My pursuit of silence.
How the Christian story helps us understand modern art.
Here we share a poem from our March 28 speaker, Malcolm Guite, for Lent.
A three-part class at 10am at Holy Trinity.
Brian Brown, Director of the Anselm Society
Week 1 (Feb 1): How do we tell stories?
Do we as Christians have compelling stories to tell our friends? Our culture? Our children? Or are we an increasingly insular minority, speaking only in “family friendly” God-talk with easy answers that don’t stick—either with non-Christians or with our children as they grow up? This week will explore how the Bible uses story, focusing on the prophets and Christ, and continue into how we as Christians can tell great stories that shake people—including ourselves—out of the darkness of their circumstances into the light of truth.
Week 2 (Feb 8): How do we listen to stories?
Bible stories, fairy tales, Christmas morning…they all have one thing in common: they’re for kids. Or are they? What if we had a cradle-to-adulthood conception of Christianity? What if we knew what to do with stories as adults? This week will explore the proper role of stories in the lifelong Christian identity—whose story we’re in, how to listen for truth in stories (instead of looking for reasons to discount them), and how to build and pass on a Christian identity that stands the test of time.
Week 3 (Feb 15): How do we illustrate stories?
Are we Christians known for what we fear, and what we forbid? Are the good things about Christianity all invisible? This week will put it all together, covering the relationships between goodness, truth, and beauty in Christian theology and worship—and how our understanding of story can move from what we tell to how we live.
Auden is not a member of our church, but I like to think of him as part of the communion of saints. Therefore, I am sharing his work to finish up. Thanks for all of your contributions!
- Michelle Hindman,
"Pageant Director" by W.H. Auden, from "For the Time Being," A Christmas Oratorio
III Narrator
Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree, Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes -- Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic. The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt, And the children got ready for school. There are enough Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week -- Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot, Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully -- To love all of our relatives, and in general Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed To do more than entertain it as an agreeable Possibility, once again we have sent Him away, Begging though to remain His disobedient servant, The promising child who cannot keep His word for long. The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory, And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now Be very far off. But, for the time being, here we all are, Back in the moderate Aristotelian city Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience, And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it. It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten The office was as depressing as this. To those who have seen The Child, however dimly, however incredulously, The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all. For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious; Remembering the stable where for once in our lives Everything became a You and nothing was an It. And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause, We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose Would be some great suffering. So, once we have met the Son, We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father; "Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake." They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form That we do not expect, and certainly with a force More dreadful than we can imagine. In the meantime There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem From insignificance. The happy morning is over, The night of agony still to come; the time is noon: When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure A silence that is neither for nor against her faith That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers, God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph.
IV Chorus
He is the Way. Follow Him through the Land of Unlikeness; You will see rare beasts, and have unique adventures.
He is the Truth. Seek Him in the Kingdom of Anxiety; You will come to a great city that has expected your return for years.
He is the Life. Love Him in the World of the Flesh; And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.
by Carl Nellis ***Exposition: If we follow church tradition, Melchior was Persian. At the end of the first century BC, Persia was ruled by the Parthian Empire, and was as unstable as Crimea is today. The last fifty years had seen decades of conflict with Rome and bloody civil wars. The Parthian king Phraates IV, who killed his father and brothers to take the Parthian throne in 37 BC, made peace with Augustus Caesar sometime before the turn of the century, likely so that he could focus his attention on ruling a turbulent empire. To secure this peace, he sent four of his sons to Rome as hostages. In 2 BC, Phraates IV was killed by his Roman wife, Musa of Thrace, who married their son and seized power for herself. This was the land that Melchior would have left behind to worship "one born king of the Jews."
Seen from where we are today, this looks like a dark world in a dark time: political control seized and misused for personal gain, armies crossing and recrossing the landscape, the next generation literally traded to foreign powers to advance the purposes of the current regime. This puts Israel's Herod in context for me. The Magi who met him would not be unfamiliar with the scheming of corrupt and violent princes.
I wonder what it was like to be a servant of Melchior, traveling with him to Jerusalem looking for a newborn king. What would a camel driver think of a Magus, a philosopher, a priest, who left a mangled homeland behind to worship a foreign baby? Relief, resentment, grief, apathy, wonder, confusion? ***
Sandals
I hear from outside
The tent their talk,
Waving like wands
Along the oasis,
I see
We are
What is
Invisible
Falling
Too small
To see
Light offers itself
Onto my feet
From the open flap,
My leather sandal straps
Without
purifying
fire
Tattered. My fingers
Stiff from driving toward
Jerusalem all month--
Tugging at the bit,
I
cannot
emerge
Fumble in the half light
Of the oil lamps hanging
Inside. To overhear I
Must myself be silent.
Little tongue
Secret little fire
And eye
Watching
Silver sand
Scattered in the ink
Flowing out
Melchior's words lifted
From the marks on his skin,
Spoken aloud to the rest
Hiding from the dark.
Without the silk walls
We, whom Phraates did not
Send to Rome, huddle around
dim fires before sleep.
