Who belongs?

And as [Jesus] reclined at table in his house, many tax collectors and sinners were reclining with Jesus and his disciples, for there were many who followed him. And the scribes of the Pharisees, when they saw that he was eating with sinners and tax collectors, said to his disciples, “Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners?” (Mark 2:15-16)

I heard it long ago and many times since: ‘If you draw a circle to define who’s in and who’s out, be assured Jesus is on the outside looking back at you.’

It’s a cliché, a bit tired. But perhaps it fits today amid the brutal question roiling the soul of America: Who belongs? How big should the circle be? Differences of opinion are currently being played out on the streets of Minneapolis.

Christians have a dog in this fight. At the heart of a truly Christian consciousness, lies the love of Christ, who is constantly seeking to restore human community to a fullness of love and belonging, where graces are shared and every human soul knows its worth.

There is something in the Christian heart that hates walls that divide, a desire to welcome every willing soul into the respect and warmth of human community.

It is well accepted that nations need borders, and no nation can or should be expected to accommodate all who want to enter. But the faith of the church leans toward welcome, toward mercy, toward compassion, shaped as it is by Jesus, who so regularly stood outside circles of exclusion, erasing lines of division drawn by the privileged, the fearful and the self-righteous.

There’s nothing more telling in this regard than Jesus’ meal practice. Take the quote above.

Most translations have Jesus sitting at table with a group of outcasts and social disasters whose behavior has placed them well outside community acceptability. But he doesn’t sit. He reclines, along with everyone else enjoying the meal.

Lying on his left elbow, the typical practice of his time and place, he reaches with his right arm for bits of food or to take a cup. The picture is one of relaxation, familiarity, comfort, ease, savoring the pleasure of food, drink and human presence with people who were regularly reminded they didn’t belong, except here, with Jesus.

It is impossible to think of this without imagining a smile of satisfaction tugging at the corners of his mouth. Lord knows, I feel his joy as I imagine him there, creating his own circle of acceptance into which his critics would have been welcome had they been willing.

This after all was his purpose, to regather and restore the people of Israel to their true spiritual vocation of being ‘a light to the nations,’ where the Lord ‘will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines’—the fullness of human existence, as the prophet Isaiah proclaimed.

Something of this hope and vocation, ‘a light to the nations,’ is deeply embedded not only in the hearts of those who cherish the boundary-breaking joy of Jesus’ witness, but also in the American dream of many peoples becoming one for the good of all.

This dream and vocation are daily attacked on the streets of our nation by those who draw narrow, exclusive circles because they have replaced the vision of America with arrogant delusions of their superiority.

Even more troubling, many American Christians have lost or never knew and felt the gracious vision of Jesus reclining with his excluded friends. Seduced by the rhetoric of fear and falsehood, they fail to know the joyful mission to which they are called. But Jesus doesn’t forget. He is still there, inviting all of us to come home and share the feast of welcome.

Perhaps this is why I cherish the demonstrations of Christians singing in the streets of Minneapolis, so much more than the bitter vitriol (however understandable) that merely mimics the brutality of ICE. The singers seem to know Jesus.

David L. Miller

Staying human amid the mess

 

Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls (Matthew 11:29)

We took the Christmas tree down today. The tree is artificial; the emotions were not.

The process follows a decades-old pattern. I remove the ornaments and give them to Dixie, who packs them away until next year when we will bring them out of storage and tell stories about where this one or that came from, or who gave it to us, and how it is connected to the life of our family.

Dixie is better at remembering these stories. She was paying closer attention to what most matters through the years, so she reminds me as we put away the tatted angels and glistening stars, olive wood mangers and the artisan acorn our daughter, Rachel, reclaimed from my mother’s house after she absconded with it.

‘I suppose this is silly,’ Dixie says, as she slips ornaments into protective boxes and bags they don’t necessarily require.

