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.