Gold, Frankincense, and MyrrhJanuary 5, 2003.Robert G. K.
Will you Pray with me:
Holy One: Open my mouth and all of our hearts so that the words about to be spoken and the words about to be seen and heard might be Your word.
I live near a park. Several inches of new fallen snow covered the park recently, and it revealed something. I am sure you have seen the same thing. Eventually trails cross the snow. Some are straight and purposeful. They enter the snow covered area at one point, go straight across, and exit another. The shortest route possible. Efficient. The person who makes such journeys knows where they are going.
Some trails wander a bit from the straight and narrow. And some wander a lot. Over there to that old oak tree, down over there to the brush where the rabbits shelter in Winter. In fact some wander all over the place, checking things out. The person who takes such journeys reads the park along the way, and their journey is not so much determined by where they wish to go as by what they see along the way.
And some trails start out straight, and then, there in the snow, you can see something happened. The trail starts to bend. Or perhaps turns suddenly. Something happened. Something unexpected. Perhaps something tragic.
And then, there are those who leave no trails; Those who remain pressed to the window, going to bed early every single night, for the rest of their lives.
I remember the Christmas my Grandpa died. And the next Christmas when my Grandma died. And the next Christmas when Uncle Lloyd died. Does God no longer walk with me? Do I stop celebrating Christmas and the Epiphany?
No. Now, on a clear, crisp, winter's night, when the only sound is the crunch underfoot as I walk in the new fallen snow, and the stars are reflected in the sparkling snow crystals, and the Northern Lights begin to dance, and suddenly a great throng of the hosts of heaven begins praising God, Grandpa Kronschnabel, Grandma Doughty, and Uncle Lloyd are singing with them.
The park, and indeed, the world, are like the handwriting of God. And the bends in our journey say allot about how open we are to that handwriting.
The first of the year is always a time of reflection for me. A time for looking back, and looking ahead. January is named after the Roman god Janus, the god of portals, and beginnings and endings. Janus was often depicted with two faces, one facing forward, and one facing back.
Today's contemporary reading is a favorite of mine when I need to reflect on both the past and the future.
"Do we have to go to bed early every single night until we are old?"
I think this is a great question to ponder on the first Sunday of the New Year.
From time to time I have mentioned Fran, the author of the wonderful children's book from which our contemporary reading is an exert, and some of you have asked who she was.
Francis Hamerstrom left an interesting trail in the snow, for she was never one to remain pressed against the window, watching the world.
Fran was born into a wealthy Boston family and raised to hire servants, speak several languages and dance beautifully. As a child she literally bumped into Kaiser Whillem in Berlin. She was a debutante, and for a time a fashion model.
She began smoking at age 6. She dug her own secret garden and protected it from family and servants by transplanting poison ivy all around it. At age 12 she secretly acquired her own 22 rifle. A few years later she swapped one of her mother's discarded sable furs for a double barreled shot gun at a pawn shop.
While still in her teens, she acquired her first injured falcon, and taught herself falconry from a book written in Old English from the public library. She constructed jesses for her falcon from leather opera gloves she stole from her mother's dressing room.
She and her husband Frederick were "hard" scientists. They gave up the life they had known in the East and moved to an abandoned farm house in central Wisconsin in the thirties to study and attempt to save from extinction the prairie chicken. They learned to sit on the table rather than at it. The floor was so cold that even in heavy field boots their feet got numb near the floor.
They were responsible for the establishment of the Neceedah Wildlife Refuge in central Wisconsin, where they organized over 7,000 volunteers over a 20 some year period to study and save the prairie chicken. Over the course of her life, she guided over 103 research assistants and graduate students. She trained the first generation of modern raptor scientists, whose
The gospels really are timeless. Or rather, perhaps, they are time frozen. Or, again, perhaps it is we who experience time linearly, while the gospels are just that, "God Spells". These stories are our touching the eternal. The stories that we read are our own stories. The story of Christmas is not some play that we watch, not some tableau to be viewed. We are in the story. We are in that nativity scene of Christmas.
