A Season for the King

We were late to church yesterday morning.

Lots of travel last week,

all of it good, fun, comforting, interesting.

But . . .

we were tired

and moving very s-l-o-w-l-y.

The sanctuary was full as we snuck in the back door,

so we sat in the balcony,

which provides an unusual view.

The large chandeliers that took on the look of a double crown in the photograph.

 It wasn't until I looked at the photo 

that I saw that our view was remarkably apt

for this particular Sunday in the church calendar:

Christ the King Sunday,

the last one in the liturgical year.

Next Sunday is the first Sunday in Advent, 

the turning of a new calendar page.

But yesterday. . .

yesterday was a celebration of the Cosmic Christ,

the One who sits at the right hand of the Father,

the One who will come again in glory,

the One who intercedes for us,

who reigns on our behalf,

and the One for whom the stars sing.

 In the northern hemisphere,

this Sunday comes in the midst of Autumn,

the time of dying,

dying in full, vibrant color.

 It feels fitting to celebrate Christ as King

in this season of the year,

perhaps because it also feels a little bit upside-down.

Wouldn't the bright pinks and purples of spring or summer

be better suited to this kind of recognition?

 Christ is surely King in any season of our years,

but somehow the Fall feels 'right' to me,

a good season to make special note of this truth.

After all, Jesus did not become the kind of king 

that people were anticipating.

He shattered every preconception, every expectation,

every dream that was built on the power structures of our world.

In ways that are deep and profound,

Jesus of Nazareth did not become

Christ the King until

after

the cross,

the empty tomb,

the ascension into the heavenly realms.

Is there any more backwards way to become

a person of royalty than his way?

The way of death,

and resurrection,

and ascension?

 So as the days get shorter,

and the hours of darkness grow;

as the leaves turn brilliant in their farewell address,

as the flowers dry on the stem

and the shadows lengthen on the lawn,

this is the time,

the perfect time,

to remember and to honor our King.

The One who was with God and who became a human person,

taking that long and winding downward journey,

living a more fully human life than any other ever has.

He died an ignominious death,

and by that death and the resurrection

which followed it,

brought us the gift of Full Life

in fellowship with the Triune God.

Only then, did he return to his rightful place

on the throne.

So YES, this season seems about right.

The season of dying in full, vibrant color.

 On this Sunday, we celebrate that the King is for us.

We remember the greatness of our God,

we acknowledge the Glory of a Savior

who is much grander, fuller, more all-compassing

than any Being we can imagine or dream.

Lord of the Harvest?

Surely so.

 Grand Creator of the universe in all its richness and variety?

Yes and amen. 

The One who is above all, around all,

through all and in all?

Yes, yes, yes and YES.

So we sing, "Holy, Holy, Holy," and

"Crown Him with Many Crowns," and

"Creation Song," and "Revelation Song," and

any other hymn of praise that rises to our lips

as we recognize the Bigness of our God.

Next week, we celebrate the Littleness.

Isn't that amazing?

Joining this with Laura Boggess and Jen Ferguson and the Sisterhood, with Cheryl Hyatt Smith and Ann Voskamp this week.

Doesn't quite fit any of their themes exactly, but. . . this is what I've got.

   

Sunday Musings

Just wondering . . .

on a summer Sunday night,

with cool night air drifting in from the door

and sweet worship music on 

the computer.

Just wondering . . .

what comes next?

We're home this week,

when we thought we'd be gone.

Traveling to the northwest,

to see beautiful country,

and beautiful friends.

But we're not. 

So here's a calendar,

suddenly open.

And here's a body,

more tired than I knew . . .

wondering.

My mom-in-law

began to slip,

 down

and down.

And her daughter had long-laid plans

to be gone.

It didn't feel right to be gone at the same time,

so here we are.

And really, it's fine.

We're relieved not to be packing and unpacking.

We look at each other and wonder -

how come we're feeling so tired?

When did we get so old?

