Destination Bethlehem. J. Barrie Shepherd
13:35–37).
To be in hope this time of year is to keep our eyes open, open for each and every moment when the light shines in the darkness, when the mystery at the heart of it all reveals itself, unveils itself. But that means looking deep into the dark, not gazing at the tree lights till it all becomes a multicolored blur. That means finding, in the hospitals and homeless shelters, the lonely hearts and empty hands about us, and within us, the meaning of it all, the secret, not just of this festival of light, but of the feast of life itself, that truth beyond all death, that life, true life is born, begins, and never ever ends, in love.
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Now may the God of hope fill us with all joy and peace in believing, so that, by the power of the Holy Spirit, we may abound in hope. Amen.
1. Khayyam, Rubaiyat.
A Prayer to Open Advent
For a gray November sky
with a filigree of bare branches
outlined against one patch of blue,
for random swatches of bright gold and scarlet
fallen around the bases of tall trees,
for the calling of the geese on the move overhead,
their trailing, V-shaped skeins lifting eyes and hearts
to the heavens and beyond,
for a touch of frost on the lawn,
and that feathery first flake of falling snow,
for family tables circled with fond laughter, honest prayer,
bright candles, good food, rich stories, new and old,
the young ones, the not-so-young,
the cheery, noisy moments, the quiet, thoughtful ones,
for long and easy walks with dogs,
crackling log fires, bright colored cards in the mail,
remembrances of folk and moments almost now forgot,
yet still bearing a light and lingering joy,
so many gifts, so many blessings
to thank you for, our God,
in this past week of high Thanksgiving.
And now we turn again toward the manger.
We begin to trace once more those familiar,
age-old hopes and dreams, prophecies in song and story,
well-worn traditions of both church and fireside.
We make plans for moments of rejoicing
to be experienced and enjoyed just up ahead.
And as we think of all such blessed sharing,
as we take up our daily walk to Bethlehem
where God shared himself with us,
we take time to think of others, those in danger
and distress, all those in desperate need,
those who face terrible decisions,
those with no possible decisions left to be made,
all those in whom the face of Christ
lies waiting to be recognized and welcomed.
Slow us down, O God, this Advent season.
Let us savor every sparkling winter sunrise,
every golden sunset. Let us claim again the grace
that shapes each moment of our days,
and let us live that love that leads us toward life,
that simplest, deepest, truest love of all,
the love we will discover in the stable among the straw.
All this we ask in the tender, gracious,
world-embracing name of the Bethlehem babe,
our Savior, Jesus. Amen.
Advent Invitation
Step into a four-Sabbath world
that begins with a whisper—
“Keep your eyes peeled”—
concludes with the cry of a child in the night,
a realm that is bounded by the fling of five candlelight,
the range of a quavering voice reading words
that sound old and familiar, yet strange,
full of wonder and wanting,
a domain hung with banners of purple,
decked with green, living branches,
and spangled with frost, touched by star-beam.
You will meet friendly beasts,
an Orient wisdom, and folk from the fields.
Whatever you do, you’ll be changed just a bit,
your blood colder, or warmer, you’ll see.
One more thing. There is danger here,
much to be risked, perhaps all to be won.
Now take a deep breath. Let’s begin.
Going to Bethlehem
Four weeks to cross the continents
and oceans to a town that is transformed
by twenty centuries of troubled times.
Four weeks in which to travel down
the weary corridors, two thousand years
of looking back and looking forward.
Four weeks for tramping the harsh pathways
of the shopping malls trying to buy the one gift
that has never been for sale.
Four weeks to light four candles
in the sanctuary of the heart, and then
a fifth one to illuminate the heart of God.
Four weeks for learning mystery, for turning
darkness toward light, for yearning, day
by day, toward that burning flame of welcome
that kindles there within the waiting manger.
Hanging The Greens
We bring the outside in
this chill and waning season,
cut boughs and branches,
strands of light and living green,
and deck them all about the walls
and ledges of our houses, make believe
we fashion an enchanted forest glade
to frame our festive celebrations.
Evergreens, we call them,
though they bleed and die so soon,
in over-heated rooms. Yet that dying
lends a fragrance and a grace, foretells,
if we will heed, another time and space,
where tree and thorns, no longer green,
fulfil