Author Archive

January 29th

Steve Jungkeit
The First Congregational Church of Old Lyme
Texts: Matthew 5: 13-16; 2 Corinthians 4: 1-12
January 29, 2017

To Risk Delight

            Here’s a poem that I’ve been sharing at our board and committee meetings recently.  It’s called “A Brief for the Defense,” by a poet named Jack Gilbert.  When I introduce it, I warn that it’s dark in tone, but that it has insights and wisdom that speak to our needs right about now.  And I’ll offer the same introduction to all of you.  This is a poem for troubled times, but I happen to know from conversations I’ve had that more than a few of you feel troubled down to your bones right about now.  Even so, there’s wisdom here, and I think it’s important to reflect on Jack Gilbert’s wisdom, especially on the day of our annual meeting, when we reflect on where we’ve been this past year, and anticipate what might yet be required of us in the coming year.  And so without further introduction, here’s “A Brief for the Defense.” 


Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies

are not starving someplace, they are starving

somewhere else.

But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.

Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not

be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not

be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women

at the fountain are laughing together between

the suffering they have known and the awfulness

in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody

in the village is very sick. There is laughter

every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,

and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.

If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,

we lessen the importance of their deprivation.

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,

but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have

the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless

furnace of this world. To make injustice the only

measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.

If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,

we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.

We must admit there will be music despite everything.

We stand at the prow again of a small ship

anchored late at night in the tiny port

looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront

is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.

To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat

comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth

all the years of sorrow that may yet come.


            I’ve come back to Jack Gilbert’s words again and again for the wisdom embedded in several lines.  Here are a few: we must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world.  We must admit there will be music, despite everything.  There is laughter everyday in the terrible streets of Calcutta.  To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.  But above all, I return to the line: We must risk delight.  That may sound counterintuitive.  It might sound like a middle class justification for fiddling, while Rome burns.  It might strike you as irresponsible, or decadent.  Even so, what I have to offer you this morning is the admonition to risk delight, even in the furnace of the world.

            Before risking delight, however, I’d like to risk an affirmation.  I’m aware that we’re a diverse congregation, composed of differing points of view.  I’m aware that for some of you, the pronouncements rolling out of Washington aren’t especially alarming, and are simply part of the cycle of change and transition that we all need to adjust to.  I’m also aware that for many within our community, executive actions and pronouncements having to do with border walls, immigrants, refugees, religious discrimination, women’s reproductive rights and the environment have been the cause of enormous emotional anguish, to say nothing of fear and vulnerability.  I do recognize that as a community, we are diverse in our composition, made up of numerous, and sometimes competing points of view.  That’s all true. 

But I also believe that as people of faith, we possess core values that unite us, what the Apostle Paul called treasures contained in clay pots.  We possess treasures, you and I, that should not be forgotten, diminished, or neglected.  One such treasure that unites us is a desire to discover, or perhaps to retain, a moral bearing in the world.  We wish to be good, and to do the right thing.  Another such treasure that unites us is this faith that, at root, encourages a spirit of generosity and compassion, hospitality and grace, humility and kindness and truth telling.  This is what the Apostle Paul described as the fruits of the Spirit, which our children are busy learning about downstairs every week.  Those are the sorts of human qualities that we all strive to practice.  Here’s another treasure: we’re united by a faith that places value not only on interpersonal exchanges, but a faith that has a lived social dimension.  To follow Jesus, to belong to the Reformed Tradition, to be a Congregationalist, means that faith isn’t only about a personal relationship with Jesus, although I’m glad if that’s something you have.  It means that we care about social and cultural trends, and participate in shaping, or resisting, those trends as best we’re able.  Another treasure: we’re united by a faith that insists on the goodness of the natural world, a world that, in the earliest stories of the Bible, humans are instructed to care for.  We’re material creatures, embedded within a material world, and that very materiality is to be embraced and cared for – whether that involves caring for bodies or caring for the planet.  Yet another treasure: we’re united by a faith that affirms the sanctity of human life, an affirmation that stretches across religious and national and economic and ethnic and racial and sexual boundaries.  You are God’s beloved child, and so is everyone else, even the bigots, even the religious extremists.  And then this, the most important treasure of all: we’re united by a sense that we’re all of us pursued, called, lured, drawn and invited by a gentle Presence that, despite the furnace of the world, despite the animosity and fear, wishes us well.  We’re united by the affirmation that there is a beating heart within the universe, one that is both broken and playful, somehow upholding and guiding those with eyes to see and ears to hear.  We have these treasures. 

Those are non-negotiable pieces of what it means to follow in the ways of Jesus.  They’re non-negotiable aspects of what it means to be a part of a community of faith.  And so yes, we’re composed of differences, but whether you’re Republican, Democrat, Socialist, moderate, anarchist, or apolitical in your orientation, we are all united by a common faith that affirms that we are all stitched together as God’s beloved children in God’s beloved world, tarnished and sick at heart though it is. 

Those affirmations, those treasures, have profound implications, which I believe are also non-negotiable for people of faith.  It means that we’re called upon to embrace those who are feeling justifiably scared these days.  It means that we’re called upon to listen to our brothers and sisters who are expressing profound anxiety, and not to dismiss it or ignore it.  Our affirmation of faith must, must, extend so that it can be heard by Muslims and people of color, gay and lesbian and bi-sexual and trans folks, women who have endured sexual humiliation or assault, the disabled, and immigrants and refugees.  I believe the values emanating from our faith unite us, and move us to affirm the dignity, worth, sanctity, and belovedness of all those who are feeling a sense of alarm right now.  That’s a non-negotiable cornerstone of our faith, and it pains me that it even requires saying.  But it does.  Even here.

Martin Niemoller was a Lutheran pastor in Germany during the Second World War.  He learned the hard way about the importance of affirmation.  Niemoller became a leading voice of conscience during the Third Reich, though initially he cheered the rise of National Socialism.  But in time, he became disillusioned, leading him to protest, which eventually led to his imprisonment.  He survived, and wound up spending the remainder of his days speaking in favor of pacifism, while also warning about the dangers of nationalism.  But Niemoller is most famous for the words he wrote shortly after his release from prison.  You’ve likely heard them.  They bear repeating, and often.  Niemoller said, “First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out – because I was not a socialist.  Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out – because I was not a trade unionist.  Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out – because I was not a Jew.  Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.”  Throughout his life, Niemoller substituted various groups and populations within his statement.  Sometimes it’s the communists.  Sometimes it’s diseased patients, or the disabled, or those in psychiatric facilities, those deemed to be a drain on society.  Sometimes it’s dissidents in other countries.  You and I, we could substitute our own, couldn’t we: first they detained the refugees on their way to America.  Niemoller’s words remind us to guard against complacency.  They remind us to continue to do the work that we’ve been given to do, work that this church has engaged throughout its 350 years of ministry.  We have these treasures, and we are united by a faith which moves us to affirm our friendship and solidarity with those who are most vulnerable in this ideological climate.  We’ll do so boldly.

So much for affirmation.  Now for delight.  I’m convinced that if we are to retain our moral clarity within the furnace of the world, if we are to retain our humanity and our spirits within a turbulent moment, we’ll need to retain our capacity for delight.  We’ll need to retain our capacity for laughter, even if in Calcutta, even if in the cages of Bombay, even in a benighted moment of history.  Jesus puts it thus: “You’re the salt of the world; if salt loses its flavor, what good is it?”  He says further: “You’re the light of the world; no one lights a lamp and puts it under a bushel.  Let your light shine.”  If I were permitted an addendum to those words, a supplement, I would say: “You are a jalapeno pepper in the world.  You are the spice of life.  You are the hot sauce that brings flavor, zest, punch and kick to the world.  You are the adrenaline rush, the fever, the thrill, the hot sweat that comes from a spicy pepper.  If I were permitted my own commentary on that famous sermon delivered by Jesus, I would say: No need to be dour.  No need to be bland.  No need to be flavorless. You’re the habanero, you’re the zest, you’re the jolt, you’re the buzz.  Paraphrasing Jesus: without flavor, what good are you?  What good are any of us?

