Advent/love

The Good Stranger

Posted on by Lindsey Gallant / 2 Comments
In times of fear, how do we open our hearts to the stranger among us? How do we live when the neighbourhood looks less like our own, and the back yard neighbour is not “one of us?”
It is in times like these that we must lean ever closer to perfect love, and to the greatest commandments.
“Love your neighbour as yourself.”
It’s easy when the stranger is on the other side of the world. But when the stranger begin to make an appearance, to make demands in our own world, what then? What if the stranger moves next door?
Now is the time to put the command to work, right when it seems most inconvenient, most irrational, and most impossible.
This neighbour? This “other” with the wrong accent, the wrong beliefs, the wrong God?
Yes, for Jesus Himself redefined “neighbour” in the well-worn story we call The Good Samaritan.
It’s funny. The original question is this: “Who is my neighbour?” We ask from a place of security and self-righteousness, wanting to survey all the options before committing to such an impractical endeavor. “Just who is my neighbour?” we ask with barely veiled suspicion, as if we are in the position to pick and choose.
In the end, of course, the neighbour is not one of the old stock or religious establishment. The neighbour is the Samaritan, the half-breed, the undesirable “other.” It is hewho fulfills the command and becomes the shining example. It is he who loves beyond requirement, beyond the letter of the law, beyond reason. 
And the tables are turned (as they often are in the Master’s stories), and the one who asked the question is actually the one dying on the road. This is life and death. What’s at stake here is nothing less than eternal life. The real question of this story is not “Who do I have to love?” but “Who will love me back to life?”
Could it be that we are the ones most in need? Could it be that we are indeed wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked? And where does the gold come from? The white clothes? The salve? The stranger.
And how do we receive this life? “Go and do likewise.”
Let us not think we have all to give, and they have only to take. That we are in the know, and they have but to learn.
The road from Jerusalem to Jericho is a dangerous place, if we are not walking with Jesus.
It is in showing mercy that we receive its full benefits. We are in need of what the stranger has to offer, and this humbling may be the narrow gate to eternal life.
For what the stranger shows us is the face of Christ Himself. We would do well to ask, “Where is Jesus in this story?”
And he answers, “For I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to eat, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I was in prison and you came to visit me.”
Yes, the great commandments are for such a time as this, and for the least of these. For if we pass by on the other side, we may just miss Him.
How can we be sure to find Him? By recognizing that we too are in need of the healing only mercy can bring. By laying ourselves down for the bruised and broken and looking for the face of Christ in the ditches of the world.
Perfect love embraces the cast off.
Perfect love saves usfrom being cast away.
Yes, perfect love casts out fear.
Perfect love is the only way to live in these times, and we may just find it in the face of a stranger.


~lg
Advent/joy

The Secret of the Pink Candle: How You Can Have Joy Right Here

Posted on by Lindsey Gallant / 3 Comments
pink Advent candle

 

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Yes, there is joy, even in the waiting, even in the absence of a promise fulfilled. It comes as a pink candle, the one the children have been asking about since the beginning of Advent. We light it now, this third Sunday, because joy cannot help sneak into the patient sequence, right here.

It’s here in little bursts as anticipation bubbles up.
It’s here, a song in the air, even as our hearts yet grieve the darkness.
It’s here, a merry flame of rose and gold, the steady blaze of the far country.
It’s here, lighting the feast of God’s provision and defying winter’s icy grip.

It’s here, because He is here, and in His presence is fullness of joy.

When we abide in His love, which casts out fear and overcomes death, His joy fills us.

He is here, in the secret place, where the seed of hope awakens. He is here, in the hiding place, where peace is spoken to still the angry waves.

He is here, with us in sorrow and sighing, with us in uncertainty and shadow, with us in the watching and waiting.

Sometimes a pink candle is all it takes to make the children laugh, to remind us of the colours of dawn, to assure us that joy comes to us from another kingdom, and nothing on this groaning earth can take it away.

Joy is the laughter of God resounding from heaven to nature. It is the music of eternity reaching the ears of creation. It is His delight in us embracing our flesh and bone. It is the welcome of His presence right where we are, and the promise that He will never leave us nor forsake us. Joy is Emmanuel, God with us.

