When I mentioned to a friend what I was going to preach about today, he went instantly into consultant mode. A Prayer for All of It, he mused. "Well, there's the Lord's Prayer." Most folks know about this. "And it's short." That's definitely a plus. But considering the times we live in, he noted, further brevity is called for, so why not boil it down to this? "Give me." Kind of like what we might have said to Santa, as those of us who are children sat wide-eyed on his lap, hoping for whatever, hyped with the hoping, consumed with consuming. There they are, God and Santa, with their interchangeable bag of goodies.
Far beneath the willful "Give me," whether directed to God or Santa, is, I think, a deeper longing, a longing that grows inside us as we grow inside ourselves. It's that longing to be filled with a knowledge of why we're here at all, an assurance that we matter, a sense of purpose and presence, perhaps even that understanding beyond understanding that our Buddhist friends call "the nature of mind." And it comes not through grasping, not through the Give me's, but through simple and disciplined pausing on the edge of our days and catching, in the words of Linda Rousseau, those "early morning streamings." It comes in opening the eyes of our soul to those "endless frames that disclose a deeper self" and take us on a journey beyond self.
I think that's what I was yearning for when, at the outset of this new year, I stood on a hillside in the Berkshires, in the shadows of a great bonfire. I breathed in the chill of the winter's night and gazed at stars that flamed millions of light-years away, beyond all season, barely within my understanding of time itself. I was part of it. I was a speck that mattered. I was matter that breathed with the universe. And so I greeted this year. Then back into the company of friends I walked, into the solid structure of a people-filled farmhouse, to hail once again what some call the new millennium.
Since that night a year ago, the sun has risen and set on but an instant of time, yet so much has happened, so much has filled my life and our lives. There are the sagas personal and political-my January pilgrimage to Iowa to visit friends I had grown up with in a town that New Yorkers might consider a glimmer in one's imagination, to drive out to family farms still ripe with the memories of Christmases past and summer reveries, and to join for a short while the primary campaign of Bill Bradley, whose name was barely remembered when this country sat these past few months on the edge of our choices, in exhausting suspense, wondering who would be our next President. Then there have been the seasons of work-gratifying because of all of you, saddening because of those to whom I said good-bye-Margaret and Liz and too many others. There have also been the times of welcoming back-my friend, Ann, returned from her two and a half-year stint with the Peace Corp in Morocco. And then the times of just being with my family, which I can never never take for granted. And I ask: what kind of prayer rises up through the center of my being that touches it, all of it?
I treasure this time of year between Christmas and Chanukah and the New Year. It is a season calling for reflection, and so fitting for the holiday known as Kwanzaa. Kwanzaa emerged a mere three decades ago from the struggles of African-Americans to celebrate how we might relate to one another in freedom from oppression. Seven principles are marked by seven days, and observed by the lighting of candles. The center candle is black-for the beauty of African-American skin. The blackness of skin melds with the darkness of a winter's night and draws us into the depth and beauty of blackness. Through this holiday, we are called to reflect on what matters in life-self-determination, purpose, creativity, faith. While Kwanzaa is not religious in design, what comes of it is profoundly religious, for those of us who have known and honor the struggle against oppression, attend to that which comes from loosening the bonds of any oppression.
Reaching that which is deep within us and yet transcends us utterly loosens those bonds. Such reaching, such touching, is prayer that is all encompassing, prayer that emerges through the shadows of a fire on a starry night and takes it all in.
Once again, on the eve of another trip around the sun, as we mark it in measures of the Common Era, I take it all in. I remember and reflect. I have laughed a lot and cried a lot and wondered a lot and lived a lot this year. I have celebrated dedications of well-loved children whose lives blossom visibly from day to day. I have sat with those who are close to crossing over into that great mystery that comes with a guarantee at birth and have stayed with their loved ones to plan and realize a fitting tribute to a life well lived. I have presided at the celebrations of those whose hearts exult in the promise of shared lives. In fact, I will preside at such a celebration this very evening! I have warmed myself with the love of family and friends and chilled at the chafes of family and friends. I have behaved thoughtfully and thoughtlessly. I have given thanks for what is and wondered and anguished over why a particular "this" was happening.
Driving along the New Jersey Turnpike on Christmas Day, one of my children posed the timely question: "Mom, who is no longer here whom you especially miss?" A great question for paying attention to the road! And I remembered again my father. On that January trip to Iowa, I had visited his snow-covered grave in the tiny rural cemetery, kicking away the ice crusting his headstone to reach his name, Donald Ellis White, and the years he had lived. I recall too my grandparents-all born in the 19th century. Ages ago? Not really. I recall my two cousins, Dorothy and Barbara, whose birthdays I share. I ponder the Christmas Eve passing of the mother of one of my dearest childhood friends. Vivian and I downed a dozen oranges one summer night in this woman's kitchen, while she stood there looking on, smiling incredulously.
The words we spoke responsively only moments ago send their echo: "When trees rest, growing no leaves, gathering no light, they let in sky and trace themselves delicately against dawns and sunsets." How like those trees we are, when allowed for awhile to know the landscape in silhouette, to stand rooted with our bare bones into the frozen earth of winter, we let the sky in and trace ourselves against our dawns and sunsets.
