Watch for the Light

I can't wait for Advent!*  December 2nd: the count-down is on.  I taught a class on Advent last year, which served as a great excuse to sprinkle my blog with advent poems and such.  No doubt there will be some of that this year. 

For a lot of history, the church has treated Advent in the same manner they treated Lent; there was more longing and penitence and less  shopping and decorating.  We miss so much skipping over Advent: a punch line needs a joke.  We don't do waiting in our culture-- we're far too important and busy.

I've been on a quest for a good Advent devotional book, a guide: Watch for the Light.  In this context, "good" means intelligent not sentimental, insightful not cliche, what I need to hear not what I want to hear.

I think I may have found it... after reading November 24th's reading, Blumhardt's "Action in Waiting":

".... We live in a mass of wrongs and untruths, and they surround us as a dark, dark night. Not even in the most flagrant things do we manage to break through....

"Anyone whose attention is fixed on the coming reign of God and who wants to see a change brought about in God's house will become more and more aware that there exists a universal wrongness that is pulled over us like a choking, suffocating blanket." (5-6)

"We must speak in practical terms.  Either Christ's coming has meaning for us now, or else it means nothing at all." (10)

"The all-important thing is to keep your eyes on what comes from God and to make way for it to come into being here on earth. If you always try to be heavenly and spiritually minded, you won't understand the everyday work God has for you to do...." (12)

Humble thyself.  "Because a transformation of this scale can never be achieved by human means, but only by divine intervention, Advent (to quote Bonhoeffer again) might be compared to a prison cell 'in which one waits and hope and does various unessential things... but is completely dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened from the outside.' It is a fitting metaphor. But dependency does not release us from responsibility. If the essence of Advent is expectancy, it is also readiness for action: watchfulness for every opening, and willingness to risk everything for freedom and a new beginning." (xvi)

I like how the writers lean into the tension of watching and willingness.  In fact, I need it.

I'll close with the poem the book opens:

Lo, in the silent night

A child to God is born

And all is brought again

That ere was lost or lorn.

Could but thy soul, O man,

Become a silent night!

God would be born in thee

And set all things aright!

                              15th Century

*Haha, a little Advent humor.

A Collect for Fridays... and Mand ;)

Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord. Amen.
(A Collect for Fridays, Morning Prayer II in the Common Book of Prayer)

This collect states the difference between Jesus and Oprah.  Maybe there's more to life than being nice, happy, and comfortable.  Maybe we're a little more broken than we let on. Then again, maybe I haven't done enough navel gazing recently.

And, since it's Thanksgiving, one more from the Book of Common Prayer-- it's got a little kick:

The General Thanksgiving

Almighty God, Father of all mercies,
we your unworthy servants give you humble thanks
for all your goodness and loving-kindness
to us and to all whom you have made.
We bless you for your creation, preservation,
and all the blessings of this life;
but above all for your immeasurable love
in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ;
for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.
And, we pray, give us such an awareness of your mercies,
that with truly thankful hearts we may show forth your praise,
not only with our lips, but in our lives,
by giving up our selves to your service,
and by walking before you
in holiness and righteousness all our days;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit,
be honor and glory throughout the ages. Amen.

notes on thank you

People don’t write thank notes; they write thank you notes.  Similarly, the meaning of thanksgiving isn’t for what you’re thankful but to whom you give thanks. 

As Americans our gratitude list is long.  Perhaps, it’s one of the longest lists in history. Hot showers and well-stocked grocery stores are amazing.

Feeling gratitude is mood enhancing and good psychology although it isn’t the purpose of thanksgiving. Gifts, which most impacted my life, never filled me with gratitude.  Braces, tenth grade, and rowing practice come to mind.  These three things improved me, but I rarely felt thankful when I couldn’t chew gum or studied Modern World History or woke up at 4:45am.  I never thanked God for the opportunity to have a corrected overbite or read primary texts or participate in Title IX athletics.

It’s about to whom you give thanks.  I fall into an uncomfortable mishmash of self-congratulation and sense of entitlement when I’m not focused on God as the giver of things good. My life starts being all about me.  The value of my job, my friends, and my hobbies decreases as each becomes an obstacle to my self-actualization.

Appreciating God as the cause of all my thanks grounds me.  It’s about God.  Of course, this statement begs the question of situations of unemployment, cancer, infertility, natural disasters, and all other struggles.  This essay is far too simple to address this theological complexity. However, I thank God for his goodness and power as mysterious and beyond my ability to understand as they are.  Thanking and praising God reorient me to reality—the reality that’s much bigger and far beyond me. Thank God.

inner yogi conquers sigh

My inner yogi is a contemplative.  She's not prone to competition, contortion, or consumerism.  Not that I've ever heard her talk, but these are facts I've gleaned over the years.