Last week I spoke about the need to preserve solitude, but I also think we need to find ways to preserve our delight, and our enjoyment, lest we praise the Devil by worshiping at the altar of injustice.  That can mean a lot of things, but it certainly has to do with embracing the arts.  It’s not a coincidence that there’s talk of eliminating the National Endowment for the Arts.  But as Jack Gilbert’s poem reminds us, we need to recall that “there will be music, despite everything.”  There will be poems, despite everything.  There will be paintings and films and novels, despite everything.  There will be theater, despite everything.  There will be dancing and culinary feasts, despite everything.  One of the most powerful moments of my life was being at a house party with some Palestinian friends not a mile from the Apartheid Wall.  They cooked an incredible feast, and we weren’t there ten minutes before the instruments came out and the singing and dancing began, followed soon by a hooka, and by a strong bottle of something or other.  In the ruthless furnace of the world, our friends knew the importance of creating moments of delight, and enjoyment.  They knew that their own humanity was at stake.  And they used art and music and food to bring themselves together, and to renew their spirits.

We could learn a thing or two from our Palestinian friends, though perhaps in our own idiosyncratic ways.  We’ll need to continue to gather together, the way some of you did last evening over assorted dinners.  We’ll need to affirm professional and amateur artistic expressions around us, like those offered by our choir.  We’ll need to share stories that make us laugh, the way everyone laughed yesterday afternoon in this meetinghouse at Janie Davison’s funeral, when stories of her zest for life were shared.  We’ll need to cherish moments like the one I heard about yesterday.  When Allison Hine took Kamber Hamou, one of our Syrian refugee friends, shopping to get a suit for the school dance, the salesman helping them heard that Kamber was a refugee.  He was so upset by the ban on refugees that he wound up helping to pay for the suit, just to feel as though he was contributing.  We’ll need random acts of kindness and grace, like that one, even as our friends are struggling to understand what’s happening around them.  We’ll need to tap our toes during requiems, whistle during the Dies Irae, grin though the news is grim.  We’ll have to defy the leaden spirit of the age, weighing us down.  We’ll perform a dance upon the abyss.

One last story before I’m through.  On the morning of August 7th, 1974, a man appeared to be hovering in thin air in the space between the Twin Towers.  His name was Philippe Petit, an acrobatic artist, and he had launched a clandestine mission in the middle of the night to string up a wire between the towers.  It was maybe an inch in diameter.  Just after 7 AM, he stepped out upon the abyss and walked across the chasm.  Passersby on the street stopped to marvel and stare, and more than a few were relieved when Petit, a quarter of a mile above them, got close to the far tower.  Except then he reversed himself, and walked back toward the center.  The wind whipped around him, but Petit was supremely balanced.  For forty five minutes, he walked on air.  At one point, he sat, and then he laid down on the wire.  Police made their way to the roof, and Philippe Petit toyed with them, drawing near, and then moving back onto the wire.  One cop, who must have had a sense of humor, said, “You get in here right now or I’ll come out there and I’ll get you myself.”

Petit’s performance took place two days before Richard Nixon resigned in disgrace.  It took place after an unpopular war had divided the country, one that would soon result in a humiliating withdrawal.  It took place after the counterculture and all of its promise had been more or less shattered.  It took place after the civil rights movement had fragmented.  It took place as New York itself was poised at the brink of bankruptcy, and as some of the outer boroughs smoldered.  There was reason to feel gloomy, and more than a little hopeless.  But there was Philippe Petit, moving his way across the abyss, and then miraculously, there he was, playing upon it.  This was a man embracing the spice of life, giving it kick, zest, and heat.  When he was asked why he did it, he was rendered inarticulate.  One may as well have asked why children play or lovers love.  He did it for the delight of it, for the wonder of it.  Some who witnessed it knew they would never see anything of that magnitude in their lives again.  I’m sure they were right.

I take it that Philippe Petit’s performance is a metaphor for the kind of faith required of us just now.  There are reasons to feel gloomy.  There’s sorrow all around.  That’s the abyss over which we stand.  And we’ll need all the courage and ingenuity we can muster in order to confront that sorrow and its sources, in whatever way we can.  When we do, we’ll be taking our step onto the wire, defying the spirit of the age, defying gravity, defying that which would weigh us down.  That’s when we’ll perform our own movements, even as the empty air attempts to claim us.  We won’t fall.  We’ve been rehearsing this act for a long time now.  We’ll risk delight, even in the furnace of the world.  We’ll do so because of the treasures that have been gifted to us in the life of faith, the affirmations of ourselves and our neighbors that we carry within us.  Such will balance us, even as we dance across the abyss.   



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January 22nd

Steve Jungkeit
The First Congregational Church of Old Lyme
Texts: Mark 1: 35-39; Luke 4: 1-13
January 22, 2017

Hymns to the Silence, or, A Few Words in Praise of Solitude

            This won’t be the sermon you imagined this morning.  It won’t be the call to arms you might wish for.  This isn’t a summons to the barricades.  Instead, I’ve borrowed my theme this morning from the incomparable Van Morrison, who released a meditative song by that title back in the early 90’s.  But my true inspiration comes from Thomas Merton, a cosmopolitan intellectual who left New York City in the middle of the 20th century to become a Trappist monk, living for the remainder of his days in rural Kentucky.  Merton knew something about silence, and about solitude, and I’d like to lead off my reflections this morning with a word of wisdom from Merton.  It’s a counterintuitive word in a time such as this, but it’s the word we need. 

Here’s Merton: “It is the solitary person who does humankind the inestimable favor of reminding it of its capacity for maturity, freedom, and peace.”[1]  Solitude is what gave Merton the presence of mind to compose some beautiful pieces of writing that continue to provide solace and counsel to those seeking wisdom.  In that, he joins other such solitary figures who retreated from time to time in order to gain clarity and vision, those like Lincoln, those like Emerson or Thoreau, those like King, or Whitman, or Emily Dickinson.  Those were all figures of extraordinary vision, but that vision was honed only through long hours of solitude, of contemplation, and for some, like Merton, of prayer and meditation.  At the start of a new American era, at the beginning of yet another year, during a time that shall demand much from us, what I have to commend to you, above all else, is the practice of solitude.  What I have to commend to you is a hymn to the silence.

More than a few of you will no doubt think that I’ve lost my mind, or my nerve.  More than a few of you will think that a hymn to the silence is exactly what we don’t need in this new era of so called American carnage.  What we need is to bring the noise, to raise our voices, to stir up a fuss, to raise some hell.  What we need is solidarity, not solitude, community, not isolation, networking, not withdrawal.  To all of that I say…yes.  To all of that, I say…absolutely.  It is time to raise hell and it is time to organize.  But I also believe strongly that we could use a hymn to the silence, lest we lose the capacities that Merton names, for maturity, freedom, and peace.  And so I beg your patience this morning as I compose my little hymn.   

