18th century Universalist James Relly said if we all fell with Adam, then we all rose with the birth, rather than the death of Jesus.  Relly thought this divine birth re-sanctified all of humanity. This theology makes Christmas even more important than Easter. And, as some contemporary feminist theologians argue, it makes Mary part of salvation, co-redemptress.  So today I focus on the exceptional mother of that amazing child and prophet of God.

What happens when we ponder the Universalist message that our physical being was consecrated by the rose that bloomed in winter?  I think it means that we are also called to share the work of salvation.

Humanity is continually re-sanctified by those who teach an act on love, peace, acceptance, truth, healing, and wholeness.  In a Universally-sanctified humanity each person has the capacity to save, whether it be one life or two, or whole communities, or nations. Things change when we see the savior in each other, in our own weak resilient flesh, our human existence.

Let it be said that salvation is never easy, whether it be one life we save, or many. It is arduous, painful, and frightening.  In moments when our courage quavers, let us remember the story of a girl who, when asked to robe the soul Divine within herself, responded so fearless and so brave. When we are asked to give substance to sacred impulses within us, to take up the work of goodness, may we respond like her - first with questions, and then with a courageous “Yes.”

What happens when we dare believe we can participate in saving our precious world? Consider Mary’s visit to her cousin and the bold prophetic song that issued from the heart of one so young, so new.  Let us consider how our own souls might amplify the Sacred, work with Spirit to raise the lowly to high places, to fill up the hungry. Surely these acts of mercy are the true work of Christmas.

What happens when we take up this work, and ponder its painful or bewildering consequences?  Imagine a teenager pondering visits from wise men, shepherds, and the unrecorded women of the nativity - angels in disguise bearing blankets, food, wisdom and warmth.  Imagine angels from on high, asking and announcing impossible hope to the lowly and the outcast. When the costs of our work seem too high, think of Mary as as she looked upon her babe safe asleep when so many others died.  Consider how she may have pondered thoughtless emperors and the cruel course of kings.

As she pondered all this, I wonder what conclusions that young mother reached? I wonder how all this shaped the woman who shaped the life of Jesus.  What lessons did she convey to that exceptional child, eyes so wide with wisdom, who stood quietly at her knee and followed her about her daily chores? How much of what she taught him from the treasures of her heart and the meditations of her mind echoed later in the temple and from the hills of Galilee?

How much of her example revealed itself in his actions of healing, teaching, kindness, wisdom?  How much of the strength she bestowed through her flesh and her mothering gave him the courage to continue when he had to drink from the cup of suffering?  How could Jesus not have been affected by a mother such as Mary? How much we owe her we may never know.

What if we who are parents and teachers thought we were raising children who might one day act to heal a life or two, teach and so touch others, help bind a fractured community, and in some small way heal this bruised resilient world? What if we looked for, expected that saving power in our own mothers’ children, in the sanctity of ourselves and one another? How would we treat one another? How might the precious gift of profound respect flow out of us to touch any who drew near? What would the angels breathless sing in their heavens and from every bitter hillside; what new Nowells compose?

Oh let us ponder in our hearts the angel’s gift, Mary's gift, the gift of Christmas.

This is adapted from a Christmas Eve sermon I gave in 2009.

"To you I lift my soul; show me the way I should go."  (Psalm 143; vs 8).  My last post ended in lamentation due to recent events - bombings and missile launchings, shootings, people with mental illness who lack sufficient support, children dying.  It is hard to stay in that place of lamentation.  This psalm asks where do we take this sense of grief, loss, anger, pain?

My spiritual director recently recommended the Starbridge series of novels by Susan Howatch.  They are about clergy that come up against some sort of crisis they have to work through. The books contain theology and inspiration, and also are somewhat tawdry in places. So like life, basically.  The most recent one I read is Absolute Truths.   It has a phrase from scripture that runs through it, "All things work together for good for them that love God." (Romans 8:28).  This can be particularly difficult to believe at such a point in time.  What to make of it?

At one point a character in the book points out that a better translation is "All things intermingle for good for them that love God."  The good doesn't redeem or end the bad - as though the two are mixed together like cake batter and the good flavor wins out.  Howatch writes, "the good and the bad remain quite distinct.... The bad is really terrible and the good may seem powerless against that terrible reality....." The characters go on to explain that when the good and the bad intermingle (not merge) they form a pattern.  Howatch writes, "The darkness doesn't become less dark, but that pattern which the light makes upon it contains the meaning which makes the darkness endurable."

Where is the good today?  I see it in all those who are helping those parents and families in their time of intense grief, the security guards, the police, the mental health workers, the school psychologists, the clergy, the parents, the children, the teachers in Newtown.  I see it in all those doing whatever they can to prevent such a thing from happening again.   Without that help, the pain would be unendurable but it is there. It is there in all those who are working for peace against all the odds in war-torn places in the world.  It is between and in and even among us.  It is advent, and so we sing, "O come, o come Emmanuel," which means God is with us. O Come, be with us in our time of pain, sorrow, grief, and anger.  Help us lift up our souls. Show us the way out of this.