Bright
Gentle and good
At the horizon
by Kelly Bunch
I didn’t want to come. My two brothers Melchior and Belshazzar were joyously throwing all of our belongings into saddle bags. Questions ringing about which tools they would need, how many camels should they bring, which servants, what food. Endless ringing questions. I sat on my cushions and watched the chaos as they ran back and forth. Periodically one or the other would come to me to ask my opinion or worse to ask me to join. I just shook my head no and continued to eat my figs. I had not anticipated that my discovery regarding the timing of the star would lead to this ridiculous crusade. “It’s a star,” I said, “we could see it just as easily here as we could there.” And yet they continued to scurry like vermin exposed to the light.
Soon the time came for their departure. It was only at the sight of them riding out on their camels that I had a strange sensation, one I could hardly put words to even now. It was like a still small voice calling to me, “Don’t miss out. This quest will yield great profit beyond what you can imagine. Don’t miss it. Come.” I shook my head at the voice as I had done to my brothers but it refused to be silenced. I didn’t want to miss out on something wondrous. What had we been doing all these years looking to the stars if we weren’t trying to find that very thing? Ugh, months on a camel.
My flurry of activity was unmatched by either of my brothers as I packed in half the time. I still could not believe what I was doing. My fortunate brothers were so swept up that I doubt they even noticed the arid winds sweeping through the desert, sand getting into everything, and days of riding uncomfortably on the back of a camel. But I would feel and notice it all and I was not looking forward to it. What could possibly be worth all of this trouble?
Finally I was ready. Saddles packed, camels loaded, home forgotten, I met the road with weary anticipation. I journeyed for days alone which made them seem endless. I reached my brothers near twilight on the fourth day. I could not quite explain the reason for my change of mind, and would rather be buried right there in the sand then tell them I was hearing voices. So I made up some excuse about some necessary item they had forgotten and needing to watch out for them because it was certain that they would be an easy target for desert thieves. They welcomed me humbly and excitedly pretending like I had been with them all the time.
Sand. Did I mention sand gets everywhere? You ride all day on the back of a camel, wind blowing in your face and sand in your eyes, nose and mouth. You stop for a water break and wipe the sand off the water skins before drinking. You take a meal and have to shake the sand out of the food. You remove your turban and find a line of dirt across your forehead and sand in your hair. It’s disgusting. Obviously, sand is not my favorite thing.
Camels, likewise are not the tidiest and most beautiful of creatures. They spit and smell terrible and are not genuinely easy on the eyes. And if you’ve ever spent any long amount of time on horseback just know that that is nowhere near as bad as sitting for days on end on the back of a camel. Soon you start to smell like camel and the scent does not easily wash off.
Days turned to weeks, weeks into months as we covered the desert with tracks soon erased. One day we looked up and there was the star shining brighter and more gloriously than we had ever seen. My brothers agreed that something amazing must have happened and despaired. Did we waste our time and energy crossing this vast sandy sea only to miss the event we had been waiting for? My brothers considered turning around and going home. “No,” I said, “We did not spend months traveling this distance to go home without finishing the journey. Maybe we didn’t see everything but we are certainly not going home without seeing something. I want to be able to look up and see the star directly overhead, no matter what else is around it.” We continued on.
We finally entered Jerusalem and were welcomed into the court of King Herod. The cushions felt welcome beneath us and there was glorious food that was sand free. Yet, I had this worrisome feeling as if there was more to Herod than met the eye. He had asked us of our mission, and I tried to catch my brothers’ eyes to warn against answering but of course they just barreled straight into it. “We are looking for the one born King of the Jews. We follow his star.” Why not just ask Herod to kill us right out? I would have to explain to them later that you don’t tell a king that you’re looking for a replacement king. He seemed to take the news in stride however and told us to find the location of the king and come back to tell him that he may worship him too. As it was unlikely that we would find the child anyways it seemed harmless to tell him we would.
It was now at least a dozen days since we had seen the star at its brightest and at last we had almost come upon it. Twilight was setting in and the star was finding its light shining over a little house in a small village. We were greeted almost at once by the mother and father of the child. They were unsurprised by our visit and obviously knew the great worth of the child. I was still rather unconvinced until I saw him. At seeing his face, the long and weary journey was almost wiped completely from memory. Peace and joy inexpressible settled within me and I did not want to ever be moved from his presence. My brothers moved to the saddle bags and pulled out their gifts of gold and frankincense to crown him kind and high priest. Now seeing him I was loathe to bring my gift of myrrh that signified the ultimate sacrifice. I could not imagine such a pure being slain. And yet, I was comforted in my sorrow by his sweet peace. He was worth the wait and the toil and the long wearying months. Hope in human form, the Christ
His reach is infinite. His power is unplumbed. Yet he sends idiots to my kingdom. He has maneuvered sheep in the Senate. He has appeased dogs with his games. Yet, has he conquered the sea itself? Has he pushed it back to reveal a masterpiece, a miracle, a monument? No. But, I will give Caesarea to Caesar. Has he raised water to the highest desert and gazed over his land from another wonder built from my mind? An entire palace, fully gardened, raised from the sand. I am a genius. I am to be praised. I am to be honored. A great man and seen to be great. My Temple. My Temple will be wondrous, then they will love me because I will give them what Solomon could not.
My wife. My children. They plot. They sneak. They hate. I hear their voices behind the walls. They think that I am old, senile, sick and dessicated. I see their thoughts. I know their wills. I am great and seen to be great. They will die soon enough. There will be death and wailing at my death. A city full of mourners. Soon enough.
