A Wise Encircling

       Advent season begins for me on December 1, when I get out all the Christmas decorations and turn on the seasonal music for a day’s pleasure. One of the best parts is setting up five unusual Nativity crèches, none of which I bought. 

One is a sorry little scene I formed out of homemade playdough, decades ago - three sheep, and the Holy Family. When the figures were baking they puffed up so much that when one sweet relative saw them she exclaimed delightedly,
“Oh, an Eskimo crèche!” 

A prettier grouping comprises several fragile figurines, painted white and gold, packed home from Mexico by a kindhearted friend years ago. 

Then there are the four wise men from Thailand. A tiny peach-coloured stone nativity was a thoughtful present from my brother and his wife, who live in Vietnam. The “lowing” animals include an elephant and a water buffalo, complete with nose-ring.

An African creche made from glowing acacia wood, takes its place on the fireplace mantle. Accompanied by camel, lamb and donkey, the human figures are six inches tall, their carefully carved faces tipped skyward as if in awe at the mystery. A long-time friend astonished me with this loving gift one Christmas after she returned from helping out at a hospital in Angola.

The lowliest of nativity scenes in my living room is a tacky little plastic set two friends gave me as a joke, insisting I unwrap it while they watched. The set came in a small drawstring bag and my friends could hardly contain themselves, waiting for the punch line, as I drew out one ugly piece after another:  two white sheep, two cows, black and brown, one shepherd, three kings, Joseph, and Mary, all cheaply moulded and prosaically coloured. At the bottom of the bag, my fingers finally found the baby in a manger and when I saw it I yelped with laughter. The baby was covered by a pink blanket, obviously a daughter. We three feminists enjoyed a long hilarity together. 

“Why do all the statues of Mary show her with a bowed head and somber face?”

“Because she wanted a girl!” 

HaHa.

I’m grateful for this happy variety of crèches from around the world. Most of them are too breakable for children to touch, but the other day, during the chaos of a family visit, my three-year-old granddaughter was getting bored. I pointed at the plastic set strewn on a side table and told her she could play with them. Our adult conversation continued and it wasn’t until hours later that I saw the arrangement she had left behind.

There was the plastic baby, surrounded by a perfect circle of sheep, cows and humans, all facing the newborn miracle. My heart caught for an instant at my grandchild’s intuitive wisdom. I believe that God sees you and me the way I see my African crèche, as a carefully crafted work of art, rich with meaning, a cherished treasure. But sometimes we feel and act more like ugly bits of plastic trash. At least I do. 
I sat still for a moment, taking in the message. Whatever the colliding realities of life, the Christmas baby should be at the centre. 

“Christ Jesus, being in very nature God, 

did not consider equality with God

something to be used

to his own advantage; 

rather, he made himself nothing 

by taking the very nature of a servant,

being made in human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
by becoming obedient to death

—even death on a cross! 

Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name,

that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, 

in heaven and on earth and under the earth, 

and every tongue acknowledge 

that Jesus Christ is Lord, 

to the glory of God the Father.” (Philippians 2)

A Sad Day Every December 6

I guess I was 40 in 1989 when I heard the horrifying news from Montreal. It made me sick with rage and grief.

As a younger woman I had been forbidden certain roles within the church, although  my brother was invited to fill them, roles of leadership and preaching. When I got married I was expected to quash my own preferences and personality in order to encourage and support my husband’s (not by him, mind you). As a mother of three young daughters I suffered with them when they hated their hair or felt too fat, knowing that they had imbibed our culture’s stupid emphasis on women’s appearance. It has never been easy to be a woman in a world still led mostly by men with traditional male values, like competition and coercion.

