do-day.

21 Jan

Do Day is the name for the Monday of the month in which the church ladies gather in the basement of the church and sew, cut, pin, and tie quilts to send to Lutheran World Relief.  Last year they sent nearly 100 quilts to the non-profit which then boxes them up and sends them to people in need around the globe.  
I make a point to attend do-day each month, if it’s possible, and tie a few quilt with them.  I came this month with my camera, to be able to share do-day with you, my faithful blog readers.  Because it’s church and because they’re chruch ladies, there is always coffee and goodies to go along with it.  I missed coffee time this past month but when I got there, one of the Dorothys insisted that I get coffee and something to eat.  This is the same Dorothy who insists that I drink coffee and eat something in between church services on Sundays.  She will literally get up from the table, fill my cup, and bring a treat of some kind and set it in front of me.  And you can’t tell forceful old ladies ‘no.’

Haiti.

17 Jan
Honestly, I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention until Thursday.  I heard what had happened and may have even turned on the news Wednesday morning as I prepared to go into work.  I listened to conversations about the devastation and the tragedy but I was void of much emotion.  I had no idea.
Wednesday evening it started to haunt me little by little.  The stewardship board at Grace (the last in a string of many, many meetings for me that evening) moved to create a new line item in the budget, so people could give to Lutheran Disaster Response through the church.  (Or something – budgets are still beyond me.  There should be an accounting class at seminary.  Seriously.  I would take it.)  Rumors were also circulating on facebook and amongst friends that a college classmate of mine was in Haiti at the time of the quake and unaccounted for; his cousin and wife who were there with him hadn’t been able to find him.  Prayed.
Thursday I went skiing and focused my energy on not falling down; I don’t think I thought about what was going on outside the ski hill once.  I arrived home and the floods of emails and information regarding Ben Larson‘s death began.  A prayer service was being organized in Minneapolis the next night.  I didn’t even really know Ben – I would not call him a close friend – but suddenly the devastation and tragedy had a face, a face I knew.  At Luther, pretty much everyone knows everybody.  Ben and I were involved in college ministry activities together and had religion classes together.  I didn’t know much about him but his music leadership at FOCUS worship each Sunday evening and the fact that, really, if anyone was ever called to be a pastor, it was him.  
I didn’t know if I should go to Minneapolis.  Could I afford the three hours to get there and the three hours in the car coming home when I had a sermon to write for Sunday?  Maybe a responsible person wouldn’t have gone but I was in the car by 8:30 Friday morning, heading to the cities and I’m glad I did.  It was wonderful to gather as a Luther community and a greater community, to sing, to pray, and to lament together.  Though not under wonderful circumstances, it was great to see a few Luther people that I haven’t seen for a long while, including my roommate from freshman year.  It was where I needed to be.
Keep reading onto the next post for the sermon that flowed through my fingers when I arrived back to Dawson on Saturday afternoon.  I received many positive comments regarding it after service.  I actually made people cry!  (I consider this a small sort of accomplishment.  Not that I want to make them cry but it’s a validation that my words meant something and that the Holy Spirit used them.)  I managed to make it through both services without crying myself, though there were moments where it was difficult.
After attending the service on Friday and preaching this morning, I feel filled with passion to do something about this.  If you haven’t yet, I encourage you to donate financially to the Red Cross or Lutheran Disaster Response.  Right now, financial aid to Haiti is a lot of what we can do but in the months and years ahead, there will be so much more.  I also hope to start a drive to collect items for Lutheran World Relief health kits at Grace.  Build your own kits or send some band-aids or washcloths my way to add to the piles that will hopefully grow here at Grace!

Jan. 17 sermon

17 Jan

(… shout out to my friend, Elisabeth, if she is reading this … I hope it’s okay I used you in my sermon!)

I had read through the lectionary texts for today more than a week ago and was prepared to preach this Sunday on something completely different than what follows.  But suddenly, with the events of the past week, my sermon seemed inappropriate.  It seemed small.  It wasn’t where I was pulled to go.

