insight: St. Augustine in Small Group by Tim Scorer

I’ve heard this insight from St. Augustine a number of times before, but until a couple of days ago I hadn’t experienced it as anything more than an interesting intellectual thought. Then I brought it to a small group. I think that the 12 of us who were there are now living Advent and anticipating Christmas in a way that we never have before.

If you have time, you might read these nine reflections, some of them questions, which emerged from our evening of experiential engagement with this quote, with a scripture passage, and with an image from Malawi:

Mary and Elizabeth by Tambala Mponyani Nsate, Father Claude Boucher Chisale, and the Kungoni Group. Image copyright: Asian Christian Art Association. Used by permission. This artwork is from the Mua Mission in Malawi, the site of the KuNgoni Centre of Culture & Art, established in 1976. The Centre has grown from an art co-operative to a vibrant cultural centre. (www.kungoni.org)

First:
Who is this who is waiting to be born in me?

Second:
This is what I’ve been longing for: something that will transform my season of Advent from a tragic sell-out to the culture of consumerism into a pilgrimage of sacred responsibility and holy vocation.

Third:
What was that like for you, when you were carrying life inside you long enough for that life to become capable of existence outside a womb? (Some members of the group asked some of the women.)

Fourth:
The text from Augustine says that Christ is to be born “in me.” If that happens, how will I be born again into the world I have known and how will that make “all the difference.”
.
Fifth:
I wonder what that will be like to feel Christ-energy moving within me? (After reading together Luke 1:39–56, the story of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth)

Sixth:
If I agree to this act of conception, I’m going to be carrying something that will redefine my relationship with everything else about which I care. Do I have a choice?

Seventh:
I love how this translates an ancient tale into a living myth with the potential to transform not only individuals and communities, but perhaps the whole creation!

Eighth:
Am I ready for this degree of intimacy with something so unknown, so beyond my capacity to control?

Ninth:
(After sitting with the image from the Mua Mission in Malawi of Mary and Elizabeth) Let our Advent celebrations include lots of time to talk together about what is growing in us, about the mystery of creation, about the intimate vulnerability of being people called on to be transformed by birth. The Advent time of gestation should be all about talking together in pairs and in community.

We closed the session with the words of a song by Curtis Tufts, based on a prayer by the Australian cartoonist Michael Leunig.

Christ, within Us Hidden: A Hymn for the Advent Season by Curtis Tufts

Christ, within us hidden.
Christ, in all and each.
Christ, who comes unbidden.
Christ, within our reach.

Christ, born in our stable,
Christ, our daily bread.
Christ, host at our table.
Christ, the hungry fed.

Christ, in friendship’s sharing
Christ, in stranger’s face,
Christ, reborn in caring.
Christ, in love’s embrace.

Christ, in bodies broken,
Love new crucified.
Christ, the Word new spoken,
Death by love defied.

Christ, in love recovered.
Christ, in hope revealed.
Christ in faith discovered.
Christ in tombs unsealed.

“Christ, within Us Hidden,” appears in More Voices, a new collection from Wood Lake Publishing and the United Church of Canada. Words copyright 2005 by S. Curtis Tufts – 178 Greenwood Drive, Spruce Grove, AB, Canada T7X 1Y7. Used by permission.

Advent and Christmas through an Evolutionary Cosmology by Bruce Sanguin

It’s easy to forget that the seasons of Advent and Christmas, as well as our other major festivals, originated in pagan ritual. The descent into darkness, in anticipation of the winter solstice, when the light would once again return, was considered a sacred season. The word pagan simply means country dweller, one who lived close to nature and knew creation to be enchanted by spirit. I’m interested in reclaiming this connection with creation as a sacred, evolutionary story that informs and encompasses the sacred narrative of our scriptures.

Looked at through this lens, the season of Advent is an affirmation of the dark mysteries of life. In these four weeks, we enter into a deepening darkness, a fecund womb where new life stirs. Before the great Flaring Forth 14 billion years ago, from which all life began, there was only the empty dark womb of the Holy One. We have a bias against darkness, privileging the light in our tradition. But most of the universe is comprised of what scientists call dark matter. Cosmologists have had to hypothesize the existence of dark matter, because for the universe to exist in its present form, and not fly off in all directions, the gravitational pull of this dark matter is necessary. Creation needs the dark in order to gestate. Advent is a season of contemplation and meditation when the soul, if allowed, falls willingly back into that primordial darkness out of which new worlds are birthed.

