Selah

A pessimist doesn't make New Year’s resolutions, but this year’s “One Word” campaign appealed to me. Instead of making a list of goals, we choose one word for our focus in 2014. 

Believe me, I don’t make a habit of grabbing the next magical fix from self-help gurus but sometimes a new tool is worth a try. 

Any step we take toward knowing God’s ways can be generously used by the Spirit who made us and loves us. When I heard about the "One Word" suggestion I considered what word could serve as a touchstone for me this year. 

I chose to focus on the word, “pause”. 

I’m not a busy person; I'd bet I’m way lazier than you are. I don’t need to insert pauses into my non-existent schedule. However, I can be impulsive in both decision-making and conversation. I still regret quickly choosing a mustard-yellow winter coat only because I wanted the shopping over with. The coat-that-will-never-wear-out shows every bit of slushy dirt and the colour isn't even flattering. Grr.
As to the other weakness I mentioned, well, let's just say I’ve had lots of practice in apologizing for abrupt comments. I long to speak carefully and choose wisely when it matters. For that I need to learn to pause.

I turned for help to one of my main authorities, the bible.

Speaking of tools, thank God for the internet!  We all know the verse, “Be still and know that I am God” but what about pausing? 
When I searched for the word “pause”, I found the mysterious Hebrew word “Selah”, which is attached to some of the Psalms, without any English translation.

Because the psalms are songs, scholars guess that "Selah" could have been a musical direction. Or it could have stood for, "The End". But some experts think that it might have meant, “Pause”, “Pause and praise”, or “Pause and think about that”. Maybe we should be reminding each other, "Selah", good advice for bible reading, good advice for ordinary moments every day. Pause and think about that.

So the next time we talk, if you hear me hissing under my breath, you’ll know that I’m whispering “Selah”, hoping that Wisdom will help me pause before I say something stupid.

Winter Words

During the dead days of winter, feeling life’s dull ache, it is good to read these hopeful words, a paraphrased excerpt from Isaiah 43:

“O people, this is what the one who created you says:

Don’t be afraid, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through flood waters, I will be with you
and they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire, the flame shall not consume you.

For I am your God,
the Holy One, your Saviour.

You are precious in my sight,
and honoured,

and I love you.

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.

I, I am the One,
and besides me there is no saviour.

I am your Holy One,
the Creator. 

Yet you did not call upon me; you have been weary of me.

I, I am the one
who blots out your transgressions for my own sake,
and I will not remember your sins.

I am about to do a new thing.

I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.”

Song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwTmjJ_g5PY 

Lowest Common Denominator

Really? 

Are sexual jokes and bathroom humour your favourite kind of comedy? Do the sounds of gunshots and sirens mean must-see TV to you? If so, from what I see and hear in entertainment, you are in the majority. And I’m a total weirdo.

I learned long ago that I can’t enjoy a performance at a comedy club. Even a show billed as, “The Nice Guys of Comedy” began with a comic whose obscene jokes made me walk out, disappointed yet again. No stand-up comedy for me, apparently, despite the fact that I laugh loudly as much as anyone I know.

Television comedy, too, has devolved from clever and hilarious shows like “Mad About You”, into predictable sketches about who’s having casual sex with whom. Even the smartest writers and comedians, like Tina Fey, seem obliged to make frequent sexual references.

And then there are the serious dramas serving a combo plate of sex mixed with violent crime. Yummy! Gore, guns and strippers. Satisfy all of your appetites at once.

Many friends have recommended Netflix as a better resource than TV, so I hoped it would be the answer. I'd rather avoid the slimy mind-pollution that oozes from Hollywood and most network programming.

It is true that when I searched through mounds of muck on Netflix, I eventually found some fascinating documentaries and a brilliant independent movie or two. But in hunting for those, before I could hit STOP, I saw and heard things I'd rather never have seen or heard. 

Even the higher quality productions have startled me with, for instance, the close-up of a naked couple having sexual intercourse (does no one consider that private anymore?), and jokes about excrement in someone’s pants.
Really? Bowel movements crack you up?

And those two examples were in:

A. an otherwise excellent movie starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Christopher Walken
and B. a creative and poignant British comedy titled “Derek”. 

What’s the deal?

Are the rest of you out there having sex with random strangers? Do you enjoy seeing characters die from gunshot wounds? Or are you thinking frequently about your rectum? 

Are you stuck at some infantile stage of human maturity, newly discovering your clitoris/penis and learning how to use a toilet?

Here’s an option for adults only:
Let there be creative stories and belly laughs, wit and wonder. 
And at the same time, “Let there be no sexual sin, impurity or greed among you. Let no one be able to accuse you of any such things. 

Dirty stories, foul talk, and coarse jokes—these are not for you. Instead, remind each other of God’s goodness, and be thankful.”

“Be careful how you act; these are difficult days. 

Don’t be fools; be wise: make the most of every opportunity you have for doing good. 

Don’t act thoughtlessly, but try to find out and do whatever God wants you to.

Don’t drink too much wine, for many evils lie along that path; be filled instead with God’s Holy Spirit.” 
(Ephesians 5)

Post-Christmas

It’s been trying to creep in, the “morning after”, let-down feeling. 