Before proceeding any further, allow me a few qualifications about what I mean by solitude and silence, and what I don’t.  I’ll start at the most personal level.  The first thing to say is that there’s a difference between solitude and loneliness.  Loneliness is something that can often be felt in the company of others.  It’s not an accident that many people report feeling most lonely at parties, or other such gatherings.  Loneliness is an affliction of the soul, being unable to connect with others in a meaningful way.  Sometimes that comes about because of inner struggles, dealing with insecurities or old wounds.  Sometimes it comes about as a result of social policy or spatial arrangements.  But loneliness, we must realize, is not to be confused with solitude.  Loneliness is the absence of communion with the world.  Solitude has to do with the deepening of communion with the world, which includes a deepening communion with other people.  In that, it’s a gift offered to extroverts and introverts alike, for while solitude may come more naturally to those who are introverted, it helps lend a quality of substance and care to the interactions of those more sociable by nature.  That’s the first thing to say.

The second is this: solitude should never be mistaken for withdrawal.  It is, I suppose, a kind of temporary removal of oneself from the noise and chatter of the world, but it shouldn’t be mistaken for disengagement, or retreat, or quiescence.  It is, in fact, an intensification of our immersion in the world.  I think here of the monastics.  When they turn toward a life of contemplation, they do so in order to deepen their engagement with the world.  That was certainly true of Thomas Merton, and it’s been true of some of the best practitioners of the monastic form of life throughout the centuries.  One of the most vivid conversations I’ve ever had was with a monk who exhibited a contagious exuberance about the world – for food, for literature, for music, for people.  His questions, and his replies to mine, were all penetrating and filled with surprises I couldn’t have imagined.  His solitude was an act of preparation for engaging with those around him in a spirit of maturity, freedom, and peace.  I’m not recommending a monastic life to any of you, not necessarily.  But I am arguing that solitude is not about withdrawal.  Rather, it’s about enhancing our capacity to pay attention, and to engage meaningfully and fully in the life of the world.

Consider Jesus.  It’s no accident that the beginning of his ministry begins in solitude.  There were urgent and pressing matters to attend to, matters of life and death, but Jesus begins his work in solitude.  In Mark, we find the story about Jesus getting up early in the morning and slipping off by himself for a time, long enough that his disciples begin to wonder where he is.  It’s a pause, a caesura, a respite in an otherwise overfull existence.  Immediately upon being discovered, Jesus is submerged again in the life of the people, healing the sick, casting out demons, and building his movement.  The inclusion of that brief detail in Mark’s story helps us understand the vital necessity for all of us to dwell in solitude for a time, as a way of equipping us for the work we’re given to do.  Even Jesus composed a hymn to the silence. 

But it’s the story in Luke’s Gospel that I like best.  We’re told that after his baptism, Jesus goes to the wilderness, where he spends 40 days in solitude, fasting and praying.  The importance of the story isn’t simply the fact of solitude.  Rather, it’s what happens to Jesus as he devotes himself to that solitude.  You heard the story, of course, and so you know.  He’s alone in the desert, though not fully, not quite, for the devil pays him a visit.  It’s commonplace in biblical stories to personify the devil as a means of dramatizing the confrontations and conflicts that can occur within the human heart at vulnerable moments.  Even as solitude conveys the maturity, freedom, and peace that Thomas Merton wrote about, Luke’s story suggests that those qualities develop in the crucible of conflict with devils and demons arising in the depths of the human spirit. 

I’m reminded of an account I once read about ultramarathoners, running distances of 100 miles or more at a time.  Many of them do well for 25 or even 50 miles.  But in the latter portion of the race, as their physical and mental reserves are depleted, the demons are unleashed from the depths of the unconscious – unresolved childhood traumas, or hidden shame, or guilt, or sadness, or helplessness conspire to make the runner quit.  The best ultrarunners know that in order to make it to the finish, they must confront the devils, speak to them, befriend them even, in order to make them less powerful.  They’ve learned, in other words, what those like Thomas Merton and other solitary individuals have gone into the woods or into the monastery to learn: that hymns to the silence often serve as occasions for contending with the devils and demons of the human spirit.

It’s no different for Jesus in the wilderness.  The devil, his devil, tempts him with bread, with political power, and with religious authority.  There’s particular significance behind each of those temptations, but for the time being, I’m more interested in the fact that they happen at all within the narrative of Jesus’s ministry.  And I’m fascinated by what might have occurred within Jesus had he not undergone that long period of solitude, had he not communed with devils, had he not sung his hymns to the silence.  Without that inner contest in the wilderness, would he have become a third rate purveyor of spectacle, as the devil urges?  Would he have become a common tyrant, an autocrat thirsty to control those around him with his pronouncements?  Would he have become a religious demagogue, manipulating the symbols and prestige of religion in order to stupefy those around him?  The odds are more than fair.  Thankfully, none of those possibilities came to pass, precisely because Jesus went to the wilderness, spent his time in solitude, and confronted the devil that he was given to struggle with.  For his sake and for ours, we can be grateful that he sang his hymn to the silence prior to beginning his public ministry, a time during which he wrestled with his demons.         

Let’s come closer to the present.  One of the articles that I most enjoyed reading this past year was about President Obama’s hymns to the silence.  It concerned his habit of retreating to his office after dinner, where he spent long hours alone – sometimes reading briefs or working on speeches, sometimes watching sports with the sound turned down, sometimes reading letters written by ordinary Americans, and often, often, reading books.  This past week I read another article about the President’s reading habits, and I found myself admiring the way he used those solitary hours to commune with great minds of the past, like Lincoln’s or Gandhi’s, and also those of the present, like Colson Whitehead, and Elizabeth Kolbert, and Marilynne Robinson.  What he said was that fiction especially helped him to imagine the lives of other people and what they might be going through.  When he wanted to connect with rural Americans in Iowa, for example, he turned to Marilynne Robinson in order to help open up the emotional lives of those like his grandparents.  Thank God for the power of fiction. 

Now, you may say what you like about his politics.  You may quibble about this decision or that.  I may even join you.  But now is the time to praise our now former President’s habit of mind, born from the discipline of solitude.  It was, evidently, in those long evening hours that Barack Obama discovered his voice.  It was in those long solitary hours that he listened to the profound wisdom of the past.  It was in those stretches of solitude that he found the words he needed in order to respond to painful or traumatic events, like those in Charleston, or in Newtown.  And, this needs to be said too, it was in those moments of solitude that he found it within himself to practice the wisdom of that benediction I use every week: returning no one evil for evil.[2]  My hunch is that his solitude allowed him to confront his devils in private before he did so in public.  I believe that it was solitude that helped our President to discover that deep reserve of grace under tremendous pressure from the left and from the right alike.  Say what you may about this or that policy, this or that decision.  I believe that much of the American public has diminished itself by failing to recognize the dignity and bearing the President exuded, born, in part at least, from those long hours of solitude.

I wish every person in leadership long periods of solitude, including our new President.  I hope he avails himself of that discipline.  But I hope each of us does as well.  Whether it’s teachers or stay at home parents, whether physicians, home health aids, or lawyers, whether it’s social workers or those bagging groceries, I wish every single one of us would be enabled to maintain a discipline of solitude, for at least a small portion of the day.  That’s because each of us possesses capacities for leadership, if only in the disposition we cultivate, and thereafter spread.  But so many things compete for our attention that it becomes difficult to hear and absorb that within ourselves, and within the world, that might provide wisdom.  One of our now departed members was fond of saying that one ought never to trust a person whose house contained no books.  I wonder if the same could be said for those incapable of solitude.  I tend to think we would all do well to learn to sing a hymn to the silence.

