The Mystery and the Longing

    Why are you weeping?
    The mystery and longing of this morning
    revealed and unrecognized, misunderstood
    “if you have taken him...”

    Ordinary extraordinary from the grave
    reach out but do not grasp
    further on further into mystery
    truly risen into unsettled perfection
    flesh and wonder spirit rise

    Why are you weeping?
    The mystery and longing of this day
    now named and recognized, realized
    “I have seen the Lord.”

(John 20:11-18)

Myrrh for the Dead

     This is how Jesus the Christ came to be born; it rambles a bit and anachronisms abound, nevertheless it remains something like the true story. At least I believe it to be so. It is the story as I heard it told. It begins – not, as others have told it, in the northern hillside village of Nazareth, but in small, little Bethlehem, a city of fog and shadow, a city in the shadow of death. A tenebrous city with rubbled streets below your feet and the sound of military helicopters over your head. The doctors were dead, the hospital bombed out. The schools were closed – burned down. It begins with hunger and deprivation. It begins with Joseph living and working in Bethlehem.

    Every morning Joe put on his work clothes – heavy denim pants, steel toed boots, and a plain t-shirt. Over these he put on his protective equipment – durable work gloves, a hard hat, and a bright orange and reflective orange and silver safety vest. He worked as part of crew clearing the streets of bombed out buildings. He filled wheelbarrows with chunks of broken concrete and twisted bands of rebar and hauled them to a municipal dump truck which would haul it all out of the city to a dump site at the outskirts of town. The work continued despite the occasional burst of nearby gunfire. The bombed out buildings were slowly cleared even as violent revolutionary groups clashed with government forces, bringing down another building in explosions of dust and smoke and fire.

    Grinning death head gunships flew through the air with their spectral shadows trailing below. Blackwater gunmen, backed by free-market robber barons and commercial advertising agents in the United States, prowled the smoldering rubble in search of misguided martyrs whose pursuit of apocalyptic ecstasy by way of explosive detonation, had chained the weight of nightmare around the neck of the whole world. It was new technology for the same old conflicts. People die the way they always have – screaming in pools of blood and gore, suffocating under the ruble – dehydrated or starved to death. It’s a new war; it’s the same war. Death is death.

    He wore a mask and a scarf tied around his face to keep the dust and ash from his nose and mouth but smoke burned his eyes as he worked to clear the streets. Blinded and lost in the chaos created by the grasping militants with their demands for vengeance and honor; the shadow of death stretched long across the land. There were days when he worked from daybreak to midnight, excavating the ruins and the rubble by bright klieg lights powered by portable generators.

    Joe moved heaps of concrete and brick, sorting through the detritus of a dying city. Amongst the debris he found the cast off trash of a displaced society – plastic coke bottles, chips of china, a shattered Nokia cell phone, sandwich wrappers, and the like. Also among the debris and rubble were the more gruesome remains of cast off members of society, human remains – sometimes just teeth or perhaps the bones of a severed hand. Sometimes he found crushed corpses that were taken to the medical facility to be identified. If they could be identified. Some of those bodies were so mangled they hardly looked human any more.

    As gruesome and noisome as it was, Joseph appreciated the work. So many were unemployed and desperate. He knew he was fortunate. But he was concerned with his excavating role. The daily destruction was dangerous and people were dying all around. Bethlehem, like all cities, had been built on heaps of ruins. Digging down through the rubble he and his coworkers discovered Arab ruins heaped atop the ruins of Christian Crusaders, Turks, Mongols, Greeks, Egyptians, further and further back the deeper they delved. Winding alleys horizontally through the city, and vertically down through history, down to the Bronze Age foundations of abandoned and forgotten structures.

    He’d grown up with the stories his grandfather Bartolo told him of ancient cities swallowed overnight by the sands of the desert. Those fabulous tales fascinated and amused him as a boy but they seemed less fantastic these days. He’d seen enough instant destruction to know the truth. He’d seen military helicopters dropping sulfuric acid on populated areas. He’d taken shelter as missiles exploded overhead. He’d carried his gas mask with him everywhere in case of attack. And he’d heard the shouts and screams of fathers and mothers, children crying, cursing Herod’s administration. Cursing King Herod. Cursing the far away Romans, and the Americans too – selling their weapons and munitions to anyone with cash enough to buy. Cursing the suicidal, mad-bomber Zealots. Cursing and abusing God, even, in their anger and their despair.

