Thursday in the Third Week of Advent

Blessing for the Longest Night

by Jan Richardson

All throughout these months

as the shadows

have lengthened,

this blessing has been

gathering itself,

making ready,

preparing for

this night.

It has practiced

walking in the dark,

traveling with

its eyes closed,

feeling its way

by memory

by touch

by the pull of the moon

even as it wanes.

So believe me

when I tell you

this blessing will

reach you

even if you

have not light enough

to read it;

it will find you

even though you cannot

see it coming.

You will know

the moment of its

arriving

by your release

of the breath

you have held

so long;

a loosening

of the clenching

in your hands,

of the clutch

around your heart;

a thinning

of the darkness

that had drawn itself

around you.

This blessing

does not mean

to take the night away

but it knows

its hidden roads,

knows the resting spots

along the path,

knows what it means

to travel

in the company

of a friend.

So when

this blessing comes,

take its hand.

Get up.

Set out on the road

you cannot see.

This is the night

when you can trust

that any direction

you go,

you will be walking

toward the dawn.

© Jan Richardson. janrichardson.com

- See more at: http://adventdoor.com/2011/12/19/winter-solstice-blessing-for-the-longest-night/#sthash.HcWczdp7.dpuf

Wednesday in the Third Week of Advent

A Reflection from Iona

The land is waiting for the frost,

to destroy the diseased plants, to cleanse the soil of pests;

waiting for the snow to blanket and protect new shoots;

the world is waiting for the shortest day, the longest night,

for the turning of the year and the return of the light.

The people are waiting, waiting for justice - 

to change their lives.

Refugees are waiting, in their in-between world,

to return home, for the past to be restored,

or for the future to be different....

The world is waiting.

Prayer

God of latent life and growing shoots,

we wait for you in an expectant world:

we long for your wisdom to be at work in our lives

and, with our brothers and sisters,

we yearn for your justice to be done on earth.

Amen

From Advent Readings from Iona by Brian Woodcock and Jan Sutch Pickard

Tuesday in the Third Week of Advent

Fine Particulate Matter
by Ron Cebik


I am made of stuff ,
Fine particulate matter,
Or so I was told
By the somber minister
As she made a mark
Drawing a cross on my brow 
With black soot and grease 
Made holy by some bishop 
Unaware of death
Having left its dark icon 
Beneath the surface
Indelibly on the soul
Immune to dogmas
Meant to calm the anxious heart
Beating to order
Warriors that take up arms 
Against the assaults
Fearful institutions wage
Lest the free walk out
Into the daylight of truth
That o ers nothing, 
Demanding everything 
Excepting the soul,
Yours to keep until the day
It is given up
In the blowing winds of change, 
Breaking forever
The mold you made to hold
The pearl of great price,
Fine particulate matter, 
Dancing in the wind, 
Grounded in sacred memories 
Balancing our lives
On the edge of not knowing 
And uncertain faith,
We seek our unique meaning 
In the swirling dust
Shifting shapes before our eyes 
Preventing contact
With anything substantial
To a rm the truth
We are more than what we seem.

Thus again we kneel
Receiving the timeless sign
Only others see
Hidden from our line of sight, 
Blessed denial
Of how fragile the life we hold 
Together in hope
The time will never arrive
When the black thumb leafs 
Through the prayer book searching 
The proper collect
To signify it is now
The journey begins
To the edge of what lies beyond

Imagination.

©Ron Cebik 2008 

Monday in the Third Week of Advent

Ready for Silence
By Madeleine L’Engle

Then hear now the silence
He comes in the silence
in silence he enters
the womb of the bearer
in silence he goes to
the realm of the shadows
redeeming and shriving
in silence he moves from
the grave cloths, the dark tomb
in silence he rises
ascends to the glory
leaving his promise
leaving his comfort
leaving his silence

So come now, Lord Jesus
Come in your silence
breaking our noising
laughter of panic
breaking this earth’s time
breaking us breaking us
quickly Lord Jesus
make no long tarrying

When will you come
and how will you come
and will we be ready
for silence
your silence.

Amen.