The way we hear scripture changes.  The words stay the same but based upon where we are in life and what is going on in the world around us, scripture speaks to us in different ways.  A seminary professor of mine makes the claim that we interpret scripture and scripture interprets us.  Both of these interpretations are subject to change based on where we are on our journey.  After a certain event in our lives, scripture may sound different.  It speaks to us in different ways.  We all know this well – a scripture passage read at the bedside of a dying parent or the passage read at a funeral suddenly seems different to us.  The Spirit works through the words and through us.  After Tuesday’s events in Haiti, I looked at the lectionary texts differently.

I felt suddenly connected to the psalm for today.  Psalm 36, verses 5 – 10.  If you would like to read along with me, you can find it on page 473 in your pew Bible.  I read it as a prayer, as hope, as trust in God.  It is a psalm full of promise and I don’t know about you, but promise is exactly what I long to hear right now.  Listen and see how it speaks to you.

Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens,

Your faithfulness to the clouds.

Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains,

Your judgments are like the great deep;

You save humans and animals alike, O Lord.

How precious is your steadfast love, O God!

All people may take refuge in the shadow of your wings.

They feast on the abundance of your house,

And you give them drink from the river of you delights.

For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light.

O continue your steadfast love to those who know you,

And your salvation to the upright of heart!

The scenes from the streets of Port au Prince are heart wrenching.  I cannot watch the news and hear the stories without crying.  Thousands upon thousands of people have been thrown into the worst nightmare possible.  Uncertainly regarding the lives of loved ones, no food or clean water, hurt, crying, desperate.  People estimate that the death toll could approach 100,000 people.  A country that has already known its share of pain and tragedy.  What do they have left to cling to?  I cannot imagine in the slightest what it would be like to be in there, to be amid the destruction and brokenness.  The pictures and video clips on the news can be nothing compared to what it is actually like to be in the midst of it.

Questions flood my head and heart – similar questions to the ones that may be on your hearts and lips.  Why?  Why did this happen?  Why are people suffering?   Why was I born in the United States with a roof over my head and clothes to wear when the people born in Haiti struggle to earn $2 a day?  Why didn’t God stop this?  Where is God in all of this? 

I won’t pretend to know the answers to these questions.  No one can know the answers.  Just like other natural disasters, we cannot know why a tragic event like this has shaken the country of Haiti and the world as a whole.  We don’t know the answers.  But we can stand together in our questions, in our anger and in our doubt.  It’s okay to be angry, to question God, to be in doubt.  The psalm writers are perfect examples of this; we lament.  We lament and are saddened together, and that brings us in closer relationship with the God who hears our lament and prayers of sorrow, our prayers of questioning.

I traveled to Minneapolis on Friday to be with a community of people.  People lamenting, praying and singing for the people of Haiti and for Ben Larson.  Ben was the son of two Lutheran pastors, originally from LaCrosse, WI, and more recently from Duluth.  Ben was a senior at Wartburg Seminary and was in Haiti at the time of the earthquake, teaching leaders in newly formed Lutheran church of Haiti.  The news was released on Thursday that he was killed in the earthquake.

Suddenly, this tragedy I had watched on the evening news hit much closer to home.  It had a familiar face.  Ben and I were classmates at Luther College.  He always amazed me with his musical skills and the way of his interactions with people.  He walked around campus with a smile on his face, always singing to the music in his head.  He could make anyone feel at ease in his presence and gave wonderful hugs when sharing the peace after church services. 

Ben’s is a face that I recognized, a person I knew.  But he is only one face.  One of tens of thousands.  And for each person who died, there are parents, siblings, husbands, wives, children, friends who grieve.  The death, the destruction, the desolation in the streets of Haiti are hard to take in.  They can’t be understood or explained but yet, that is the reality of today.  The reality of the weeks, months, and years to come.

