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soul - ache - ideas, sounds and images between the already and the not-yet

star of wonder, star of night (guide us to thy perfect Light)

I should warn you that when you get inspired to write a blog, you had better be prepared to find more information than you ever wanted to know on the inter-web.

That being said, it all started this morning with a modest story on CNN.com (that I can no longer find to link to!) showcasing some of the top pictures of the year from the Hubble telescope. Naturally, this led me to think about the Star of Bethlehem. I wondered what it was, when/where it appeared, who saw it and what it would have looked like if the Magi had the Hubble telescope.

It turns out there's all kinds of theories about this. There's even a Star of Bethlehem documentary/movement that appears to have been started by an evangelical attorney. If you're looking for a no-frills survey of the Star situation, this BBC article gives a cross-section of opinion, ranging from the classic trinitarian convergence of Jupiter, Saturn and Uranus, to a comet or possibly a spectacular supernova. This Wikipedia entry even has an animated picture showing the convergence of Saturn and Jupiter on November 12, 7 BC. For the reader dying to get to the bottom of this thing, this site is exhaustive, literally and figuratively.

In all honesty, I'm fine with not knowing all the particulars. We now know that Herod didn't reign when Quirinius was governor of Syria, and that throws the veracity of the Gospel narratives into something of a tailspin, particularly when trying to back-date ancient lunar events with records from antiquity. What fascinates me most isn't what it was, but why anything from the heavens would ever want to leave in the first place. 

Let me take some narrative liberties for a second and assume (as the ancients did) that God/Spirit/Jesus is somewhere up there. Literally, up. In the heavens, with the super-cool stars, supernovas, crazy cosmic light displays and imploding galaxies. Why would you ever leave that? Much less leave it for  all that's down here. It's tempting to have a very nice Victorian nativity scene with a Baby Jesus in a perpetually lily-white diaper, but most of us know that wasn't the scene.

On this Christmas Eve I find myself thankful for a God who was willing to work on our terms. Before that little kid in the feed-trough came we could say "You don't know what it's like! You don't know how hard it is! You're just up there, with your galaxies and your stars--you say a word and universes are born, but you don't know what it's like to get sick or watch your child suffer, or you mother get cancer!" In Jesus, God exchanges the paradise of limitless creativity to work with the material before him. As Kyle Matthews calls it "a blue-green tiny grain of sand, two-thirds water, one-third man."

I'm trying to think about this visually, and this is what came to mind.


What boggles my mind the most is that that Light would come down to this mess to "dwell among us." The one who was called "God with us" took on flesh and blood and came into this mess. In him was life, and that life was the light of humanity.

As we anticipate the perfect life, may we never forget the Good News.

That the Word
became flesh
and dwelt
among us.



Merry Christmas everybody. 

May the Light that the darkness could not comprehend/overpower/understand be yours this night.

                                   
Click here to download:
star_of_wonder_star_of_night_g.zip (823 KB)

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Filed under  //   advent   jesus   justice   spaces   stars  
Posted December 24, 2008
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the catholicity of christmas (atlanta, bulgaria, and the ends of the earth)

We had spent the morning throwing a back-to-school party at a preschool orphanage in the Northern city of Pleven, the seventh largest city in Bulgaria. There was a little down time in the afternoon, so the missionaries we were with took us to the Pleven "Epopee" or "Panorama " as it is more commonly known. The Panorama celebrates the victory of the joint forces of Bulgaria and Russia over the Ottoman Empire. It was the first large-scale defeat of the Turks, and the turning point in the liberation of Bulgaria from Turkish rule. It was a fascinating installation--a gigantic mixed-media mural with bodies and wagon wheels, half-real, half-painted on the wall to give depth of field and perspective. It was truly impressive, except for the fact that it reminded me so much of the Atlanta Cyclorama, a little-known installation beside Zoo Atlanta. Between school field trips and Scout trips, I've probably been to the Cyclorama at least five times. What struck me about the Pleven Panorama is how similar it was to what I grew up seeing in Atlanta--a large mural depicting men in various states of warfare and agony, wagons broken and abandoned, buildings burned, smoke rising through the painted air. (Look for yourself and tell me you don't see some similarities!)

