Patron Saint of Asking Questions

Today the church remembers a saint you know quite well: Saint Thomas, Apostle and Patron Saint of Those Who Ask Questions.

No doubt most everyone remembers Saint Thomas for his, well, supposed doubting of the resurrection as reported in Saint John’s account of the story, but that’s an accident of historical memory more than a reality. Saint Thomas didn’t doubt so much as he asked questions and sought verification.

And more people of faith should ask more questions, IMHO.

His name means “Twin,” and there is a tradition where Thomas is the twin of Jesus (or at least his doppelganger), but that’s largely conjecture. What is more probable is that Thomas, with his inquiry and deep searching for truth in the Gospel of John, is meant to be the reader’s twin in the story.

Or, in other words, you (and I) are the twin of Thomas, seeking to touch the Divine wounds, wondering if it could all be true, honestly desiring to say, “My Lord and God” with conviction and love because our eyes have seen it in real life.

Lore has it that Thomas took to being a missionary in India, planting the Martoma church tradition there that lives in a robust witness of the faith. There is a 3rd Century piece of literature, the Acts of Thomas that says he lived as an apostle carpenter in India, performing miracles, healing the sick, and was eventually martyred near madras. Within the pages of that interesting work is a beautiful Syriac poem, the Hymn of the Soul, a much pondered allegory of humanity’s search for beauty and meaning.

Fitting for a work dedicated to this saint, no?

While most modern scholars think that Saint Thomas probably was a missionary somewhere between the Caspian Sea and the Persian Gulf, never actually reaching India, the presence of the Martoma church and tradition give testimony to his legend and impact all the same, and it is the case that when European missionaries arrived in India in the 16th Century they found a robust Christian faith and practice thousands of years old.

Saint Thomas is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that asking questions and continually chasing deeper and truer truth has been part of the faith from the beginning.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-historical bits gleaned from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

-commentary mine

-icon written by Byzantine icon writer “Krillyboy”

O Dawn

“O Oriens!” the church cries on the morning of the Winter Solstice. “O Dawn!” is what it literally means, both a bit ironic and exasperated on this shortest day of the year.

You know, my son Finn was born with two “true knots” in his umbilical cord. In ancient days this sign would have probably been taken as an omen of either his greatness or his mischievousness (and it would have been right on both counts!).

But living in a scientific age we have no need for these signs, right?

Well, I’d suggest the opposite. After another year with so much death, and with depression so rampant, we need reminders of our greatness, Beloved.

It’s all a reminder that, with every dawn, with every dayspring, something amazing is possible.

The dawn, the bright and morning star, is an ever-rising sign that something amazing is possible.

So stick around, Beloved. In case you didn’t know it, it’s good you exist and, well, amazing things are always possible with every dawn…

(Art by Edward Fielding)

O Key of David

Today the church musters the cry, “O come, Clavis David,” or, ”Come, Key of David!”

This obscure reference to Isaiah 22 is actually a striking image as the prophet tells humanity that from David’s unlikely royal line justice would be unlocked and unleashed upon the world.

“O come O Key of David, come,
Open wide our heavenly home.
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path of misery.”

Or, in other words, enflesh the fervent prayer spoken nightly by so many and make, “on earth as it is in heaven” more than vapid “hopes and dreams.”

Art: Power of Freedom by Abed Alem

She Was Savvy

This day the church remembers with deep affection: Katharina von Bora Luther, Entrepreneur and Renewer of the Church, 1552

Born of recently impoverished nobility, Katharina von Bora, was sent in her early teens to live at a Cistercian convent near Grimma, Germany. She took her formal vows to live as a nun at the age of 16.

On Easter Day in 1523 twelve nuns managed to escape the convent (in herring barrels, if lore is to be believed!), and at the urging of Luther’s teachings, sought marriage. Though Luther attempted to match her with another colleague, Katherina protested that the 42 year old Luther would be the best fit.

Katherina, or Kadi, not only managed the bustling Luther home, but also Luther’s bustling schedule and guests. She ran the brewery of the Black Cloister and their stables. The Luther family had six children.

Katherine von Bora Luther is remembered for her courage and bravery in leaving the convent and marrying in response to God’s call, her managerial and analytical mind which Martin found to be indispensable in ministry, and her business savvy.

She is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that the one who gets all the accolades is rarely the saint who did the bulk of the work.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-information gathered from Philip Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

O Root of Jesse

Today the church uses its parched tongue to cry out, “O Radix Jesse!” or “O Root of Jesse!”

The ask here is that the dead stump of a family line, scourged and ravaged by one conquering after another, eating away at the Family Tree, somehow live again.

This dead-end of a year may feel very stump-ish to you.

It’s also just true that while we may have eaten from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, we have not learned its wisdom. That ancient tree is dead in our hands as we call what is evil, good, and what is good, evil.

Come quickly, Holy One.

O Lord

On December 18th in Advent the church raises its voice to cry out, “O Adonai!” or “O Lord!”

This is, perhaps, the most honest prayer there is, Beloved. In times of trial and joy, “Oh God” or “My Lord” slips from our lips.

In the ancient context of Advent, this cry is both an invocation and a statement of political priorities. The Empire of old (and now?) would have you believe that power is Lord, that grievance is Lord, that Caesar is Lord.

