Musing on Mystery
As one who only shops out of necessity--not as as past time or bargain-hunting adventure, I have never participated in the Black Friday madness, whether it begins early in the morning on the day after Thanksgiving, midnight of Thanksgiving evening, or even all day long on that holiday as was the much-discussed practice this year. The closest I get is marveling at the long line of cars waiting to the toll road at the outlet mall we pass on the way home from Thanksgiving dinner. We try to estimate the length of the backup that is now accompanied by the flashing lights of police and security vehicles. One year we figured it was at least two miles long. And I breathe a sigh of relief that we are simply passing by in the other direction.
So, the day after Thanksgiving is a sort of liminal space for me, poised at it is at the change of seasons that is Advent. I am, as is usually the case on this day, in Chicago. And since the leaves have long since left the trees, I can gaze out of the sunroom windows and clearly see the cold blue of Lake Michigan and watch--and even hear--the waves whooshing onto the beach nearby. I am full--full of the wonderful Thanksgiving meal at my sister's home, full with the company of nieces and grand nieces and nephew and a funny Facetime session with my grandsons. And full with the gathering at Church yesterday morning for our little chapel service of hymns, giving thanks, and communion.
This morning, then, gives me the time and space for some ruminating. It was a quotation from t.s. eliot in one of my morning devotionals that has set me down this particular path. But I think it fits with the dawning of Advent 2013. I'll get to that quotation a little later.
A phrase often used about the openness of our Episcopal worship tradition--and certainly that of my former United Church of Christ in which I grew up and served--is "I don't have to leave my brain at the door." This is a recognition of the important place for God-given human reason alongside scripture and church tradition in revealing God's Word and
way. It generally means that we are not biblical literalists. Nor are we chained to a rote repetition of doctrine and dogma. We believe that God's Word and way continue to unfold in each generation.
I have greatly valued this understanding. Since my entry into the Episcopal community, though, I have also come to value a more Catholic way. That is the place of mystery--that which is beyond human reason and understanding. This was often disparaged by my colleagues as an excuse for just following--or swallowing whole--a belief system that didn't conform to logic. Things like the Holy Trinity or the Resurrection. "I don't understand it, so I'll just chalk it up to mystery" was considered to be intellectually lazy. 'So these colleagues would push these mysteries to the margins of faith, maybe even with some suspicion, and focus most on what they could understand, leaving the other for less thoughtful people.
Now, here's where it gets a little hard for me to explain, even to myself. I am still learning. Because it is mystery, not explainable, perhaps only experienced. And I'm not
talking about just "swallowing" the mystery. I'm talking about its taking us deeper. Into a closer relationship with the God who is present with us and at the same time is beyond our imagining. Our faith is about paradox, after all. How can Christ be fully human and fully divine? How can one lose one's life and save it at the same time?
And here is where t.s. eliot comes in. "You are not here to verify, instruct yourself, or inform curiosity or carry report. You are here to kneel . . . ” (Little Gidding). We worship by standing, sitting, and kneeling in awe of God's gifts, letting the beauty of the liturgy fill all of our senses. And we are changed. Not just by the words, not by assenting with our minds, but by opening ourselves, heart, mind, and soul to God's goodness.
Advent is a time of mystery and paradox, of waiting and wondering. It is not about waiting for Christ to be born. That happened more than 2,000 years ago. It is about remembering the story, retelling it again and again even with all of the accretions that have
attached to it over the years. That story of the marvelous gift of Incarnation, God's loving us enough to come to us in human form. And also wondering in the story that is still happening--the coming fulfillment of the Reign of God.
Will you wait and wonder with me this year? Will you kneel with me?
So, the day after Thanksgiving is a sort of liminal space for me, poised at it is at the change of seasons that is Advent. I am, as is usually the case on this day, in Chicago. And since the leaves have long since left the trees, I can gaze out of the sunroom windows and clearly see the cold blue of Lake Michigan and watch--and even hear--the waves whooshing onto the beach nearby. I am full--full of the wonderful Thanksgiving meal at my sister's home, full with the company of nieces and grand nieces and nephew and a funny Facetime session with my grandsons. And full with the gathering at Church yesterday morning for our little chapel service of hymns, giving thanks, and communion.
This morning, then, gives me the time and space for some ruminating. It was a quotation from t.s. eliot in one of my morning devotionals that has set me down this particular path. But I think it fits with the dawning of Advent 2013. I'll get to that quotation a little later.
A phrase often used about the openness of our Episcopal worship tradition--and certainly that of my former United Church of Christ in which I grew up and served--is "I don't have to leave my brain at the door." This is a recognition of the important place for God-given human reason alongside scripture and church tradition in revealing God's Word and
way. It generally means that we are not biblical literalists. Nor are we chained to a rote repetition of doctrine and dogma. We believe that God's Word and way continue to unfold in each generation.
I have greatly valued this understanding. Since my entry into the Episcopal community, though, I have also come to value a more Catholic way. That is the place of mystery--that which is beyond human reason and understanding. This was often disparaged by my colleagues as an excuse for just following--or swallowing whole--a belief system that didn't conform to logic. Things like the Holy Trinity or the Resurrection. "I don't understand it, so I'll just chalk it up to mystery" was considered to be intellectually lazy. 'So these colleagues would push these mysteries to the margins of faith, maybe even with some suspicion, and focus most on what they could understand, leaving the other for less thoughtful people.
Now, here's where it gets a little hard for me to explain, even to myself. I am still learning. Because it is mystery, not explainable, perhaps only experienced. And I'm not
talking about just "swallowing" the mystery. I'm talking about its taking us deeper. Into a closer relationship with the God who is present with us and at the same time is beyond our imagining. Our faith is about paradox, after all. How can Christ be fully human and fully divine? How can one lose one's life and save it at the same time?
And here is where t.s. eliot comes in. "You are not here to verify, instruct yourself, or inform curiosity or carry report. You are here to kneel . . . ” (Little Gidding). We worship by standing, sitting, and kneeling in awe of God's gifts, letting the beauty of the liturgy fill all of our senses. And we are changed. Not just by the words, not by assenting with our minds, but by opening ourselves, heart, mind, and soul to God's goodness.
Advent is a time of mystery and paradox, of waiting and wondering. It is not about waiting for Christ to be born. That happened more than 2,000 years ago. It is about remembering the story, retelling it again and again even with all of the accretions that have
attached to it over the years. That story of the marvelous gift of Incarnation, God's loving us enough to come to us in human form. And also wondering in the story that is still happening--the coming fulfillment of the Reign of God.
Will you wait and wonder with me this year? Will you kneel with me?
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