    But even in that land of death and struggle, life went on as it always had. Their children continued to go to school – though the school house had been abandoned after a tank had driven through the wall and exploded. They met in the basement of the Orthodox church. People continued to eat and drink, enjoying meager festival feasts and humble birthday parties, eating and drinking together when and where they could. Weddings were celebrated and divorces were mourned. Life went on. Though surrounded on all sides by the looming shadow of death, life went on. And Joe was engaged to marry a girl from the neighborhood. Mary.

    But rumors began to circulate that Mary was already pregnant. People talk; stories spread but Joe refused to believe the gossip. He trusted his fiancée. He believed her to be as honest and true as himself. But as the rumors persisted his confidence wavered and he confronted her directly. “Is it true, Mary? Are you pregnant?” And with a simple, silent nod she confirmed the worst of his fears. Chilled the warmth of his heart. Still, whatever disgrace he felt, he was a young man of mature character and didn’t want her to be subjected to any further shame or public humiliation. Life was hard enough here. He intended to break off the engagement quietly. Secretly without the whole neighborhood being up in her business. Or his.

    Joe was awakened in the night by the sound of gunfire and explosions – not far off in the distance, but somewhere nearby. There were coordinated rebel attacks on the munitions factory and the state owned pig farm. Because he couldn’t get back to sleep, he got up from his bed and opened the window above his bed to look into the street.

    But he closed it almost immediately. He could hear the shouts of rebel commanders and the screams of wounded soldiers. The acrid smoke choked him before he could get it closed and he coughed for several minutes. He stood at the window observing the thick clouds of billowing smoke illuminated by illuminati search lights sweeping back and forth across the sky in long, lugubrious arcs.

    One of the search lights swept across the face of Joe’s apartment complex and the light through the window blinded him. He flinched and stumbled backwards, throwing his arms in front of his face to block out the blinding light. When he blinked back from the darkness he saw a stranger in his room standing among the illuminated floating dust particles. He was tall and thin, nearly gaunt, but his face still held an ethereal fascination as if he were glowing with an inward radiation.

    “This is a dream,” Joe said. “This is a dream. A strange and terrible dream.”

    “Think of it as a dream if you like,” the stranger said, “but you must remember all of what I am about to tell you when you awaken in the morning.”

    “I will remember,” Joe said. “I will remember what you tell me.”

    “It is very important,” the stranger said.

    “I understand,” Joe affirmed. “I will remember. Every word.”

    “Good. Now Joseph, you must not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. It is true that she is pregnant, but it is no ordinary conception. This is a virginal conception through the Holy Spirit of God. Definite or indefinite, it is the same spirit. And the spirit is sent and life is created.”

    “But that’s…”

    “This is what the ancient prophet promised: Behold the virgin shall conceive and bear a son…”

    “But that’s not…”

    “Do not interrupt me, Joseph. This is a theological truth – by the gift and grace of God she shall conceive and bear a son called Emmanuel.”

    “God with us,” Joe sighed.

    “God with us,” the messenger affirmed. “But you will call him Yeshu, for he will be the one to save his people from the sickness of their sins”

    There was another shout from the streets below as the rebels pressed their advantage and surged into the streets pushing the faceless forces of the Herodian riot strike teams back. Another furious round of gunfire erupted and the Illuminati searchlights were extinguished and the night was dark once more. He knew there would be more work tomorrow clearing the streets around the munitions plant and hauling away the unclean carcasses of dead hogs from the state pig farm. Joe awoke on the floor, naked and shivering in the cold. The heat was off again. The power was out. He rose up from the floor and looked out the window. It was nearly dawn but no birds were singing.

    And when the time was fulfilled, the boy was born in the normal way of things. Even in the midst of death there was life. The Lord, most mighty, holy and most merciful, delivered him to them through the bitter pains of death into newborn life. Life went on.

