Advent 1.6: Iron ice and flashing flame.

God of ice and God of flames:
You feel the frigid wind and the roaring heat.
You know the fear of sleeping on the frozen sidewalks.
You know the ache of fleeing from a beloved home engulfed.
You feel, you know, because you too have walked on this earth.
Sometimes it is hard to believe that you are greater than these magnificent and pounding hearts of nature
that bring us peace and chaos, horror and awe.
How can there be something, anything, more powerful than these,
such capacity to destroy, the ability to bring life to a sudden halt?
It is difficult to fathom. And mostly, trying to fathom it often falls by the wayside.
I know I cannot fully understand, and so I do not try.
But it is easier, sometimes, when I try to believe that you dwelt among us.
That you took your power and might and placed it like a shining beacon in a woman's son.
(I think of Ron and the Deluminator, if I'm being honest.)
That the all-knowing matchless strength met the day-to-day imperfect vulnerability.
That they intertwined and walked on land and sea; shook hands, and blessed, and laughed through tears.
Yes, sometimes it is easier to believe, depending on the day, or the doubt, or the disaster.
We your people are overcome by your nature, your wind and snow and fire;
God in human clothes can feel hard to find.
Until you see neighbors being neighbors, even when houses have burned to ash.
Until you smell the food being served and hear the cheer being shared with those who have lost any home they had.
Until the nice person one lane over lets you merge slowly on an icy road.
Until you look for handshakes, blessings, laughter through tears.
Then, for a moment, it becomes easier to believe that you were here, and are,
even in the midst of iron ice and flashing flame.
Amen.
 

Advent 1.5: Another cup

Last night I get home and *definitely* don't feel like going out again: cold, dark, drizzly, gas tank close to E, not to mention introvert insides and a tail flopping, belly rub addicted canine to my left.

But I suck up all the extrovert I have, all the small courages it takes to get through a day (and a night), (and a week), (and a month), re-zip my boots, re-fill my car, head across town with my laptop in tow.

Two hours, two pizza slices, heaps of kale salad later I feel full, satisfied, know it has been worth it--the food, the company, hearing my words and ideas processed and uplifted by once strangers, now friends. A reminder that this work matters, that I have the space in mind and heart.

Our shining bright hostess, so giving of her home and time, offers tea, which I never turn down: the warm slide down my throat, stomach settling into ease, the heat soaking my bones--what I need whether it's an early morning, slow afternoon, or wind-down night. And she says that she will serve tea the Uzbek way.

The joy with which she says it gives me joy, her family legacy alive; she pours the boiling water into a teapot, brings out cheerful cups, no handles, painted in brilliantly detailed blues and greens. The first pour into the cup goes back into the pot--deepening the flavor, she explains, bringing out the jasmine scent.

I savor the first helping, then request a second, gladly given. The tradition, she tells us, is to first fill the cup only halfway--so the guest will ask for another cup and stay longer, so the tea isn't too hot to drink, so the host's generosity has the chance to flourish. Length and breadth, warmth and depth.

A dear friend just happened to send me an excerpt from Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog today:

"...in all this sound and fury, amidst eruptions and undertows, while the world goes its merry way, bursts into flames, tears itself apart and is reborn: human life continues to throb.

So, let us drink a cup of tea."

Driving home, the streets are empty and the front lawns beam with lights.

I'm not sure what this has to do with Advent, but I wanted to tell you about it.

Advent 1.4: Comfort?

What brings you comfort? Is it a person, a season, a time of day, a certain meal? That blanket that you keep at the foot of your bed, the cat or dog who greets you at home? Of course, it's probably not just one of these, but a mixture of many. Sit me down on my couch with the red fleece blanket wrapped around me and my husband in his chair and our dog at his feet, my belly full and a cold and rainy day outside with nowhere to be, maybe Parks and Rec or Harry Potter on TV, or a Louise Penny mystery in my hands--and comfort I will have.

But is that truly comfort?

Comfort, comfort ye, my people
Speak ye peace, thus saith our God.
Comfort those who sit in darkness,
Mourning 'neath their sorrow's load.
Speak ye to Jerusalem
Of the peace that waits for them!
Tell her that her sins I cover,
And her warfare now is over.

I first learned this version (thanks, YouTube!) of Isaiah 40 when I was 15. Our youth choir sang it in worship on the fourth Sunday in Advent that year; my first semester of ninth grade had just ended, and boy was I relieved. It wasn't that I hated high school, but it had been a long and weary four months of transition--plus I had experienced my first short-term relationship and spent the short wintry evenings at lengthy swim meets.

All that is to say, I associate this hopeful tune and lyrics with that time--relief at being done with school, joy at having two weeks off to be with my family and friends and not worry about anything outside of that. In a word, comfort. In another word, peace.

Comfort and peace, for a 15-year-old white middle class girl in America.

I'm not disparaging myself for feeling that way 15 years ago, nor for what I count as comfort now. But I have realized that the comfort God, through Isaiah, is talking about does not equate to the superficial level of comfort that, in many ways, stems from privilege. The comfort these prophets speak of is bone-deep, far surpassing cozy afternoons on the couch. And as God incarnate brings this soul-filling, earth-shaking comfort, God also challenges us--particularly those who think we are pretty comfortable now--to look past what we see as comfortable and recognize that we need to do God's work toward making this deep comfort a reality for all.

In my Advent devotion today, we read from Isaiah 1:16-17: "cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow."

It is not a verse the American Christian world seems to be paying a lot of attention to right now.

On Facebook this morning, someone shared this tweet that hasn't stopped resonating for me:

All I can say is, "Amen."

Christmas (and Advent) is about God joining us on earth to understand our lives, our sorrows, our joys, our frustrations, our hardships. And it is about God bringing healing, full-hearted comfort. But if we're God's people on earth, if God came down and dwelt among us, then God must have also expected us to be bearers of that deep-seated comfort for our neighbors. May it be so.

Yea, her sins our God will pardon,
blotting out each dark misdeed.
All deserving divine anger,
God no more shall see nor heed.
She hath suffered many'a day,
now her griefs have passed away;
God will change her pining sadness
into ever-springing gladness.