Shining Spirit

1. Would Jesus of the Gospels choose to be remembered every year as an infant entering the world, a victim exiting the world, or an adult who fought for a new world?
2. Would shepherds and “wise men” be invited to the same party?
3. Jesus of Nazareth? Jesus of Bethlehem? Jesus of The Road? The unborn child bounced over 90 miles of bad road between Nazareth and Bethlehem. Is “Jesus of The Road” a better descriptor of his life?
4. There is a hint that the Holy Infant grew into the Holy Child…Luke 2:39ff…but his childhood is a mystery. Would there have been a point in time when Jesus, as a child, became aware of his “otherness”? If you were Mary, would you tell him?
5. It was sometime in the 11th century when the name “Christmas” or “Christ’s Mass” was designated as the church’s official name of the celebration. It was a feast day 10 centuries after he lived. Is there a different name/designation you might select?

Whatever your answers might be, here’s hoping you have a remarkably Merry Christmas and that the Light is rekindled in your heart for the months and years to come.

The hour is late, almost the new day.
Darkness, a reliable visitor, arrives just
as the last lamp is extinguished.
Silence moves from room to room,
vigilant sentry watching over restless
dreamers.

Into this precious moment, a thought
appears, an idea demanding attentive
reflection. She swims in the sea of my
fading consciousness, until it finally
happens.

Light! There must be light! And there
is light. That light illuminates my
drowsy mind, splashes across the desk,
sufficient for the thought to become
a voice, and the voice to speak words
on to the waiting page.

Light always makes things possible.
Uncertainty becomes confidence,
fear evolves into courage. Despair
drops his heavy robe and dresses
himself in joyful liberation.

All because sufficient light gifts the
world with sacred possibility. One
little lamp on a cluttered, disheveled
desk, makes possible the clarity of
the moment, like a star’s insistent
brilliance revealing an infant
word. A Word, fragile at first but
growing in strength and power as
other words follow in their natural order.

A Light shines in the darkness. Glory
streams from the Consciousness of
Creation, illuminating The Word.
Thought has become reality. A
word rests on the page. The story
is complete. The perfect Word
brings the story to life and life
to the story. Publish glad tidings!
The story is done, and the story
begins.

My intention this day
is to find no disfavor in darkness
but to befriend the shadows
both within and without.

May I remember this intention
when moments threaten or
circumstances cause fear
to thrive in my soul.

May all callousness be turned
to compassion,
all impatience be turned
to quiet resolve,
all grief be transformed
into gratitude,
so that life this day may
find balance and stability
in a new depth of trust.

At the end of this day,
may I look back over the hours
with a peaceful contentment
that is the gift of Love.

Amen

There is a whisper in the air.
Do you hear it? A faint word,
a hushed sound in the midst of
the clatter and confusion of living.
Lay your ear to the ground.
Concentrate. There! Do you hear!
I detect something ominous,
a signal, a sign of great import.
What news can cause the trees
to dance? Look at them, almost
breaking their roots from the
ground. And the sudden songs
of birds, screeching and singing
and filling the frigid air with melody.
Flowers bloom on this sterile
winter morning. A shockwave,
an invasion of mystery replaces
reasoned science.

Who can fathom this phenomenon,
decipher the coded whisper?
Focus. Block out the extraneous.
Listen. Do you hear those barely
audible, ephemeral words?
Quickly, take pen in hand and write
this down lest it be forgotten.

“For unto you is born this day…”

And the cosmos quivers.

I counted on you
and you let me down

deep disappointment
friendship lost?
can I count on you again?
should I try?

I trusted you
and you came through

forgiveness
second chance
restoration

“Lord, how many times should
I forgive my brother…?”

That many?

Music moves through my head
like the clear, sweet water of a gentle
stream. Meanders. Ripples, then
falls hush. Returns and laughs
as it tickles stones living in its
flow…stones of curiosity worn
smooth by eighty years of wonder
and wondering.

The notes, birthed by a long sought
Mystery, rise from somewhere deep
within the internal universe, playfully
position themselves to become ballad
then blues, Beethoven then Beyonce,
eclectic, engaging notes that warm the
cold places of rational necessity.

How lovely, these life sustaining melodies
ascending from one faint star in the universe
of myself. I receive them as gift and hum
them with gratitude.

If this is microscopic, imagine limitless
Behold, a drop in the ocean of a universe
A speck of color in a spectrum of wonder
So the dimensions of Love
Beyond understanding
Extraordinary
Extravagant
Endless

Sometimes you just have to have a heart-to-heart talk with a good friend. Good communication skills are so important. Best to look each other in the eye, speak calmly, listen carefully. Good practices are especially important in spiritual conversations, too. And the same principles apply. Focus your attention. Speak honestly, from the heart. Listen, even and especially in the silence, for a word to come through. Don’t be in a hurry, the TV program can wait. And do this often, maybe every day. It’s called prayer, sometimes meditation, sometimes just waiting on the Spirit. Sometimes you just have to have a heart-to-heart with a friend…especially This Friend.

For the textured beauty of the desert floor
I am thankful

For the soft folds of the mountain rising
I am thankful

For passing gray clouds that linger for a moment
I am thankful

For the jagged cliffs and peaks pointing beyond themselves
I am thankful

And when they all come together in one visual delight
I am astonished

Amen

The creche is in place, beautiful sight,
I rest in the peace of soft Christmas light
as candle flame dances with limitless joy,
leaping and bowing to welcome the boy
whose birth we remember year after year
in a world now ravaged by sickness and fear.
It’s Christmas time again.

We place on his shoulders our unfulfilled dreams,
we hope in a time when happiness seems
to be dashed on the jagged rocks of fear
as we distance ourselves, do not come near.
Yet I need your embrace, your beautiful smile,
I would love to sit and talk awhile.
It’s Christmas time again,

a time to think of what could be
if only we have the wisdom to see
the meaning of creche and infant boy,
so much more than personal joy,
so much greater than the carolers’ song,
here lies the love for which we long.
It’s Christmas time again.

Take comfort, my friend, for the day draws near.
The manger awaits the arrival here
of the Mary’s boy on whom we place
our hopes for peace, the source of grace.
This year was unique in many ways,
yet together in hope we count the days.
It’s Christmas time again.