every girl needs a greek chorus

a blog about hope

Category Archives: Faith


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O Magnum Mysterium

O magnum mysterium,photo (14)

et admirabile sacramentum,

ut animalia viderent Dominum natum,

jacentem in praesepio!

Beata Virgo, cujus viscera

meruerunt portare

Dominum Christum.

Alleluia!

O great mystery,

and wonderful sacrament,

that animals should see the new-born Lord,

lying in a manger!

Blessed is the Virgin whose womb

was worthy to bear

Christ the Lord.

Alleluia!

Tonight, we come to the second greatest event in Christendom, the birth of Jesus.  Some will consider me an apologist for God, purveyor of myth (in the true meaning of a myth, I am), childlike (yep), superstitious (never), or simply irrational (sometimes).   Some may say that Christians have co-opted other traditions (syncretism), commercialized a sacred belief (agreed), and/or persecuted those who aren’t “believers” (regrettably).  But on this night, all I can see is the hope lying in a modest dwelling, not in a palace or floating on a yacht or drifting magically through the sky.  The baby is human and real and vulnerable and generating the love and peace and hope that we appear, at first glance, to have so little of.  It is the great mystery. It’s a gift.  It’s irresistible.  Seize it.

O Magnum Mysterium, from the Matins said by the Church at Christmas, comes as close to expressing how I feel about Jesus’ birth as anything I’ve read or recited or sung.  Two musical settings, written 400 years apart, particularly convey the mystery. The elder was written by the 16th century Spanish composer Tomás Luis de Victoria and the more contemporary (1994) by American composer Morten Lauridsen.  Both are a joy to experience as a singer, the harmonies, dynamics, and movements telling the story as much as the words do.   Listen to the simple, ancient words in any of the fine versions on YouTube.

When caroling with friends, visiting shut-ins, or even singing in the bar of an upscale tavern, as much as we bring the good news of Jesus’ birth to our community, we share our own joy with one another.  At one stop, we were even joined by a kennel full of foxhounds howling along (no, it wasn’t someone singing out of tune).  In the clear, cold sky, Orion made his winter appearance, just as he did on that holy night.  Same stars.  Same creation.   Same love.  Same hope.

On Christmas Eve, as I sing with these same friends in the choir at the 265-year old church where I worship regularly, I will face this beautiful window.  Floodlights outside will illuminate God’s beloved creation.  The animals will breathe comfort. The angels will shine gloriously. Mary and her baby will glow.  The mystery will be clear.

Inside, the lights will dim when we sing “Silent Night” as the Eucharist ends, and most eyes will be damp.  What moves us?  Sorrow?  Dementia?  Hallucination?  An evolutionary, even reptilian, reaction to sound waves?  It’s a mystery.  The Eucharist itself foretells the greatest event in Christendom that we will observe in a few short months.  Another mystery. More improbability.  More irrationality.  More hope.

All of these mysteries engender love and peace and hope, if we embrace them.  It doesn’t mean that we put down our intellect or our reason.  It doesn’t mean that we dominate others.  All earthly life is messy.  Scripture does not promise us otherwise.  It promises that, in all the messiness of sin and pain and sorrow, God will continue to send that love and peace and hope that heals and sustains us. Gloria in excelsis!

As I age, I learn that I don’t need an explanation for everything that happens.  I know the nuts and bolts of life, the tools of physical survival, but the unmeasurable part of me, my faith, lifts me when I cannot lift myself.  How does faith work?  It’s a mystery, but to me, it’s very rational.  Like planking, which strengthens my physical core, I work on it.  As I work at staying in touch with friends, I work at staying in touch with God through prayer and study and fellowship and evangelism and stewardship, all of which are concrete and very real.  Frequently, I fall, but others, who also see the mystery, are there to help me upward and onward.  We are God’s gifts to one another.  We are God’s love and peace and hope.  So, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


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Love Birds

In memory of Mr. Phil  

Ready to go

Ready to go

Love affairs are bittersweet.  There’s the shock and initial giddy rush of attraction that takes you someplace wonderful that you’ve never been or felt before.  You overlook your beloved’s peccadilloes, their appearance, their annoying parents.  Their beauty grows in your eyes.  You rush to their defense, to maintain the miracle of their presence at your own peril.

And then, it’s over.  They need their freedom.  They fly the nest.  Your sojourn together is too brief.  One day, they’re gazing upon you with their soulful eyes, tucked in a nest of love, and the next, stretching their wings and borne on the wind, they’re off to find the next fragrant blossom.

Yes, the hummingbirds are getting ready to go, and I am prematurely desolate.  Seduced and abandoned.  I knew their departure was imminent this morning when I climbed the stepladder in my nightgown to photograph them (blessedly, the Shrew was still asleep).  They just looked at me with their unblinking eyes, stuffed into their mother’s love nest with their beaks and tails hanging over the edges.  Their heads have grown significantly in the past few days, so that their eyes are no longer dominant.   The larger of the two is the size of its mother, so I know it’s time, and I’m just not ready.  She is just starting to let me watch her feed them, a miracle all by itself.  Too soon, it’s too soon, for me, if not for them.

“Oh, please, please, please don’t go yet!”  I begged. “You’re my miracle in the crappiness of my life.  You’re my heart.  You’re my hope.”

They were silent.  Not a peep out of them.

“I love you so!”  The nest swayed in the breeze, but they remained steadfast on their branch.

“Oh, for God’s sake!  What are you doing out here in our nightgown?”  The Shrew had roused herself.  “Are you conscious enough to be on that ladder?”

Stay, just a little bit longer

Stay, just a little bit longer

“They’re leaving.”

“Not yet, they aren’t.”

“But probably today or tomorrow.”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” she yawned.  “It’s August, you know.  They have to prepare to migrate before the weather gets cold.”

“Is summer over already?”

“Not quite.  We have another two months or so of decent weather.”  The Shrew was surprisingly gentle.  “You know better than most people how life works.”

Over the weekend, a dear friend lost one of the longest battles with cancer of anyone that I know.  Mr. Phil and I were the long-tolerant spouses of avian veterinarians, but he partnered his with much more grace and patience than I partnered mine.  My heart was broken from the loss of his smile and laughter and his cool ties and sharp hats.  It was also broken for his wife, whose plaintive tribute to him brought back memories of my own loss, brightened by her request that his friends have a Champagne toast in his memory.

Still here in the evening

Still here in the evening

“Let’s go in the house,” the Shrew whispered.  “The breeze is going up this nightgown, and we’re shivering.”

I fed the BFF and made my morning cup of strong black tea, sweetened and doused with milk (fat free, of course), put her meds in her marshmallow, and settled down to the morning news and my email, which held a delightful surprise for a woman who really doesn’t do mornings.

In the evening, after a frustrating day, I climbed the ladder to see if they were still there.  They were, and my breathing slowed for the first time in hours.  “All will be well and all will be well…”

Suddenly, I’ve been thinking about faith, hope, and love in a new light. God tirelessly redeems and redeems and redeems so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!