Calendar

I’ve realized something, and it’s this:

New Year’s resolutions just don’t work for me. (I’m just curious and would love to hear if and how they work, for you? If they do, kudos!!!) As I grow older and travel around the Sun more and more, with each revolution, I am learning a bit better where to invest and focus my time and energy, and where not to. So I have accepted the fact that making a resolution or resolutions for 2025 is just not something I’m going to do. And it’s fine!!!

Instead, I’m going to try something new …

Two Sundays ago we celebrated the feast of the Epiphany. Once again, we imagined together wise ones who traveled a long distance to encounter God’s revelation in and through a child, guided by a single, bright star.

I’ve been dancing with this image, and it occurred to me that perhaps, instead of making a New Year’s resolution, I might identify a word of intention to be my own “guiding star” for 2025: a specific word of intention to help me focus my energy, to raise up in my consciousness when I feel lost or stumbling, to guide me along the way.

My word of intention — my guiding star — for 2025 is CLARITY.

Already, I am finding this to be much more helpful and effective than trying to make a new year’s resolution ever was!! Already, I have cleared away and sorted through several piles of accumulated stuff at home that had been sitting around accumulating dust for much too long. Already, I have brought to light certain relationships in my life that I want be sure to intentionally steward and nurture, and others whose season has passed. Already, in gatherings and meetings, I have raised questions and rephrased statements in order to be sure I and others understand and have clarity around what exactly is being said or decided, to help make sure everyone is on the same page moving forward.

I am curious, if this “experiment” appeals to or intrigues you? If it does, consider what your word of intention and “guiding star” will be for 2025. I invite you to write that word down on a piece of paper, cut it out in the shape of a star, and bring it with you to church this weekend to place in the offering plate. (I will also provide paper stars that you can write on, if you forget or if you decide at church that you’d like to participate.) We will decorate one of the big bulletin boards in the hall by the ramp with our stars. And if you’re not going to be in church this weekend, please feel free to bring in your star the next time you’re here and put it up on the board.

Together, guided by the light of Christ shining in and through each of us, we will find our way.

Love,
Cristina

“The shell must be cracked apart if what is in it is to come out, for if you want the kernel, you must break the shell.” Meister Eckhart

Dear Folks,

One of my Christmas treats was to read the book In the Ever After: Fairy Tales and the Second Half of Life by Allen B. Chinen, a psychiatrist, Jungian analyst, and teacher. These evocative stories, culled from over 4000, are pure gold for anyone and maybe especially for those over 40. Some elements are common: the protagonists are poor materially or otherwise, they live on the edge of a forest or beside the sea, and they are prompted to travel from their “marginal” place to encounter enchantment of some sort. The invitation is to embrace the darkness, life’s losses and “little deaths,” in order to become a wise elder instead of just being elderly!

The marginal location symbolizes the boundary between conscious life and the unconscious, and illustrates a central theme in elder tales: confronting neglected aspects of the self, buried in the unconscious. Often the protagonist is pictured “gathering wood” from the forest for a living or fishing in the sea, each action illustrating the recovery of lost spiritual material.

In these locations “at the edge of something,” a stranger is encountered, unbidden, and the elder’s task is to notice and accept his or her “magic.” If the protagonist rejected the stranger, or was hostile to or suspicious of him/her, nothing would happen. So, the wise one accepts the gift of the unconscious, which was previously neglected or hidden. The stranger acts as an ally for the protagonist, offering advice and revealing something important, inviting self-confrontation and reformation. And this incorporation of something lost invites self-transcendence.

From a Jungian perspective, the stranger represents the protagonist’s inner self, an image of psychological completion and integration. Further, the stranger offers an encounter with the Divine self and a way to access transcendent knowledge. In the elder tale, the protagonist’s response to this divine “gold” is the opposite of greediness or grasping; rather, she is trusting and free with the gift, in a way that an objective observer might call foolish. Yet, this freedom reflects the elder’s “emancipated innocence”: having confronted greed or acquisitive materialism and mastering it, she transcends herself, and so she is now able to trust her heart’s intuition. The elder realizes that the gift is not for herself alone, but for the world. Giving it away is the only thing that makes “sense.”

In fact at this point in the tale, frequently the elder “loses” the gift he has been given, but in this loss, others are saved: the elder brings magic into the world in order to help the next generation.

