Day by Day

This familiar song from the musical “Godspell” uses a great phrase:

Day by day, 

Day by day, 

Oh dear Lord,

Three things I pray:

To see thee more clearly, 

Love thee more dearly

Follow thee more nearly, 

Day by day.

The phrase has a pleasing rhythm when you say it out loud, “day by day, day by day, day by day”; it’s calming, like a rocking chair’s back and forth motion. 

Three things about a day-by-day view of life attract me and give me hope. 

First, there is the rocking chair calm, the comfort from routine, the peace that comes from repeated ritual, the ease that emerges from disciplined practices. Personal wholeness sprouts, grows and blooms very gradually. A deepening spiritual life is lived bit by bit.

Secondly, we can live our individual lives as the unique free agents we are and yet maintain life-giving connection with each other and with God as co-workers and companions day by day. The idea shows up long before "Godspell" in the bible book called The Acts of the Apostles, a history of the first Christians. There, Acts 2: 46-47 reads that “day by day” the Jesus-followers got together, to eat and talk and pray, while at the same time “day by day”, the God they knew through Jesus made surprising things happen. 

As the new United Church creed states “We are not alone; we live in God’s world”. God, too, is active within human life day by day. 

Sometimes it appears that the Spirit sweeps into global history as with the fall of the Berlin wall or the end of South African apartheid or recently during Arab Spring. 

More frequently God’s active presence plays out for each of us in varied and personal ways, intimate moments that we can sometimes share, if not fully explain. History offers thousands of specific examples, first-hand testimonies about personal interactions with the Divine One throughout the centuries from Abraham to Desmond Tutu.

Thirdly, our phrase describes the only way life can be lived, much as we regret or long for the past, and worry about the future. Giving up our delusion of control can bring exhilarating freedom for making the most of this one day, today. Day by day we make our choices and day by day, like the crazy woman who lives inside my GPS, we have another chance for “recalculating”.

Here's the original source for the "Godspell" lyrics:

Richard of Chichester, 13^th century: 

Most merciful Redeemer, Friend and Brother,

may we know you more clearly,

love you more dearly,

and follow you more nearly,

day by day.
Amen

Is This a Cold or a Deadly Plague?

In 62 years, I’ve never had a cold like this one. For five weeks a gremlin has been moving around my body, pestering me and everyone else who comes within hearing distance.

First it made me cough at night, depriving me of sleep, and then cough in public causing an  embarrassing sound during Christmas shopping trips and neighborhood parties. I could only apologize and offer lame assurances that it wasn’t infectious.

After a couple of weeks the gremlin moved from my lungs to my throat and voicelessness was added to my now habitual cough. Each morning I felt better on waking and started the day eagerly, buying the Christmas tree, or baking gingerbread, but every afternoon I lost my ability to speak, although I still croaked and honked like a Canada goose. Week after December week I sat silent while others sang lovely Christmas Carols, silent except for my honking.  I felt mocked by the beautiful favourite, "Silent Night". In the audience for  a seasonal comedic play I desperately tried to restrain my tendency to laugh loudly lest the goose re-manifest.

Based on my belief that normal colds last about a week, I visited my doctor after suffering for three, scoring an appointment when I told the receptionist that I needed an antibiotic for a lung infection. My doctor wasn’t impressed. After stethoscoping my lungs she implied that I was a sneaky liar (okay, maybe that was my guilty inference) and told me there was nothing wrong with my lungs and no need, or point, to her prescribing an antibiotic.

Back to bed with me.

But it was Christmas time! 

I dragged myself out each day to another Christmas event or errand, meeting a friend for coffee, buying stocking treats.

I coughed my way through our traditional Christmas Eve party and staggered to a late church service at 11:00 p.m. because I had promised to serve communion (lucky recipients, mine). 

By Boxing Day the gremlin had let up on the cough some and moved to my sinuses. I’ll spare you the details, but if I shared them you couldn’t be more disgusted than I was with my own self. Ugh.

Still, everyone else was off work for rare holidays, so I had to keep going between my collapses. I learned that the air in the Young People’s Theatre is extremely dry (hack, hack) and I gave thanks that musicals for children are very short.

By week four I began a private reflection about the difference between what people call a “cold” and what they call, “the flu”. 

