I like Epiphany. After Advent, it's my very favorite season. Unlike Advent, though, or even Christmas, or Lent, it is a variable-length season of four to nine Sundays between the date of Epiphany itself (January 6) and the beginning of Lent, which, this year, is March 30, ensuring a long Epiphany season. It celebrates the coming of the Magi to the Christ Child on the day and the manifestation of God in human flesh, the light lf Christ coming into the world throughout the season.
For me, a sad part of Epiphany is the darkening of the Christmas lights that made the December nights brighter and more hopeful. I admit to being a sucker for Christmas lights, even though I don't put any on my own house. Luckily, I have a neighbor who throws herself into the season whole-heartedly and decorates enough for both of us. They have been taken down now and put away for the next eleven months, but here and there on my way to work are still the odd houses with lights glowing. Without those little points of light, life seems a bit bleaker.
I don't have any studies to prove it, but my personal theory is that it is easier to be depressed in January than in just about any other month. People may argue for December because Christmas without all the trimmings (and the people) can be a lonely affair, but, at least in my eyes, the thought of a new year is like a stretch of Route 66 that was as straight as an arrow and went on for what seemed like half a million miles with absolutely nothing much in the way of scenery and the mountains that loomed in the distance never seeming to get any closer. It's easy to get depressed in January; all the parties and whoop-de-doo of Christmas are over, tax season approacheth, it's still winter and the turning of the calendar is a reminder that change is coming, whether we want it to or not. Babies will be born, elders (and often much beloved elders) will die, the economy and the state of the nation and the world will continue to wobble like an egg rolling downhill, and the heroes we raise today will be found tomorrow to have feet of very real clay.
But then there's Epiphany, the season. It's the spark of light that reminds us that just as everything has an ending, new things come along to engage us. Epiphanies are also sudden insights and flashes of Godlight that are like the V-8 commercial. They smack a person in the forehead. It's looking at something seemingly ordinary and plain and suddenly having the lenses change and the thing appears in a whole new light, a whole different way, a 180° turn. It's an idea that wasn't there a second ago but suddenly rocks a personal world with its suddenness and (potential) brilliance. It's seeing that homeless person hunched over a formerly abandoned grocery cart filled with bags and boxes that contain every single thing they own and suddenly seeing nail marks in their hands or a circlet of thorns instead of a watch cap on their heads. Things like that can happen all year but Epiphany is a reminder to be on the lookout for those new insights and changes of perspective.
The nights of the Epiphany season are still dark and cold but the nights are getting shorter, day by day, minute by minute. The green vestments and hangings of the church remind us that spring will be here -- whether sooner or later, it will come. We have celebrated the manifestation of God among us, but we can also carry the spark of new fire, new light, new hope and new insights. All we have to do is look.
Originally published at Daily Episcopalian at Episcopal Café Thursday, February 6, 2014, under the title "Epiphany: a season of endings and beginnings"
Showing posts with label Epiphany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Epiphany. Show all posts
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Strength, Faith and Life Preservers
Dear Abba,
I know I said I was going to try to write more this Epiphany, but sometimes the best laid plans -- well, you know that reference. Anyway, today I did have something I wanted to talk over with you about an epiphany of sorts I had.
The other morning I was driving to work. It was still dark, it was really, really cold and I'd struggled with another night of broken sleep. I remember thinking that it's been nearly five years since my husband's death, and I'm still here, still functioning, still maintaining a roof over my head (and a home for the boys--and Phoebe), and, despite some rather unexpected and life-altering diagnoses in the past year, I'm still upright and not really depressed or melancholy about the whole thing. I have my moments when things seem to be almost too much to deal with, but so far I've been able to work through it with a little (hell, make that a lot) of help from my friends and what I devoutly hope is a mature but not ostentatious faith.
The thought that stuck with me was that I am a stronger person than I thought I was. I've grown into it, in a manner of speaking, and, Lord knows, it's taken me long enough. The old saying that "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" seems to be the case for me. I am surprised to have gotten through a lot of changes and shifts and growth spurts, and when I look back at where I was, I can recognize that I'm a stronger person than I thought I could be. My faith seems stronger too, but then I wonder, is my faith stronger because I am stronger, or am I stronger because my faith is?
Somehow I got to thinking about faith and life preservers. Someone in the water can hang on to a life preserver for quite a while but sooner or later, through intent or circumstance, they will have to let go and either sink or swim on their own merits (or get rescued by someone in a very convenient boat). Even so, to get in the boat would still require letting go of the life preserver. Now is faith the life preserver that holds the person up, or is it the ability to let go of the life preserver and reach for the boat?