On that Wednesday, Dec. 6, 1989, I gasped with true shock at the report of a young man's killing of 14 female engineering students at  Ecole Polytechnique in Montreal. I watched the TV coverage all day and cried. One of my daughters still remembers sitting beside me on the couch, worried by my tears. A high school student, she had just learned that engineering was a field she would be suited for. 
Almost immediately after the murders were reported, I heard first-hand denials and dismissals: “This crime had nothing to do with …” gender, or feminism, or the injustice of our political, corporate, educational and social systems. Despite what the shooter, Marc Lepine, had written and said about hating women, many men and some women willfully closed their minds to making any connection between this event and our cry for change in attitudes about boys and girls.

To me this event was a blatant, dramatic expression of the thousand cuts girls and women receive from the day they are born into patriarchal cultures.

My 3 yr. old granddaughter is already being taught that to be considered “pretty” is  very, very important, since strangers constantly tell her that she is. My grandsons don't get the same comments. Toy stores are worse than ever with their “Girls Toys" aisles drowning in pink and purple and princess, "Boys Toys" aisles filled with camouflage-coloured guns and monsters. A more glaring example is the heartbreaking story of Malala Yousafzai, the  15 yr. old who agitated for the education of Pakistani girls, and was shot recently by angry men who wanted her to shut up.

On many December 6ths since 1989, I have wept again as I listened to the reading of at least 20 new names, the names of women killed by their partners just that year only in our province of Ontario! I’m not crazy about the word “feminist” since it has been twisted into a mean-spirited caricature. But none of us should forget that boys and girls are still being treated unequally, a habit that warps and stunts both genders, and hinders the shalom we want for our human family.

Mixed Feelings

It happened again today. 

I got on a crowded streetcar and as I moved down the aisle, a young man looked up from his seat, stood, and motioned to me, “Sit here”. I’ve heard others complain that no one ever offers a seat anymore on busses and subways. They say that such etiquette is a thing of the past. Not true when I travel. This experience isn’t even unusual for me, despite how little time I spend on public transit. Sweet and thoughtful people look at me kindly and rise to let me sit down. 

I can only assume that it’s because they have noticed my white hair. My brunette hair began to grey in my 30’s and it’s been white for years, although I haven’t yet reached retirement age. I’m healthy and without physical disability. Caught off guard by their gesture, I usually say, “Oh, thank you, but I’m fine!” with an appreciative smile, but they insist, and their faces are so eager and solicitous that I take their place even though I don’t want to. Today, after the young man had vacated his streetcar seat and I, just to be agreeable, sat down, I then had to crane my neck awkwardly and raise my voice to continue the conversation with my still-standing companion. She’s young and blonde but no one relinquished their seat to her so that we could chat comfortably. Why would they?

 Truth be told, I enjoy the swaying sensation of standing in the rocking vehicle’s aisle, hanging onto a support pole, because it’s a rare chance for me. I am not employed and when I travel by mass transit, I’m happy to leave any available seat to the poor souls who endure tiring commutes between home and office.

 I feel heartened that folks are so generous as to offer their respect and consideration. I’m also grateful because whenever this happens I get another chance to practice patient humility as I thank them and obediently sit down.

And then there are some other emotions, like chagrin. These friendly folk don’t suspect that they are betraying how elderly and feeble I appear to them. I imagine their thoughts, “Poor old thing!” Their motives are purely kind, but they leave me wondering. Did I not leap up the bus stairs fast enough? Was I slouching? Am I wearing outdated clothes? Have they not seen anyone under ninety with natural grey hair? Should I get a brush cut and streak it with bright orange? Tattoos, maybe? Some chains, piercings and black leather pants? Is it make-up I lack? A facelift (shudder)?

Mixed feelings.

Small Delights

One November morning in Toronto I was walking to my optometrist when I neared a couple of men talking. They were standing beside a row of parked cars and from one car window a woman was reaching to give some cash to one of the men. He offered it to the other man, whose truck was parked adjacent. The money was refused. I gathered that the younger guy had boosted the first man’s car battery and as I continued past I smiled at what I was hearing.

“Oh no, that’s okay, thanks.”

“Come on. I really appreciate your help!”

“Nope. Really. No – I’m not going to take it, man. But thanks.”