I swear that years ago, if one had a “cold”, one had a stuffed nose, a sore throat and/or a cough for a week or so. If one had “the flu”, one was nauseated and throwing up for a few days. Somehow, at some point during the last 20 years the term “flu” changed its meaning and we were told to start getting “flu shots”. 

Is this what I have this year, the newly defined “flu” for which people can get vaccinated? But then I’ve also heard that different flues strike each year and so the recommended injection doesn’t even guarantee immunity from this marathon infestation. 

It’s now week five or nineteen and today the gremlin is offering a bit of coughing, more nose-blowing and  familiar fatigue. At least the demands and lovely opportunities of Christmas and New Year’s have ended and since I’m not employed, I can stay in bed.  

Will this evil illness ever end? 

The worst part is that I keep remembering a rhyme that my late father gave me for a highschool Health Class poster:

“I sneezed a sneeze into the air.

It fell to earth I know not where,

But shortly after, I was told

A dozen others had my cold.”

Dear Reader, I hope that you are not one of those.

Love, Love, Love - Blah, Blah, Blah

Reggie is five years old. He can’t read yet, but he knows how to love. 

The word, “love” is used so imprecisely that it has become almost useless with its wildly varied meanings. Psychologists and preachers talk a lot about what we really mean when we use this battered word.

 “I love my new Honda Fit”

 “I love you. Don’t leave me.” 

 “All we need is love.”

“Jesus said to love our enemies.”

Here’s Reggie’s example of true love.

Just before Christmas Reggie was out shopping with his dad who was looking for magazines to use as stocking-stuffers.

Suddenly Reggie piped up,

“Dad? Hey, Dad! Look at this.”

“What, Buddy?”

His father looked down to see the little boy pointing at a book of puzzles on the rack.

Reggie’s eager eyes met his Dad’s,

“What’s this called?”

“It’s a Crossword puzzle”

“I saw these at Grandma’s house. She said that it’s her favourite game to play. Can we get it for her?”

No one had told Reggie to find a Christmas present for his grandmother. He had no idea what a crossword puzzle was, nor why anyone would find fun in it. He simply recognized the black and white grid on the store shelf as something his grandmother enjoyed, and he spontaneously wanted to give her what he knew would make her happy. Imagine her delighted surprise when she heard the story of her little one’s selfless choice, thoughtful beyond what many adults can manage.

Surely this is the kind of love that Jesus meant.

Who knew a kindergarten child could serve as a lighthouse lamp, guiding our spirits through life’s puzzling darkness? Reggie’s ‘other-love’ shows the way. 

Christmas Starlight

It's shining all over the place this month:

- a seven year old boy’s giggle at the way the nutcracker soldier spurts out peanut shells from between his painted wooden teeth

- a neighbour’s gift of baking, apricot-coconut cookies, tightly wrapped, and an I.O.U. for a homemade pie, on request.

- the car radio broadcasting classical hymns of praise to the Mystery who came in baby Jesus.

-  winter sunrise in the southern sky, sparkling the frosted garden's dead stalks

- cheerful clerks and customers exchanging patient smiles despite long line-ups, wishing each other a merry Christmas

- choirs, choirs, and more choirs, offering, like the angels, their Hallelujah song, ”Don’t be afraid; there’s good news!” 

- sweet sounds of Salvation Army bells, still caring for the poorest of God’s children 150 years after the Booth family first enlisted platoons of helpers

- baby-faced toddlers lolling on a stage, dressed as adorable woolly lambs in church pageants…each faithfully rehearsed by eager, tired parents…all to help tell the old story again

- thousands upon thousands of volunteers handing out gifts to needy families, serving turkey dinners to lonely folks on Christmas Day, packing boxes of encouragement for women’s shelters and prisoners’ children.

- gentle “Blue Christmas” services, lovingly designed for those who grieve at this time of year…so many clergy, musicians and lay leaders serving with compassion.

- a five year old grinning delightedly over secret presents she has hidden for her grandparents

These shining star-beams are easy to spot during December in Canada.

Wise seekers watch for other stars, too. Hiding in the everyday dark are a million lights invisible to you and me. 

Lights like:


- a man who gives away thousands of dollars every year because he is so grateful for what the Christmas infant/God incarnate has given to him.  

- a woman who frees Thai children from brothels because, through Christ, she has found personal freedom. 

