Advent/Christmas

 In this holy season, I'd like to share a couple of things I've written about Mary and Joseph and Jesus:

“Away in a manger, no crib for a bed.  The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head.”  I guess I’ve been singing that Carol since I could talk.  The music is so soft and soothing, isn’t it?  Yet Jesus’ birth is often described as the ultimate in poverty, humiliation, filth, degradation.  I’d like to put forth a different point of view.

I grew up “in a barn”, so to speak.  The youngest child on a family dairy farm, I had many hours of freedom to explore.  And what I remember about managers is very positive.  Mangers were where we put hay in box stalls.  To explain: box stalls were used for cows who were giving birth, for young calves not yet old enough to go outdoors, or for other unusual needs.  Normally, all the cows lived in the barnyard. The animal in the box stall wasn’t tied, just confined to that area. We kept the manure cleaned up from the straw-strewn floor so the animal could lie comfortably and not become wet or soiled.  The manger was like a trough at one end of the stall and it was always clean and fragrant.  

I remember sitting in one sometimes, when a stall wasn’t in use, playing with tiny kittens or talking to a young calf to whom I’d just given milk in a pail.

I like the idea that Jesus first saw kind animals, first smelled the earthy naturalness of a stable, first heard the contented lowing of a cow or the gentle clucking of hens, first touched the firm, soft hay.  And probably his first taste was of his mother’s sweet life-giving milk.  What a natural connection with the planet earth!  What a way to begin new life—safe and secure amongst all that God created and loves, safe and secure in a manger.  What a way to remind us that life is not just about us.  God chose to be born in a place that blessed all life.  We are called to do nothing less.

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

 Do you value your ability to hear?  What do you most enjoy hearing?  A robin's song? A baby's laugh? Beethoven? The voice of your love?

I have learned to value my hearing more and more as I am able to hear less and less.  We speak about hearing but not really listening and this is often true.  But I've learned it's very hard to listen to you if I can't clearly hear you.  My seven year old hearing aides need to be replaced.  I know that.  Even with the aides, however, it is often hard work to understand what I'm hearing.  Music, for instance, often sounds to me like a radio station that isn't quite tuned in.  There is static, an interference which distorts the sound so much I often can't identify music which I've known well for years.  Masks, of course, have added to the frustration, since most of us lip read more than we realize.  It isn't just that the sound is muffled, but being unable to see your mouth limits my ability to understand you also.

All of this is to say how frustrated I was the other day when I attended a memorial service at the funeral home across the road from here.  I've been to several in that beautiful facility.  And every time I had trouble hearing.  The kind of mic they have is mounted on the podium, but is the type one almost has to swallow to make themselves heard.  Very few people are brave enough, or physically able to get that close to it.  So the other day, I heard almost nothing of the lovely service.   Others around us couldn't hear either, so it wasn't just my hearing loss.  How can they offer this facility to people in their most vulnerable state and not be sensitive to the inadequacy of their sound system?

And to add my social justice two cents worth, how can many people afford hearing aides?  Why can't they, as well as dental and visual care, be part of Medicare?  Costs too much, you say? What cost is it to countless Americans who go without that significant care--care that affects their lives physically, emotionally, relationally, spiritually--because it is simply too expensive.  I know how isolated I often feel when I'm in a group of people and can't follow what's being said; can't join in when others laugh, don't "get it" when things are being discussed.  It's lonely and depressing.  So that's my sermon for this time.  And I think I'll call the funeral home and complain!

I'M TRYING AGAIN

 It appears I haven't written a blog for three years.  Did I run out of things to say?  Me?  Never.  Instead, my spirit ran out of motivation to share my thoughts.  Here I am, a 78 year old woman, unable to walk alone, spending much of my life in a lounge chair.  I felt useless, used up, with little to offer to anyone.  

 I am blessed with a beloved partner who watches over and encourages me; a very special daughter who does the same.  Though their love and concern is deeply appreciated, being waited on and worried about, also results in feelings of being an invalid. Does that mean I'm now in-valid? I had been used to being capable, independent, a spiritual leader.  Now I don't drive, I can't walk, I sit and sit and sit.  I don't pursue hobbies.  I read; write emails and post on Facebook.  The political, social, and environmental issues swirling around feel overwhelming and despair is frequently close to the surface.  Well, as with my frequent falls, though I'm full of fear, I get up and keep on trying.  And so I will try to write, fearful though I am.

Recently I've been increasingly aware of white privilege, my privilege. Living in Santa Fe the past few years, where at least 3 classes and cultures co-exist--Native American, Spanish, and Anglo, I have felt it often. Each time we need something repaired at our house, the workers are Mexican or from further South. Spanish is spoken perhaps more than English in this community.   The workers speak little English and I know almost no Spanish.  I sit in my lovely home watching, as they work and sweat.  I feel guilty.  Can they afford to hire help?  Do "anglos" come to fix their refrigerator? 

 I attend a church which proclaims its inclusivity, which is sincere.  Almost no non-white people attend.  We use Spanish in some of the rituals anyway.  There is a small number of Native Americans, no black people.  Actually, there is a very small black population in Santa Fe.  Of course, people from other cultures have their own ways of worship.  Why should they want to attend a white protestant liberal church, anyway?  Do we attend their churches or houses of faith?  So no matter how well-meaning our efforts, white people remain at the top, intending to be "helpful", instead of examining within ourselves how we have participated in creating and perpetuating our own superiority.  Racism is not a black or brown problem, it is a white problem and only we, if we humbly examine our assumptions and attitudes, can make things better.  I'm sure I'll be writing more on this topic.

Thank you for listening!

Carol, Song of Joy