How like those trees we are, when loss and trial render us inclined to utter only what matters. And uttering only what matters is speaking the language of prayer.
Every Christmas card and holiday greeting that arrives, I open with anticipation and apprehension. Will it just be a Merry Christmas or a Peace on Earth, greetings that leave me wondering about all that wasn't said? Will it be more than I ever wanted to know about what these folks are about-the menu at their family reunion, the exact route of their summer vacation? On occasion a greeting emerges that cradles the essence of what matters. This was the case when I opened the annual letter from those friends of many years who inhabit the farmhouse that overlooked that millennial bonfire in the Berkshires. It had been a year of profound loss and trial for these friends, and they began with a prayer shared at their Millennium celebration, a prayer that spoke to the year:
"Grant us the courage to cope creatively with the normal brokenness of life, that we might contribute to the sparkle and humor and beauty of the world."
How normal is life's brokenness! How accessible are life's sparkle and humor and beauty. It all came packaged in the words of a story sent to me by another friend, a story that could have happened to any of us. A mother tells this tale of her Christmas Gift:
We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Justin in a high chair. We looked over the menu and ordered. Suddenly, Justin squealed with delight and uttered a boisterous, "Hi! Hi!" He pounded his fat baby hands on his tray. His eyes were wide with excitement and his mouth widened in a toothless grin.
I looked around and spotted the source of his merriment-- a man with a tattered rag of a coat, filthy and worn. The zipper of his baggy pants was at half-mast and his toes poked out of his sorry shoes. His hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. We were too far from him to tell, but I was sure he smelled. His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists.
"Hi there, baby; hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster," the man said to Justin. My husband and I exchanged looks, "What do we do?" Justin continued to laugh and wave back. Everyone in the restaurant looked at us and then at the man. The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby.
Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room, "Do ya know patty cake? Do ya know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek-a-boo." Nobody thought this guy was cute. He was just drunk. We ate in embarrassed silence--except for Justin, who was running through his full repertoire for this admiring bum.
We got through our meal and headed for the door. My husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised between the door and me.
"Just let me out of here before he speaks to me or Justin," I muttered. As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to sidestep him. As I did, Justin leaned over my arm, reaching with both of his in a baby's "pick-me-up" position. Before I could stop him, Justin had flung himself into the arms of this creature.
In an act of total trust, love, and submission, Justin laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed, and tears hovered beneath his lashes. His aged hands, full of grime, pain, and hard labor, gently, so gently, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back. No two beings have ever loved so deeply for so short a time.
I stood awestruck. The old man rocked and cradled Justin in his arms for a moment, and then his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, "You take care of this baby." Somehow I managed, "I will," from a throat that contained a stone. He pried Justin from his chest-unwillingly, longingly. I received my baby, as the man said, "God bless you, ma'am, you've given me my Christmas gift."
I said nothing more than a tight-throated thanks. With Justin in my arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Justin so tightly. I had just experienced the spirit of Christmas through the innocence of a child who saw nothing amiss, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a woman of faith who was blind, holding a child of faith who was not. What could I say, but "Forgive me."
Our own prayers-with the brokenness we have known, the sparkle and pleasure and delight we have reveled in-come most freely when we pause on life's edge or are unexpectedly invited to life's edge, and utter simply what is there. Sometimes, it's an inevitable: "Forgive me" that rises up from an encounter we never could have predicted, never, but by which we are abundantly blessed.
I am reminded of the words we sang earlier:
"A life is made of many things: bright stars, bleak years, and broken rings,from deep despair and perished things a green shoot always, always springs, and something always, always sings."
If only we will still ourselves enough to hear the song. If only we will awaken in time to know those "early morning streamings." If only we will pause enough to consider that which comes from loosening the bonds of our oppressions. If only we will bare ourselves enough to let it all in, that we might let it all out. If only we will "cope creatively with the normal brokenness of life, that we might contribute to the sparkle and humor and beauty of the world."
"Give me" as the most spare and basic of prayers? Turn it inside out and know that "all life is a gift." Father Jean-Pierre de Caussade, a French Jesuit priest understood this well. From 300 years ago, he speaks to us this morning:
"God is telling you, dear sisters and brothers,
That if you abandon all restraints,
Carry your wishes to their farthest limits,
Open your heart boundlessly,
There is not a single moment when you will not be shown
Everything you can possibly wish for.
Souls who can recognize God
In the most trivial,
The most grievous and the most mortifying things
That happen to them in their lives,
Honour everything equally with delight and rejoicing,
And welcome with open arms
What others dread and avoid." Just as Justin welcomed with his open arms what others dread and avoid.
If I stand at the center of my own life, stand stark still at the very center of my own precious life, the prayer that rises up through the center of my being is this: Thank you.
Thank you for the courage I possess to cope with the normal brokenness of life. Thank you for my precious chance to contribute to the sparkle and humor and beauty of this world. Thank you for the time I have left to recognize the spirit of these holidays and holy days in the most trivial, grievous, and mortifying things, to open my heart boundlessly and honor this life I have been given, celebrating the miracle that it is so. Thank you is my prayer for all of it. Amen. Copyright AllSouls 2000.