I struggled to write this sermon, to know where to go, and maybe I’m jumping here too quickly but – there is promise.  The psalm for today is full of it.  It may be difficult to see but we remember that in the times of suffering, there is promise.  In these days of death and tragedy, there are babies being born, people being married.  Life isn’t neat and orderly.  It doesn’t follow our timeline.  Earthquakes are an unfortunate reality, relationships are broken, jobs are cut.  We don’t always know why.  But even on the days that these things happen, babies are born and successful surgeries happen in hospitals.  People pledge their lives to one another in love.  Life isn’t neat.  What we do in the midst of the joys and in the midst of the sorrows is trust that God is there.  God is in the midst of the good days and the horrific natural disasters.  God’s steadfast love extends to the heavens.

I reconnected with a college friend, Elisabeth, while at the service on Friday.  She is also a seminary student, currently doing her internship in Montana.  She was planning to come home to Minnesota this weekend to baptize her godchild when she heard the news about Ben.  And so Elisabeth said farewell to a dear friend in Ben on Friday evening but also helped welcome a new member into the family of Christ through baptism today.  What a stark contrast.  The tragic beauty of life – there is death but there is also life.  Joy and sorrow are intertwined and comingles and God is in the midst of all of it.  God is with us and holding us under his wings, in refuge, in times of suffering; giving us the fountain the life in times of joy.

God is here, God is in Haiti, and there is hope.  We are so saddened by the events in Haiti because our brothers and sisters in Christ are suffering.  A part of the body of Christ is hurting.  When they hurt, we hurt too because we are all one in Christ.  The people of the world have gathered together for the people of Haiti, sending financial help, medical supplies, and qualified people to aid in the efforts.  We contribute financially, we voice prayers, and we do all that we can to bring hope and the promise of love to the people of the nation.  God works through us, here in Dawson, to send us into the world.  Christ is active in and through us, bearing his love and compassion to those who mourn, those who suffer, and those who need healing.

Ben Larson’s mom was quoted as saying that if you want to know Ben, listen to his music.  One of his songs include the lyrics – “in times of sorrow/and in times of pain/when sensing beauty/or love’s embrace/whether we suffer/or sing rejoices/we belong to God/we belong to God.” God’s steadfast love has a claim us.  God claimed Ben at his baptism and claims us at each of our own.  God’s love extends to the heavens and God calls each of us his child in our baptisms.  Ben knew and understood the promise of God.  Ben sang ‘we belong to God.’  In living.  In dying.  God’s faithfulness extends to the clouds.  The love of God extends so far into the sky that we cannot know or grasp the expanse of it.  We are God’s and know that he is with us in the midst of all of it.  We belong to God.

On my drive back to Dawson yesterday, I stopped just outside of Silver Lake.  On my drives back and forth to the cities on highway 7, the cemetery just outside of that small town has always caught my eye.  It’s set just off the highway, up on a tiny hill.  In the center of it, is the scene of the crucifixion.  The cross extends high above the hill, the white sculpture of Jesus nailed to the cross.  The women at the foot of the cross, crying, lamenting.  The cemetery has always intrigued me and yesterday I pulled off and stopped.  I put my car in park and walked in front of the scene.  And there, I broke down.  I wept.  I lamented for the people of Haiti.  I prayed for the family and friends of Ben.  For the family and friends of all people whose lives have ended in the midst of this disaster.  I prayed for the body of Christ, for the swift and necessarily help to arrive to our brothers and sisters.  I prayed to feel God’s presence.

We can be certain that we belong to God and that he is with us in the midst of the joys and the sorrows of life.  We are certain because of Jesus Christ.  Because of the incarnate God.  Because God became human and dwelt among us.  And in our suffering, we know God is there because of the cross, because of the scene that is represented in that cemetery.  The incarnate and crucified God is present.  That is the promise we cling to in the midst of tragedy.  God is with us in this and in every day.  We look to God, to the cross, and take refuge in the shadow of his wings in the days and weeks ahead.  Amen. 

badges of honor.

