stable among the straw.
All this we ask in the tender, gracious,
world-embracing name of the Bethlehem babe,
our Savior, Jesus. Amen.
Advent Invitation
Step into a four-Sabbath world
that begins with a whisper—
“Keep your eyes peeled”—
concludes with the cry of a child in the night,
a realm that is bounded by the fling of five candlelight,
the range of a quavering voice reading words
that sound old and familiar, yet strange,
full of wonder and wanting,
a domain hung with banners of purple,
decked with green, living branches,
and spangled with frost, touched by star-beam.
You will meet friendly beasts,
an Orient wisdom, and folk from the fields.
Whatever you do, you’ll be changed just a bit,
your blood colder, or warmer, you’ll see.
One more thing. There is danger here,
much to be risked, perhaps all to be won.
Now take a deep breath. Let’s begin.
Going to Bethlehem
Four weeks to cross the continents
and oceans to a town that is transformed
by twenty centuries of troubled times.
Four weeks in which to travel down
the weary corridors, two thousand years
of looking back and looking forward.
Four weeks for tramping the harsh pathways
of the shopping malls trying to buy the one gift
that has never been for sale.
Four weeks to light four candles
in the sanctuary of the heart, and then
a fifth one to illuminate the heart of God.
Four weeks for learning mystery, for turning
darkness toward light, for yearning, day
by day, toward that burning flame of welcome
that kindles there within the waiting manger.
Hanging The Greens
We bring the outside in
this chill and waning season,
cut boughs and branches,
strands of light and living green,
and deck them all about the walls
and ledges of our houses, make believe
we fashion an enchanted forest glade
to frame our festive celebrations.
Evergreens, we call them,
though they bleed and die so soon,
in over-heated rooms. Yet that dying
lends a fragrance and a grace, foretells,
if we will heed, another time and space,
where tree and thorns, no longer green,
fulfil their cruel, necessary function
in the ever-greening of our wintered race.
Watch For It
We need to be reminded
to look forward at least once a year.
So much we spend in peering back
across an urgent shoulder in these fearful times,
leery in case old you-know-who is gaining on us.
Therefore, just when calendars are growing
weary of themselves—the tattered, dog-eared,
tail-end of the year—we name it, Advent,
dig out five candles and the holly wreath,
and kindle hope again, with orisons, chants, hymns,
ringing words of ancient expectation.
In the midst of which, from time to time,
eternity—in ordinary flesh, and blood, and bone—
takes shape, dons time, draws near.
How Many Miles to Bethlehem? I
The Departure
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light;those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,on them has light shined
—Isaiah 9:2
And Mary said, “Behold I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.”
—Luke 1:38
It all brought back so many memories of departure. We were in Fenchurch Street Station, catching a train to take us out of London to stay with old friends in nearby Essex. We raced along the platform with our bags, clambered through the first available carriage door, stowed the luggage overhead, settled down, and opened the window just a crack. A few moments later, with the urgent slamming of the few doors remaining open and the shriek of the whistle from the guard, the train began to move, and we sank back into our seats with a sigh of relief and contentment. We were on our way—setting out.
It’s still a magical moment, even after the passing of many years, a moment calling forth memories of those enormous steam locomotives with their puffing, gasping, and hissing, their chugging, clashing and clanking, as they labored to get under way, memories of childhood journeys that were always, no matter the circumstances—and in wartime Britain there were some