Yesterday, a good many of us traveled to New York City to take part in a march meant to demonstrate solidarity around things like women’s rights, as well as those of Muslims, immigrants, people of color, gay, lesbian, transgender, and anyone else who finds themselves vulnerable within the new political landscape of America.  Despite the occasion, there was joy in the streets.  There was exuberant humor, and energy, and I couldn’t have been more proud to have been there with some of you.  But I also came away wondering if one of the greatest and most urgent needs of the moment is the necessity of preserving solitude.  I wondered if the greatest virtue we might possess at the moment is the capacity to be alone, not in loneliness, but in solitude, in order to truly hear from ourselves.  I wonder if the most important act required of us now, in addition to everything else that will call for our attention, is to maintain a discipline of solitude, whether in reading, or writing, or meditating, or praying – in order to enhance our capacities for attention.  Amidst the circus spectacle to which we have been subjected, I wonder if one of the most important acts of resistance shall be to compose our own hymns to the silence.  If Thomas Merton is to be trusted, and there are few I would trust more fully, it’s only from within that solitude that maturity, freedom, and peace shall be discovered.  And so I vowed to myself that amidst all the challenges that confront us, I shall compose my own hymns to the silence here and there – in the early morning hours when I run, in the evening hours when I read, in the stretches of quiet reserved for writing.  I shall, as best I can, sing a hymn to the silence, even as I prepare for movement. 

I’ll conclude with an image that demonstrates the strength born of solitude better than any I know.  It’s an image born from Sufism, a mystical branch of Islam.  The image I have in mind is a figure in motion, spinning, turning, swirling, but always upon a steady and fixed inner axis.  My image is the whirling dervish.  Several years ago, travelers on our Tree of Life journey were privileged to witness a dervish ceremony when we visited an active Sufi community on the outskirts of Istanbul.  After a short series of meditations, musicians began playing instruments that I didn’t recognize, and the men and women participating in the dervish ceremony arrayed themselves in a large open space.  And they began to spin in place, their long shirts flaring beneath them as the air caught the material up around them.  They were gorgeous in their motion, instances of incredible beauty, turning and turning and turning and turning.  None of them faltered.  Not one of them grew dizzy.  Not one of them stumbled or fell.  Periodically, the music would cease, and the dervishes would cease turning without a trace of vertigo, without a hint of nausea.  They would process a little, and as the music started again, they would begin to spin once more, though now in a new position on the floor.  It was, I came to realize, a representation of the inner life of the spirit, and of the human relationship to the world.  The dancers spun and spun and spun, but they were enabled to do so because they were attuned to a still point deep within, a still point around which they moved.  And it was that inner focus that kept them oriented and balanced.  As each of them spun, a figure dressed in red, representing a tempter, a kind of devil, circulated among them, whispering in each of their ears, attempting to break their concentration.  None were broken.  Another figure seemed to preside over it all, and appeared to orchestrate the movements, moving in and out of the dervishes, though never interrupting them.  This was the spirit of God, moving among them, yes, but also serving as the axis around which they spun.  I found the ceremony stunningly gorgeous, and I’ve thought about those dervishes ever since.  They represent the kind of inner calm, and inner focus, that I believe people of faith need to be cultivating right now.  Amidst their turning, they cultivated their own hymn to the silence, one that made them impervious to the seductions of the tempter, the seductions of the age.

And so it is with us.  The world spins.  We spin.  God, but are we spinning right now.  Will we lose our balance?  Shall vertigo claim us?  Or shall we be enabled to discover the maturity, freedom, and peace that Thomas Merton wrote about?  With Merton, I believe that it is in solitude that we will discover that inner axis upon which we turn, the one that allows us to spin without stumbling, without falling.  I believe that it will be within a deep inner solitude that we shall be enabled to endure the whispers of those who would distract us, and emerge again to raise some hell, and to raise our voices as well.  It will be a hymn to the silence that shall enable us to discover our voices as we turn, turn, turn. 





[1] As quoted in William Sloane Coffin’s sermon “Tempted of the Devil,” from Feb. 26, 1978.  Found in The Collected Sermons of William Sloane Coffin: The Riverside Years, Vol. 1, (Louisville: WJK Press, 2008), pg. 56.

[2] An insight borrowed from Marilynne Robinson in her article “A Proof, A Test, An Instruction,” published in The Nation, December 5, 2016.

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January 15th

Steve Jungkeit
The First Congregational Church of Old Lyme
Texts: Genesis 4: 1-10; Matthew 12: 46-50
January 15, 2017

Am I My Brother’s and My Sister’s Keeper?
Steve Jungkeit and Rose Jones

            “Someone must have been spreading lies about Josef K, for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one morning.”

            Those are the opening lines of Franz Kafka’s novel The Trial, published in 1925.  Kafka was a Prussian Jew, living in Prague at a time when anti-Semitism was at its most virulent.  Kafka knew what it was to live an existence as one condemned, simply for the crime of being.  And so it’s not an accident that his novel has resonated with those living a minoritarian existence, for the accusation leveled against Josef K is not specific to any particular act, but general, a guilt incurred just for being alive. 

I got to thinking about that novel, and those lines, when our Wheels of Justice travelers passed through Montgomery, Alabama a few months ago.  We had rolled into town late in the day after attending a morning worship service at Emory University.  Montgomery’s not large, and we soon turned onto Commerce Street, where the Equal Justice Initiative is located.  We tumbled out of our vans and made our way inside, where we were shown into a lecture hall.  The hall is ordinary enough in most respects, except that on the back wall, several hundred glass jars of dirt are displayed, each of the jars bearing a name, and each of them filled with soil of different hues.  The wall is a memorial to the more than 4000 individuals who were lynched in America during the years 1877-1950, and the soil collected in each of the jars comes from the site where the individual named on the jar was murdered.  It’s an extraordinary and visceral way to confront the truth of our country’s racial terrorism, and it made for a sobering way to begin our visit to EJI.

But none of us could have predicted what happened next.  Two staff members from EJI gathered us, and told us a little about the work that goes on at EJI.  For those of you who don’t know, it was started by Bryan Stevenson, an attorney and the author of the book Just Mercy, which many of you have now read, and which some of you will be discussing later today.  For years, Stevenson has worked to provide legal counsel to death row inmates and to others who may have received inadequate legal assistance at the time of their hearing.  These days, EJI employs a staff of about 50 people, all of them dedicated to insuring that our justice system functions in a manner that is humane, merciful, and compassionate.  The two lawyers who met with us described some of that work, and then they showed us a video from ABC’s Nightline News program, about a man named Anthony Ray Hinton, who had recently been exonerated after spending 30 years on death row, an exoneration that occurred because of EJI’s persistent interventions, which reached all the way to the Supreme Court.  It was a powerful video, a testimony to the ways issues of race and class undermine the justice system in America.  None of us were unfazed. 

The video ended, and the lights came back on.  A man walked from the back and took his place at the front of the room.  It took a moment to realize that it was Anthony Ray Hinton himself.  For the next hour, he shared his story with us in detail, a story not unlike Kafka’s brutal and absurd novel, where a man can be arrested without having done anything wrong.

I’d like to share some of that story with you this morning.  It feels right to do so on this Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend.  And it feels especially right to do so as we enter a new era of our country’s history later this week.  Mr. Hinton’s story is a reminder of the acute dangers faced in this country by people of color.  But it’s also a reminder of the sheer power of the human spirit, the power of encounter, and the possibilities that arise when we recognize ourselves as brothers and sisters of one another.    

Three portions of Mr. Hinton’s story strike me as important: the absurdity, the fantasies he constructed while in prison, and then the aftermath.  I’ll offer a word about each.

