Peace on Earth

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men – Luke 2:13-14

Never mind the sexist King James men, this is for many the key verse in the Christmas story found in the Bible. Linus told us so! And for me, despite all the tradition (see previous post) and the holiday merriment, this may be the greatest gift of the season—Peace.

I am all for the current atmosphere of social media: Facebook, Twitter, texting, email, and of course blogging. But there come times that we just need to remind ourselves what peace is:

Stillness.
Quiet.
Calm.

And of course there is the broader definition of peace as the absence of war and strife. Goodness knows the world needs a good dose of that right now.

For most of us, we can make our voices heard to promote more peaceful world practices, but it is more in our control—and certainly more immediately felt—in our own lives. I know some who never (or at least very rarely) have a totally silent moment in their lives. They are always busy, and even when they are relaxing, the TV or music is constantly playing. As I mentioned, I am all about media and music; I enjoy them a great deal. But there has to be time in our day-to-day lives to be quiet. At least occasionally. For those who never get any true quiet time, I wonder how their minds can process everything. Doesn’t there have to be some point at which the brain and the subconscious have to sort through all the stimulation of the day? That’s part of what dreams are for, I guess, but still . . .

A further aspect of peace for me is to stop fighting against life so much. And I think I am making some strides in this, but I have a ways to go. We so often find ourselves in conflict with other people, with governments and corporations, and with life in general. Our souls cry out for peace; I know mine does. To again quote Eckhart Tolle:

What could be more futile, more insane than to create inner resistance to what already is? What could be more insane than to oppose life itself, which is now and always now? Surrender to what is. Say “yes” to life—and see how life suddenly starts working for you rather than against you.

I am not saying that we have to “take things lying down” or become doormats for abusive or harmful treatment. But even in our reaction to such hurtful things, we must have the posture of accepting what actually is and responding to that. It’s easy sometimes to function from a place of denial and projection, casting our own feelings and attitude on to others. It’s so much healthier—and more realistic—to acknowledge, accept, and then respond appropriately to all things.

For each of us, at least in our own little corner, let there be peace on earth.

Solstice

The Winter Solstice arrives on December 21 at 12:11 EST this year, marking the point at which the sun is farthest south of the equator. For many people, this marks the beginning of the sad—and maybe SAD—time of year.

I get it (sort of), but I don’t really relate. For me, winter is a beautiful time. I actually like snow (regardless of the occasional aggravations of shoveling and driving). The cold doesn’t really bother me. The short daylight hours get to me a little bit, but I do enjoy the prolonged “quiet” hours. (Even if it isn’t truly quiet in our homes, it’s quiet in the natural world.)

The solstice is historically a very joyous time. For the ancients and pre-historics, imagine the relief when the days stopped getting shorter. The sun wasn’t dying! Also, it was the time of germinating, hibernating, resting, and enjoying the harvest. Recharge time! Obviously, Christmas falls right around the solstice, as does Hanukah and (as of 1966) Kwanzaa. The New Year begins soon after, and it’s a great time of looking forward and looking back. Overall, I guess I just appreciate the opportunities for reflection and enjoying the more quiet moments of this slower time of year.

But if winter isn’t your favorite time of year, maybe try to open up to it a little bit. You might find some hidden treasures. And if not, hang in there.

It’s only 89 days until spring! 

Waiting

On most church calendars, the season of Advent begins on the Sunday that falls between November 27 and December 3. For many, many people, Advent is a holy time of year marking preparation for Christmas.

Growing up, I was oblivious to the spiritual significance of the season, although I looked forward to Christmas as much as any kid. Even when I first started doing the “Christian thing,” I didn’t really pay that much attention to Advent. The tradition that I was spiritually born into didn’t put much stock in ritual, so the church calendar wasn’t emphasized.

It’s only been the last several years that I started appreciating the wonder of the Advent season. I remember at a Christmas banquet years ago hearing someone talk about Advent in a way that really struck me. He talked about the Jews in the time right before Christ’s birth being in this state of waiting.The image that most stuck with me was that of a hunter right before dawn. (He hunted deer, so he spoke with some experience!) He painted a picture of pre-dawn stillness, of all of nature, including himself, waiting for the sun to rise. And that, he said, was how all of Israel waited for the coming of Messiah.

Now, I know that many people in the world (including some readers, most likely) aren’t religious or don’t relate to the whole coming-of-the-Messiah thing. No matter; this kind of archetype speaks to all of us. It’s a universal experience at some point to be waiting for something. Whether it’s a new career, a spouse, a new home, some kind of spiritual or emotional awakening—we all wait on something sooner or later. (And I’m referring to significant waiting here, not just waiting for Friday to finally get here or for dinner to be done!)

And there’s something very profound in this expectant—but not exactly impatient—state. There’s something deep and beautiful that happens in our souls during this time. I know Tom Petty said that the waiting is the hardest part (and sometimes it is!), but there’s also a delicious expectancy in waiting—like a woman awaiting the birth of a child or a couple during their engagement. We know something wonderful is coming, and part of us can’t wait.

But it’s also the sweetest, most hopeful anticipation we could ever know.

Traditions Old and New

I opined recently on the inanity of the “War on Xmas” (spelling intentional!), so this time around I’ll share something a bit more personal.

We all have our Christmas traditions and favorites. Most of them date back to our childhood, or perhaps when we first married or had kids. And over the years, some traditions evolve or fade away, while others spring up. So as someone who has Christmas memories going back over forty years, I have the whole gamut. As regular readers will know, my wife Joan and I bought and moved into my grandparents’ house at the beginning of 2013. (It’s feeling more and more like our place.) So this year promises a heady mixture of old and new traditions.

When I was a kid, my parents split and my mom and I lived with my great-grandmother. So I had Christmas Day with a pretty extended family at her house. On Christmas Eve, I would go first to my paternal grandparents’ (with another rather extended gathering!) and then to my maternal grandparents’—the ones whose house we now own. So that was a lot of festivity in two days! If there was any holiday tension at the time, I wasn’t aware of it. It was all just festive and happy!

Then when Joan and I married, we added a whole new level of traditions. Over the years we tried different combinations of families, but we ended on Christmas Eve with my family and Christmas Day with hers. That’s been working (mostly) well for a long time.

So now that we live in the house that always hosted the Christmas Eve gatherings, it’s kind of strange—but in a good way. It’s that wonderful mixture of old and new. Some things I don’t think will ever change, like roasting a ham with cloves and sherry to have on Christmas Eve, when gifts are exchanged (my family on the 24th; Joan’s on the 25th), or having a fire in the fireplace. Other things will be new, like our recent tradition of exchanging Christmas mugs and new pj’s before turning in late (after midnight, usually) on Christmas Eve. Or putting up four Christmas trees (we have somewhere to put them now)!