And that has me wondering. . .

what happens in this culture

as we get old?

We see lots of pictures of

green space,

golf games,

exotic travel,

smiling, silver-haired models

seem to say,

"It's time to relax,

to enjoy the fruit of your labors,

to remove yourself from the world of work."

But here's what I'm learning.

It's truly difficult to do that.

I love to travel - I do.

But not all the time.

And I love to relax - I do.

But not all the time. 

So, we put our hands to what we find.

My husband, gifted with finance and investing,

sits on boards and committees,

and he manages the money he so carefully

invested for us,

for our moms,

for other family.

He tends this huge yard,

with good professional help. 

He invests himself completely in our grandkids

when they're around. 

And I?

I sit in my small study which needs sorting.

And I meet with those who are seeking

more of God.

And they teach me far more than

I ever teach them.

 And I tend to family, too.

Ailing mothers, growing grandchildren.

I make spinach salad for 50 at our
first-Sunday-back-to-college student lunch
after church today.

And in, around and through all of that,
 I try to write.

But I'm late to this game,

really late.

And I am also way past the age of most

of my compatriots out here in cyberspace. 

Most of the time, I'm okay with that.

But tonight, I'm feeling out of place,

out of sync,

out of my element.

I'm sure this wondering phase will sort itself out.

And I'm talking to God about it,

in my usual, on-going conversation

with this One who seems both near and far,

surprisingly small,

yet immense.

And right this minute,

I am listening to the song I wrote about 

in this post, the one about bodies.

And the beauty of it pierces,

it pierces through all the wondering,

all the melancholy,

all the feelings of uncertainty 

and ego-centered angst.

Because THIS is the truth - 

and a woman who lived many centuries ago*

wrote these words,

in another tongue,

another place.

But her words, her insights

speak to my soul this night, in this place:

I cannot dance, O Love, unless you lead me on.

I cannot leap in gladness, unless you lift me up.

From love to love we circle, beyond all knowledge grow.

For when you lead, we follow, to new worlds you can show.

Your love the music round us, we glide as birds on air,

entwining soul and body, your wings hold us with care.

Your Spirit is the harpist and all your children sing;

her hands the currents 'round us, your love the golden strings. 

Play me a medley,

play me a song.

Lead me, I am yours.

I cannot dance alone.

O blessed Love, your circling unites us, God and soul.

From the beginning, your arms embrace and make us whole. 

Hold us in steps of mercy, from which you never part,

that we may know more fully the dances of your heart. 

I cannot dance, O Love, unless you lead me on.

*Our Director of Worship Arts, Bob Gross, wrote a lovely melody to go with these powerful words written by Mechtild of Mageburg in the 13th century. This translation was done in 1991 by Jean Wiebe Janzen, but the words in bold are Bob's addition and serve as a beautiful refrain throughout the piece. Since I first wrote about this beautiful, haunting song, Bob has included it on #5 in a series of self-produced CDs taken from our Sunday worship services. And if you would like to listen to it, follow this link right here and scroll down to number six on the list. Hit the play button and enjoy. (If you use the contact addresses on the home page, you can order CDs for yourself. We are a congregation of about 325 people and apart from Bob, everyone you hear is a volunteer - vocalists, string players, acoustic and electric guitars and bass, piano, wind instruments, percussion - all from within our own community, many of them college students. We are so blessed. SO blessed. Please remember, these are not studio sessions, but live worship recordings.)

I'll join this with Michelle, Jen, Duane, Ann's Monday gratitude group - because I am grateful, even for the melancholy times - and maybe with Laura and Laura, though it's not particularly playful nor is it about a physical place so much as an emotional one.

Our Bending-Low Jesus

"Our Bending-Low Jesus"

I used this phrase at a friend's blog today

and somehow it bloomed up in my mind

and came out my mouth 

during my evening walk tonight.

I so easily forget how powerful our story is,

how remarkable.

