The Feast Day of Saint Andrew and the Implications for Modern Life

 Today is the feast day of Saint Andrew, one of the disciples of Jesus. I think of him as a background disciple--he doesn't get a starring role in many of the stories in the Gospels. Still, I could argue that this background disciple is more important than some of the more foreground disciples. What can we learn from the life of this saint?

It’s important to remember that we wouldn’t even know about Simon Peter, one of the most famous disciples, if not for Andrew. Andrew followed John the Baptist, and John the Baptist introduced Jesus as the true Messiah. Andrew believed, and Andrew brought his brother to see what he had seen. Andrew is remembered as the first disciple.

He doesn't stop with his brother--he brings all of his family members into the fold. It's important to remember that these were the early days of the ministry of Jesus, when Jesus might have seemed like just another wack-a-do preacher--the villages of first century Rome were full of such types. Yet Andrew believed and helped others to see what he saw.

What 21st century movements need our belief and our energy?

I also think about the sibling relationships here. What does Andrew think about Simon Peter, who quickly moves into the spotlight? Is Andrew content to stay in the background?

We know from the passage in Matthew that begins with Matthew 20:20, that there is competition to be Christ’s favorite. We see the mother of James and John who argues for her sons’ importance. We see the other disciples who become angry at the actions of this mother. I extrapolate to imagine that there’s much jockeying for position amongst the disciples.

Christ never loses an opportunity to remind us that he’s come to give us a different model of success. Again and again, he dismisses the importance that the world attaches to riches, to status, to a good reputation. Again and again, Jesus instructs us that the last will be first. Jesus tells us that the way to gain prestige with God is to serve.

Most of us live in a world where the idea of serving others is disparaged. We live in a world that needs more of our service. We have a lot to learn from Andrew.

By working in the background, by serving, Andrew helps make manifest one of the most famous miracles. In John’s Gospel, Andrew is the one who tells Jesus about the boy with five barley loaves and two fish, and thus helps make possible the miraculous feeding. If you ask people about the miracles of Jesus, this stretching of food is one that they are likely to remember. Very few miracle stories are found in more than one Gospel. The feeding of the crowd makes it into several.

Andrew was the kind of disciple we could use more of in this world. Even if we don't believe in the mission of the church, many of us are engaged in activities that need a kind of discipleship: we teach, we create, we parent, we care for a wide variety of people.

On this day when we celebrate the life of the first disciple, let us consider our own discipleship. Are we focused on the right tasks or are we hoping that our activities bring us glory? How can we help usher in the miracles that our world needs? Who needs to hear the good news as only we can tell it?

As we consider the larger world, we might also think about the efforts of those first disciples. Tomorrow is World AIDS Day and the anniversary of Rosa Parks' refusal to move from her seat on a Montgomery bus in 1955. Both are good occasions to consider how far we've come--and how far we still have to go.

Our world faces a variety of struggles for freedom, and we may not have much guidance from our leaders. The life of Andrew and the rest of the disciples shows how much we can do if we have a small but dedicated group of people by our side. Today is a good day to think about who those people are for each of us and how we can care for those relationships as we care for the larger world.

Re-Entry

 In so many ways, I wish it was a week ago.  We'd have been on the road just over an hour.  But I don't wish it was a week ago because I'm yearning for a long car trip.  I had a good Thanksgiving break, and I'd like to experience it all again.

I'm also wishing I had gotten more writing done, although I did enough.  As is my practice now, with any scrap of time, I turned to my computer to make some progress, either on final papers for seminary or on grading.

I went to the grocery store yesterday, early in the morning, as has always been my habit, even before the contagious pandemic stalking the land or new variant.  As I walked, I listened to the two homeless men coughing and the baby sniffling, and I wondered if I was lessening my exposure risk or heightening it by being one of the first shoppers in the store.

I am beginning to realize that I forgot to buy some items during our away time.  I looked at the shriveled sweet potatoes yesterday and thought of the times I could have bought better specimens while we were away in North Carolina.  This year was the first year that we didn't make a lot of trips to Wal-Mart, so I didn't get lights to string around our balcony railing.

It was a good time away, and while the next two weeks will be intense ones as I finish grading and I finish seminary work, I don't regret taking the time.  The fact that I wish I could go back and do it all over again makes me grateful that it was worth it.

So let me shake off my post-Thanksgiving melancholy:  time to walk while I think about Rahab and my paper that is due by 11:59 tonight.  Let me think about work.  Let me regain my focus on moving forward.

Jingle All the Way

 There is not much to say that hasn't already been said about the 12 hour drive from the mountain home of my heart to South Florida.  Yesterday the northbound side of I 95 seemed bogged down for long stretches for no apparent reason.  Yesterday, the southbound side was the lucky one.  There's that 20 mile stretch where South Carolina meets the Savannah River to become Georgia--that stretch of I 95 is always congested on Thanksgiving week-end, for reasons I can't quite fathom.

Yesterday we decided to listen to Christmas music on the radio so we would have variety.  I brought some Christmas CDs, but there will be plenty of time to hear those throughout the season that is upon us.  Across four southern states, we found the stations dedicated to all Christmas music all season long, in between long stretches of commercials.

I can think of dozens of Christmas songs, and if we add hymns to the mix, dozens upon dozens.  Yesterday we heard the same 12 songs, over and over again, most of them sung in the exact same way.  And I am left with one pressing question:

If you're going to choose one song, why does everyone sing, "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

I understand why there are so many cover versions of that John Lennon song, "So This Is Christmas."  Well, I do and I don't.  It makes me wonder if there's a more radical Lennon Christmas song that we all forgot about.  "So This Is Christmas" is rather bland, and dare I say it?  It's a bit insipid.

Of course, any song played over and over becomes insipid.  By the end of our 12 hour drive yesterday, I was ready for some punk or metal variations of songs that Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra once made famous.  If I'm ever a famous musician, though, I think I'd stay away from anything that Crosby or Sinatra made famous.  No one will be able to hear my version with fresh ears.

We also heard interesting advertising.  There was a crime report from a small town along the way.  Someone has stolen "12 Cadillac convertors."  I had a vision of small cars being transformed into gas guzzlers.  Who wouldn't want that power?

And then there was the Christmas radio special coming up at 7 p.m. that was sponsored by the South Carolina Department of Law Enforcement, who would like to remind you that they have jobs that they need filled.

Of course, our car conversations turned to this essential question:  "You can only record one holiday song--what would you choose?"  I think I would choose "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel."  It's in my range, and I like both the melancholy tone and the hopeful lyrics.

