Then there are the window candles.  We didn’t do this until we moved to Kenbridge, but it’s become one of our favorite decorations – candles in the window, symbolically inviting the Holy Family to find shelter here:  “There may not be room in the inn, but I have room for you!”  Every tucked-away electrical outlet finds its annual purpose, and our windows shine with welcoming light throughout the night.  I can see and feel their warmth as I’m coming home in the evening, or during my morning walk before the sun rises.

There are times, though, when the light gets out of hand.  What is warm and welcoming outside becomes an uncomfortable burden inside.  Like when we notice the bright new addition to our monthly power bill.  Or when we have to make an unexpected trip to the store to get those tiny (but expensive) light bulbs.  Or when it’s time to leave for a trip, and we have to find all those tucked-away outlets again to unplug the lights.  For someone like me, who sometimes has a hard time falling asleep, the extra bright lights in our normally-darkened bedroom windows make it difficult to tune out the world.  For someone like Tanya, who loves a clean and tidy house, the extra lights at nighttime take away one of the merits of nighttime – the short-lived illusion that everything’s as tidy as it should be.

Sometimes it’s enough to make you want to pull the plugs on the things!

We welcome the warm glow of the Light of Christ at Christmas time.  How special this season is, how nostalgic and moving!  But when it comes to letting the Light of Christ into our lives – into all the parts of our lives – things get a little more complicated.  And why?  Because the light that started off as a warm glow from the darkness of a stable, became an almost unbearable brilliance from the darkness of a tomb.

The light can be costly at times, asking us to give things up.  In some strange way, the Light requires that we keep opening doors and windows into new and painful areas.  Like a floodlight, that Light finds its way into even the darkest rooms of our hearts, and shows us things we’d rather not be reminded of.  Sometimes its brightness keeps us awake, spurring us to thought or action at times we’d rather be resting.

“There may not be room in the inn, but I have room for you!” we say.  “Once Christmas is over, though, you’ll need to leave – or at least you’ll need to move into the back bedroom before you get too bright.”

But no matter the cost, the Light heals and frees us, the Light makes us whole.

Oh Jesus, Light of the World, bring your Light into my heart this day.  Let the Light find me out, in spite of myself.  Let it show me the things that need fixing, remind me that things are not as tidy as they should be, spur me to action at times when I’d rather be resting.  And let its brightness consume all the darkness that is in me, until all that’s left is the Light.

©2010 Notes From Jon. All Rights Reserved.

My seminary experience gave me some perspective on this.  As Protestants, we focus on Christus Victor – the Victorious Christ, the Risen Lord who is victorious over death and sin.  This is the lowly Carpenter’s Son who would soon resume his place as the King of Creation.  All this earthly stuff – death, suffering, crying, blood, hunger and thirst – all those things would soon be washed away in the glory of Easter.  It’s certainly a wonderful thing to celebrate!

But Catholic theology places much focus on the Incarnate Christ.  This is the Jesus who was living and breathing, the Christ who was both Divine and human, but who chose for this time to allow his human side to show clearly.  This is the Christ we can identify with – our High Priest, as the writer of Hebrews points out, who has experienced life as we did.

This is Emmanuel, the God-With-Us who is still with us in every part of life – not just the victorious parts.  This is the Christ who is with us in our moments of sorrow (remember what Jesus did when his good buddy Lazarus died?), hunger and thirst, doubt (”My God, my God…”), and even fear and reluctance to do God’s will (”If it is possible, let this cup pass from me…”).

And yet we Protestants rush past these embarrassing moments of weakness – Good Friday is not a place to stop, certainly.  It’s only a speed bump on the way to Easter.  Let’s not worry about Good Friday, and not talk about the cross without talking about the empty tomb as well…  And by making the crucifixion a speed bump, by focusing on how Easter will make a difference in the life to come, we skip over the very thing about Jesus that will make a difference in the here and now.

Is it any wonder that we, as Protestants, have a hard time coming to grips with the bad things that happen to us?  Is it any wonder that we’re embarrassed by things like depression, doubt, and suffering?  We can’t excuse them, and we can’t see God in them, so we choose to gloss them over by saying things like, “God has a plan,” or some such saying – true, but pithy – that makes light of the present circumstances in favor of what’s to come.

While the fact is, it is in precisely these times that Jesus draws as close to us as he will ever be this side of eternity.