Maybe it's the reflection I've been doing 

on the Cosmic Christ

the past few months,

 courtesy of my Catholic brothers and sisters.

Maybe it's the contrast of that image - 

the one I can hardly grasp,

the one that speaks of grandeur,

and Beyond-my-ken,

and Ground-of-Being hugeness -

the contrast of all that

with the picture we have of Jesus

in the pages of the gospel.

Jesus, who bows down in the dirt

and writes grace with his fingertips.

Jesus, who spits on that dirt

and packs it into blind eyes.

Jesus, who gets hungry,

and impatient with the ravages of sin,

and wonders if his friends will ever get it.

Jesus.

Who bends low for us.

My mother is with us for a few days.

And as I walk in the evenings,

I beg forgiveness for the many ways

I miss the mark when I am with her.

Impatience simmers,

sharpness surfaces,

tension rises until the air is heavy with it,

stagnant and fetid.

I am exhausted in ways I can't even describe - 

weary with worry, I suppose. 

I give her the thrice-a-day medicines,

I make sure she eats and drinks,

I do her small amount of laundry.

Yet so often,

my spirit is twisted,

almost angry about what's happening to her.

And I do not want to be angry.

She likes to walk out to our side yard,

to the spot where 

we buried my brother's ashes two years ago.

I watch from a polite distance,

as the grass is bumpy and she is unsteady.

She bends low, holding her knees,

speaking with words I cannot hear,

touching the metal angel I have placed there,

to mark the spot.

That simple movement is one of the

most achingly sad things I have ever watched.

Mothers should not have to bury their children.

Yet so many do.

So many do.

Mine did. 

Really, Lord?

So much loss!

Her husband, 

her grandson-in-law,

her vision,

her son,

and now . . . 

her mind, too?

How long, O Lord?

How long?

How much, O Lord?

How much? 

There are no answers to these cries,

none that suffice.

Except for this one:

Our bending-low Jesus.

And so I spread all the ugliness out there on the driveway

as I walk in circles in the deepening dusk.

I rue the words just behind my teeth,

the ones that don't come out,

but want to.

I offer them up, 

I beg for grace and then,

I see him.

Bending down in the dirt, 

he writes my name,

with the words 

forgiven,

forgotten.

And I am bent low.

Pictures:

1. The Risen Christ, on the wall of the chapel 

at the Monastery of the Risen Christ,

San Luis Obispo, CA

2. The angel which marks my brother's burial site.

3. A station of the cross in the chapel at the Mission Renewal Center,

Santa Barbara CA

Offering this at Michelle's place, Jen's Sisterhood and Ann's gratitude link-up. 

I may not count like she does, but I am deeply grateful nonetheless.

A Sacramental Life

It's a long drive from here to there, about 110 miles.

And I take a similar one every 2-3 weeks to see my mom.

But this past weekend,

I traveled those miles to make a different kind of connection,

one that spans nearly 30 years,

a lot of living, and miles of change in each of our lives.

We enjoyed the sunshine,

we sneaked in an extra chair at a very high-brow establishment 

(just because we could),

we laughed and we talked and we ate. 

Yes, we look a little bit older than the last time we did this.

And yes, there have been some stresses added to each of 

our lives in the months between our last visit and this one.

But what I carry with me into this late evening hour 

is one overarching truth, this bracing reality:

friendship across time is a holy thing,

a sacramental thing,

a gift of God to be savored, 

enjoyed, 

and relished.

I carried the sweetness of our time together all the way home,

through 45 extra minutes of snarled traffic,

fatigue and stiff knees. 

"How wonderful, how beautiful, 

when brothers and sisters get along!
   It's like costly anointing oil
      flowing down..."

the psalmist wrote.

And the fragrance of our time was indeed,

'wonderful and beautiful.' 

This morning brought us back to our community,

gathering in worship to

to hear a beautiful and finely tuned exposition 

of the Word from the pulpit, 

to share in bread and cup. 