First the absurd.  Mr. Hinton shared that in 1985, he was mowing the lawn at his mother’s house, where he was living at the time.  A police cruiser rolled up, and officers got out.  They wanted to know if he was Anthony Ray Hinton, and he replied that yes, he was.  They began to question him about a murder that had recently taken place, and suddenly he was placed in handcuffs and arrested.  Mr. Hinton shared that he assumed it was a terrible mistake that would shortly be remedied when his alibi was checked out – he had been at work when the crime had been committed.  But he also shared that the sheriff working the case wasn’t concerned about things like facts.  The sheriff told Mr. Hinton, “It doesn’t matter to me if you did it or not.  We’re going to find you guilty.”  Later, the same sheriff told Mr. Hinton that he was seeking the death penalty, and that he was confident that he would win.  When Mr. Hinton asked why, the reply was that the judge was white, the prosecutor was white, the jury was white, and Mr. Hinton was black.  “That’s how I know you’ll be convicted,” the sheriff said.  Despite inconclusive evidence from a ballistics report (conducted by a so called expert who was blind in one eye), despite a rock solid alibi, despite passing a polygraph test, despite it all, the sheriff’s words came to pass.  Mr. Hinton was sentenced to death.  That’s the absurd: to be caught within a mechanism that renders you powerless, one that defies logic or reason, one that is pitiless and also faceless.  I take it that Mr. Hinton’s case exposes the absurd at the heart of the racial caste system of America, one that renders everyone’s life, whether black, brown, or white, more than a little senseless. 

Mr. Hinton proceeded to tell us about how he spent the next three decades of his life.  It’s here that we encounter the power of imagination, fantasy, and dreams, the second lesson of Mr. Hinton’s tale.  For thirty years he was confined to a 5×7 cell, forced to sleep in a fetal position, with his legs pulled against his chest.  During that time, he witnessed the state execute more than fifty individuals, men that he came to know in his time on death row.  He was allowed out of his cell for an hour every day, but it was thirty years before he felt the rain on his face again.  In those long hours, Mr. Hinton said that he went deep into himself.  He said he traveled the world in his mind, taking a long journey to England, where he was privileged to have tea with the Queen.  In his dream, the Queen was intensely interested in his story, and asked him about his life while they had tea at Buckingham Palace.  Mr. Hinton said that in the long hours in his cell, he took many such trips, and met all sorts of interesting people.  Somehow, that imaginative power gave Mr. Hinton the courage to continue appealing his case, to continue to insist upon his innocence, and to begin reaching out to people who might help him.  Ultimately, the power of imagination helped him to win his freedom.  That’s the second lesson I would have us learn from this story: we need the power of imagination to propel us into the impossible.  In our case, we need the power of a utopian imagination to actually continue to dream about what racial equality and justice would look and feel like.  Any of us concerned with racial justice need to have a part of ourselves focused not on what is, but on what might be, impossible as it might seem.  That’s the second lesson.

The third lesson of Mr. Hinton’s story brings us around to our Scripture readings for the morning.  Upon his release, Mr. Hinton told us that he struggled to process all the ways the world had changed during his long incarceration.  The first thing he wished to do when he gained his freedom was to visit his mother’s grave.  She was Mr. Hinton’s lifeline, and she had died while he was in prison.  A driver plugged in directions to GPS system, and as Mr. Hinton and his driver set out for the cemetery, a voice spoke within the car.  “Turn left at the next intersection.”  Mr. Hinton said that he jumped, and looked around the car.  “There’s a white woman hiding in this car,” Mr. Hinton told his friend, who laughed, and explained the GPS system.  But there were other realities to contend with as well.  The unresolved feelings he had about the sheriff who falsely accused him.  The feelings he had toward the state, which robbed him of thirty years of his life.  The ways racial tension in the United States actually seemed worse now than it had in 1985.  Mr. Hinton was faced with yet another decision: to hold onto all that bitterness, allowing his heart to grow hard, or to practice a radical forgiveness.  He chose the latter.  “They took 30 years of my life,” Mr. Hinton said.  “But they can’t take away my joy.  They can’t take away my love.”  Through tears, Mr. Hinton described the way he refused to harbor bitterness within him.  He had suffered the worst that can befall a human being, but through a deep act of devotion, he chose to walk in a spirit of openness, grace, sorrow, truth telling, and forgiveness.  He chose to become a brother to his fellow human beings.

Mr. Hinton’s decision about how to live the remainder of his days links to our Scripture passages for the morning.  Throughout the book of Genesis, story after story unfolds about broken relationships between siblings.  I’ve chosen Cain and Abel, the first of those stories, as the exemplar, but they continue throughout the book.  After Cain and Abel have their falling out, something similar happens between Ishmael and Isaac, between Jacob and Esau, and between Joseph and all of his brothers.  These are heartbreaking stories, as bitter rivalries spiral into cycles of violence and desperation.  It’s all exemplified by that terrible question posed by Cain after he murders his brother.  Asked about his brother’s whereabouts, Cain responds, “How should I know?  Am I my brother’s keeper?”

The answer, of course, is yes.  Cain was his brother’s keeper.  As Isaac was Ishmael’s, as Jacob was Esau’s, as the eleven brothers were Joseph’s.  Failing to understand themselves as their brother’s keepers produced years of heartache and misery, not only for themselves, but for those caught up in their dramas.  Not all of those stories turn out well.  A few, however, do.  Jacob and Esau reconcile.  Joseph weeps and embraces his brothers when they show up in Egypt, starving and destitute.  Healing can happen, and it does.  Like Mr. Hinton, those characters come to a crucial juncture, and they choose to embrace one another, rather than ruining themselves further with bitterness and resentment.  Like Mr. Hinton, they make the choice to become their brother’s keeper, even when they have every reason not to. 

In the Gospels, Jesus extends that question – Am I My Brother’s Keeper? – and that ethic, when he says, in effect, that those ties have to do not with blood, or family lineage, but a shared purpose.  “Anyone who does the will of my father is my brother and sister and mother,” Jesus says.  In other words, we’re all brothers and sisters of one another, keepers of one another.

I would contend that those stories in Genesis, and the words spoken by Jesus, might also apply to race in America.  White, black, of Middle Eastern descent, or Latino descent, or Asian descent, or whatever, we are meant to be brothers and sisters of one another.  The great tragedy of our history is how little we’ve treated one another that way.  The great promise, however, detailed in stories like those found in Genesis and coming from Mr. Hinton, is that it’s still possible to tell a different story, and to preserve one another from further soul crushing damage.  It’s still possible to dream, to imagine, and to move forward, even in a moment that seems particularly fraught with danger.

To help imagine what that might be like, I’ve invited Rose Jones to share some of her thoughts this morning.  Rose is a member of our community, and a friend who traveled with us on the Wheels of Justice journey.  She composed a set of reflections shortly after that journey, reflections that I’m glad she’s going to share with all of us.  It’s an honor to be able to share the pulpit this morning with Rose.

My Vision for a Better World – Rose Jones

As we huddled around in a dialogue circle at a rest stop in Maryland during our final lunch, one of the questions Steve posed to our group was…What is your vision for a socially justice world?

I thought, wow…such a profound question. It’s so easy to offer our expressions of what’s unjust in our world. But rarely, are we task to articulate the world we’d like to see…

Having pondered this question…I invite you to join me in spirit, hope, and prayer of what could be…as I share my reflections with you.

