Shining Spirit

It started out as a nice church program for children in the neighborhood.  Costumes.  Food.  Fun.  Games.  A recipe for a great time.

The focus of the evening was an Advent program called Las Posadas.  It is a reenactment of the Joseph and Mary journey to Bethlehem where they seek shelter but find only a rough stable in which their first child is born.  But before the stable became their temporary home, according to the legend, they were turned away from inns and other living quarters because there was no room available.  In the reenactment of the couple’s search for warmth, food, and a place to sleep, costumed characters, followed by lots of children from the church, walk through the neighborhood, pausing several times to symbolically knock on a door, only to be rejected and turned away into the night.  Finally, in one last effort, the characters come back to the church, knock on the door and receive an invitation to come inside for refreshment and rest.  “You are welcome here,” the innkeeper-actor announces, and brings them in from the night cold to tables filled with food and drink.

So, last night was Las Posadas, and went quite well.  The procession found its way back to the church, everyone came inside and the party began.

I walked back into the kitchen where we had prepared the feast, watched for a moment as children sang and danced and filled their plates.  And then there was a knock at the door.  Not the front door through which the children had come, but the back door that opened onto a rather dark parking lot.  Opening the door, I found a man standing in the dim light holding a frayed cap in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other.  “I saw a light on”, he said, “and I wondered if you might have some way to heat up this food.”

There wasn’t much in his bag, maybe a scoop of something he had left from several small meals.  “I’m hungry,” he continued, “and I thought you might be able to help me.”  He was living on the street, homeless like many people who come to the church food pantry and take part in social services ministries.  And at that moment he was cold and hungry.

The beautiful irony of the moment was overwhelming.  Just minutes before, we had welcomed costumed homeless travelers who sought warmth and food.  The reenactment of the ancient story linked us with very important faith history and reminded us of hospitality and generosity. But the one who knocked at the back door was not costumed and perhaps he didn’t even know the old story.  The timing of his appearing was breathtaking.   

We put his little bag aside and took him into the larger room where he became part of the celebration.  He feasted and watched the festivities, met new friends, and feasted some more.  Several hours later he left, his frayed cap in one hand and a larger bag of food in the other.  As he walked into the night, he turned and blessed us.  Indeed, he did.

It started out as a nice church program for children in the neighborhood.  It ended as reenactment was transformed into reality.

The timing was perfect.

In my faith tradition there is a thing called a “movable feast”.  Sounds strange, doesn’t it?

A movable feast, as contrasted to a fixed feast, is an observance in the church’s calendar which occurs on different dates in different years..thus, movable.  The observance won’t be on the same date every year because the calendar changes.  So there you have it.

Easter, Palm Sunday, Pentecost, among many other observances, are examples of movable feast times.

But today I declare that I am a movable feast because this morning I joined several friends to cook a meal for a local shelter that provides lodging for homeless men.  My job in the cooking routine is to stand at the huge stove and cook big tubs of meat mixed with onions, green peppers, beans, lots of chili powder, some corn and a smattering of other exotic ingredients.  The final meat mixture is then combined with steaming rice, wrapped carefully in large containers and delivered to the shelter for the evening meal.

I’ve noticed, though, that when driving home after the meal preparation I carry with me the lingering aroma of onions and all the other spicy ingredients.  You should see the looks I get if I decide to make a shopping stop before taking a shower at home.   Stray dogs follow me down the sidewalk.  I am a walking, movable feast!  I guess that’s not so bad, however, because  in my faith tradition there is also the encouragement to become “bread for the world”, to provide nourishment for people in need, and to feed those who are hungry.  To do those things is our highest calling, not just to believe the right things and say the right words.  But it occurs to me that my movable feast fragrance might be offensive to some people.  At least that’s the way it seems when glances come my way at the hardware store before getting home to the shower.   I wonder why some people are offended and others seem not to be?  Maybe there’s a hint out of the faith tradition again – those who are fed, filled and satisfied sometimes breathe in life in different ways than those who are hungry and have no prospect of a daily meal. Strange, isn’t it, how one’s senses are dulled by plenty and sharpened by poverty.  Sadly strange how the smell of onions and peppers sometimes offends the nourished but delights the neglected.

Perhaps, instead of delivering the meal to the shelter and then driving to my comfort zone, I need to make my hardware stop in that particular part of town — better yet, maybe I need to take some individual servings of that fragrant meal in the back of my van.  Here comes the Movable Feast.

Some of my friends carry very heavy loads, things that are almost unbearable.  A sudden sickness that turns into a constant and long term battle; a financial reversal that shakes all securities; a loss that cripples the emotions and drains what little energy is available.  You have friends like that, too.

Someone said to me once, through tears and anguish, “if I could only go back in time.  If it could only be the way it used to be.”  I’ve never met anyone who has those options, but too many of us live in the deadening grip of that wishful fantasy.  The tight grip of “if only I could be the way I used to be” punishes us, distracts us from living, and causes us to wake up in the morning still longing for what used to be, still hoping for some reversal of reality, and still captive to fear or remorse or regret.

And, saddest of all, The Grip blinds us to the wonder of life still in our midst and still trying to get our attention.

My response to my friend was “you can never be what you were, but you don’t have to be what you are.”  There is yet a choice, and that choice..as the Sacred Word suggests..is to “choose life.”  Love over despair.  Now over then.  This moment with all its potential over that moment with all its pain.

I wish I had a magic wand to give my friend or a pill that might erase yesterday and shine healing light on today.   I don’t, but I know it’s true.  You can never be what you were…that’s gone.  But you don’t have to be what you are…the victim of yesterday.  Choose life.