The point of all this? I guess it’s just to encourage everyone to embrace the old traditions while keeping an open mind for new ones to emerge. In time, they might become long-cherished rituals as well. Merry Christmas!

This Means War?

This time of year should be such a joyous time for everyone. Between the spiritual and religious significance, the honored traditions, and the child-like joy of the holidays, it’s a time when the hearts of everyone are lighter.

However, over the last number of years there has been a spirit of cynicism and vitriol that would make Scrooge or the Grinch cringe. I am referencing the War on Xmas (spelling intentional). I don’t mean the alleged secularization or assault on the holiday that many on the far right bring up each year. I mean those very right-wing rabble-rousers themselves. They are the ones who are taking all the fun and yes, all of the meaning out of Christmas.

Let’s start with the Xmas spelling. “You are attempting to take Christ out of Christmas!” is the all-too common cry. Not so fast! The Xmas spelling dates back to the 16th century in English and comes from the Greek Chi Rho symbol, which is an ancient Christian symbol.

But of course, the whole kerfuffle goes beyond symbology. The hue and cry—mostly from the Religious Right—tries to take ownership and authority over the biggest holiday in America. (The proof of this claim, for any who would argue otherwise, is quite simple: no other holiday sees the massive closings of business that Xmas does. As always, follow the money.) Anyway, the great cry goes up that we evil liberals are “destroying a traditional, scriptural, sacred holiday”!

Oy . . . First of all, most of the traditions of Xmas are quite modern, some dating back only to the 1950s. So there’s nothing ancient about it. And as far as scriptural goes, there is no mention in the Bible about celebrating Jesus’ birth. Of course, there are lots of traditions not mentioned in the Bible. Doesn’t make them wrong by any means, but let’s not be disingenuous about it.

As many have probably heard, it’s very unlikely that Jesus was born anywhere around December 25 anyway. Again, it’s not specifically recorded, but the general consensus is that it was probably in the spring, based on the whole census issue and the shepherds in the fields with their flocks, among other indicators. The movement of the date to December was likely to appease the pagans who celebrated Yule or other solstice festivals. And I for one am fine with that! Don’t you think God loves the idea of having more people at the party? Jesus told parables about that very thing!

So bring on the mistletoe, the evergreen tree, and Santa. War on Xmas? Bah, humbug!

Something Just Broke

I hadn’t been born on November 22, 1963. (Missed it by three years.) So I don’t have first-hand knowledge of what it must have been like to hear that dreadful news at about 2 pm EST. I heard much from my parents, grandparents, and older family friends. And my impression is that it is very similar to what September 11, 2001, was like. Everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing. Images are forever burned into our minds’ eyes. It’s not very hard to evoke the sadness, the hurt, the anger.

On the fiftieth anniversary of that infamous day, we have been through a stream of memorials and TV specials about Lee Harvey Oswald, all the conspiracy theories, and of course the tragic event itself—the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the thirty-fifth President of the United States. It was the end of Camelot, that “one brief shining moment” when America was on the verge of possibilities.

Kennedy had not had a glorious first term in office. The Bay of Pigs invasion in Cuba was an unmitigated failure. And some of his foreign and economic policies were less than stellar. But things were really beginning to turn around. The administration deftly avoided World War III with its handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis in October of 1962. And the first family’s hold on the American psyche was undeniable. It was the first Presidency that widely broadcast on television, giving the public an unprecedented look at this charismatic man and his charming family.

Much of America really took the assassination personally, as if a beloved family member were the victim rather than a President that few had actually seen in person. I tend to believe that Oswald indeed acted alone, although I don’t doubt at all that some kind of official cover-up was involved. There was more to the story than the Warren Commission or any other governmental arm has yet owned up to. Whether the full truth will ever come out is to be seen. At any rate, the assassination unleashed a flurry of upheaval unseen in American history—Sirhan Sirhan, James Earl Ray, Arthur Bremmer, John Hinckley, and unfortunately on and on.

Several of us had a unique perspective on all this through the production of Stephen Sondheim’s Assassins at the Ephrata Performing Arts Center. The final scene of the show has Oswald at the Texas Schoolbook Depository being convinced to assassinate the President by John Wilkes Booth and all the other assassins (and would-be assassins) past and present. They overwhelm him with their pleas to be remembered and validated. After he pulls the trigger, several unnamed characters sing “Something Just Broke,” portraying quite vividly the impact of Kennedy’s assassination on America, and indeed the world. Yes, it brought people together—the way funerals and all other tragedies do. It also started to chip away at the innocence of the culture. Through this horror and those that would follow throughout the rest of the 60s, 70s, and beyond, we all grew more cynical and skeptical. Some would say more pragmatic.

But, oh, the cost.

Paradox II

Until recently (the last five years or so; when one is 47, that is recent!), I never had much time for the “Spiritual” or the “Mystical” things in life. Even when I became involved in church at age 15, it honestly wasn’t very spiritual. It was rather mundane and formulaic.

And maybe it’s a product of maturity (read: age). I think youth carries with it both an arrogance and an ignorance of what it is to be spiritual. Only through the ups and downs of many years on this earth can our third eye be opened. (Obviously, there are exceptions; some young people are very spiritually aware.) So over the past several years, these ideas that I had been taught to spurn as “new age”—but which in reality are ancient—started to intrigue me.

I suppose like so many others I had come to tire of the rigid confines of fundamentalism. More accurately, I suppose, I started to see its limitations. Jesus said that for new believers his truth was like milk; as we get older, the milk no longer does it for us, and we crave meat. That’s where I found myself.

Little did I realize that there was a world of truth and wisdom out there beyond what I had been presented. This is when I started getting into Celtic spirituality. (More about that in another post, perhaps.) And one of the other sources for seemingly simple yet deeply profound wisdom for me is Eckhart Tolle. He has introduced many people to the mystical way of being. I know, you may be thinking that this is just another in the long line of pop philosophy. And if taken on the surface, it can be. But if some of Tolle’s concepts can be truly considered, the results can be profound.

I have found myself going back again and again to some of Tolle’s quotes. They can be approached the same way that one might approach the Proverbs in the Bible or the sayings of Confucius. Superficially taken, they might appear to be platitudes. But if they are considered, weighed, grappled with, and held up to life’s experiences . . . the profound truth in them can be at once humbling and comforting. Here is one of my favorites:

The primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation but thought about it. Be aware of the thoughts you are thinking. Separate them from the situation, which is always neutral. It is as it is.

