In the black
darkness
little fists of light,
glimmering, moving.
They will become
stars, hands, arms,
a choir swooping around us.

In the black
mystery
a spirit, a moving,
a pouring out.
It will rain upon us,
sweep us like wind,
to comfort those who mourn,
to brace the oppressed,
to build up ruins,
to make ruins worthy
of the One who will re-
work the black stones.

In the black
days
the messiah
enters the world
from beneath
the black streets.
He knows what he’s
getting into.

In the black
people singing,
a tear,
a cry of hope.
It will become us.

In the black
history of us,
the ruined cities,
little palms of light,
people
huddling,
singing,
looking ahead.
They know what’s
getting into us.

December 12, 2014

Dearly Beloved,
Grace and Peace to you.                                    

Advent takes on a different feel from the rest of the year: we hang lights, put up decorations, sing about peace and joy. But there always seem to be these dark intrusions into our Christmas preparations: untimely deaths, December tragedies, school shootings, protests over racial injustice, end of the year layoffs…. How unfortunate, we say, that these agonies come right at Christmas time.

But this is the true setting of Christmas. It is into this darkness that God comes to be with us, into our suffering and struggles, into our brokenness and sin, into our loneliness, into our injustice and even into our distracted shallowness and complacency. Christ chooses to be among us not in the grandeur of the temple but in the rough stable of our real lives. The words of the psalms and the prophets that lead us toward Christmas are not happy congratulations, but the lament of the poor, the longing for redemption. The cry of the oppressed, the song of the widow, the silence of the people searching for the way, this is the song of Advent. This is the world that God enters into to accompany, to bless, to heal, to change. The tragedies we lament don’t intrude on Christmas: it is Christmas that intrudes on the ways of the world.

Advent is when we lift up our heads in the hospital waiting room and the empty bed, in the tear-gassed streets and embattled towns, in the Ebola wards and refugee camps, in the dark kitchens and the breadlines— and rejoice: it is into this darkness that the Holy One comes to walk with us, into this sorrow, this difficulty, this hope. Here, now, for these people, O come, O come, Emmanuel.

          Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve

December 11, 2014

I am not the light.
I have come to bear witness to the light.
The true light that enlightens everyone
is coming into the world.

The light was in the beginning,
in me.
It grows;
it comes into the world.

May all that I do
bear witness to the light
that is you,
the light that is in me.

I am your witness,
your word,
your light.

Your light.

[John 1.8]

December 10, 2014

Spirit of the Mighty, Gentle One,
come upon me, anoint me.
I see the oppressed.
         I name them; I hold them close.

         Make my life into good news for them.
 

I see the brokenhearted.
         I name them; I hold them close.

         Give me gentle grace to bind up their hearts.

I see the imprisoned.
         I name them; I hold them close.

         Give me true words and deeds to release them.

I see the ruined cities.
         I name them; I hold them close.

         Make me a part of their building up.

Spirit of God, be upon me.
I see my own ruins, my chains.
         Hold me close
         and set me free, that I may be
         your good news for others.

December 9, 2014

No one in this story
knows where they re going,
only that they are.

Mary and Joseph walk to Bethlehem
without a place to arrive.
This was the easy part. They will go on,
vagrant, to Egypt,
a dream for directions,
dragging the wind behind them,
         erasing their footsteps.

Shepherds hear angels
and seek wonders—
how many little courtyards, do you suppose?—
looking for a baby
with nothing to go on
but a song,
         a map without lines.

Magi trek for years.
When did they decide not to turn back?
There is no destination,
there is no way,
only a star
         among stars.

You, trudging on toward meaning,
wandering among shadows,
your heart a globe,
map of voices,
the path becoming a path
         only behind you:

imagine the Coming One,
walking out of the light
toward earth,
its dark tangle of mysteries,
knowing nothing to come,
only the Promise,
only the nearing,
         only you.

December 6, 2016

          A voice says, “Cry out!”
                  And I said, “What shall I cry?”
                           —Isaiah 40.6

Anything.

Deepest hope,
favorite song,
moan of secret grief.

Glottal stop of Ferguson,
strangled cry of Syria,

rage of Palestine, the border fence.

Rising tremolo,
beyond sad or glad,
of slaves already singing.

In your throat, your gut,
little pieces, syllables,
one or two, of alleluia.

Let the cry out of its cage,
your silence roar,
what was muffled, speak:

oceans beneath your voice,
tongues beneath your tongue,
ages longing to be heard,

while grasses fade,
and our horrors pass,
that voice that was always here,

always crying out,
voicing through closed throats,
opening the way.

December 5, 2014

         John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness,
         proclaiming a baptism of repentance
         for the forgiveness of sins.
                  —Mark 1.4

You don’t have to construct a perfect life.
God already has.
You are Mary, great with yourself,
gift of God, conceived by the Holy Spirit.
God is doing this in you,
becoming,
already perfectly forgiving.
Let this wonder unfold within you.
How will you live, knowing you are chosen
to bear the divine presence into the world?

Love that child,
care for yourself as if her life depends on it,
prepare for his coming.
Like a room you fearlessly remodel
and decorate with long, tiring effort,
you make of your life a new place
for holiness to be born
in you.

Let the Coming One
grow in you.

December 4, 2014

         Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God.
                  Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
         and cry to her that she has served her term,
                  that her penalty is paid,
         that she has received from the Lord’s hand
                  double for all her sins.
         A voice cries out:
         “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
                  make straight in the desert a highway for our God.”
                           —Isaiah 40.1-3

The promise of God comes to exiles and refugees:
from regimes that haunt you, whatever walls you in

or out, from gangs patrolling your heart,
you shall be released.

Through the impassable you are given a way
to a place of belonging.

Your passage to freedom has been prepared.
The Companion is ready now.

A tender hand reaches out to you
to accompany you on the way toward wholeness,

through the desert, the wild places,
through strange and difficult places,

a wilderness way across borders, under fences.
The path of healing is also the path of pain.

The journey will be dangerous, on the run.
You will depend on strangers. Carry water.

Share mercy with the others on the secret road
through the desert. You will find sanctuary.

Sister, listen to the gentle Word: O comfort…
Take the hand, and begin.

December 3, 2014

      
         

                 
Prepare your way in me, Lord,
         prepare your way in me, my Lord.

Make my rough places smooth,
         the crooked make straight, my Lord.

Lay your hand at my root,
         that I may bear fruit, my Lord.

Come and empty my heart
         of all things but you, my Lord.

Guide my feet in your way,
         fill me with your peace, my Lord.         
                 
Prepare your way in me, Lord,
         prepare your way in me, my Lord.

         
[This is available set to music.]

         
Deep Blessings,
Pastor Steve

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net

To receive Unfolding Light as a daily e-mail,
write to me at unfoldinglight3(at)hotmail.com

Down the last long nights
toward the winter solstice
a way opens through the dark,
lit by longing that gleams,
a path that is hope for a path.

This wound is not a flaw, but gift:
my hunger not for morning,
not again, but at last,
a changed Creation,
a being only hinted at.

In the dense solitude
that heals its arms around me
I am not alone.
The Mystery draws me closer,
pulls me forward.

O Darkness,
how could you want me so?
O Silence, how can you
enfold me, consume me
with such tender delight?

O Longing, by what grace
are you my light in this world,
by what grace am I yours,
this silence in me another’s voice?

O Hope,
dawn rising in me,
how is it you shine brighter
the deeper my yearning,
my tears like stars in the night?
How is it my merest prayers
near despair
are your birth?

Dec. 1, 2014