Weekly Reflection December 15

Visiting a parishioner in the hospital the other day, I bumped into two of the therapy dogs that  roam the floors, visiting those who are sick, recovering, and, often times, isolated.  One was a golden retriever.  The other--Murphy--looked like a blonde labradoodle.  Both were excited to see me or anyone who would pay them a scintilla of attention. 

The encounters--and watching Murphy saunter down the hallway beside his handler, peering up at passers-by--made me reflect upon the progress that has been made in introducing therapy pets into the range of support given those in a hospital, care facility, school, or any other institution.  It also made me consider the issue of incarnation. 

As it is Advent and as we are St. Francis, it may be only fitting that pets and incarnation are used in the same sentence.  Of course, we often think about incarnation in its narrowest sense as the person and life of Jesus.  Emmanuel.  God with us.  And this certainly is the season when we reflect upon that reality. 

Yet, there continually exists an element of surprise to the way that God comes to us and how God remains with us.  The birth of Jesus is no different.  On one hand, the birth narratives are fairly impressive:  An angel chorus, a cosmic anomaly in the natal star, eventually three astrologers.  However, on the other hand, the incarnation is extremely vulnerable, with an uncertain viability, and an even more ambiguous veracity.  According to the story, a baby emerges in the cold of night, surrounded by cattle, and attended to by the dregs of society--shepherds. 

If God were shooting for incarnational validity beyond the shadow of a doubt, God chose a very interesting way to show it.  We prize strength and power and control.  God--in the Christ child--enters in weakness, powerlessness, and frailty.  Thus, from the very beginning of the Jesus story, we are alerted that, if the opening story is any example, there will be plenty of surprises along the way.  Along the way of Jesus' life  in which there is doubt there.  And along the way of our own lives.  Like it or not. 

And that, often, is the problem with incarnation.  We don't always like it.  It involves our flesh.   And regardless of how wonderful and mysterious and beautiful our flesh may be, our flesh also possesses limits and wears out and is not always so presentable.  Which is, perhaps, part of what is so amazing about the incarnation in Jesus.  It underscores that that place--our flesh in all its wonder and beauty as well as it warts and worries--is precisely where God enters in.

Which brings me back to the therapy dogs in the hospital and the miracle and surprise of the incarnation that comes through our furry friends.  Again, these are not the most powerful or in control animals.  Nor were they even accepted in this therapeutic way for maaannnny years.  Yet, in their simplicity and innocence and desire for companionship--in their weakness, powerlessness, and frailty--they allow for healing and connection and wholeness to occur.  This is a little miracle that happens on the end of a leash.  I don't know about you, but I also think it is a part of God's continuing incarnation in our lives and an enfleshment that continues to surprise.
  
Blessings.

Mark    

December 8 post

As Robin Rice notes in her Advent Meditation, Advent was initially a penitential season, a time for confession.  Thus, this reflection considers the practice of confession and, perhaps, a different perspective on something so common to our worship and life together.
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One of the more memorable worship expierences that I have had took place in the mid 1990's.  I was supply preaching at a church in Fairfield.  The liturgy was quite familiar and Lutheran.  At the very beginning of the service, a rite for confession and forgiveness prepared us for worship.  As the congregation settled in for the confession and silence began to fill the sanctuary, a little boy expressed the reality of his situation but also articulated a wisdom transcending the moment.  Amidst the silence, he turned and spoke to his mother but loud enough for everyone to hear, "This is hard!"

This is hard. 
Oh, yes it is.

Of course, he was talking about being quiet, silent, and for a four year old, the truth was spoken.  The serendipity of the moment, however, was that he also expressed what was true for everyone else in the room.  It's hard to confess our sins.  It's hard to admit our shortcomings, our failings, our disappointments, our frailty, and our humanness.  Certainly, there are moments when it is very easy to acknowledge when we have come up short--and usually too obvious.  Nevertheless, there are at least two ways that we have trouble with confession.

To begin with, we all struggle to varying degrees with that all-too-human attribute of hubris.  Invariably, there are moments when we are convinced of the rightness of our thought or action or cause, and thus it is very difficult to acknowledge a fault, particularly when we believe none exists.  Thankfully, this is not the norm for most, and we ebb and flow between healthy self-knowledge and those moments of mis-reading the reality of the situation.  So, confession can be hard, because it is hard to be honest with ourselves in all moments and in all events.

The greater issue, however, when it comes to confession (and what makes it so hard) is that most people probably beat themselves up with the confession.  If I could sum up in three words what I believe many people feel when we talk about confession, those words would be:

Bad
Bad
Bad

Indeed, within the tradition of the Church, there is a great catalog in certain circles of all the things that we do to fail God, fail each other, and fail ourselves.  And, for too long, engaging in confession has been more like blunt force, beating us up, rather than a surgical incision that addresses the issue or issues in life and speeds healing.

Ironically, the hard part of confession is moving out of the negative tapes that play in our mind (Bad. . .Bad. . .Bad) and moving into the refreshing proclamation of pinpointing the particular things that cause us to stumble; hearing and trusting the pronouncement of forgiveness, grace, and a clean slate; and then living into the fullness of that freedom that God offers.

Indeed, the very Greek word--harmartia--from which we receive the English word sin has no negative connotation or moral declaration.  It simply means that we "missed the mark", as in, we were aiming at the bull's eye, and our shot missed a little to the left or right.  Thus, confessing our sins is not a laundry list that need leave us wailing with the Psalmist, "I am a worm and not a man."  Rather, confession is the very thing that returns us to reality, acknowledges the truth in life, and gladly hears the divine word of grace.

Of course, there are heinous acts and sins that we are fully aware of in hyper-connected world.  And, of course, societies develop ways of addressing these acts.  Yet, for the average worship attender, darkening the doorway of a church generally means you are already willing to acknowledge responsibility for your life.  Thus, the art of confession is not supposed to be that which invites us to wallow in a pool of self-criticism and guilt.  The art of confession begins with the Imago Dei--the image of God--imprinted upon each of us. Created good.  It moves from this reality into an acknowledgment of where and when the mark has been missed, and then lives with the reality of a loving and gracious God, swift to forgive and eternal in mercy.

The trick for us who do confess and experience absolution is that far from holding it over those who may not, we are invited to replicate the grace and forgiveness that has been shown to us.  We are to replicate the love and mercy given us toward those whom we meet in life.  We are to replicate the compassion and kindness permeating our life and share it with the larger world And that may just be the hardest part of all.

Blessings.

Mark