In times of anxiety and worry, this one can be a lifesaver. Things are as they are. Circumstances happen and life goes on. But it is how we think about events that so often get us in trouble. It takes a kind of step back to be able to see with some objectivity these things that can so easily tie our minds in knots. If we can somehow step back and really see things, they lose their hold on us. It is so debilitating to go through life as a pawn of circumstances. And please understand, I say all this as one who still struggles with these ideas at times, and not as one who has mastered any of it! But when I am able to gain this detached perspective, it is very liberating and calming.

This next quote is related to the first:

Can you look without the voice in your head commenting, drawing conclusions, comparing, or trying to figure something out?

Actually, it is probably the first step in that first quote. The judgmental, analytic mind always wants to weigh things and figure them out. People sometimes talk about “getting out of your head” in approaching life. It’s the same idea. When we can look at situations, people, even objects with this neutral, non-judgmental view, that is the only way we can truly know them. And for some of us, this is a difficult adjustment to make. Immediately our minds want to evaluate—good or bad, safe or dangerous, pleasant or painful. Once we don these glasses, we have a hard time seeing through any other lens. We make decisions without having all the knowledge.

Simple, yet profound. A thoughtful review of Tolle’s ideas—or many other mystical, contemplative insights will usually produce the same result. I think life is like this. It truly is a paradox. Only when we honestly and fully accept that can we have peace with it.

Redemption Sox

This space has historically been used for spiritual thoughts. But occasionally I will share some more personal things. And sometime the two dovetail, as when I opine about shows I am involved in at EPAC. (Just finished a run of Sondheim’s Assassins there.)

Well, another of my passions is the Boston Red Sox, who just completed a six-game victory over the St. Louis Cardinals in the 2013 World Series. Now, I am not a person who likes to over-spiritualize things. By that I mean I avoid the awkward imposition of pre-conceived spiritual (read: right-wing, fundamentalist Christian) patterns on ordinary life. That being said, I do believe that the tangible and spiritual worlds are connected. In fact, I would maintain that they are the same.

Anyway… the 2013 version of the Red Sox is a template of redemption—one of the greatest themes in life. Beginning with the historic collapse in September of 2011 (losing 13 of 20 games), the team was a mess. There was a controversy about players over-indulging in beer and fried chicken in the clubhouse; some whiny, detached, over-valued players; a manager who ended up being the goat of all the woes; and a general manager who seemed incapable of turning things around.  The 2012 season took the team from the proverbial frying pan and into the fire. They won only 69 games and finished last in their division. So there weren’t any lofty expectations on this year’s model. Sure, everyone agreed that they would be better, but NO ONE saw them making the playoffs, let alone winning it all.

Maybe more than any other sport, baseball is a microcosm of life. With a 162-game season, sometimes each one seems like a lifetime. There were questions aplenty. How good wood the pitchers be? Were some of the old veterans able to perform at the same high level? How would the low-risk, unsure value free agents do? Would the new manager really be able to right the ship? Well, obviously every issue resolved itself pretty well. As a fan, I could tell pretty early on that despite all the uncertainty, this would be a team that is fun to watch and easy to root for. And after the miserable aforementioned span, that was a lot. There was some promise of success, but even after a rather positive start, most fans and pundits had no inkling of October baseball in Boston.  In fact, many had written the team off. They were hopeless.

Here is where life can surprise you. It seemed like everyone in the organization—players, coaches, managers, and front office—took the business of baseball seriously yet had fun doing it. Commentators started talking about everyone approaching the game “the right way.” Players tried hard all the time. Ground balls were run out. Outfielders always went full-out after fly balls. And what’s more, they all seemed to get along. I don’t think that can be overrated. Perhaps it all culminated in the response to the Boston Marathon shootings. The team was in Cleveland when the tragedy occurred, but they held a rally of support on returning to Boston. It seemed that the whole organization took its city's pain personally. When a team, an organization becomes a true community, it takes on a life that truly is much more than the sum of its parts. That’s certainly true of the 2013 Sox. 

Hopefully, we find ourselves in those kinds of communities in life from time to time. And while we may never see World Series levels of success, we can certainly expect a life-giving experience. And there are only 166 days until Opening Day!

Bheannaigh Samhain

Here we go again... Seems like every holiday that rolls around, some cadre of the religious right/fundamentalist/moral majority/puritan folks get their panties in a bunch. Christmas has become too pagan. Ditto Easter.

Of course, Halloween is the Granddaddy of All Evil Holidays. I catch some wishing everyone Happy Harvest because they refuse to give in to all the satanists who actually recognize—or, worse yet—enjoy Halloween. And please hear me: I don't mind at all if you personally don't want to celebrate Halloween. Happy Harvest to you, then. But don't look down your self-righteous nose at those of us who do.

Many know, but may have lost sight of, the religious origins of Halloween. November 1 was All Saints' Day on the Western religious calendar, as decreed by Boniface IV, created to honor all saints, known and unknown. This date coincided with the Celtic holiday Samhain (pronounced SAH-win), which had the dual purpose of celebrating harvest and beginning the Celtic year. As with many ancient traditions, the Celts began things with the dark half, so in this case the year began with the darker colder months, just as the day began with sundown (still notable in Jewish and other ancient holidays).

Over the years, All Hallows Eve (October 31) began to take on very solemn tones as superstitious folk did their best to protect themselves from ill-willed spirits. Here's where a lot of the trappings of Halloween started to take hold—jack-o-lanterns, masks and costumes in particular. So really, the "diabolic" stuff that so many of the aforementioned Holiday Police so disdain was created to ward off and protect from the dark spirits, not to conjure them.

Of course today, most kids—and many adults—just see the fun, spooky, macabre side of Halloween. And why not? What could be more fun than dressing up as someone or something else and visiting friends and neighbors for free goodies? Do you really think these kids consider the supposed diabolic connotations of Halloween? Ditto most adults, I would say. It's all in good fun for the most part. Even the scary stuff. Lots of folks like being scared, or else scary movies and roller coasters would go out of business. And yes, of course, there are some who love the satanic, evil overtones of the season. But I have a feeling they can make their own hay whenever they choose.

So, there are two ways of looking at Halloween/Samhain. One more spiritual and one more whimsical. They both work for me.

Boo!

Everybody's Got the Right to be Happy...

…everybody’s got the right to their dreams.

So go the haunting lyrics to the opening number of Stephen Sondheim’s Assassins, the brilliant, haunting, disturbing, funny musical running through November 2 at the Ephrata Performing Arts Center. http://www.ephrataperformingartscenter.com/index.php

As those who have read this blog in the past (thank you!) know, I often write about my involvement in this little gem of a community theater in Lancaster County. I have been working there since 2003, having been a subscriber since 2000.