14 Jan
I went downhill skiing for the first time today with the fourth, fifth, and sixth graders of Dawson-Boyd. Kendall invited me; he went along with his fourth grade daughter. He suggested that it might be a fun activity and, since I had never skied before, it would be a good opportunity to learn before the Grace church ski outing. I went back and forth – I wanted to go but yet, I didn’t. Not being athletically inclined, I was worried that I would make a complete and utter fool out of myself while by myself, that I would have no friends by my side to laugh along with me when I fell down or tripped on my own feet. And it’s true – my worries were a very accurate foreshadowing of my day.
Because I had never skied before, I took a lesson. When taking the lesson, I discovered that I cannot stand back up once I’ve fallen down. Some people could without removing skis; I was not one of these privileged few. In order for me to stand back up once falling down, I had to release one of my boots from the skis. I also learned that I was not so great at forming the “snowplow” position with my skis and stopping. For the first hour or so of my time on the bunny hill, I stopped by falling over. It’s the best I could do to not run into people. But then, because I can’t stand right back up, undo the ski, stand up, reattach, etc. Ugg.
Thus began my two hour stint on the bunny hill. The fourth graders and I grabbed onto the tow rope which pulled us to the top of the “hill” and then we skied in and out of cones, practicing our turning, leaning forward, and stopping. Occasionally, the fourth graders and I would exchange tips. The conversations would go something like this:
Lindsay: How’s it going?
Fourth grader: Okay.
Lindsay: This is really hard, isn’t it?
Fourth grader: Yeah.
Lindsay: I have trouble stopping.
Fourth grader: Yeah.
Lindsay: I fall over a lot!
Fourth grader: (insert advice here)
Lindsay: Okay, thanks!
Typically, a while after this conversation would take place, the fourth grader would then smile at me, show me the smiley face on their lift ticket (which meant they could move on to the bigger hills), and say, “I’m going to ski with my friends now!” all sorts of excited. Then I would grab the tow rope again and hang on until the top of the bunny hill. I was not good. I had no smiley face. I had no friends to laugh along with me.
But the story does not end there – I did get a smiley face! I moved onto the bigger hill! I still rode the chair lift by myself and subsequently fell down when I got off of it, but I had moved on. When people asked me how today went, I tell them that I am a better skier today than I was yesterday. (… which really says a whole lot of nothing for my ski skills but it’s true!)
I have two badges of honor and accomplishment to prove that I did indeed go skiing – my lift ticket tag (with smiley face) and the bruise that is gradually taking over my left calf muscle. I think my boot was a bit too tight and it’s not going to be pretty. We go skiing as a church in February and while I’ve had my lesson and learned to stop without always falling over, I think I may opt for cross-country skiing next month.

thurs. and fri.

9 Jan

Thursday: January marks my fifth month at Grace so naturally, the three month evaluation should probably be done, eh? Yes, it should have been done early last month but with Christmas planning, it just wasn’t in the cards. For the evaluations required by the seminary, both my supervisor and I fill out the same forms which ask for reflection/comments on different areas of my internship. Preaching, worship, pastoral care, interaction with the staff, etc. Kendall and I sat down with our laptops and discussed our answers with each other for over two hours on Thursday. Turns out he has confidence that I will be a competent pastor. Phew. After a summer internship that told me the exact opposite, I needed to hear that.

Friday: My day off … except … every other month it is my duty to lead the communion services at the care center and assisted living facilities in Dawson. January is my month so on my day off, I spent my afternoon with old people. (Old people is said affectionately – I like them.)