Speaking of good Advent hymns, let me go and get ready for church--first Sunday in Advent today!

Leaving the Land of Excess

The close of a holiday week-end, with the best parts behind us, at least for me.  Today is a travel day, and tomorrow the getting ready to re-enter regular life day.  These are not the parts of Thanksgiving that make it one of my favorite days.

Part of our family group left late yesterday afternoon, and those of us staying in North Carolina made a delicious turkey tetrazzini from the leftovers.  I had made progress on my seminary papers during the afternoon, so that was a plus--a non-traditional part of Thanksgiving, but likely to become a regular practice over the next few years.

The day began with news of a new COVID variant and ended with news that the variant has now been labeled omicron and is a variant of concern, the most serious designation.  Markets crashed.  More news of the death of Stephen Sondheim, and I have already seen so many eloquent tributes that I will not attempt to add my own.  

So let me head down the mountain, with leftovers packed in ice for the long trip south.  I've e-mailed my papers to myself in case something happens to the laptop during the long trip.  Let me return to the land of sensible eating and exercise, much as I would like to live in the land of excess.

I fear we are in for some hard times ahead, both as a nation and as individual humans.  But isn't that always the truth of our situation.  Thanksgiving reminds us that humanity has come through tough times before and found ways out of no way--and yes, even as I'm typing these words, I realize that some of us have come through much tougher times than others and that some have not found a way, but humanity as a whole has, at least for now.

Important Reminders from a Stranger Thanksgiving

When I look back on my life, I'm sure there will be many contenders for strangest Thanksgiving of my lifetime.  Perhaps I will think about last Thanksgiving, the one in the first year of the pandemic where we all stayed home.  Maybe I will remember the year when I didn't bring any of my sewing supplies, one of the only years when I didn't travel with a quilt in progress, and my cousin's child was counting on me to help with the creation of a tree costume for the pageant (no problem--off we went to one of the many craft stores in the area).  But this year has been pretty darn odd, and may well end up one of the contenders for strangest Thanksgiving.

The holiday itself has been great, full of the usual stuff:  a great meal, a football game of sorts, great conversations, various projects, children who are growing up too fast.  But some of our family members decided that the pandemic is still not under control enough to gather as a group.  I support that decision, but it's still strange to be here without them.

In fact, we had a bit of a COVID scare.  Both of my cousins have children too young for the vaccine.  One of them had sniffles a few days before they came.  The rapid test said the sniffles weren't because of COVID.  We didn't get the results of the more reliable test until Wednesday morning, so on Tuesday, the day when we all arrived, my parents spent the night in a nearby hotel.

On Tuesday as we drove north, my spouse got a phone call to tell him that his favorite uncle was at death's door.  That uncle has been at death's door before, but this time seemed different.  And sure enough, Wednesday morning we got the call that death had come to claim him.  We spent some time thinking about the implications as my father-in-law and stepmom-in-law made their way to Indiana.  Would we go to the funeral?  Would we need to buy some funeral clothes?  What is the bereavement leave policy?

All those conversations needn't have happened.  If there will be a memorial service, it won't be this week-end, and thus, we would make different travel arrangements from South Florida, instead of from North Carolina, where we spend our Thanksgivings.

In some ways, spending a Thanksgiving where sickness and death keep intruding is a potent reminder to be grateful for the time we are given and to keep trying to make the most of it.  Small children do that too, and I confess that I prefer the small child to deliver the message that time is fleeting.

As I'm writing, I'm thinking of other messages that came our way during the day.  I'm thinking of Shanghai Rummy, and the message that even if you're winning or losing, one decisive round can change the outcome; it's a hopeful message or a sobering one, depending on which hand you held.  I'm thinking of the minimalist fire pit my spouse made and the fire that refused to catch flame.  I'm thinking of the bird that baked for hours but the juices still didn't run clear at meal time; however, fifteen more minutes at higher heat made for a cooked turkey that was still tender. 

I suspect that every day is full of these kinds of reminders and metaphors, if only we had the eyes to see.  When people wonder why I continue to write long blog posts, that's one reason, that it helps me to pay attention.

Today the festivities continue, in their subdued state.  We will continue trying to make the most of our remaining time together.  There will be leftovers and more good conversation and time for an outing or two.  There will be time to work on papers, for those of us who have papers to write.  

I will be thinking about Rahab (in the book of Joshua in the Hebrew Bible) and our current political situation, but I won't bore my relatives in talking about it.  I will say that it's strange to be working on that paper about Rahab and comparing New Testament versions of the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus during the same week that the verdict came back from Georgia in the Arbery case--my essays will be slightly different because of that.

Happily, I still have time to write that paper, which means I can take time away from my computer and revel in togetherness time.  The strangeness of this holiday reminds me to prioritize that time.

Thanksgiving Gratitudes

This morning, I did morning watch on my church's Facebook page from an unused bedroom in the ramshackle house at Lutheridge where my family gathers most years for Thanksgiving.  I am grateful for a church that embraces this ministry of mine, where I show up each morning to broadcast live as I read the passages from Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours and do some sketching, final prayer(s), and some final thoughts/benedictions.

Today I said that God is grateful for us, just as we are grateful for our blessings.  We are a blessing for God.  I am grateful to be part of a church (Lutheran, the ELCA variety) that supports these ideas that might be seen as heresy by more restrictive denominations.

I am grateful that the people who gave me my earliest training (religious and otherwise) are here with me.  I feel fortunate that I'm still on good terms with my family, even though we haven't always agreed on politics or other issues.

I am grateful for all those things we'll probably be listing today, if we're lucky:  food, a roof over my head, a job that doesn't mistreat me, relationships that nourish me.

I am grateful for so much in my life, but this year, I am most grateful for my seminary journey.  Those of you who have read this blog have followed that process.  I have wanted to do this for a long time, decades.  This year, I'm grateful to have found a way to make this way.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, November 28, 2021:

Jeremiah 33:14-16

Psalm 25:1-10 (Ps. 25:1)

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13

Luke 21:25-36

Across the nation, many people have already begun to decorate for Christmas.  The stores are full of winter holiday stuff, some of it already deeply discounted.  The TV ads swirl with Christmas cheer.  Many of us are trying to fight off the apocalyptic feelings both in our souls and in the larger world.