In this show, I am again acting as assistant stage manager. Historically I’ve been on stage—mostly in ensemble or small roles, but occasionally in more featured roles. I have to say that working backstage is as rewarding in a slightly different way as being on stage. There is a more general connection with the piece as a whole than acting really brings. In this capacity, I feel a sort of ownership of the whole, not in a possessive or a generative way, but in a very visceral and relational way. The draw of this whole paradoxical piece is that it uses humor and high drama and history and hauntingly beautiful music to tell this story. That is a large part of what makes it palatable—and, in fact, compelling.

This piece is admittedly not everyone's cup of tea, and it's probably one of Sondheim's lesser performed works. Some might suppose that it glorifies those who killed or tried to kill Presidents—namely John Wilkes Booth, Charles Guiteau, Leon Czolgosz, Guiseppe Zangara, Samuel Byck, Sarah Jane Moore, Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme, John Hinckley, and Lee Harvey Oswald. But it honestly doesn't. What it does is make these dark characters more human. And despite the atrocities that they committed, we cannot lose sight of the fact that they were and are human.

We may never fully understand their thoughts, feelings, or motivations for assassination (or attempted assassination), but this riveting show forces us to at least consider them. Rather than simply write these infamous characters off as "evil," we actually find ourselves relating to them. Granted, most of us won't relate to the point of considering such drastic measures, but I think we have to admit to empathizing with the loneliness, desperation, frustration, anger, pain, and disillusion that they suffered. And while we certainly cannot condone or fully understand the way that they acted upon these drives, I think we all have to admit to occasionally feeling overwhelmed by these very forces.

And isn't this the very definition of compassion? As all great art does, this show compels us to look square in the face of some ugly parts of ourselves. And to laugh at them. And to cry over them. To mourn them. And in some strange way to celebrate them. Because as dark and dangerous as some of these things are, they are woven into the fabric of our humanity. We may not think that we are capable of something so grand and scandalous as assassination (and most of us probably are not!), but we are very capable of smaller, more insidious harm to each other. I'm sure we've all been on the receiving as well as the giving end of our share of those.

So we can all relate to the title of one of the more poignant numbers in the show: "Something Just Broke." Once we recognize this, maybe we all can participate in helping to put some of the pieces back together.

Equinox

We are fast approaching the beginning of fall—the Autumnal Equinox. Contrary to the thought of many modern Americans, fall does not start with Labor Day, or with the beginning of the school year, or with the start of football season. Rather, fall actually begins between September 20-23. That is the point of equinox—when the sun crosses the equator and everywhere on earth sees approximately equal day and night . (All you linguists may have guessed the meaning of the word equinox: equal night.)

This is my time. I have always been more fond of autumn and winter than spring and summer. I know, I know—some people’s jaws just hit the floor. I realize that many people love spring and summer and dread their end. I’m married to one! And I fully understand and appreciate the sentiment. In fact, my wife has helped me to enjoy spring and summer more than I used to. Also, I think as I’ve gotten more in touch with the spirituality of nature, my appreciation for the greener seasons has grown.

But my spirit still feels more at home in fall and winter. Why? Hard to say, exactly. I don’t mind the cooler weather as much as some, I guess. There’s a special coziness about a thick sweater on a brisk day. And now that we have a fireplace, I’m tempted to spend the next six months right there! But I know that it’s more than just the cooler temperatures. Perhaps it has something to do with my (exceptionally) introverted nature. Maybe extroverts are more drawn to the warmer months, when large crowds gather at the beach or at a picnic. And maybe we introverts feel more comfortable in the smaller gatherings around the aforementioned fireplace.

It goes even beyond that, though. Fall and winter mark the harvest and the dormant seasons—the less (outwardly) active and more internal half of the year.. As we gather everything that has grown, it is time to weigh and take the measure of it all—to see what exactly grew during the fertile time. There can be no real growth without this time. As always, it comes down to balance, the ebb and flow, the yin and yang. (BTW, a very interesting Eastern concept that we Westerners should become more familiar with: male/female, light/dark energy—both balanced and part of the whole.)

So happy autumn, everyone! May the time between this equinox and the next be rich and full of promise for the green, fertile time to come!

What's Your Story?

As I believe I’ve mentioned before, I see a spiritual director on a regular basis—usually once a month. This has been an invaluable practice for me. She helps me to remain grounded and centered. I know those two ideas are a bit vague and perhaps confusing. So let’s put them in layman’s terms: she helps me to cut through the crap and focus on what really matters to me. (The specifics of that particular question vary from person to person, but I think everyone would benefit from sitting with it for a while.)

This last session, I walked into our meeting space with no definite thing to talk about, no issue that I wanted her to help me examine. But as she so often does, my director led me through a few steps of questions and just pondering life. And we finally started to get somewhere. Somewhere pretty deep. She asked me the very general question of where I saw myself at this point in my life. And at the risk of sounding über-spiritual, I said that I felt that I was on the verge of some kind of new awakening—a new awareness or openness to . . . what? I still don’t know, which is okay. Furthermore, she helped me to look at this precipice of sorts from a different perspective: rather than seeing it as something that I myself have to move into, it’s more a matter of letting it come to me.

So as I try to keep myself open to what life might have for me next, she encouraged me to think about another deep question: if my life were a story, what would be its theme? Whoa. That one made me pause and think. I didn’t know how to answer. A few things floated around in my head, but I felt unable to grasp them. Finally, one of them pushed its way to the front of my mind. Part of me was surprised by my answer, another part was imminently confident.

Gentleness.

As soon as I said it aloud, it resonated in me. And she nodded knowingly. I had discovered it—at least part of it. In a way it seems obvious to me now. In 2011 our church was doing a series on the Fruit of the Spirit from the letter to the Galatians. Several members of the congregation were asked to do a sermon on a particular aspect that the teaching team and the pastors felt fit each person. The one chosen for me was gentleness. Hmm. As I prepared and delivered the message, I discovered that it couldn’t have been a better fit. Turns out that this concept of gentleness is not at all the weak, namby-pamby attribute that many people mistake it for. Rather, it  carries the connotation of controlled strength. One of the most apt illustrations I found was of a wolf mother carrying her pup. Her jaws could easily crush her little one, but she carries it so tenderly that the pup feels cared for rather than threatened.

I may go into more about my gentleness revelation in a later post, but I’ll just say that I feel confident in uncovering the theme (at least a major one; there might be others) of my story. And I think all of us would do well to consider the theme as our own stories play out.

What’s yours?

The Quiet Man

As I may have mentioned here before, one of my very favorite things to do is read. (My mom always used to make a big deal of the fact that as a little boy I always had more books than toys.) I go back and forth between fiction and nonfiction, the latter usually of a decidedly spiritual stripe.

My latest discovery is one by Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. The title alone was enough to pique my interest. I've known, or at least suspected, that I was an introvert for some time. Thing is, I'm still coming to grips that this realization does NOT mean that there is something wrong with me. It's been something of a struggle, like Jacob wrestling with the angel. "I will not release you until you tell me I'm okay!"

