living into solidarity...

It was snowing lightly for a moment this morning, all but gone now in

anticipation of returning another day, but still lovely. The weather guy - or "snow" man at the Greylock Snow Day blog site - says that the glorious white blanket that currently graces our hills will vanish by Christmas Day as rain and above average temperatures "do major damage to our snow base." He laments this - as do I. Once upon a time, I hated the stuff. But, as time has passed and I relinquish a measure of my prissy demeanor, we've become friends. I love the way Lucie frolics in the frost like a pup despite her arthritis. And I have discovered the sacred silence of the air as snow falls and muffles all earthly distractions except the stillness for a spell. The Belfast poet, Louis MacNiece, hints at these layered truths in his composition called simply: "Snow."

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes—
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands—
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

From our secluded solitude surrounded as we are by snow, trees, and wetlands, it is hard to grasp the horror that so much of the rest of the world is experiencing. Author and historian, Diana Butler Bass, recently wrote that as she and her family were watching the TV news headlines, her college-age daughter gasped: "We are in hell. We are in freaking hell." She adds:

When the medieval church assigned “Hell” to the Fourth Sunday of Advent, I’m certain they wanted to scare people about their eternal state — to straighten up and get right with God to prepare for Jesus’ coming. I’m equally certain that those preachers weren’t thinking about the hell that we humans make right here on earth. But we’ve got a whole lot of hell this year. Right here. And people are scared about what is going on in the world.

There is every good and bad reason to be scared about what is going on right now - and hell is a fitting description. It feels disorienting and surreal to affirm this pain from where I sit in silent isolation, but hell is precisely true - even necessary. Editor, David Leonhardt, put it like this in today's New York Times newsletter: "For many Americans, the coronavirus recession has done almost no damage to their finances."

They still have their jobs, and their expenses have gone down while they've been stuck mostly at home. Their homes have not lost value, unlike the financial crisis of 2007-9. If they are fortunate enough to own stocks, their portfolio is probably worth more than a year ago. Of course, millions of other Americans are struggling mightily. Nine million fewer people are employed than a year ago. Others are coping with big medical bills. Many small businesses have closed or may soon. And state and local governments are planning deep cuts.

Talk about parallel universes! The gap between we-of-privileged solitude and they

-of-economic-vulnerability is every bit as massive and incomprehensible as that between fanatics consumed by delusional conspiracy fantasies within the Trump regime and the rest of us. Such separation breeds fear, and fear too easily morphs into hatred and violence towards all that we don't understand. Or know. Or even see. Dr. Bass puts this contrast into a context for those of us exploring an Advent spirituality: "The horrible headlines (of our day) have me reflecting on these verses, familiar words for many, from Luke 2:"

"But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for see — I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying: ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace, goodwill among people!" It is a beautiful vision — the angels, the heavens singing. No matter the angelic announcement, however, the world was still in the shadow of sin. Jesus was born. But Caesar was on the throne. The Messiah had come. But Israel was occupied, a client state of Rome. Peace and goodwill were proclaimed. Yet violence remained the power of empire. Peace! Hark! Peace - and yet no peace.

The band U2 crafted a song in the wake of an IRA bombing in Omagh in 1998 that captures the anguish of our social chasms. They link our "hell" to the dreams we celebrate during Advent/ Christmas. I consider it one of their finest compositions. When they shared it after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, it took on added significance - one that warrants our renewed interest and attention.

Bass, U2, and many people of goodwill can't help but wonder right now how we might reach across the divide of hell to live into solidarity with sisters and brothers who are our walking wounded. The way of Jesus was never meant to be an other-wordly, inner peace only faith. Not for a Messiah we claim to be the essence of God's word made flesh. My hunch - and experience - suggests that one ingredient must be lament. Tears can be God's presence breaking our hearts open. We do not need more abstractions, theories, or feelings of debilitating fear. This is time for a love that is greater than despair. And if we don't grieve deeply now, when we have the time and space to weep and own this horror, it is unlikely it will happen after our vaccinations. I quoted Fr. Henri Nouwen earlier this week when he clarified what it means to live through despair into joy:

Joyful persons see with open eyes the hard reality of human existence and at the same time are not imprisoned by it. They have no illusion about the evil powers that roam around, “looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8), but they also know that death has no final power. They suffer with those who suffer, yet they do not hold on to suffering; they point beyond it to an everlasting peace.

Increasingly, I have come to trust that incarnation - magnifying the Lord like Mary or making the ideas of the holy part of our fleshy habits - requires Fr. Henri's insights to be embraced by the poetry of Lucille Clifton. Together they express an embodied grief in love that breaks our hearts. As we feel connected to all of life - the beautiful as well as the broken - then we can choose what small ways we can nourish and strengthen it. As our spiritual cousin in Judaism often say: "L'chaim! Here's to LIFE!"

people who are going to be
in a few years
bottoms of trees
bear a responsibility to something
besides people
          if it was only
you and me
sharing the consequences
it would be different
it would be just
generations of men
          but
this business of war
these war kinds of things
are erasing those natural
obedient generations
who ignored pride
          stood on no hind legs
          begged no water
          stole no bread
did their own things

and the generations of rice
of coal
of grasshoppers

by their invisibility
denounce us

(generations by Lucille Clifton)