Monday Morning Musing: The Things We See

For those who mark time in this season, yesterday was the Second Sunday of Advent. Even as the darkness continues to arrive earlier and earlier, we increase the light by adding a candle each week. At the solstice, even the lights in the sky will begin to increase.

And yesterday, the Advent light was carried into worship by a wise elder who has recently lost her eyesight. For her, darkness takes on a new meaning. When she came down the church aisle, being pushed in her wheelchair by a devoted friend, candle in hand, I saw a visible manifestation of hope, not of disability. I saw a reminder that a steady and true friend can make all of the difference in our days and in our life. I saw the wisdom of her length of days being acknowledged and honored by our community. I wanted to weep with joy and sigh with relief.

One day last week I was reading a post by the author Katherine May. I was reading it on my phone and the type was very small as I read "Christmas is a pragmatic response to a far more ancient impulse. Whatever your belief system, it's possible to reconnect with that spirit, rather than our tattered contemporary haze." Only instead of reading "haze", I read hate. And that was the idea that really resonated with me, that this hate that seems to be driving the newscycle is tattered, it is frayed at the edges. It's no longer shiny and appealing, even, perhaps, to those who have clung so hard to it in the past. For it's this tattered hate that has fractured families and friendships and communities. It's this tattered hate that has elected a person with no integrity to the highest office in the land.

Can we reconnect with our ancient impulses toward light-bearing and hope-bringing and let go of our tattered hate? To be clear, the bearing of light and hope also requires of us that we shine that light into the darkness so that hate and prejudice and misogyny and greed and all of the isms can no longer hide in the corners.

And bearing the light of hope may also ask us to trust one another to help us when we need it. To push our wheelchairs or receive our fears or listen without solving or tell us what my dear mother in love used to tell us: "It will be alright."

Dear ones, in these still darkening days, may we believe that light is being born into the world by those from whom the world least anticipates will carry it. That is, after all, the story of Christmas.