    Some time after this, King Herod was on the balcony of his bed chambers in the palace within the City of Lights and Murder, snorting Adderall and shouting about the vermin that were infecting and polluting the blood of the country when the strangers from the east arrived. “The blood is the life!” he shouted through his electronically amplified bull horn. “But they are destroying the purity of our lives by diluting the purity of our blood. Rapists and murderers. Drug fiends and half breed witches.”

    The people in the street knew that he wasn’t really a Jew himself; they knew him for the Edomite outsider that he was. Half-Jew at best. He was a shifty man, a querulous alienator of fathers and sons. He never began a single confession, only multiplied confrontations, projecting himself and his woes upon the world around him. “This is our profession of faith: the libtards are out to destroy our history and culture. Illegal immigrant are crossing the borders to get public welfare and the Parthians and the Nabataens are threatening to invade again.” His ancestors may have converted to Judaism, but the people had no illusions of his own personal piety. And they accepted him as their king in name only, only because they were forced to do so by their far-distant, Roman overlords. Few spoke out against him. To do so was death.

    He was still on the balcony raving into his bullhorn when the astrologers arrived.

    Herod the multivalent opportunist put on a mask to receive them. He was obsequious with Caesar and preening with dignitaries of the surrounding nations. He was reverent and pious when dealing with the temple priests and threatening with the members of his family. With the foreign magi – from some shithole country to the east – he was smarmy and smooth talking.

    “We are humble astrologers, my lord,” they said as they introduced themselves to the King. “Practitioners of Chaldean wisdom, scholars and researchers from the Oriental Institute for Full Brain Potential and the appointed envoys of our respective nations. We have traveled, at great risk and great expense, across the sands, following for these many months, a newly observed star. Consulting the ancient texts and lore, we have determined that this novel star is the star of a newly born king of the Jews, and we have come to give him due homage and awe. We know that this is strange and difficult to believe, but we are amiable and honest and trust that you can tell us where he has been born.”

    “I agree that what you’ve told me is strange,” King Herod said to the members of the OIFBP, gripping the arms of his throne until his knuckles turned white. “But the question I have is this: Is it strange enough to be true?” he grinned and waved nonchalantly. The wise men began to speak all at once filling the chamber with their overlapping foreign languages. “No. No. No,” he interrupted them. “Let me consult with my own advisors and religious experts. They will know what to tell me. And then I will know what to tell you.”

    There was argument among the scribes. You know the expression: Two Jews – Three Opinions. They read from their scrolls and consulted the elders – each of which provided a variety of voice and explanations. Multiple version of every position and more answers than participants. But after the arguments flared and died and flared and died again, they returned to the king with an answer.

    “The durations of life are dependent upon the constellations, my Lord, and anyone who knows how to calculate the astronomical movement of constellations and does not do so, does not take notice of the work of God...”

    “Get to the point!” he shouted at them through his bullhorn.

    “But tell them this,” stammered the representative of the scribal union, “from the words of the prophet: ‘And you, Beit-Lechem in the land of Y’hudah are by no means the least among the rulers of Y’hudah for from you will come a Ruler who will shepherd my people, Israel.’ That is the answer you required.”

    But King Herod had other plans. “Only I can fix the problems that plague our country. Not some newborn nobody from some little town in nowhere,” he mused. So he told the emissaries from the OIFBP, “Go and find this child in Bethlehem,” he told the astrologers, “but come back after and tell me where, so that I can give him my respects and gifts as well.”

    All of Jerusalem trembled as the Magi departed. They knew enough of Herod’s raging.

    The traveling members of the OIFBP parked their dusty VW van on the street outside the two story brick house where Joseph’s family lived in Bethlehem. Joseph lived there with his brother Sava, his cousin Tavish, Tavish’s wife and their three children, as well as his grandmother Shera. There had been others in the house with them before, all of them crowded into the small building. His grandfather Bartolo had died a little more than a year before of pneumonia and his father and mother, Jacob and Lissa had been killed in an explosion three months ago. They were gone, but the house felt even more crowded now, with the memories of their laughter and songs still lingering heavily in every room.

