You know that when you were pagans, you were enticed and led astray to idols that could not speak. ICorinthians 12:2, NRSV
In the ’90’s, looking through the paper, I saw the comic strip Nancy; in it, she was playing with her virtual pets – feeding the cat, tossing a ball to the dog, making sure they were happy. In the last panel, the perspective widens out from Nancy at her computer to show the living, breathing pets she was ignoring.
Idols come in different shapes and sizes, and they are rarely villainous. What makes them idols is the power I give them.
What are the spiritual gifts, and how do you identify who has which one? Are they a measure of our worth, a means of comparing spirituality and godliness? Paul had quite a bit to say about such questions.
Over the next few weeks, we’ll take a look at his words. Who knows where they might lead us…such as:
Now concerning spiritual gifts, brothers and sisters, I do not want you to be uninformed. 1Corinthians 12:1, NRSV
Words have power – something Paul knew well. What is said or written can sway opinions, leading listeners and readers into greater understanding or leading them astray. Deceit can have tragic consequences, just as honesty can be life-giving. Whenever we offer words about the spiritual life, we would do well to take seriously the effect they could have on others.
To the best of his ability, Paul used his words to inform and uplift – to offer a nudge toward a deeper connection with God and neighbor, and a better sense of self. He writes, I do not want you to be uninformed because he wanted good things for others. That is a worthy goal, and a good indication that what follows this opening sentence in chapter twelve will be well worth reading…
Some days, it’s easy to mistake the life I’ve been given for something of little value or consequence. In the grand scheme of things, I’m here for a very short period of time, I interact with an absurdly limited number of people and places, and I’m too easily distracted and stymied by life’s inconveniences. I’ll be forgotten soon after I’ve returned to the ashes and dust that formed me. There won’t be any statues of me, or any lasting work of art that I’ll leave behind, no permanent evidence of my existence at all beyond records of my birth, marriage, and death tucked into a file cabinet or digital storage.
But if that’s how I see life, I’ve missed the point. Its goal is not to leave behind a marker to prove I lived or proclaim my worth. The point is to live the sacred time I’ve been given, and to honor the sanctity of all life around me. I’m meant to be a light that illuminates the path for others as they live out their own precious time – and as others have done for me.
Isn’t that more than enough?
Thank you, Martin Luther King, Jr., for lighting the way. And grateful thanks for all the others who have done the same.
It’s a mystery, why life finds us; why do atoms, molecules, cells, membranes come together to form our physical bodies? Why the mind, heart, and spirit that only we can bring to this time and this place – or any time and place, for that matter.
Rejoice in the life given to you, because you are the only one who will ever have it. Find the joy in the dreary days, the pain, the struggle – and especially in the days that seem to hold nothing of consequence.
There are any number of reasons to feel angry, hurt, or bored.
When was the last time you pulled a sled up a snowy hill, jumped on it, and whooshed all the way back to the bottom? Do you remember what it feels like – wind whipping, snow spraying, the sound of the sled against the snow? How many times did you tromp up and fly down the white hill before it was time to go home? Can you remember the sheer joy of it all, or do you remember only the cold feet and hands, the chapped lips? If given the chance, would you grab a sled and do it again?
Of course, it doesn’t have to be a sled on a hill. It could be a tire swing in the back yard, a pile of crisp leaves, waves on the beach, a polished bannister. Floating sticks a la Winnie the Pooh works, or any number of other things. They offer us wonder and drop us into the mystery of this world and our own lives. And that is no small thing.
I suspect that it might be the most direct way most of us come to what is most sacred – the sheer joy that there is this creation, and the wonder that you and I are part of it.
Every year, Thom Nordquist created a new card. I’m lucky enough to have several of them. This is one that came in 2020 – a lovely piece of art and connection in a time of isolation.
Magi by Thom Nordquist
Thom created the Magi card for an Advent activity – mailing post cards of Advent travelers out into the world to connect the Christ Church community in Plymouth with family and friends near and far a la Flat Stanley.
After Thom’s death, his wife Ellen gave me framed editions of the originals. They are in my work space year round and in my living room during the holiday season.