So far, I've read only the Introduction and first two chapters. But it already speaks to me. One of the most resonant passages for me was actually something that someone else shared on an e-mail list (Introvert Retreat):

All the comments from childhood still ring in my ears, that I was lazy, stupid, slow, boring. By the time I was old enough to figure out that I was simply introverted, it was a part of my being, the assumption that there is something inherently wrong with me. I wish I could find that little vestige of doubt and remove it.

Wow. It's one of those moments when another writer expresses the cry of your heart that you didn't fully know was there. I always felt that my introversion was a weakness. And one of the fundamental reasons is clearly stated in the name of Part One of the book: The Extrovert Ideal. It's as if those of us who tend to shy away from the spotlight rather than seek it out have a fatal flaw. I felt like that for most of my life. Thank God for people like Ms. Cain who remind us that not only is there a place for introverts, there's a need for us.

Apparently, Carl Jung was one of the first  in psychiatry to describe the introvert-extrovert traits. In the nineteenth century, the move away from inner strength and character toward personality and charisma was starting to really pick up steam. Advertising, that ever-present mirror and barometer of popular culture, was really trumpeting the value and importance of being attractive, likable, and influential. Nothing wrong with these things, but must everyone pursue them? At the expense of any other things like reflection, consideration, and contemplation? The author describes attending a Tony Robbins Unleashing the Power Within seminar. I'm sure these events have helped many, many people. (Otherwise Mr. Robbins wouldn't be so successful.) But the description made me physically anxious. What about those of us whose very nature is to observe quietly, to listen, to evaluate and ponder. Again, I know this kind of thing has its place. But please don't force it on those of us who'd rather not, thanks anyway.

Within the first few chapters of this book, I'm already feeling more that it's okay to like myself as I am. I've been starting to acknowledge this new idea in my head for a little while now (thanks in large part to my therapist and to my spiritual director), but I still have a hard time really believing it deep down. At least most of the time. Here's hoping that these barriers will continue to collapse.

The more I delve into knowing myself, and allowing myself to like—even love—what I find, the more I am convinced that we all need a good dose of that.

Memoirs

Here we go again...

Every so often in this space I like to talk about theater, whether it's something I've seen or had a part in. This time, it's something I'm in. On June 13, Neil Simon's Brighton Beach Memoirs opens at the Ephrata Performing Arts Center. I have the honor of portraying Jack Jerome, the patriarch of the family. I am confident that this will be another excellent production at what is (in my admittedly biased opinion!) the best community theater in the area. Our director, Michael Swanson of nearby Elizabethtown College, has assembled a cast that I am proud to be part of. And his vision and direction of the show are insightful.

Playing Jack has been quite the adventure for me. For one thing, it's the biggest role I've ever had; the number of lines is a bit daunting—although it's a smaller load than some others carry. So that in itself is both exciting and a bit scary. But beyond that, it's been so rewarding to really engage this character. Jack Jerome is a man who really loves his family. I believe the same can be said of every character in the play; it's just that some of them play that out in different ways. Eugene, for example, complains a lot about his family. But he's a 14-year old kid. So that's to be expected. Stanley, Eugene's older brother, makes some serious mistakes through the course of the play, but he always has his family's best interest at heart.

Anyway, Jack is such a rewarding character for me to play. In some ways, we couldn't be more different. Jack is a Jewish father living in 1930's New York, after all. But we are alike in other ways. He tends to have a sarcastic edge to his sense of humor, for example. Hm. Sounds familiar! He loves his family more than anything. Although I don't have any children of my own, I do feel that way about my wife (love you, Joan!). And about my extended family, both biological and "adopted" (you know who you are!).

In fact, perhaps the most compelling thing about Jack to me is how he relates to his loved ones—including his sister-in-law and nieces now living with him. There's such a deep sense of connection among all these characters. I'd like to think that I would be the kind of father that Jack is. The conversations that he has with Stanley and Nora (the sixteen-year-old niece) almost bring me to tears sometimes. And kudos to Quinn Corcoran and Morgan Konopelski, respectively, for embodying those two characters to such a tangible degree.

So, please, if you find yourself in Lancaster County this June, check out Brighton Beach Memoirs at EPAC. I really think it's Simon at his finest, running from side-splittingly funny to heart-breakingly poignant. If you do, say hello to the guy in the pajamas.

Inner Voice

One of the more amusing little changes for me lately has been my switch from American Idol to The Voice as my singing competition show of choice. I had watched Idol since Season 2 ( I think . . . the Ruben Studdard and Clay Aiken season). But over the last few seasons my interest had waned. Paula out, Ellen in, Kara in, Ellen out. Simon out, etc. I kind of liked Steven Tyler and J Lo. But then they were gone, too.

So this season I haven't seen a single episode. Not a Nicki Minaj fan. Keith Urban, meh. I started watching The Voice and was immediately hooked. I like the Voice for what it isn't. There are no painfully bad auditions to suffer through or irate people who don't get sent through to Hollywood. The back story pieces do get a bit long sometimes, but I can live with that. And I must admit I have a latent man crush on both Adam Levine and Blake Shelton. Xtina was not as annoying as I feared she would be. And Cee Lo was Muppet-tastic!

This time around when Usher and Shakira came on board, I wasn't sure how much I'd care for it, but it still works. Not crazy about Shakira, but I don't actively dislike her, either. Usher really impresses me. I'm not the biggest fan of his music, although I respect his talent. What has impressed me most has been his style as a coach. He can be really tough on his team members, but he definitely wants them to be their best. And the man obviously knows a thing or two about music.

This past week, Usher did something right out of therapy, or even spiritual direction. One of his team members, Michelle Chamuel, made it through to the live rounds and was preparing to sing Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors." Michelle is a quirky talent with a powerful voice and a definite shy streak, maybe a confidence issue (I can relate on those last two!). During the rehearsal, Usher was exhorting her to connect to the lyrics and to the audience. Then he did something a bit odd: he grabbed a full length mirror and had Michelle sing the song to herself.

I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow

 Wow. I think we all need this kind of self-talk from time to time. Those of us who occasionally struggle with self-esteem need it even more.

Skyswimmer

Sometimes lyrics speak to us as we listen to a song; other times, we find the lyrics written online (always pays to check the veracity of those, however) or via iTunes or in the liner notes of a CD.

The song "Skywimmer," from Let the Wind Blow High by Enter the Haggis, was a combination of all these. I've had the 1999 release for some time and always enjoyed it. Then I had loaned it to a friend and decided to give it a listen upon receiving it back. The album is full of good Celtic folk and rock music, "Ride My Monster," "Donald, Where's Your Troosers?" and "Where Will You Go?" being highlights for me.

