Mary and Joey?

This week my cousin, Eleanor, posted an absolute gem of a conversation to Facebook. The characters are Joey, her husband, and Nate, their four-and-a-half-year-old son.

Nate: Why were they talking about Joseph at pageant rehearsal?

Joey: Because Joseph was Jesus’s father.

Nate: YOU ARE?!?

Nate found this revelation surprising, but apparently believable, somewhere within the realm of possibility. For most of us, that realm of possibility shrinks as we grow up. Possibility becomes largely defined by the things we’ve learned and experienced. 

There are plenty of reasons why my cousin-in-law, Joey, couldn’t possibly be the father of Jesus. For starters, he goes by “Joey,” and that just doesn’t sound right for the father of Jesus. Mary and Joey?? No way. He was Joseph. Silly Nate.

After I had laughed long and hard over it, “liked it,” commented on it, and laughed about it some more, I was struck by the wisdom of Nate’s ignorance. The great mysteries of Christmas – the Virgin birth, the Incarnation – do not favor the advanced cognitive abilities of the adult brain.

The developing brain of the young child has the advantage on us here. Jesus really tries to tell us this. He comes to us as a baby. He says things like, “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15)

We often forget Jesus’ message for the same reason that we need to remember it – it doesn’t make the most sense to our big adult brains. Fortunately, we have the little Nates of the world here to remind us.

Pointing

There is a Zen Buddhist saying, "Don't mistake the finger pointing at the moon for the moon."

John the Baptist is pointing so hard at Jesus.

"I am not the Messiah." It's not me.

"I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal." I'm just a pointing finger.

"I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, 'Make straight the way of the Lord.'" Stop looking at me. Look towards him.

"Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!" There he is! He's the One. Follow him.

In the Daily Office reading assigned from the Gospel of John (3:22-30), we see that John has had some success with his pointing. Many of his disciples have abandoned him and are now following Christ. John -- ecstatic -- cries, "My joy has been fulfilled." But his remaining followers are upset. They complain that "all are going to [Jesus]."

The success of John's ministry is measured by numbers. His most faithful disciples see failure in the diminishing numbers. John sees success. After all, his ministry is one of pointing, of teaching his disciples how to see and where to go. It is a testimony to his work that many recognize Christ and leave John's fold.

To those who remain with him, John pointedly reminds, "You yourselves are my witnesses that I said 'I am not the Messiah,'" and "He must increase, but I must decrease." It's still not me.

As so often happens with great teachers, preachers, and leaders, some followers fall in love with the message, while others fall in love with the messenger.

As I prepare yet again for the coming of Christ, this Gospel raises a troubling question. Which kind of follower am I?

John is pointing so hard. Will I see? Will I go?

Surprise

“Surprise!”

My brother, Jamie, and I shouted from the bench where we had been sitting, waiting for our mother to notice us there. She sat at a sidewalk table, six feet away, where she had come to meet a friend for coffee.

It was the day of her 60^th birthday. Jamie had flown in from New Mexico, where he was living, and I’d flown in from California, where my road trip of the American West had taken me. No one but our father – who’d orchestrated it all – expected to see us sitting on a bench in Northampton, Massachusetts.

“Surprise!” 

She turned toward us. Incomprehension turned to shock which morphed into terror. I’d never in my life seen a look anything like it. She was so surprised, she was scared. Reality unraveled in front of her. She would later explain that in that moment life became a dream. What she saw made no sense in the waking world. For one half second I truly thought that we’d caused her a heart attack.

The surprise was so great because our presence was not merely unexpected; it was impossible.

The news of Christmas is this kind of a surprise. Bearing the news to Mary, the Angel must assure her that “nothing will be impossible with God.” And in separate visitations to Mary, to Joseph, and to the shepherds, the message is the same: “Do not be afraid.”

Fear is not an emotion that I generally associate with Christmas, nor is surprise. There is a comfort in the sameness of Christmas from year to year – the same songs on the radio, same movies on the TV, same ornaments on the tree, same foods on the dinner table, same bodies around the table, and the same story told yet another time. 

The layers of tradition are so thick it can be difficult to remember how surprising the story itself is. And the more we try to capture that surprise – through retelling – the more familiar the story becomes. Part of Advent’s challenge is to listen again with new ears. 

Stay awake. Pay attention. Be open to surprise.

Hammers and Hearts

On Thursday, November 15 – two and a half weeks after Hurricane Sandy hit – a group of six young adults from St. Stephen's drove from Richmond to New York City to participate in the relief effort. We drove an SUV and a minivan, full of supplies donated by parishioners.

We spent our two days of Hurricane Sandy relief work in Brooklyn. The days were so different from each other. The work of gutting a flood-destroyed basement – pulling up carpet, tearing down drywall, shoveling mud – was so immediately satisfying. It was hard work physically, but the task was obvious. Step 1: put hammer in hand. Step 2: put hammer through wall. Step 3: repeat step 2.