Years ago at this time of year I wrote this poem which somehow seems to me like an advent poem.

Truth is a Wanderer                                   by Tess Baumberger

Truth is a wanderer disguised as something else entirely.

A tall man walks a narrow path, 
muddy in the rain beneath his feet,
 and red, a sign of clay in the soil, 
against the hills around him green.

He carries a long stick which he, weary, leans upon at times. 
He wears gray clothes tattered 
like the clouds above the hills.

The wind worries them as thoughts concern his brow. 
A hat encloses his head
like a child full of sleep.

He walks with love, and the aging glow of trying, 
trying to love the Earth 
which momentarily embraces 
each foot as it lands.
His shoes bear the evidence.

He has in him a king but his kingliness is a dowdy gift, 
dressed in rags and wandering, 
a hat his only crown, 
a ragged cloak his robe, 
a wooden stick his scepter, 
his ponderous domain 
drawing down his shoulders.

Courage shares a lexicon with grief.

****
May we somehow lift our souls so they can move.  May their good direction become clear.

"We look for peace, but find no good; for a time of healing, but there is terror instead."  Too many people of every age and race, of every nation and religious inclination could say this right now.  Because we often look for peace and find no good, yearn for healing but find only terror, these words seem contemporary.  In fact they are from the ancient prophet Jeremiah (chapter 14, verse 19).

Does the fact that these familiar sentiments are ancient mean the world has gone nowhere - that there has been no progress?  One could argue that position and gain quite a footing in times like this  - times when violence tears at human lives and at the fragile fabric of hope.  If only human goodness received as much air time as human evil, we might not feel so despairing.

At such times as these we want to rail against God, especially if we believe in a powerful God of justice. There is never any justice in acts of violence and terror against innocent beings because such action are evil.  I believe the worst evil lies in justification and that people who call upon God or religion to justify acts of violence and oppression commit sacrilege.  Such acts would be antithetical to the supremely loving nature of the Divine.

Yesterday when I read these words from Jeremiah I wept, as perhaps millions have since those words were first written.  We weep because we recognize wanting healing but feeling terrified, wanting peace but finding no good.  For me, the weeping brought relief.

In my work I meet people in great pain who believe it is wrong to be angry with the Divine.  The fact that you can find outrage towards God in the bible suggests that is not true.  If it were wrong to have and to express such feelings, why would such passages appear in scripture?  The Divine is big enough to handle our outrage. Our Creator knows our nature and how it can react to the world as it is.

"We look for peace, but find no good; for a time of healing, but there is terror instead."  It's hard to sit with such feelings, but to me it would feel artificial to go too soon to the place of redeeming meaning.  So instead, for now, I choose to lament with the ancient prophet. Of course that prophet does not leave things in lamentation but let us not ask too much of ourselves. For now let us mourn.  God is big enough to embrace our laments, our broken hearts.  I believe God weeps with us at such times.  Such actions much break God's heart as well.

Today I have been singing the South African song Siyahamba, whose words translate to "We are marching in the light of God."  This is because this morning the words, "in your light we see light (Psalm 36, verse 9)," caught my attention.  I pondered these words and why they spoke to me today.  There are other lovely phrases in this psalm, including, "Your love, Yahweh, reaches to heaven, your faithfulness to the skies." I also like, "your justice is like a mountain, your judgements like the deep."  So what appealed to me about, "in your light we see the light?"

The fact that the nights longer here in the northern hemisphere may have something to do with it.  I am not really ready for winter, but here it is, ready or not.  I also find the simple poetry of the words pleasing.  I have an image of standing in a shower of light, surrounded by night, my head lifted to its source.

"In your light we see light."  We see light in the dark as well though, don't we?  In fact, in the depths of night even the smallest light is visible - witness the stars.  So what does the psalmist mean by suggesting that we see light in the light of the Divine?  Maybe when we are in Divine light, we see the light more clearly, or in a different way.  When we go from darkness to light we blink a bit, shielding our eyes until they adapt. I wonder if we can adapt to divine light.  If we stand in it long enough can we look into its brightness?  When we move out of it do we then stumble about, unable to see until our eyes adapt again?  Can we adapt to the thick of night?

Meditating further I began to wonder if the polarity between light and dark really makes sense.  In another place the psalmist writes, "the darkness would not be dark to you; night would shine as day (Psalm 139, verse 12)."  In divine light there may be no such distinction.   Perhaps when we stand in divine light we perceive that the "dark nights of the soul" are not so dark.  Maybe it's like we are blindfolded, unable to see.  When we remove the blindfold we find ourselves surrounded by brilliance.

It could be that these words struck me because in difficult times I have sometimes found myself suddenly, unexpectedly blindsided by joy.  Perhaps you have had a similar experience.  It's a bit disconcerting, isn't it? It is so startling it can seem as though we have stepped into a different, more sacred reality.  Maybe centuries ago, this poet and psalmist had the same experience.  Stumbling about unable to see, then suddenly dazzled, bathed in light, lifting his head to find the Source that sees night shining as the day.