Disclaimer: I am not a theologian. I am not a candidate for a bachelor's degree in Biblical and Theological Studies. I am not, despite my high hopes, an intellectual prodigy in the realm of living faithfully. But this year, on this blog, and perhaps for years to come on this blog, I would like to offer you a few thoughts for each week of Advent, the time of preparation and waiting before the celebration of Christ's birth.
Upon our arrival to the Second Sunday of Advent I have been wondering about the prophets, those who speak of promises that they know they will not see fulfilled in their lifetime. The prophet must be an incredibly hopeful sort of person, because to preach the coming of the Lord with conviction, with certainty, with faith, requires hope in the person of God. A prophet must trust in God's very character, because if God is not all-good, all-powerful, all-knowing, then the foundation for proclamations of His triumph, His coming, His entrance into the world will shake.
Who are such people? I ask myself. Who does God choose (or ask, or both) to carry that message forward? John the Baptist cries in the wilderness, "Prepare ye the way of the Lord!" and I cannot help but wonder if there are still those brave people who will cry out to make preparation, who will cry, as Isaiah did,
"Comfort, comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and proclaim to her
that her hard service has been completed,
that her sin has been paid for,
that she has received from the LORD’s hand
double for all her sins. A voice of one calling:
“In the wilderness prepare
the way for the LORD;
make straight in the desert
a highway for our God.Every valley shall be raised up,
every mountain and hill made low;
the rough ground shall become level,
the rugged places a plain.
And the glory of the LORD will be revealed,
and all people will see it together.
For the mouth of the LORD has spoken.” (Isaiah 40.1-5)
Who are these prophets? Who speaks these words to us now? I always imagine the prophets as a star lineup, God's very best first string players. I imagine Him commissioning a special kind of virtue upon them, on giving them beautiful words and even more beautiful glimpses of Himself. I imagine, in my moments of desiring no responsibility, that all I must do is sit passively in my pew and accept Jesus. I am not one of the proclaimers of the good news, I'm simply one of those who receives it.
The trouble is, of course, that the particular good news of the Gospel is not like other good news. It does not sit dormant in your mind waiting to be filed away under, "Interesting Things I Heard on Dec. 5." If it enters your heart, and you acknowledge its existence, its truth, and its life... all bets are off. Suddenly, you are a pathway for God's radiance into the world. You are a proclaimer because this Good News, the news of the Incarnation, lives by proclamation, by being radiated outwards.
I don't mean that we are all necessarily wordsmiths who must write books, blog posts and go on extensive evangelism trips to preach the news. All those are undoubtedly important ways by which we allow God himself to radiate from us the Good News. But when John the Baptist says "prepare ye the way of the Lord," he means more than simply lay palm branches on the road. He means more than ironing out some troubles in Jerusalem's banking or Israel's worship practices. Prepare ye the way of the Lord is also about preparing our own hearts, for the news being proclaimed is news we ourselves will carry with us, for we will carry Christ Himself with us. Prepare me, the way, Lord: make the paths of my heart straight for you, make the will of my selfish soul bend to yours, clean the windows of my heart so that You may be visible to those who peer inside. Prepare me, the way.
So we are not all Isaiah this morning as we shuffle to church, to coffee, or to lunches and paper writings. We may not all have words about God to proclaim to others. But if we believe the Incarnation occurs in our hearts each moment, that Christ dwells with us in the actual, living presence of His Holy Spirit in our hearts, then we are all prophets preaching the good news of the arrival of Christ. We are all proclaiming that God is coming, that He has come, that His promises are trustworthy.
Prepare me, the way, O Lord, and let my heart radiate the good news of Your indwelling Spirit.
Love,
Hilary
Second Sunday of Advent
Merciful God, who sent thy messengers the prophets to
preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation:
Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins,
that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our
Redeemer; who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy
Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
(From the Book of Common Prayer in the Anglican Tradition, 1979 edition)
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Gone Fishing... The Redskins and Writing Letters
Thursday was a service learning day, where my program splits us up into smaller groups to visit different service sites around DC and, well, serve there. Today I went to the Fishing School, an after school program over by 47th St., NE. I didn't know the streets went out as far as 47th - I live on 8th and I feel like it's a decent walk to the center of the DC action.
The house was electric blue and beautiful, the results of their recent visit from the people of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. There were all these brightly colored fish hanging from the ceiling of the entryway, and everywhere I looked there were nice chairs, pastel-painted rooms, bags of cheerios and goldfish in cupboards... everything that screamed well-run and empowering.
