us have come of age, we have allowed our leaders, both locally and nationally, to let the power of God become relegated to the power of ideology, and we have allowed the basic scriptural mandate that we have been blessed that we might be a blessing to all nations to be sacrificed upon the altars of fear mongering and political expediency. As a Christian community who holds onto, however tenuously, a doctrine of election, how tragically ironic it would be if we continue to embrace this postmodern illusion just when the broader culture has figured out it's a dead end.

A theological understanding of election enables us to better embrace our political understanding of election. What are the issues involved in the doctrine of election? If the issues of a political candidate are important to us, then the issues that God lays out for you and me need also to be important. For us, the issues that confront us in the doctrine of election have to do with aligning our agendas with Christ. And what does that mean? Scripturally, there are numerous answers, but I will draw on this one from Colossians 3: 12-14:
As God’s elect, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness and patience. Bear with one another … forgive, just as you have been forgiven …
You are called, justified, and glorified so that all things do work for your good so that you may be conformed to Christ. God is at work within us, writes Paul to the Philippian church, to will and to work his good pleasure.

It is my belief that a grasp of the doctrine of election helps produce a thoughtful, resourceful, and informed Christian electorate who are not swept away by trendy, politically-centered ideas. Rather, it tends to press onto our minds and hearts a God-centered worldview built on the Truth that has been revealed to us, not by the media but by the wind and flames of God’s Spirit.
I believe that God does indeed bless our country, not because politicians ask him to, but because it is in his nature to bless. I further believe that it is in his nature to chastise, to rebuke, and to restore. That is also part of the doctrine of election.

Being elected, in a political sense or a theological sense, carries with it a sense of accountability. It is my hope and my prayer that we as Americans – Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, etc. - expect that accountability from our elected leaders. Because, in the final analysis of who and what we stand for as a nation, we have to understand that the phrase “being elected” says more about the sovereign grace of God than it does about the vote totals on Election Day.

A visit to The Shack

When I was in seminary back in the 70s there was a joke that circulated through the students. The gist of the joke revolved around a dream or a vision wherein the person experiences God and when the vision has passed, the person tells his roommate, “I have just seen God … and she is black!” What most of us sloughed off as a jibe at the cultural battles going on in the 70s has come home to be a satisfying characterization in William Young’s novel The Shack.

There have been charges from some church leaders that this book is “dangerous;” that it is “heretical.” I have been a theologically conservative Presbyterian pastor most of my adult life, and I have seen more heresy in the prosperity gospel movement than I find in this novel. Sure, it is not systematically theological in its narrative, and sure, there are inaccuracies in how it correlates scripture to the real life situations depicted in this story, but the Bible itself is not systematic. The doctrines we have learned and taught over the years also contain inaccuracies and misconceptions of the truth of scripture.

There is a certain allegorical quality to Young’s novel and given the premise of the anguish, guilt and anger that Mackenzie Philips, the central character, experiences over the brutal death of his young daughter, “the shack” becomes an outpost, a safe house, to which he has been invited to confront the conflicts he is experiencing. It is a place where, like Jeremiah, he is able to shake his fist at God; it is a place, like Eden, where he has a chance to make choices that can align his will with the will of God or a place where he is free to continue to function autonomously. Here he has the chance to learn to walk by faith, not by sight; here he can hang on to his Great Sadness or here … he can let it go.

There are those who criticize the scope and content of the words which are placed in the mouth of Papa (God). Although the Old Testament is rife with “God-talk,” I think the dialogue between God and Satan at the beginning of the book of Job is a cogent example from our own inspired scriptures to counter such a criticism. The writer of this wonderful Biblical book puts words in the mouths of God and Satan to lay the foundation for the faithfulness of God’s servant Job. It is different than how God speaks through the Genesis narratives and through the prophets. The modern reader should be able to accept at face value the literary technique of how God and Jesus and Sarayu convey the plot through their narrative engagement with Mackenzie. If we can accept the fact that God talks to us today in the great joys and deep sadnesses we face, then let us not be put off by the content of what God says in this story and the manner in which he says it.