I admire the artistry in these cards. Even more, I am touched by the effort and intention that went into their creation. They are reminders that love and kindness, regard and concern, can show up in many forms. Such blessings make their way though that holy gate commonly known as a mailbox.
Readings: Jeremiah 33:14-16; Psalm 25:1-10; I Thessalonians 3:9-13; Luke 21:25-36
Heaven and Earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. Luke 21:33
The sun will burn out in about 5 billion years. As with other stars the size of the sun, our star will collapse on itself and die, emitting little to no light. Earth, of course, will die along with it. Though you and I will not be present for the death watch, it seems like an ignominious end to our beautiful blue and green orb we call home.
Our planet, as well as the rest of the universe, has been in continuous flux since the beginning. Data from the Webb telescope (which measures background radiation well beyond our solar system) confirms scientists’ suspicion that the universe exploded into existence billions of years ago. And the universe is expanding at unimaginable speed. Galaxies, including our own Milky Way, are hurtling through space and moving away from each other. The furthest galaxies are moving away from us faster than galaxies closer to us. As a friend once rhetorically asked me, “What is the universe expanding into?” It is indeed an exercise in courage to ponder such imponderables. As scientific discovery expands our knowledge base, forcing us to rethink the way we relate to the universe and our place in it, we might feel uneasy if not a little insecure.
Jesus, who himself lived through times admittedly much different from our own but difficult just the same, assured us there is a divine constancy that reaches out to us across time and space. “God needs man,” said the mystic Meister Eckhart. Evelyn Underhill put it this way: “It is Love calling to love; and the journey, though in one sense a hard pilgrimage, up and out, by the terraced mount and the ten heavens to God, in another is the inevitable rush of the roving comet, caught at last, to the Central Sun.”
This Advent may the whir of existence not drown out the singular message in Jesus’ words that “will not pass away:” God loves us.
Offered by Bryan Fredrickson, God’s beloved child.
We had only been in the renovated rectory a few weeks when this plant arrived – a welcome to your newly renovated space gift. It’s a Lotty Dotty Pink Hypoestes – cat safe and low maintenance. It matches my pink paper clips and push pins and makes me happy whenever I see it. It’s a thoughtful gift that adds beauty and life to my work space.
Animal friendly, low maintenance, not fussy, and bringing joy: it’s a good description of a human life well lived, too. And this plant as good an image of such a life as any other.
He didn’t paint it for me; my son painted it for my mother-in-law, Carol. From Colin’s earliest days, Carol would sit with him at her breakfast table and watch the birds flying in and out of the back yard. It meant enough to Colin that he asked her for a backyard bird guide when he was seven. Because Carol noticed the beauty of birds, Colin did, too. For Christmas a few years before Carol died, Colin painted this tile for her.
Carol’s Gift
When Carol died, the painting came back – a reminder of love and time spent together appreciating the beauty and grace just outside the window. Such a simple, powerful, life-changing act, this giving. How immeasurably richer life is because of such things.
The group wanted to explore Celtic spirituality for Advent in 2019. David Adam’s The Cry of the Deer: Meditations on the Hymn of Saint Patrick provided the words and Debbie Hill instruction in drawing Celtic knots. Debbie is an artist and calligrapher, and adventurous enough to take on teaching a dozen of us how to use pencils, dot paper, and ink to create intricate patterns. The first knot took more than an hour to make – a simple square. By the fourth or fifth try, I could manage a basic knot without needing to look at the directions.
The following weeks brought thoughtful conversation on Saint Patrick’s Breastplate and increasingly more intricate knots – candles frames, and diamonds embedded with crosses. Pulling out the dot paper, pencils, and pens turned into a prayerful act; seeing a pattern emerge from a collection of dots and circles, imperfectly formed but still pleasing, became a way of clearing my mind and opening my spirit to God.
I’m not known for my artistic ability, and I’ve never found drawing satisfying or relaxing. But Debbie’s encouragement and creativity opened up a new way to pray that’s lasted years beyond the original Advent study. I’m still surprised by it, and profoundly grateful.