If you're in a truly festive mood, the readings for Advent must often seem jarring. They tend to be apocalyptic in nature. Take this week's reading from Luke, for example, with its mention of men fainting with fear and the heavens shaking and the return of Jesus (at least, that's a common interpretation of what this text means). Many of the Old Testament readings for Advent will focus on the prophets who foretell doom and offer comfort to the oppressed. If you're oppressed, perhaps you feel fine. Otherwise, you might sit there, wondering why we can't sing Christmas carols like the rest of the world.

It's important to remember that Advent is seen as a time of watching and waiting. We remember the stories of others who watched and waited:  famously, Mary and all the legions of people who have felt the yoke of oppression and yearned for a savior.

It's also important to remember that one of the main messages of the New Testament, as well as those from the earlier Hebrew Bible, are tales of the Kingdom of God breaking into our current reality. Many modern theologians talk about the Kingdom of God, and about the mission of Jesus, as both “now” and “not yet.” Again and again, we are told that the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of Heaven, will not look like what we expect.

One of the messages of Advent is that God breaks into our dreary world in all sorts of ways, some scary, some comforting, some magnificent, and some hardly noticed. The story of Jesus is one of the more spectacular stories, but God tries to get our attention all the time. We are called to watch and wait and always be on the alert.

The message of Advent is truly exciting. God wants us to participate in Kingdom living now, not just in some distant future when we go to Heaven. What good news for those of us who have been fainting from fear or fighting off feelings of foeboding.  The kingdom of God is near.

Thanksgiving Travel, In Process, In This Second Pandemic Year

 This time yesterday, we would have already been on the road.  In South Florida, if possible, I want to leave by 4 a.m., or at least, no later than 5 a.m.  Otherwise, it's impossible to avoid traffic delays at the very beginning.

So yesterday, we loaded the last items in the car, and off we went.  We drove and drove, through morning mists and later, the foreboding clouds that told of a cold front approaching.  We stopped, briefly, in Savannah for gas and a Taco Bell lunch.  In the past, I might have made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but the bread was moldy, and on Sunday, I didn't feel like buying another loaf.

We did not go all the way to the mountains yesterday.  Our reservation doesn't start until today.  So yesterday, we drove to South Carolina, where we met my parents, and we drove around the outskirts of the capital city, a town we've all lived in at various points.  We ate a delicious dinner at Lizards Thicket, a veggie heavy dinner that did leave us feeling weighted down.

We have some odd problems with internet connectivity.  My computer can hit the internet at the hotel, but my spouse's cannot.  He needs to teach this morning, live, from the room before we leave.  He can use my computer, if the tech support folks can reset his password, because he can't remember it.

I feel strange being here, where we have friends and family, but we're not seeing them.  That's the conundrum of our Thanksgivings:  we can't see everyone.  This year, with some of us feeling OK to gather and others not, it is even more of a conundrum.

Hopefully I will be back in January to finish my onground intensive for the spiritual direction certificate program.  I say hopefully because as we know, so much could interfere.  And then it's on to the 2nd term of seminary, as my spiritual life/career heads in a different direction.

I've gotten some grading done, in case I don't have internet connectivity for the rest of the week.  And I've downloaded what I need to work on the seminary paper that is due on Monday.

I feel like I've forgotten how to travel. I've had weak coffee, followed by weak tea, because I decided to rely on what the hotel provides.  It could be worse.

Thanksgiving Approaches

Here it is, the Sunday before Thanksgiving.  Like many Sundays before Thanksgiving, I will be packing for a road trip.  But in some ways, it is so different this year:

--Only part of our family will gather at the ramshackle house at the Lutheran church camp where we have gathered since the early 90's.  Some of my family members have unvaccinated children:  some of them are coming, and some aren't.  The older adults are vaccinated and boosted, so we're coming. 

--That's the largest difference, of course.  We are about to enter year 3 of the pandemic.  Two years ago, we had no idea we were about to enter year 1.   We've had family members unable to attend in the past, but never for this reason.

--Two years ago was the last time we all gathered.  At that point, I was about to start a certificate program in spiritual direction.  Now I am about to finish that program, and I've started a seminary program.

--Two years ago, I had decided against seminary, at least for the foreseeable future.  So what happened?  I found a dream program in Theology and the Arts at Wesley Theological Seminary, and as I realized my job was likely to end by the end of the year, I moved forward with applying, both to seminary and for candidacy in my religious denomination, and I was accepted.  As we move towards Thanksgiving, I'm also moving towards finishing the first semester of seminary.  Lots of moving in this chunk of text, which I'm leaving here intentionally.

--We will be leaving from our condo that we're renting.  Our house that we own is still on the market, under contract, with hopes that we will be done with the sale by the end of the year.

--Two years ago, we would not have dreamed that we would be putting the house on the market in late 2021.  The housing market is so white hot right now that we decided we didn't want to miss out; we have missed out on white hot markets before, and we've felt regrets.  If you view your house as one of your investments, and if you live in a volatile market like South Florida, you must consider these things.

--I am thinking of all the people who are no longer here, both people who have moved away and people who have died.  I am also trying not to sink into depression over this.

Much will remain the same.  Our family Thanksgiving menu doesn't change much from year to year, and the kitchen is rudimentary, so the fact that we don't demand gourmet options is a gift.  We will have lots of down time, and maybe a trek to find apples.  Will the Wal-Mart still hold the same fascination, now that the children are older?  We will have grading to do, but there will still be time to read.  We will cherish the time to be together; we've always known we won't always have this gift, but the past 2 years have driven that point home.

Seminary Research and a Tree Lighting Festival

 I have spent the past days/weeks immersed in seminary work--but it's the happy kind of immersed, where the writing hums, and I can solve any of the issues that come up.  I think back to pre-Seminary Kristin who was concerned about having enough secondary sources to write her paper.  But I was convinced that if I had to, I could make a quick trip to the campus to take advantage of a better theological library than any of the libraries down here.

Little did I realize how much research has changed.  So far, everything I need has been available online.  Plus much of it is already included in the course shell.  I don't even have to do the research to find the secondary sources I need.  I do wonder if it would have always been this way or if that's a feature of grad school in a pandemic age.

Earlier this week, I made this Facebook post:  "I am a woman who did pre-internet era research, a woman who once thought that microfiche access was a huge improvement over microfilm access. As a seminary student in 2021, being able to get what I need from the library, by way of electronic resources, from 1000 miles away, I feel like a medieval monk, used to a certain kind of scriptorium, who is shown a portal into a world that once seemed only possible in science fiction."