I was talking with a colleague the other night as we shared a meal prior to going to a meeting. I reflected that one of the teaching points for me in the novel is how we are introduced to the Godhead – the three persons of the Trinity. When any one of us prays and we listen for God’s response, how do we hear that response? As a white, older male clergy, do I always hear God responding to me as if I were hearing another white colleague responding to my prayers? Probably, although I have become so acculturated to my mainstream religion, I never gave it much thought until I read The Shack. I asked my friend, who is female, how she hears God speak to her? Do you hear a woman’s voice? And if not, have you become as acculturated as me that God, in his relationship with you, can only be a male figure? As I have talked with evangelicals that have read this book, I have found them overwhelmingly supportive of the characterizations of the Trinity, which include a petite Asian woman, an Arabic handyman, and, as we have pointed out, a black woman. Perhaps Mackenzie needed God to be a large compassionate black woman given the abuse he endured from his own father; I don’t think the author was making a categorical imperative about God. I think he frees up young people – and perhaps many of us senior adults – to engage God in a way that draws us into a loving, caring relationship. If God can only be a “father figure” in keeping with the scriptural references, how many sexually abused persons would not find that image of God comforting or relational?

As a pastor for over 30 years, I believe that the issue of forgiveness is the most difficult for Christian men and women to embrace. When we have been hurt – spiritually, morally, physically – we typically want retribution; we want the other person to be hurt as we have been hurt. Regardless of what the Lord’s Prayer says, we by and large do not “forgive those who have sinned against us.” But we should, and the encounters we share through the thoughts and emotions as expressed by Mackenzie allow us to see our flaws against the backlight of our own self-righteousness. What the author guides us through in this matter is not unlike what we witnessed following the shooting of Amish children in Georgetown, Pa. by Charles Carl Roberts. The Amish families forgave the man who killed or wounded ten young girls; they attended his funeral to be supportive of the shooter’s own family. So God prevails upon Mackenzie to forgive his abusive father and to forgive the killer of his precious daughter. This is painful and difficult reading, and not without a goodly number of empathic tears on the readers part. Yet we learn that we can forgive because of God’s promised presence in us – “that is the only way true forgiveness is possible,” Papa says to Mackenzie. I could not help but be drawn to the ascription found in Ephesians 3:20: "Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or even imagine ... to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations ..."

I don’t believe that The Shack is a classic in the manner of Pilgrim’s Progress as some scholars have posited, but I do think it is a valuable tool for ministry in much the same way that C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity was and is a tool for ministry. Lewis’ book has stood the test of time and is still an excellent resource for those who are new to the Christian faith or who are attempting to return after a long and painful time away. It remains to be seen if The Shack has that kind of shelf life. For now, it has a permanent place on my desk as a reminder to me and to those who visit that our own "shack" is not that far away, but we can only get there by invitation.

The Narrow Gate

It has just turned to become October, and in a couple of weeks, Pam and I will fly to Charlotte, North Carolina, rent a car and drive up into the mountains of that lovely state. It should be breathtakingly beautiful, and we hope that our timing is good for catching the fall colors. We will visit my mother who resides in an assisted living facility in Morganton, N.C., and I will be attending a conference in Montreat, about 30 miles from there.

I have written in the past about the Celtic notion of “thin places” in the world where the spiritual and the material brush against each other. For me, Montreat is one of those places, and has been since I first went there in the late 50’s. Montreat is a conference center in the Presbyterian Church, USA; it was the Assembly Grounds/Conference Center for the old PCUS, or the southern Presbyterian Church up until 1983. My friend and classmate the Rev. Dr. Pete Peery has recently been called to head up the conference center. There is much that could be written about this special place, and many people have done so, but I want to tell you something about the unique entrance into Montreat which you see pictured here, and offer some theological reflections on this gate which has stood basically unchanged for decades. For many years, all traffic flowed in and out of these stone arches; later a bypass around the gate was created for trucks and heavy equipment to enter into the township. I am sure that there have been many overtures to tear the gate down and build a more utilitarian entrance into Montreat. Thankfully the gate still stands; it’s dimensions are narrow, and as you drive through, you want to be careful not to leave paint on the stone structure. What I appreciate about this gate, beyond just the nostalgia it evokes, is the narrow-ness – that to enter into this wonderful mountain paradise requires due diligence. In Matthew 7:13-14, Jesus’ instruction to his disciples and the folks there on that Galilean mountainside was to “enter through the narrow gate;” it is the narrow gate that leads to life. The broad and easy way leads to destruction. Right now Congress is trying to rally across party lines to shore up a financial crisis of monumental proportions because lending institutions and politicians and stock traders and even home buyers saw a broad and easy path to increase their net worth, and all this greed created a perfect storm for a financial crisis. But beyond the meltdown of banks and investment firms, our society, our culture, has not practiced due diligence in defining what are the acceptable borders and parameters within which a society can thrive. We teach our children to do what is necessary to get ahead, but we have not instilled the values of accountablility and taking responsibility for what happens along the way. We live by the axiom that it is "easier to ask for forgiveness, than to ask for permission." We turn a deaf ear to lies or fabrication of facts, and we turn a blind eye, to those who cheat in order to raise their GPA and gain admittance to the right law school or the better medical school. I like the idea of “narrow gates” – I like the idea of a gatekeeper who understands the underlying principles of integrity and accountability with one’s own life and with the lives of others. Had there been better gatekeepers on Wall Street and in government, we would not be in the fiscal mess we as a country are in today. My fear is that this is not the last cultural crisis we shall see. So long as we keep widening the ways and easing the paths for what we do and how we do it, crisis will eventually engulf us. Due diligence as we enter into any relationship, any contract, any negotiation is going to tell us where the true boundaries are to this gateway we are entering; due diligence seeks to determine what the true cost of this decision will be. Sometimes getting a scratch on the paintjob is a reminder that we might want to think this matter through one more time.