       
Click here to download:
the_catholicity_of_christmas_a.zip (1125 KB)


There are, of course, many differences. The architecture of the building is quite different--one looks Romanesque, the other like Boba-Fett's helmet. Perhaps more importantly, the Bulgarian-Turkish battle was over the independence of a nation, the American Civil war was a conflict over states rights, specifically the shameful blight of slavery on the American historic landscape.  Weapons and uniforms differed, but not by much. I stood there in that panorama awestruck--not because I hadn't seen such a display before, but precisely because I had. It was like stepping into some parallel universe, wondering if somewhere on the streets of Pleven there was a large hairy doppelganger of myself. (Maybe he was serving a modest church in the Pleven suburbs).

My panoramic epiphany shouldn't have been so shocking. There are certain things that transcend all cultures. Things like war, politics, good people fighting for something with nothing defeating the bad guys who have everything--these things are universal. In church-y speak there's another word for these kinds of things. We say it's "catholic". This word appears at the end of the Apostles Creed and for one who is tempted to interpret it as meaning "Roman Catholic" there is much confusion when heard in, say a Presbyterian or Methodist church. Merriam-Webster says the word comes from the Greek word katholikos--a compound of the preposition kata ("by") and holos ("whole"). Literally, it means "by whole", as if to suggest something was agreed upon by everybody. 

It seems strange to think anything could be agreed upon by everybody--that anything could be "catholic" as such. Maybe that's why during Christmas we are surprised to hear that people all over the world are preparing as we are for the Savior to come. We don't all portray this exactly the same way. Peruvian creches feature a clay-red infant, while carved ebony from Cameroon shows a Savior dark as night. However we see him, we see the love that surrounds him, the angels that laud him, the shepherds who adore, the magi who pay tribute. We see in the Christ Child how the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Last year I made a video using images from the University of Dayton's Global Nativity Collection. We played it as the choir sang the old song "Some Children See Him." It's not perfect, but I think it's true to the catholic spirit of Christmas--the one that captivates us all--the one that dares to believe that in the clamor and chaos of all the world, 
love has come, 
will come, 
is coming
anew.

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Filed under  //   advent   bulgaria   catholic   church-y language  
Posted December 23, 2008
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text and context 1: John's birth narrative

After reading a great post by a friend yesterday I decided to try something new. For the weekends I'll make one post that tries to look at a familiar passages of Scripture in its original context. I'm shooting to put things out there that you probably didn't hear in Sunday School. I think I'll alternate between New Testament and Old Testament. I'll leave out footnotes so as not to bog it down, but if you want those kind of nerdy things, let me know and I'll send them to you! I'd love to know how to shape it better, so please feel free to give me any feedback you can.

If you've ever seen A Charlie Brown Christmas, chances are good you can recite the birth narrative from the Gospel of Luke by memory. Linus reminds us in the King James of shepherds that were "sore afraid." During the Advent season, we turn to the gospels to set our hierarchy in the nativity. Most of this information comes from the second chapters of Luke and Matthew. Mark has no birth narrative and it is widely asserted that John lacks the familiar Christmas story. 

It's true, there are no shepherds to be found, no mystical magi wandering over from the East, no tyrants ordering the slaughter of first-born males. Instead, John uses an existing philosophical construct (the Logos) to give breadth and meaning to the incarnation of Jesus. And he's making a point, literally and figuratively.

A   1In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2He was with God in the beginning.

B 3Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. 

C 4In him was life, and that life was the light of men. 5The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.

D 6 There came a man who was sent from God; his name was John.7He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all of humanity might believe.

C´ 8He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light. 9The true light that gives light to every man was coming into the world.

 B´ 10He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. 

A´ 11 He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. 12Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God— 13children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband's will, but born of God.

 14The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.


Remember British Literature when you learned about sonnets, iambic pentameter, ABBA patterns, all that junk? Turns out poetry has been doing that since cuneiform. There's structure to John's gospel and he's making a point. You can see it diagrammed in the passage above. 

Verses 1-2 mirror 11-12 in the origins of creation, first the Logos, then the "children of God"

Verse 3 says the world was made through him, which 10 affirms, but adds that world "did not know him."

Verses 4-5 speak to the coming of the light, while 8-9 clarify that John was not the light--that light was still to come.

And the fulcrum is verse 7--that through John's witness to the light, all humanity might believe.

The author makes no bones about showing that this is about believing that Jesus is the Logos. The incarnation of the stuff that makes universes and worlds. There are no "so-and-so begat so-and-so, who begat so-and-so, who begat Jesus."John's birth narrative isn't from the genealogy of Joseph, or anyone else born "of human decision." It's from the cosmos. It's creation language. "In the beginning was the word (Logos)"

The revolutionary thing for John's audience wasn't the concept of the Logos, but the idea that the Logos would take on flesh. For the Gnostics, the Stoics and other philosophical schools, Logos represented the eternal, the origin of the universe, the eternal soup from whence came the souls of humanity. In this view, the material world is passive and functionally useless. Put another way, the eternal soul is good, the flesh is bad.