I was bitter about it at first. I wanted to spend the day in my sweats, watching movies, doing nothing productive. Alas, I put on the appropriate professional clothing, reluctantly did my makeup, and headed out the door. The first service is at the care center and then I walk next door to do the same exact service again at the assisted living facility. (A balancing act as I attempt to carry wine, wafers, and my worship materials outside in the wind. One windy Friday, a bit of Jesus flew off the plate. Opps.) The care center service went well; the bitterness beginning to wash away. The assisted living service takes place in one of their common rooms with a fireplace. I felt myself just melt away in the warmth and the conversation with the old ladies about quilting. Less and less bitter.

When I finish both services, I return to the care center to then deliver communion to anyone who was not at the service, to those residents who mainly keep to their rooms. As I walked down the halls, knocking on doors, delivering communion, I was suddenly glad to be there. (Not that I was totally unhappy before … just a little grief accompanied my duties.) I’m beginning to know the residents at the care center and am struck by how happy they are to have me stop by.

There is one woman, M–, whom I LOVE visiting. Our personalities just work together and she always makes me feel one hundred times better about myself. As Millie and I chatted, prayed together, and held hands, I was surprised at the care she offered me, probably without even knowing it. It might be how she wants to hold my hand or how she speaks so softly and often with a smirk on her face. I could have sat with her all afternoon.

After all was said and done, it was a most excellent day off.

a most excellent week.

8 Jan
As written about previously, my Christmas was … eh. Okay. I was snowed in. I went a bit crazy. It didn’t really even feel like Christmas. I was very thankful that the next week totally redeemed the holiday for me – I had a week of visitors, familiar faces, and lots of friends. Here’s a quick recap:
Sara Stenstrom (a bestest friend, former housemate and coworker from my days in Stillwater) journeyed to Dawson to meet the gnomes and no two feet of snow was going to stop us. We got very cold and very snowy on our visit to gnome park.
My seminary friend, wonderful Ms.Kate, came to Dawson to spend New Year’s Eve with me. We drank a bottle of wine and quilted! These were our fabric accomplishments that evening —
I drove to Willmar (one hour northeast of Dawson) to enjoy the Gieseke family Christmas. The Gieseke family – another Stillwater connection – has basically adopted me into their family since I’ve lived in MN and I love them for that! (Note to self: take family photo + Lindsay with Gieseke’s to include in blog.)
From Willmar, I traveled to St.Paul to meet up with my long lost buddy, Adam Teske, who was in town from Iowa! I have known Adam since my days in Decorah and my fingers are crossed that he will be joining me on the Luther Sem campus next fall.
I spent the night at my college roommate and her husband’s new place (sleepover!), we had a lovely breakfast together, and then it was time to journey back to gnome-town for me. But my, oh, my, the whirlwind week of wonderful people was just what I needed after too much isolation!

So. It’s been cold here –

5 Jan

trust/hope/love prevail

3 Jan

In the darkest places, you discover you are real to yourself and one another. And if you’re not called – mercifully – to such places, you will need disciplines of thinking and imagination to keep yourself real: to fight off easy answers, false gods, stifling systems. Prayer is one such discipline, essential and focal for people of faith; but there are others. We can still choose honesty or dishonesty. We can still choose what Chesterton called the ‘easy speeches that comfort cruel men’; or we can choose to face how vulnerable we all are and how much we need to fight against our fear of one other if trust and hope and love are to prevail when all is done. The challenge is how we stay awake to how the world is – and to how it can yet be changed.  (Rowan Williams)

C.