posted by Jerry Hurst

In Memoriam

In his eulogistic poem In Memoriam, Alfred, Lord Tennyson shares both his faith and his grief in writing about the death of his friend Arthur Hallam. Here are but a sampling of the poet’s thoughts taken from this epic poem:

We have but faith: we cannot know,
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness; let it grow.
...
Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair,
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.
...
Whereof the man that with me trod
This planet was a nobler type
Appearing ere the times were ripe,
That friend of mine who lives in God.
...
That God, which ever lives and loves
One God, one law, one element,
And one far off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.

I have a friend who asked me to do a reflection on the subject of memorial services in general and within the Presbyterian tradition in particular. In opening up this subject, I think I would begin by saying that memorial services are – or can be – a tremendous help to the deceased person’s family. And family includes both the nuclear and the faith family. It is important for the nuclear family to have an opportunity to express their grief and their closure in a private manner, but it is also important for the faith family to have that opportunity as well. Oftentimes, sons and daughters, even spouses, have no clue as to how the one who has died touched the lives of people around them, both within their faith community but also the larger community as well. All of us need the opportunity to share grief, love, thanksgiving, and memories in some form of corporate memorial service. If you read one of my earlier blogs, you will see where I wrote of the Celtic understanding of “thin places” where the spiritual and material brush up against each other. A memorial service, properly done, can be one of those kind of experiences. As I re-read Tennyson’s In Memoriam in preparation for this posting, I felt the resonance between the spiritual and the material; between the grief of loss and the gladness of renewal and spiritual fulfillment.

The pastor's job at the memorial service is not merely to expound the Word, but also to express the feelings and thoughts of people who are too numb or too afraid to name them—to express the swirling hopes and fears of grieving hearts. The preacher needs to be both the voice of God and the voice of the people, and this is an exceedingly demanding and delicate task.

Like all Christian worship, the memorial service has both a vertical and a horizontal dimension. We come to a memorial service, or a funeral, to pay our respects to a loved one, a colleague, a friend. At the same time we come to give thanks to God through whom all blessings flow. Memorial services are public rituals in which profound grief is expressed, precious memories are rehearsed, and lifetimes are thankfully remembered.

But at the memorial service we also want and need to believe. When someone we love dies, our response as Christians emerges, at least in part, out of our faith. We believe that God is the creator and giver of all life, and that death is, in some sense, an intrusion into the goodness of God's creation. We also believe that Christ redeems us from sin and death by his cross and resurrection, and that therefore death ushers us into fuller life. The memorial service affirms and celebrates these bracing realities of faith even under the shadow of death. Here we listen to the death-defying words of Scripture, we sing of God's grace and of Christ's victory, and we place our loved one's life in God's loving arms.

David Adam, a vicar at Lindisfarne, and another keeper of the Celtic flame, has a poem that could easily be a part of a Reformed (Presbyterian) memorial service for one who has tried to walk by faith and not by sight, and I close this posting with his words:

The Weaver
I weave unto my life this day, the presence of God upon my way,
I weave into my life this hour the mighty God and all his power.
I weave into my sore distress his peace and calm and no less.
I weave into my step so lame healing and helping in his name.
I weave into the darkest night strands of God shining bright.
I weave into each deed done joy and hope to the Risen Son.