We went downstairs to meet the kids. That's always the part of the service learning in an after school program that makes me the most nervous. As soon as I see the faces of those twenty students, their blue polo and khaki clad bodies twisting in their chairs to talk to their neighbor at the other table, I immediately freeze. They won't like me! I silently scream inside my head. I'm really awkward at making small talk with people, let alone the kids who would have been so much cooler than me in elementary and middle school that I would never have been able to talk to them if I was 12 years old! I can't do this I can't do this I can't do this.
This week was no different. I worried and fretted as I looked around the basement where there were tables set up for snack. Kim began passing out apples, Julianne began chatting with a boy sitting by himself at a table, and I ... stood there. I realized after about a minute or two had gone by that I should just take charge. After all, hasn't this semester in the nation's capital given me a sense of confidence about things? Haven't I watched myself grow into a gentler, stronger spirit? Haven't I basically become capable of carrying on a conversation with anyone?
I took the plunge, striding over to the table where two boys were sitting, waiting to get their Ziploc bag filled with a glorified version of GORP (this one featured marshmallows, chocolate chips, pretzels and some dried fruit I didn't think I should eat). I said hey. They said hey back, and looked at me. Was I supposed to continue this conversation? Okay. Hilary, you can do this. I coached myself. "How is school?" I asked. "Good." Pause. Oh great. Ask the one question that adults always ask kids and kids always hate to answer. Great. Just great. I noticed as I was scolding myself for my first faux pas of the conversation, when I realized that there were now four boys at the table instead of just two. Larry with his dreadlocked hair and his love of math sat next to Christopher who doesn't like school, who sat across from Jayquan who was completely hyper and barely sat in his seat next to Marquese who was the quietest and the oldest.
If it was all boys... surely I can talk football, right? "So do you guys have a favorite sport?" I ask, grinning to myself as I contemplated the thrilling conversation that would ensue (in my mind complete with a rendition of "The Sound of Music"). "Yeah!" Larry shouted. "Football!"
"Sweet, who is your favorite football team!" I asked. "The Redskins!" He responded. "The Redskins?? Nah, man, I like the Patriots. I'm from Boston." I thought this was normal, laughing, we have two different favorite teams conversation. Apparently not. "The Patriots suck!" He shouted. Jayquan and Marquese agreed vehemently. Christopher came to my rescue. "I like the New England Patriots!" he called out. "Thank you! We are a great team. We killed the Steelers the other weekend!" I thought this made it sound like I knew what I was talking about. But as soon as Larry opened his mouth and started reeling off players, records, why the Redskins were better, I realized I had woken a sleeping dragon.
Life Lesson: Before you talk about football to boys of any age, do research. Know who the best linebackers are, and the best... whatever else they call football players.
The afternoon progressed into homework help and Tokaya's soil fill-in-the-blank worksheet (thank you, Stan Reczek, for teaching me the meaning of the word, "A, B, C horizon"). I munched on her Cheerios as she figured out what a natural resource was and where to fill in "soil profile" in the sheet. As we munched and talked science (and cheerleading, rap songs I don't know, and other things), I realized that one of the things I hate about goodbyes is the launching into the unknown, the fact that when she gives me a hug, pulls my hands with her hot-sausage-sticky fingers, laughs and hugs me right around my waist, I can't tell her when I will see her again (besides this coming Tuesday when we go back for service learning). I can't promise the next visit, the next homework tutoring, the next failed attempt to talk football to Larry and Jayquan. I can't promise because I don't know.
As I weave the word goodbye into my Washington vocabulary, as I avoid "goodbye" in every conversation at my internship, in class, with my friends here, with Jayquan and Tokaya and Larry and Christoper and Marquese, "I'll be back every week to get to know you and to tutor you and to be your friend." I wish I could simply halt the movement of my feet towards their arctic (I mean, Northeastern) home and simply rest in my roots here.
So I write letters. It's a tradition I began in high school (ask my friends who've all received a little note in their boxes by Mrs. Cahill's office over the course of their Waring career). I write because words are my love language, because I feel safer expressing myself in words, because I know that if I begin to write, the love and joy I feel at the presence of the people in my life will be expressed. I write letters in the hope that others can go forth and carry those pieces of me with them, can take a physical piece of 'Hilary' home with them.
I write letters so that I can anchor on paper the things I feel. I write on this blog so that I don't forget Jayquan and Larry and Tokaya. I write, and I write, and I write.
I'm sad to be going back to the Fishing School only once more before I leave DC, but I am glad that I have been reminded, not only to do more research on football, but also to write, to love through writing.
Love,
Hilary
The house was electric blue and beautiful, the results of their recent visit from the people of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. There were all these brightly colored fish hanging from the ceiling of the entryway, and everywhere I looked there were nice chairs, pastel-painted rooms, bags of cheerios and goldfish in cupboards... everything that screamed well-run and empowering.
