Epiphany 2012

Matthew 2:2 "Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage."

On this day we observe Epiphany, the appearing or manifestation of Christ to the three magi. On most other days of the year, though, we use the term “epiphany” to denote a sudden revelation, or a flash of insight. For a long time, I have thought of epiphanic experiences as rather passive. I go about my day, doing my ordinary activities, when all of a sudden a startling vision materializes before my very eyes. I did nothing special to cause this epiphany, it simply happened to me.

But it has recently occurred to me that epiphanies are just as much about the reception of visions as the spontaneous manifestation of them. How do we make sense of what we see? How do we understand that which is before our eyes? How do we reconcile what we have sought with what we have found (or perhaps with what has found us)?

I think the magi would have understood this. They were astrologers, after all. They made their living seeking truth from the stars – constantly searching, finding, interpreting, and eventually proclaiming. On this particular Epiphany, the star reminds me that the task of meaning-making is one we all share.

On Advent and Active Waiting

Most Americans I know despise waiting. In fact, we do just about everything we can to avoid waiting. And when we do find ourselves waiting, we try to pretend that we’re not. We attempt to look productive. We read books or magazines. We stare blankly at televisions, or laptops, or we mess with our phones or IPods. And our culture provides us with constant aural and visual stimulation distracting us from the wait, distracting us from ourselves, distracting us from the world around us.

The problem with waiting is that it feels like we’re doing nothing. And so we attempt to eradicate waiting from our everyday lives. We constantly pass over these fantastic opportunities to practice this crucial life skill. It’s as though we’re afraid of waiting, afraid of being in that in-between space, suspended between now and then. Because if we turn off the TV, we might discover that we don’t know how to be together anymore. If we turn off the music, we don’t know what kind of thoughts might surface to fill the silence. If we get rid of the distractions and actually notice the world around us, we might feel compelled to do something about it. If we truly commit to waiting, we might come face to face with ourselves, with our demons, or even worse, with God. And that can be frightening.

What, then, are we to do with Advent? How do we deal with this season of waiting and preparation? How shall we wait, and for what or whom do we wait? For me, Advent is a time to prepare for transformation, particularly the kind of transformation I witness in the personal and social ministries of Jesus. It’s a time to be honest about the state of our lives, our communities and the world. It’s a time to start seeing things differently, to acknowledge suffering and injustice instead of pretending they’re not there. It’s a time to confront those things we normally mask or avoid… those things we’re afraid of discovering in the silence, in the waiting.

There’s reason why people in the bible speak so often about fearing God. There’s a reason why shepherds fall on their faces when angels appear. Because real encounter is intense. Real relationship turns your life on its head. Real connection leads to real change. And that is what God has in store for us with the Christ child. Isn’t that worth the wait?

On Memory and the Making of History

I often think of November as a month of remembrance. It begins with All Saints’ Day – a day to remember those persons who once lived and moved among us in body, but whose presences now grace our lives through memory. On Thanksgiving, despite family squabbles that may temporarily cloud our otherwise sound judgment, we attempt to recall those things for which we are thankful. In other words, we gather together our memories of blessings and abundance.

As a historian, I think about memory a lot. I examine records of the past to try to unearth what the past felt like when it was still the present. A hopeless task, ultimately. I have come to question whether or not we can ever really know anything about the past – even our own pasts. Memories, after all, are not accurate snapshots of what actually happened, but the impressions our minds create about the past. Historical records tend to tell us more about their authors than about the people and events they actually describe. Historical facts, ultimately, are statements made by someone who wants us to remember a person, place or event in a particular way.

Many of the books in the bible have been written in a historical style. In books such as Exodus, our ancestors in faith offer us their memories of their relationship with God. Is it possible that they got some of the “facts” wrong? Entirely. Did they have social and political agendas when creating their histories? Certainly. Does this make their writings any less valuable today? Not one bit. We also have our own histories of following, rejecting, wondering about and wrestling with God. These stories resonate with the spirit of our ancestors. Their God is our God, their flaws are our flaws, their triumphs ours. We claim these stories not because they present us with sterile facts, but because they are shot through with the joy and challenge and pain that we encounter as followers of God traveling through the wilderness. Memory alters and time distorts, but the Spirit of God still breathes through our past, present and future. Let us remember the old, old story even as we write a new one.

Wesleyan Covenant Prayer

I am no longer my own, but thine.
Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt.
Put me to doing, put me to suffering.
Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee,
exalted for thee or brought low for thee.
Let me be full, let me be empty.
Let me have all things, let me have nothing.
I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal.
And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, thou are mine, and I am thine.
So be it.
And the covenant which I have made on earth,
let it be ratified in heaven.
Amen.