Today we are celebrating the feast of the Epiphany. The gospel reading is Matthew's story of the Magi.
How did "Magi" turn into the 3 kings, or the 3 wisemen? Where did the 3 come from? Matthew mentions 3 gifts, not three people. And about the kings business: is the implication that only kings are wise? Is there something in there about if people are weird but seem OK they must be wise? Does Matthew say they were men? Why was the word "Magi" picked in the first place?
I rather suspect that as they were siting around writing up this story, Mary told of this weird group of people who showed up one day. And the writer was perhaps a bit embarrassed about this group and decided to call them Magi. I rather imagine the whole story happened something like this:
A: Hey Gilda! Would you look at that new star!
So a motley crew takes a trip, show up in Judea and get a good view of the star. While having a good time with the locals, they hear the legend of a savior king to be born with the sign of a star and so head out to where the king, Herod, lives, expecting to have a good time at the party Herod must be throwing to celebrate the birth of his son. Once they get to Jerusalem, they find there is no party, and no new prince. They start asking around and Herod's secret police find out that a group of strangers is asking about a new king. This gets them a visit to the local cop shop real quick.
H: So, what are you duds up to?
Now Herod is one of those guys who only leaves straight paths across the park. He thinks he'll out smart this group of strangers. He gives them the freedom of the land but tells them they should come back and have a talk with him before they can get their passports back. So our heroes consult the local legends again and wander down to Bethlehem. There they discover Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Everything seems to fit, the star is directly overhead, and the viewing is great. This must be the child of whom the prophecies speak. No dummies, this group. They realize that from a poor family greatness can spring. They would like to leave something and give as gifts what they have at hand. Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh. Yes, they are expensive gifts. But they travel well, and you can cash them in almost anywhere. Just the kind of thing you wouldn't leave home without. The 2,000 year ago equivalent of the American Express Platinum card. Then our heroes set off for home, deciding that they would rather not have that final conversation with El Presidente.
The point is that this is the story of some people who saw a sign and decided to do something. They saw something in the park and made a bend in their journey. They didn't remain pressed against the window looking out at the world. They made a difficult journey following a sign, and found a child, a sign of hope. And there was really not much they could do for
There are legends about what the 3 gifts are for. Gold, of course represents money, Frankincense is incense, used to create a pleasing smell, and myrrh was often used to anoint, and tradition says was used in Jesus's burial.
I, like some of you, sometimes have a difficult Christmas season. Ten years ago, I had a very difficult Christmas. My walk in the moonlight led me on a difficult path.
Myrrh.
I had talked with Rick often about his fears, and listened to him as he took care of unfinished business. Each month we talked as his T cell count dropped.
Sometime during the week of Thanksgiving, I received a call that Rick was in the hospital, that he might not make it, and that there was no reason to come, until he either regained consciousness, or died. And did I know his friends here in Minneapolis? And could I let them know? Each night I called Rick's roommate to receive an update. Somedays were better, some worse. And a day came when he opened his eyes, and spoke with his family. And Rick wanted the respirator removed.
Chris and I drove to see him. We got there after the respirator had been removed. Rick continued breathing. His family was there, and his roommate Bill. They had been keeping vigil all week. I remember holding his quiet, warm, hand. And feeling his pulse. His hair danced lightly in the breeze of a small fan in the room. He lay slightly elevated, his swollen arms resting on pillows on either side. There were marks on his arms where needles had been. We held him and talked to him.
I took his hand in mine. "This is Bob. Chris and I are here." I felt him briefly tighten his hand. We kept vigil that night till 3, and were back the next day. We stayed as long as we could. I told him good bye, I told him I loved him. I told him that the decision was still his. We would not take that away from him.
His family said that shortly after we left, his breathing slowed and he died.