Accepting life as it is, plumbing the depths of what one has hidden away, embracing loss and mortality are all nourishing crumbs on the Soul’s path, the way toward integration and healing, and finally access to self-transcendence. Fear not, says the divine messenger: Spirit’s light makes even the darkness visible. Do you see? The wise elder discovers that whatever gold he or she may possess is on loan and only has value when it is given away.

“I said to my soul, be still, and wait… So the darkness shall be light, and the stillness the dancing.” T.S. Eliot

Love,
David

Dear friends —

New Year’s greetings to you!

As we embark on this new year together, I invite you to envision yourself entering a house, borrowing from author and poet Jan Richardson, who writes: “[Imagine] the coming year as a house—a space in time that is opening itself to all of us. How will we inhabit the coming year? How will we enter it with mindfulness and with intention? How will we move through the rooms of the coming months in a way that brings blessing to this world?”

With these questions in mind, she offers the below as a blessing, a blessing I share with you alongside prayers and intentions for a 2025 abundant with hope and healing, courage and comfort, love and “ordinary grace.”

May we be agents and bearers of such grace, and Home for one another,
Cristina

The Year as a House: A Blessing

Think of the year
as a house:
door flung wide
in welcome,
threshold swept
and waiting,
a graced spaciousness
opening and offering itself
to you.

Let it be blessed
in every room.
Let it be hallowed
in every corner.
Let every nook
be a refuge
and every object
set to holy use.

Let it be here
that safety will rest.
Let it be here
that health will make its home.
Let it be here
that peace will show its face.
Let it be here
that love will find its way.

Here
let the weary come
let the aching come
let the lost come
let the sorrowing come.

Here
let them find their rest
and let them find their soothing
and let them find their place
and let them find their delight.

And may it be
in this house of a year
that the seasons will spin in beauty,
and may it be
in these turning days
that time will spiral with joy.
And may it be
that its rooms will fill
with ordinary grace
and light spill from every window
to welcome the stranger home.

—Jan Richardson

O little town of Baltimore,
How still we see thee lie.
The cars have left the JFX
For Santa Claus is nigh.

The Inner Harbor is being renewed
And Cross Keys shops are swell
The Domino sign is digital now,
Shining beyond the old Point Fells.

The Hon Fest is under new management
And ArtScape this year was a bust,
But B’more folks are a testament
That resiliency is always a must.

We’ve got Hopkins and Morgan and Coppin State,
Loyola and MICA, you see!
There’s Goucher, and Towson, and our Lady on Charles
And Maryland of Baltimore C.

The fathers have swagged the churches,
The children learned all their parts.
The mother and baby and manger
Have nestled their way in our hearts.

The Christmas pageant shepherds
Have whiskers drawn with paint.
When asked if reindeer really fly,
A third grader told me “They cain’t.”

And yet the magic kindled here
Of love and life transformed
Is real, if we will make it so,
For every child who’s born.

“Fear not” the angel said again
To any who would listen:
“Wake up! Reach out! Connect!” she says,
“There’s healing for our divisions.”

For in our dark streets shineth
An everlasting light
And eyes that see what could possibly be:
Dawning days after long troubled nights.

There’s ReBuild and there’s GEDCO
And our partners who are CARES,
Johnston Square Elementary where we go to read books,
Govans School and our first-grader pairs.

And the Day School sure is growing,
With leaps that follow bounds,
Early childhood development is spreading roots
Across town and into our grounds.

And meanwhile, have you noticed
There’s some football that will play on the morrow?
Ravens’ Jackson is at the ready,
So there’s no more time for sorrow.

There’s the Snapper and the Holder
And we need them every time.
Make every ball real steady
For Tucker’s toe to shine.

Give Henry, Flowers, and Bateman good health,
This silent night we pray:
Fast legs, strong arms, steady hands and stealth
‘neath the tree on Christmas Day!

And what should we talk about besides the game,
Round the table and opening gifts?
No politics please—maybe sports? Not the news!
Beyonce? Justin Bieber? Taylor Swift?

Now hark the herald angels sing
And tell the good news loud:
A baby’s born who is a king
To mother Mary mild.

The poor are fed, the prisoners freed,
God in our flesh to dwell,
Mountains lowed, valleys raised through Abraham’s seed
J.C., Emmanuel.

So happy Christmas, foe and friend,
Heavy burdens are being made light.
There’s nothing that Love cannot mend,
On this most blessed night.