No matter how hard I try to lower my standards and minimize stress, the merry Christmas season is more tiring than peaceful. 

Sure, it’s fun to choose surprising gifts, and to decorate the house with coloured lights, candles and crèches. There are exquisite concerts and moments of awe at the incarnation story. Time spent with family, friends and neighbours is rich with laughter and love. 

But still the intense celebration makes for an after-effect of fatigue. 

I was glad to find the video below, where a baby adds her voice to her Mom’s, as Francesca Battistelli sings a song that imagines Mary singing to baby Jesus. (apologies for the abrupt deejay’s patter when the song ends…but it’s sort of another life metaphor)

The song, along with the baby herself, reminded me that the excesses of what we call “Christmas” have little to do with the best news ever. 

No matter what 2014 brings, we are not alone in a mindless universe! 

Despite life’s frustrating questions, despite our despairing “Why?”, we can choose to hold onto the hand reaching out to us in Jesus.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVbfcxgMkA4  

Sidewalk Sister

Cold, white beauty poured down over the city, ideal snowy weather for the Christmas season. After a sweet day of family love and the fun of decorating our IKEA-bargain fir tree, we looked forward to Saturday night downtown. In a rare indulgence we planned to eat out before we would head to the concert hall. The pub was jammed with people but a server led us past two bars and a pool table to a quieter room at the back. Ahh, bliss. I ordered minimally, not wanting to feel over-full, but the food I did eat tasted delicious. The whole day had gone well. I ruefully admit that such comfort is my idol.

An hour later, with happy tummies, we slid our way through the slush on King St. In the snowy air we heard a brass band playing “O Come All Ye Faithful”; it was an idyllic Canadian Christmas moment. Five shivering members of the Salvation Army offered an outdoor musical welcome to all of us arriving for the Army’s annual concert at Roy Thompson Hall.  “Salvation Army” – what an embarrassing, out-dated name! They still wear military-esque uniforms, more than a century after their Victorian founders declared war on poverty in Jesus’ name. Despite the quaint style, their social activism is admirable and their music first-class, so I was excited to go inside.

Sure enough, it was a spectacular evening. What a soaring sound three hundred voices can make! Expert musicians accompanied the choir with brass and piano. From traditional carols to a swing arrangement of “Let it Snow”, the show was a feast. We revelled in some creative musical arrangements and the soloist’s strong, pure voice singing  “Breath of Heaven”. We tried to think kindly of the tambourine dancing girls (I kid you not) and the brief sermon. The skilled singers included Toronto Northern Lights, a men’s chorus whose exquisite harmonies in “Mary, Did You Know?” were transporting. In awe we gave thanks for God’s miraculous Christmas message of love.

After the concert we bundled up, and, full of comfort and joy, walked out into the still blowing snow. 

There, smack in the middle of the wide sidewalk, sat a woman, cross-legged, with a begging cup in her hand. It was bitterly cold and the snow was thick. She was crying, sitting there facing down all of us who were hurrying home after a beautiful evening of music. Well, now. Could you walk past a sister in tears, sitting alone on icy cement in the middle of a winter storm? 

I bent down to her, at a loss for appropriate words, said, “What are you doing?”

Close up, I could see that she was much younger than most street beggars and without their usual alcohol-creased face. She looked up, sobbing, “I need money.” 

Trying for an honest conversation, I asked gently, “Why don’t you have a job?”

She answered, “You can’t get a job when you don’t have an address.” 

Of course I have learned about the complexities of our homeless population. I know that there are many causes and mostly inadequate solutions. I’ve seen friends pay a painful price when they have risked reaching out to needy individuals. And any stranger on the street could be a scammer. But still.

“I guess you’ve tried all of the shelters?” I said, feebly. 

My husband dug through his pockets in the wild weather and tucked a bill into her cup. She twisted to see where the money had come from and thanked him. 

She went on, “I’m only forty! I have nowhere to sleep.” 

My husband and I crooned in sympathy and patted her back.  Helplessly, we said stupid, useless things:

“Oh, Honey, I wish I had a magic wand to fix your life”

“God loves you; God bless you.”

Instead of swearing at us or punching us in the face for our platitudes, she thanked us over and over again, still crying.  Heartsick, we turned away and hurried on toward the subway train station. An hour later we arrived at our merry, sparkling house with its vacant guest room in the basement.

Christmas Pigs

The letter carrier handed me a large cardboard box – how exciting to receive an unexpected parcel in December! So many of us hardly ever mail packages any more because the mailing often costs as much as the gift inside.

I looked at the return address – yes, I knew who it was but we don’t exchange Christmas presents and rarely see each other due to distance. I cut open the taped seams to find a bunch of styrofoam peanuts and many small wrapped presents.
What on earth? 
I rummaged until I found an envelope to explain the lovely surprise. The very funny card was a reprise of a “pig” joke that started decades in the past. 