We went downstairs to meet the kids. That's always the part of the service learning in an after school program that makes me the most nervous. As soon as I see the faces of those twenty students, their blue polo and khaki clad bodies twisting in their chairs to talk to their neighbor at the other table, I immediately freeze. They won't like me! I silently scream inside my head. I'm really awkward at making small talk with people, let alone the kids who would have been so much cooler than me in elementary and middle school that I would never have been able to talk to them if I was 12 years old! I can't do this I can't do this I can't do this.
This week was no different. I worried and fretted as I looked around the basement where there were tables set up for snack. Kim began passing out apples, Julianne began chatting with a boy sitting by himself at a table, and I ... stood there. I realized after about a minute or two had gone by that I should just take charge. After all, hasn't this semester in the nation's capital given me a sense of confidence about things? Haven't I watched myself grow into a gentler, stronger spirit? Haven't I basically become capable of carrying on a conversation with anyone?
I took the plunge, striding over to the table where two boys were sitting, waiting to get their Ziploc bag filled with a glorified version of GORP (this one featured marshmallows, chocolate chips, pretzels and some dried fruit I didn't think I should eat). I said hey. They said hey back, and looked at me. Was I supposed to continue this conversation? Okay. Hilary, you can do this. I coached myself. "How is school?" I asked. "Good." Pause. Oh great. Ask the one question that adults always ask kids and kids always hate to answer. Great. Just great. I noticed as I was scolding myself for my first faux pas of the conversation, when I realized that there were now four boys at the table instead of just two. Larry with his dreadlocked hair and his love of math sat next to Christopher who doesn't like school, who sat across from Jayquan who was completely hyper and barely sat in his seat next to Marquese who was the quietest and the oldest.
If it was all boys... surely I can talk football, right? "So do you guys have a favorite sport?" I ask, grinning to myself as I contemplated the thrilling conversation that would ensue (in my mind complete with a rendition of "The Sound of Music"). "Yeah!" Larry shouted. "Football!"
"Sweet, who is your favorite football team!" I asked. "The Redskins!" He responded. "The Redskins?? Nah, man, I like the Patriots. I'm from Boston." I thought this was normal, laughing, we have two different favorite teams conversation. Apparently not. "The Patriots suck!" He shouted. Jayquan and Marquese agreed vehemently. Christopher came to my rescue. "I like the New England Patriots!" he called out. "Thank you! We are a great team. We killed the Steelers the other weekend!" I thought this made it sound like I knew what I was talking about. But as soon as Larry opened his mouth and started reeling off players, records, why the Redskins were better, I realized I had woken a sleeping dragon.
Life Lesson: Before you talk about football to boys of any age, do research. Know who the best linebackers are, and the best... whatever else they call football players.
The afternoon progressed into homework help and Tokaya's soil fill-in-the-blank worksheet (thank you, Stan Reczek, for teaching me the meaning of the word, "A, B, C horizon"). I munched on her Cheerios as she figured out what a natural resource was and where to fill in "soil profile" in the sheet. As we munched and talked science (and cheerleading, rap songs I don't know, and other things), I realized that one of the things I hate about goodbyes is the launching into the unknown, the fact that when she gives me a hug, pulls my hands with her hot-sausage-sticky fingers, laughs and hugs me right around my waist, I can't tell her when I will see her again (besides this coming Tuesday when we go back for service learning). I can't promise the next visit, the next homework tutoring, the next failed attempt to talk football to Larry and Jayquan. I can't promise because I don't know.
As I weave the word goodbye into my Washington vocabulary, as I avoid "goodbye" in every conversation at my internship, in class, with my friends here, with Jayquan and Tokaya and Larry and Christoper and Marquese, "I'll be back every week to get to know you and to tutor you and to be your friend." I wish I could simply halt the movement of my feet towards their arctic (I mean, Northeastern) home and simply rest in my roots here.
So I write letters. It's a tradition I began in high school (ask my friends who've all received a little note in their boxes by Mrs. Cahill's office over the course of their Waring career). I write because words are my love language, because I feel safer expressing myself in words, because I know that if I begin to write, the love and joy I feel at the presence of the people in my life will be expressed. I write letters in the hope that others can go forth and carry those pieces of me with them, can take a physical piece of 'Hilary' home with them.
I write letters so that I can anchor on paper the things I feel. I write on this blog so that I don't forget Jayquan and Larry and Tokaya. I write, and I write, and I write.
I'm sad to be going back to the Fishing School only once more before I leave DC, but I am glad that I have been reminded, not only to do more research on football, but also to write, to love through writing.
