Poor St. Valentine. He was martyred for his faith in 269. St. Valentine was beaten to death with clubs and then beheaded for his refusal to submit to Emperor Claudius’ command to give up Jesus in favor of Roman gods. Now of 1,700 years later he is linked to a Roman god in the person of Cupid, “son” or Mercury and Venus. Additionally, our modern celebration of St. Valentine’s Day has been shortened to Valentine’s Day and the martyred saint (or saints, as there are at least two men named Valentinus associated with St. Valentine’s Day) is all but forgotten among boxes of chocolate, champagne, fancy dinners, and cute greeting cards.

Among the legends and hagiography of St. Valentine there are a couple of stories that link St. Valentine with love. Early Christians were pacifists and did not serve in the Roman army. Valentine, who was either a priest or a bishop, would officiate at the marriage of Christian men and women. Marriage would help the man avoid military service to the Empire. Valentine purportedly made hearts out of paper to remind the man of his duty to God and his wife for helping him to avoid conscription. Another is that Valentine, when imprisoned, cured the blind daughter of his jailer, and they fell in love. His last letter to her was signed “your Valentine.” They are sweet thoughts, but probably apocryphal.

According to the History Channel website, Geoffrey Chaucer may have invented the modern Valentine’s Day. They write, “In his work ‘Parliament of Foules,’ he links a tradition of courtly love with the celebration of St. Valentine’s feast day–an association that didn’t exist until after his poem received widespread attention. The poem refers to February 14 as the day birds (and humans) come together to find a mate. When Chaucer wrote, ‘For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne’s day / Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate.’”

So St. Valentine became the patron of lovers, at least in popular culture (in the Catholic Church he is designated as the patron saint of beekeepers and epileptics). Additionally, his day has been coopted for commercial purposes. Not unlike how St. Patrick’s Day somehow has become associated with excessive drinking and anything green, rather than a celebration of the man who brought Christianity to Ireland.

I do not begrudge anyone their Valentine’s Day romance, but let us not forget that there was a man or men who went by the name of Valentine and died for his belief in Christ Jesus our lord. He, like so many early martyrs of the Church, died for a love more profound than one based on hormones, earthly beauty, and passionate embraces. He died for the love of God for all, even those who persecuted him and ultimately took his life from him. His truly is a love worth dying for.

As Kingfishers Catch Fire–Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–1889)

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying, Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

I confess that I often find Hopkins’ poems difficult to decipher in their wholeness. But then there comes a line or two that is of such great beauty that I am stopped dead in my tracks. So it is with this poem, and with the lines quoted in the photo above.

I believe too often we think that after Christ’s ascension we can no longer see Christ in the world. Yet as Hopkins write Christ is at play everywhere. In the messy face of a child, in the gnarled hands of a a man in a retirement home, in the soft hands of a toddler, in the drawn face of a homeless woman, in the lovely face of a Bedouin, in the sleepy eyes of a newborn and the wondrous smile of his older brother age three and three-quarters, in the tearful eyes of one who grieves the loss of a relationship or a friend, in the joyful tears of one who has found love, in the bare feet of a boy in Mexico, in the shiny patent leather shod feet of a Spanish schoolgirl, and the list can go on and on.

Christ is everywhere and in everyone. For God is in us all. The trick for you and me is to have eyes to see. God sees it as Hopkins tells us. We seem to have scales before our eyes that are our prejudices, our fears, and our egos. These are the “original sins” that blind us to the presence of God in all people.

With the help of Jesus and those who love him those scales can drop away. Sometimes it is partially and we see as if “through a glass darkly.” Other times those scales can drop away completely and we see as if with new eyes, as St. Paul did in Damascus. It is a process that is never complete this side of the veil, but it is what Jesus calls us to as he is at play in a thousand places. Places that include your heart and mine and the hearts of all who are beloved of God. Which is, of course, everyone.

The human condition is such that we seem to have to learn lessons over and over again. Sometimes it gets easier and other times it seems like I am learning it again for the first time. For me I often get stuck because I cannot see how I could reach the end. To pervert an old saying “I don’t start the journey, because I cannot take the first step.”

