crèched by the weight of tradition

I read yet another op/ed piece, this time in a local newspaper, bemoaning the prohibition of crèche displays on public property. I honestly have no dog in this fight. Or, more accurately, I am betting on both dogs. Yes, I think the nativity scene, despite its wildly inaccurate theology (the magi never consorted with the shepherds), is a nice little touch. Not because it reminds me to be moral or compassionate. (It doesn’t.) But because it reminds me of an idealized Christmas, a mélange of memories cobbled together to create a near-perfect, Bing Crosby, White Christmas. It feels good. It produces nostalgia which, in its Greek origin however, was not necessarily a good thing. Literally, nostalgia means “ache” or “pain” for home. It is, technically, well ... a sickness. That said, I like nostalgia as much as the next person. As for the argument against the use of public land, 100% in favor. The founding fathers got it right: no official religion. Official religion leads to an official god and the next thing you know, Glenn Beck is using Thomas Paine to promote his vision of an official Christianized America. (Paine was an atheist and would have been thrown in a pauper’s grave if not for George Washington.) But back to nostalgia. While the ache of nostalgia may be sweet, it is a dead-end emotion. That is: the only action it leads to is going backwards, grabbing for shards of the past that, no matter how hard you try, you can never glue back together again. And Christmas, despite the gravitational pull of tradition, is about going into the unknown. It is about a birth. And a birth is always risky, fraught with danger. A birth makes one want to do something. For example, to be compassionate, to clothe, to feed. I don’t think plaster figures, no matter how brightly colored, have ever moved anybody to an act of mercy.

Life is faire

The Church Faire conjures up images of earnest people engaged in an earnest pursuit. To most, I imagine, it is a relic of a kinder, gentler time -- the 1950s maybe. When home-made apple pies, books for a buck, knitted sweaters and costume jewelry were the currency of Christmas. I think of the Church Faire as the most subversive, counter-cultural day on the church calendar. Think of it: we reclaim a full Saturday from frenetic month of December. (There is no other day in the entire church year that we do this.) We spread good will, effortlessly. We sell hand-made articles, made by the hands of folks who attend the church. Kids wander around with a few bucks shopping for something for their mom or their dad with a ferocious dedication. There is no sermon, though there is music. There is no reading from Scripture, but there is lived theology. The doors are wide open and all are invited in. Somehow, against all odds, this Faire tradition continues. I think, in part, because it gives us something we wish we could have in worship all the time: a full-bodied, incarnate sense of community. In part, because there are people who are willing to be keepers of the flame, who understand, perhaps even on a subconscious level, that they are engaging in the sacredness of covenant. The covenant that is this: that we walk together. For most of the year, we walk to different drummers and that’s fine. But on Faire day, we all walk to the same beat. The beating heart of community.

advent moths

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I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explanation: there always is. But I say: never let science get in the way of a good metaphor, never let logic override the happily coincidental. These moths started appearing, on windows and glass doors, sometime last week. Any place there was a source of light, they were there. Little wisemen following their star. Where did they come from? Why now? It has been unseasonably warm, no killing frost, and here we are already into December. The ground, perhaps, has issued them, birthed them, in this strange season. They come from a warm November: harbinger. They come seeking light and, it would seem, warmth. They gather, like a congregation, on the glass, Wings spread, praying as angels must pray. Terror and beauty. Revulsion is the first reaction when the lens exposes this presence. But then: amazement. These wings, veined instruments of flight. Light, weightless. Unmakeable. Only created. The billions of accidents and permutations that have led to this moment. This brief, brief moment. Soon, the frost. And death. Only to rise, from the ground, next year.