Bethlehem Unwrapped and exposed...God, forgive us

Boxing Day in London...Christmas lights garland through the Picaddilly Arcade. Love is in the air!  Our happy conversation and light footsteps are arrested by an unusual sight in the courtyard of St James' Church.  But I am ahead of myself...

Oh Little Town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie...

Christmas Day lies behind us.  Christ is born!  

Our reflections at church on Christmas morning remind us that Jesus of the 21st century is being born into a homeless family, an oppressed family, a poor family.  But let us not forget the families in Bethlehem, behind the wall.  Let us not forget 21st century Bethlehem completely, leaving it to fend for itself, abandoning its children to find a way in this dark world of sin on their own.  We have illuminated our festive celebrations with hope and light and joy; let us not forget turning our backs on their fears, darkness and despair.  

Today walking through London, enjoying the decorated arcades along Piccadilly, "Bethlehem Unwrapped" arrests us, interrupts our light conversation, and captures our attention.  This “ installation” by Justin Butler, Geof Thomspon, Dean Willars and Deborah Burton casts a long shadow over the St James' Church courtyard, usually a bustling marketplace. Stark, towering, imposing, boldly and brazenly interjecting Israel’s Separation Wall into the London landscape.  Mandela's words remind those who pause, "We know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians."

We pause.  We look.  We read.

We have not seen the Separation Wall in Bethlehem except in photos.  I have seen the Berlin Wall -- I remember visiting Checkpoint Charlie in my youth, wondering what life on the other side would be like, the side where people were not so free as me.  We have seen the wall down the middle of the doctor's office in Melmoth, South Africa, in the time of apartheid, separating the waiting room for Black Zulus with its rough wooden benches and posters of snake bites from the waiting room for Whites with its soft couches and piles of magazines.  We have seen images of the wall being erected by our own people in the USA to keep out those who "threaten us" from the south. 

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Why are we so afraid of one another?  Someone has written "Wailing Wall" -- We hear God wailing with sadness behind it.  The spire of St James rises above the planks. Can we look high enough above our walls of separation?  Dare we hope that the one God of all creation can be loved in peace?  Dare we allow others to use the names they prefer, the images of their own creation, the stories of their own histories?     

 

Let us boldly proclaim one God – Elohim, Allah, Jehovah, Emmanuel.  God by any other name is still God, the mystery we can never fully know or understand, the power that has transformed our lives, the One that can turn hate into love and can teach us to channel power for good.  Is this so difficult?

No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still,
The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.

May we remember, in the words of Abraham Lincoln (as written on the wall), "Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?"

God, empower us to remember the futility of dividing walls and strengthen us to pull them down, using the timber and stones to build bridges.

Hope Renewed...thank you Mandela!

Today I give thanks for the life and accomplishments of Tata Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, Father of a nation, beloved by the world.

As we listen to the "live" account of his release and first steps into freedom on Sunday 11 February, 1990, we realize we had not joined the world celebrating that morning, for we lived inside South Africa, at Mfanefile, a "black spot" in the hinterlands of today's KwaZulu Natal. News was heavily censored by the government; often large black blocks of ink would remind us of items prohibited to be shared in print; other times the news would just be missing. We relied on family and friends posting us South African news from The New York Times, which we could share in our Zulu-speaking community.

On that global day of joy, we lived in darkness. Our community's hope had been so severely snatched, we had only one more unbelievable rumour to dismiss as we gathered for church. Yes, we had heard President de Klerk had supposedly removed Mandela from Robben Island. Yes, we had heard new rumours that Mandela was to be set free. Yes, we had heard. But none of us believed. Like Doubting Thomas, "until I can thrust my hand into his wounds," until I can see his face. 

And no one knew what Mandela looked like any more, as no image of him had been seen since 6 June 1986, and then it was only a reprint of a 1964 photo printed in The Weekly Mail.  It had been illegal during his imprisonment to publish his photo. So, we wondered, could we even believe any photos the white press cared to release? And in our rural community which received no newspaper deliveries, not even to the local shop, "living proof" would be long in coming.

When a copy of the 11 February newspaper finally arrives at Mfanefile, it makes the rounds to choruses, cheers and dancing. Hope. Hope restored! Hope that one man's first steps into freedom might set the path for the people of the nation to follow, walking together from the darkness into light. Thank you Tata Mandela for leading the way.