A Psalm of Resurrection

O Creative Spirit, Quickening Fire,

You who moves me out of my apathy:

To you I ascribe all wisdom and potential.

There were times of darkness, times of confusion,

Times of pain and silent suffering.

In times such as these, I have turned from you,

Relying instead on my own feeble abilities,

On my weak attempts to take control.

I thank you for leading me out of myself;

When I reached the end of my strength,

You saved me from myself.

You offered me visions of a new world;

You put a new song in my mouth.

Blessed be the God of second chances.

Blessed be the God of reason and purpose,

of spontaneity and holy abandon.

Blessed be our God - ever ancient, ever new.

(c) 2010

Minor Key for a Major Season

For me, Easter always conjures up the image of a sanctuary draped with white and gold cloth, filled with fragrant lilies, packed with people wearing their finest pastels, singing out at the top of their lungs the best and most exuberant music the hymnal (or Handel) has to offer.

Now this music I imagine is generally in a major key. After all, a major key is usually associated with happy emotions. This is how many people learn to distinguish a major key from a minor key: Does it sound happy or sad/angry? Though initially a useful pedagogical tool, this distinction does not always reflect musical reality. I think, for example, of music in the Jewish and Irish traditions. Some of the liveliest music from these traditions is rendered in a minor key (think klezmer, or an Irish reel). By the same token, much Irish and Jewish music expresses intensely sorrowful emotions in a major key.

I have listed below four of my favorite “minor” Easter hymns found in The United Methodist Hymnal (1989). I have only heard one of these hymns used with any regularity in United Methodist congregations (“O Sons and Daughters”) – the rest seem to be neglected in favor of bombastic Easter standards. I find, though, that the minor key can heighten a sense of longing for Christ’s return and evoke the intimacy that permeates stories of resurrection appearances. Try them out and see what you think – if not on Easter Sunday, then some other time during the Easter season.

Camina, Pueblo de Dios (Walk On, O People of God), UMH 305
Words: Cesareo Gabaraín, trans. by George Lockwood, 1987
Music: NUEVA CREACIÓN, Cesareo Gabaraín; harm. by Juan Luis García, 1987
Three stanzas in both Spanish and English

On the Day of Resurrection, UMH 309
Words: Michael Peterson, 1984
Music: EMMAUS, Mark Sedio, 1984; harm. by Charles H. Webb, 1987
Text is based on Luke 24:13-35, the walk to Emmaus.

Cristo Vive (Christ is Risen), UMH 313
Words: Nicolás Martínez, 1960; trans. by Fred Kaan, 1972
Music: CENTRAL, Pablo D. Sosa, 1960
Text is based on 1 Corinthians 15, which addresses resurrection
Three stanzas in both Spanish and English
Performance note: I like to take the eighth note C in the bass down an octave (the second eighth note of most measures in the first half of the hymn). It punctuates the offbeat and gives the effect of a large bell tolling.

O Sons and Daughters, Let Us Sing, UMH 317
Words: Jean Tisserand, 15th cent.; trans. by John Mason Neale, 1851, alt.
Music: O FILII ET FILIAE, 15th cent. French carol; harm. by Charles H. Webb, 1987
Stanzas 1-5 suggested for Easter Sunday, stanzas 1, 6-9 suggested for the following Sunday

Moravian Stars

I was attempting to sermonize last Saturday on the topic of disenchantment. The fact that I had just finished a stressful week of reading and writing (“academizing,” if you will…) meant that my few functioning synapses were running on empty. I ended up being disenchanted with the sermon and much more enchanted with the Apartment Therapy website. Now that the sermon has been preached, I thought I might try to combine some of my liturgical and home deco interests into one blog entry. Ready?

The image above comes from the Moravian Bookshop website. I learned about Moravian stars when I first became interested in Moravian influences on Methodist hymnody. This particular type of star was first crafted around 1850 in a handiwork class at the Moravian boys’ school in Niesky, Germany. The design became quite popular and for many years was produced exclusively in Germany.

Glass stars make excellent Advent/Christmas gifts, while paper stars would serve as cheery, homespun additions to Christmas trees in either home or sanctuary. Lighted plastic stars could brighten a house or apartment year-round, especially in a nursery or a child’s bedroom.

For additional info:
www.moravianbookshop.com
www.moravianstars.com
www.lenox.com Even Lenox now sells a small, lighted Moravian star. Incidentally, it’s the least expensive one I came across.