When I got to grad school, the card catalogue was still on paper cards stored in drawers.  Over the next few years, 1988-1991, the library transitioned to an electronic database.  I was appalled that the library would just throw away the physical card catalogue, as I expected the electronic version to crash repeatedly. I'm glad I was wrong.

It still feels miraculous to me that so much is available from so far away.  And I'm amused at my outrage when I come across the occasional source that is listed as "on the shelf."

I had planned to have an evening of writing last night, as I'm trying to get ahead before the Thanksgiving break.  I also thought about going to the tree lighting in the Arts Park across the street from me or at least watching it from my balcony.  I wondered if the torrential rains would mean the event would be postponed.  When the rains stopped, I decided to go see.

I'm glad I made the effort.  There weren't many people in the park, which meant that every child who wanted to could be part of flipping the switch.  There was a bit of a pause while the politicians onstage got updated about how the mysterious visitor would arrive.  The announcement came, Santa and Mrs. Claus walked on stage, and small children ran with joy through the wet grass at the news of this visitor from the North Pole.

I felt a bit of weepiness hearing Bing Crosby sing "I'll Be Home for Christmas."  Or maybe I was already feeling a bit of weepiness, the kind mixed with nostalgia and joy and happiness to be alive to see another holiday season.  It was a good night to go out to see excited children and adults holding hands and various humans with their dogs, out to take in the holiday cheer on a strangely warm and windy night.  It was the break I needed.

More Ways to Frame the Ignatian Questions

 I've been repurposing an old sketchbook.  I had used it for sketching at work, but lately, I haven't been doing much of that.  So, I'm using the rest of the pages to sketch wherever I am.  

I leafed through the older pages.  I had taken some notes during the June intensive for my spiritual direction certificate program.  One of the sessions covered Ignatian discernment.  The presenter conceded that the process of Ignatian discernment can be a bit either/or.  Consolation or Desolation?  Closer to God or further away.

The presenter suggested we look for questions that will lead us to a Both/And frame of mind:

Does this lead us deeper into love?  This question gets us away from the happiness trap of consolation/desolation.  Happiness is a smokescreen, as is the good/bad dichotomy, for all the reasons we likely already know.

I also liked this question:  Is this bringing me life?  It's akin to this question, but takes us a bit deeper than this one:  Is this bringing me joy?

And here's another way of asking that can lead us to Ignatian discernment:

Does peace abide?

Of Breakfast, Wedding Dresses, and Exegesis

At this year's retreat, none of my friends went to breakfast.  Part of me understands.  It was heavy food that I don't usually eat; think bacon, sausage, eggs, along with several other options, like waffles, sausage gravy, and hot and cold cereal.  No smoothies, my usual breakfast, anywhere.  For me, that's the point.

Yesterday, I made this tweet/Facebook post:  "I am thinking about breakfast on retreat, where the talk often turns to cooked grains. 'Did you eat oatmeal or grits or cream of wheat as a child? Butter or sugar on top?' I overheard a 20 minute conversation at a different table on Sunday, and I keep thinking about the metaphor/symbol/theology that is possible from a simple bowl of cooked grain."

I have not gone on to write that poem or that piece of theology.  But I did write a poem over the past few days.  I had one of those vivid dreams the other night, just before I woke up, which is when I usually have my most vivid dreams.  I was wearing a wedding dress at the beach with the tide coming in.  My sketchbook and markers were on the sand, and I picked them up just in time.

I wrote a poem of 3 stanzas (3 so far--I may not be done), and each one starts with this line:  A woman in a wedding dress wanders.  The poem can't decide if it wants to be surrealistic or something else, and I'm not sure it's a problem.

What I really need to work on is my writing for seminary classes.  I have 2 exegetical papers due soon.  There's a part of me that says, "Wait?  We have another paper to write?  Didn't we just do this?"  Yes, in a way we did, for midterm.  And now it's time to do it again.

That writing will have its share of joy too, once I get started.  There's always this rush of contentment, once the seminary writing is underway.  Hopefully I'll get to experience that today. 

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, November 21, 2021:

First Reading: Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 2 Samuel 23:1-7

Psalm: Psalm 93

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 132:1-13 [14-19] (Psalm 132:1-12 [13-18] NRSV)

Second Reading: Revelation 1:4b-8

Gospel: John 18:33-37


Some of us may be thinking, what a strange text to lead us into Advent. Some of us may be thinking, what a non-kingly Gospel for Christ the King Sunday. The weeks to come will be full of strange juxtapositions.

This whipsawed feeling should help us feel sympathy for the Jews of Jesus' time. We know that the Jews had been on the lookout for the Messiah for many years, but they certainly weren't looking for someone like Jesus. They wanted a more traditional vision of a King. They wanted someone who would sweep in and clean up current life. Specifically, they wanted someone to kick the Romans and all the other outsiders out of their homeland. They wanted someone to restore their vision of life as it should be.

We're probably familiar with that feeling. We, too, probably want a God we can control. Or maybe we want a God who makes us feel superior.

The Gospel readings for this week, and the Advent/Christmas texts remind us that we don't worship that kind of God. We worship a God who is willing to become one of the most vulnerable kinds of creatures in our world: a newborn baby, born to underclass parents, in an underclass minority, in an occupied land. We worship a God so radical that he is crucified as a political criminal. Yes, a political criminal--crucifixions were reserved for crimes against the state in the Roman system. It's interesting to reread the Gospels with that fact in mind and to ponder what Jesus said that made him seem so radical and subversive to the Romans.

We worship a God who wants nothing to do with our human visions of power. Our God turned away from wealth. Our God calls us to a radical generosity and invites us to share all that we have. Our God turned away from political power. Our experience of God, in Jesus, reminds us that if we behave in the way that God wants us to behave, we will come into direct conflict with the dominant power structures of our day.

Our God is one whom we will encounter in the oddest places, like in a manger or in criminal court. Advent will remind us that we need to always be alert to the possibilities of this encounter, but that it likely won't happen in the way that we've prepared for or expected.

We come to the end of a liturgical year, the end of that long, green season, as my 5th grade Sunday School teacher called it. We begin a new year trembling with fear and hope. It is a good time, as all new years are, to make resolutions. In the next liturgical year, how will we prepare to meet God? To what strange places are we willing to go so that we may encounter God?

Exile as Metaphor in a Time of Upheaval

On Saturday, I was part of a Bible study that did a deep dive into Isaiah 55:1-13, which I wrote about in more detail in this blog post.  Our Bible study leader was a seminarian who focused on exile and homecoming.