‘No, it’s not,’ I reply without thinking. ‘Its gentle and respectful and reverent,’ which is what I see as I watch her eyes and hands guide each item into its bag or tiny box until it is safely ensconced, her pulling a draw string or sealing the top of a Glad bag, ensuring it is safely home.  

Gentle, respectful and reverent, the words came without prior consideration. They crossed my lips before I knew what I was saying, which doesn’t make them less true, only more so. The words are, in fact, a prayer of my sad and troubled heart. In this case, they are an answered prayer, for which I am doubly thankful.

My mind and heart have been absorbed in the news where gentleness, respect and reverence were killed once again, this time by a bullet piercing the head of a Minneapolis mother and wounding the hearts of all who still believe every human being is a precious and irreplaceable image of the God who is Love.

Unfortunately, the federal government of our nation is now led by men and women who lack this reverence for life, regardless of what pieties they may spout. Their hearts are wed to power without principle, and their words demonize, their actions brutalize, any who get in their way.

A woman is shot, and they immediately blame her, undisturbed by the agent who called her a ‘fucking bitch’ as he holstered his gun and just … walked away … after killing her, his words and actions an apt metaphor for the dark heart of the Trump administration—if not also for the loss of transcendent values at the heart of post-modern secularity.

It is hard, no, impossible, for me to navigate the vertiginous distance between the nihilistic barbarity of our times and the preciousness of life I felt as Dixie and I carefully stored Christmas away until the happy day, we, God willing, do it all again.

What happened in our living room seems insignificant amid the fury of recent events. But I know it is one more thing that keeps me human. It softens my heart, eases my sadness and protects me from the rage that swells within at the malignant malevolence of ICE, which, unchecked, would make me a mirror image of that which I hate.

Holding the image of those hands slipping ornaments safely away, my heart is healed by the gentleness, respect and reverence that is the heart of my Lord in the heart of my beloved.

David L. Miller

Becoming Simeon

Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, ‘Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation. (Luke 2:27-30)

Stories rise and fall in memories’ store. Floating beneath the horizon of consciousness, they wait their time, suddenly appearing in vivid contour when touched by other tales, to show us who we are and what we need.

In ancient story, an old man wanders into the temple as he has for years, there to pray and watch and wait, biding time, hoping to touch the meaning of all time. Enter a couple with an infant, coming to pray and make an offering for the gift of the child.

And he knows. I don’t know how. But he knows the mysterious way the heart knows love and beauty and kindness and other things that most matter. This is the one, his old heart says. This is the child, the light God promised he’d see before death closed his eyes.

Taking the child in his arms, he raises his tired eyes to heaven to pray his thanks, and suddenly I don’t see an old man in an ancient land. I see Bob, an old man who lived down the street when I was a boy.

He stands there, holding the child. But I know the child he is holding is me, the way he held my life with gentleness when I was 10 or 11, taking me fishing in his old green Studebaker, showing me how to dig potatoes and pick beans in his garden, letting me come along as he walked to St. Anne’s down the street to caulk a worn window, repair a door hinge or do whatever the priest needed.

I was there, my heart held, though I knew it not, at least not as now.

Now, I see. Bob was Simeon, holding the life of Christ yet sleeping within the hidden depths of my boyhood, waiting to be awakened to unveil the beauty within that we each bear … and each are.

Today, I am about as old as Bob was then, and I want to be Simeon, too, filled with gratitude and praise and wonder for the lives my heart and hands have been privileged to hold.

I can see the whole of life, all that I am, all that I see and do through Simeon’s eyes and with his heart. Like him, I am called to hold the mystery of the Christ-life hidden in the hearts of every face I meet. The beauty of Christ lies asleep in the hearts of many, waiting to be warmed and awakened by whatever love and kindness I have to share, that the Lord’s beauty may be known in human flesh once more.

Being Simeon is a whole way of life; a gracious way filled with gratitude for the privilege of holding the beauty of Christ, not only within ourselves, but in our care for the Christ-life hidden in the hearts of every human soul we shall ever know, see or touch.

