and so it continued both day and night...

I thought Christmas THIS year would be different. So did everyone else. Our family has been fully vaccinated - and boostered - and I mean the whole extended family. We've continued to practice social distancing and masking-up indoors since the beginning of the pandemic. We avoid crowded public places, prefer the solitude, serenity, and silence of our home more than ever, and still trust that a vigorous hand-washing matters. And the plague roars on: it morphs, mutates, and amazes creation to such a degree that more than once I've found myself singing the closing line from verse two of The First Noel after taking-in the evening news: "... and so it continued both day and night." Truth be told, I don't often make it to the chorus some days - "Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel, born is the King of Israel" - that just seems a bit too inflated and premature, don't you think?

I understand that my disappointments are miniscule. I grasp that this is a time to try our souls as now we must live fully by faith and not by sight. I concur with President Biden that Christmas 2021 is vastly different from Spring 2020, but in so many ways it is still more "In the Bleak Midwinter" than "Joy to the World." The NY Times speaks about covid fatigue amongst the privileged - and that rings true.

When I am able to step back from my modest sorrow, however, I can see the sacred paradox albeit it is through a glass darkly. The wise, mystical musician from Manitoba, Alana Levandowski, put words to what I trust beyond the obvious when she wrote in her Sunday Song and Rumination post (You should really check it out @ https://www.alanalevandoski.com):

Our Mother, this planet, may be weary of the fissures we wrought upon her in our teenaged tantrum throwing. But she is not tilt-weary. Our Mother may be churning by the externalizations of our psyches, our inner worlds now neck-deep in artificial light… the digital wasteland… dreams that are supposed to illuminate a silvering path, better seen in a woodland, in the dark. She may be churning, but she holds the wooden spoon. And the truth of it is… we are unmoored in her cauldron. The holy Grail.

I do not foresee mayhem. Although mayhem there may be. I foresee an awakening … an organic bubbling of dreams, held in the womb openings of every person who dares to wax poetic, who will not walk bloodless, and with a bit of dirt under their fingernails. I foresee sacred, intentional, slow, movement. Pilgrimage. Seed protectors. Water protectors. Earth builders. Sequesters - roots of the plains. Tree lovers entwining their legs in a branched silence. I do not see a king’s puritanical salvation… but a manger filled with matter… life… flesh and bones humility. Mary the inexhaustible fountain. My spirit exalts.

This is what the wisdom-keepers I trust keep saying. Kaitlin Curtice, a Potawatomi woman writer from the USA, reminds us that this moment is an in-between time. As she muses upon the insights of her First Nations creation narrative (you can read this on line @ https://kaitlincurtice.substack.com/p/this-not-that or in her book, Native) she offers grounding for our anxiety writing:

This, not that.

This moment.

This variant.
This missed holiday.
This gathering.
This worry.

This extra zoom meeting.

Not that “normality”.
Not that holiday.
Not that beloved one.
Not that celebration.
Not that milestone.
Not that hug.

Not that moment on the airplane.

I know better than to say that we need that “return to normality” because we know that the status quo of “normal” often means that poor, immuno-compromised, disabled, and minority communities are most oppressed. It’s not a return to “normal” but a turn toward something else. But while we are waiting for that turn, we sit in the variant reality...we are ready to begin again. We want That, not This. But for now, This is what we’ve got. We’ve got a new variant to deal with. We’ve got less hugs and gatherings. We’ve got to protect one another. We’ve got the fear of the unknown. We’ve got the cold water on our legs and a floating log and the lack of imagination for what the world might look like again. But don’t lose heart. The story doesn’t end there. We may not have That yet, but while we’ve got This, don’t forget to ask who’s holding you here. As the new world is born, what dreams will come forth?

Diana Butler Bass brought a measure of solace and light, too by sharing a poem from the late Madeline L'Engle entitled, "The Risk of Birth."

This is no time for a child to be born,
With the earth betrayed by war & hate
And a comet slashing the sky to warn
That time runs out & the sun burns late.

That was no time for a child to be born,
In a land in the crushing grip of Rome;
Honor & truth were trampled to scorn—
Yet here did the Savior make His home.

When is the time for love to be born?
The inn is full on the planet earth,
And by a comet the sky is torn—
Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

This is our season for the wisdom of Mary to shine within our collective darkness. It is Mother Earth wisdom-time. Sacred feminine wisdom time where the poetry and rhythm, the songs and circle dances of the holy embrace our humanity with the promise of new life. Dr. Bass tells us birthing is messy. Having delivered both our daughters at home I know the fear and trembling of that sacrament.

Bodies are messy. Birth is messy. Unpredictable, dangerous even. You can pretty it up by talking about a virgin birth, thereby undermining both Mary’s sexuality and the real physical pain of bringing a baby into the world. But the truth of the matter is that Mary was a real woman, and Jesus a real baby who grew to be a real man; both were flesh and blood, both had real bodies. A woman’s body was torn open by a baby forcing its way into the world, a hungry, crying, and helpless infant body to feed, wash, and warm. Eventually, the mystery of God’s glory runs smack into the muck of human bodies; the divine Word became flesh from the same dust and spittle that made us all. Mary’s body brought forth the tiny body of God; her water breaking and the bloody birth made possible the water and blood of the cross some thirty years later. “To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” We emphasize “Savior,” “Messiah,” and “Lord,” but forget the most amazing word in the angelic proclamation: “born.”

This year, unlike the last, we will be with family again. We won't yet be able to be in public worship; that must wait for another time. Nevertheless, we will be together: safely and gratefully. Rejoicing. Renewing. Returning thanks with feasting and song. And periodic quick covid tests, too. As my friends from the Jewish tribe tell me, "dayenu" means that would be enough to return thanks to the Creator. And indeed it will. We are nearly packed now. Moving slowly but intentionally. We'll be in the city by early evening ready to settle in to a new way of doing Christmas together. We will be there for THIS feast, not those others, and that will be holy ground.