Today my prayers are with the people of South Africa, at Mfanefile and throughout the nation. 

(Ah, the wheels of change move slowly; I just typed in Mfanefile, South Africa, to locate this post, and had to resort to the nearby historically white town, Melmoth, as Mfanefile is not recognized as a real place, even though Mfanefile's population is larger, and its history is longer. )

Retreat

Off the grid, out of touch, not available -- a wonderful and important place to be from time to time.  Possible by unplugging and turning off the phones, but something different happens when we go, go to the ends of the earth. I travelled four hours north by train then 20 minutes south by cab, across the causeway during low tide. Some call it a pilgrimage, but just "going" works for me.  And then once arrived, just "being."  Lots of just being.  Rugged up against the cold island winds.  Drawn to the medieval castle rising overhead on the rock mound beside the sea.  Drawn to the glistening tidal beaches, the flocks of birds, the arches of the ruined priory.  Drawn to the ancient liturgy, the holy meal shared as the sunlight washes over each morning landscape.  Drawn back by the priest, her slender frame crooked with age, her voice lilting through the chapel space. Drawn into new friendship -- sharing stories, laughter, being true.  Walks together, noticing the ripples of sand, the smoothness of stone. Retreat -- going, being, and now the returning.  Daily life takes on a slightly different hue.

Parting with a friend -- Death visits

Jeff died.  Two words that hold everything.  Jeff lived.  Ah, two words that hold everything, too.  Jeff breathed and laughed and loved.  Jeff often thought he knew too much, but often did know so much.  Jeff was a good husband, the best kind, the kind that stays, is faithful, and has eyes for no one but the wife he chose 30 some years ago.  Jeff was a good father, the best kind, the kind that models gentleness and courage, that shows his three magnificent sons that yielding the right of way is okay, that sharing a life with your wife is better than expecting her to support only yours.  Jeff was a dynamic teacher, full of passion, full of creative options and alternative ideas, no moss did this rolling stone gather in his classroom.  Clearing out his office we discovered gadgets for measuring the curve of the earth alongside a wooden antelope from Zimbabwe, where we met.  His dreams had been met, yet he had more. Too soon, this death, too soon. His family, his profession, his home, his golf, his squash playing.  All in their proper place.  All relationships well tended and cultivated. "Inspiring" That's the word his students wrote over and over on the tribute sheets taped to his office door.  Inspiring.  Indeed, Jeff, your life has inspired me.  And your friendship has been true. Thank you.

Called...the ordination of a daughter

How does faith move from one generation to the next?  How does God's call reach into the heart?  Does it pass from one heart to another?  Does it blow, like the wind, from a mother's or father's very breath?  Does it come from a new place, from a separate place, or does it pass through a shared point, a common link, through a single interlacing or web?  From whatever starting point, or source, God's call pulls one up into a new place, a vulnerable yet exhilarating place--open, receptive, truly oneself.  What an honour to share this powerful and gentle calling with father, with daughter, with husband, with God.

It's a beautiful day!  No one and no situation can take that away.  Open my eyes to the beauty.  Open my ears to the song of birds and the whoosh of leaves in the breeze.  Open my heart to the glory of creation. Thandiwe, my daughter, shared this magnificent photo with me this morning --Bastei, Elbe, Germany by Boris Buschardt .  It says it all.

A poem for reflection

I've been re-united with poems by Jeanne Lohmann, a family friend whose husband died when her children were young adults.  I'll be using this poem in a funeral for a 52-year-old father of three, in which the eldest son, aged 25, will share a tribute--part of the story. 

Sunday Poetry

by Jeanne Lohmann

Our stories lie down in the orchard,
their time is not now, but something is
coming, something is going away. They

rise to the stars, and wait to be told.
There are listeners who know how little
we know, how much we are feeling.

We had to go our own way, a little off course,
always, no matter how specific the directions
seemed at the time. In this universe if we’re lucky,

we will live in our children’s stories,
their tales that will turn us to legend,
some absurd truth that has nothing to do

with our plans, our meticulous records.
No matter what stories we discard or keep,
they will give us a life we cannot imagine.

From The Light of Invisible Bodies
by Jeanne Lohmann

Thanks to Jeanne for her numerous volumes of thoughtful and moving poetry. (and for posting some on the internet, so I could find them when I searched!)