My vision for a Socially Just America is that ancient hate becomes present love…

My vision for a Socially Just America is the realization that prisons are not the highest and best use of its resources…and that it open its doors to hold public conversations on forgiveness, and restorative justice…

My vision for a Socially Just America is that citizens ask that a national apology be extended to indigenous people on this continent…

My vision for a Socially Just America is that Congress pay reparations to indigenous peoples and African Americans for the 300 years that they gave free labor and the years that they were denied the right to an education…

My vision for a Socially Just America is that descendants of the enslaved receive free college education and adequate health care as compensatory settlement for the physical, economic, emotional, and psychological suffering the African Americans and Native Americans have endured in the United States…  

My vision for a Socially Just America is that fear based organizations that espouse hate and separation work toward a new mission, with objectives to be inclusive, caring and loving to all people in America.

My vision for a Socially Just America is that we do what President Bill Clinton call us to do in a speech more than 20 yrs. ago…He asked every governor, every mayor, every business leader, every

He asked every governor, every mayor, every business leader, every church leader, every civic leader, every union steward, every student leader, and most important every citizen in every workplace, learning place and meeting place across America to take personal responsibility for reaching out to people of different races, for taking out time to sit down and talk through this issue, to have the courage to speak honestly, and frankly, and then to have the discipline to listen quietly with an open mind and an open heart, as others do the same…

This is my vision for a Socially Just World.

The Work begins with US.

(Steve’s Voice)

Rose offers the kind of vision we need to boldly and courageously pursue, now more than ever.  And so I’m grateful that we’ve all been able to hear that vision named.

I’ll close with words that Bryan Stevenson shares at the end of a film called The 13th, about some of the challenges we all face around racial justice, particularly given the era we’ll be entering this coming Friday.  Stevenson says: “We all like to imagine that had we been around during the time of slavery, we would have heroically resisted.  We like to imagine that had we been around during the time of racial lynchings, we would have been the ones to stand up and call it wrong.  We like to imagine that during the era of Jim Crow segregation, when water fountains and lunch counters and hotels were segregated according to skin tone, we would have stood up to power, and said ‘This is wrong.’”  Stevenson continues: “But it continues to happen today in different form.  Where are you now?”

It’s a brave new world out there.  How shall we be keepers of our brothers and sisters?  And what does it mean to call oneself a Christian in a time such as this?  Let the conversation begin.  Let the work begin.  Amen.


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January 8th

Steve Jungkeit
The First Congregational Church of Old Lyme
Texts: Exodus 29: 1a, 4-9; Proverbs 8: 22-36
January 8, 2017

That Which Knits The World Together

          Here’s a quote from Frederick Buechner, a writer of novels and several memoirs, as well as some beautiful pieces of theology.  He’s speaking about listening to the little granulated moments of emotion within each of our lives that we too often forget or ignore.  But he’s especially interested in tears.  About tears, he writes:

“You never know what may cause them. The sight of the Atlantic Ocean can do it, or a piece of music, or a face you’ve never seen before. A pair of somebody’s old shoes can do it…. You can never be sure. But of this you can be sure. Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go next.”[1]

That passage about tears came to mind earlier this week during an otherwise unremarkable moment.  This past Monday was cold and rainy, and though it was technically still a holiday, everyone in our house had the post-Christmas blues.  Nothing was left now but to take down the decorations and the tree and to store them for next year.  Nothing was left now but to return to school the following day.  And so in an effort to divert ourselves, I had taken the kids to the movies.  It was called Remarkable Beasts and Where to Find Them, a kind of prequel to the Harry Potter stories.  Despite the title, I confess I found it mostly unremarkable.  There were good guys, there were bad guys, there were battles, and, as often happens in such films, a vast portion of a city was destroyed in the final confrontation.  It was all so…tedious, though in a visually appealing way.

          But then one of those Buechner moments caught me off guard.  Toward the end, amidst the destruction of the city, several of the characters use their powers to put the city back together, restoring what had been destroyed.  Bricks are restacked, cars are set upright, wood and plaster are reconfigured, pavement is replaced.  Buildings are refurbished, and wounds are somehow healed.  And to my great surprise, to my embarrassment, really, I felt tears welling up in my eyes.  I say that I was surprised and embarrassed simply because I was, prior to that, rather disengaged in the story.  I say that because, like many of you, I’ve been trained to distrust sentimentality, or the easy emotions manufactured by popcorn entertainments.  I say that because by all rights, those tears ought never to have occurred in such a paint by numbers story.  Embarrassing or not, they did cause me to pay attention.  And so I’ve followed Frederick Buechner’s advice, and I’ve thought about what that series of images was triggering.

          Here’s what I’ve come up with.  We know more than a little about the destruction depicted in films like Fantastic Beasts.  We’re saturated by such images.  The destruction of Aleppo, the carnage of Istanbul, or Berlin, or Paris, the devastation of gun violence in Chicago or LA, the damage to water and communities in Flint, or at Standing Rock, the bombs falling on Afghanistan or Yemen – my God, but do we know something about destruction.  I tend to think that all the images of destroyed cities that occur in films, especially the superhero genre, are ways of attaining some kind of psychic mastery and control over the very real destruction that takes place in our world, a destruction that can’t help but make us feel vulnerable at some level of our being.  We know all about destruction.

          But I wonder if we know as much about its opposite – the impulse to create, to build, to heal, to restore.  That’s what I encountered in that otherwise forgettable movie, and I was surprised to find myself blinking back tears.  Those tears were a realization that I not only desire images of a world restored as a kind of palliative – they were a realization that I actually believe something like that is true, that it exists, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.  It doesn’t unfold in the way depicted in the film, with magic and wands and all of that.  But those images served as a reminder that the deepest and best parts of our faith tradition affirm that there exists something that binds the world together, however tenuously, despite our great capacity for violence.  My tears were a reminder of what I’ve believed all along, of what our faith has affirmed all along: that there is something within the world capable of stitching, and refashioning, and mending that which has been broken, despite our incredible capacity for destruction.  There exists that which knits the world together.  Despite Aleppo, despite Chicago, despite Jerusalem, or Johannesburg, despite the wreckage within each of our hearts, there is that which somehow, stays the nothingness. 

It’s what the older theologians called the doctrine of creation.  Understood properly, that doctrine isn’t about the origin of the world.  It’s not about beginnings.  Nor is it really about a divine superpower that causes everything to spring into existence out of nothing.  It’s not about those things at all.  Read carefully, those old doctrines have to do with encountering the wonder of existence, marveling that there’s something rather than nothing, feeling awe that gravity and oxygen and light and warmth and bodies and consciousness should be ours.  It’s about the miracle that a planet such as ours should exist in the first place, one that can sustain any kind of biological life at all, let alone complex organisms like human beings and animals.  The doctrine of creation is about the wonder of small things – that fact that when I cut myself, new tissue will somehow grow around that wound, or if I were to break my arm, cells will grow in such a way as to mend the fracture.  It’s about the splendor of nature – the knowledge that leaves will grow back on the trees, that the seasons will change, that the sky brings forth water, that edible plants and other creatures are to be found for sustenance.  The doctrine of creation is about the mystery of human cognition, the realization that something within you and within me allows us to organize our experiences and memories into something like a pattern.  Yes, we can offer scientific explanations for each of those processes, but none of those explanations diminish the sheer wonder that it is so.  However fragile, however prone to harm, there is that within the world that holds things together. 