And now, gods spare me, another king! As if Rome were not onerous enough. As if the Macabees were not martyrs enough. As if the moronic zealots, the pathetic Pharisees, the preening priests were not enough. Now some sleek, blathering astronomers from some ridiculous, pathetic, gentile religion tell me that there is a king in Bethlehem. But, they do not know with whom they speak. I am great and seen to be great. I hear their minds. A small child in Bethlehem. This is not complicated. I make sure that the commander has it certain in his mind that if even one small child remains alive in Bethlehem, that would assuredly not be the case in his own household. Slay them. Each small child. Tomorrow.
A child king? Bethlehem? It is a passing trifle. I am great and seen to be great.
by C.C. Elfstrom Most times, I live a fairly simple life with my feet planted safely in the ground. Ivy, who is my best friend, sits quietly nearby. But with all the activity going on around us, we are never, ever bored! We always like to see the Little Flying Ones who are so busy and serious. But perhaps our favorite visitor is the Nightingale. He comes to sit with us and sings the most beautiful songs. At first, Ivy and I wished we could join in, but he assured us that we encourage him in important ways, too.
Of course, there are the occasional times, as I'm sure you will understand, when my days aren't as simple and I need to be a bit more brave. Times when the weather changes and the wind blows hard and very cold. I heard one of the Walking Ones say they call it "wintertime." That's when most of my friends go away for a while or decide to go to sleep. But, even during this time, Ivy and I always want to stay awake. And even though these days are much more of a challenge, this is also the time that makes me the happiest!
One day I was thinking about how odd it is that I feel cheerful in wintertime when it's also a time that is harder for me. And then, just as I was wondering about this, my Father began to tell me something that made me even more curious. He said that the things I enjoy doing are the things I am meant to do. And He said my story connects to His in a unique way. This sounded encouraging, and even intriguing, but, truthfully, I didn't understand it.
He told me about a night a long time ago when His Son was born. But I was confused. I said I thought I was His son. He gently explained to me that I didn't have it quite right. He said that He created all things, and that He was the Father of all. But He told me that His children (who I know as the Walking Ones) are the ones who the Son is most like, but that the Son is even unlike them. I didn't think I would ever understand this. But then He explained that His Son is most like Himself. I liked hearing this, but I still didn't know what it meant about me and who I was.
He said there are nights of celebration that honor the birth of His Son. Nights of great joy and gladness. Nights when there are symbols of beauty when I would have a special part to play. This sounded quite remarkable, but I certainly didn't know how I would be able to do such a thing. He told me to simply wait and that I would be called.
Then, a little while ago, on a very cold day, two of the Walking Ones came toward me. They looked to be a mother and child and seemed quite pleasant as I saw them approaching. I heard the smaller one say, "Oh, look, how beautiful that is. So perfect for our home!"
I had no idea what she meant. But then she came closer and even closer. I soon felt a little pinch. Then I noticed that I was somewhat smaller! And yet, oddly, I also felt fine. Besides, I liked seeing her so happy.
I heard the mother say, "Isn't it good of God to allow the Holly and the Ivy to remain green, even in the winter? The Holly will bring such cheer into our home on Christmas Day! And the Ivy will be perfect for me to weave a lovely wreath for our front door."
Then she said, "You know, sometimes the beauty of God's creation speaks to us in a way that nothing else could. These are symbols of God's love for us."
The young one asked, "Do you think that the dear animals were really with Jesus when He was born?"
"Well, it might have been very nice if they were," said the mother. "I believe all members of creation have their parts to play."
That was when I knew she must know my Father. She was saying what my Father had told me. Then the mother put her arm around her child and started to sing a lovely song. It started with the words "the first Noel." Then the little one joined in. As I listened, I realized the story in the song was the same one my Father had told to me. The one about the special night when His Son was born.
Ivy and I agreed that it was, indeed, a very beautiful song. There was even something about the singing that reminded us of the Nightingale.
As the mother and child started to walk away, they suddenly turned to Ivy and me, smiling, and called out to us in cheery voices, "God bless us, every one!"
That is when I learned more deeply what my Father was trying to tell me. My friend, Ivy, and I were bringing joy to these other ones, the children our Father loves so very much. It made me glad to know this. And now I can't wait to share all that I have learned with my Nightingale friend. (Perhaps, when he returns, he will have tales of his adventures to tell me, too.)
by Clay Clarkson
Not a candle burning, not a fire to warm Quietly the Light of Life filled the darkened room Gently in a manger laid, Immanuel had come By the light of heaven, Heaven's Child was born
Shepherds were abiding with their flocks that night Wakened from their slumber by a blinding light Angels in the heavens filled their hearts with song Messiah, Lord and Savior, Heaven's Child was born
Bethlehem was calling, there they'd find the babe Wrapped in common swaddling, in a manger laid Joyfully they sought Him, the angels' Promised One Hearts were filled with praises, Heaven's Child was born
Praise the child of heaven! Praise the newborn King! Praise the Lord and Savior! Grateful hearts must sing. God has come to save us, on this glorious morn Gifts of praise we'll offer, Heaven's Child is born
***can be sung as lyrics to the tune of "In the Bleak Midwinter"***
by Evangeline Denmark How I long to touch them. To feel the grace of his breath as I feel the burning of his glory.