About 25 years ago, a beloved young couple stayed overnight at my house near Christmas time and they gave me a collection of unusual cookie cutters. Since I knew they’d be stopping by on their way back home, I made gingerbread cookies using the pig-shaped cutter, the one most amusing to me. I labelled the tin, “Christmas Pigs.” After checking to make sure that I wasn’t implying anything by such a choice, they began the pig game.

We have never lived nearby and our visits are random, but once in a while one of us has found something oinking and bought it for the other.  They have given me stainless steel pigs for salt and pepper, a gaudy mauve and gold china porker, a grinning Santa-pig cookie jar, and once, a soft, stuffed piglet and piggy storybook for my new grandbaby. The list continues, more faithfully on their side than on mine. I’ve had a 3D pig magnet sitting on my desk for years while it waits to travel across the country, but I’ve received many more pigs than I’ve given.

Why this big box this year? 

Inside the card was a note: “The twelve pigs of Christmas”. What?! My excitement rose along with my laughter. Sure enough, besides the card there were eleven other wrapped goodies, from miniature flat somethings in pale pink or rosy tissue paper, to larger rectangles and squares tightly covered in glossy red, and long rocket shapes exploding with silver and hot pink sparkles. White tissue paper covered one small box, topped with a shiny red bow. What a glorious pigapalooza! I grinned from ear to ear, astonished at the effort and expense offered on my behalf.

After the laughter came tears. I felt overwhelmed by such an expression of thoughtfulness and generosity, not even from a spouse or a close friend, but from a relative who is distant in both geography and connection.

The words “grace” and “agape”* came to mind. There is a certain kind of generous love that has nothing to do with a gift exchange. It isn’t based on romance or obligation, and certainly not on selfish desires for appreciation or admiration. 

My sty-ful of presents from out of the blue felt like agape. Because I’d done nothing to deserve such kindness, it reminded me of the Christmas baby, God’s mindboggling gift of incarnation in Jesus. 
He would spend his life showing that we are valued by God beyond what makes any sense, not because we’re good, or because God wants praise or gratitude, but just because that’s the way God is. All we can do is rejoice and spread the love around. 

* agape:  Greek word for the selfless love of one person for another (especially love that is spiritual in nature)

Murders and Mother Mary

Every December I’m hit with the same incongruity. The lovely pre-Christmas season of Advent includes the anniversary of one of the saddest days of my life. Today I’m thinking about how to put these jarring opposites together. 

On December 6,1989, I was a 40 yr. old mother raising three daughters, when 14 young women were shot dead inside a Montreal College. That day, as I sat on my couch watching the news, I wept and howled over injustice and hatred. I was infuriated by these murders, the latest horrifying example of what patriarchal conditioning produces. Now, in 2013, men are still murdering women and girls who won’t obey them.

Like all women, I have experienced my share of sexist insult, hearing males sneer at a lousy baseball pitch, “Ya throw like a girl!”, and being shut out of various “No girls allowed” clubs. Over my lifetime, I have learned how the cultural lie of male superiority has wounded boys and men, also. 

Continuously, since the Garden of Eden, evil has put enmity between women and men. The same evil has estranged humanity from a living connection with our Creator. We want our own way more than we want to learn God’s ways. 

But then there’s Christmas. December arrives and the nights sparkle and neighbours get together and choirs sing and charity increases and our anticipation of the merry miracle rises again.

Advent is the time for waiting, waiting to celebrate the birth of Jesus, God’s breakthough into our human dilemma. Maybe the mournful anniversary of the Montreal murders reminds me that we’re still waiting for Love to finally win.

Young Mary was minding her own business when a wild and wondrous surprise arrived. An unearthly creature appeared, immediately reassuring her, as angels seem to do. 

“Don’t be afraid, Mary, God is pleased with you!

Breaking news! You will conceive and bear a son,

and you will name him Jesus.

He will be great,

and will be called the Son of the Most High”

Mary’s reaction was “WHAT?”

“How can this be, when I am a virgin?”

The angel said to her, 

“The Holy Spirit will come upon you,

and the power of the Most High will overshadow you;
therefore the child to be born will be holy;
he will be called Son of God….

because nothing will be impossible with God.”

Mary had no idea of the agony and joy her son would bring her. Nor could she know God’s historic plan for rescuing the human race from self-destruction. But somehow, Mary recognized truth when she heard it, and made her choice.

“Here am I, the servant of the Lord;

let it be with me according to your word.” 

Without understanding, she surrendered to God’s weird ways.

As it turned out, her son would be a famous feminist, so counter-cultural in his relationship to women that 2000 years passed before most of his followers understood the sinfulness of patriarchy. 

Over the centuries of our waiting He has been the source of hope and healing to millions. He is the one who moved Wilberforce to fight slavery, Martin Luther King to protest racism, and Nellie McClung to insist on women’s equal rights.

Yet still we weep and wait.

Still we need to support the Dec. 6 Fund for abused women, work for justice, and struggle against our own self-centredness. 

And while we wait, we can choose to surrender to the puzzling ways of a God we don’t understand. 

We can sing Mary’s song: 

“My soul rejoices in God my Saviour, 

for God has done great things for me

and holy is God’s name.”

Listen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsXOP7aQeqQ