This time around, I paid particular attention to the track "Skyswimmer." I don't recall really noticing it until just recently. It sounds and reads like poetry, with beautiful themes and imagery.

I met a man with eyes like glass

Whose useful days were gone and passed

He told me in a cardboard tone

How long ago he once had flown

When I was young he did relate

I'd watch the birds as they'd escape

From the greedy ground we groveled on

Into the clouds and then beyond...

What kind of bird am I?

How can I learn to fly?

And so each day I'd try, he said

To let go of my mind of lead

And with my body floating free

Swim in the air as in the sea

This was my greatest, strongest wish

And so the air did not resist

One day above the ground I rose

And felt the air beneath my toes

What kind of boy am I?

How can I learn to fly?

I rose above the tallest trees

And summersaulted in the breeze

I dove with lightning speed and then

I shot up to the clouds again

I jumped off buildings with delight

And laughed at those afraid of heights

What need has anyone for fear

When we are free and the sky is near?

Oh, what a boy was I?

When do we learn to die?

And when I saw I was alone

And no one close to me would come

I soon forgot the joy of sky

And gently back to earth came I

I've never flown again, said he

Because we're all alike, you see

Our sickness strengthens unity

And no one needs to question me

What kind of boy was I?

How could I learn to fly?

(c) Enter the Haggis, 1999.

Sola Scriptura?

I've had the germ of a thought rattling around my head for a while now. It's only been partially formed. It was like trying to grasp a shadow, and I'm still not sure that I've fully grasped it yet. But I've read what others have said on the topic—one years ago, and the other just now. Some will probably find what I'm about to opine to be blasphemous. So be it. I've been learning to be less scared about what others might think. Not that I'm insensitive to other ideas or thoughts (or feelings), but I'm trying to develop a thicker skin to derision or venom. Anyway . . .

I think some people put too much emphasis on scripture.

I know, I know, how can a Christian say such a thing? Look out for the thunderbolt. Here's the thing: I have no problem with the Bible itself. Well, not so fast. Let's say I have no major problem. I do wonder a lot about which books are in the canon and which didn't make it. And I've heard all the stories . . . God guided those (rich established white) men when they made their proclamations. Maybe to some extent that's true. But I tend to believe very strongly in the idea of free will. Those guys chose those books and not others. I don't doubt that they believed that they heard from God on it. Or at least claimed to. And, hey, maybe they did. But they had their socio-political reasons too.

But I think my biggest issue—and here's a feeling that I've heard echoed in some other places recently—is the way that so many people approach scripture. And I think that this is a multi-layered problem. One issue is that many allow no room whatsoever for the whole issue of interpretation. And it's a BIG issue. We're talking about 66 very different books (although there is certainly some similarity in the epistles) written by many different authors over thousands of years. They were unarguably colored by the authors themselves. And they have such disparate cultural backgrounds. And here we are looking at them through modern and post-modern Western (and moreover American) eyes. There is bound to be some disconnect. Especially considering that we are reading translations of translations.

And this issue dovetails directly into my other (perhaps larger) qualm. Much of the Church takes a legal/constitutional approach. They come to the scriptures like a lawyer coming to a contract or a builder coming to the blueprint for a house. Is that any way to come to a spiritual text? First of all, it's very cold and sterile. Where's the life in that? And I can't imagine that they were written with this in mind. The vast majority of the world was illiterate when all of this was written down, so there was no inkling that people would be holding words up to a microscope like so many do nowadays.

The ancient traditions were oral. People shared these stories over meals and in other gatherings. And the ancient Eastern mind was much more visual, much more poetic than the 21st Century mind. That's why Jesus taught in parables. What's more, even for them the new way of looking at life and God (the Good News!) was so radical that it had to be presented in allegory and questions. "You have heard it said...but I say to you..." Love your enemies?? Forgive those that do you wrong?? Welcome the stranger?? Associate with Romans and prostitutes?? This is all radical stuff. And it's the very thing I like about scripture. That and how human it all is. The Psalms are some of the most open, vulnerable stuff you could read.

But please let's don't quote verses at each other like lawyers trying to cite precedent and win a case. Not the point at all.

Again...

With each tragedy like the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon today, we are all wounded. We are all victims. We are all stricken with grief. Sad to say, we are becoming—if not used to it, exactly—less shocked.

Of course, local, state and federal authorities will be investigating the circumstances surrounding this attack in effort to bring those responsible to justice. But as so often happens, there will be a more metaphysical questioning. Why did this (or any other) tragedy happen? I think it's safe to say that we live in a broken world populated by broken people. But as some have already pointed out, that doesn't mean that all the world or all its people are broken. In any tragedy, there are always brave and generous people who rush in to help, to meet whatever need they can. And many, many more of us stand with the hurting at least in spirit.

And, please God, spare us from the twisted voices that will try to tell us that this or any other tragedy occurred as the result of the "sins of America" or of those (fill in the blank)s. If God/karma/the universe is in the business of this type of retributive treatment, how utterly heartrending an existence this would be.

No, I believe—I know—that God is not in that business. Sadly, some people are. But there are thankfully many, many more who are in the business of helping, healing, comforting, and securing. Even in the face of such heinous acts, there is hope.

Angels

It's been just over a week now since Angels in America closed at the Ephrata Performing Arts Center. The piece by Tony Kushner (of Lincoln fame) is considered by many to be one of the great masterpieces of modern American theater.

It's such a huge and challenging two-part play that many theaters do only the first part (Millennium Approaches); or they do the second part (Perestroika) later in their season. At the risk of blowing our community theater's horn again, we did it back-to-back, with only a week of rehearsal in between. I agreed to help with stage crew on Perestroika (I had already seen the first part on opening night). I am so thrilled to have had even a small part in bringing this beautiful piece to life.

It may seem odd—or at least unorthodox—to call this piece subtitled "A Gay Fantasia on National Themes" a spiritual work. But it is without doubt one of the most spiritual pieces I've encountered. I know that conservative groups have protested the play for its frank portrayal of homosexual issues and for its "blasphemous" treatment of God, but I have to wonder (as with most such situations) whether any of the protesters have seen—or even approached—the work with anything resembling an open mind.

If they had, they would have seen a very open-minded and rather even-handed treatment of the subject. Some of the gay characters are noble, and some are not. Same for the straight characters. As for the titular angel, she is hard to figure out, as I would think an angel would be. But the most profound thing to me was how utterly human the characters are. Prior, the protagonist who struggles with AIDS as well as with his apparent calling as a prophet to his generation, is someone the audience cannot help but feel empathy toward. (Prior was beautifully embodied in our production by Daniel Greene.) Belize, Prior's best friend, is a very sassy, wisecracking nurse who nevertheless speaks some of the most honest and humane lines in the play (played to perfection in our show by Adam Newborn). Even the reprehensible Roy Cohn (one of the few true-life people) shows a fearful defiance in the face of AIDS that we can't help but sympathize with. Cohn was played brilliantly by Richard Bradbury on our stage.