How strange to study Isaiah 55: 1-13 at a retreat, after a global summit on the climate changes that will exile so many of us, while also working my way through a module for seminary class on the first forays into the Promised Land, the book of Joshua written during a time of exile.

It was also strange to be discussing homecoming during a time of so much personal upheaval.  I sometimes--well, actually, always--discount my stress, because it could be so much worse and some of the upheaval we chose to undergo in the hopes that we will emerge in a stronger place.

I am talking about selling our house in South Florida.  We have seen a steep run up in house prices, and we know (and have experienced) the roller coaster that the housing market in Florida can be.  We held onto a condo for 8 years waiting for the market to come out of a deep crash, and the Florida real estate market has more deep crashes than the rest of the nation.  We decided that now was the time to sell.

On Friday night, our sale fell to pieces, just a few days before we were set to close.  The happy news:  we put the house back on the market on Saturday, accepted a new and better offer on Sunday, and with luck, the house will be someone else's by the end of the year.  But it was strange listening to a Bible study on exile and homecoming while having the current housing market on the brain.

I have been thinking about literal exile, since I live in a part of the country where I meet so many exiles, like my colleagues at work who fled Venezuela and won't be going back.  I've been thinking about modern exile and ancient exile and the way that a disease can come along and shut borders we thought would always be open--but of course, the borders were only ever open to some people.

I have also been thinking of the exile of aging:  friends that have died, landscapes that have altered beyond recognition, places where we can't return.  Exile works on both the metaphorical and sometimes the literal level in so many aspects of modern life.

Returning Us All Home from Exile

At the Florida WELCA retreat yesterday, we had a great Bible study of Isaiah 55.  Our Bible study leader is in her last year of seminary, and she reminded us that the passage that we would study is part of the return from exile passage, with its vision of what the return home would look like.

She read Isaiah 55:  1-13 to us and asked us what we jumped out at us.  Then she invited us to share with our neighbors.

I zeroed in on Isaiah 55: 2:

"Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,
and your labor for that which does not satisfy?
Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good,
and delight yourselves in rich food."

I talked about the passage as asking us what satisfies, what do we really need?  One of my groupmates is a science teacher, and she talked about the water cycle, about how the water needs to work its way through the ecosystem, particularly the water table, before it gets recycled into rain.  My other groupmate heard the passage as speaking to life decisions she's contemplating.

Our Bible study leader talked about the value of imagination.  We can't defeat the forces of empire and exile if we don't know what's on the other side. Imagination helps us dream and imagine and prepare.

She concluded by asking a tough question:  are we the exiler?  Whom have we exiled?  What systems have we supported that are responsible for exile?  She asked us to consider our churches with this question, and I wonder how many people will do that.  Even churches that are officially welcoming can be offputting in ways that they don't understand.  It's hard to see ourselves through the eyes of the other.

It's one of the essential questions of our sacred texts:  how do we return us all home from exile?  I suspect that the answer might be found in the answer to why we spend our money on that which is not bread.

Lutheran Women's Retreat In Year 2 of a Pandemic

 I'm at a WELCA retreat, the first time we've gathered in person since the last retreat I was at, here at the Lake Yale retreat and conference center, back in 2019.  I came here for a number of reasons, but mainly because I'm increasingly feeling disconnected from so many people, and a long car ride to a week-end retreat seemed like it would be a good way to begin rebuilding connections.

Back then, I remember that I had decided that I would pursue a certificate in spiritual direction, not seminary.  And now, I am about to finish that certificate, and back in August, I began a seminary program.  Last night, the assistant to the Bishop brought greetings from the him, and she asked for a show of hands how many seminarians we had in the room.  I was so happy to thrust my hand in the air.

The room was not as full as it was 2 years ago, but I expected that.  I was relieved, actually.  I wanted to be able to spread out, since the chairs were set up side by side as if we don't have a global pandemic raging across the planet.  I didn't wear a mask, since I was able to sit far away from everyone.

I will probably not go to any of the workshops.  To be honest, the topics don't call to me this year.  But I'm also worried about how many people will be in the room with me for over an hour, likely unmasked.  This year, unlike 2 years ago, I have my laptop with me and plenty of seminary work to do.  That will be how I will be spending much of my time.

I wondered how the food service might be different, but so far, it seems the same as it was 2 years ago, a cafeteria type serving line.  Last night, unlike 2 years ago, we only had one main dish offering, but that's fine with me.  There's always a huge salad bar and a choice of soup, if the main dish wasn't acceptable.  Last night, it was ricotta stuffed shells, a perfectly fine choice for me.  The cups are disposable, which I find an odd choice, as the plates, bowls, and silverware get washed.

I went for a quick walk this morning to try to catch the sunrise.  It was surprisingly misty/foggy.  

I heard booming sounds.  It's strange to be a place where the sounds of gunfire are humans hunting wildlife, not humans hunting each other.  I do feel safe, although there was a strange minute where I was at the shore of the lake, with the gunshots getting closer.

The outside of the buildings is still the same, and likely to ever be so.  Two years ago, I described the aesthetic as cinderblock, metal, and sand.  But the place has a remodeling effort underway, and I'm in one of the remodeled rooms.  In fact, it's so recently remodeled that I wonder if they forgot to bring back some of the furniture.  I'm in a one of the more accessible rooms, so maybe the lack of a chair or any place to sit except the bed, maybe that's intentional.  So I went and got a chair from somewhere else.  It's not the most comfortable, but it will do.  The mattress is phenomenal, and that's what's most important to me.

Let me see what the day will bring.  The sunrise this morning was certainly different from two years ago.  Here's a picture from an hour later than those above:

It's very otherworldly, which is a good adjective for how I feel today.

Restless Hearts: A Different Way of Evaluating a Spiritual Practice

At the end of my Spiritual Formation for the Practice of Ministry class the other night, my professor talked about the various spiritual practices we've been exploring, and how to evaluate them:  what do we want to try, what is working, what is not?  She said we should ask "Where is our desire for God in the practice?"

It's a great way of reminding us of the primary purpose of a spiritual practice:  it's not about self-improvement, self-enrichment, self-care, although those elements can come about because of our spiritual practice(s).  The primary purpose of a spiritual practice is to train us to meet God.

She talked about the quote by Augustine (pronouns modified from Augustine's use of first person to collective third person):  "Our hearts are restless until they rest in God."  She said we will know when a practice is right for us because our hearts will rest.