    The visiting magi knocked on the door of house. Sava opened the door cautiously and, after a brief and somewhat confused explanation of their presence, ushered them in. He scanned up and down the darkened street for police patrols and overhead for Herod’s surveillance drones.

    “This is the child of whom we have read,” said the astrologers when they saw the infant lying in a makeshift crib – Joseph’s tool chest, emptied of hammers and sockets and filled with blankets and a somewhat ragged stuffed rabbit. “This is the one.”

    “I have brought him gold,” The first of the visitors said, handing Joseph two small coins. “It is not much, I am sorry. We are humble scholars, not aristocracy. Not kings. But may this be the first tokens of his increasing kingdom.”

    “I have brought him frankincense from Ubar” said the second, “the ‘Atlantis of the sands,’ the City of towers, lofty porcelain and gold towers – one of those legendary lost cities of the Arabian deserts. This bottle of perfume has been preserved since before that fabled city’s disappearance.” He placed the vial into Mary’s hands.

    Then the third and eldest of the visitors stepped forward, slowly. He haltingly lowered himself to his knees and laid his fragile body prone on the floor and placed a small wooden box before the boy. “And I have brought myrrh. Myrrh for the dead.”

    Joseph, Mary, and the extended family gathered around gasped but said nothing.

    Joseph’s family insisted that their guests stay the night and to share a meal. Shera cooked up some rice and a bit of goat. Tavish’s wife brought out the last of the baklava she’d made a week ago. A desperate and rare dessert made with honey she’d taken from a bee hive she found in the remains of the burned out school building. The travelers themselves shared what they had, some dried figs and almonds. After securing the blackout curtains over the windows, they lit a kerosene lantern and sang the Hallel as a blessing for the food, the family, and their joyful fellowship.

    The next day, early, well before dawn, the astrologers loaded back into their van. “We must go now,” they insisted. Shera began to insist that they stay as their guests for another day, but Joseph interrupted. “No,” he said. “They have to go. And Mary and I must go too. We must flee.”

    “You have had the dream too?” one of the astounded magi said to him. Joseph looked at the faces of his family, lingering long with Mary’s eyes, and then said to the astrologer. “Yes. Warned in a dream.”

    Later, after the scholars were gone, Tavish brought out a locked metal box and showed it to Joseph. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Inside was a .38 snub-nosed revolver. He handed the gun to Joseph. “Take it, Joe. You’re going to need it,” Tavish said. Joseph considered the weapon Tavish had extended to him. He took it, rolled the empty chamber, and snapped the revolver closed. Then looked from the gun to his wife. She said nothing, only looked away. Joseph turned back to his cousin and returned the gun. “What if I’m caught with it?” he asked. “Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.”

    “It’s easy,” his cousin said shoving the gun back to him again. “Just point and shoot. Bang. The bad guy falls down dead. Simple.”

    “It’s never simple. Nothing ever is.” Joe said. “No. I don’t want the gun.” He turned then to his wife.

    “Mary, we’ve gotta’ go. Tonight. We can’t take my motorcycle, not with the baby. But I can sell it for cash. I won’t get much for it. Not nearly what I paid for it. Tavish offered me eight hundred. It’s a loss, but it’s enough to get us a couple of bus tickets for Egypt. We can be there by tomorrow morning. Our ancestors wouldn’t hesitate to pick up and go. They were nomads. Bedouins, wandering with their flocks and herds, landless and homeless. We can be like them. We’ll make a home on the road. Wherever we are, you, me, and the boy, that’s home.”

    “Oh, Joseph, Joseph,” Mary whispered. “There should have been a life for us here. You should have been the one to build us a house, a home. Now there is nothing, and we’re about to leave it all.”

    “We’ll be like our fathers in the desert, Mare, living in tents and not houses. Taking shelter where we can, always on the move. This is how they lived. This is how we can live again. But you are my champion, Mary. My leader. I can’t do it, I can’t go without you and the boy. And we have to go. Tonight. Now.” She nodded and gathered up the child.

    Joseph threw on his leather, motorcycle jacket. A patch on the shoulder of the jacket displayed a screaming skull and the words, “Terror of Demons.” He kept their passports and travel permits in a purse inside his jacket, ready to display them for the demanding Roman authorities. Mary wrapped the baby in a wool blanket and put on her own coat.