Love,
Hilary
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
10 Days: Why I Wish I Didn't Know How to Count
Counting is dangerously close to countdown. Countdown means watching the clock like a timer, like a kettle of water coming to a rolling boil, like the postman when you are waiting for a letter from a good friend. Counting down means awaiting the next corner, what lies ahead of us. It is straining to bring the future into the present, and straining to see beyond what is directly in front of us.
And so I wish I didn't know how to count.
I don't want to bring the future of my impending return to school, to Massachusetts, to home, into my present. I don't want the AirTran Airways plane to land me in Boston. I don't want the future here. I want Georgetown cupcakes, the International Spy Museum, the kitchen table where I sit writing this blog post, my roommates, and my beloved D6 bus (I write about that bus a lot... some deep conversations have happened on it). I don't want to live in a countdown because I'm afraid that if I bring the fiery force of the future into my world in DC, I will simply crumble. I know on some level that all things come to an end, that things must change, that we must move, and grow, and return, and leave. I know all of that.
But I want to keep DC in my heart. I want to stay here and let my roots sink a little deeper into this soil. I said goodbye to my internship today and as I walked out of the clean glass doors (the ones that must be oiled daily, they are so silent), and called for the last elevator to take me down to the first floor... I wanted to cry, because I don't want to be uprooted from the people there, from the wonderful conversations and laughs and coffees and lunches I have been privileged to have over the past ten weeks. I don't want to say goodbye, and I don't want to count down, and I don't want to leave.
It's ten days until I leave this city, and I return home, to Gordon, to friends and family, to Advent in a familiar place. And the returning will be good, just as the leaving was good. It's strange to realize that I am now repeating my feelings in reverse: where I had been anxious and sad to leave Boston, I am now anxious and sad to leave DC. Where I had dreaded landing into the unknown of Union Station, the Dirksen Senate Office Building, Eastern Market, the Pentagon, Georgetown, and ASP itself... I now fear the unknown of what lies at home. How have people changed since I've been away? How have I changed? Will the new Hilary fit into the old places?
I wish I didn't know how to count, friends. If I didn't know how to count, then I would sense time simply passing by, without constantly trying to be one step ahead of it and without wanting to wring out every last drop of time here. I would simply be in time, simply live out daily how and what I feel, without the added anxiety of counting hours, days and minutes until departure.
And so, at the end of this slightly rambling blog post, I leave myself (and all of you) with these words (thank you, Lisa, for giving them to me this summer):
"How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you - you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences - like rags and shreds of your very life." - Katherine Mansfield.
Love,
Hilary
And so I wish I didn't know how to count.
I don't want to bring the future of my impending return to school, to Massachusetts, to home, into my present. I don't want the AirTran Airways plane to land me in Boston. I don't want the future here. I want Georgetown cupcakes, the International Spy Museum, the kitchen table where I sit writing this blog post, my roommates, and my beloved D6 bus (I write about that bus a lot... some deep conversations have happened on it). I don't want to live in a countdown because I'm afraid that if I bring the fiery force of the future into my world in DC, I will simply crumble. I know on some level that all things come to an end, that things must change, that we must move, and grow, and return, and leave. I know all of that.
But I want to keep DC in my heart. I want to stay here and let my roots sink a little deeper into this soil. I said goodbye to my internship today and as I walked out of the clean glass doors (the ones that must be oiled daily, they are so silent), and called for the last elevator to take me down to the first floor... I wanted to cry, because I don't want to be uprooted from the people there, from the wonderful conversations and laughs and coffees and lunches I have been privileged to have over the past ten weeks. I don't want to say goodbye, and I don't want to count down, and I don't want to leave.
It's ten days until I leave this city, and I return home, to Gordon, to friends and family, to Advent in a familiar place. And the returning will be good, just as the leaving was good. It's strange to realize that I am now repeating my feelings in reverse: where I had been anxious and sad to leave Boston, I am now anxious and sad to leave DC. Where I had dreaded landing into the unknown of Union Station, the Dirksen Senate Office Building, Eastern Market, the Pentagon, Georgetown, and ASP itself... I now fear the unknown of what lies at home. How have people changed since I've been away? How have I changed? Will the new Hilary fit into the old places?
I wish I didn't know how to count, friends. If I didn't know how to count, then I would sense time simply passing by, without constantly trying to be one step ahead of it and without wanting to wring out every last drop of time here. I would simply be in time, simply live out daily how and what I feel, without the added anxiety of counting hours, days and minutes until departure.
And so, at the end of this slightly rambling blog post, I leave myself (and all of you) with these words (thank you, Lisa, for giving them to me this summer):
"How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you - you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences - like rags and shreds of your very life." - Katherine Mansfield.
Love,
Hilary
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