As I approach a new task the nagging voice comes again. “Why start if you can’t possibly finish?” “You do not know what you’re doing give up now instead of wasting time.” “Who are you to think that you can accomplish this. Quit while you’re ahead.” The negative recordings installed over time play and replay keeping me stuck in place.

My ability to overcome some of this talk came from an unexpected source. It was a book that was popular in the 70s–Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig. I picked up the book out of idle curiosity. I was not interested in Zen Buddhism or maintaining motorcycles, but the title was provocative and the yellow cover attracted my eye. Little did I know what was in store for me.

As I read I became fascinated with the storyline of the father and son on a seventeen-day road trip and the philosophical musings of the author. As compelling as the story is what changed my life was a specific scene where Pirsig visits a motorcycle shop. He notices that the shop is quiet. Every other shop he had entered had music playing and other distractions. This shop was nearly silent. This led to a digression on Pirsig’s view of how Zen helped him learn to maintain his bike.

What I took away from his digression was a new way of looking at any project. No longer did I look to the end result, and feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of getting there, give up before I began. Instead, at my best, I could look at a project and break it down into discrete tasks. While the overall project might seem impossible each individual task was less intimidating.

One of the best examples of how it affected my life happened in the late 90s. At that time I heard about a challenge to raise money for AIDS services. The event was called the Philadelphia->DC AIDS Ride. It seemed like an important way to help raise money for organizations helping those suffering from the AIDS pandemic. But the catch was twofold. One a participant had to raise at least $2,000 in pledges. I hate fundraising, and asking people for money to help people with a disease that had lots of stigma attached added to the challenge. Second, I had to commit to bicycling 250 miles from Philly to DC on a hot June weekend. While i enjoyed riding my bike I had never ridden more than 10 miles; how could I possibly ride 250?

For both challenges I was able to reach back to the lessons from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I broke down both tasks into smaller tasks. I did not have to raise $2,000 just $100 then $500 and so forth. I did not need one big donor, but lots of small donors. I looked to my church community, family, friends and co-workers and asked for $25. Of course, some would give more and some would give less and some would give nothing at all. But by tracking my progress to smaller goals the task felt manageable.

Biking was harder. I had to set up a training schedule not really knowing what I was up to. I set a goal of riding 80 miles in one day. I figured if I could ride 80 I could ride farther if needed. I worked back from the weekend of the ride setting daily and weekly goals. Each Saturday was the long ride and each week it would get a little longer so that by the week before I would hit the goal of 80.

The weekend of the ride would be the big challenge. The distance was intimidating, The terrain was different (more hills, argh). I also worried if I was able to keep up with the other riders. But I fell back on my “Zen” and mentally set a goal of fifteen miles. That was the average distance between rest stops. All I had to do was ride fifteen miles. I would get a drink and a snack and ride another fifteen. By breaking it down in that way I was able to reach camp on Friday after riding 100 miles, then Saturday after riding 90 miles, and the finish line after riding 60 miles.

Not only did I discover I could do this “impossible” task, but I was able to do it well. If it had been a race I would have lost, but as it was a ride, I learned I was in the top ten percent of the riders. Not bad for a guy who was never an athlete.

Yes, every journey begins with one step, but oftentimes it is taking the first step that is the hardest. It takes beginning in order to succeed regardless of the task. Even when one beginning falters there are other beginnings, other dreams, other goals that may beckon us even in our failure.

Take the first step without regard for the impossibility of the end result. There is no telling what may be revealed about yourself and your life along the way.

This week I received and email from a friend and former coworker, Stanley Finch. We worked together in a gourmet food shop in Chapel Hill in the early 80s. The experience Stan describes below is funny but also telling of the importance of simple courtesy not only in the workplace but throughout our lives.

Stan wrote, “I was a manager in a large, expanding gourmet food store long before those products were sold in every grocery.  Since I arrived before the store opened for the day, I entered by a back door through the stock room. There, day in, day out, was dear, even earlier arriving, Mattie, a wonderful older woman. She sat all day weighing and bagging spices, chocolate cordials, jelly beans, anything that arrived in bulk to the store rather than in neat little packages.  Always cheerful in spite of her dreary, windowless work space, we had become good friends.