    “I’m not okay with this,” Tavish said again. “I don’t like you going. And I don’t like you going unarmed.”

    “We’ve been over this,” Joseph said. “Acquire the spirit of peace and thousands around you will be saved.”

    “But I’m definitely not at peace about this.”

    “That’s fine,” Joseph said. “We’re going.”

    “That’s fine! That’s fine!” Tavish huffed. “Fine. Save your wife and your boy. You’re saving the world.” Joseph grinned. “Go on. Get out of here,” Tavish said as he walked them to the door.

    Behind them as they fled was smoke on the city like a funeral shroud, the moon indistinguishable through the smoke. Heat waves rippled the cool night air. The smell of burning rubble, and plastic followed them – along with the stench of burning flesh. Innocent bodies dissolving like fat in the sun. Clouds of dust rising and the roar of converging military vehicles. They could hear the screams as they stepped up into the bus.

    “We are abandoned. We are destroyed,” Joseph thought. But he pushed away those thoughts and prayed. A helicopter roared overhead.

Hail Mary, Full of Space

Hail Mary, full of space, the Lord is with thee;

Blessed art thou among women 

For the secret place within you 

Contained the one who fills 

The heavens and the earth, 

The omnipresent one held 

Within your maidenhead.

Hidden Nativity 2

 

The first version is here 

Electric Icon

Hail Thou Lady of Air and Night, The Lord is With Thee

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to Nazareth in Galilee, to a young woman betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the House of David; and the young woman’s name was Lilith. The angel went in and said to her, “Hail, thou Lady of Air and Night. Rejoice, the Lord is with thee.” And she was deeply pleased by these words.

The angel said to her, “You have won God’s favor. Look, you are to conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great and will be the Son of the Most High.”

But Lilith said to the angel, “How can this be? I fear and hate children and will kill him them as they sleep. And I will be no one’s servant. Let it happen to someone else.”  Then the angel left her to find someone else.

***

In later Jewish legends, Adam had another wife prior to Eve, Lilith – created from the same dust as he. But she refused to submit to him and fled into the desert to become the Night Hag, a killer of children.

Cast-a-Down the Proud

And Mary said, My soul doth magnify the Lord
And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
 For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden: for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
For he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name.
And his mercy is on them that fear him from generation to generation.
He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.
He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.
He hath helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy;
As he spake to our fathers, to Abraham, and to his seed forever.

Luke 1: 46 – 55

God today hath raised up the poor and cast a-down the proud.

From the halls of power to the fortress tower, not a stone will be left on stone.
Let the king beware for your justice tears ev'ry tyrant from his throne.

He feeds the hungry as his own, the rich depart in poverty.

He has sent the rich away empty,
but he has been merciful to us.

pic.twitter.com/YwJJesKAFi

— Jason Welle, SJ (@JasonWelleSJ) December 21, 2016

Young Woman Arrested for Treason and Sedition (A Christmas Story)

Nazareth, PA: A 16 year old girl was arrested and charged with treason and sedition after police say she uttered unpatriotic slogans and threats against the government.

The young woman (name withheld) was booked into the county jail and is being held without bond.

Witnesses say that she was singing or chanting political protest slogans. “I heard her say something about pulling down the thrones of power,” said Terry Ousterman, a Nazareth resident. “She was going on and on about how the rich are going to get what’s coming to them, and how the poor are going to take it all. It’s this kind of class-warfare that’s ruined our country,” said Ousterman.

When asked if the Treason and Sedition charges (which, if convicted, can carry the death penalty) are too extreme considering her age, Federal Prosecutors said, “It’s hard, we know. But these poisonous sentiments cannot be allowed to destroy our nation.”

The young woman herself has declined to comment on the charges, but has asked for special medical consideration during her incarceration as she is pregnant.

Her next court hearing has been scheduled for Dec. 6.


(Luke 1: 46 – 56)

Through Shadow and Fog

Apparition

Our Lady of Perpetual Probation

Mother Mary Comes to Me

When I find myself in times of trouble...