I feel that I have walked with my friend to the gates of the next life. And we paused and talked long there. And then he opened them and walked through. And it occurs to me that I have done this all too often, as one by one friends have slipped away. And it occurs to me that traditionally, it is supposed to be the role of priests and ministers to help people over into the next life. But somehow, in this plague, I, and people like me, have become escorts to the beyond. And I am reminded that we are all ministers to each other.
Rick and I grew up 10 miles apart. But he went to college and came home, I left, and shook the dirt from my sandals. Oh, he traveled. Every other weekend to Chicago, Milwaukee, Madison and Minneapolis. And the world too. I remember the Christmas I drove up from L.A., and picked him up at the airport in San Francisco... But that is another story. He was out to his family, but certainly not at work, and certainly not around town. He often complained about small town life. And I always told him: "Well, move!" But he always went home. Something I could not understand.
In the last year, Rick had started music programs at two Catholic grade schools in rural Eastern Wisconsin. He had been preparing the children for their first Christmas concert.
It is strange what I remember of the funeral. Chris and I, and two other gay friends of Rick's were pall bearers, along with two of his cousins. I remember carrying the casket as the church doors opened. And it was packed with children. And there were four priests at the alter. I had never been to a four priest funeral. And, I had forgotten the local customs. The four of us gay folk had dressed in suits. One doesn't wear suits in Rick's home town. We were the only strangers in the front. And some of the children, younger and older were certainly curious about these gay men from the big cities. And then communion came. And it was offered to the four of us strangers. And some of the children played part of the Christmas concert Rick had been preparing with them. And some were crying as they played for their teacher's funeral.
I have seen the resurrection... for Rick lives on in the hearts of hundreds of children, in whom Rick nurtured a love of music. And in Rick's hometown, children will grow who have known a gay man, who died of AIDS, and loved him.
The cemetery in Mishicot is across from the grain elevator. It was corn drying season. There was about a foot of snow on the ground, and the air was filled with the dull red of corn chaff from the dryers at the elevator. And as we layed Rick to rest, in the land that he had never left, I wondered, how many children he had led on a walk when the moon was full.
We buried Rick December 9th, 1992, his 35th birthday.
Gold
It is always interesting to listen to Gay and Lesbian people talk about their Teenage years. And oftentimes sad too. I am saddened by how often I have heard of teen suicides. And sometimes you can piece together the story of a lonely teenager struggling with their sexuality.
I read about District 202 in the paper. There was to be an open house. I wondered if there was anything I could do. It seems they had all the volunteers they needed, and beside, I am not too good at that sort of thing. But they did need money. I was not able to give much, I am sure that they could easily get by without what I gave. But it was important to go, look around, and give what I could. It is not a fancy place. The fancy places are full. In fact it is a sort of make do place. Rather like a certain stable was 2,000 years ago. But it is a nurturing kind of place. Where wild energies can gather. And new hope spring forth. District 202, like the youth it nurtures, is a sign of hope.
Frankincense.
I've known Ed since around Christmas, 1978. We even lived together for a while, back in '81, in Milwaukee. We have kept in close contact over the years, visiting each other as time/distance/and money permits. It is a close, intimate, platonic, friendship. We have certainly had our ups and downs. We are very different. But we talk, listen, and trust. And not always in that order.
At Thanksgiving when we talked, Ed asked if I was coming over that way for Christmas. He seemed to be a bit down, but I figured that it was just his usual Christmas depression. We talked of old times, and as we talked he sighed often. He remains pressed to the window, going to bed early, every single night.
Christmas in Ed's family had usually been a rather traumatic affair. There are scars on his body from previous Christmases. Ed's mother has passed away. His father and brothers are not close. Every year I invite him to spend Christmas with me, wherever I happened to be living, and every year, he decides, out of some sense of loyalty, I suppose, to spend it with his remaining family. I invited him again, but he declined.