- a brave few who reach out to their enemies because Jeshua of Nazareth broke down barriers between Jews and gentiles.

- many more, whose faith in Jesus, Friend of the poor, moves them to befriend the unpopular, the odd, the criminal and the emotionally needy.

- intimate moments of forgiveness offered by folks who choose God's way: "Forgive each other as God has forgiven you."

- Christian counsellors and therapists who do more than listen supportively, because when the moment is right, they can whisper good news… there is Someone who will never desert, never abandon, never ignore aching wounds.

These lights gleam in secret, every day, all year round.

We Christ-followers would be fools to claim to shine brighter than others at acting justly and loving mercy. That is not true. 

What we gladly affirm is this. Any flickering light we shine, comes from the Eternal Light who blazed into human life as a fragile newborn. We are merry because God so loved the world.

Stymied

The impressive stone building sits on a hill surrounded by old trees, one of the few city churches that still have their own cemetery. Father Martin presides over the “highest of high” Anglican service. He and his servers bow to icons and waft enough incense to choke you.

This weeknight service is held entirely in candlelight, the sanctuary so dark that you grope cautiously to find your way to an empty pew. Out of the darkness come exquisite voices, a cappella, leading our worship mostly in Latin. One feels time–transported to a medieval monastery. The hour is a feast for the senses and a respite for the soul. 

 One night during Advent my husband and I drifted outside after the service, half drunk on tranquillity, and headed for our car. A voice spoke from behind us, “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you, but…I need help.” 

We turned to see a pretty woman in her thirties, waiting in the dark. I was expecting her to say that her car wouldn’t start but instead she continued, 

“I don’t have anywhere to sleep.” 

She gestured to the black garbage bag on the ground beside her,

“I’ve been homeless for a year. I’m really cold and I just wondered if you might have some change.”

Sadly, in Toronto we’ve become accustomed to sidewalk beggars, briefly offering them a friendly smile or a couple of dollars before we hurry on, but this wasn’t a busy downtown street. We were in our own neighbourhood. The contrast between the lush service and a poor woman’s destitution was jarring.

We listened as Rochelle introduced herself and told us her story of a dangerous ex-husband and lost jobs. We were jolted into facing the disparity between our comfortable life and her situation.

We discussed Missions, City shelters, the Out of the Cold program, women’s shelters. Rochelle replied with all of the reasons that these programs hadn’t worked for her. We were stymied. Handing her some money, we offered to pray with her. Rochelle joined in our prayer, talking to God in a way that showed her own Christian faith.

The experts tell us that it would be naive to believe a panhandler’s story, so we were sceptical. We couldn’t trust that she was honest, so we didn’t dare invite her to come and sleep at our house. In any case, one overnight might not be a problem, but then? Did we want to take on responsibility for this woman who has no home or job? No. Was she an addict, a con artist, a thief? The risk was too high.

“What would Jesus do?” That facile question was no help at all. Jesus’ circumstances were entirely different from ours. He didn’t even have a home he could open to others. We know we want to follow His teaching of love, but how could we put love into action with someone like Rochelle? Where was God in this?

Our conversation slowed to a halt. We’d come to the end of ideas. It was time to say goodbye. It felt useless, but we promised to keep praying for Rochelle and gave her a hug. There she stood, alone in the damp, cold, dark. Aching, we had to literally turn our backs on her and walk away.

O come, Christmas Baby, God of all that is, abide with us who mourn in lonely exile here. 

Neverending Advent Calendar

Three little faces watched the computer screen, a rare treat while visiting grandparents. An online Advent calendar offered wonderful animations set in the city of London, England.  Nine December days had already passed so there were nine windows to enjoy.

The children eagerly mouse-clicked on numbered Christmas balls to open up charming vignettes. There was a comic restaurant scene, a dog and cat chasing each other onto the London Eye Ferris wheel, a white cart-horse munching on Covent Garden vegetables, and three ships sailing one after the other under the Tower Bridge.

On one date the calendar allowed the user to decorate a Christmas tree over and over. On another page, the children took turns designing a snowflake of their own that then magically fell across the sky in the city scene. 
This interactive gift from our friend, Vi, was created by artist Jacquie Lawson

Three small bodies bounced with excitement after seeing all nine. “Let’s do the next one!”