The Angel Gabriel’s Sexist Double Standard

The angel Gabriel from Heaven came, his wings as drifted snow, his eyes of flame–and told the old priest, Zechariah, that he and his wife, Elizabeth (also getting on in years) would soon have a son. Zechariah was incredulous–and, for his lack of faith, was struck mute, unable to speak until the baby was born.

The angel Gabriel from heaven came, to visit the young virgin Mary also. “All hail,” said he, “thou lowly maiden Mary.”  He told her also that she would soon give birth to a son.  Mary was incredulous–but allowed to speak and sing without restraint.

 Luke 1: 8 - 20; 26 - 38
(with quotations from "Gabriel's Message")

Singing Christmas Carols for the Revolution - An Advent Sermon

For someone who every year around this time says to anyone who will listen, “I don’t like Christmas!” I have a lot of Christmas music in my collection. It’s almost embarrassing. I have Christmas music of nearly every imaginary style and variety: classical, folk, rock, dance, swing, punk, country, rap, hip-hop, blues, bluegrass, gospel... I have Christmas music sung in English, Spanish, French, German, Russian, and …I have sentimental Christmas music, humorous Christmas music, and angry Christmas music. Lullabies, symphonies, chants, hymns, ballads… Christmas music played on guitars, pianos, hand bells, computers … One might begin to suspect that my professed disdain for the holiday is a bit of hyperbolic affectation – an exaggeration.

And maybe it is. Maybe there is somewhere in my two-sizes-two-small heart, hiding behind the piles of unwashed socks a warm and glowing appreciation, a fondness, even, for the holiday. Especially for the music. But before we get all lovey-dovey and start standing around “heart to heart, and hand in hand” to sing down in Whoville (Geisel), let make this very clear. Even if I do have an extensive collection of Christmas music, I think that most Christmas music is meaningless fluff at best–and garbage at worst.

Science fiction author Theodore Sturgeon used to say that 90% of science fiction is crap. But, he continued, that doesn’t really tell us much about science fiction as a genre because 90% of everything is crap. The same is true of Christmas music. There’s a lot fluff, and noise, and silliness, and–yes- crap that could be forgotten and we’d all be better off.

If those winter songs–like “Jingle Bells” and “Over the River and through the Woods” and “Walking in a Winter Wonderland," which are not specifically about the Christmas holiday–were to disappear, I wouldn’t miss them. I don’t dislike them, exactly, but they don’t add anything meaningful to my appreciation of the Christmas holiday. I wouldn’t miss them if they were gone.

If I never heard another song about Santa Claus, flying reindeer, and magic snowmen ever again I wouldn’t feel the slightest twinge of sadness. “Up on the Rooftop,” and “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and "Frosty the Snowman,” are all but unnecessary. Throw them out.

And if those overly sentimental, sappy, saccharine, emotionally manipulative songs like “Christmas Shoes,” and “Billy’s Christmas Wish,” were miraculously removed from humanity's collective conscience and memory, I would give eternal praises to God Most High.

I’d cut out all the wassailing songs, and the biblically inaccurate songs – “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In” would be on the chopping block. How exactly are those thee ships going to come sailing into Bethlehem which is not on any body of water? I’d toss out that beloved carol, “Away in a Manger” because I’ve always disliked the line “no crying he makes.” Seriously? A newborn baby in a room crowded with people and animals awakened in the middle of the night and he’s not bawling? Out it goes.

“But, but, but…” I can see the objections forming, I can already hear the complaints. You’ll say I’ve gone too far. That I’m throwing out the baby (the baby Jesus!) with the bathwater. Maybe I’m exaggerating again. Maybe I am speaking in hyperbole, because even if I were allowed to scissor out all those songs that I don’t like or appreciate, there are Advent / Christmas songs that I would fight – fight – to keep. I would keep the profound carols, the True-with-a-capital-T songs, the revolutionary and subversive Christmas songs.

We don’t often recognize the transformative power of Christmas music, or the subversive nature of some our carols – probably because we’ve buried them under an avalanche of songs about curly head dolls ("Santa Claus Is Coming to Town") and Christmas Hippopotamuses. But these are powerful songs that deserve our attention; they are Christmas carols of the revolution.

