On this Christmas Eve, we reflect on the gospel of St. John. To summarize its essential message, we could say:
“The Word that was in the beginning, was with God, and was God, became flesh and lived among us.” This leads us to an important question: “What is this Word?” Before we quickly answer “Jesus,” let’s pause and think a bit deeper. In church, the answers to most questions are probably 95% Jesus and 5% Holy Spirit, but the original Greek term for "Word" is logos. I shared some of the history and meaning of logos in my sermon on December 31, 2023. I’m sure you all have excellent memories—does anyone recall what we discussed and care to share? Of course, we won’t go there. To briefly summarize: the term logos dates back to the 6th and 3rd centuries BCE. “Logos refers to both the rational principle that governs the universe and the faculty of reason within individuals, often equated with nature, Providence, or God. In Stoic philosophy, logos also manifests physically as pneuma, the “vital breath,” a life force that animates all living beings and even holds inanimate objects together. As poet Dylan Thomas beautifully phrased it, logos is ‘the force that through the green fuse drives the flower.’”(Paraphrased from Gregory Hays’s instruduction in Meditations: A new translation) St. John intentionally uses the term logos, or Word, to capture something greater than anything that exists in the world. It is the fundamental essence that is eternal, giving life to all beings. Given this, it’s likely that John was familiar with the Stoic use of logos as pneuma, which translates the Hebrew term ruah—a word meaning "spirit" or "breath." So far, we’ve touched on four key terms: Word, logos, pneuma, and ruah—each from English, Greek, and Hebrew. Returning to our original question: What is the Word? This seemingly simple yet profound question reminds me of a Zen koan. For those unfamiliar, a koan is a paradoxical riddle or anecdote used in Zen Buddhism to demonstrate the limits of logical reasoning and to provoke spiritual awakening. One famous example is: “Show me your original face before you were born.” In a similar way, the question "What is the Word?" could be rephrased as "What is the sound before any word was spoken?" This Christian koan, now enriched by our reflection on logos, invites us to explore the mystery of the Word in a deeper, more contemplative way. The Word we’re pondering may not be a literal word, but that which is alive, real, animating. So, how would we respond to this koan, "What is the sound before any word was spoken?" And one more question: "How do we hear that sound?" Moses, I think, heard it (Exodus 3:13-15). He listened to it at the scene of the burning bush. We are given a narrative form revised and redacted from the Book of Exodus. Also, the version we are aware of comes through translation, another form of interpretation. At the burning bush, which was not consumed in his contemplation, Moses heard that sound. In deep silence and stillness, he listened. The only sound in that concentrated moment of quietude was his breath. Breathing in and out. The divine dance of in and out flowing through all the pores of his body. That effable sound of the breath, he writes as YHWH. This would be the sound before any word is spoken. That would be the Word: logos, pneuma, ruah. This Word is the breath God breathed into the nostrils of Adam after forming him from the dust of the ground (Genesis 2:7). This same breath is the very last breath of Jesus on the cross: "Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last" (Mark 15:37; Matthew 27:50). And this breath is the same breath that the risen Christ breathed on the disciples, saying, "Receive the Holy Spirit" (John 20:22). First Breath Last Breath by Antler When a baby boy is born and the midwife holds him up as he takes his first breath, Place him over the Mother’s face so when the baby exhales his first breath on Earth the Mother breathes it. And when the Mother dies, her middle-aged son the baby grew up to be -- by her side, his head next to her head -- Follows her breathing with his breath as it becomes shorter, and as the dying Mother exhales her last breath her son inhales it. The first breath is the birth itself. On this day, we remember and celebrate the Word, the breath that birthed Jesus. This birth, this first breath, is still with us and in us, the Word becoming very flesh in our body in a literal and biological sense, symbolized by Baby Jesus. The breath Baby Jesus took is the same breath we are breathing in and out, in and out. The Word continues to become flesh in the body of Christ, in you, me, and us. This Word thus is a verb, an activity. Mary Oliver, in writing metrical poetry, says it is about breath: “Breath as an intake and a flow. Breath as a pattern. Breath as an indicator, perhaps the most vital one, of mood. Breath as our own personal tie with all the rhythms of the natural world, of which we are a part, from which we can never break apart while we live. Breath as our first language...It is as good as a language. We sigh, We pant. We reveal ourselves.” (Rules for the Dance, p. 3) Every time we greet one another with "Merry Christmas," can we honor the breath we’re taking in and out? It’s the same breath Baby Jesus took for the first time as soon as he was born. It’s the same breath Jesus breathed for the last time on the cross. It’s also the same breath he breathed upon his friends. The Breath of God is within us, the true grace of the Incarnation—the Word becoming flesh in you, me, and all of us, through you, me, and all of us. For this fourth Sunday of Advent, I invite us to read silently and then recite aloud the poem Annunciation by Scott Cairns. Here's the link where Malcomb Guite reads the poem:
