Circles
I don't know enough about how the weekly verses are chosen to understand why there are two gospels for today: the story of the birth of John the Baptist, and the story of Jesus' encounter with the thieves crucified on either side of him, one asking him to prove his supremacy, the other asking to be remembered at the time of the world's salvation. Perhaps it makes sense that on the Sunday before the start of Advent, we should encounter two gospels that reflect, in a way, the whole of Jesus' life, from his birth, foretold through the miraculous signs surrounding his cousin John's birth, to his crucifixion. The circle continues and returns to the image of rebirth in the Easter story, and each year, we live through that life over and over again through the church calendar.
I am focusing today on the image of circles. Sometimes, the circular nature of our lives remind us, again and again, of how we must learn and relearn the same lessons in new ways. Our country faces the same kind of lesson as we relive war after war, mistake after mistake. I'm thinking about the circular nature of a 20-year case of the LA 8, immigrants who were arrested in 1987 either for raising money for Palestinian relief organizations and spreading word of the plight of the Palestinian people or for terrorist activities, depending on who you believe. For twenty years, these men have waited for a final word on their fate, finally delivered this week--they are free to live in the U.S., free to become and remain citizens or at least to have permanent residency. Their case is full of circuitous outcomes, a continual return to core questions about freedom of speech, about what it means to be a resident of this country, of any place--questions that continue to be as central, if not more so, to the political reality of our country in 2007 as they were in 1987.
On a more macro level, I'm thinking of the brief residency of Jesus' life on earth, and of the all-too-brief lives of people I have loved, particularly at this time of year, when I remember Thanksgiving holidays of the past: my mother's last Thanksgiving in her bed in the office-turned-sick-room in our home, how my little cousin Alex, now an attorney, toddled to her bed and handed her a red balloon; earlier Thanksgivings during which my mother made her apple and pumpkin pies, which are still famous in Ikaria, where she taught her sisters-in-law about this American delicacy. I used her recipes on Thanksgiving day this year, remembered her as I worked the dough, poured in the fillings.
I'm thinking of my aunt Katina and my uncle Vangeli and all the others now gone who were once with us at the table. I'm remembering that Katina died suddenly around Thanksgiving, and we were so accustomed to her making the turkey that, on that Thanksgiving, no one knew for sure where she had ordered it, where to pick it up. For months afterwards her daughter found gifts tucked away for the upcoming Christmas holidays; she had to guess at the rightful recipients of each. Now, one of my youngest second cousins, Alex's sister Katie, named for my aunt Katina, is finishing high school, and recently I dreamed a Thanksgiving that never happened, a dinner in which she and her grandmother had the chance to laugh together as grown ups. My aunt's all-too-brief residency on the earth means that she is missed, that my cousin never knew her well--but also that she lives on in each of us, that we never take for granted her impact on our lives.
I am thinking also of my most recent Thanksgiving just a couple days ago, which included some 25 people from Korea and Germany and Eastern Europe, as well as from a multitude of U.S. states. Oh, what abundance, what generosity, what a feast! I feel lucky to have been part of it. My friends who hosted could have done it a different way, could have invited a small, exclusive group of people with whom they were particularly close, but they chose to open their home and table and lives more widely, ever more widely. This is all the more amazing considering that several people were last-minute adds to the guest list, and that my friend is pregnant with her fourth child.
There is a sense of that same kind of extravagant welcome in both gospels for today. When Gabriel visited Zechariah to tell him that he would soon be a father, he refused to believe his elderly wife Elizabeth could be pregnant. They were old; it simply couldn't be, even if an angel came to deliver the good news. From the day of the announcement until the day of John's birth, Zechariah was unable to speak. He regained his voice only after writing, "His name is John," when the religious leaders were questioning Elizabeth's choice of a name for her son. When his voice returns, the new (elderly) father sings a song that reflects not his personal joy, but the joy of his people--recounting the story of the Israelite's salvation from their enemies, and, in the end, placing his own son in the context of that story. He understood, as many elders do, the circular nature of a people's history, as well as the role we can each play in any story.
And in the story of the two thieves, Jesus says to the one seeking redemption--a man guilty of his crimes--"Today you shall be with me in paradise." I wonder about this man's life. We know only that he was a thief, but what did he do, and what political decisions were made along the way to land him on the cross, when Barabbas, another thief, was released on the same day? And what prompted the man to say to his counterpart, Don't speak to Jesus like that--he's not guilty, and we are. In the end, his life comes full circle, and he experiences Jesus' forgiveness in the last hours of his life. The voice is a powerful tool that can be used for ill or for harm, to witness love or to ridicule, to spread hate or exclusion. We have a choice of how to use ours, how to connect to the circle of our lives and the lives of those around us.
One year ago, I was really struggling with depression, barely making it through the day. This year I am feeling lucky and blessed and truly grateful--the gratitude is natural, not forced. I am reminded that very emotion and fear and struggle is impermanent. The abundance of the Thanksgiving table does not last. The grief and fear after a loss do not last, at least not in the way they existed in the moments in which they were felt most deeply. And yet all of our losses and joys come back, over and over, as we continue to experience the circularity of our lives.