I did not always yearn so.
Once I nestled at the galaxy’s edge, fascinated with the speck of splendor entrusted to me. Content among the heavenly bodies, I gazed on the reflected light around me, wrapped in my own burning mantle.
When darkness pierced our ranks, only a ripple reached our band of sky. We felt the echo of the curse, my kindred and I, but why should we turn? Why should we look away from our changeless rite? Our glory remained safe, perpetually on display for the universe to see.
Ages passed, unmarked by we, the bearers of his heavenly fire.
By the time we acknowledged the ache it was a heavy thing, an agony surrounding us. We raised our faces to the one whose fingers formed our cores. He gathered us to his breast.
“Look down, my shining ones.”
I looked and I quaked at the darkness beneath me. No. Turn away. Pull the glory tight around me and hide.
But He could not look away. He watched them. Yearned for them. Walked among them in forms they saw not. And we, his stars, ceased to revel in our shared sacrament. We hung above the suffering sphere, our gazes on the creatures below. His name crossed their lips with every breath and yet they did not know it, speak it, or call upon its majesty.
In my distress, I grew jealous of that divine breath, that unconscious grace each of them carried. How did that soft rush of spirit, in and out, compare to my never-ending flame? Why did they not revel in it? He’d give them his name—Yahweh—to sustain them. But they were deaf to the rhythm.
His love and grief for the breathing creation remade my jealousy, reforming it into fascination and such longing.
Oh, when will You touch them with Your light?
We stooped. We circled. We watched. Heavy we hung with his anguish.
Is it time? Oh, draw back the veil.
The waters of the deep joined our vigil. With every mighty sway, they begged, “Come. Come to us.”
The living plants reached for him, bloom and branch stretching for the light.
Even the animals remembered the comfort lost and called for his return.
Still the darkness grew, trampling and choking, consuming. My kindred threw down their rays in mute battle, but I turned my face to him whose glory could end darkness forever.
“Come with me,” he commanded.
Slide low. Dive low. Plummet through the heavens on a glory track. Darkness will evaporate in the light of his unleashed glory. We are coming in a blaze.
But no.
He enfolds his glory within the body of a woman. He waits in the closeness.
I hover on the edge of their dark planet, impatient, ready to break forth in blinding light the moment he bids.
The woman breathes his name and within her soul grows recognition, hope. She looks up and though I am cloaked, awaiting the ordained moment, I am certain she sees me. Glory lights her face. I can’t help myself. I strain to touch her, seeing kindred in her glowing features. But the blaze dissipates, dissolving into flecks that mingle with her entrusted grace. Ah, that grace that has me longing for a taste, for the softest of his touches, which he reserves for them.
A little while. A practiced lullaby. A woman alight yet laboring.
Darkness stills.
His name passes her lips in gusts and groans and she marks it, knows her breath for what it is as she bears down, acknowledging his presence with her life thread.
Now!
He appears. Glory and grace wrapped together, the revelation of who and what he has always been. Power equal with love.
And I feel it. Grace pulsing like breath in my very core.
And I shine. I touch the earth with my long and mighty rays. Darkness is undone. It flees, leaving the breathing creation to look up and see his glory. They gasp and with that collective draw of air they take him in—He who was ever as close as their lips and lungs. In their awe, they pull him in and hold his grace close, turning it over and examining it as something new and ancient.
In the heavens, the shroud of separation is lifted. My kindred radiate. The host pours forth from Zion, and the realms on earth and above earth meet. Forever we shall be entwined with one another, a creation made complete by the Creator joining it.
In the stable, in the streets, in the fields, and in the deep a breath is drawn and released.
Glory binds itself to hands and feet.
Grace settles in homes of flesh and bone.
Hope leaves no one alone.
For into darkness a Light has come.
by Heidi White
My heart still aches with love and loss when I remember that he was a baby.
I am an old woman now, and the years have dissolved the memory of his newborn face, but I remember the weight and the wonder of holding him after he had slidden out of me. I throbbed and bled, like all mothers. I nursed him and wrapped him and caressed him, like most mothers. But I have not since encountered a mother as startled as I at the little one that had emerged from her body.
You see, I had prepared to bear the burden of the Messiah. The Shining One had come to me and prophesied the holy mystery that I was to carry and birth the hope of my people. I was unworthy of this greatest of honors. My heart almost burst at his words, for I was young and humble in origin. I was then and now God’s handmaiden, and His command was a great wonder to me. The child would be far greater than I, I knew. I was only the vessel, I reminded myself as he swelled my maiden body with his expanding life. I was only Mary, simple and artless, from a pious but inconsequential family. I was like an ordinary leather pouch, selected from a heap of other such pouches to shelter a priceless gem.
In my mind, I imagined him a strong champion. I envisioned him at the head of Israel’s armies as a great hero, a warrior that felled our foes and restored all things. In my heart I pondered the words of the prophets concerning him, that he would save his people from oppression and exile. He would blaze with glory, this child I carried for God. When he kicked in my belly, I imagined him scaling a Roman wall. When he rolled and tumbled in my womb, I visualized him leading slaves to freedom. I always thought of him as a man, which puzzles me now, but that is the way that it was.