John says the Word became flesh and made his dwelling with us.

Eugene Peterson does this justice in The Message: "The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood!"

It's the idea that the force that whirls galaxies into existence, that shapes the mortal soul and gives it meaning--that life-giving, meaning-making incarnational power came down at Christmas.

This isn't just some long-awaited Savior of a certain group of people--this is the Creator of all things come to make his dwelling among men.

The author of the Gospel of John stands the Stoics on their head.The God of Earth and Outer Space took the form of a human, entering it like a human being, living like a human being, showing us how to do it, how to make sense of it all, that all of humanity might believe.

That's good news--for everybody.

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Filed under  //   advent   jesus   john's gospel   text & context  
Posted December 20, 2008
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mary's song (or "mary holy, mary, lowly")

And Mary said: 
   "My soul glorifies the Lord 
    47and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, 
 48for he has been mindful 
      of the humble state of his servant. 
   From now on all generations will call me blessed, 
    49for the Mighty One has done great things for me— 
      holy is his name. 
 50His mercy extends to those who fear him, 
      from generation to generation. 
 51He has performed mighty deeds with his arm; 
      he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. 
 52He has brought down rulers from their thrones 
      but has lifted up the humble. 
 53He has filled the hungry with good things 
      but has sent the rich away empty. 

Somewhere over the years I lost sight of the "humble nature" of Mary, the servant Mother of Jesus. Maybe it's the Magnificat, or all the Renaissance pictures with a haloed middle-aged mom holding a cherubic, well-mannered baby God/boy.

I knew it was pink candle Sunday this past third Sunday of Advent. I knew the Magnificat would be the reading and I knew what it said...until verse 53.

"He has filled the hungry with good things, but has sent the rich away empty."

Suddenly it all came crashing back like a train. When I was young I heard this song by Ken Medema called "Hush Missus Teenage Mary". It was like a splatter of paint thinner across all those frou-frou Renaissance pictures. The only thing left was the tight embrace of a mother, with a look of thirteen-year-old fear.

I remember being somewhere a few years ago and watching the thirteen year-old daughter of a couple hold their newly adopted child, a small African-American baby girl who was out cold. The girl held her tightly in her her arms and something in my brain tagged that mental picture "Madonna and Child."

Thirteen year old girls are in love with the Jonas Brothers. They giggle and talk about boys. Mary was probably thirteen, sixteen at the oldest. 

She wasn't best, first, or prettiest. She wasn't the progeny of political power, there was no great dowry to be had. She was just a girl, and probably one scared out of her mind.

But she knew enough of the story to know that's the kind of people God uses. Freaks and frightened teenagers, the downcast, oppressed, mistreated, abused. Sometime he even makes them carry the God-Man in their belly. 

And we call her "blessed." We don't call her the names the other thirteen-year old girls were calling her. We don't call her Joseph's Better-Half or JC's mom. 

We call her Mary.

We call her the Mother of God.

We call her Blessed.

We call her Joy.

Hush Missus Teenage Mary by Ken Medema  
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Filed under  //   advent   justice   mary   teenagers   the poor  
Posted December 16, 2008
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from exclusion to embrace (a story in three Acts during Advent)

prelude:


one:

She was just lying there. Between the Fulton County Courthouse and the Cathedral. Half on a giant concrete planter, the latter half on a makeshift ottoman of old blankets, clothes, bags and a shipping dolly.


I watched as one of our college students pulled a pair of gloves over her arthritic fingers. That's when I really stopped and looked at her. There were hats and hand-warmers, candy-bars and cookies to be passed out to the other people on the street, but when I saw her try again and again to open a water bottle, I asked her if I could help. Her top layer of protection--an old wool trenchcoat, covered by an ugly gray packing blanket--was spattered with shelter stew one of the other guys-turned-care-givers had brought to her. Her eyes looked barely human--dark as midnight, with noexpectation of dawn. She couldn't talk, but nodded in approval. She nursed the water bottle like an infant--her lips solidly around it, refusing to let so much as a drop go the way of the stew stains she wore. And I didn't know what to do. She nodded in approval and placed the water by her side. I put the cap back on it loosely and headed down the street to pass out the rest of our supplies.