What struck me the most, and what continues to stay with me, is the hopefulness that evolves throughout the play. People are gravely sick. People die. Marriages and relationships falter. And still Kushner instills a brave and stubborn sense of hope. And married to that hope, breathing life into it, is forgiveness—forgiveness for all the pain we inflict on each other, sometimes carelessly and sometimes quite maliciously.

One of the most pivotal scenes is when Belize and Louis (Prior's ex-lover) go to the hospital room of Roy Cohn soon after his death. Belize convinces Louis to say kaddish over Roy's dead body. Reluctantly, Louis does, through the help of the ghost of Ethel Rosenberg (the masterful Elizabeth Pattey). Belize elicits Louis's help by reminding him, "It isn't easy. It doesn't count if it's easy. It's one of the hardest things—forgiveness. And maybe that's where love and justice finally meet."

v'ʼimru amen

Three of a Kind

One of the most intriguing mysteries of Christianity is the Trinity. I'm not going to go into all the biblical background of it (although, of course, the word trinity is nowhere in scripture). There is a LOT of theological discussion and debate about the subject. So I'll just throw my two cents in...

I personally love the idea of the three persons of the godhead living in some sort of cosmic community. The whole notion that God can only love us and hope for us to love one another is more valid, I think, in the context of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It's definitely a mystery, though. How can one God be three persons? Is it three aspects of the same God? Kind of, but not exactly—maybe it's just a matter of semantics. If they are three distinct persons, how are they still the same God?

One of my favorite treatises on the Trinity is from fiction: The Shack by William P. Young. I have read several theological discussions on the Trinity, but nothing has made the impact on me that this depiction has. Young portrays the Trinity as three distinct characters in a somewhat unorthodox manner. In fact, many have termed his treatment of the Trinity as heresy. I'm sorry, but that's a term I use with a great deal of caution. Sometimes what is called heresy is just something we don't fully understand. Or we become so attached to our own accepted interpretations as the only truth.

At any rate, Young depicts the Father as a middle-age African-American woman. It's one of the warmest, most parental images of God I've read. The Son is portrayed as a young west-Asian man—think Sayid from Lost. The Spirit is to me the most interesting of the three. She (yes, another female) is an ethereal, misty shape that is always hard to see. Most of traditional Western Christianity tends to focus, naturally, on Jesus. And the Father is a central figure as well, particularly considering how grounded Christianity generally is in Judaism. But the Spirit is often the "forgotten" member of the Trinity.  And there is some precedent for the Spirit as feminine. The words for the spirit of God are, in some languages (Hebrew, Syriac, German), feminine. Of course, there is considerable debate as to whether grammatical gender has anything to do with personal gender.

I can't really speak to that. And I know that in reality, God (by whatever name you call Him/Her/Them/It) really has no gender. We're talking about a spirit or an energy force, here, so gender does not apply. But in thinking about God, in prayer, in meditation—we almost can't help ourselves. If we want to make God at all personal, some notion of gender has to be in the mix to some extent. So I actually do find myself going back to Young's Shack-ian imagery. There's just something so comfortable and inviting about them all to me. I want to spend time with God in these avatars.

And that's kind of the whole point of prayer, isn't it?

Don't Ask, Don't Yell

This has been an interesting time on the ol' Facebook feed. As gun control, global warming, reproductive rights, and now, of course, marriage equality have been in the news, it's been downright schizophrenic.

Tuesday many of my Friends (and I) adopted the red equal rights icon for our profile pics. And some of my Friends probably got rather upset. I didn't do it to upset anyone, and I do hope my Friends don't interpret it as my bashing their beliefs. The thing is, my Friends (I figure the capital letter is a clue that I'm talking about Facebook friends) are a pretty diverse group.

Some of my coworkers are pretty conservative, and some are pretty liberal. I'd have to say that most of my family comes down on the right side of the socio-political spectrum (although some are more toward the center), as do some of my church family. Most of my theater family is firmly on the liberal side of things. It's sometimes amusing and sometimes painful to watch the various comments, post, likes, and shares. Again, I don't doubt that mine probably irritate people sometimes.

Time for me to come out of the closet. No, not THAT closet. I am not gay. However, I am definitely gay-friendly. In fact, I am, wait for it...a Liberal. I changed my voter registration to Democrat before the 2008 election. (Though I had already been starting to drift left.) In fact, I have found myself in one of the smallest of demographics: the Christian Left.

What does this mean? Well, I find myself with a foot in both worlds. And in some cases I feel like an outsider in both. Yes, I am a religious (or spiritual, if you prefer) person. I believe in God, Jesus, the Trinity; I am part of a local church community. BUT I don't usually line up with the Religious Right. I honor the Bible, but I think many Christians read it way too literally (although it's only literal in their own interpretation of it). I am embarrassed at the way some people (and they're usually the most vocal) use Scripture as a bludgeon. In fact, I'm embarrassed by a lot of the right-wing evangelical behavior. Seems a lot like the sort of things that Jesus used to call the Pharisees to task for.

I think every human being should be treated with dignity, respect, and compassion—the same things I would want, and I daresay the same way that Jesus treated everyone. Sad to say that so many of the world's troubles come from how the Church botched all that up.

We can't go around assaulting people with what we believe; I never want to be guilty of that.

So if you want to know what I think of things, feel free to ask me. Or check out my Facebook page to see what I post, share, and like. And if you are offended by any of it, I do apologize for that. But I don't apologize for what I think, feel, or believe. And I also won't scream them at you. I respect your right to have your own positions, so please respect mine. Honestly, there should be room in our discussion for both.

The Wheel Turns

The Wheel of Times turns and Ages come and go, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth returns again. In one age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

Thus begins The Eye of the World by the late Robert Jordan. It was first published in 1990 and began an epic 14-volume series (often referred to by fans as WOT) that reaches its conclusion in the recently published A Memory of Light. According to interviews with Jordan early on, he had originally intended the series as a trilogy, but it took on a life of its own. (I'm sure the publisher urged him on, relishing the prospect to sell that many more books!)

Such a long series will inevitably have ups and downs. WOT certainly does. Many parts of the books pull the reader in, and Jordan was a master of world-building, as well as creating relate-able, fully realized characters. And most of the action sequences have been exciting. However, Jordan did have a verbose streak, and there were parts of some books that just bogged down. (Not unlike the infamous Whiteness of the Whale chapter in Moby Dick.) I would say along with many readers that the first four volumes were a tremendous start, but the series got very muddled in the next several books. Common theory goes that the publisher encouraged Jordan to extrapolate sections to fill more books, particularly around books 8-10.