https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2016/12/04/annunciation-by-scott-cairns-2/ Annunciation by Scott Cairns Deep within the clay, and O my people very deep within the wholly earthen compound of our kind arrives of one clear, star-illumined evening a spark igniting once again the tinder of our lately banked noetic fire. She burns but she is not consumed. The dew lights gently, suffusing the pure fleece. The wall comes down. And – do you feel the pulse? – we all become the kindled kindred of a King whose birth thereafter bears to all a bright nativity. “Deep within the clay…the wholly earthen compound of our kind” takes us back to the essence of being human. It recalls the scene in Genesis: “...then the LORD God formed man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being.” (Genesis 2:7) Malcolm Guite offers insight into the key verb ‘arrives’ from the poem’s first sentence. He writes, “Advent is a season that looks for a coming, for an arrival, and ‘arrives,’ in that present continuous tense, sees its fulfillment. And what arrives is ‘a spark igniting once again.’ The Incarnation, which begins with this annunciation to Mary, is about arriving once again at the place where we started—the whole, good, original blessing of that Genesis moment, evoked by the poem’s opening.” (Waiting on the Word, p. 20) This poem beautifully leads us into today's Gospel lesson, which gives us the original context for the Hail Mary prayer. These words are taken from Elizabeth, the mother of St. John the Baptist: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” While this prayer is traditionally directed to Mary, seeking her intercession, it holds a deeper meaning that reveals the mystery of Jesus’s coming. But it also extends to each of us. Mary embodies what it means to be a Christian—bearing God’s presence within. Rather than viewing Mary as the only bearer of God—Theotokos—we might consider this a call for all of us to carry God’s presence within. We, too, bear the breath of God and feel that divine pulse within us. Like Mary in the poem, and like the Burning Bush, we burn with God's presence but are not consumed. St. John the Baptist is eager to prepare the hearts and minds of those seeking baptism. He rebukes them sharply: “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance.” His message is clear—the transformation of the heart must come before baptism. Baptism is a lifelong commitment to living out the presence of God within. Yet the crowd, not fully understanding, asks in confusion, “What then should we do?”
For us, it’s worth reflecting on how St. John is able to guide the crowd so effectively. His teaching empowers them to bear fruits worthy of repentance. These actions are skillful in two important ways. First, they help the crowd themselves cultivate lasting happiness. Second, they serve those in need in the most practical sense, adding to the well-being of others. I’d like to share Langston Hughes’s I Look at the World. This poem echoes St. John’s message, as it might be expressed in our time: I look at the world by Langston Hughes I look at the world From awakening eyes in a black face-- And this is what I see: This fenced-off narrow space Assigned to me. I look then at the silly walls Through dark eyes in a dark face-- And this is what I know: That all these walls oppression builds Will have to go! I look at my own body With eyes no longer blind-- And I see that my own hands can make The world that's in my mind. Then let us hurry, comrades, The road to find. St. John’s powerful teaching leaves the crowd in confusion. Could he be the prophesied Messiah? His response is clear: “No.” While he directs them to Jesus of Nazareth, his words are not an act of false humility. The 13th-century mystic Mechthild of Magdeburg beautifully captures St. John’s deep longing for Jesus—made even more intense by His absence—and the beauty and fruit that arise from true humility. God’s Absence by Mechthild of Magdeburg Ah blessed absence of God, How lovingly I am bound to you! You strengthen my will in its pain And make dear to me The long hard wait in my poor body. The nearer I come to you, The more wonderfully and abundantly God comes upon me, In pride, alas, I can easily lose you, But in the depths of pure humility, O Lord, I cannot fall away from you. For the deeper I fall, the sweeter you taste. On this second Sunday of Advent, we reflect on Robert Hayden’s poem, Those Winter Sundays. You can hear Malcomb Guite read it on https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2022/12/05/those-winter-sundays-by-robert-hayden-8/.