Generosity.

Twenty minutes later I was returning home and shared grins with a young woman walking toward me. She was holding an ipod with its speaker on and singing aloud with the tinny- sounding pop song, careless of what any of us might think.

Freedom.

Later at a grocery store I overheard two employees teasing each other about how much they had contributed last year to their Christmas project. Their voices were full of goodwill.

Friendship.

May your day sparkle with small delights.

Love by Listening

Was there anyone in your childhood who ever gave you their full attention - a teacher, grandparent or neighbour? They looked into your eyes with a smile and asked you friendly questions, listening for a moment, at least, to whatever you wanted to tell them. What a feeling!

How often does that happen to you now? 

Sometimes conversations feel like competitions. Self-absorbed talkers apparently think that you have nothing to say that’s really worth their attention. To them, there is no sound as sweet as their own voice. If they pause long enough for you to make a comment, whatever you (quickly) say reminds them immediately of something in their own life and instead of expressing any interest in what you just said, they respond with another comment about themselves.

They don’t seem to realize that what they’re actually communicating is, “Well, what you just said about your life  (your job, your illness, your child, your vacation trip) is a good excuse for me to talk about myself again (my job, my illness, my child, etc.). All that I’m really interested in is ME.

I’ve often left this kind of exhausting and futile type of interaction wondering why these folks don’t just stay at home and talk to a wall, or a mirror. They don’t seem to care whether others make any response to what they say. They certainly have no regard, let alone love, for their listeners.

Although the bible clearly says that we "should be quick to listen and slow to speak." (James 1:19), I admit that I had to consciously learn how to listen well. 

My education in this skill began when I attended local parenting classes, soon after I became a mother. I was fascinated to discover that when toddlers are screaming “Mine!” we can often defuse the situation by temporarily removing the toy from the fray and listening to the little combatants. 

“Oh, poor you. You really, really want this car, don’t you?” Tearful nod.

“And you really don’t want Jason to have it, do you?” Vehement head shake.

”And Jason really wants it too, right Jason?” 

“Yes! It’s MINE!”

“Oh dear, what should we do? Both of you really want this car.” 

I was astonished that even three year olds could often compromise after they felt properly heard. They would suggest taking turns or one would volunteer to use a different car for playing.

Decades later I witnessed the same technique offered in marriage counselling. Labelled “active listening”, it is one of the clearest expressions of selfless love. When you speak, I look at you with attention, nod, smile, and make encouraging sounds. When you finish I ask you questions so that I can understand you better. I listen carefully to your answers. Later it will be my turn to speak and yours to actively listen to me.

This works on every level, whether we’re in conversation with a child who says, “I hate school”, or a friend who tells us about an exciting vacation. We don’t immediately start talking about our own school days, or about the time we skied across Antarctica. There will come a time when those comments may be welcomed, but not until we’ve heard the other out.

One of the ways our Creator has always expressed the deepest love for humanity has been by listening to us. 

“Before they even call out I will respond; while they are still speaking I will hear…Does the one who made the human ear not hear? 

Call on me in prayer and I will answer you. I will show you great and mysterious things which you still do not know about” 

(Is. 65:24, Psalm 94:9 Jer. 33:3)

It’s quite simple, really. If we don’t truly listen, we don’t truly love.

Shalom, Peace, Enjoy!

When did you last turn sideways and crab hop along a pedestrian crossing? 

Me neither. 

I smiled today when I noticed a young girl doing just that on her way to school. She personified joie de vivre. Her lighthearted dance reminded me of a paragraph quoted in an exquisite art and faith book titled, Dwelling With Philippians.

The author mentions enjoyment as inherent to "peace", or as the greeters at my daughter’s synagogue wish us, “Shalom”.

The peace which is shalom is not merely the absence of hostility, not merely being in right relationship. Shalom at its highest is enjoyment in one’s relationships. A nation may be at peace with all its neighbours and yet be miserable in its poverty. To dwell in shalom is to enjoy living before God, to enjoy living in one’s physical surroundings, to enjoy living with one’s fellows, to enjoy life with oneself. 