Music, done right, is potent and dangerous. Music makes people in positions of power and authority nervous. The American supported military dictator of Chile from 1973 – 1990, Augusto Pinochet, had the folk singer Víctor Jara arrested because of his music. Jara was one of the first of many, many thousands who were arrested, tortured, and imprisoned by Pinochet’s government. Jara was arrested and tortured–his hands were crushed so that he couldn’t play the guitar any more. He was finally executed, shot and killed–because his songs were subversive. His music threatened those in power.

One of the last songs he wrote and recorded was “Vientos del Pueblo” (Winds of the People):

“Now I want to live
together with my child and brother,
in the new world that all of us
are building day by day.
Your threats do not intimidate me,
you masters of misery.
The star of hope
will continue to be ours.” (Jara)

Last week I quoted from the song “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day”  with those striking lines: “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep, God is not dead nor doth he sleep; the wrong shall fail and right prevail, with peace on earth, goodwill to men!”  (Longfellow)

This is powerful stuff. This is revolutionary, if we will hear it.

I think also of the French carol, “O Holy Night” usually reserved for the soloist to make it a ‘special’ performance piece. But it is a song of social justice and revolution:

“Truly he taught us to love one another,
his law is love and his gospel is peace.
Chains shall he break for the slave is our brother
and in his name all oppression shall cease.”
(Cappeau)

This is an insurrectionary song. This is a song of protest and power. Or how about this all but forgotten song – “Masters in This Hall”?

“Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell sing we clear,
holpen are all the folk on earth,
born is God’s son so dear.
Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell sing we loud,
God today hath poor folk raised
and cast a-down the proud.”
(Morris)

This is revolutionary. This is dangerous. And political! But it’s absolutely biblical.

Earlier we read Mary’s song from the gospel of Luke (1: 46 – 55) and we sang two different versions of it: “Canticle of the Turning” (Cooney) and “My Soul Gives Glory (Magnificat)” (Mueller). It is (in nearly any version) my favorite of all Christmas songs.

And Mary said,

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.

His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever.”
(Luke 1: 46 – 55 NRSV)

In her song, Mary celebrates not just (not even primarily) the spiritual aspects of the salvation that came to the world in that first Christmas. Her song is an exuberant celebration of the material salvation of the poor and lowly ones – it is a celebration of political revolution where tyrant kings are overthrown the wealth of the richest citizens is redistributed to the poor.

This song, if it were really being read, and sung, and heard, would spark outrage in our churches. Wealth redistribution? Political revolution? These are not the Christian Christmas values we’re accustomed to singing about. Give us Silent Night lullabies and songs about shepherds in the fields (though those songs would unsettle us as well, if we paid attention to them.) Give us songs about Santa and going home for Christmas. We are uncomfortable with Christmas protest songs.

Mary’s Magnificat (so called because of the first line in the Latin translation, “Magníficat ánima mea Dóminum.”) is a rejection of the very things our culture, our country, our world desires: her song is a rejection of wealth and power. It is a rejection of war and empire and conquest. It is a rejection of political rule by sword, and rifle, and jet fighter. It is the overthrow of economic systems guided by principles of greed and self-interest. Mary’s Magnificat is a revolutionary Christmas carol.

Ernest Cardenal, in his collection of comments on Gospel passages by members of the peasant community in Solentiname, Nicaragua, records the following exchange during a discussion of Mary’s Magnificat:

“I asked what they thought Herod would have said if he had known that a woman of the people had song that God had pulled down the mighty and raised up the humble, filed the hungry with good things and let the rich with nothing.

“Natalia laughed and said: ‘He’d say she was crazy.’

Rosita: ‘That she was a communist.’”
(Brown 85)

God’s inclination towards the poor, expressed in Mary’s song, is not isolated to this particular passage; a divine preference for the poor and oppressed runs through the entirety of scripture. (Guitierrez 275) But we very often soften this focus. We hide this message under a pile of worn Christmas platitudes and warm nostalgic feelings. But Mary’s song snaps us back to the biblical message. The Lord hears the cry of the poor.