But one thing is permanent, and that is love. There is always love in the world, love seeping into our lives from multiple directions, reaching as deeply and as widely as it can reach; we have only to let it in, let it in. It comes in different forms, but always love circles back into itself, the story, the feeling, the response familiar. We can choose to live in and through that love or outside of it; we can choose to stand in the center of the circle, arms open, accepting love, or to walk its curved path, giving love, or to live outside of it altogether. May we all find comfort in the center when we most need comfort and challenge in the path when we most need challenge. May we recognize love and redemption and hope for what they are.
I am focusing today on the image of circles. Sometimes, the circular nature of our lives remind us, again and again, of how we must learn and relearn the same lessons in new ways. Our country faces the same kind of lesson as we relive war after war, mistake after mistake. I'm thinking about the circular nature of a 20-year case of the LA 8, immigrants who were arrested in 1987 either for raising money for Palestinian relief organizations and spreading word of the plight of the Palestinian people or for terrorist activities, depending on who you believe. For twenty years, these men have waited for a final word on their fate, finally delivered this week--they are free to live in the U.S., free to become and remain citizens or at least to have permanent residency. Their case is full of circuitous outcomes, a continual return to core questions about freedom of speech, about what it means to be a resident of this country, of any place--questions that continue to be as central, if not more so, to the political reality of our country in 2007 as they were in 1987.
On a more macro level, I'm thinking of the brief residency of Jesus' life on earth, and of the all-too-brief lives of people I have loved, particularly at this time of year, when I remember Thanksgiving holidays of the past: my mother's last Thanksgiving in her bed in the office-turned-sick-room in our home, how my little cousin Alex, now an attorney, toddled to her bed and handed her a red balloon; earlier Thanksgivings during which my mother made her apple and pumpkin pies, which are still famous in Ikaria, where she taught her sisters-in-law about this American delicacy. I used her recipes on Thanksgiving day this year, remembered her as I worked the dough, poured in the fillings.
I'm thinking of my aunt Katina and my uncle Vangeli and all the others now gone who were once with us at the table. I'm remembering that Katina died suddenly around Thanksgiving, and we were so accustomed to her making the turkey that, on that Thanksgiving, no one knew for sure where she had ordered it, where to pick it up. For months afterwards her daughter found gifts tucked away for the upcoming Christmas holidays; she had to guess at the rightful recipients of each. Now, one of my youngest second cousins, Alex's sister Katie, named for my aunt Katina, is finishing high school, and recently I dreamed a Thanksgiving that never happened, a dinner in which she and her grandmother had the chance to laugh together as grown ups. My aunt's all-too-brief residency on the earth means that she is missed, that my cousin never knew her well--but also that she lives on in each of us, that we never take for granted her impact on our lives.
I am thinking also of my most recent Thanksgiving just a couple days ago, which included some 25 people from Korea and Germany and Eastern Europe, as well as from a multitude of U.S. states. Oh, what abundance, what generosity, what a feast! I feel lucky to have been part of it. My friends who hosted could have done it a different way, could have invited a small, exclusive group of people with whom they were particularly close, but they chose to open their home and table and lives more widely, ever more widely. This is all the more amazing considering that several people were last-minute adds to the guest list, and that my friend is pregnant with her fourth child.
There is a sense of that same kind of extravagant welcome in both gospels for today. When Gabriel visited Zechariah to tell him that he would soon be a father, he refused to believe his elderly wife Elizabeth could be pregnant. They were old; it simply couldn't be, even if an angel came to deliver the good news. From the day of the announcement until the day of John's birth, Zechariah was unable to speak. He regained his voice only after writing, "His name is John," when the religious leaders were questioning Elizabeth's choice of a name for her son. When his voice returns, the new (elderly) father sings a song that reflects not his personal joy, but the joy of his people--recounting the story of the Israelite's salvation from their enemies, and, in the end, placing his own son in the context of that story. He understood, as many elders do, the circular nature of a people's history, as well as the role we can each play in any story.
And in the story of the two thieves, Jesus says to the one seeking redemption--a man guilty of his crimes--"Today you shall be with me in paradise." I wonder about this man's life. We know only that he was a thief, but what did he do, and what political decisions were made along the way to land him on the cross, when Barabbas, another thief, was released on the same day? And what prompted the man to say to his counterpart, Don't speak to Jesus like that--he's not guilty, and we are. In the end, his life comes full circle, and he experiences Jesus' forgiveness in the last hours of his life. The voice is a powerful tool that can be used for ill or for harm, to witness love or to ridicule, to spread hate or exclusion. We have a choice of how to use ours, how to connect to the circle of our lives and the lives of those around us.
One year ago, I was really struggling with depression, barely making it through the day. This year I am feeling lucky and blessed and truly grateful--the gratitude is natural, not forced. I am reminded that very emotion and fear and struggle is impermanent. The abundance of the Thanksgiving table does not last. The grief and fear after a loss do not last, at least not in the way they existed in the moments in which they were felt most deeply. And yet all of our losses and joys come back, over and over, as we continue to experience the circularity of our lives.
But one thing is permanent, and that is love. There is always love in the world, love seeping into our lives from multiple directions, reaching as deeply and as widely as it can reach; we have only to let it in, let it in. It comes in different forms, but always love circles back into itself, the story, the feeling, the response familiar. We can choose to live in and through that love or outside of it; we can choose to stand in the center of the circle, arms open, accepting love, or to walk its curved path, giving love, or to live outside of it altogether. May we all find comfort in the center when we most need comfort and challenge in the path when we most need challenge. May we recognize love and redemption and hope for what they are.
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