Her way of framing the issue was so unique that I wanted to capture it.  Modern society trains most of us to think about our actions by what they bring to us.  I might evaluate spiritual journaling by asking if it's made me a better person, a more faithful Christian, and more efficient thinker, on and on the list could go.  Many of us might also think about the practice from a different angle:  does it bring us closer to God?  But how can we know?

We might also bring the voice of our inner critic to the evaluation of the practice.  We might assume that we're doing the practice wrong or that we're lazy or that we're stupid, on and on the list could go.  For me, thinking about whether or not my heart is resting in God is a way of silencing that inner critic so I can focus on the more essential question.

I suspect that this way of evaluation could be useful in other areas of life too.  Are our restless hearts calmed down?  Can our restless hearts find that rest?  And what is the larger purpose?

Veterans Day in the Second Year of a Global Pandemic

Veterans Day 2021, the second year of a pandemic, when I can feel case numbers ticking up, as surely we all knew they would once colder weather arrived and people went indoors to breathe on each other.  I think about the forces that shape society:  disease and war and random terrorism that catapults a culture onto a different trajectory.

Before Veterans Day was Veterans Day it was Armistice Day which celebrated World War I, the war to end all wars.  Except it didn't.  Research the amount of death in World War II and try to process that many humans gone in just a few years.

Will we some day say the same thing about these pandemic years?  Which is the more efficient killing machine, war or disease?  They so often go hand in hand, so it's hard for me to know.  And I know it depends on the war or the disease.

But it is Veterans Day, not Memorial Day.  Let us now praise all veterans, the ones who saw combat and the ones who kept watch to try to keep combat from exploding.  Let us praise the families and all the support staff, the ones who make it possible for veterans to do what must be done.

Let us think about the reasons why people join the military, reasons that have nothing to do with love of country and the desire to serve:  health care, college expenses, lack of other employment options.  At some point today, let us think about how we could craft a society that offers more options of all kinds.

Let us make treaties that don't trap us into responding to threats with ever expanding violence.  If Archduke Franz Ferdinand had lived to be a boring elder, how would the 20th century have been different?  No Treaty of Versailles might have meant no Hitler.  No Hitler might have meant no creation of the modern nation of Israel.  No World War I means that the Bolshevik Revolution might not have happened and thus, no Soviet Union.

Once I might have wondered if we were headed to a world with fewer veterans.  But a world without veterans seems impossible in my lifetime.  It does seem possible that fewer of us will know veterans.  I think of my college friend's father and his obituary that listed all the wars he'd been part of in his long life.  That kind of veteran experience seems increasingly rare.

So today, let us spend some time staying mindful of the older holiday of Armistice Day, and the modern incarnation of Veteran's Day. Let us remember to give thanks for the sacrifices of so many who have made domestic peace possible. Let us pray for the government leaders of all our countries, in the hopes that they'll continue to avert catastrophes of all sorts, from the economic to the armed conflict to the planet destroying variety.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, November 14, 2021:

First Reading: Daniel 12:1-3

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 1:4-20

Psalm: Psalm 16

Psalm (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 2:1-10

Second Reading: Hebrews 10:11-14 [15-18] 19-25

Gospel: Mark 13:1-8

Here we are, back to apocalyptic texts, a rather strange turn just before we launch into the holiday season (both the secular one and the sacred). This week's Gospel is the type of text that many Christians use to support their assertion that we're living in the end times, that the rapture is near.

Keep in mind that the idea of rapture is fairly new; most scholars date it to the middle of the 19th century. But Christians have felt besieged since the beginning, and indeed, at certain times throughout the centuries, they have been severely threatened.

Most scholars believe that the book of Mark was written just after a particularly brutal suppression of a Jewish uprising and just before the destruction of the Temple, a time when the empire of Rome made it increasingly difficult to be an alien part of the empire. The Gospel of Mark is the most apocalyptic Gospel, perhaps because it was written when people really expected the end was near. Indeed, in many ways, the end was near. The whole of chapter 13 of Mark is grim indeed. Perhaps the Gospel writer uses such a chapter to launch into the Passion story, to set the mood.

Or maybe the Gospel writer wants to remind us of the cost of following Jesus. Maybe it's the larger cost of existing in the world. Even if we're lucky enough to be born into a stable time period, to be part of a country with a stable government, if we're conscious, it's hard to escape the conclusion that it could all vanish at any moment. And even if we don't suffer on the grand (genocidal) scale, most of us will endure more loss than our younger selves would have believed could be survived.

Before we sink too deeply into depression, we need to remember that Jesus came to give us Good News. And that Good News is that we have each other, and we have a God who loves us, no matter what. If we devote our lives to that love, then we can survive all sorts of betrayal, loss, and persecution.

It's also important to look at the last part of the last sentence of this week's Gospel: "this is but the beginning of the birth-pangs." Birth-pangs. What is being born exactly?

The most positive spin on this bit is to say that the Kingdom of God is being born. We tend to think of the Kingdom of God as referring to Heaven, but if you read all the references to the Kingdom of God, it appears that Jesus isn't talking about Heaven as we know it. In some places, Jesus seems to talk about the Kingdom as already existing, perhaps as Jesus walking amongst us. In other places, the Kingdom of God will come to earth later, in a kind of purifying, redeeming vision. Yet again, we see references to this process already beginning, both with Christ's efforts and with the efforts of his believers.

Those of us who have had children, or who have had relatives and friends who have had children, know that parents have to go through a fierce process to hold that little baby in their arms. Jesus reminds us that the process towards the Kingdom of God can be equally fierce. Jesus reminds us that we must stay alert and aware, but that we need not feel alarmed.

All Saints Sermon

My pastor was away yesterday, so I preached the All Saints sermon.  I didn't go out on too much of a limb.  I talked about different ideas of the afterlife.  I made reference to the table where people had brought pictures of their loved ones who had died.  I made mention of the fact that at some point, we, too, will be pictures on that table.

I was most pleased with the end of my sermon.  I talked about Heaven, but I said that if we wait until we're dead, we miss out on so much.  Our scriptures tell us again and again that the Kingdom of God--God's community, God's creation, Heaven--is inbreaking.  It's right now.  We don't have to wait.  We're invited to be part of creating it right here, right now.