My pains came upon me in Bethlehem. I knew the prophets so I was not surprised. As the birth pangs grew stronger, they swept me away. I was suddenly lost in the fierce waves of bringing forth not an idea, but a life. As my body writhed and pulsed, I thought of nothing; I only strained taut with exertion and cried out for release. After the long hours of travail, he came with gushes of blood and water. I sobbed with relief. I reached for him, my body still trembling from the throes. I remember how I ached and yearned to hold him in my arms.
He was warm and small, smeared with blood and vernix. His eyes were swollen and his forehead wrinkled. I was afraid that he would be cold in the night, so I laid his tiny body over my heart, where he quieted himself and nestled into my bosom. I looked into his face for the first time and gasped, for his lips were shaped like mine. I traced them over and over in wonder as I wept. I kissed his sweet lips and crooned his name to him, over and over. “Jesus, my son, Jesus, my baby, Jesus, my own, my very own little child.” I looked up to heaven, then down at the babe in my arms. I was undone. I counted and caressed his velvet fingers, marveling that not only were they the fingers of God, but also of my son. The babe, Jesus, was my own flesh, my own bone and blood, my own heart. Many years later, as I watched him die, I remembered that moment of revelation when I comprehended that my salvation was my son. I had kissed all of heaven and earth when I kissed those newborn lips that looked like mine. I remembered too the prophet in the temple speaking over me, “A sword shall pierce your own heart too.” The sword has pierced my heart, but it is all mysterious and mighty grace, because He Himself has been my Comforter. My Jesus whom I held to my heart for many years, the Son of God and Son of Man, sits at the right hand of God in heaven. It is finished. I will go to Him soon, I think, and I am eager to kiss his feet in worship and his face with a mother’s love. I do not know if the world will remember my name, for I am only Mary, simple and artless; but Jesus, my savior and my son, knows and loves me. I have always been only the handmaiden of my God.
Joseph was tired. So very tired.
Bone aching, joint stiffening, weariness. It had been a very long day. Some had said that it was unwise to try to get to Bethlehem for the census, but what other choice had there been? Roman soldiers did not care about your pregnant wife or the almost two week long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem walking over the rocky and sandy paths, some dangerous even for the most sturdy of travelers. What was he to do but try and make the journey, and pray that Jehovah would keep them safe.
So very tired.
And so the journey had been made, through the arid desert, stumbling over rock and shrub, every step another shekel of sand seemed to grind its way into his clothes. Every step another throb of worry that the mule would stumble and Mary would fall to rocks and the Promise inside her would die.
So very tired.
The ceremony had been a strange one, smiles had been forged carefully on everyone’s faces, but behind the masks, the eyes showed the contempt, Isn’t Mary pregnant? What is Joseph doing? I heard it’s not his child. Even if it is, how could he bring such shame on his family? If it isn’t, how can he live with himself? It’s disgraceful either way. He had seen the cracks in the masks, he had seen the disgust behind the eyes. But he stood firm. He looked each one in the face with eyes of defiance, as they smiled and the cracks widened, and he stood between them and his new wife, his beloved, his Mary.
So very tired.
The realization had knocked the breath from him. He stood dazed, struggling for clarity or purpose. Pregnant? How? He had looked at the excited and timid face of his fiancé and had felt confusion and betrayal. He had had to walk away, to clear his head and to cry out to God: Why? But the heavens had remained silent, and only the wind answered his cries. Emotionally exhausted, he slumped against a tree and fell asleep. Joseph. A bright figure. Mary tells the Truth. What has been conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son and you will name him Jesus. Oh… “The Lord saves”. For He will save His people from their sins. And he had awoke, with peace in his heart, and faith in his soul. He knew what this would mean, but the Lord had chosen him to be a part of his plan, and he would carry this out faithfully.
So very tired.
Joseph looked down at the little sleeping child before him and felt a pride and a joy rise up from deeper in his heart than he ever thought was possible. God had given him this little one to raise, and he would carry out his part joyfully. He looked at Mary, his love swelling and tears ran down his face as he held her close. The Lord had given them all they had needed. And He would continue to care for them and their child.
So incredibly, wonderfully, beautifully, joyously, tired.
by David Albert
An amazing thing happened tonight. I was on watch in the dark part of the night, listening and looking for signs of trouble with my sheep. I remember being startled by a voice coming from the center of a very, very bright light that appeared not far from us. The words “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy …“ still ring in my ear and fill my mind. Even though I was awake I still had to adjust to the speed and strength of the sudden appearance of the angel and to grasp that the words in my ears were real, not part of a dream. When the single angel finished, the whole sky seemed to open with light coming from everywhere, and more angels than I could count appeared, all singing more forcefully and beautifully than I can describe. Their words, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to men to whom his favor rests“ filled the air with excitement and energy. I and those near me were motionless, seemingly frozen in time. The sheep remained calm; we shepherds were the ones afraid.
It ended as fast as it began and the night became an eerie quiet again. I quickly looked around and several of my fellow shepherds were also staring into the heavens where the angels were last seen and seemed to be as surprised as I by the quickness, brilliance, and power in what we saw and heard. We quickly concluded that we needed to tell those in Bethlehem what had just happened and to see the child of which the angels spoke. Some stayed behind to watch the sheep. I and the others walked to Bethlehem as fast as we could, quickly telling everyone we met what had happened. Those we encountered were amazed at what we described. None mentioned that they had seen the light of the angels or heard their words or noticed anything unusual in the heavens, a point I noted then but did not take time to further consider.