27 Dec
I have a new friend. We’ll call him C. and he is three – maybe four – years old.
When I invited the children forward on Christmas Eve, C. was the buddy who sat next to me at the second service. As part of the sermon, we hid under a sheet and read a story with a flashlight. (Thank you to Karen G.’s ideation for that one.) As I was reading under the sheet, I would glance over at C., he would look up at me with a huge grin on his face, and just nod his head over and over. He was totally eating it up.
At the end of the children’s sermon, I handed out glow sticks to the kids, we said a glow stick prayer, and I sent them back to their parents. After the service, as we were greeting people on their way out, C. ran up to me, said merry Christmas, and thanked me for the glow stick. Then we gave each other a fist bump. The beginning of our friendship.
Today, after church, I stopped to talk to C. in fellowship hall. He yabbered and gabbered on and on about his new helicopter and how he slept with the glow stick and how now the glow stick has ran out of energy. “And what’s that?” pointing to a picture on the wall. “And what are you doing? Are you going to have a treat? You can have a treat like my treat. I’m jumping.”
As his parents insisted it was time for him to leave, C. followed me about fellowship hall for a few minutes, jumping and running and trying to convince me that the cinnamon rolls were really good. I’m glad to have a new friend.

Christmas Day/December 27 sermon

27 Dec

(Our Christmas Day service was cancelled so I may have just recycled that sermon to use on the following Sunday. We’re still in the Christmas season so it works.)

Grace and peace to you from God our father, Jesus Christ our savior and Lord.

The town of Bethlehem set the scene for our Christmas day, the day we celebrate Christ’s birth. In the town of Bethlehem, the streets are dark. No streetlights or headlights. It is night and we imagine people are escaping the darkness of night by being in their homes. The streets are empty but for a lonely couple. Joseph and Mary. Weary from traveling, tired with child. They cannot find a place to escape the darkness of the night, the darkness of their tired travels. Each opportunity, each knock, becomes a disappointment. Finally Joseph and Mary find a place to rest their heads – a stable. With livestock and straw. They escape the literal darkness of the streets but the darkness in their hearts remains – the darkness of uncertainty, anxiety, the worry of giving birth. Are they safe? Can they stay warm? What is to come next?

Suddenly something changes. Into the darkness breaks light. We sing – quietly at first and then evermore boldly – “yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light.” The true light, to be for all people, to dwell with us in grace and truth. The light breaks in. The darkness is no longer what dominates. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it. Christ is born.

We have prayed for Christ’s coming. We have waited. We have prepared. We light all the candles on our Advent wreath. We think we are ready. We think we are ready for the coming of the light, the coming of the Christ child. We wait for the light that shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.

We know darkness. We know what the streets of Bethlehem were like that night. We can feel the darkness of night. The kind of darkness when you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. We also know the darkness of sin. The darkness of uncertainty, of loneliness. The kind of darkness when you don’t know where your next step will land, where your next day will lead. The dark places in our lives are heavy. The darkness weighs us down, presses upon us. Our darkness are the things that shame us and the things that drag us down.

So we try and hide our darkness in our closets. We don’t want other to know what shames us or what presses upon us. We send out Christmas cards with the perfect family picture. The Christmas letter with the highlights of everything good from the past year. We conceal our darkness and our shortcomings. We put a smile on our face even if it hurts us. Even if we are living in pain, we don’t want others to see. We hope that we can keep those disappointments to ourselves, letting few others see the shadows. We don’t want others to see our messes and imperfections.

Our darkness grows. It changes. Darkness is maybe different than years before or maybe it is the same struggle. We mourn the loss of a loved one and face the first holiday season without them. We are stressed financially in tough economic times. We’re unemployed. We struggle with addiction. We face the reality of old age. We have been abused. Physically. Mentally. We feel the need for deep relationship but have found none. The darkness of loneliness. The darkness on my heart today is spending this Christmas season away from family, far from the people whom I love and who know me as a daughter, a sister, a grandchild. We all have darkness, whether we share it with others or keep it deep within ourselves. Darkness that presses up against us, that we fight day in and day out.

But today we sing that in the dark streets shineth. Shineth the everlasting light. We have prepared our hearts and our minds through the weeks of advent, awaiting the coming of the Christ child, the coming of the light of the world. The darkness in our lives are the things we want unseen, the problems, addictions, and secrets we want no one else to know. Those things are still present in advent, in our preparation. The light comes. Light breaks into our imperfect world and we are filled with joy and with hope. Light breaks in, the Word made flesh appears. Who is with God and who is God.