I don't think I have a fatalistic faith, the kind that would say that you're in charge of whatever happens, and whatever happens does so for a reason and mine is not to question why but to work through it with faith. I don't think you punish me for messing up, nor do I think you put things in my path to make me stumble and learn what it is to fall. I think I have a purpose in life, but I don't seem to be able to determine precisely what that purpose is. I do know, however, that I am more accepting that I don't have all the answers, I can't do things all by myself, and I have to rely on you to keep an eye on me and be there for me both when I'm standing tall or when I'm about to crawl on the floor. I don't think I have to understand everything; I can leave that to you with no problem. I don't even have to understand much other than that actions have consequences, and I have to pay the consequences when I screw up. I accept that because I think that is the way it is supposed to be.
Jesus was scornful of those about whom he said, "Oh ye of little faith." Somehow the Greek, ὀλιγόπιστος (oligopistos), "of little faith," has a bit more kick to it than the English translation. The point is that the phrase Jesus used indicated that most of those folks were still hanging on to the life preserver (or, like the disciples other than Peter, staying firmly in the boat). I have to stop and think -- would I get out of the boat and try go walk on water or would I stay in the gunwales, knowing I would probably sink like a rock if I did try getting out? How strong is my faith, and how much is my faith based on my perception of my own strength? How much can I trust you? Having trust for and having trust in seem to be worlds apart. I trust you -- but how much do I have trust IN you? Am I just talking semantics or is there really something there?
Society says I should be this way or that way, depending on my condition in life. As a widow, I'm supposed to be a bit sorrowful, but able to get on with life alone. As a cancer patient, I'm supposed to be frightened and unsure (which, I admit, I am sometimes) of the future and what it holds (which I do question sometimes). As a woman, I'm supposed to have to either be ballsy enough to do things that women traditionally aren't supposed to have to do (like be the breadwinner of a family, even if that family consists of cats!) and do it relatively successfully or be reverential and deferent to the male of the species as the stronger who can do things I can't. I don't live in a house with an alarm system and/or umpteen locks on the door like some ladies of my acquaintance. I am not vain about my appearance; I dress for comfort rather than fashion, and I admit my favorite couturier is Wal-Mart (because I can afford their clothes). Society would look at me as a somewhat lesser success simply because I don't spend hours at the gym doing exercises to make me look fitter, hours at the salons and spas to make me look better, take botox treatments, color my hair or even care if I put on my prostheses or not most of the time. I am a success in their eyes only because I am not totally dependent on social programs and do pay my taxes. Beyond that, I'm not a social success, but that's okay with me. A lot of what society sees as success is what I see as more false than the prosthetics I have. But what I have that they maybe don't see (or don't care about) is that I get up every morning, go to work, take care of myself and the boys (and Phoebe), and then do it all again the next day, whether I want to or not. That's a kind of success in my book.
And what they don't see is that I write about what is important to me, like life and faith and theology and that kind of stuff. I write to try to come to an understanding of what I believe, where I got that belief, why I believe and how it impacts my life, which brings me back to the original question I began with, is my faith stronger because I am stronger, or am I stronger because my faith is?
I still don't have an answer, but I think simply being able to ask the question and want to know the answer is an epiphany of sorts. I guess you and I will have to talk about this and other stuff more before I maybe "get it." I definitely don't see my self in the "Oh ye of little faith" camp, but ... I don't know, some might see me in it and most don't give a flip whether I am or not. As for me, I want to know for sure -- I think. Mostly, I just want to know whether I really am on to something or whether I'm just mouthing platitudes and being "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
So there is where I am, still driving in the cold, dark morning of my mind, wondering. Guess I will need to work out an answer eventually -- with a little help (ok, a lot of help) from my friends and, of course, from you. Think that's a possibility?
With much love,
Me
I know I said I was going to try to write more this Epiphany, but sometimes the best laid plans -- well, you know that reference. Anyway, today I did have something I wanted to talk over with you about an epiphany of sorts I had.
The other morning I was driving to work. It was still dark, it was really, really cold and I'd struggled with another night of broken sleep. I remember thinking that it's been nearly five years since my husband's death, and I'm still here, still functioning, still maintaining a roof over my head (and a home for the boys--and Phoebe), and, despite some rather unexpected and life-altering diagnoses in the past year, I'm still upright and not really depressed or melancholy about the whole thing. I have my moments when things seem to be almost too much to deal with, but so far I've been able to work through it with a little (hell, make that a lot) of help from my friends and what I devoutly hope is a mature but not ostentatious faith.