In The Rainbow, D.H. Lawrence wrote, “Is the flesh which was crucified become as poison to the crowds in the street, or is it as a strong gladness and hope to them, as the first flower blossoming out of the earth’s humus?”

A few days ago, the girls and I planted some peanuts in a pot so that we can watch them grow in the weeks ahead.  Already, we’re seeing little sprouts pop up out of the dirt, and it’s exciting to think what they’ll become!  Even now, Abigail’s talks excitedly about eating the peanuts we’ll supposedly grow…

But to get to that exciting time someday soon, I knew better than they did what kinds of things would be required.  Watering, watching and waiting.  Trying to keep the pot away from probing fingers until the plant is strong enough to withstand the exploration of a three-year-old.  And of course, there’s that inevitable moment when we had to get our hands dirty and put those shriveled seeds into the soil.  To me, that was a special moment – and no matter what the peanut plants do (and knowing my luck with plants, they’ll probably die), I think I’ll long remember sitting in the floor with my girls, my hands wet and dirty, smelling the earth.

“… or is it as a strong gladness and hope to them, as the first flower blossoming out of the earth’s humus?”

Are we willing to linger on Good Friday?  Are we willing to stay here long enough, in the dark sadness, to let its lessons seep into our souls and do us some good?  May God grant us peace to linger here, by the crucified Christ, so that we may better understand what was required to make that Easter morning possible.

©2010 Notes From Jon. All Rights Reserved.

I have been forced to rethink and clarify my ideas about Maundy Thursday and communion this year, for various reasons.  And I’m wondering if this might not be more what that original communion was like.  We’ve made communion such a somber thing – meditative, deathly silent, ritualistic.  But that night was a celebration – it was Passover, the all-important festival in the Jewish year, an occasion for family and friends to commemorate and celebrate.

The disciples had no clue what was coming in the hours ahead.  As well as serious moments – like Jesus washing their feet, for instance – I can only imagine there was also laughter, singing, and memories shared.

In retrospect you and I can understand what Jesus meant by “this is my body,” and “this is my blood.”  But the disciples were probably confused – or perhaps it held a different kind of meaning to them.  They’d been hearing Jesus talk about his death for a while, and it made them uncomfortable.  By now, they might even have been rolling their eyes – “there he goes, talking about dying again…”

For all they knew, this night Jesus was doing something traditional – the Passover meal – and something different alongside it.  Something different, and something special.  And the key phrase that most of the Gospels record of the evening was “remember me.”

When I first started looking at this and preparing for our Maundy service, I heard “remember me,” and I thought of how we often shield children – or even grownups at times – from seeing someone who is deathly ill, someone who has sustained serious injuries, or someone who has died.  We justify it by saying something like, “We don’t want them to remember her like this.”

I admit that to some extent it’s irrational – as if people were two-dimensional photos, and like a good photographer we could choose the perfect setting to capture them in, and discard the rest.  But I see the value in it.  After all, I think we all try this kind of “snapshotting” when we interact with others.  We want to leave a certain impression with people, so we act a certain way or say certain things – we try to control the way they will “remember us,” though we’d never use those terms.

So I think it’s significant the moment that Jesus asked his disciples to “remember him.”  It wasn’t when he was hanging on the cross, struggling for breath as he died for their sins.  It wasn’t after he was raised from the dead, proving that he was alive.  It wasn’t in the midst of his greatest miracles – feeding thousands, walking on water, healing the sick.

No, Jesus knew his followers would remember those times without fail.  But in this time, in this setting that was ordinary compared to the exciting things they’d experienced with their Master, Jesus asked them to remember him.  Sharing a meal together.  Laughing and sharing memories around the table.  Keeping the old Passover traditions alive and meaningful.  As a brother, a close friend who loved them so much he was willing to wash their feet.

That was the snapshot Jesus wanted to capture.  That was the moment he wanted them to remember for years – and centuries – to come.

So when we sit around the table and enjoy our fellowship together, when we share a meal together in our churches or our homes, when we work together to bring our traditions and rituals to new life and meaning, when we serve one another, when we share each other’s joys and sorrows as friends…

When we do these things, we are as close to Jesus as we ever are.  When we do those things, it’s a perfect time to remember Jesus.  When we do those things, Jesus is there among us, laughing and crying, sharing joy and sorrow.

©2010 Notes From Jon. All Rights Reserved.