In the communion of Saints, as we dwell in union with those who have gone before us, I hope Bob can hear the thanks of my heart for being Simeon for me, one of several. But then, as I hold the precious lives of those most dear, I realize, no thanks are needed.

David L. Miller

 

A letter to my grandson, first draft

‘This is one of those apposite, beautiful … and precious and very great promises given to us … that we are to become participants in the divine nature … not only loved by God through Christ, and have his favor and grace … but also to have Him, the Lord Himself, dwelling in us in his fullness …  also to enjoy this love.‘ (Martin Luther, 1544)

I wonder if you remember, Ethan. You turned and asked me a question as you descended the stairs at the end of our Christmas celebration.

‘Why do you do it?’ you asked, about my online teaching and retreat work, knowing it is not necessary for me to work in retirement.

My answer was quick and satirical. “Not for the princely sum I’m paid,’ I quipped.

I have regretted those words ever since. They haunt me because you deserve a better, truer answer, and my heart will not let me rest until I try to tell you what’s in my heart.

My words won’t be half good enough to tell you what I know and feel. I’ll likely think of better words five minutes after I send this. But … here goes.

The real answer to your question is that I’d do what I do for nothing. But that is not true either. I am paid extraordinarily well.

I do it because I must, something within me will not allow me to stop naming the Love who lives at the depth of my soul, a Love who exceeds my ability to name or describe.

It doesn’t happen all the time, but often enough, when I teach or guide the prayer and meditation of others, my heart fills with an unimaginable joy and mercy that brings tears to my eyes.

A current of love springs up from a place in my soul I do not control and cannot command. All I can do is consent to its flow and share the blessing, passing on what I know and feel is true.

I know this love not because someone has told me about it, but because I experience the great and all-surpassing love of God living in my heart.

It melts my fears, releases my regrets, breathes peace in my soul and awakens joy for the simple gift of being alive. It opens my eyes to see beauty in others and the world around me, despite the pain and ugliness that abounds in so many ways and places. In this love, I feel truly free to be myself with all my quirks and shortcomings.

A long time ago, I was tempted to think life was absurd, empty and meaningless. But a handful of people taught me how to pray, how to meditate and let stories about Jesus come to life in my mind and imagination. I began to feel their power and realize that I, too, was wanted, treasured and delighted in by God.

I felt a great love enveloping me. No, I don’t feel this way all the time, but even when I don’t I know this love remains and times of feeling it near will come again.

For this eternal love of God, the source of creation, is the presence of Christ, who is not only born in history but also in the mystery of our hearts, yours and mine.

Sometimes, when I do what I do, I get to see another human being light up with joy, feeling profoundly loved and treasured by the love of God living within their own flesh and blood. And I feel it, too, living and loving me, often with tears of joy.

Of all the great things that lie in your future, my greatest prayer is for you to feel this, too.

David L. Miller

With Mary, let it be

‘You were also blessed because you have heard and believed. A soul that believes both conceives and brings forth the Word of God and acknowledges his works. Let Mary’s soul be in each of you to proclaim the greatness of the Lord. Christ has only one mother in the flesh, but we all bring forth Christ in faith.’ (St. Ambrose, 339-397)

With eyes to see and ears to hear, we receive the wonder the Lord unveils to our senses that we might discover the beauty of the divine heart and know this wonder within ourselves, amid tears of joy.

For in this of all seasons, we see that we are loved by a Great Love whose joy is seeing our faces come to life, our eyes alight with surprise that we, of all creatures, should be one with the Love who made us. It is for exactly this purpose that we are created, to be joined in love with the One who is Love.

From the start of the Christmas story, we can see this. Imagine an angel, Gabriel, pure spirit, appearing in such form that a young woman might see and hear words of divine favor spoken just for her. Gabriel appears, loving the very sight of her soul, longing for Mary to believe that the secret darkness of her womb might hold the Light whom heaven and earth cannot contain.