We met other people along the way, but none stood out like her. I couldn't quit seeing her eyes, equal parts fear and resignation. By the time the ringleader of our distribution efforts pulled the Volvo-wagon up to the curb, I knew one of those big blankets had her name on it. I ran across the street to where the car was parked illegally. I knew she had to have something to give her some more warmth--that old packing blanket wasn't enough. Forgetting to look to see the cars coming I ran back across, realizing I had grabbed the biggest blanket left, but being struck by the irony of the wires running through. There's little place for electric blankets on the street.

I saw those eyes again, and I wondered what kind of monster I might look like to a woman lying helpless on a tree planter. I told her I brought her another blanket and she nodded gracefully. "My feet" she muttered. I folded a corner underneath her to the makeshift pallet. I spread the top out only to realize how little good it would do. I folded it under as best I could while she shifted her weight to help tuck herself in. Suddenly I was struck by the fact that in attempting to warm this woman, I had no option but to embrace her. Not a handshake or a pat on the back, but a full-on, "only for loved ones" embrace.

And I thought I was going to lose it. 

I don't know what kind of shape she's in. I felt powerless, impotent--all the things you feel when you just don't know what to do but you'd swear there's got to be more. There were people there to help her, I knew that--but it wasn't just their task--it felt like my task. And I can't quit thinking about her. 

two:

The young guy in the coat and jeans had a convincing story. A woman at the shelter a few blocks over was trying to get back to Virginia after coming to Atlanta for work, only to be scammed. All she needed was gas money. I was skeptical, but when he rolled up in an old Mustang with Virginia Plates, loaded to the gills with shopping bags and clothes, my skepticism lifted like a morning fog. She got out with a thick Colombian accent, matching the story he told us a half-hour before. She said all she needed was gas money and directions. She knew how to get home from I-64 East, that it took about 10 hours to get there, but that was it. We did some quick math and figured out 2-3 tanks of gas should get her there. 

I started thinking where the nearest gas station was, and whether or not I had the church credit-card on me. The other adult with us pulled out his wallet. While I was still trying to think how to get to the BP on Spring Street, he had counted off five twenties to hand to her. He put it in her hand and she nearly missed it. In a frenzy of tears and excitement, she grabbed him--the kind of big bear hug only a mother can give. She swore she would send it back when she could. She said she was alone and didn't know anyone in Atlanta, but she had a base there. I pulled out the cell-phone GPS and put "Virginia Beach, VA". She wrote the directions on the back of his executive business card. We went on to grab some lunch, wondering how far she would get--if she could make it home, if the directions were good, if that guy would try and take advantage of her or the money. There was no guarantee, but it felt right.

I was sitting the youth room yesterday morning when his wife came in. "That lady ya'll helped called him this morning. She made it. She's back in Virginia! She said she'll be okay, some friends are helping her and she wants to send the money back a little at a time." 

And I realized that  I had been a skeptic. Skeptics don't embrace.

three:

From my office-cave I pecked away at the keyboard, blissfully unaware of the tall man with the scraggly beard who had made his way into the church office. After a little while I picked up a few details. He was trying to get home to Kansas as soon as possible to see his wife and mother. Traveler's Aid had promised to pay half the bus ticket if he could come up with the other half. Our secretary called one of the deacons who was coming to the church anyway to hang the greens for Advent. He graciously took a cup of coffee, but looked antsy sitting in the church office.

When they called me to help with the lights on the tree I saw him gingerly unwrapping one of the large golden cross ornaments. There was a certain care he showed it--like it was some incredibly fragile ornament that could shatter at any moment. Meanwhile, the rest of the senior-adult set were hustling and bustling--fluffing old garlands and filling the oil lamps. One of our fearless septuagenarians lovingly grabbed his arm and said "I need your height!"

They commenced to decorating the tree, widows and wives, gray-haired candy-stripers and one tall grizzled stranger. When the task-master senior climbed the rickety ladder to work on the top of the tree, he braced the ladder. When it gave a shudder, he lifted his arms, ready to catch her and break her fall. For a split second it looked like an embrace.

This morning an envelope arrived. In it was a check for $100 and a simple note. "Thank you for helping my son. I don't have all of it, but I wanted to send you something to pay you back for helping him out."

epilogue:
Short of Jesus, I don't know any writer more influential to Jen and I then Miroslav Volf . There's a hundred quotes I could put here, including "exclusion and embrace", the title and subject of his first book, but this binds them all together.

"There are two commands which persist in the Scriptures--to have no strange gods, and to love the stranger."

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Filed under  //   advent   embracing the other   foy vance   homeless  
Posted December 15, 2008
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