We found the babe in the manger and the baby’s mother at its side. Those in the stable also marveled at what we told them but did not mention seeing the angels or hearing their singing. The baby’s mother wore a memorable, gentle smile. She acknowledged with a nod what we said and appeared to add what we said about our angelic encounter to all that was happening in the stable.
Returning, in the dark of night, to the pasture where my sheep are resting, I began to think about the events of this night. With each step of the long walk back, my mind raced between memories of the events, and ideas about what this could mean. I am amazed by the events that happened, and amazed that I was a part of them – and I know that my story is but a small part of a bigger story that eludes my ability to grasp.
Before returning to our flocks, I began to think about several aspects of our experiences this night, and I am still mulling over them. First, from our pasture vantage point I can see the town of Bethlehem and a little further away, Jerusalem. Did others, besides us mere shepherds, see or hear the amazing and majestic angel visitation? Do the priests and rabbis that keep our heritage and knowledge alive understand all these events? Could this be part of Isaiah’s prophecy about our king? I was surprised when the angels appeared, but not afraid – maybe it was because, as in the 23rd Psalm, I had my shepherds crook with me to give a feeling of protection.
Regardless of what others may have seen or heard, I am thankful beyond description or expression, for being a part of this move of heaven. I know I will never be the same because, for a moment, I looked into the heavens and heard heavenly sounds unlike anything on earth and caught just a glimpse of the majesty of the God-
by Michelle Hindman It’s not as though I slammed the door in their faces. Over the years, I’ve developed a bad reputation, especially when I am played by the loudest child the pageants can find, who holler their big line: “No room!” That’s, of course, just before closing the inn door in front of the doe-eyed, docile Mary and her earnestly distraught husband. As they despairingly trudge away to the stable, the audience of this hyperbole wonders who can turn down God, let alone the clearly sacred, tired couple escorting Him.
I’ve been turned into a metaphor - a fate, I hope, you never experience. There is no space in our hearts for Christ! We make our lives too full! We miss the miracle and deny God entry! Well, certainly. But I did the best I could.
Yes, when I saw that swollen-bellied teenager and her shaggy spouse (at least, I hoped he was), I did not recognize Yahweh knocking. I was distracted, and I had always thought he preferred columns of fire, and the glittering temple, things more permanent, and more . . . expected from a god than a flea-bitten donkey and visitors scrambling for shelter.
There are rumors that the petulant gods of the Gentiles make pop quizzes of visiting mortals, disguised as stinking beggars, rewarding those who offer alms while smiting those who don’t into swans, or some other nonsense. And I suppose the lesson they take from that is to look carefully into everyone’s eyes to see if Zeus is lurking there and treat them accordingly. But it seems to me that those who have mountains and heavens and centuries of sex for themselves shouldn’t be bothering the poor shepherd, or whoever, about his last loaf and his wife.
Nevertheless, given all that talk about gods punishing, you can just about imagine my response when I found out I had given the true God of the universe, who demands not merely sacrifices, but ALL, the stable in the back. Perhaps there is some truth to the metaphor they’ve made of me.
I didn’t know that God had come. But I did know that I had nothing left to offer and I was honest about it, when they asked. My house was full to the brim with unexpected seas of visitors, and all of the most bitter, backbiting relatives too. My own meals were snatched up by grubby, entitled hands who didn’t ask, and I fought resentment, talked myself through the rules of entertaining, while I scrubbed the soiled sheets and skipped the wine to give others a second cup. By necessity, my feigned cheer had vanished into sternness, thinly veiling panic. I wasn’t prepared and I had no help.
I didn’t know that God had come. But I saw the weary step of her swollen ankles, his thin cloak thrown over her shoulders and I didn’t let them walk back into the night. Despite having one ear turned towards the children’s screams (to know when their play turned to turmoil, as it inevitably did), I managed to hear their question and scrounge up the tiny corner of kindness that was not completely worn out by the season. I did my best to shuffle the straw around, freshen the stale corners a bit with the cool desert air and brought in my last piece of clean linen to lay over the scummy stone.
And that, it seems, was enough. Not what I would want to have set out for a King, but who really has the right materials for that anyway? My best wine is too cheap and my most charming smile would still just barely mask my fear. But God made due, with the little I had left, and I’ll admit in looking back, my poor attitude. He did not punish me for the weariness that blinded me to the glory. He is not like the Gentile gods, who wring and extort worship from an already blood-drained, shaking world. He is a God satisfied to be, as the name they gave Him said, with us. Even our shabbiest hospitality is not shunned by a God so generous. His temple is our unswept corners and even our overburdened, unprepared hearts. No door can be shut to Him who comes and dwells among us.
by Katie Joy Nellis
I have lost count of years, and today
they do not matter
at all.
To the young, years are important;
to we who wait so long,
each added hour feeds our small
abyss, waiting for His greater one
to swallow up the whole.
There is no counting
love or prayers on fingers.
Everything is given, heady
with abandon,
even if the gasps of wonder at it
rasp out like a senile
cough.
They hear me laugh, cackle,
'The old prophetess,
she has worn away her mind at last
with all that prayer and fasting.'
But I see blazing in the wraps
at the pap of His mother
the kingly one,
the one the stars are singing for,
drooling, wide-eyed, pink-fingered
perfection.
Children of today are solemn things;
I am happier than they.
by Heather Walker Peterson
“No, he is to be called John!” The outburst is mine. Heads turn to hear my woman’s voice, but I do not take away my eyes from my eight-day old son, a cloth wrapped loosely around him after his circumcision, as he is cradled in a male relative’s arms. I wish to hold him, to re-swaddle him and press his tiny self against me, his fine dark thatch of hair in the hollow of my neck. But first his name must be declared, his final blessing of this ceremony that he is a descendant in the covenant of Abraham.
There is a collective murmur from our neighbors and relatives. I am breaking tradition. “There is no one among your relatives who has that name,” I hear. They must think my late middle age and the exhaustion of this last week--my recovery from the birth, the nights of nursing--have gotten to me. Why wouldn’t our son be named after his father Zechariah, my husband respected as a priest for his integrity and devoutness? I see Zechariah’s eyes, on me, his back straight despite his coming on in years, his pride in his son, the intensity of his eyes telling me, He is to be John-God is gracious.
Those who are gathered motion at him, and he holds out his palm as if a wax tablet with his other hand indicating a stylus. Someone is sent off for these. I had hoped that after the birth, God in His mercy would return Zechariah’s speech so that his son could hear his father’s voice along with the tears that he felt trickle onto his scrunched face. But not yet.
It was a couple months shy of a year ago that he returned from his weeklong stint at the Temple—one of the two weeks that he annually serves there. Rumors had already reached me that the lot had been chosen for him for the rare opportunity to approach the altar. The worshippers outside had started to stir impatiently until he appeared, dumbstruck by a vision while in the Holy Place. I had sat in anticipation the day of his return, jumped to my feet as he entered the door, and took his hands to look into his eyes as the light from outside fell upon him.
The story of Moses is that his face glowed when he came down Mount Sinai, and I saw something similar in Zechariah’s face, still lined by age and yet a clearness there, a vitality, a flush of something joyous in his cheeks, his entire countenance. He wrote then in the wax about the angel Gabriel who had visited him and we the honored parents who would bear a son, John, who would turn the hearts of God’s people back toward Him. God is gracious.
I will not be our foremother Sarah I said to him. I will not laugh in disbelief. And he smile and embraced me long.
We became like newlyweds again. Without his voice, I hungered for his touch. I closed myself off in the house for five months as my breasts that had begun to sag instead swelled and my belly slowly protruded. I was participating with God’s work, hiding myself as if Elijah by the brook of Cherith. Every evening, I reminded myself: “The Lord has done this for me. In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.” This was my way of prayer along with constant soft singing and humming to the baby within. I cared for my body through the mornings of heaving and avoided others’ sickness until the flutters that could have been last night’s lentils were clearly little boy kicks from my insides. The time of most miscarriages was past. I was ready to greet the world.
It greeted me. At six months, my young cousin Mary burst through the door, her eyes holding the same light as Zechariah’s. My entire middle shifted and jumped as she entered as if a great rock had been thrown into a pool, ripples undulating up and down, my skin tingling from head to toe. Filled with the Holy Spirit, my thoughts ran with new knowledge, my mouth spilled words:
“Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear! But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!” My son would prepare the way for hers, the long-awaited king of Israel. For three months, the house was no longer quiet but brimming with our chatter, hopes for not only our future but the prophesied future of God’s people. She left before the birth, missing this ceremony surrounded by our family and neighbors.
A young man is handing Zechariah the tablet and stylus. He writes that our son’s name is John. There are more gasps of surprise, but they are halted by the spoken praise that Zechariah is releasing after a ten-month suppression. Baby John’s eyes open, fixed at the sound of his father’s voice. God is gracious.
An original poem from our 2014 digital Christmas pageant.
A pageant is neither play nor parade. In a pageant, amateurs take on the role of beloved characters to enact sacred drama. Christian “players” throughout history have consisted of everyone from the butcher to the parish priest, taking on “roles” from Christ himself to the lofty Kings of the East visiting the Christ child. Pageantry means creative participation, using one’s whole heart and imagination to enter into the Story of God rather than simply reflecting on it or analyzing it theoretically from afar. While we have relegated the idea of pageantry mostly to children, likely because we are afraid of damaging our dignity, pageantry affords us the opportunity to engage the sacred with our imaginations, which encompasses both our hearts and our minds in a unique way. Pageantry does not mean perfect, polished performances, but instead sincerity and a diligent effort to participate to the utmost of our ability in the narrative God has taught us to value. Each person receives a “role” and does their best to play the part.
As proven by the astounding beauty of stained glass and flying buttresses, medieval Christians understood that imagination and beauty play an essential role in our worship. While analysis and obedience have their important place, God even meets us most richly in story and symbol, where we “fill in the blanks”, so to speak, with our knowledge of God’s character and our understanding of our own emotional response. In modern times, pageantry is an indignity only embraced by children in their home-made, cumbersome costumes and with their stuttering lines. But medieval Christians understood that to play a part, to pretend, is not only an act of humility but a way to heighten our understanding of Scripture and our empathy and admiration for those who have proceeded us in this Redemption History.