(Nicholas Wolterstorff)

Lately I’ve heard more non-Jewish use of the Hebrew word, ‘shalom”. The English word, “peace,” has felt a little shopworn ever since it started being used as a casual greeting by ‘60’s hippies. Especially on Remembrance Day, we identify with the Christmas carol's lament: 

“There is no peace on earth…for hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.” 

To Hebrew speakers, the word, “shalom” may sound equally hollow, but I was inspired by Wolterstorff’s suggestion of a deeper meaning, that the peace offered by God includes the full enjoyment of life’s rich relationships. 

Enjoyment offered by God - what a concept! The Hebrew scriptures and the gospel of Jesus tell us to love God with our whole being and to love our neighbours, yes, even our neighbouring enemies. That can sound more like Herculean labour than enjoyment. 

Recently I went through a bout of trying harder to be a good girl. There’s no quicker way to take the fun out of life. I needed reminding that when the Great Mystery brought all of creation to life S/He said, “It is good.” Jesus said, “I’ve come so that you can have abundant life.” Early Christ-followers wrote that when we trust God, we can experience a surprising inner peace that affects every relationship.

Gazing at a friend’s newborn baby, watching a schoolgirl skip across the road, hearing words of mercy after failure, counting on the One for whom nothing’s impossible: this is shalom. 
Enjoy! 
(now there’s a shopworn cliché...)

“Theirs not to reason why; theirs but to do and die.”

I’ve often quoted the above line from Tennyson’s poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade”, without knowing who wrote it nor its context of the Crimean War.

I quote it when I don’t understand a situation, especially in government offices, and airports, but I’ve always quoted it incorrectly, “[Ours] is not to reason why, [ours] is but to do or die.”

It hit me today that the correct version, “to do and die”, sums up a hard fact of life, even for grateful children of God. In fact, as people of faith we have to do and die without knowing why.

According to Jesus, with God as our strength, ours is to “do”: to revere our Creator, to be thankful for Her good gifts and to add some hope and healing to our world, even when nothing makes sense.

I don’t understand why life is so unfair, why random natural disasters end the lives of thousands in a day, why humans foment hateful conflicts, small and large, and why personal tragedy comes to some and not to others. 

Most of us have asked  “How could a loving and powerful God allow so much suffering? It makes no sense.”

Know-it-all Christians (and others) are either simple-minded or arrogant. We can’t know it all.

I’m glad that brilliant people like physicist, John Polkinghorne, confirm for me that we don’t have to be stupid to follow Christ. Christian faith isn’t nonsensical. 

But we sure do have to be humble. It takes guts to trust Christ’s leading when we don’t understand, especially when we’re all heading to the grave like the cavalry brigade in Tennyson’s poem, without knowing exactly what will happen afterward.

The famously mistreated bible hero, Job, who lost everything, despite his faithful obedience to God, said this:

“Though He slay me,
I will hope in Him.”

And then continued, “
Nevertheless I will argue my ways before Him”

I love how realistic the bible is about human nature; nothing’s sugar-coated. Job trusted but did not understand, and talked to God about his confusion.

God refused to explain, but during a lengthy tour of nature, reminded Job that he wasn’t God. The story includes an oh-so-familiar detail; Job covers his mouth. We can hear him thinking, 

“Oops. I forgot who I was talking to. Please don’t kill me.” 

Then Job says to God:

 “I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted.

You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’

Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,
things too wonderful for me to know. 

Jesus, help us to remember what you said,

 “Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me.”

P.S. I recommend these two excellent books on this human conundrum. 
 Where Is God When It Hurts? by Philip Yancey

http://www.amazon.ca/Where-Is-God-When-Hurts/dp/0310214378

 Can God Be Trusted? by Dr. John Stackhouse

http://www.johnstackhouseonline.com