Inside or Out?

For the first time in all my years studying for Christmas sermons, I ran across something I had never heard before. A professor of Greek , a subject I never studied officially in seminary, asserted in a notation that I can no longer find that the word that we have used to indicate that Mary and Joseph were turned out into the cold by the much maligned innkeeper may not have been exactly correct. This guy from a renown seminary, which I can't claim to recall, said that the word we have translated as stable or barn or basically not in the house is in a word- wrong. This guy, who we will call Achilles, just because it's the only Greek name I can think of and I like it better than "this guy"- well, Achilles, the professor of Greek said that the word that was used to indicate that there was no room in the inn really meant that there was not the best room in the inn available at the time.

I had never heard this before- that perhaps "Away In A Manger" should have been "Away on the Roll Away." Maybe this is de rigeur in seminary and a part of contemporary understandings of scripture, and frankly I'm not certain it makes a difference to my faith or my understandings of the birth of the Messiah and the difficulties of the Holy Family. Still the understandings that all of christendom share about the birth of the Christ child involves shivering in the cold. Even though scholars have argued for centuries about the timing of the birth of the child, it couldn't be in the winter because lambs are born in the spring. It couldn't be in the reign of Quirinius because a census wasn't taken until 8 A.D. According to the scholars, the time has never been right for the Messiah to be born. All of those points of debate have kind of rolled off of me, so perhaps I've forgotten all of Achilles' information on purpose because something about Jesus not getting the best bedroom seems so flippant, so diffident, so... so... Arghhhhh!

A couple of years ago, I was reading through the Advent and Christmas scriptures and was suddenly struck by the question- "Who delivered the Christ Child?" If the point of a real incarnation, flesh and blood, tooth and toenail type of Messiah, flesh and blood and yet divine, incarnation- carne- meat/flesh, then who was the midwife? The scriptures seemed to say that Joseph and Mary had been turned away from the house, but a place had been made for them in the barn. If they were out there in the hay, then who helped Mary give birth? Joseph, a Hebrew man, someone well-acquainted with the holiness codes in Leviticus? How does a man who acts as a midwife seek ablution from the priests in the temple? Or by that point when you have left Bethlehem for Egypt, do you just disregard the holiness codes and come home, raise your son, wait and watch for more angel messages?

Achilles may totally wreck some of our favorite carols, but he may give Joseph some much needed help. If Mary and Joseph were merely shuttled to the smallest bedroom, then there were almost certainly some women in the house who could help Mary up onto the bricks to deliver her firstborn, while Joseph waited with the other men. Undoubtedly, each could receive his or her own comfort by those more experienced in the delivery of children. Surely an innkeeper would have a wife to help either with the midwifery or with going to fetch a midwife, which come to think of she might have been able to do even if the Holy Family were back outside in the stable. However, there's something so lonesome-sounding to the thought of two young people out in the dark that authors over the course of centuries have remembered them solitary, without benefit of midwife save for cattle looking on encouragingly.

There is something equally disquieting about considering anything about the tiny savior's birth other than the weather and the barnyard acquaintances. Artist's renderings of the crucifixion almost all reveal a belly button, so something happened between mother and child besides tender murmurings, but a certain squeamishness sets in with much more consideration, which is why I have had a great deal of respect for Joseph.Here's a guy who takes a woman with an ever expanding waistline for his betrothed and refuses to call her out, but tries to deal with "the situation" quietly. To his amazement, I imagine, he is assured by an angel that she is still a good catch, and when they are called to go and pay their taxes he becomes a midwife. Until I read Achilles... now he may be in the living room with the rest of the fathers. Don't get me wrong; I guess I'm glad that Jesus might have been born inside, but then again.... maybe not. "The First Noel" is my favorite Christmas carol, but I like "Away in a Manger. I don't know how I feel about "Away in a Back Bedroom."

So, I've been sick...again...

But I'm back... If parts of you don't look like you've been attacked by a fryolator, then you're not as sick as I am. So there... But I'm back and on the up side and a sure sign that Christmas is coming- my living room looks like amazon.com exploded.

That part of the Grinch (The Green Guy Who Is Becoming My Hero!)when it talks about tumtuzzlers and barfloofles. You know... well all of that stuff is stacked eight feet deep in front of my bedroom door. To make matters worse, Li'l Darlin' says we can't go to bed until everything is wrapped. What was I thinking, when I ordered that third tumtuzzler? God help me... Plus, I have to write worship. Did I mention it will be Christmas Eve in a couple of hours?