But that old doctrine of creation is about more still.  It’s about the ways human lives are somehow stitched together not only biologically, but socially, how we’re enabled to exercise care for one another, and trust of one another.  It’s about the ability to join together in common projects that sustain us.  It’s about the formation of things like friendship.  It’s about the formation of bonds of affection in communities, or families, or with those whom we have little in common, at least on the surface.  The doctrine of creation isn’t about the origin of the world.  It’s about the wonder that somehow and in some way the world actually is, and that something within it stitches, knits, mends, creates, holds, binds, and fashions it all together.  Call it what you wish.  Some of us call it God.  I happen to like that word, even though it’s been too often abused.  But some among us might prefer words less loaded – biological complexity, say, or worldly wonder.  Call it whatever you wish.  It is still miraculous.

A ritual exists within our tradition called anointing.  It’s a way of conveying a sense of purpose and blessing, a sense of vocation and mission.  When it was used upon Aaron in the Hebrew Bible, it was meant to reinforce his identity as a participant in the work of creation – building, upholding, nurturing, supporting, reminding, pushing, and exhorting those within his care to remember themselves as participants in that sacred drama.  When that ritual was used in the New Testament, it was extended to all who seek to live into the ways of Jesus, a reminder of what the Reformers called the priesthood of all believers.  We’re all called to participate in the sacred work of creation, becoming those who bless, rather than curse, who heal rather than hurt, who knit together rather than tear asunder.

That seems an appropriate way to begin a new year, especially this new year.  Amidst so much uncertainty about what may unfold in the weeks and months to come, I want each of us to remember that we have been called to discover and participate in that which knits the world together.  For all the ways the world can be torn asunder, for all the ways individuals and institutions can inflict harm and destruction, I believe there exists a weak but insistent force within the world that binds, that heals, that connects.  I believe that gentle and persistent force exists within you, within all of us, and that if we could but live into it we would avoid so much of the calamity that seems to visit the human family. 

To be sure, sometimes making that affirmation entails saying “No” to the spirit of the age.  Sometimes it means resisting that which hinders or obstructs the work of creation.  We’re not asked to maintain a false peace.  We’re not called to become quiescent.  We must never become a spiritual Switzerland, afraid to speak about painful realities.  Participating in the work of creation means speaking and acting in a way that is consistent with that within the world which binds and holds and nurtures and upholds us all – even and especially if that requires us to maneuver against the spirit of the age.

And so I invite you, if you so desire, to come forward to receive an anointing for the new year, a reminder of who are, and of who you’re called to be.  In this new year, I invite you to discover within yourselves and in the environment around you that which binds the world together in a sacred tapestry of meaning.  I invite you to discover your tears, and, perhaps, the God who seeks to move you amidst those tears.  Amen.


[1] Buechner, Frederick, Whistling in the Dark (New York: HarperOne, 1991), under the entry, “Tears,” pg. 117.

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January 1st

New Year’s Day, 2017
Spirit of Christmas by Jeanette Winterson

It was the night before Christmas and all over the house nothing was stirring because even the mouse was exhausted.  There were presents everywhere.  Food supplies had been stockpiled like a war-warning.  I was staggering under the weight of the Christmas cake – it was the kind of thing medieval masons used to choose as the cornerstone of a cathedral.  You took it from me and went to pack it in the car.  Everything had to go in the car, because we were going to the country tonight.  The more you loaded, the more likely it seemed that the turkey would be doing the driving.  There was no room for you, and I was sharing my seat with a wicker reindeer.

            “Hackles,” you said.  Oh God, we had forgotten the cat.

            “Hackles doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” I said.

            “Tie this tinsel around his basket and get in.”

            “Are we going to have our Christmas row now or shall we wait until we’re on the road and you’ve forgotten the wine?”

            I ran and bit your neck.  I love your neck.  You pushed me away in play – but do I imagine that you push me away not in play these days?  You smiled a small smile and went to repack the car.


            Soon after midnight.  Cat, tinsel, tree with flashing lights, reindeer presents, my arm out of the window because there was nowhere else to put it – you and me set off to a country cottage we had rented to celebrate Christmas.  We drove through the seasonal drunks waving streamers and singing about Rudolph in red-nosed solidarity.  You said it would be quicker to go right through the middle of town so late at night, and as you were slowly pulling away from the traffic lights down the main street I thought I saw something moving. 

            “Stop,” I said.  “Can you reverse?”

            The street was completely empty now, and you took us backwards, until we were outside BUYBUYBABY, the world’s biggest department store, finally and reluctantly closed from midnight Christmas Eve for an entire twenty-four hours.

            I got out of the car.  The front window of BUYBUYBABY had been arranged as a Nativity scene, complete with Mary and Joseph in ski wear.  There was no gold, frankincense or myrrh.  The kings were giving Jesus an Xbox, a bike, and a drum kit.

            Flitting about in front of the Nativity, her nose pressed inside the window, was a tiny child.

            “What are you doing in there?” I said.

            “Trapped,” said the child.

            I went back to the car and tapped on the window.  “There’s a child left behind in the shop – we’ve got to get her out.”

            You came and looked.  The child waved.  “She probably belongs to the security guard,” you said.

            “Who are you,” I said.

            “I am the Spirit of Christmas.”

            I heard her clearly.  She spoke clearly.

            We looked up and down the strangely deserted street.  I was starting to panic.  I pulled and pushed at the doors to the store.  Locked.  No cleaners.  No janitors.  This was Christmas Eve.

            The voice came again.  “I am the Spirit of Christmas.”

            I was fixed on the face in the window, which seemed to change every second, as though light was playing on it, shrouding, then revealing, the expression.  The eyes were not the eyes of a child.

            “She is our responsibility,” I said, quietly, not really to you.

            “She is not,” you said.  “Come on, I’ll call the police as we drive.”

            “Let me out,” said the child.
            “We’ll send someone, I promise.”

            The child interrupted.  “You must let me out.  Will you leave some of your gifts, some of your food, in the doorway right there?”

            “Yes,” I said, and half dazed, I went to the car and flipped up the back and started dragging wrapped shapes and bags of food towards the doorway of the department store.

            “You’ve gone mad,” you said.  “This is a Christmas stunt – we’re being filmed, I know it.  It’s reality TV.”

            “No, this isn’t TV, this is real,” I said, and my voice sounded far away.  “This isn’t what we know, it’s what we don’t know.  But it’s true.  I’m telling you, it’s true.”

            Suddenly all the lights went out in the window of the store.  And then the child was standing in between us on the street.

            “Are we dreaming?” you said to me.  “How did she do that?”

            “I’m coming with you,” said the child.  “Where are we going?”


Part II


            And so, past one o’clock in the morning, we set off again, my arm inside the car now, the child on the back seat next to Hackles the cat, who had climbed out of his basket and was purring.  I looked in the mirror as we left and saw our bags of food and gifts being taken away, one by one, by dark figures.

            “They are the ones who live in the doorways,” said the child, as though reading my thoughts.  “They have nothing.”

            “It happens every year,” said the child.  “In different ways, in different places.  If I am not set free by Christmas morning, the world grows heavier.  The world is heavier than you know.”

            We drove in silence for a while.  The sky was black, pinned with stars.  I imagined myself high above the road, looking back on Planet Earth, blue in the blackness, white-patched, polar capped.  This was life and home.  When I was a child, my father gave me a glass snow-scene of the earth shook with stars.  I used to lie in bed and turn it over and over, falling asleep with the stars behind my eyes, feeling warm and light and safe.  The world is weightless, hanging in space, unsupported, a gravitational mystery, sun-warmed, gas-cooled.  Our gift.