Advent has become a season of lights and glitter and non-stop shopping for most of us. The cultural norm in this season is to deny both the darkness and the descent. But our souls long to regularly return to a primordial condition. In doing so we recapitulate the deep darkness of the first creation, the fecund emptiness out of which everything emerges. I believe that we have an intuitive memory of the darkness that preceded every birth that has ever happened: from the Flaring Forth, to the supernova explosions that seeded the universe with the heavy elements necessary for life on earth, to the moment the earth fell in love with the sun and birthed the first bacteria, to our emergence as a distinct yet radically connected species. We have a primal need to go back into the darkness from which all of life is born. To deny this descent into darkness, through excessive busyness, shopping, and frenetic activity, is truly to cut ourselves off from our creative potential. When Mary uttered those five words, “Let it be to me,” she was assenting to the descent, into the sacred mystery that angels announce in the seasons of Advent and Christmas. We are called to trust this descent into darkness, making ourselves available as the ones through whom a holy birth can happen.

To go deep into the season of Advent is to trust that there are galaxies of love stirring within the womb of your being, supernovas of compassion ready to explode and seed this wondrous world with Christ-shaped possibilities. To enter the darkness of Advent in prayer and in wonder is to approach the dark and mysterious realms where our own creative offering is taking shape. It is to feel the pressure of an evolutionary universe shot through with Spirit, bearing down upon us to consciously participate in the ongoing holy procession of life.

St. Augustine understood this mystery. What good is it, he asked, if I celebrate the birth of Jesus year after year, but don’t allow the Christ to be born through me? Are we willing with Mary to consent to the birth of the divine coming through us? Are we willing to actually be a reconfigured presence of the originating Fireball, prepared to be a centre of creative emergence – to give birth to the sacred future that is the dream of God? Are we willing, both personally and in the context of our communities of faith, to birth the Christ?

The prologue in John’s gospel celebrates Christ as the creative principle of the universe, and claims that this divine creativity is the light that shines in the darkness. “All things came into being through him…What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people” (John 1:3–4). The association of creativity with light is an ancient intuition. For Christians, the Christ is the “love that fires the sun and keeps us burning,” to use Bruce Cockburn’s phrase from his song “Lord of the Starfields.” When we celebrate Christmas, we are celebrating both the birth of the historical Jesus, 2000 years ago, and also the birth of the cosmic Christ that is an ongoing event. The Love that fired the Big Bang, that issues in a supernova that outshines its entire host galaxy, and that burns in the heart of our own sun, continues to fire us as we utter with Mary those words of willingness, “let it be to me according to your word.” What new worlds wait to come into being through you and your communities of faith?

So bring on the Christmas pageants and the wonderful carols. Grab a handful of tissue as your heart opens to the Magi and the shepherds tripping on their costumes on their way down the aisles of your churches to reenact the sacred story. And when that cardboard star-on-a-stick glitters above the baby Jesus, think of it as your cosmological kin winking at you and settling over you as well, lighting you up as a sacred centre through whom the Christ waits to be born.

God in the Darkness: A Hymn for the Advent Season by Elizabeth J. Smith

This song appears in More Voices, a new collection from Wood Lake Publishing and the United Church of Canada.

1. God in the darkness, God beyond knowing,
   patient creator, seed in secret growing,
   rock of the living, water ever flowing,
   come and renew us.
   
2. God in the darkness, God in all grieving,
   friend of our tears, companion never leaving,
   drawing us past the limits of believing,
   come and renew us.
   
3. God in the darkness, God of holy dreaming,
   giver of hope, and pledge of redeeming,
   Spirit of truth, our memory and meaning,
   come and renew us.

A song by Elizabeth J. Smith (words copyright: Elizabeth J. Smith, 624 Centre Road, Bentleigh East 3165 Australia. ejsmith@pacific.net.au). Used with permission.