In fact, all the ancient steles and decrees said just that: Caesar is Lord.

But the church, at its best, says that the Divine is Lord.

It’s a political statement. We’ve forgotten that…but we can remember. There is time.

-art is by Michael Adonai, an Eritrean painter, entitled “Back to Homeland.” You can imagine crying out “O Lord” when longing to return to your mother…

O Wisdom!

Today Advent takes a more persistent, pleading posture as the church begins calling for salvation using the ancient names for the Holy One.

These names are known as the O Antiphons, and true to form they are sung by all creation in chorus.

We begin, crying, “O Sapientia!” or “O Wisdom!”

It’s worth noting that Wisdom, especially in the Hebrew scriptures, is personified as female, flowing out as a part of the Divine mind.

“O come, O Wisdom from on high,
and order all things far and nigh.
To us the path of knowledge show,
and teach us in her ways to go.

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel,
Shall come to you, O Israel.”

Art: Divine Wisdom by Shiloe Sophia McCloud

These Waning Days

Tomorrow starts the “O Antiphons,” Beloved.

These are the days the ancients called the “ember days,” when hope and light were waning.

So, they started to cry out for something to save them.

And from that crying came different names for the Christ, the Messiah, the one to save in the times of waning hope.

It’s beautiful. It’s ever prescient.

It’s needed.

Blessed Advent in these waning days, Beloved.

The New Fire

The 21st is the solstice, and my hope us that we’ll be able to make a new fire (depending on travel) on the new Yule log.

The Yule log is the ancient tradition of hauling a huge log, usually oak (though birch was thought to bring insight and wisdom), into the hearth on Christmas Eve. Sometimes the log was so large (it had to last through the whole twelve days!) that children would sit astride it as it was carried from the forest through town, cheering the whole way. Into this log would be carved prayers, symbols, and depictions of “Mother Winter,” bringing peace and good fortune for the next year. They’d light this fire as a way to embolden the fire in the sky, the sun, and remind themselves that night does not last forever.

A lesson we’d do well to remember in this time of year when seasonal affective disorder is so prevalent.

Another similar tradition which you know of, but may not know why it happens, is the lighting of a Christmas candle in these days. This candle stands in place of the yule log…kind of a mini yule.

Our ancestors (as late as the 1940’s for those of us with Celtic blood) would have a special Christmas candle, usually red (to symbolize the ancient idiom “the red blood reigns in the winter’s cold”), and light it on Christmas Eve. It was usually placed in a hollowed out turnip, a shallow wooden bowl, or in later years a very select and decorated fancy holder, and would find a place on the front room window sill.

They’d place this candle in the window to do a few things.

First, it would remind them that there were those in the world without a supper or bed, and that they were to provide that for them. The candle would show a weary traveler where to find rest.

It was also lit to show Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child that a home could be found in their inn of a home. The wandering Holy Family still wanders today, wondering where to lodge.

Finally, especially in the countryside where it was difficult to spy a dwelling in the shadows of the night, these Christmas candles in the windows would show you where your neighbors were…and remind you that you’re not alone, by God. Help is just a flicker away should you need it. A true Christmas miracle-made-real.

So these Christmas lights adorning all the suburban homes in these days, and those stately Colonial-style homes with their window candles, aren’t just to be pretty and compete with the neighbors for accolades. If we remember history, these decorations bring more than “oohs” and “aaahs.”

They’re meant to bring hope, be a reminder to care for the “least of these,” and offer a welcome hand to the neighbor.

If you’re so inclined, put a new log in that hearth or fire-pit this year, and maybe write a prayer or two on it for the upcoming season of life.

And maybe stick a candle in that front window with intention this year, reminding everyone (including yourself!) that you’re called to help others in these wintery days.

Stay Soft

The poet Nayyirah Waheed has broken me many times. Her work has, over the course of a few years, served as a meditation many mornings.

Like, this one:

stay soft. it looks beautiful on you. (from her book, Salt.)

One of the things I love about the rhythm of the church year is that it keeps me soft. Nimble. Pliable.

When we get too stuck in our ways, too embedded in our walled-off routines, we become rigid. So much of religion has become rigid in the hands of hard people who have obeyed dogmas not like one takes opportunities, but like one might follow a written recipe that is so complex no chef has mastered it.

Rigidity is brittle. A rigid faith breaks in time.

Advent is, like I say above, an opportunity to practice plasticity in the faith. With so much mystery sewn into the fabric of these short-sunned days, we are encouraged to dream a bit, to wonder and let our hearts wander (perhaps that’s where the old carol got its title?) and become soft again.

To melt, if you will, like you do when you pick up a newborn.

I remember one time taking my newborn son to visit our oldest parishioner. My son, only a few months old, was strapped to my chest in our carrier. The old woman, in her 90’s, asked if she could touch him. I bent myself over as she reached out her hand, and I guided her fingers to his little head (as her eyesight was failing).

I marveled at how both the oldest person I knew, and the youngest, felt the same in my hands: tender skin, soft skin, pliable skin.

It was a moment; eternity reaching out to touch at both ends.

She died not long after that visit…

That encounter made my heart pliable. Soft. It was beautiful.

Like the aged Elizabeth holding her son, perhaps, a story told in these middle days.

What is keeping you soft in these middle days, Beloved?