But who can imagine it? Words are insufficient. Perhaps artists can bear us into the mystery. Thousands have tried, the great and the mediocre. With paint and brush, light and color, they exhausted their skills, longing to touch the mystery and capture the moment when heaven’s heart was conceived in the body and soul of a mere mortal who dared to say, ‘let it be.’

 

(Fra Angelico, Annunciation 1440-1445)

I return to two images each year. In Fra Angelico’s Annunciation, Gabriel bows before Mary, holding his (her?) heart lest it burst with love and hope, longing for her to believe, trust and know that Love has chosen her to be Love’s holy temple. For she is to bear the beauty of the divine face into a dark and dying world that we might see and feel the warmth of divine light melting the cold darkness of our hearts.

Mary’s eyes turn down before the wonder of heaven’s messenger. Bent at the waist, her posture matches Gabriel’s bow, each offering humble reverence to the other.

With Gabriel, she is consumed in the moment of encounter, lost in the incomprehensible surprise that her life, hidden in an insignificant place, should be known, desired and chosen to bear Love’s greatest gift that we, the exiles, lost and mortal, might find our way to the home we have always wanted.

But perhaps Mary’s eyes cannot conceive or understand any of this, any more than we can. Perhaps her eyes are like ours, confused, wondering, apprehensive, not knowing what Gabriel’s greeting portends, but not turning away either, for we want, we need, we long. Our hearts attuned to the heart of the One who made us, restlessness remains until we are one with the Mystery of the Love we shall never understand in all of eternity.

(Henry Ossawa Tanner, The Annunciation, 1898)

Yes, this is our state as we listen to Gabriel’s words to Mary, inviting her to believe that she will bear the heart of God, the beauty of Christ, into the world. But this is not a message for her alone. It is a word to us and very much for us. For, the One who is born of Mary longs for your consent.

The Loving Mystery, who fashioned the stars, shaped your soul to be Love’s own dwelling, ever waiting, eager and longing for our hearts to lay down our pretenses, surrender our defenses and open ourselves to Love’s invitation to bear the beauty all heaven and earth cannot contain.

Speak then. With Mary, offer your heart in the words we most need to say, ‘Let it be. Let the beauty you are take flesh and blood in the kindness of my heart, in the forgiveness I struggle to share and the grace I try to be. Let it be, let it be, let it be … that your greatness may be known in the one life you have given me.

David L. Miller

Songs in the night

The flame of divine love enkindled human hearts and its intoxication overflowed into [their] senses. Wounded by love, they longed to look upon God with their bodily eyes. Yet how could our narrow human vision apprehend God, whom the whole world cannot contain? (St. Peter Chrysologus, 380-450)

I sing my songs in the night, in the morning, too. Day or night, I sing against the darkness.

For dark are the days as compassion wanes in our land, once known for its generous heart in a world of hurt, gentleness and care now dismissed as the domain of the weak.

Dark are the days as our consumeristic culture dazzles to distraction the hearts of millions, draining echoes of transcendence and mystery from the celebration of the birth of light.

Noise and spectacle, pretending significance, signifying nothing of depth, long ago filled every public space among us, lest we hear our longing for a voice that speaks peace to anxiety for which culture has no cure.

Retreating from the noise, I seek shelter in the rhymes and rhythms of poets ancient and new. The melodies of their hearts carry me into the Heart of the One I most need.

The Spirit breathes in them, through them, lifting me into the land of tears where my heart and the Heart of Love are one, my tears the sweet praise of love’s intoxication, my heart knowing the One whom no eye has seen, knowing, too, that I am known and loved.

Words are not enough to transport me into the land of this holiness. Only a song will do. Only a song can carry the desire of the everlasting hills for a dawn that will embrace all life and time, scattering every darkness.