On the Spirituality of Grandparenting - Ralph Milton in conversation

A conversation with Ralph Milton, author of the recent Northstone* publication The Spirituality of Grandparenting.

(*Northstone is an imprint of Wood Lake Publishing Inc.)

insight: Ralph, I don’t know that any one has put “spirituality” and “grandparenting” together so specifically before, particularly in the title of a book. You might not have thought about the combination had Wood Lake not asked you to create the book to go with the title. So I’m very curious about the personal spiritual discoveries or revelations that accompanied your research and writing for the book.

Ralph: I don’t know that I had used the term “spirituality of grandparenting” before, but I was certainly aware that my experience of my grandchildren was deeply spiritual. I often talked of studying theology at the feet of my grandchildren.

A particularly intense experience happened a few weeks after Jake (the older of the two) was born. I was at the bedside of my dying older brother. I held my brother’s hand and prayed for his release from his laboured and painful breathing, and in the other hand I held a picture of my grandchild. How do you describe that sense of eternity – of connectedness – of covenant – of mystery? I was a bridge between these two, both at the beginning and both at the end of a journey. And both of them a gift. Both of them unable to do anything for themselves. Both of them living in God’s grace. Both of them moving into a new way of being.

When Zoë was born, Bev and I were at the hospital three hours after she appeared. I held that brand new life and loved her with an intensity that was almost too much to bear. How can I love a person who is so new in my life? I haven’t even seen the colour of her eyes! And yet I knew that I would love that child – that she would be my granddaughter and I would be her grandpa always, regardless of what she or I might become or what we might do with our lives.

The vocation of the grandparent is to delight in the grandchild. That is the key phrase in this whole experience. That can be desperately difficult for some grandparents, but that is the core of the matter. In fact, I think we need to add “grandparent” to our collection of metaphors for God: the grandparent God who delights, deeply and profoundly, in our lives, and who grieves, deeply and profoundly, when we are in pain. But the grandparent does not (and cannot) direct or control or order the life of the grandchild, and our grandparent God does not direct or order or control our lives. Grandparent may be a more useful metaphor than “parent” because it is closer to the way we experience the presence of God in our lives. Or at least, the way I experience God in my life.

I didn’t realize how much of my spiritual biography was in that book, or how naked and vulnerable I was in it, until I saw the book in print last week.

insight: Since you raise the matter of biography, let me ask you what you learned about grandparenting from the experiences of other grandparents whose stories you included in the text.

Ralph: I learned that grandparenting is a deeply personal experience, and one which many people are not at all sure about. It is also intensely painful for many, because marriage breakups and other conflict situations often leave the grandparents without contact with their grandchildren. Grandparents have no legal rights, in most jurisdictions. The saddest face I ever saw was of a grandfather who said to me, “I have two grandchildren, but I have never seen them. I don’t know where they live. I don’t even know the name of the second one.”

Many grandparents, grandfathers particularly, assume that the warm, fun relationship will simply happen, but it doesn’t usually. It needs dedicated intentionality, especially in the majority of cases where the grandparents and grandchildren live far apart. The relationship needs much more than visits once or twice a year and a few phone calls in-between. The relationships that grow and become mutually nourishing are usually the result of dedicated planning and some hard work. And if at least one of the parents supports that relationship, then the possibility of something fruitful developing is increased.

Often grandparents have a deep sense of guilt because they are paying only scant attention to their grandchildren. As a result, they over compensate with extravagant expressions of affection and showers of gifts. It almost never works.

But I also heard many delightful stories where the grandparent’s vocation nourished the spirit and warmed the soul of both grandparents and grandchildren. One grandfather tells of walking a labyrinth in the snow with his grandson.

insight: Ralph, that was me! Let me conclude this brief conversation by telling that story again…

Tim: My wife and I moved to Bowen Island on the west coast of Canada in January of this year. We had the good fortune of moving into a house right next to the home of our daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons – eight-year-old Emmett, and six-year-old Tobin. Shortly after we moved here, I asked Emmett to spend the day introducing me to the island as he knew it. After visiting each place on Emmett’s list, we sat in the car out of the winter cold and created together a clue to the location we had just visited. By the end of the day, Emmett had written eight clues – one for each of his eight island highlights. At suppertime that night, he read out each clue for the rest of the family and asked them to try to identify the eight locations we had visited.