There were three relatively small things that

happened today that have stayed with me, 

late into this evening.

Three things that somehow feel woven

of the same cloth as yesterday's gathering of friends

at a classic old hotel in South Pasadena,

three things that seem

woven of sacramental cloth. 

 

Today, as Pastor Jon stepped into the pulpit,

he did something we've never done before.

He asked us to stand, 

to reach out and hold the hand of the person

next to us, even if that person was across the aisle.

Then he said this:

"Doing this probably feels more than a little bit

awkward to you. I'm here to tell you that  

that is exactly the right posture 

for hearing the Word of God."

And he proceeded to read the text of the 

morning, taken from the book of James. 

And we held each others' hands 

and we listened to the Word.

We placed ourselves under that Word,

physically, literally and spiritually.

And as the words from that ancient epistle

rolled in gentle waves over our heads,

I could sense the awkwardness dissipating,

the unity and connection between us

taking shape and form and beauty in our midst.

It was a sacramental moment.

 

 At the conclusion of the preached word,

Jon stepped down from the pulpit to the table,

preparing to serve the people of God with

the Bread of Life and the Cup of Salvation.

As he did so, our Pastor to Students joined him.

Jon gently unfolded his 

blue stole, the one made for him by his mom and grandmom, 

and placed it around his neck.

And as Lisa came forward, I could see 

that she wore the one she received

at her ordination two years ago.

Together, they prayed over and distributed the

torn bread and cups of purple juice to

an assortment of council members

who brought them to us. 

We are not a 'formal' church.

I have never worn my black robe there,

nor has any other member of the pastoral staff.

But somehow, just that small, simple,

act of draping the 'yolk of Christ'

around their necks, and over their clothes,

added an extra layer of meaning and depth

to this holy moment in the life of our congregation.

It was a sacramental gesture, 

 rich with reminder

that the Table of the Lord is a holy place,

that the food we eat 

and the drink we share

are set apart, 

consecrated, for our nourishment and

encouragement on the way. 

Our children worship with us every week

for part of the service.

But on Communion Sunday,

they are in worship the entire hour.

Sometimes this makes for a noisier congregation,

and that is just fine.

In fact, it is welcome.

Today, after the benediction,

after the postlude,

after most of the congregants streamed out

the back door into the warm California sunshine,

a third small surprise brought brief tears to my eyes.

A small blond boy named Kai

came quietly into our pew as we leaned across it,

talking with some friends we hadn't seen in a while.

He picked up our used communion cups, 

nodded his head and 

went searching for a few more.

Just a few moments later,

the four of us who were chatting caught a glimpse

of something up front.

Kai and his big sister Ruby were taking a stack of

used communion cups and very carefully

setting them around the rim of

our beautiful, artist-designed glass baptismal font.

"I think," said our friend,

"that maybe Ruby is doing something

wonderful with the sacraments this morning. 

Maybe even something we've not seen before."

I looked across the sanctuary and gasped a little.

The effect was beautiful -

the glass bowl shimmered,

the empty cups shone,

the sweet girl was so intent and careful with her work.

It was a sacramental act of found art,

a beautiful picture of the Body of Christ

at its very best.

Word and water,

bread and cup,

contemplation and action -

all of it woven together into a beautiful

garment of praise. 

As followers of Jesus,

we are invited into this whole-cloth,

beautifully woven sacramental life.

We are called to live that life as if

every moment is holy,

every person is a saint,

every gesture is an offering,

every common thing is an altar.

Because this is the truth,

the deep, beautiful, holy truth.

THIS life, this one life -

with its joys and its sorrows,

its gifts and its burdens -

it is a sacrament.

Glory be.  

Joining with Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer, Ann and Duane today for their 

lovely invitations to share what we're learning, what we're thankful for,

what surprise us, what Sunday teaches us and how we see the promises of God at work.

Somehow, they all seem pertinent to these scattered recollections today. 

I'll also tuck it in with Laura and her Playdates with God.