The thought that stuck with me was that I am a stronger person than I thought I was. I've grown into it, in a manner of speaking, and, Lord knows, it's taken me long enough. The old saying that "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" seems to be the case for me. I am surprised to have gotten through a lot of changes and shifts and growth spurts, and when I look back at where I was, I can recognize that I'm a stronger person than I thought I could be. My faith seems stronger too, but then I wonder, is my faith stronger because I am stronger, or am I stronger because my faith is?
Somehow I got to thinking about faith and life preservers. Someone in the water can hang on to a life preserver for quite a while but sooner or later, through intent or circumstance, they will have to let go and either sink or swim on their own merits (or get rescued by someone in a very convenient boat). Even so, to get in the boat would still require letting go of the life preserver. Now is faith the life preserver that holds the person up, or is it the ability to let go of the life preserver and reach for the boat?
I don't think I have a fatalistic faith, the kind that would say that you're in charge of whatever happens, and whatever happens does so for a reason and mine is not to question why but to work through it with faith. I don't think you punish me for messing up, nor do I think you put things in my path to make me stumble and learn what it is to fall. I think I have a purpose in life, but I don't seem to be able to determine precisely what that purpose is. I do know, however, that I am more accepting that I don't have all the answers, I can't do things all by myself, and I have to rely on you to keep an eye on me and be there for me both when I'm standing tall or when I'm about to crawl on the floor. I don't think I have to understand everything; I can leave that to you with no problem. I don't even have to understand much other than that actions have consequences, and I have to pay the consequences when I screw up. I accept that because I think that is the way it is supposed to be.
Jesus was scornful of those about whom he said, "Oh ye of little faith." Somehow the Greek, ὀλιγόπιστος (oligopistos), "of little faith," has a bit more kick to it than the English translation. The point is that the phrase Jesus used indicated that most of those folks were still hanging on to the life preserver (or, like the disciples other than Peter, staying firmly in the boat). I have to stop and think -- would I get out of the boat and try go walk on water or would I stay in the gunwales, knowing I would probably sink like a rock if I did try getting out? How strong is my faith, and how much is my faith based on my perception of my own strength? How much can I trust you? Having trust for and having trust in seem to be worlds apart. I trust you -- but how much do I have trust IN you? Am I just talking semantics or is there really something there?
Society says I should be this way or that way, depending on my condition in life. As a widow, I'm supposed to be a bit sorrowful, but able to get on with life alone. As a cancer patient, I'm supposed to be frightened and unsure (which, I admit, I am sometimes) of the future and what it holds (which I do question sometimes). As a woman, I'm supposed to have to either be ballsy enough to do things that women traditionally aren't supposed to have to do (like be the breadwinner of a family, even if that family consists of cats!) and do it relatively successfully or be reverential and deferent to the male of the species as the stronger who can do things I can't. I don't live in a house with an alarm system and/or umpteen locks on the door like some ladies of my acquaintance. I am not vain about my appearance; I dress for comfort rather than fashion, and I admit my favorite couturier is Wal-Mart (because I can afford their clothes). Society would look at me as a somewhat lesser success simply because I don't spend hours at the gym doing exercises to make me look fitter, hours at the salons and spas to make me look better, take botox treatments, color my hair or even care if I put on my prostheses or not most of the time. I am a success in their eyes only because I am not totally dependent on social programs and do pay my taxes. Beyond that, I'm not a social success, but that's okay with me. A lot of what society sees as success is what I see as more false than the prosthetics I have. But what I have that they maybe don't see (or don't care about) is that I get up every morning, go to work, take care of myself and the boys (and Phoebe), and then do it all again the next day, whether I want to or not. That's a kind of success in my book.
And what they don't see is that I write about what is important to me, like life and faith and theology and that kind of stuff. I write to try to come to an understanding of what I believe, where I got that belief, why I believe and how it impacts my life, which brings me back to the original question I began with, is my faith stronger because I am stronger, or am I stronger because my faith is?
I still don't have an answer, but I think simply being able to ask the question and want to know the answer is an epiphany of sorts. I guess you and I will have to talk about this and other stuff more before I maybe "get it." I definitely don't see my self in the "Oh ye of little faith" camp, but ... I don't know, some might see me in it and most don't give a flip whether I am or not. As for me, I want to know for sure -- I think. Mostly, I just want to know whether I really am on to something or whether I'm just mouthing platitudes and being "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
So there is where I am, still driving in the cold, dark morning of my mind, wondering. Guess I will need to work out an answer eventually -- with a little help (ok, a lot of help) from my friends and, of course, from you. Think that's a possibility?
With much love,
Me
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