One of the places we stopped that day was Xenia, a Buddhist retreat centre where there is a lovely stoned-lined labyrinth surrounded by the trees of the Pacific rain forest. As we walked the labyrinth, we were both aware that ours were the first footprints of the day in the fresh covering of snow. Emmett ran ahead of me creating a path of footprints for me to follow to the centre. In the middle, we stopped and talked about all the things that walking a labyrinth reminded us of. And then I suggested to Emmett that he pull his winter wool toque down over his eyes and let me lead him blindfolded out from the centre and back to the beginning. After we had gone about a third of the way out, Emmett stopped. “Grandpa,” he said, “now you pull your cap down over your eyes, and I’ll lead you out of the labyrinth.” And so in silence Emmett led me all the way back to the beginning.

The drama of our labyrinth walk together was a wonderful embodying of the deepest truths of our relationship: first the older man will lead providing sight to the younger one, and then the younger will intuitively initiate a change in role and relationship, taking the lead, offering to guide all the way back to the place where they started and to know it for the first time.

Biblical Grandparents: Re-Telling a Biblical Story, by Ralph Milton

“One of the hallmarks of a grandparent is one who sees God’s promise in the face of a child.”

Grandparenting is not a matter of genetics. It’s about a quality of relationship. Simeon and Anna are the two grandparent figures in the Bible that spring out to me when I think of that kind of relationship. They saw in the very ordinary child that Mary and Joseph brought to the temple God’s promise of hope and possibility (Luke 2:22–38). It seems to me that one of the hallmarks of a grandparent is one who sees God’s promise in the face of a child. These two old crocks are to me a good biblical image of grandparenting. I actually wrote about them in my book, Is This Your Idea of a Good Time, God?

I ALREADY KNOW, OLD FRIEND

Her legs were bowed with childhood rickets and with 84 years of life.

“I walk like an old goose,” she would cackle, “but in my mind, eh, in my mind I still soar like an eagle.”

Sometimes Anna counted her years by the people she had survived. Five children she had born, and outlived every one of them. She’d been the midwife who brought the High Priest of the temple into the world and now she acted as his unofficial “mother emeritus.”

“Very unofficial,” Anna grins. “His Highness doesn’t want it known that I blew his nose and wiped his bum when he was a tadpole. But he comes and talks to me when nobody’s looking. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen talking to a woman now, would it?”

Anna had moved into the temple, expecting to die there soon. But death didn’t come. Instead, a new kind of life, a life of caring and counselling and friendship to the many people who came in and out of the temple each day. Her body grew smaller, her legs bowed a little more, but her eyes grew bright and gentle with wisdom and good humor.

Anna’s special concern was for young families. Jewish custom required a first-born son to be brought to the temple and dedicated to God.

“Those parents – they’re just children really – they’re so frightened, so anxious. We’ve got lots of priests around here, but they’re so busy being important they don’t have time for young families. So I just show them around and help them get things done.”

Anna’s special concern was for poor families intimidated by the wealth and power of the temple, afraid of being cheated by the money changers – as they often were. Anna got them through. That was her mission. Getting them through a tough time.

But Anna had a secret dream. She hadn’t shared it with anyone except her old friend Simeon. Anna and Simeon, like Jews everywhere, had been raised with the hope that someday God would send a Messiah, a chosen one, someone who would bring in a new era of love and justice.

“Do you suppose we might see God’s chosen one?” old Simeon would ask. “Do you suppose it’s possible?”

“I live in hope, Simeon. I live in hope.”

“But how will we know, Anna? How will we know?”

“We'll know, Simeon,” Anna said, then wondered why she felt so confident.

***

It was getting late in the day. Anna’s bowed legs were tired. She’d been active all day in the temple, in her ministry of simply being there for anyone who needed her. Then she saw a frail, teenage girl carrying a baby. Beside her a man, slightly older. Anna walked over as quickly as her goose-like gait could carry her.