I knew what anthem the choir would be singing because I had heard my spouse practice it all week.  I encouraged people to listen to the upcoming All Saints lyrics set to a familiar Christmas tune ("Angels from the Realms of Glory").  I encouraged us to think about that thread holding All Saints and Christmas together, to think about the mystery of God's Kingdom made incarnate, through Jesus.  I encouraged us all to think about what we could do to make God's Kingdom incarnate.

The sermon seemed to be received well.  I worry that I'm basically preaching the same message each time I preach, but if it bothers people, no one lets me know.  After all, I'm not preaching every week.  And it's a message that bears repeating.

Singing, Spooning

My spouse and I are not a couple that prays our bedtime prayers together.    Sometimes we offer a quick prayer as one of us leaves the house in the morning, and we are inclined to say grace.  But the other night, I had a window into a different kind of prayer.

My spouse sings in the choir, and he's been practicing a sung version of The Lord's Prayer to lead in church.  Because we've been using it in church for a few weeks, I know it too.

The other night as we began to drift to sleep, we sang it together.  Because we were curled around each other, I could feel the vibrations of the song as we both sang.  It was surprisingly moving.

I'd like to say that we'll begin a new practice, but that's not likely.  We're just as likely to drift off to sleep while watching TV as we are to have a regular bedtime.

Still, it gave me a window into a new sense of incarnation and holiness, and I wanted to remember it for later.

Eighteenth Visit to the Spiritual Director

I was scheduled to see my spiritual director last week, but I had to move the appointment to yesterday because last week had some visits to the campus from some of the corporate folks.  Yesterday was a quiet day on campus, so it was easy to slip away.

We began by talking about my seminary classes.  She is both interested in my classes while being happy that it's me and not her.  Would I feel the same way if I was talking to someone just beginning an MA in English Lit?  No, not exactly.

A side note:  I think I am loving my classes so much because I'm more interested in being a seminarian than in being a pastor right now.  So I'm less impatient with it all.  I'm also more interested in getting a PhD in theology, so it feels like I'm experiencing a variation of that, with classes that are doable with my current life.

We talked about my work situation which has changed.  I've spent the better part of this year thinking I would lose my job in September or December of 2021, when the campus was scheduled to close.  Now, not only is the campus staying open, but a different campus will be closing and those people moving to my campus--unless the plan changes again.  So I'll continue taking my seminary classes in this remote/virtual/online format and try to stay open to possibilities.

We talked about the other aspects of my life, the house sale which has hit a few hiccups in particular.  We talked about my approach, which is to remember to pray.  We talked about the fact that I'm remembering to pray earlier in my process than I used to.  I told her about my approach to my spouse, when he's been having a tough time with aspects of this transition, especially about a morning when I went for a walk and spent about 20 minutes solving a problem that my spouse hadn't articulated.  I reminded myself to back off, and I waited, letting my spouse know that I knew that he was struggling and that I'm here for him if he needs me.

We talked about my thinking that if I was truly spiritually evolved, I wouldn't even begin solving those problems that have yet to manifest, but yet I do see improvement, that I see earlier in my spiraling process that I'm heading in a not useful direction, and I'm able to short circuit that process.  We talked about whether or not most of us will ever get to the point where we have no worries at all, where we are that detached.

Along the way, we talked about her mini retreat that she had taken and the labyrinth that she had walked, with its small stones that at first seem out of place, but serve as corrective.  We talked about how the Holy Spirit uses corrective stones.  Reformation Sunday and All Saints was on both of our brains, since that's where we are in the Lutheran/church calendar.

We finished by my spiritual director telling me that she sensed a real change in my approach to life's issues, that I'm less anxious and more willing to let events unfold and deal with them as they come, instead of plotting and planning for potential problems (which may or may not happen).  She said she sensed that I was moving from a place of consolation (to use that Ignatian term) not desolation.

One of my friends asked me if I would keep seeing her even when I was done with my spiritual direction certificate program.  I plan to keep seeing her, keep going in for "tune ups," as long as I can keep making that long, long drive to her.

Dream Time, Sabbath Time

I have been dreaming of falling in slow motion through a beautiful sky and last minute parachutes clipped to my jacket by someone who could defy gravity.  It sounds like a scary dream, but it was more like a flying dream.  A few nights ago, I had a rising water dream that was more like a raft party featuring colleagues who will soon be moving back to our campus than an apocalyptic plot for a dream.  It does not take a psychologist to interpret these dreams, now, but I am intrigued by how they are not bad dreams.  I call myself the Apocalypse Gal, but maybe I am not.  Or maybe we're not at the apocalyptic moment I was expecting.  I go through life expecting apocalypse, after all.

I thought of my dreams, in part because dream life fascinates me, in part because the teaching assistant for last night's Spiritual Formation for Ministry class asked if we dreamed when we slept.  He posits that if we don't get to a dream stage, we're not getting deep rest.  I realize that people can dream and not remember their dreams, but putting that aside, let me just say that the vividness of my dreams would suggest that I'm getting rest.

My tiredness might say otherwise.  It has been a week of rushed accreditation writing at work, the type of writing that leaves me fried in the best of circumstances, and this week has not been the best of circumstances.

So last night's discussion of Sabbath time in my Spiritual Formation for Ministry class spoke to me on so many levels.  We talked about carving out time, either a whole day, or in 4 chunks of time (morning, afternoon, evening, an 8 hour sleep time).  My small group partner and I agreed that finding 8 hours to sleep is hard; I can find the time, but I can't guarantee that my body will sleep.  Would inserting an hour into each day be a good start?  In my Covenant Discipleship group, we agreed that it would be a good start.

In the virtual synchronous class portion, my professor responded to what I had written in a discussion post.  Here's what I wrote in response to Barbara Brown Taylor's chapter on Sabbath in her book An Altar in the World:

"She connects to the subversive nature of keeping the Sabbath: “. . . there is no saying yes to God without saying no to God’s rivals. No I will not earn my way today. No, I will not make anyone else work either. No, I will not worry about my life, what I will eat or what I will drink, or about my body, what I will wear” (p. 139). This idea continues to intrigue me and seems worth more consideration. I want more ways of resisting consumerism, capitalism, and empire, while being grateful for this idea that couldn’t be more simple.

But as I type that sentence, I realize I’m writing from a place of privilege as someone who has workplace flexibility and resources. I am also writing at a time of workplace upheaval: jobs vanishing, workers who have decided that their old jobs are too toxic, workers on strike, caretakers who can’t do what they once could—in this current environment, does our approach to Sabbath change?"

