The days are short in December. In fact, we’re only nine days away from the solstice, the shortest day of the year for Earth’s northern hemisphere. I think that’s part of why Christmas matters. Christ’s entry into creation occurs almost immediately after our darkest days; and even though Christmas comes each year at the very start of winter, it marks the point at which Light enters the world, the point at which the light starts growing.
In this morning’s Fruit of the Vine Priscilla Hochhalter invites us to consider, in her reflection on Psalm 36:5-9, the way light shows up for us in scripture. In Genesis 1, light is “created by God; he spoke it into being.” And this light, created before the sun or the moon, continues long after the sun and moon are gone “because the only true light source is God himself.” In John 8 and 14, Jesus “claims he is ‘the light’ . . . [and] ‘whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.’” In the first chapter of John, we’re assured that “‘the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’”
We need this light, and if we take Jesus seriously, we also are the light (Matthew 5:14). God enters a world of short days and long nights, and he comes in the form of a baby — he comes as light. The days grow longer. The nights grow shorter. And we find, in our obedience, that instead of light, there are now lights. The light grows.
Hope grows. Hope grows in us. Hope grows us.
My hope in this season of darkness is that I might be light to you, and that I might let you be light for me. That we might find ways to join together in waiting for light, in being light, in growing our shared light in the world.
This is no easy task, and we can’t do it on our own. Priscilla offers this prayer: “Lord, I crave your light and your life. Please illuminate and animate my heart with your holy presence.”
And to Priscilla’s prayer, I add my own: “God, in these dark days, grow your light in us.”
Eric Muhr
Consider the plants
In this morning’s Fruit of the Vine Jan Pierce reminds us that longevity and maturity aren’t necessarily the same thing when it comes to faith. Just because someone has “walked with the Lord for many years” doesn’t mean that “they’re hearty and healthy. We may overlook sickly, pale leaves and fail to see the root-bound structure beneath depleted soil.”
I like that metaphor.
Back when I taught middle school grammar and composition, I had a lot of plants in my room. A huge jade plant in the corner. A snake plant on the floor next to my desk. Aloe vera. African violet. Christmas cactus. Philodendron. A peace lily. Every once in awhile, I’d get a plant or a start from one of my students. They’d bring in the new plant with fresh soil and bright, green leaves. But a middle school classroom is hard on plants. Students pick at the closest leaves when they’re bored. Cut them with scissors. Poke at them with pencils. Attach paperclips to the stem. Root around in the soil. Every once in awhile, I would find a plant on the floor, tipped over, dirt in the carpet. Once, a plant was put in the microwave. I think it was a kind of experiment. The African violet got the worst of it. Its bright flowers attracted student attention. Not always the best thing for a plant.
Sometimes I feel like that plant. I haven’t been treated well. And I’m tired.
Jan’s reflection challenges me to let others “speak life” to me, and she encourages me also to “speak life into them.” After all, “it can be a challenge to read Scripture with fresh eyes and a hungry heart.... But as long as we have breath, we’re seeking to be more like [Jesus].” The promise is that we can grow as “we allow God to keep doing his good work in us.”
Finally, Jan offers this prayer: “Lord, when the cares of the world or my own apathy interfere with my love relationship with you, come and rescue me.”
Eric Muhr
A walk into the woods
Andy Henry reminds us in this morning’s Fruit of the Vine of God’s message for us in the 23rd Psalm. Because even though we “read that psalm as a metaphor” it is possible to experience “its truth in a very literal way.” While visiting family, Andy took time for a walk. Went outside. Into “the woods behind my parents’ house.... I was literally walking beside gentle streams and literally resting in green spaces.”
This August, I parked my car and decided – in an attempt to get outside more – to walk whenever possible, even if it meant reordering my day in order to make time for moving from place to place. Newberg is a small town, but an errand here and there adds up. I cover between 2 and 5 miles most days. Sometimes more. And I’ve noticed changes. My breathing is slower. My thinking is less rushed, more creative. My head feels cleaner, clearer – like I can see.
This is what Andy felt in his own lived experience of the psalm: “I noticed my strength returning and my perspective expanding.” And he offers us a challenge. “If you were to write your own psalm or poem of God’s care in creation, what elements and experiences would you include?”
I’d write about the different angles of light. I’d write about a section of sidewalk where water pools in the rain. I’d write about a produce market that stays open late on weeknights. I’d write about the smell of cinnamon and fried dough from a Mexican bakery I pass almost every morning. I’d write about the sense that God is present with me in creation – about what it is to be with God and aware of God and waiting for God all at the same time.
Andy asks us to notice how God, the divine Shepherd, “knows where to lead us for the nourishment, guidance, and healing we need. God knows the ‘good medicine’ we need for the moment.”
This week, it’s my hope that God will lead you “to places of renewal and teach [you] the peace of wild things.” In the meantime, I’ll be enjoying a doughnut from that Mexican bakery. And I’ll be praying for you.
Eric Muhr