Mary knew this. My spirit magnifies the Lord, she sang. My spirit rejoices in God my savior, for he has looked with favor upon the lowliness of his servant. The power of her song has breathed joy, strength and peace into the hearts of the poor and oppressed on every continent for 20 centuries and shows no sign of age or fading relevance.

So, too, the angelic messengers, announcing heaven’s birth in the tender frame of infant flesh. Their words took fire, igniting their hearts with melodies of joy in the dark of night. Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, they sang, and we with them, a prayer of praise that we are not forgotten, denied the grace of Love’s embrace.

And I sing, too, song after song, turning the pages of my hymnal, searching for the right marriage of text and tune to awaken my heart to the wonder of what we believe, to fan the hope beyond every hope and feel the love for which no words are capable.

‘Frozen in the snow lie roses sleeping,’ I sing in the cold night, snow having buried the red delight, once vibrant, at the corner of the garage. ‘Flowers that will echo the sunrise, my voice cracking, stumbling, my heart shattered and healed in the warmth of love’s final dawn on this weary world, the song a foretaste of heaven’s eternal hymn, tears the irrepressible praise for hope’s fulfillment.

Gentle on the ear you whisper softly, the song continues. Rumors of a dawn so embracing. With this, eternity’s dawn embraces me, my sadness, my hopes, my weariness with the world.

Hope renewed. Doubt’s darkness gone. The noise of the world silenced. The clamor of culture’s Christless Christmas put to the lie, all of it is washed away in the flood of the Love who wants us all and will have its way.

The child of our delight comes. The face of the Life and Love we praise, encompassed in word and song, brightens today’s world with his tomorrow, even as I sing.

David L. Miller

Come, Lord Jesus. Come and reign.

That we may know

Lord most high, what shall this exile do, so far from you? What shall your servant do, tormented by love of you and cast so far from your face? He yearns to see you, and your face is too far from him. … He longs to find you, and does not know your dwelling place. … Let me … find you in loving you and love you in finding you. (St. Anselm, 1033/34-1109)

Far from the starting place where my life began, closer to the end of my days, the desire doesn’t change.

The ancient hunger, from age to age the same, stirs the restless heart, longing to glimpse the face of the eternal, to touch the untouchable, the unchangeable and incorruptible, to bask in the light in all that is light and bathe in the fountain from which life springs.

How can it be, I wonder, witnessing again a photo from Apollo 8?  Three men from earth, rounding the dark side of the moon, shoot a single frame of a little green and blue orb, so wondrously and unexpectedly alive, floating alone amid the great darkness.

Earthrise, they called it. But what rises in the heart is wonder. Why this? Why is there anything at all? And it’s so small, this home of ours, so insignificant, so fragile. It could fall into nothingness, swallowed by the yawning immensity, lost in timeless oblivion.

But no. We are here. My heart beats alongside billions of others, blood running through my veins, unanswerable questions in my mind and a mysterious love in my heart—love for the wonder of being afforded life and love that is as real and sweet as my beloved’s smile.

And for all of this, the heart cries out to know and touch the Source of life and love, who is the sweetness of every beloved smile.

Show yourself to me. I want … I need to see and know you. Nothing unusual in this. It’s the longing of sensitive souls since time began, the innate desire for ‘I know not what’ … that fires the desire to reach beyond ourselves to understand and grasp the meaning of it all.

But how shall we know you, Eternal Mystery? Where can we seek and find your dwelling place?

Wiser souls than mine, tormented by loving desire for you, wrestled with the Mystery you are, their search collapsing in exhaustion, finding you finally in the mystery of the love within them, recognizing you were never far off, but near as that love for life and beauty … and for this little blue and green orb spinning in the great darkness.

And you who are incomprehensible love, the incorporeal mystery, the beginning of the beginning, the light of light, you, we believe, took a human face, that we may see and know the longing within us begins and ends in the love you are.

Come, Lord Jesus. Come among us that we may see the face of you who dwells in the eternity of time and the mystery of our hearts.

David L. Miller