“One morning, my mind was somewhere else when I arrived, probably preoccupied with Christmas season sales numbers. Bundled against the cold, I walked right past Mattie. From behind I heard her growl, ‘I didn’t sleep wi’ cho!!!’  I didn’t quite get the remark and turned to my more than wise friend, puzzled. Again Mattie repeated, ‘ I didn’t sleep wi’ cho!! Don’t go past me without saying good morning!!’  After picking myself up from the floor laughing, cherishing the unusual beginning of an unexpectedly joyful day, I said, ‘Good morning dear Mattie!’

“I never again failed to salute my special co-worker each morning, no matter how distracted I may have been. For years after, in many different work settings, I did my best to greet my colleagues cordially each day. When they failed to reply, I silently repeated to myself, ‘I didn’t sleep wi’ cho!!!’ and started the day with a laughing remembrance of dear Mattie.“

Mattie had it right. There is something about common courtesy, a kind greeting, a nod of recognition, or a handshake that keeps us connected with each other. That acknowledges our common humanity and need for recognition.

It is also an acknowledgement that we have in common the breathe of God that was breathed into each of us at our birth. We are all God’s people. We are all beloved of God. When we greet one another we greet the goodness of God. We are saying “Hello” to the Godlight sparkling in each other’s eyes.

Let us all remember Mattie’s wisdom and never walk by each other without saying “Good morning.”

Earlier this week we had a day or two of persistently foggy weather. As whenever we have an unusual weather patterns folks were kvetching about it. I must say that at first I agreed with folks who were testy with the fog. There was a closeness and sense of being trapped. The fog even had a foreboding feel about it, as if there were something ominous being hidden in the low lying cloud.

But as the day progressed that threatening feeling started to mellow into something more benign. It was then that I started to feel that the fog was not hiding something fearful, but rather wrapping me in a cocoon where I was safe from harm. I was also safe from outside demands. I was cloaked and made secure. I used the day to stay in and read. I knew I would not be disturbed by the present world. Instead, I could slip into the world of my book (Manhattan 1937) and become one with it.  

Perhaps those who were complaining about the fog earlier in the day mellowed as I did and settled into the gift of the fog. Others, driven by the needs of their world or some inner demands, were frustrated until the fog burned off. It is not always easy to accept an unexpected gift or even to see it for the gift it is. Those of us who do see the gift can set the example for others. Rather than joining in the kvetching we can sigh with relief and gratitude and tell others how it feels to settle into the gift.

Before cars, superhighways, long commutes, and the demands of a never ending workday that is what people had to do. There was not the rush or hurry to overcome the weather in order to fulfill someone else’s agenda. There was not the race to get another thing done regardless of the cost or inconvenience. If it was foggy we lived with it and accommodated it. Similarly, when it rained we worked indoors. When it snowed we settled in front of the fire instead of proving we could overcome nature with shovels, blowers, and snowtires.

I remember those days from childhood. I remember the special treats that came with being “trapped” indoors. They included having my dad home for more than meal times. The special times when he could relax and play a game with us, because work was not calling. Or when it snowed and my parents made doughnuts with Mom’s special icing. Or when the power was out and we huddled in front of the fireplace to keep warm and also to make hot chocolate. The weather events were not something to be endured but something to be made special and even sacred by the rituals we performed.

Carl Sandburg wrote,
“The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.”

There is something to be learned from fog and other such weather manifestations. They give us a chance to change our patterns, to find other ways of being, or to make sacred new practices or revive old ones. Sit as the fog sits on its “silent haunches” and allow the fog to be a gift unbidden and without warning but nonetheless welcome and cherished for its rareness. Our opportunities are limited to savor these gifts and there is no sense giving them up, for in no time they will move on and be gone.