My inner Sociology major is fascinated by that last question, but my professor focused on the idea of privilege.  She said that Sabbath is not a privilege but a gift, a gift for all, and the fact that we live in a society where so many of us have to work at so many jobs to make ends meet is a sign that our society is broken.

We didn't stay on that aspect long, although my professor did say that it will take much work and many votes to make transformation at the wide societal level.  She suggested that we focus on what our individual churches can do.  She said that she had been a member of a church where people occasionally had trouble making rent, and it wasn't a cause of shame, it was accepted that rents are high and people might have trouble coming up with the money.  So a call would go out, people would donate to the rent fund, and members would avoid eviction.  She talked about the times we could offer Vacation Bible School that would be more convenient for neighborhood moms and dads.

I like the idea of shifting my perspective so that I see Sabbath time as a gift freely given, not a privilege bestowed by God.  But I don't want to forget that it is a privilege that many of us in industrialized nations don't get to enjoy.  I do want to do the work to see that change, so that all may have a day of rest. 

Meditation for All Saints Sunday

This week we celebrate the Feast of All Saints', traditionally a time when we remember our dead loved ones and all the saints triumphant. Some of us are lucky--we have come through the past year without death coming close to us or those whom we love. Some of us have spent the past year grieving, and we can't imagine how we will ever leave the tomb of grief ourselves.

And along comes Jesus, who calls us to a new life.

Even in years when we aren’t surrounded by constant examples of how short our time here can be, All Saints Day comes around to remind us. We don’t have long on this side of the grave. It’s a good festival to take some time to think about what we’d like to get done while we’re still here.

Jesus constantly reminds us that the glory of God is all around us, if only we had eyes to see. Jesus invites us to a Resurrection Culture. Sometimes, it's a forceful invitation: the cancer that is caught in time, the loss of a relationship or job that leaves us open to something more nourishing, the addiction that loosens its hold, the return of the prodigal loved ones. Other times, we catch sight of God's Kingdom as a fleeting glimpse: the dance of butterflies, the bad mood that lifts, the perfect bottle of wine that we share with friends.

Still we must cope with the ultimate sorrow. As thinking creatures, we go through life aware that if we live long enough, we will lose all that we love. How do we square the Resurrection Culture of Jesus with this knowledge?

Jesus promises us that death is not the final answer. We may not fully understand how Jesus will fulfill that promise. Some will argue that we go directly to Heaven, and some will tell us that we'll wait in a safe place until the final coming of Christ. And in the meantime, Jesus invites us to participate in the creation of the Kingdom, right here, right now. We don't have to wait until we're dead.

Jesus stands at the door of our tombs and calls to us. How will we answer? Will we say, "Go away! I'm comfortable here in my coffin. Leave me alone." Or will we emerge, blinking, into the sunshine of new life? Will we let Jesus unwrap us from our death cloths?

Resources for the First Days of Climate Talks

 How interesting that these first day of climate talks take place across the triduum of Halloween, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day.  While I don't have a poem that makes use of that conjunction (but I will!), I do have plenty of poems that ponder climate change.  Here's one that seems to fit best for this first day of climate talks in Glasgow; it's from my chapbook of the same name, and it first appeared here, with haunting art work to accompany it, at Escape Into Life. :

Life in the Holocene Extinction


I complete the day’s tasks
of e-mails and reports and other paperwork.
I think about which species
have gone extinct
in the amount of time it takes
to troll the Internet.
I squash a mosquito.

He drives to the grocery store
to pick up the few items he needs
for dinner: shark from a distant
sea, wine redolent of minerals from a foreign
soil. He avoids the berries
from a tropical country with lax
control of chemicals.

As she packs up her office,
she thinks about habitat loss,
those orphaned animals stranded
in a world of heat and pavement.
She wishes she had saved
more money while she had a job.
She knows she will lose the house.
She wonders what possessions
will fit into her car.

Maybe you were hoping for less poetic resources.  The website for the meeting is here.  For something less dry (pun intended), I loved this article that has the author going to new condo buildings in Miami Beach where she posed as a wealthy buyer and reports on sea level rise and its impact--or puzzling lack of impact--on the high end real estate market.

I first heard about that article in this episode of Hidden Brain that explores the idea of what happens if we approach the issue of climate catastrophe either like Dunkirk or Normandy, those WWII situations.  You may have to scroll down to look for the episode "We Broke the Planet:  Now What?"  I also liked this episode of It's Been a Minute, which didn't seem like the same old, same old about the topic.

It is hard to believe that these climate talks will make a difference.  It is hard to understate how time is running out--or may have already run out, for some of us in some locations.  Sigh.

Triduum and the Hinge Moments of Autumn

 It is November 1, and I am sad to see October go.  I think of October as one of my favorite months, and it is, but it can also be a difficult month for me for all sorts of reasons that revolve around weather (hot, humid, why isn't it cool yet?) and memories.  

It feels like a sort of hinge moment, and the season of autumn is full of them.  Nov. 1 means that my favorite season, the one that I define as Sept. 15-Dec. 25, is well underway, and soon I will have the larger regret of all of my favorite season being in the rear view mirror.  Pre-emptive grieving--that's me, through and through.

We had some trick-or-treaters come by at 3:00 on Saturday, and then we ate a lot of the Halloween candy.  Yesterday, I went to get more candy.  We rarely get more than 1-5 trick-or-treaters, but I always buy candy as if it's 1975 in the suburbs, and we will get hordes of children.  So, of course, yesterday we got no trick-or-treaters.

I felt a bit of sadness last night--surely it was about more than our lack of trick-or-treaters.  This morning, the sadness lingers.  Will I be less sad about Halloween being over if I think about All Saints and All Souls? If I think about a triduum of days, instead of just one? If I think about the ancestors and the more recently gone and what haunts us all?

I am thinking of this terrific post where James Lumsden talks about the practice of a memory box, as a way to reconnect with one's ancestors and loved ones.  It can become an "All Hallows altar of personal icons."  And the good news is, it's not too late.

This article by Christine Valters Paintner reminds us that we are entering into an entire season of reconnecting with a deeper wisdom:  "As the earth prepares to enter winter, she sheds what she no longer needs and moves inward. We live in a world illuminated by artificial light and so we often forget the wisdom to be gained from being in darkness. With the busyness of our lives, we resist the call of winter to fallowness and to contemplate what mortality means for us."  She posits that this time can become a time of reconnection:  with the hopes and dreams of our ancestors and with our own hopes and dreams--and with a deeper sense of mystery and insight.

May all of our hinge moments swing us towards reconnection.