Traveling in Place

Diversion vs. Compulsion

Lent…MARCH MADNESS!

The way of the cross…THE ROAD TO THE FINAL FOUR!

Not everyone experiences this dissonance – we’re not all basketball fans.  But the contradiction between the solemnity of Lent and the mania surrounding the college basketball tournament is certainly a parable of the difficulty of living the Christian faith in a secular culture.  During Lent, I’ve got a bracket in one hand and a Bible in the other. 

Maybe in some other year I’d be able to contemplate the possibility of giving up basketball for Lent.  But when the local college team is poised to make a legitimate run at the championship, well, I plead my human frailty.  I could also – somewhat disingenuously – plead some scripture, such as the story of the Pharisees criticizing Jesus for not requiring his disciples to fast at the appropriate time.  But the healthiest thing for me to do is simply admit that, as a disciple of Christ, I live in the world even as I am not of the world, and I am always maintaining a delicate balance between my heavenly and earthly citizenships.

Why Dr. King Stirs My Soul

I was only a toddler when Martin Luther King gave his “I Have Dream” speech in front of the Lincoln Memorial.  I wasn’t even born when the Montgomery Bus Boycott catapulted him to the forefront of the Civil Rights movement.  But when I see the grainy black-and-white newsreels of King, especially when he’s speaking from the pulpit of a black Baptist church, I am instantly transported to a place that seems far away yet, judging from how deeply his words and cadence move me, is still very close to my heart.

On the occasion of the Martin Luther King holiday, as our nation pauses to consider the indelible mark Dr. King made on our history, I’ve been remembering the First Baptist Church on Cordell Street.

You see, I grew up in a typical Southern town.  The year I entered first grade was our school district’s first year of busing and integrated classrooms.  But every other aspect of life was strictly segregated, none more so than churches.  My family attended the First Baptist Church on Main Street, right at the major crossroads downtown.  But, as in many other Southern towns, there was another First Baptist Church – the one for the black folks.  Their church was located on Cordell Street, far off any path my family or any other white residents ever traveled.

Christmas Sunday

Note: This post was updated on 12/26/11

Christmas doesn’t fall on a Sunday very often – only ten times every 100 years, but not in regular intervals.  (The next time will be in 2022, and then, not again until 2033.) This makes no difference to Catholics and high-church Protestants who always hold worship services on Christmas Day.  But going to church on Christmas morning is a bit of a novelty to most Protestants, including me.  I love our Christmas Eve services, especially the late one that ends with the lighting of the Christ candle at midnight.  Because we “sing in” Christmas with that service, we don’t normally worship together the following morning.  But when Christmas falls on a Sunday, we don’t cancel church.  We hold only one service.  The crowd is small, but those who come want to be there.

One reason Christmas Day worship is nice is that some carols are written specifically to be sung on Christmas morning.  For instance, the third verse of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” begins, “Yea, Lord, we greet Thee, born this happy morning,” and “Good Christians Friends, Rejoice” includes the line “Give ye heed to what we say: Jesus Christ is born today.” 

And then there are the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow set to music in “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”  Longfellow penned this poem in the depths of the Civil War, contemplating the dissonance between the gunshots of war and the

A Gray Winter Solstice

It’s the first day of winter – the shortest day of the year.  It’s also pretty dark.  The rain is steady; the sky is overcast.  We have been uncharacteristically bereft of snow this December.  While many long-time residents of Central New York reflexively say they are glad for every day without snow, they seem unaware of how crabby they sound with this meager expression of thanks.  Snow in December and early January lightens the landscape and reduces the effect of having so little light.  Without it, the world is gray.  There is no crispness in the air.  And it doesn’t look much like Christmas.

So on this winter solstice, our affect is more seasonally disordered than usual.  We can appreciate to a greater degree the need of our ancestors to fashion elaborate ceremonies of light to cope with this dark moment of the year.  In ancient Rome, the festival of Saturnalia (“birth of the Sun”) was observed by exchanging gifts and dancing around evergreen trees.  In Northern Europe, peasants lit fires to chase away the evil spirits and bid the god of light to return.  Later, Christianity embraced elements of these pagan festivals to celebrate the birth of Christ – “the true light that enlightens everyone.”

Christmas in the "Service" Economy

When I was in high school in the late 1970’s, I worked part-time as a disc jockey for a local radio station whose policy was not to play any Christmas music until December 10.  Listeners actually called us earlier in the month begging us to cue up “Frosty the Snowman” or “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” but our program manager never budged.  This was actually good for business.  People knew they had to wait to hear their holiday favorites, and the anticipation increased attention to the station’s playlist.  Starting on December 10, we DJ’s were allowed to program two Christmas songs each hour.  Then, on Christmas Eve at 6 p.m., the station (whose format was Top 40), broadcast Handel’s “Messiah,” followed by continuous commercial-free Christmas music until noon on Christmas Day.