At the end of the day, the results were strikingly visible. What remained of the basement were a bare concrete floor and a skeleton of studs. Outside, a bank of black trash bags – four feet high and running the length of the property – lined the curb and spilled onto the sidewalk. The family could finally hire an electrician, a plumber and an HVAC specialist, and begin the rebuilding. We’d done good work. It was, in Abigail Whorley’s words, “what we are called to do as neighbors.”

The other day was spent doing “what we are called to do as Christians” (again, Abigail’s words). There were no hammers. We came face-to-face and hands-to-hands with people. It wasn’t easy, wanting to help, not quite knowing what to do. Here we are. Now what?

In Coney Island, one block from the water, we brought warm food to a building of subsidized apartments for seniors. Most were first generation immigrants from Russia; a few had come from Latin America. We walked dark, prison-like hallways, pushing a cart. The doors were closed with more locks than I’d seen outside of a locksmith. In the cart, a white Styrofoam box kept the packages of lasagna warm. They looked and smelled like airplane dinners.

On the 14^th floor, we stood for a long while outside the first door, just looking at it, wondering who’d be on the other side, almost afraid to knock. In retrospect, it was the closest I’ve ever come to understanding the mission of the disciples as Jesus gave it to them: “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money – not even an extra tunic.” (Luke 9:3)

Abigail knocked. Though we had many things with us, including extra layers, I felt naked, as if I had absolutely nothing but the eyes in my face. I could almost feel them being probed and questioned by a stranger through the peephole. I wanted a hammer and a soft wall. Was it a coincidence that Jesus put down a hammer to take up his ministry?

Sometimes the door was opened to us. We were greeted by our long-lost Russian great aunt who hugged us, pinched our cheeks, and told us how beautiful we were. We were greeted by a coughing woman who took two lasagnas – one for herself and one for “her friend” – and closed the door quickly. We were greeted by many people who were so hungry to talk to us and who were happy to take some lasagna too.

Sometimes we heard footsteps but the door remained closed. Jesus tells his disciples to prepare for this, to not take it personally, and to not be deterred by it: “Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet.” (Luke 9: 5) Leave it behind and move on. Keep your heart open.

Finally, in another apartment building, we distributed the supplies that we’d brought from Richmond – toilet paper, personal care items, sponges, and cleaning agents. I fought through my rusty Spanish to understand a woman ask if we had anything fun for her grandkids. We did. Thanks to our 4^th/5^th grade Sunday school class, we had Ziploc bags packed with games, crayons, and toys. The woman laughed with joy and told her friend to bring one to her grandkids too. The toy bags ended up being the most popular thing, surpassing even potable water, at least in terms of excitement generated.

Toys. It was a poignant lesson that our call was not to save lives – none were in imminent danger anyhow – but to give and receive God’s love as freely as possible, in material and nonmaterial ways, for the benefit of all. And it was in showing up that we learned why we’d been called to show up.

Long-Expected

Last Sunday, the first of Advent, I was minding my own business, just belting out the opening hymn (“Come, thou long-expected Jesus”) and watching the procession file past me when a vision of purple tore my heart open.

It was the chasuble (the colorful, tablecloth-like garment worn by the celebrant). Such a deep, vibrant purple. I tried in vain to continue singing, but I was too choked up. 

I’d been moved by many aspects of Episcopal liturgy and worship, but never before by the vestments. Though I’m writing about it now, I really didn’t want anyone to notice that I was tearing up over a holy poncho. How could I possibly explain it?

It took me by great surprise because my brain had nothing to do with it. I felt the richness and the rightness of that purple in my body – a truly visceral reaction. After six months of green, green, and more green – purple! Ah, purple.

It was the final chord of a symphony or great choral work, that moment of resolution, when – after much wandering and teasing – the composer brings us home, back to the sound we’d almost forgotten we were expecting. 

Purple. Oh yes, I had been expecting you, hadn’t I? Long-expecting, in fact.

There is a wisdom and richness to the Episcopal tradition that becomes more and more apparent to me, and alive within me, with each passing year. It is a wisdom that cannot be taught or learned in Sunday school. It is a richness that accumulates over time, through repetition and prolonged exposure.

I hate to generalize, but we as a society love instant gratification, don’t we? We also, not coincidentally, love to quantify and count things, to measure results as scientifically as possible (to know whether or not we’ve been gratified). And we don’t always possess the patience or foresight to recognize that the fruit of our religious practice (and especially that of our children) is often “long-expected.”

I appreciate that many of you encourage, cajole, and perhaps force your children to come to church when their strong desire is to stay home or do something else. As an adult, I am deeply grateful for the gift that my parents gave me of the Church, of literacy in this beautiful tradition. I know that it must have caused suffering at times for them. And I know that I am richer for it. 

As I say thank you to my own parents, I say thank you also to all of you on behalf of your own children, who are at a different place in their faith journey. At this time of year, our tradition reminds us that patience is rewarded. I was able to really see the purple because I have seen so much green.