Her inhibition set in on her maiden yoga class in the Student Recreation Center at the college we were attending.  The instructor and I got off on the wrong foot because I asked, "What are your sit bones?" The instructor sighed her disdain, and my friend mouthed to me, "YOUR BUTT."  That was just the beginning.

The instructor circulated like a dedicated mall security guard.  It was intense, and I heard her sigh every time she came by me.  She attempted to give me hints, but stopped trying.  Finally, these words escaped her lips, "You're not even trying."  I was sweating from my attempt at all the insanity, but my bones would crack and my muscles snap before I could pull off some of these feats.  I've never been flexible on any plane of existence.  I've been able to touch my toes with straight legs approximately twice in my life.  From then one, she merely sighed while passing me and my aching body.

But there's no such thing as a mere sigh when it comes to her. Yoga instructors are masters of le sigh: sighing as art form and weapon.  It's all the breathing exercises. There may be an entire class devoted to sighing with a part one and two. It's two-fold power is: 1) it wilts your soul with disdain and disgust and 2) creates smug cloud that affects your oxygen levels much like hiking just the peaks in the Himalayas (if that were possible).  I can't breathe; I'm getting light-headed. Furthermore, le sigh connotes spiritual enlightenment (the instructor's not yours), which is the nail in the coffin of doom.

Perhaps, your defeat is supposed to lead to limpness, which translates into flexibility.  Not so in my case.  I got frustrated-- one might even say "angry", and my inner yogi curled up in the fetal position to die.  Turns out, inner yogi is no feminist.  Inner yogis are not to be confused with pet spider monkeys who aim to please and adore learning tricks.

My inner yogi remained curled up in the fetal position, and I continued making jokes about how much I hate yoga until... OLD LADY YOGA at my local Y.  We're talking roughly a decade. So,  I went to the class because of my weird work schedule, and I was so stiff from sitting so much that I was willing to try anything... even yoga with a defeated inner yogi.

Maybe it was the sweat pants and white tube socks in lieu of lulelemon uniforms.  Maybe the instructor had abandoned the art of the sigh due to all the hearing aids.  Maybe it was my desperation.  But, my inner yogi uncurled herself and lay on the floor and even joined me for sitting crisscross applesauce (even though she did ask, "She means indian style, right?")  She really didn't mind any of the low-key exercises.  Turns out, she's a minimalist who isn't prone to exhibitionism in any form and allergic to sighs.

contact, contact, contact, contact, contact

Did you ever say a word over and over again until you couldn't say it anymore and it seemed completely weird?  Just a normal word--nothing fancy; say, contact or, even, weird.

Or, have you ever spelled a word correctly, and it doesn't look right?  So, you spell it about three or four different ways to see if any of those look correct.   Say, occasion then ocassion then occassion. And, you end up going with your original spelling even though it still doesn't look quite right. Later, you look the word up in a dictionary, and you were right the entire time.

My sister and I would repeat words into oblivion, then dissolve into giggles.  We'd usually be sitting in one of our back bedrooms on pale green carpet next to our beds somewhere in the little kid activity schedule of eating, sleeping, playing, and growing up to be overly analytical.

Sometimes I catch myself doing that same exercise with my life.  Every once and a while, I'll wake up, start up my routine, and it doesn't seem right.  So, I tweak the schedule.  I'll have a cookie for breakfast instead of oatmeal.  Journal more to figure out what's going on. Or... go into full-on existential crisis mode.  Why am I here?  Does my life serve any real purpose?  Do I do anything worthy of my carbon footprint?  (I actually said that to someone yesterday. Oops.)  And, it turns into this dark, soupy mind loop but minus the giggling.

But, full-on existential crisis mode takes a lot of emotional and psychological energy, which leads to an early bedtime or, if I'm lucky, a nap.  Then, the universal elixir, sleep, set things right.  Oatmeal and routine are okay once again.

commonplacing for this week

"It is important to note that 'the valley of the shadow of death' is as much God's right path for us as the 'green pastures' which lie beside 'quiet waters.'"
James M. Boice

“Such is the depth of the Christian Scriptures that even if I were attempting to study them and nothing else from early boyhood to decrepit old age, with the utmost leisure, the most unwearied zeal, and talents greater than I have, I would still daily be making progress in discovering their treasures.”
St. Augustine

"CHALLENGE:
NAME THE MOST COUNTER-CULTURAL TEXT IN THE BIBLE

My vote:
"What do you have that you did not receive?" (meaning: nothing) (1 Corinthians 4:7)"
Miroslav Volf

"... it only takes about 90 hours to read through the Bible. This means that if we replace our average daily television watching, which Nielsen reports is 4 hours and 39 minutes, with Bible reading, we could read the entire Bible in less than 3 weeks."
Bethany Jenkins

The Bible is on the brain, especially since I said that Thomas walked on water in a class... that I was teaching. I faked a few people out with that one.  I should have said "one of the twelve" or the "dude".

Then, there's always poetry: Looking, Walking, Being

HBJD!

My brother, Patches and Anna's homemade cake

My brother makes me smile.  He always has.  He started out a cute, smiley baby with big, blue eyes and rosy cheeks... so pretty that people always thought he was a girl.  It didn't help that Mom didn't let him have a hair cut for the longest time because she loved his curls.  He was super cute although he cried a lot and was somewhat needy.

With Mom before he subscribed to GQ

Having significantly older sisters probably had its ups and downs.  He's had excellent taste in music from the beginning.  As a three-year-old, he could sing along to "Tainted Love" and Steve Miller Band's "The Joker".  Another time while studying a Pink Floyd CD cover, he asked my sister, "So... which one's Pink?"  He could sing along to Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy"-- how could I escape loving a preschooler that hilarious?

With the a-holes

Then again, there was the time he had to sit out a large portion of recess at First Wesleyan for calling another kid an asshole.  When his shocked and abhorred evangelical teacher asked him where he learned that word, he ratted us out: "My sisters call each other that all the time."  My mom found the situation amusing.  She told my sister and me something along the lines, "That's what you get for misbehaving."

When he was in elementary and I'd come home from school, I'd take him out to lunch.  By "take him out to lunch", I mean we'd walk to The Golden Palace for some Sweet and Sour Chicken and/or Broccoli Chicken in Brown Sauce with a side of fried rice and an egg roll.  It was pretty much as awesome as it sounds. On one of those outings, we composed a memorable song that went something along the lines, "Hush little puppy, don't you cry. We're gonna freeze than eat you."  There's much giggling in the refrain.  This song chronicled the demise of the other Chinese restaurant in town, which got shut down because-- you guessed it-- the health inspectors found dog meat in the freezer.  The owners swore it was for personal use.

Making friends in Las Vegas

He's always had an appreciation for sarcasm... even before he'd mastered it. One of his earliest forays into sarcasm consisted of him telling the ancient lady we shared a pew with, "You're old." After the service, we all took stabs at explaining that there's a difference among awkward, mean, and funny.  Then, finally, by the grace of God he discovered Frasier.  He found the show hilarious; he still calls me to share the highlights of the recent episode he's watched.

Another aspect of my brother I enjoy is his knowledge of ancient history.  It all began with his reading Fitzgerald's translation of Homer's Iliad in verse when he was a fifth grader.  He can chat Greek and Latin mythology and Greek and Roman Republic and Empire.  I love that my brother can make Scipio jokes and doesn't ask "Do you mean Pubic Wars?" (as several people have corrected me) when Punic Wars arrive on the discussion scene.  Similarly, I love that he owns a library card and reads real books alongside ESPN and GQ and the weird gaming magazines he subscribes.

Although I enjoy his keen wit, I respect his warm heart even more.  We have plenty of stories of when my brother's kindness got him into pickles.  As a little kid he befriended an older mentally delayed kid who would follow him around and not leave him alone.  Finally one day, my brother not knowing how to tactfully detach himself lied when the kid asked him who he was, my little brother answered, "Um, Bobby?"  My little brother's name ain't Bobby.  Why he chose it as his pseudonym I'll never know.

However, when I heard that the immigrant Latinos that work for him through a birthday party in the canteen for his 25th, I teared up.  They gave him four colognes and decorated.  What higher accolade is there?

Oh yeah, back in the saddle

The interview for a part-time teaching gig went swimmingly.  They were pleased that I have all of my teeth, rudimentary understanding of professional attire, ability to speak in complete sentences, and have reasonable mastery over subject-verb agreement.  They were so impressed with my educational background in Classics and History that they asked me if I could teach math.  I responded, "Sure."  But, I added the caveat of up to Algebra-- nothing fancy.  And, they were interested in my teaching ESL.  I feel like I sufficiently described my teaching experiences.  I didn't embellish.  How does one embellish teaching 7th grade at a Title One school?  When it comes down to it: my resume is odd... and getting odder.  But, it fits me.

Seriously, it went brilliantly, and I need to write thank-you notes.

I was the only one reeling from the irony of my 15-minute lesson on Time Management.  When I ran my lesson by the Chief last night, she said that there were perhaps some aspects of the lesson from which I could benefit. Touche, Chief, touche.

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I've also been working on my lesson and scheduling for the Wednesday night class at my church.  I've been compiling my first hand-out.  So much fun-- it's about common-placing.  So, I'm leading by example.  Here's the blurb I wrote for the bulletin:

Journaling is an active process of connecting versus compartmentalizing: it integrates our thoughts, feelings, actions, prayers, memories, hope, faith, Scripture, news, TV, art.  We're Calvinists; we don't believe things happen by accident.  Journaling is a way to be honest and discover. However, the ability to connect takes effort and practice.  In this class, we'll follow Luci Shaw's Life Path: Personal and Spiritual Growth through Journal Writing.  The class will consist of brief introductions of topics, discussion and practice.

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I'm getting excited about getting to teach a little.