Uh-oh. Hard truth strikes again. This is an Advent Calendar. You can look at all the days that have passed and you can enjoy today’s treat, but you are not allowed to open tomorrow’s scene. Little faces went blank. The children wriggled down from their chairs, turned to their grandmother and said, “Oh, okay. What are we going to do now?”

What a great idea Advent Calendars are, teaching children to wait, practicing when they’re young. When they’re older they’ll understand that life is like a bawx of chawclits, and also like an advent calendar that goes year round. We can’t know what tomorrow’s mouse-click will reveal. Meanwhile we wait. 

Waiting feels so unnatural to us that one man I know starts huffing and puffing if a red stoplight lasts longer than he thinks it should. My beloved knows that eventually the red will turn green. Even so, he finds it hard to wait a few extra seconds. 

 The church’s season called “Advent” reminds us of a cosmic waiting. The four weeks are meant to be suffused with hope, hope based on a promise we find hard to believe. We know that the prophesied baby arrived, but will there yet be peace on earth? When one of our own days is filled with more of life’s rotten tricks than it is with treats, patient waiting is almost impossible. As Margaret Atwood wrote, 

“The facts of this world, seen clearly, are seen through tears.” 

Can it be true that God will one day wipe away the tears from all weeping eyes once and for all? 

God doesn’t seem to act the way traffic lights do, no matter how hard we wish. God is way more unpredictable, as far as timing goes. But if the promises are true, then the Christmas angel’s reassurance makes more sense. “Don’t be afraid, there’s good news!”

 Maybe, like the three wise children, we can surrender to the hard facts of life, and turn to God, “Okay. What are we going to do now?” 

Hard to Shake a Ghost

Every year at Christmas some famous Canadian actors and CBC radio personalities give performances of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol as fundraisers for local charities. Although one of the performances is at my own church, I just wasn’t interested. That story has been done to death, I thought.

I looked forward to other Christmas events and planned to kick off my Christmas season with the neighbourhood BIA-sponsored concert. Several local church choirs join with a string ensemble to make heavenly music. 

After eagerly arriving early to get a seat I scanned the programme in my hand. Groan. This year, between selections from Handel’s Messiah, there were going to be readings from Dickens’ famous novella! Oh drat. I was further annoyed when, at the last minute, an usher pushed in a hefty (late) woman to sit beside me, jammed up against my own hefty self. 

The combo of physical discomfort and Dickens, sent me out the door early, feeling cranky instead of jolly.

The next evening, again anticipating a meaningful occasion, I spent a confusing two hours at a fundraiser for a stranger that combined a tragic story, tango dancers, a sexy bar singer, some ballet, and a scriptural benediction. Long story. I left feeling cranky again.

Oh well, I knew that the Salvation Army’s annual concert in the magnificent Roy Thompson Hall would not disappoint.  A week later I settled in my seat near the rafters and looked at the programme.

WHAT? This can’t be.

Tucked between various musical numbers that promised delight, the programme listed readings from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol!

What was going on? Never mind the ghost of Christmas past, Dickens himself was haunting me.

My next evening out had been advertised as a concert by one of my favourite recording artists. Dickens didn’t show up, but most of the evening turned out to be a plea for charitable donations topped off with a sermon. I tried to be positive but I couldn’t keep from grumbling about sneaky organizers who publicize one thing and intend another. 

Crank, crank, crank, 

One morning, I sat in discouraged silence. The Christmas glow had vanished. 
“Okay, God, very funny. I’m trying to celebrate Your incarnation on earth, “keeping the Christ in Christmas”, as they say, and all I’m getting so far is disappointment and Dickens, of all crazy things.” 

After a few minutes, a light bulb went on. 

With shock I realized that I, myself, was acting like Scrooge! I was the one saying “Bah!” as I attend one disappointing event after another.

I finally surrendered to the Ghost and read A Christmas Carol.

There was a vivid description of Ebenezer Scrooge:

“a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner!”

When his cheerful nephew says to him, “Don’t be cross", he answers, “What else could I be when I live in such a world of fools as this?” 

Oops, my recent sentiments exactly.

For two weeks I’d been hungrily trying to consume merriness and Christmas inspiration. Smug about not spending extravagantly on gifts, and planning my lovely Advent events expectantly, I hadn’t noticed my self-centred greed for tradition, beauty and pleasure at this time of year. Thanks for the wake-up call, Mr. Dickens.