“Welcome to the temple, my children.” She could see they were hot and tired from their long walk. “Come over here into the shade of the wall. You can rest for a moment. May I see your baby?”

It wasn’t that the baby looked different than all the other babies brought into the temple. There was nothing unusual about the mother who held it. But there was something very different happening inside Anna, an exquisite ache, a sense of powerful weakness.

“Simeon!” The name was whispered, but with such intensity, the old man who was dozing nearby woke with a start. He hurried over to Anna. Simeon looked at the child. He saw nothing unusual. But then he looked into the fire-bright eyes of his old friend.

“Anna? Do you suppose?” Her eyes answered his question.

Simeon began to sing. An ancient song, half remembered, half made up, a song of hope and thanksgiving, a song of pain and rejoicing. Anna, who had no voice at that moment, sang along in her heart.

Dear God,
now I can die in peace,
as you promised.
I have seen your salvation
a gift to all people...
a light for the Gentiles
and glory for your people, Israel.

Late that night, Anna wept long and quietly. She grieved and celebrated all that was, and all that was yet to be. And then she slept.

It was only a few days later that Anna was midwife at another kind of birth. Her old friend Simeon was dying, and she was at his side, holding his hand and helping him through it, as she had helped so many others through life’s changes.

“I think I can die now, Anna. I’ll know very soon whether that child really is the Messiah, the chosen one. I’ll know very soon.” Simeon closed his eyes for the last time.

“But I know already, my old friend. Sleep well.”

The insight Christmas Rant by Beverley Burlock

Nothing of the dominant culture in which Christians now find themselves drowning has so powerfully shaped Christians as Christmas. Once upon a time, Christianity transformed “pagan” rituals and symbols; now we seem only too ready to embrace society’s rituals and be transformed by them. We seem to see nothing wrong as our rituals and symbols are debased in the interests of crass commercialism.

At most, Christians complain about the removal of the word Christmas from the season, and about the rejection of creches and carols in public places. Let’s face it, people; we no longer live in a Christian world, if we ever did! Christmas is a Christian religious celebration, belonging in our churches and homes. We’ve no right to force it on everyone. We should be grateful that we have the right to celebrate freely, and that Christmas has been declared a national holiday (holy day!). Not that that means Christians attend worship or people have the day off anymore. Faithful religious Jews have more holy day time.

I hate Christmas. And I’m a minister! I dreaded it as a kid because it always meant extra tensions in the house and massive disappointment. Now I dread it because of the massive expectation of the church and the extraordinary tension with society. Here’s the deal: unusually high attendance at Christmas services and a swelling of the diminished treasury in exchange for everything “Christmassy” from childhood. “Isn’t it nice to see the church full!” is the common reflection. But it’s an empty full: even in church we’ve allowed ourselves to be shaped by our culture.

The belief of those on the inside of the church is that those coming at Christmas only want the same old story. I wonder if this assumption is true. Are people coming to relive their past, or is it possible that they might indeed be checking to see if anything has changed that might inspire them to reconnect. They come and discover the same old “same old” and leave unfed and disappointed. The truth is that one brief service isn’t likely to transform into regular commitment. But we still allow ourselves to be held hostage rather than trust that some new seeds of nourishing insight might just fall on receptive ground to sprout who knows when and where.

We ourselves are so far removed from the original that we no longer get it! What do we know about darkness and fear of it? Most North Americans live 24/365 in light. What do we, who shower daily, know about desert conditions that revere life-giving water? What do we, who buy strawberries in January, know of the anxious uncertainty of long winters, with dwindling supplies; or of refugees fleeing the conqueror on donkeys along perilous roads? What do we, who no longer celebrate the miracle of the sun rising each day or spring blooming again after winter, see as symbolic in a few candles and in the birth of the light of the world?

We tell the sweet story of angel announcements to Mary and Joseph, of the magical birth of Jesus, of the arrival of the quaint shepherds with their little sheep, and of the majestic kings with all their finery. And that’s it! We don’t even mention the flight of Mary and Joseph, and the terror of Herod’s massacre of the innocents. The next exposure to the story most people get is at triumphant Easter. Adorable story. What possible relevance does it have to anyone’s daily life? What on earth is there to inspire anyone to delve further?

What really matters is the story in between.

I’m tired of scenic Christianity, which asks nothing, demands nothing, changes nothing, and feeds nothing. Nothing in Christianity is so scenic as Christmas. The same old undemanding, romanticized story is told to a people surrounded on all sides by empire, temptation, consumerism, competition, violence, meaninglessness, and emptiness. How tragic, then, that it should be so, because it could so easily be made real. It’s no small thing to be pregnant, to decide to have a child. There’s morning sickness, indigestion, cramps. Life as you know it is about to change forever. You need nine months to adjust. As for God asking you to voluntarily take this on as an unwed mother?! Like you need that aggravation and humiliation?

And Joseph, what an example of macho manhood he is – willing to accept responsibility for this pregnant girl, face the shameful ridicule. Taking the back seat, getting no credit and hardly any mention. Having to travel far from home, flee to a foreign land, return as a stranger to a place with no kin. Giving birth is no picnic either. Never mind far from home, in a stable, without help or support.

Most things now associated with the season have nothing to do with Christmas, or religion either, except as forms of idol worship. Why don’t we just let the world have all those things, while we take a much needed Advent retreat like the earth is doing? In times past and in ancient times, winter/night was a time of rest and renewal, a time to make repairs, to gather together with one another, to tell stories, to teach and learn new skills; a time to assess the past year, to confess failures and failings, to make plans for a better new year.

We could think seriously about the choices before us in the spring of our new year. What is God calling us to do? What impossible thankless tasks need to be done, as congregations, as individuals? Do we really want to be the called of God, or do we want to say no thanks? How will we prepare? Will we keep on, even when to do so makes no sense and flies in the face of reason? Can we face the unknown, the fearful flight? Where will we find resources?

Christmas doesn’t dispatch Christians on some luxurious guided tour. The story is about real life, hard work, difficult choices. It asks everything, demands everything, changes everything. It calls us to stop looking down from the Christmas bandwagon, get off, and walk the rutted road, even if we’re the only ones getting off.

We may discover the freshness of the air, find that our bodies feel more alive, and that we sleep better. We may encounter other walkers who offer suggestions and encouragement, suggest great places to stock up and areas to avoid. We may come upon people who need our help. We may be amazed at the willingness to share and how important small things are. More connected to the earth and human companions, we’ll be overjoyed to realize that our life matters, our choices matter. And not just to us, or even to God, but to all those we encounter and now feel more in community with.

And we’ll become aware of being accountable, because we’ll have gradually seen it revealed that we are all one: one with each other, one with the earth, one with all creation, one with God. We’ll smile at the knowledge that we are all composed of stardust. We’ll see for ourselves that we’re not alone; we are all beloved of God as we journey together. Risking getting off the world’s bandwagon and sacrificing the “time of our lives,” we will have found that life abundant God promises, which has been the centre of God’s vision from before the beginning.

Tim Scorer, with Marcus Borg, has created an adult curriculum series like no other

The Experiencing series calls people together in small groups to participate in an experiential learning process, in effect inviting them to join the kind of learning community that Jesus worked with and taught in the few short months of his ministry.

First in the series:
Experiencing The Bible Again for the First Time (available now).

Next in the series:
Experiencing Jesus based on Marcus Borg’s book Jesus, Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary (available in January for Lent)

In Our Next Edition

Epiphany 2008

• Next in the “Experiencing! Faith Formation Curriculum for Adults” series: Experiencing Jesus based on the book Jesus: Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary, by Marcus J. Borg
  
• Art of the Parables, by Charles McCullough
  
• “Signs of Hope” from the road trip of Bill Phipps and Carolyn Pogue
  
• A seven-minute “opener” for groups to use in the Season of Epiphany
  
• Epiphany with Attitude
  
• Putting together The Spirituality of Bread and The Spirituality of Wine: a special gift combination
• Dispatches from Derek Evans, former Deputy General of Amnesty International