O come, o come Emmanuel…

Even now the lament begins to turn and spin toward joy. One more candle, one step closer. We can make out His face in the glow.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

~ lg

beauty/joy/morning prayer

The Slow Awakening

Posted on by Lindsey Gallant / 2 Comments

The clouds are blushing for the sun this morning in anticipation of his arrival: golden pinks and purple with a lavender secret, fresh scrubbed fleece and the far treed hillside on fire. It’s a slow waking this December day. Muted greens and browns wait in the hush for the day to give them voice. A lone raven circles the riverbed, and he is first to greet the glowing king of the day.

A bird begins to sing outside the window. The little creature has my heart this morning, and I can’t help but wonder, would the world change if we all stopped to watch the sun rise?

What if we stopped to watch the way a little boy runs headlong into his childish delights?

What if we stopped and held the sleepy girl a few more unnecessary minutes before moving on to matters of so-called import?

What if we stopped to breathe in the nuances of this morning’s fresh air, and remembered to offer our thanks and praise?

What if we stopped and counted the colours of dawn, the heartbeats of a hug, and the notes of a songbird’s hymn?

Perhaps this slowing would steady our tilted gait and ground us in the reality of our shared creation. Perhaps the light would heal our blinded eyes and reveal the hidden beauty. Perhaps the sun would cast his blush over our faces and kiss us awake to joy.

~lg

a life of prayer/morning/prayer

morning prayer :: 4

Posted on by Lindsey Gallant / 0 Comment

Awake my soul!
Time to rise to beauty, to light, to the sacred work of another day.

I recommit myself to the way of Christ.
To walk in His ways, to live in His love, to live out His love.

I submit myself to the work of the Spirit.
To His wind, His fire, His baptism, and His elemental transformation.

I commit my spirit to the will of the Father.
To reach for His hand, where I am held, recreated, and sent forth.

Awake my soul!
The glory of the Lord is rising.
Rejoice, for the day has dawned.

~lg

Christmas/poetry

The Very Best Christmas Surprise

Posted on by Lindsey Gallant / 0 Comment

T’is the season for secrets, and this poem by George MacDonald got me thinking today about the very holiest of surprises.

“That Holy Thing”
They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high:
Thou cam’st, a little baby thing
That made a woman cry.
O Son of Man, to right my lot
Naught but Thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea Thy sail!
My how or when Thou wilt not heed,
But come down Thine own secret stair,
That Thou mayst answer all my need—
Yea, every bygone prayer.
* * *

To live in anticipation of a creaking stair, a door opening, a sudden appearance of a familiar face – this is the joy of a “secret stair.” 

It was one of the things that attracted me to this old house when we bought it. A secondary staircase, leading from the old kitchen upstairs into what is now a bathroom. A narrow passageway accessed by a painted wooden door, tucked away in the corner. The stairs here are steeper, and there is no railing. This is not the grand ascension promised by our front hall staircase, with its pillars and swirling banister. This is not the guest’s welcome. This is the hidden way for those accustomed to our home. We’ve always called it “the secret stairway.” 
It can provide a quick escape to the upstairs rooms. It’s a handy way to transport laundry. It is a perennial favourite in the children’s games of hide-and-seek. And they delight to sneak down and surprise me in the dining room, throwing the door open to reveal their uncontainable laughter. 
It is this aspect of mystery, surprise, and intimacy that endears me to the crooked passage. It whispers of Irene’s tower and Lucy’s wardrobe, and I half expect to see a silver haired grandmother or prancing faun peeking down. 
So too does MacDonald’s “secret stair” speak of the divine encounter. The way in is not always through the front door. Ladders from heaven drop unawares where only angels know the path. And sometimes we find that first step when we’re not even looking, indeed, we may stumble over it in our haste. We look up from our stubbed toe and hear the whisper, “Come up here.” And then there are times we are altogether astonished by laughter, because God has tumbled down into our dining room yelling, “Surprise!”
Oh, the doors are everywhere, and to live with such possibility is one of the sweetest delights of our sacred trust, and the opening to our hearts desire. 
Yes Lord, “come down Thine own secret stair.” 
~lg