Every year about this time, preachers, liturgists, and those who only hope to speak a good word for the Holy Family- something other than your usual call from the tee box- Jesus, Mary and Joseph. We know that it is our only shot at some folks annually. Well, there might be a second shot at Easter, but that could hinge on how well tomorrow goes. Throw in a couple of trips to both grocery store and airport and well- that's it. If I'm not careful, I could sign up for something from a telemarketer- just for the chance to sit down and take a survey.

Ohm gotta go, Li'l Darlin says there must be more candy made before the congregation gets here tomorrow. Did I forget to mention that? Yeah, in a fit of insanity I decided that we should have worship at my house. I've been sick- like I said, but if I don't start wrapping, making candy or writing something about the story of baby Jesus- my name is well- not Gloria Excelcis for sure!

Grandmother in any other language

I don't know about where you come from, but around here if you are fortunate enough to have a grandbaby, then you will have some sort of moniker to go with the precious bundle. When my daughter was born, my mother told me that she wanted to be called Gami. This statement was made while I was still peering at a black and white blurry image of my darling and trying to imagine that somewhere in my ever-expanding waistline a tiny human being was manifesting herself. Gami, huh? Yes, and Poppy she added for this tiny lima bean sized being to call my stepfather. Okay, sure. I guess somewhere people call grandparents "Grandmother and Grandfather," but not here.

Over the weekend, my Beloved informed me that we had been invited to a distantly related cousin to see her new baby, and we would be leaving late on Sunday afternoon. That's fine. We arrive in an area of our community where decorating your house for Christmas has the competitive feel of reality television. Although it is dark as - well, night- headlights are not necessary because Santas, snowmen, reindeer, chimneys, and one random dreidel light our way to this cousin's home. The two-year old big brother of this brand new baby opens the door, then runs away screaming, "Gigi, GIGI!" Suddenly, a long-lost cousin that I believe I have met at a funeral before pokes her head around the doorframe. With jerky flipping of her wrist, she motions for us to follow her inside. A tiny baby girl is sleeping on one of her shoulders, while on the other a cell phone is perched under her chin.

She is bending down to the shouting child and yell whispering, "Ty, Gigi is talking to Mumu!" Somewhere inside my soul a mental reckoning that in other parts of the country and probably in other parts of the world, other people did not say things like what I had just heard. Gigi is talking to Mumu. It could just as easiliy have been- Memaw is talking to Nini or Mimi is talking to Nanie or Mams is talking to MawMaw. I just know that Queen Elizabeth probably didn't have to whisper to the young princes, "William, ssshhh, NayNay is talking to Mumsy." You just know that didn't happen. The rest of our visit was pretty much uneventful. The baby was beautiful. her big brother is brilliant. Their home is lovely, etc... Nothing struck me quite like Gigi is talking to Mumu, which translates to your grandmother is talking t oyour great-grandmother.

I am blessed in any number of ways, not the least of which is that I am 45 years old and both of my grandmothers are still alive. My maternal grandmother is 85-years-old and my paternal grandmother is 93. We just celebrated her birthday on Pearl Harbor Day. She was in her late twenties when the Hawaiian Islands were attacked and when she remembers that day she says that she was cutting out pictures from magazines to make Christmas cards with when the news began to come on over the radio. She ran down to her mother's home to listen with family to this dreadful news. The next day, my grandfather went to enlist, but he was a bus driver, which wasconsidered an essential position. So... much to my grandmother's relief, he was rejected and told to stay home to continue to drive.

My maternal grandmother is 85. After a somewhat frustrating shopping experience at the mall, I introduced her to the joys of internet shopping. She is completely converted to this new delight. Together, we finished all of her Christmas shopping in a two day visit in front of my computer screen. For the first time in the last few years she is totally satisfied with the gifts she is giving. How could I not love someone so easily pleased?

As you can see I am destined to live a really long time, and probably have a spine the shape of a shepherd's crook. Perhaps, I will be a Nini or a Memaw or whatever. All I know is I am 45 years old and I have a Mimi and a Grandmommy and I don't care who hears me say it. they are adorable and I am just about the luckiest person I know because of them, and because of the children that made them great grandmothers.

Peace, Be still!