Before reading the poem silently and reciting it aloud, it’s helpful to consider Robert Hayden’s background. In his introduction to the poem, Malcolm Guite writes: "Robert Hayden (1913-80) was raised in an impoverished household in an African-American district, where his father earned a pittance as a manual laborer. His childhood was difficult, marked by the tension of a failing marriage and the suppressed anger that often accompanies oppression. Hayden refers to this when he writes of ‘fearing the chronic angers of that house.’ This is no cozy, nostalgic romanticizing of poverty, as seen in Hovis television adverts. It is precisely because of this honesty that we can trust the depth and reality of the hidden, practical love to which this poem bears witness, in spite of everything." (Waiting on the Word, pp. 22-23) Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices? St. John the Baptist is called to prepare the way for the presence of God within. This is the same message that Jesus of Nazareth both teaches and embodies. While St. John and Jesus share this message, St. John’s role is one of preparation, much like the father in Hayden’s poem. It is the work of “love’s austere and lonely offices.” Jesus then takes up this same work of “love’s austere and lonely offices,” with hands cracked and pierced on the cross. We can think about people in our lives who had driven out the cold and thank them, as we take up the mantle of love’s austere and lonely offices, daring to face the chronic angers of the world. In today’s Gospel lesson, on this first Sunday of Advent, Jesus urges his followers to remain vigilant and alert in anticipation of the coming of the Kingdom of God. It’s important to remember that the Kingdom of God—central to Jesus’s good news—is not separate from the coming of the Son of Man. While Advent often focuses on preparing for the celebration of Jesus’s birth, that’s not the true point. Christmas is not simply about marking his birthday; rather, it signifies the coming of God's presence within us.
Jesus not only proclaimed this message but embodied it, showing us what it means to live in the presence of God. He didn't just speak of God’s presence—he lived it, birthed it, and breathed it. The breath, strictly biological, becomes the path to this inner presence, making it truly incarnational. So, we are called to stay alert, mindful, and attentive to our breath in moments of silence and contemplation. As part of our Advent observance, over the next four Sundays, we will read, recite, and reflect on four poems. These selections come from Malcolm Guite’s Waiting on the Word: A Poem a day for Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany. You can hear Guite reading the poem on https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2020/11/29/advent-sundaychristina-rossetti-5/ I hope you hear Jesus speaking through the words of Christina Rossetti, as she urges us to "unveil," like Rebekah, the hidden breath of God within, and to "triumph," like Esther, in the presence of Christ. I invite you to first read the poem silently, and then recite it aloud, listening for the rhythms that may dance with your breath. Advent Sunday by Christina Rossetti Behold, the Bridegroom cometh: go ye out With lighted lamps and garlands round about To meet Him in a rapture with a shout. It may be at the midnight, black as pitch, Earth shall cast up her poor, cast up her rich. It may be at the crowing of the cock Earth shall upheave her depth, uproot her rock. For lo, the Bridegroom fetcheth home the Bride: His Hands are Hands she knows, she knows His Side. Like pure Rebekah at the appointed place, Veiled, she unveils her face to meet His Face. Like great Queen Esther in her triumphing, She triumphs in the Presence of her King. His Eyes are as a Dove’s, and she’s Dove-eyed; He knows His lovely mirror, sister, Bride. He speaks with Dove-voice of exceeding love, And she with love-voice of an answering Dove. Behold, the Bridegroom cometh: go we out With lamps ablaze and garlands round about To meet Him in a rapture with a shout. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
January 2025
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