How quaint.  A few years ago, radio stations started playing round-the-clock Christmas music on the day after Thanksgiving.  At the time, only one station in any given market would program wall-to-wall holiday fare.  Then, multiple stations in the same market adopted the same strategy, the only difference being who switched to this format first.  Now, one station in Central New York starts playing 24-hour-a-day Christmas music on November 1.  By Thanksgiving, four stations are offering nothing but Christmas music.  If I were a (compact) disc jockey at any of these stations, I would lose my mind by the middle of December.

Why the Pink Candle, Pastor?

This year, more people than ever have asked me to explain the meaning of the pink candle in the Advent wreath.  Why not four purple candles?  What’s so special about that third Sunday of Advent?  I regard this interest as a positive sign that folks are paying close attention to the visual symbols and practices of Christian worship. 

For more on the origin of the Advent wreath, I refer you to an earlier post entitled "Bearing the Light in Advent."  Here’ what I have learned about the pink candle.  In the Middle Ages, Advent was a season of penitence – a somber time of fasting and brooding over one’s sins.  On the third Sunday of Advent, Christians paused from this rather severe observance to notice that the time for repentance was nearing an end and the festival of Christmas was fast approaching.  That Sunday was called “Gaudete” Sunday, or “Rejoice” Sunday. 

Bearing the Light in Advent

Yesterday in church, we lit the first candle on the Advent wreath.  Of all the greens that adorn the sanctuary during this time of year, I suppose none draws as much attention as the Advent wreath.  With its candles, we mark the time leading up to Christmas, and call attention to the virtues of hope, peace, love, and joy.  With its greens, we remember that these gifts are eternal, as is the life made possible by the One whose birthday we anticipate.

I’ve heard several stories about the origin of the Advent wreath, and I have found that, as with the season of Advent, no one is really sure how this tradition began.  We do know that in 1839, a German Lutheran pastor named Johann Hinrich Wichern made a wreath with a wooden cartwheel and greens.  Wichern was the founder and headmaster of Rauhes Haus, a residential institution in Hamburg for poor boys.  He designed his Advent wreath to teach the boys the meaning of Christmas.  He used four white candles for the four Sundays of Advent, and red candles for each of the other days leading up to Christmas. 

Everyday Thanksgiving

Years ago, I sat in on one of my children’s elementary school classes for a special presentation by a local artist, Eli Thomas.  Thomas is a prolific painter from the Onondaga tribe of Native Americans, whose sovereign nation lies south of Syracuse.  The school invited him to meet with youngsters just before the Thanksgiving break.

One of the paintings he shared with the students was of a boy sitting in the deep woods next to a waterfall. His small figure was near the lower right hand corner of this colorful scene teeming with the life of the forest. “This is a picture of a boy giving thanks for everything you see here – the waterfall, the birds, the animals, the trees, and the sky,” he explained, pointing to each of the features he named.  Then he asked the children, “What is the next big important day on our calendar?”  They all answered enthusiastically, “Thanksgiving!”  And I thought to myself, “Now this is going to be interesting.”

Keeping Awake

I’m a little disappointed, but mostly relieved, that 11/11/11 has not brought more dire warnings about the end of the world.  A movie called “11/11/11” opens in theatres today announcing that “the end is near.” Other than that, I haven’t heard of any apocalyptic preachers seizing on the numerological significance of this date.

Not that apocalyptic frenzy is receding.  A steady diet of panic and predictions has become a regular feature of American life (as opposed to an occasional eccentricity). Rapid cultural, ethnic, technological, and economic change suggests the decline of one age and the beginning of something new.  Since we don’t know what the next age will look like, it isn’t surprising that many of us are laser-focused on the end of what we do know.  This reminds me of Jesus telling his disciples that he would be rejected and killed, and on the third day, would rise again.  The disciples heard the part about rejection and death loud and clear.  They even tried to prevent Jesus from going to Jerusalem in order to keep him out of danger.  They couldn’t get beyond the warning of suffering in order to hear the part about resurrection.  Similarly, in this time of cultural transition, a lot of us are more focused on what we’re losing than on the possibilities of what is to come.

Walking in the Wilderness

I’ve just returned from my annual spiritual retreat, which combines prayer, meditation, reading, journaling, and hiking.  I take advantage of the Trinity-Brookside Retreat House at the Silver Bay Association on Lake George.  During the “off-season”  (October through Memorial Day), pastors may come for retreat and receive free lodging and meals.  I can’t adequately express my gratitude for this valuable ministry. 

Since I make arrangements for this retreat well in advance, I never have any idea what the weather will be like.  It really doesn’t matter.  When it’s cold and wet, I hunker down in deep quiet, and go walking whenever the sun breaks through the clouds.  When the weather is favorable, as it was this weekend, I spend more time in my hiking boots, but there are enough interesting trails within a short distance that I still have plenty of time for stillness at the retreat house.

This past weekend, the weather was gorgeous.  So I spent a lot of time walking.  I spent one whole day mostly around water – ponds, rivers, and streams – and taking a lot of time with my camera and tripod.  I read somewhere that good nature photography is a form of contemplation.  I don’t claim to be a “good” nature photographer, but paying close attention to light and the little details of nature, examining different ways of looking at the same flow of water, reflection, tree or bloom, does cause one to forget time and be completely in the moment.