 

Last night a group of us sat in a circle around the fireplace in the Parish Hall for our December gathering of Ruth’s Sisters (“women navigating midlife transitions of body-mind-spirit together in community grounded in faith, spirituality and experience”). The fire crackled to the sound of a Christmas melody being played on the organ, drifting in from the church. Each sister was invited to consider two questions: What is being born in you? And what burden are you carrying? The light and heat from the fire warmed our circle as we took the time to share and to listen.

Sitting by a fire with others or by yourself can soothe and comfort in a primal way. There is something about the quality of the light that differs from other kinds of light, and it’s not just about the heat. For me, it has something to do with the interplay of light and dark, illumination and shadow, and the dancing, living quality of the flames; and how even as a fire is dying, it gives off light, however dim.

A friend shared a poem with me recently, written by Irish poet, author and priest John O’Donahue. We will hear this poem read aloud this Saturday at our Dark/Light Service at Faith@Five, a service that holds space for the reality that this holiday season can bring up a host of different emotions for many of us, sadness and grief alongside gladness and joy.

Just as we find comfort in gathering together around a fire, so too we find comfort gathering together in community to listen, sing, pray and share a meal, offering ourselves and all that we carry within us — our burdens and hopes, cares and dreams — to one another and to our God, who is big enough to hold it All.

As we prepare once again to celebrate the light of the world made flesh, let us remember the kind of light that warms and nourishes, that we may be that light for others.

Cristina

Dear Folks,

Every Advent, John the Baptist bursts onto the scene with righteous indignation, fiery confidence, and a plan. “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? The One who is coming is going to clean house. God’s law will be the law of the land. Our enemies will be vanquished, and our man will sit on the throne. The Temple’s power will be challenged and rectified… Clean living will replace parties. Up with locusts and honey, down with wine and cheese!” John seems convinced that the One he is heralding will set the record straight, with a strong arm and unquenchable fire.

You can see why he would want this kind of Messiah: like the prophet Elijah, John has squared off against the royal authority and suffered for it. Eight chapters after his stirring opening salvo, John will be locked up in Herod’s prison for protesting the King’s marriage to his own sister-in-law. I imagine John hoped that Jesus would stick up for him, perhaps making a public protest against his unjust punishment or taking up the cause against Herod’s unlawful coupling. He doesn’t. John wants God or somebody to fix things, but the Holy One we call Jesus invites us to healing, instead.

“The kingdom is coming, and is here now,” Jesus says, but it doesn’t look like anything you’ve seen before. Barbara Brown Taylor describes the tension this way: “While John ate locusts in the wilderness, Jesus was turning water to wine at a wedding in Cana; while John crossed the street to avoid traffic with sinners, Jesus sought them out and invited himself home to eat with them… while John spent his whole life warning people to repent and save their souls… what they were really called to do was to love one another. Over and over John handed Jesus the ax, urging him to strike at the rotten wood of the world, and over and over Jesus declined, pointing out the new growth, the green places” that we often cannot or will not see. (Mixed Blessings, Taylor)

No person or power will swoop in to save us; rather, the kingdom of God is in our hearts and in our hands. We know that valleys of despair need to be lifted up, and that mountains built by greed need to be leveled, but that saving work is ours to do, with Spirit as frame and guide and nourishment. There is no quick fix, only the long road of reconciliation.

So we wipe our noses and hang onto each other: chop wood, carry water, and hope against hope. The way I understand the Incarnation, God is with us and in us, and we are each other’s last, best hope, if this old world is ever going to be made new. And this Advent hope should not be confused with fragile optimism. Real hope does not maintain denial. In fact, hope requires a “courageous facing of death and vulnerability.” (Martin Smith) Hope is not about making excuses, for God or anyone else. According to Irishman Vincent McNabb, hope is “some extraordinary spiritual grace that God gives us to handle our fears, but not to oust them.” Distilling hope is about the creation of meaning where you were sure there was none to be found. Hope knows that however dark the night may be, that new life comes in the morning, even when the dawn is forestalled.

True hope is about never cutting corners, never confusing product with process, never letting the means justify the ends. Hope is about choosing love instead of fear, about embracing non-violence and seeing it through, about helping to create a world where power is not merely exchanged from one army to another but redefined altogether… finally power with and not power over. Hope is about being open enough to believe that there can be something new under the sun, and then working to reveal it.

Come thou long expected Jesus, born to set thy people free; from our fear and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee. Israel’s strength and consolation, hope of all the earth thou art: dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.

Love,
David