Those of us who are of a certain age were likely to have had to memorize and recite poems in school. I also had a piano teacher who had us memorize and recite poems and humorous readings. The point was to help us gain poise and confidence in speaking in front of an audience. Boy Scouts also had a public speaking merit badge for which we had to give a prepared speech as well as speak extemporaneously on a topic of the audiences’ choosing. Each of these had its own challenge. They also at times seemed to be from an era gone by. I felt like I was living in a period movie like “The Music Man” or “Auntie Mame.”

One of the most popular poets we were to memorize was Robert Frost. So many of his poems at mid–century seemed to inspire nostalgia for a simpler time and place than Cold War America. “Mending Walls,” “Birches,” “Stopping by a Wood on a Snowy Evening,” and, of course, “The Road Not Taken,” were all so very popular with our teachers and our parents. Reciting one of these reasonably well was sure to earn the student extra points just for picking the poem. A particular favorite of mine is “Choose Something Like a Star.” I learned to love this poem even more when my college choir sang an exquisite setting by Randall Thompson. [ Here is a link to a performance of “Choose Something Like a Star.”]

Each year near Epiphany “Choose Something like a Star” comes back to mind. It is not just the association between the starry poem and the star that guided the Magi. There is the poem’s message that calls us beyond ourselves at a time of year when it is very easy to get self-absorbed due to the cold weather and the tendency after the holidays to cocoon a bit. The poem calls me out of myself and into the wider universe where I am guided by more than my needs and wants but by a star that, like the one that led the Magi, can lead me to a place stability, hope, and truth.

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud –
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says “I burn.”
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats’ Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

“When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among [sisters and] brothers,
To make music in the heart.”
by Howard Thurman

As we prepare to exit this festive season Howard Thurman’s words call us to more than festivity and nostalgia. He calls us to what Jesus called us to, the work of being Christian in a world that seems to value rudeness and selfishness over kindness and charity.

It is a big calling finding the lost, healing the broken, feeding the hungry, releasing the prisoner, rebuilding nations, bringing peace, and making music. No one of us can do it all, but we can do our part.

As you take down your Christmas tree, put away the ornaments, and pack up the lights consider which one of these will be your Christmas work for this year. Ponder what God is calling you to do to extend the joy of Christmas beyond the twelve day season into Epiphany, Lent, Easter and beyond. Claim your work and live it out knowing God is with you every step of the way.

“Poem for Advent” by Michael Podesta 
If we fill our lives with things,
and again with things,
if we  must fill every moment of our lives with action,
when will we have the time
to make the long slow journey across the desert
as did the Magi?
Or sit and watch the stars
as did the Shepherds?
Or brood over the coming of the child
as did Mary?
For each of us, there is a desert to travel,
a star to discover,
and a being within ourselves to bring to life.

As Podesta says so eloquently in this poem, we can take our cue for Advent from the materialistic culture or from the first witnesses of the Incarnation. That is those who watched the night sky for stars or angels; those who trekked many miles to glimpse a miracle; and the one who waited patiently as Emmanuel, God With Us, grew in her womb.

Wait in wonder, expectation, and joy for the one who is to be born (again) in the cradle of your heart.

This coming Sunday is the third Sunday of Advent. The third Sunday of Advent is always a little different from the other Sundays. First of all, this Sunday has a special name. It is Gaudete Sunday—the Sunday of Joy and rejoicing. To mark the differences, we will light a rose colored candle instead of a violet one. Rose sets this Sunday apart in our Advent journey. Rose is one of the colors of the Virgin Mary and roses are associated with Mary as are lilies.

The readings for this Sunday are all about joy in the Lord and joyous expectation of the coming of Christ in the past and in the future. We hear from Isaiah, “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.” The psalmist shares, “Happy are they who have the God of Jacob for their help! whose hope is in the Lord their God.” St. James tells us to wait patiently for Jesus’ return. In the Gospel of Matthew Jesus quotes the prophet Malachi as he speaks of John the Baptist, saying “I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way before you.” We may also, say or sing “The Magnificat” Mary’s song of praise for God.

The darker, eschatological passages of the past few weeks are put aside as we rejoice in the miracle of the Annunciation, the prospect of the birth of Christ, and the hope of our redemption in Christ Jesus.