            I used to fight off sleep for as long as I could, squinting out of one closing eye at my silent, turning world.  I grew up.  My father died.  The snow-scene was in his house, in my old bedroom.  When we were clearing I dropped it, and the little globe fell out of its heavy, star-shot liquid.  That was when I cried.  I don’t know why.

            I must have reached across the car seat then and taken your hand.  “What’s the matter,” you said gently.

            “I was thinking about my father.”

            “Strange.  I was thinking about my mother.”

            “Thinking what?”

            You said, “I wish I’d done more for her, said more to her, but it’s too late now.”

            “You never got on.”

            “Why is that?  Why do so many parents and children never get on?”

            You never talked like this.  Glancing at your profile, I could see the tension in your jaw.  I love your face.  I was about to say so, but you said, “Ignore me.  It’s this time of year.  A family time, I guess.”

            “Yes.  What a mess we make of it.”

            “Of what?  Our families, or Christmas?”

            “Both.  Neither.  No wonder everyone goes shopping.  Displacement activity.”  You smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

            A voice came from the backseat.  “If only the world could rid itself of some of its contents.”  We both glanced round.  I realized that the green light in the ca wasn’t the instrument panel; it was her.  She was glowing. 

            “Suppose she’s who she says she is,” I said.

            “I am the Spirit of Christmas,” said the child.

            I said, “And suppose something extraordinary is happening to us tonight.”

            This time you squeezed my hand and I saw the muscle in your jaw lower just a little.  I want to tell you I love you, and how much I love you, and that I love you like the sun rising, every day.  I know this will embarrass you, so I don’t say anything.

            You switched on the radio.  Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.

            You sang along.  “Peace on earth, and mercy mild.”

            The voice from the backseat said, “Turn right here please.”

            You do.  You hesitate, but you do it, because she’s that sort of child.  You took the dark bend, accelerated forward and stalled the car.

            Just touching down over the roof of a handsome Georgian house, holly wreath on the blue front door, was a sledge pulled by six reindeer.

            Father Christmas smiled and waved at us.  The child waved back and climbed out of the car.  Hackles jumped out and followed her.

            Santa clapped his hands.  The house was in darkness but a sash window on the first floor was pushed up by some unseen inside hand; three bulging sacks thudded to the ground.  Santa Claus shouldered them easily enough and loaded them onto his sledge. 

            “He’s robbing the place!” you said.  “Hey you!”

            The figure in red came forward convivially.  “We can only offer this service one a year,” he told you. 

            “What bloody service?”

            “In the old days, we used to leave presents, because people didn’t have much.  Now everyone has so much, they write to us to come and take it away.  You’ve no idea how much better it feels to wake up to Christmas morning and find it all gone.”

            “And now what?” you said, half furious, half fazed.  “Car jackings for New Years Eve?”

            “Well, come and see if you like,” said Santa.  “Follow me.”

            And so we followed him, he in his sleigh, and we in our car, down a little road until we came to stop before a dark and wind broken cottage.  Santa and the Spirit of Christmas went to the house and opened the front door.  They went inside.  Then Santa came out of the cottage, stooping slightly under the weight of a moth-eaten bag.  He was holding a mince pie and a glass of whiskey.  “Not many people leave anything these days,” he said, downing the whiskey in one gulp, “but I know this house and they know me.  Pain and want must vanish tonight.  Once a year is all the power I am given.”

            “What power?” you said.  “Where’s the child?”

            Santa gestured back at the cottage, its windows lit up now with the strange green that accompanied the child.  We could see quite clearly that the table had a clean cloth on it, and the child was arranging a ham, a pie, a cheese.

            Santa smiled, and tipped the sack onto the sledge.  What fell out was musty and old and broken.  Now the sack was empty.

            Without speaking, he offered the empty sack to you and pointed towards the car.  He wants you to fill it, I thought.  Do it, please, do it.

            You hesitated, and then you opened all the doors of the car and started pushing presents and food into the sack.  “Give him everything,” I said.  You leaned over and started taking things from the back seat, and the car was almost empty now.  You handed the heavy sack to the red figure, who was watching you intently.

            “You haven’t given me everything,” he said.

            The Spirit of Christmas had come out of the house now.  The child said to you, “Give him what you fear.”

            The moment was still, utterly still.  “Yes,” you said.  “Yes.”

            There was a terrific thud and the bag fell to the ground in a great weight.  Santa nodded, and picked up the sack.  “It’s time to go now,” said the Spirit of Christmas.  And she and Santa departed in a whoosh of the sleigh.


Part III


            We got in the car and drove back along the track.  Beyond the dry stone walls, the sheep were huddled in fields.  After a while you stopped and got out.  I followed you.  I put my arms round you.  I could hear your heart beating.  “What shall we do now that we’ve given it all away?” you said.

            “Haven’t we got anything left?”

            “A bag of food behind the front seat.  That’s all.  I don’t understand any of this.  Do you?”

            “No,” I said.

            “Do you remember when we first met and we had no money at all – we were paying off student loans and I was working two jobs, and we ate sausages and stuffing on Christmas Day, but no turkey, because we couldn’t afford one?  Do you remember?”

            “God yes, and it was freezing because you were in that horrible houseboat, and you wouldn’t come home with me because you hated my mother.”

            “I didn’t hate your mother.  You hated your mother.”

            “Yes,” you said slowly.  “What a waste of life hatred is.”

            You turned to face me.  You were quite serious.  “Do you still love me?”

            “Yes I do”

            “I love you, but I don’t say it enough, do I?”

            “I know you feel it.  But sometimes….sometimes I feel like you don’t want me.  I don’t want to force you, but I miss your touch, your body, our kisses, our closeness, and the rest too.”

            You were quiet.  Then you said, “When he, Santa Claus, or whatever he is, asked me to give what I fear, I realized that if everything were still in the car and you were gone, then what?  What if our house, my work, my life, everything I have was all where it should be, and you were gone?  And I thought, that’s what I fear.  I fear it so much I can’t even think about it, but it’s there all the time, like a war that’s coming.”

            “What is?”

            “That bit by bit I am pushing you away.”

            “Do you want to push me away?”

            You kissed me, like we used to kiss each other, and I could feel my tears, and then I realized they were yours.

            We got back in the car, and drove on through the last miles towards the village.  Soon it would be day.  A hooded figure was walking by the side of the road.  You pulled alongside and stopped the car, opening the window.  “Would you like a ride?” you said.

            The figure turned to us.  It was a woman carrying a baby.  The woman pushed back her hood; her face was beautiful and strong.  Unlined and clear.  She smiled, and the baby smiled.  It was a baby, but its eyes weren’t the eyes of a baby.  Above us in the sky was a drop-pointed star, and a light strengthening in the east.

            You had pulled over now.  You put your elbow on the steering wheel and your head on your hand.  “Have we dreamed it all?  Are we at home, asleep, waiting to wake up?”

            “Come on,” I said.  “If we’re asleep, let’s sleepwalk down to the cottage.”

            The woman and child were ahead of us now, walking, walking, walking.

            We got out.  You took my hand.  We had noticed everything once – the water collecting on the ivy, the mistletoe in the dark-armed oak, the barn where the owl sat under the tiles.  Why had we learned to hurry through every day when every day was all we had?

            The woman was still walking, carrying the future, holding the miracle, the miracle that births the world again and gives us a second chance. 

            Why are the real things, the important things, so easily mislaid underneath the things that hardly matter at all?

            “I’ll light the fire,” I said.

            “Later,” you said.  “I’d like to sleepwalk back to bed with you.”

            Outside from across the fog-ploughed fields I heard the bells ringing in Christmas Day.

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We Depend Upon One Another

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