Third Sunday in Advent

In light of the historic climate agreement reached yesterday in Paris in which 195 nations, rich and poor, signed a covenant to reduce greenhouse gas emissions. This is the first globally unified step taken to address the urgent need to protect creation from encroaching climate change. For this landmark consensus, we give thanks! And so today's reflection is from 

Joy of Heaven, to Earth Come Down
by The Rev'd. Margaret Bullitt-Jonas

The world into which we were born is shuddering before our eyes. Maybe half the world's species could vanish before the century is out. Almost all scientists agree that unless we move swiftly toward energy conservation and efficiency unless we make a transition to clean, safe, renewable energy, unless we redesign the infrastructure of our economy so that it is no longer based on fossil fuels  - and do this at top speed - then we face runaway climate change. Without decisive action to cut greenhouse gas emissions, the result of global warming - rising seas, extreme weather events, heat waves and droughts, food and water shortages - will cause unimaginable hardship. ....

That is one big picture of reality. Here is another, just as real. God is the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is real, seen and unseen. Our Creator God loves the universe into being - every leaf and twig, every dolphin and galaxy. God in Christ redeemed it all, fills it all, and longs to restore it all. And God the Holy Spirit empowers us to become healers of the earth, taking action especially on behalf of those who are weak, hungry, marginalized, or poor, since they are the ones with whom Jesus particularly identifies....

How wonderful it would be if, one hundred years from now, our descendants looked back to us with gratitude for stepping up boldly in the face of the ecological crisis and for acting quickly and lovingly to protect life on this planet...


From the Third Sunday in Advent, pp. 41-2.

Saturday in the Second Week of Advent

Peace

by Rachel Jones

Peace: it does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart. — anonymous

Last Advent, I was in the midst of a huge life transition – one of those that involved a moving truck, lots of boxes, and about 15 gallons of salty tears. I knew that my life was changing, and even though I was very grateful for the change, I felt like EVERYTHING was changing RIGHT THIS MINUTE, and there were moments when I was sure my head was going to explode in a cloud of exhaustion and worry before I ever got a single box packed and ready to move.

I would set myself task lists every night, and before I would let myself go ahead and cry and be sad, I had to get my tasks done. So many times, in the midst of cleaning, packing, organizing, and throwing away, I’d find myself talked out of my crying fit. Putting things in order and seeing that I really could find a little place of peace in between the boxes and heavy conversations made the nights not so dark or scary. Even on nights when I wasn’t able to keep the tears at bay, I was able to find some peace inside the assurance that God was definitely up to something, that I had not been brought this far to be dropped or forgotten.

The peace I was able to curl upside of wasn’t that dovey-hippy-demilitarized kind of peace we so often think of; this peace was certain, solid, and insistent that even though things weren’t OK, or all right, or even close to normal, at some point (because God is good) things would be just right. I think that may be the best thing I’ve ever learned during Advent, maybe one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned as a Jesus person. Things in this life rarely look or sound or feel the way we think they should. We have to reconcile ourselves to living in a broken and dying world, and still have the nerve to fall in love with it, every single day.

We have to live with the hard edges, hurt, and injustice, and be utterly, righteously, and supremely convinced that it will not be this way, forever, that somewhere all is calm and all is bright. We have to be smart enough to be simple-minded in our relentless conviction in the childlike belief that things will get better, will be the way they should be, will be reconciled in ways we cannot possibly fathom or do on our own, so long as we honestly do our part of loving and believing in a God who is greater than we can ask for or imagine.

Prayer for Quiet Confidence

O God of peace, who hast taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved, in quietness and confidence shall be our strength: By the might of thy Spirit lift us, we pray thee, to thy presence, where we may be still and know that thou art God; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (Book of Common Prayer, p. 832).

Friday in the Second Week of Advent

Song
by Allen Ginsberg

The weight of the world

             is love.
Under the burden
             of solitude,
under the burden
             of dissatisfaction

             the weight,
the weight we carry
             is love.

Who can deny?
             In dreams
it touches
             the body,
in thought
             constructs
a miracle,
             in imagination
anguishes
             till born
in human—

looks out of the heart
             burning with purity—
for the burden of life
             is love,
but we carry the weight
             wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
             at last,
must rest in the arms
             of love.
No rest
             without love,
no sleep
             without dreams
of love—
             be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
             or machines,
the final wish
             is love
—cannot be bitter,
             cannot deny,
cannot withhold
             if denied:

the weight is too heavy

             —must give
for no return
             as thought
is given
             in solitude
in all the excellence
             of its excess.

The warm bodies
             shine together
in the darkness,
             the hand moves
to the center
             of the flesh,
the skin trembles
             in happiness
and the soul comes
             joyful to the eye—

yes, yes,
             that’s what
I wanted,
             I always wanted,
I always wanted,
             to return
to the body
             where I was born.

Amen.