The Christ child is a great gift, the greatest of gifts we are given each Christmas. The word became flesh and lived among us. God comes to earth, to dwell with us, to live with us. God loves the world so much that he sends his only son to be with you. With me. With us. In Bethlehem we see the baby, born of Mary. The one who was with God and who is God. We know the rest of the story – we know where it goes from here. This is only the beginning of the rest. We know that this great gift will become a great sacrifice for our sins, to reconcile us to God. We know this and we celebrate this.

The light shines in the darkness and we are mesmerized by the light. In this Christmas season, we hang lights on our Christmas trees. We light candles. We welcome and invite light into our lives. The light comes to illuminate the world around us. The darkness cannot overcome it. But no where does it say that the darkness leaves. The darkness cannot overcome the light but the darkness is not gone.

The darkness in our lives has not miraculously vanished with the dawn of Christmas day. Culture models that this season is one of cheer and love, miracles and community. To feel anything but is to be called a Scrooge. We place so much emphasis on the joys and hope of Christmas that it is a disappointment when the cancer is still there. Your loved one is still gone. Broken relationships still exist. The light that comes illuminates the world around us. We see again the deep cracks and stains that are in our lives; dark corners still remain.

I used to feel this as kid. The hype, the excitement for the day of Christmas kept growing and growing inside of me. Anticipation of how special the day would be. Of how wonderful that single day of Christmas is. The excitement mounted on Christmas eve and my brothers and I barely slept that night. We were too excited. The day after Christmas was always a disappointment. Things were the same again. The way they were before Christmas but with nothing more to look forward to. It was a let down. Christmas was over. And had anything really changed except that the presents had been opened and the house was a mess?

But there is something different. We’re reminded again that Christ illuminates the world around us. Christ lights our path, our going in and our coming out. Christ, as a light, goes into the darkest places, into the struggles and brokenness of our community and our lives. Are you ready to let someone into your darkest places? To open the closet where you have hidden your struggles, disappointments, sins? We may not be ready, we don’t want our cracks and shadows to be shown, to be known by others but we can’t stop the light.

Light has a way of breaking in, of flooding all the space it can find. It pours through the air, through the cracks, through the space that surrounds us. Think of your bedroom at night. Even in the place of night there is light. The street lamp streams through the window, between the closed blinds. The light from the hall peaks from under the door. Wherever there is the opportunity to spread, the light is there. The light reveals where darkness has been, where our struggles lie. There in those places, the light spills out, Christ with you in the midst of depression and loneliness, sickness and struggle. Christ as the light of the world cannot be contained.

The Word became flesh and lived among us. Christ, the light of the world, became human, born a baby to an unwed teenage girl. Visited by shepherds. Born in a building with sheep and cows. Christ lives among us; he dwells with us. There is more here – the verb used for lived can also be translated as tabernacled – Christ tabernacles among us. Not necessarily a word in our everyday vocabulary. A tabernacle is a tent – Christ sets up residence with us. He sets up a tent in our lives and is here for the long haul. He did not come for a fleeting moment but the light of world came and stayed. Christ tabernacles with us like God tabernacled with the Israelites in the wilderness. God with us. Christ with us. Setting up a tent and camping with us in the midst of our broken lives.

In the darkness, in our struggles, God is with us. Emmanuel. We celebrate the coming of the light in the midst of our darkness. In the dark streets of Bethlehem and in the darkness of our lives, there is light. Light illuminates the world around us and the darkness cannot overcome it. The light of the world comes and is present even when the darkness seems overwhelming. Light spills into every space possible. It feels for every opening. Christ, as the light of the world, the word made flesh, feels for every opportunity to enter into our hearts and minds. To flood our life with the knowledge of the love of God. The everlasting light shines in the streets of Bethlehem and in our lives. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it. Amen.

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →