The daily New York Times “Morning Briefing” was sobering, as was the weather report for today. I don’t ever remember a day in January when the temperature in New York State reached 60 degrees (F.) I sit in the silence wondering where we are going and what we need to be doing in order to survive the crises – political, environmental and spiritual. I am buoyed up as much as anything by the words of J. Philip Newell just now. There are two pieces from his Saturday Morning Prayer that help me.
1. Let me know in my own soul and body the rhythms of creativity that you have established. Let me know in my family and friendships the disciplines of withdrawal and the call to engagement. Let me know for my world the cycles of renewal given by you for healing and health, the pattern of the seasons given by you for the birth of new life.
2. In the busyness of this day grant me a stillness of seeing, O God. In the conflicting voices of my heart grant me a calmness of hearing. Let my seeing and hearing, my words and my actions be rooted in a silent certainty of your presence. Let my passions for life and the longings for justice that stir within me be grounded in the experience of your stillness. Let my life be rooted in the ground of your peace, O God. Let me be rooted in the depths of your peace. (Celtic Benediction, p. 76 – 77)
On this dreary Saturday morning it is clear that the earth has shifted into the season of Autumn. As the rain taps out a wake-up call on the roof, I wonder if we will see the usual splendor that accompanies October. Some say because of the hot, wet summer we had, the trees will not provide us with that gift this year. I always hold out hope though, and it will last in me for a few more days. For now, I am relaxed into morning by a prayer of John Philip Newell that expands the rhythms of time and the seasons into a God-like view.
Everything is so still this morning. It reminds me of the line in Paul’s Letter to the Romans where he says that “all creation is on tiptoe, waiting for the children of God to come into their own.” That image is my favorite translation because it is so visual but also because it implies for me an intense use of both ears and eyes. We won’t see it if we have our eyes closed and we won’t hear it if we’re not really listening. Even if all of our five outer senses are engaged, there needs to be an interior readiness for the in-breaking of God’s presence. I’ve come to the conclusion that it is an incremental thing, sparked either by our own silence or by a communal encounter of recognition. Deeper than silence, the stillness becomes palpable and we know something that we didn’t know before – indescribable but deeply true. Again it is John Philip Newell whose prayer suffices for this morning.
Today we have a strange confluence of Church events. This morning we celebrate the Fourth Sunday of Advent when we normally prepare to wait a little longer for the celebration of the Incarnation. We have, however, by liturgical rules and the calendar, run out of days before December 24th – Christmas Eve – which ushers in what is never a moveable feast: Christmas Day! So perhaps we are brought up short in our spiritual preparation and need to step back to assess our readiness.
I’m sitting in the dark quiet of the Sophia House, our satellite “office” of the Sophia Center, where I am the only one up and moving. (Somebody has to make the coffee and start the water for tea!) We are here – 5 of us – for 24 hours of consideration of Advent. The questions we will consider today constellate around the idea of the Christ coming into the earthly realm for the benefit of the world. We have all been convinced of this since we were very young, as most Christians are. The lens through which we will look, however, is one of our responsibility to participate in the mission of Jesus as he is present and active in our lives today. Two questions will guide us:
When I was leaving the kitchen with my coffee this morning, one of my housemates asked, “What today’s blog topic?” My answer was as simple as it was true: “I won’t know till I get back upstairs.” So up I came. I sipped my coffee. I looked out the window. I wondered about a lighthearted line or two from the Sufi poet Hafiz. I read Alan Cohen’s entry for this date…Nothing felt right.
“Even though I walk in the dark valley, I fear no evil, for you are at my side. With your rod and your staff you give me courage.”