My people

 On entering the house, [the wise me] saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure-chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. (Matthew 2:11)

Perhaps it’s pandemic fatigue, but this detail moves me to tears. I want to be with the wise men. So I kneel and see myself beside them in the eye of my heart. This is my place, and these are my people, souls who kneel before the beauty of God’s loving humility.

The wise men do not speak as I kneel beside them, nor do they speak in the story about their arrival at the place of Jesus’ infancy. Scripture reveals no dialogue between them, Mary and Joseph.

This seems right. Words distance us from mysteries only the heart can know. If you can say it, it is not God, St. Augustine wrote 17 centuries ago, and I have no reason to suggest otherwise.

So I just kneel there, in the presence of Love Incarnate, and let my poor heart sink into the well of knowing that opens within, surrendering all attempts to name what cannot be named in any language, except those of silent love and gratitude.

But words still come, a whispered “thank you.”

It’s funny ... or maybe predictable  ... that I notice others standing around as I kneel before Mary and the child who bears God’s infinite love. I know these people. Their faces are engraved on my heart. They smile and nod as they look at us kneeling there, gestures of blessing and assurance.

It is for this that we taught you, their faces say. It is for this that we loved you. But they do not kneel, for they look on from a higher plane, pleased that seeds they sowed actually took root and grew.

They are my people, too, like the wise men, hearts moved to worship the wonder of Love’s holy presence.

I long to be among such souls, listening, sharing, laughing and struggling together. It is a missing piece of life in these pandemic days. And it has long been a missing piece in the lives of many Christians and spiritual seekers of various types.

We need gracious and welcoming places where it is safe to kneel, at least metaphorically, and share the mysteries we feel ... that we may fall into the Love we most need.

David L. Miller

We’ll see

Philip found Nathanael and said to him, ‘We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.’ Nathanael said to him, ‘Can anything good come out of Nazareth?’ Philip said to him, ‘Come and see.’ (John 1:45-46)

Cold winter wind buffets the west wall as night overtakes the leaden gray of this January day. The house flexes and creaks in the onslaught, irregular bursts of winter wildness sure to surround our sleep before dark gives way to the iron-gray smudge of a new dawn’s frozen light.

Winter has come, but not here where a candle glows at my right elbow and music from a Celtic harp keeps the cold from my heart.

The day has been well-spent. Children called. Books read. Warm soup consumed. Nearly Epiphany, decorations were lovingly stored, well-ordered and safe, ready to be retrieved with delight when Advent rolls around to excite our expectations once more.

Who knows what will be then? More Covid? Greater freedom to go where we want when we want? Will Mom still be with us, then in her 94^th year? Questions abound, all with the same answer, “We’ll see.”

Still, to quote Nathaniel, Can anything good come of this?

It is natural question when you consider the mess of the world, the bitterness of current divisions, a pandemic entering its third year and the unrelenting gale of troubling news that chills the heart if you care enough to let it in.

But I suppose that’s the magic of faith. It gives us just enough patience to wait and see what comes, trusting that whatever comes ... somewhere in the middle of it all ... we’ll see grace of the One we most need.

David L. Miller

 

Where Love dwells

 When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, ‘What are you looking for?’ They said to him, ‘Rabbi’ (which translated means Teacher), ‘where are you staying?’ He said to them, ‘Come and see.’ (John 1:38-39a)

It’s been an off day, which is to say I am off, not sick but not entirely well either. I have recently had more of these than I have been willing to admit, even to myself, chronic conditions exacerbated by a bit of age. Tomorrow is a new day, and conditions will likely change but today must be embraced for what it might give.

What I most miss on days like this is the desire to do much of anything—and the inability to concentrate on anything except by force of will, and then poorly.

It is easy for me to pray and know you, my God, on days when my step is lighter and my body works as I think it should. But now, not so much. And I wonder about the inexorable reality that days will come when energy fades not for a few hours or days but for good.

Will I be able to know and enjoy you then as deeply as I have been blessed to know you through the years of my seeking? Will I still be able to force myself to these keys to speak my longing and find you in the midst of it?

For my need of you ... and my questions ... will be the same as they have always been. Where does Love dwell? Where can Love be known? Where can you and I dwell together that sweet tears may kiss my eyes at the joy of knowing you?

Perhaps you smile at this, Lord, knowing that I will know you exactly where you have always met and given yourself to me. And this is a very deep irony. For you dwell in my need, beckoning me to come in the honesty of prayer to the very place where Love dwells.

Come and see.

David L. Miller