My friend Heidi Schmidt who serves as a missionary in Argentina sent me a photo (above) of a boy in prayer in front of an image of the Virgin Mary. You will note that his shirt reads “Jesus Camino a cielo” Jesus is the way to heaven. I can feel his devotion to God as he kneels in adoration to the Virgin of Guadalupe. Heidi wrote, “He was clearly face to face with the Divine, there was a visible holiness happening before my eyes, it was holy ground just witnessing this moment. I was beholding the sacred. It moved me to the core. Pure grace. And a gift to me just to witness something so pure. My words fail to express what my heart took in.” Then she quoted James Carroll, author of Constantine’s Sword, who wrote “There are times when we stop, we sit still. We listen and breezes from a whole other world begin to whisper.”

What he is describing are called “thin places” in the Celtic tradition. These are places and times when the distance between heaven and earth does not seem to be so great. These are where we experience the Divine to be more near to us. Some people have described Emmanuel as such a place. Certainly, when a building has 177 years of prayer in it something special happens. Those years of prayer transform a place. Just as this boy’s prayer is transforming him and the place where he is worshipping. We shorten the distance between heaven and earth each time we pray, regardless of where we pray. Whether we pray in thanks, adoration, petition, or in complete silence we are closing the distance between our heart and God. We are doing likewise for the entire world.

This Sunday of Gaudete pray with joy as does the boy. Be transformed by God’s love into a being from which the light of joy shines.

We are now in the midst of Advent. We have lit the candle of Hope and this coming Sunday we light the candle of Peace. However, hope and peace are words that we use quite casually today. We say, “I hope we have good weather today.” “I hope I get the job I applied for.” Or we say, “I wish someone would give me some peace.” “The peace agreement is holding so far, but tensions are flaring.”

We us hope and peace to describe something that is tenuous, unpredictable, and uncertain at best. When we hope we are not confident. Peace is not only tentative, but short lived. Peace is most often of the moment; a desire not to be disturbed. Peace may be freedom from conflict, which is too often a temporary situation. Our forebears considered hope and peace very differently from these common usages above. For them hope was not transient or uncertain. Peace was not temporary or so limited in scope.

When I looked up definitions for hope I found that one definition is marked “archaic.” That definition is “a feeling of trust.” When our ancestors wrote “my hope rests in the Lord” they were not crossing their fingers and knocking on wood. God was the foundation of their lives and to hope in the Lord was to put all of one’s trust in the God’s creating, sustaining and redeeming love. They trusted God who created all things for good. They trusted that God was holding up and providing for the continuation of all things in the universe—alive and inanimate. They trusted that God was redeeming the world, making all things new that they would return to at state of right relationship with God. Their hope was not a wish for the best as we might mean today. Rather theirs was trust that God was most certainly doing all things for good, just had been done in creation.

Peace in Western culture is also limited in its meaning. In Middle Eastern cultures and religions peace, Shalom or Salaam, is much more than quiet or absence of struggle. Peace is a term that encompasses all aspects of being. Peace is a sense of wellbeing, wholeness, health, spiritual completeness, success, fulfillment, harmony, and security. To be at peace means to be in harmony with oneself, one’s neighbor, and one’s God. When we say, “The Peace of the Lord that passes all understanding” we are talking about that kind of peace. To put it in vernacular terms it is to say that “God’s in heaven and all is right with the world.”

These are the aspects of hope and peace that we are called to dwell upon, work for, and bring into the world and our lives. In this season of expectation, we are to ask ourselves how can I find this in my life, share them with others, and help make them more possible in the world? Ours is not an attitude of passivity but of active expectation. This activity is not frantic or frenzied (aspects of life that the secular world seems to strive for at this time of year).

Each day as you light your Advent candles, either literally or figuratively, focus on the hope that is trust in God. Focus on peace that goes beyond anything you can ask or imagine. Focus on a new world that is always coming into being despite the traumas and travails that swirl around you. Expect that the new child being born in the manger of your heart this Christmas is the child that brings hope and peace, love and joy to you and the whole world.