Ironically, after Jordan's untimely death due to cardiac amyloidosis, Brandon Sanderson filled in for the last three volumes (which Jordan had originally intended as one), and these last three books were—in my opinion—back to the thrilling and engaging writing that hooked so many in the first place. Currently, I am 15 chapters into A Memory of Light, the final book, and I often have difficulty putting it down.

It struck me that WOT represents most of my adult life! I've been with the books since the beginning, when I was about 20 or 21. It's been like a companion in my journey through my thirties and into my forties. The various books will call up for me what was going on in my life at the time. And for better or worse (mostly better, I'd say) they've informed my opinion of good writing—particularly good fantasy writing.

The old saying is that everyone has at least one book in them. And I think I might, at that. Just not 14.

Self Discovery

I'm a person who likes to take personality tests. I'm a Four with a Five wing on the Enneagram. I come out as INFJ on Myers-Briggs. On the DISC test, I chart as a high S and moderately high C.

I keep a journal and see a spiritual director monthly. So a recent discovery rather took me aback. I was tooling around the Internet, checking out goodness knows what, and I came upon a description that seemed to have me pretty much pegged: passive aggressive.

What? I immediately thought. Me? Denial set right in. So I honestly looked at some of the indications: fear of dependency, fear of intimacy, making excuses, sulking, victimization. Sigh. Not that these traits dominate my life, but... I do find myself going there when I'm low.

Funny, I thought I've been pretty emotionally and spiritually healthy lately. Could I really be passive-aggressive? Looking at it as objectively as I can, I would say I have those tendencies. And part of me would totally freak out about this. But I think I can recognize this in myself and acknowledge it without overreacting to it or even judging it. It is as it is. I can even sort of laugh at it and accept it. If I'm aware of it—and especially if I name it, I think—I take away its power over me.

This is another tendency that I (and I would guess many) have: we sit in judgment of ourselves, or at least parts of ourselves. We need to just accept ourselves. I often remind myself that I would not be nearly as critical or condemning of these same faults in others. I'm starting to cut myself some slack, too. I know that it's easy to think too highly of oneself, and I know that I have my moments. But generally I tend to lean the other way. I'm sure if I lived in the Middle Ages I'd be wearing a hair shirt all the time.

I was recently diving in again to Personality Types: Using the Enneagram for Self-Discovery. It's one of the seminal works (by Riso and Hudson) on the enneagram http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enneagram_of_Personality. As I read through the nine levels of development in the Four personality type (three levels each of healthy, average, and unhealthy), it was a very accurate road map of my mental and emotional state. I honestly recognized myself in those pages. (It was kind of alarming, like who's been watching me?) I'm happy to report that I spend more time these days in the healthy levels, but I certainly live in the average levels a good deal. And I must admit to dipping into the unhealthy traits from time to time.

Anyway, I think the point of all this is that it's critical that we do know ourselves, warts and all. And some of us need to remind ourselves (and let others remind us) that what we call the warts are all just part of the beautiful mess of being human.

Reasons

"There's a reason for everything."

It's a mantra that seems to be everywhere. People throw it out there in every imaginable situation, from the most banal to the most profound. Unfortunately, it rears its head in the wake of deaths and tragedies like Sandy Hook. And that's where I think it's most harmful. There's a reason that 26 people—including 20 children—died last month? I'm sure the families of the victims find great comfort in that.

In fairness, I understand (I think) some of the motivation behind the old chestnut. People want to assign some meaning, find some purpose to life—particularly the painful parts. But if truly considered, this simple platitude does more harm than good. Back to the Sandy Hook tragedy, it is a serious dark spot on the conscience of our country as a whole, and especially of the community of Newtown. And people want to redeem the tragedy somehow. But it's not as simple as we want to make it. Cliches and platitudes honestly do nothing more than avoid the issue.

We must face the pain. We need to wrestle with it and feel it honestly. There is a a role that grief plays in our lives. Our souls need to experience the hurt, the loss. It's part of life in a world filled with broken, hurting people. Yes, there is joy and wonder, too, but we cannot dismiss the pain and darkness with worn-out, bumper-sticker expressions. If we truly are to find meaning in loss and tragedy, we need to look them square in the face to discern what they may have to teach us.

And guess what? Sometimes they don't have anything to teach us. There indeed are things to learn from the Sandy Hook massacre, I think—lessons about protecting and loving our children (and everyone, for that matter!), honest debates on gun control and public safety, questions about how we deal with and help those with mental illness—and probably many more. But isn't it a terrible price to pay for those lessons? And in some cases, there are no lessons. What lesson is there in the cruel death of a loved one? In a natural disaster? In a debilitating, lingering illness? Oh, there might be some in some cases; but I am convinced that sometimes we just have to face the hard and painful things and go on with life as best we can. One truism that I think we can hang onto is that eventually, things will get better. It's always hard to see in the midst of the dark times, but experience bears this out. I don't often quote scripture here, but I think this passage from Ecclesiastes is both simple and profound: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

It's undeniable that there will often be dark nights, but there will always be a bright morning after it.

Legacy

This has been a very strange Advent and holiday season. In addition to continuing to come to terms with the passing of my grandfather three months ago, we were also preparing to move. This involved a lot of work (stripping wallpaper, painting, and general cleaning up) at the new house, and sorting and packing at the old house. Add to all of the this the usual hubbub of the holidays, and the last six weeks or so has been quite a blur.

But at the same time, there has been a sense of profound gratitude and peace. The move that I refer to is to my grandfather's house, which we are buying out of the estate. My grandparents built the house in 1956. My mother was ten years old when she moved to the house, and my aunt was born there. What's more, my parents separated when I was very young, and then we moved a lot. So in a way, this house was always home to me. I have many fond memories of it, and of the love and joy that filled it. Christmas Eve celebrations were always held there, as well as Super Bowl parties, poker parties, wedding receptions, Fourth of July picnics, and more.

Now as Joan and I begin the surreal transition of making the home our own, I can't help but recall all the history. I can almost feel my grandparents still here, laughing at our missteps and smiling at our happiness. And although my mother and aunt are alive and well, the spirits of their younger selves seem to be playing around every corner.

The ancient Celts always honored the spirit of a physical place, and I never appreciated that concept as much as I now do. It feels rather like I am picking up a mantle left by my grandfather. It's gratifying and very humbling. (It's also quite fitting that all this is happening on the cusp of a new year.)

So on we go into another chapter of life. It's exciting, uncertain, and a bit scary. And honestly, I wouldn't want it any other way.