This year, we propose the process of embracing our amateur “actor” (resisting the impulse to have our intellects applauded) and awakening our imagination, to bring new personal meaning and insight to the Christmas story. By focusing on the “voices” of the people involved in the Christmas story and pretending the experience is our own, we will see our own responses to Christ revealed to us.
Plunge in. Get creative. Write, sing, draw or create a script. Sign up for a role and contact michelleowyn@mac.com, the “pageant director” with further questions about content. E-mail your finished piece to michelleowyn@mac.com for posting.
Directions:
Sign up for one of the following, or e-mail with your own alternative idea. Write a piece for the person (or thing!). Attempt to use first person or at the very least focus quite closely on their “part” of the Christmas Drama. Don’t be afraid; this is imaginative, not theological discourse and not high art. Do some research, ponder and reflect from an unusual angle as an exercise. You’re human too – so you can guess what many of these characters would have to say. Imagine yourself in their position of the story and how you might respond and the ways in which that reflects upon us as well as our Savior.
Possible "Roles":
Friends of Zachariah/Elizabeth
the infant John? If you're feeling bold. : )
Elizabeth
Zachariah
Simeon
Anna
Mary
Friend(s) of Mary or Joseph
Joseph
Gabriel
Shepherds
Wise Man 1 (traditionally Gaspar)
Wise Man 2 (traditionally Melchior)
Wise Man 3 (traditionally Balthazar)
Herod
Innkeeper
Heavenly host
Assorted livestock
the star
the Christ-child (if you're feeling bold)
"Moments" of Advent rather than roles
Annunciation
Journey to Bethlehem
Flight to Egypt
Announcements to the Shepherds
Visitation of the Magi
These are by no means perfect examples nor the expected, but they give an idea of what it is like to assume a “voice” and use imagination to heighten meaning.
Examples of the Pageant Idea:
Poetry:
Annunciation by Denise Levertov
http://predmore.blogspot.com/2013/04/poem-denise-levertovs-annunciation-full.html
T.S. Eliot's Journey of the Magi
http://www.blight.com/~sparkle/poems/magi.html
The playful approach - (notice the dialect)
U.A. Fanthorpe's "Sheep Dog"
http://jackspratt823.wordpress.com/2013/04/27/the-sheepdog-u-a-fanthorpe/
Prose:
Herod's fears manifest (with plenty of sophistry), in W.H. Auden's play For the Time Being
http://www.leithart.com/archives/001609.php
Frankly, there is not enough of this out there that is quality. Any sort of first person, artfully crafted reflection would be very welcome to drown out the swarms of mediocre and cliche "monologues" available for churches to download.
Music/Songs:
Amy Grant's "Breath of Heaven" (It's STILL awesome, okay?!)
"We Three Kings"
"The Friendly Beasts"
Imagination always.
C. C. Elfstrom
I have come to believe in the idea that there might be more drama going on in my own backyard at noon than there is downtown at midnight! This is the kind of imagination I have learned from the outlandish, dearly eccentric, and very wise G. K. Chesterton. His writings were the ones to ignite my Christian imagination. And I am eternally grateful that my imagination has served me well. Chesterton taught me how to see circumstances not as they seem, but upside down and backward, so as to see them more clearly. Not simply as a child reading Alice (the author of which was a dear friend of George MacDonald), but as a mature person understanding the "romance of orthodoxy." How fun it is to learn from him.
Chesterton attended art school in London and then became a writer. He wore a cape and carried a swordstick. He looked like nobody. His thoughts were new and challenging. But how did he come to think with such a fresh perspective? Chesterson said, "I for one can testify to a book that has made a difference to my whole existence, which helped me to see things in a certain way from the start; . . . Of all the stories I have read, . . . it remains the most real, the most realistic, in the exact sense of the phrase the most like life. It is called The Princess and the Goblin and is by George MacDonald." It was the place of fairy and imagination that spoke to Chesterton so deeply, so accurately. (Of course, C.S. Lewis gave to MacDonald the same honor.)
Absorbing good, fantastic stories of bravery can be the underpinnings for the times we become the real travelers in dark places, where we need the foundation of God's true fairyland of imagination to carry us through. We can be brave enough, with God's guidance, to rename that place and see it with new eyes. But what if our challenge most often occurs in the everyday moments, the routine. To see the familiar with new eyes, with the right kind of imagination? Why is imagination important when things seem ordinary? I believe it is because it brings us Joy. (Chesterton might have learned this lesson first in his art classes. It is there you are taught to see before you can draw.)
One of my favorite passages of Chesterton's is in Orthodoxy (1908). Chesterton is describing the repetition we see in nature and gives a fanciful thought to why this is not simply routine clockwork:
"The sun rises every morning. I do not rise every morning. . . . It might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. . . . The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again" and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore. . . . "
"I had always believed that the world involved some magic: now I thought that perhaps it involved a magician. And this pointed a profound emotion always present and sub-conscious; that this world of ours has some purpose; and if there is a purpose, there is a person. I had always felt life first as a story: and if there is a story there is a story-teller."
Thank you, dear Chesterton, forever! For whenever I think of God as younger than we are, my heart is struck with your wonder!
C. C. Elfstrom loves music (always!), classic films (on weekends; even the B's), reading (at night), and vintage things (of all sorts); married a guy who likes the same.
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