Peace, be still! I realize that this is a two part instruction. Sadly, I can only do one at a time, and frankly I am a little overwhelmed that they come as a package deal. Sort of like when angels appear throughout scripture, and the first thing they must say is "Don't be afraid." I can't help but think that some days they might have just wanted to get on with it. Yes, God's love for humanity is large, beautiful, and probably really shiny. Pull yourself together. Undoubtedly, angels enjoy talking with one another, so that such a preliminary admonishment isn't necessary.

But back to peace and be still. Okay, I don't know which one is harder- the peace part or the be still part. Now, as for the peace part. Peace is a real problem. My darlin has been known to comment that I almost always have the TV on. This is an absolute bald-faced exaggeration. I do usually have the TV on, but I'm not watching it. This may sound crazy, but I have to have something to ignore. My children both read, do their homework, and work on the computer with the TV running incessantly. The television is like the wallpaper noise of our house. So yeah, peace is like a river or a fountain or like something that I have a real problem finding.

Be still is worse. Over the past two months, while I have been convalescing (that doesn't look like it is spelled right?!) being still has been mandatory, but that just means that my mind would fly around like BBs in a Japanese Pachenko machine. 'Cause I still think that God doesn't exactly care that your body is still. The rest of the story is be still and know that I am God.

All my life I have known that there is a God. For those who search and wonder, I pray, but for me- I know that I am not alone on this journey. For this moment, while wounds heal and angels prepare to hide some of their magnificence and costumes for the Christmas pageant are found and fluffed, I am challenged. Peace, be still. Both together. Perhaps, I will learn to let the whisperings of a still small voice be the music of my day.

Surely this time away from people, away from work isn't merely an interruption, but a kind of death. To merely start the same craziness- two jobs, constantly running to meetings, visits, meals in a drive-thru, and love as a promise not an action, would be to miss the monumental pain of this time. This time has hurt- pain and loneliness and fear. Listen, listen, listen...God is calling me to something new.

So now what...

I have been cleared to go back to work, but not until January. Those who believe they would love to be off work to watch TV, read books, and just basically running errands, living on controlled substances and making literally zillions of trips to the pharmacy. It sounds like something you'd like to try, but I must be doing it wrong.

I continue to worry about whether or not my paperwork for Sick Bank Leave is in and whether or not it will be approved. I think I might have left my office door unlocked. It's entirely possible that I will have forgotten to fill out the forms for the Recycling Team Awards. Apart from that, I left work running with the sheer volume of pain that keeps your legs moving, your mind running, and your heart racing.

I haven't been off long enoug to start jonesing for The Real Housewives of Wherever or any of the soaps. Once you have seen Susan Lucci on Dancing With the Stars, it's like the CryptKeeper meets the Fred Murray Dancers. Then there's Top Chef-ahh if there's anything that makes the day worth getting out of bed. Long dramatic sweeps of sometimes elegaic, sometimes pitiful. How will I go back to work? How will I let this wound heal. How will I be able to face elementary school yayhoos, who can neither add, subtract, multiply or understand that the sun is not a planet? How will I be able to face them knowing that the teasers, even though they are from seasons past, show Padma wincing- she is such an ice queen, and Big Bear Kolicchio shaking his head. How can I work? Could we make it on one salary? How many times could I watch it before my brain would be as loose as duck eggs? What could we do without? Hmmm... not electricity, probably not water, I guess I'll need to give up drugs... Hmmm...

The advent of Advent

So now it's Advent. The voice of one crying in the wilderness for repentance rings ever so faintly- perhaps dimly in memory. Poor people shuffle around, as poor people are wont to do. Trying to establish permanence is the business of those who have a little bit more. I work on the side of town where children are shuffled in and out of school, so often that though I have never seen statistics, I would guess they miss a full year by the time they hit secondary school.

"Repent!" I also hear another word on the news for the first time in my medium sized memory- recession. It seems there will be more of us among the poor, more of us beloved of God, more of us with fewer choices, more of us taking shallow breaths and glancing at our neighbors as though they were our enemies. We are a little more afraid. The seeds planted by the Baby boomers have sprouted. They are gnarled vines with twining branches of debt and short-sightedness.

So I ask myself, "What do I hear God saying?" The answer- I am sorry to say- is not much. It is after all Advent, the season of preparation, a time of getting ready. While I wait, I wonder, "Will my children suffer?" You see, it is one thing to eat locusts and honey and be called crazy. It is something else entirely, when your children suffer. I have learned something in all my wanderings. You have to know who you are because people will call you everything in the world. I have been called everything from wicked to wise, so I must know who I am while I wait for the voice of God.