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
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
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