“I will bless the Lord at all times.
His praise ever in my mouth.
Let my soul glory in the Lord
for he hears the cry of the poor.”
(Foley)

If our Christmas is centered in Santa Claus, and gifts, and nostalgia, if we are singing only of beautiful snow falls, and wassailing, and precocious little drummer boys, if we are not singing songs of revolution and justice for the poor and the oppressed, then we have completely missed the reason for the season. Do we want to, as the slogan says, “Keep Christ in Christmas”? Then our Christmas should be about lifting up the poor and feeding the hungry. Our Christmas should be about bringing down tyrannical powers and toppling corrupt economic structures. Our Christmas should be about making peace and putting an end to war.

The first shall be last and the last shall be first, the lowly lifted up and the high and mighty brought down. The poor will be filled with good things and the rich sent away empty.  

This is Christmas! Merry Christmas, and Viva la revolución!

 

Brown, Robert McAfee. Unexpected News: Reading the Bible with Third World Eyes.

Philadelphia, PA: The Westminster Press. 1984.

Cappeau, Placide. “Cantique de Noel (O Holy Night)” Translated John S. Dwight.

Cooney, Rory. “Canticle of the Turning.”

Foley, John B. “The Lord Hears the Cry of the Poor.”

Geisel, Theodore, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Random House. 1957.

Gutierrez, Gustavo. Sharing the Word through the Liturgical Year. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. 1977.

Jara, Joan. "Without Knowing the End." Victor:An Unfinished Song. History Is a Weapon. Web. 

Longfellow, Henry Wordsworth. “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

Morris, William. “Masters in this Hall” ca. 1860.

Mueller, J.T. “My Soul Gives Glory to the Lord.” 

There Were No Innkeepers in the Story (A Christmas Counting Song)

The other day I had a bit of an ear-worm: the song "Five Green and Speckled Frogs," for whatever reason, lodged itself in my brain and would not go away. Over and over and over again it played in my mind. So, in an attempt to drive it away, I wrote my own little children's counting song to be sung at Christmas.

You are welcome to it.

There Were No Innkeepers in the Story (a Christmas Counting Song)

This song is included on the O, Christmas Trees: Volume T(h)ree collection. It's an eclectic collection of traditional, offbeat, maudlin, humorous, and original Christmas music, and well worth the free download. (And I don't say that just because my song is in it.)

Nativity (Rembrandt Lighting)

Last night I attempted something like Rembrandt lighting for a still life photograph with some nativity figurines.

Stained Glass Window

This window can be seen in the Basilica of Saint Mary in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Stained Glasss Window by Jeff Carter on 500px

The Basilica of Saint Mary (Minneapolis)

Our family is taking a few days away from home.  We're in Minneapolis to visit some family and old friends.  While here, we visited the Basilica of Saint Mary - "America's First Basilica."  Work began on the cathedral in 1907. The exterior was completed in 1914. Interior work was delayed by World War I, but finally completed in 1926.

The Basilica of Saint Mary by Jeff Carter on 500px

The Eyes of the Madonna and Child

I photographed a reproduction of Carlo Crivelli's painting Madonna and Child using a DIY macro attachment and a multi-faceted filter.

My wife just says it's creepy...

Praise the Lord, Ye Dragons

I raided my son's collection of action figures to set up one of those kitschy pop culture / superhero nativity sets, but then I had a better idea. I returned (most of) my son's figures - all except the dragons, and borrowed my wife's Fontanini figurines to recreate an event the occurred during the holy family's flight to Egypt, according to the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew, anyway.

From The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew:

And, lo, suddenly there came forth from the cave many dragons; and when the children saw them, they cried out in great terror. Then Jesus went down from the bosom of His mother, and stood on His feet before the dragons; and they adored Jesus, and thereafter retired. Then was fulfilled that which was said by David the prophet, saying: Praise the Lord from the earth, ye dragons; ye dragons, and all ye deeps. And the young child Jesus, walking before them, commanded them to hurt no man. But Mary and Joseph were very much afraid lest the child should be hurt by the dragons. And Jesus said to them: Do not be afraid, and do not consider me to be a little child; for I am and always have been perfect; and all the beasts of the forest must needs be tame before me.