And then Rick died, and then Bill, and I didn't get my Christmas cards out on time. Finally I got around to my Christmas baking. Now, I admit to being a bit slow sometimes. And I have noticed, through the years, that when I don't listen to the whisper of God, God tends to taps a little harder.
And Behold! The hand of God reached down and smote the stove, and it was broken! And earnestly did I implore the parts merchants, but they were hard of heart and could not be of help. For the parts were back-ordered. And would not be in. Yeah, verily, even unto the 2nd week of January.
That pretty well took care of my plans for baking, Christmas eve and Christmas day dinner.
And then I remembered Ed. I called my sister, who lives near Ed and asked if we could spend Christmas with her and her husband. It was OK, so I took the 9 hour bus ride to Green Bay.
Christmas Eve Ed and I had the house to ourselves as Patti, Roy, and my Grandmother visited my brother-in-law's family. We sat in front of the fireplace, and listened to the fire crackle. The Christmas tree lit up one side of the room. A large fish tank gurgled in the other. My sister had out all her wonderful Christmas decorations. The smells and sights of Christmas were all around us. Outside the wind was howling. But we were snug and warm, wrapped in a Christmas glow. We sat and talked for hours as we wove a Christmas spell around ourselves.
We had not talked about exchanging, but I had taken a delight in shopping for a few small things for him. At some point in the evening, I pulled out my travel bag, and told him that Santa had left a few packages for him at my place. He was embarrassed, and delighted, and for a few fleeting moments, his child within danced with glee across his face. I helped Ed smell the incense of Christmas again. And I have seen the Child. And I will never forget it.
It was not the Christmas I had planned. Nor one I could have imagined. My Christmas journey that year took me on twists and turns that I would have rather avoided. I realize that I was on a journey with the magi. Jesus may have been born some 2,000 years ago. But I saw the Child just the other day. The light of hope in the faces at District 202. In the delight sweeping across Ed's face when opening gifts. And in the hearts of hundreds of children, in whom Rick has planted a love of music.
We are all on a journey. And sometimes the journey is straight across the park. And sometimes the way is twisted and we forget why we are wandering in the cold. But if we pause to look, if we are open to the sights along the way, we can catch a glimpse of the Child. And it is important that if we can, we do what we can. Sometimes we can do a lot, like Fran. But sometimes there is little we can do. Except... perhaps like the magi....
(From the Gospel of John)
Put on your sweaters and snow pants and overshoes You can pull them right over your pajamas. Find your mittens. I think they are drying by the stove with mine.
Let's Walk, for the Moon is Full.
Contemporary Reading: From "Walk When The Moon is Full", by Frances Hamerstrom
This is the story of two real children, Alan and Elva, who called their father Hammy and their mother Fran. They lived on a 240 acre farm in Wisconsin and longed to go exploring at night.
Elva, the younger, liked to climb trees. Animals trusted her to come very close and her keen ears heard the faintest sounds.
Alan had a small sensitive nose that found and remembered smells, just as his mind remembered facts. he liked to find things out.
Both children were in their pajamas for it was supposed to be the quiet time before they went to bed. Alan was looking at a book, but Elva had been standing at the window for a long time peering into the night.
Alan put down his book and went to the window too. He lingered there watching. At last he turned to his mother and sighed, "do we have to go to bed early every single night until we are old?"
Fran set her mending aside and looked out the window. The moon was rising like a giant apricot, casting long shadows of gnarled oaks on the snow. Their mother was perfectly still for a long time. At last, she repeated Alan's words softly, "...every single night until we are old?"
Then she said, "No, " in a faraway tone. Both children looked up at the sound of their mother's voice. "Why should children go to bed early every single night until they are old? I say 'No!' "
"What do you mean, 'No?" both children asked.
"I mean--no, you don't have to go to bed. The moon is full. Put on your sweaters and snow pants and overshoes. You can pull them right over your pajamas. Find your mittens. I think they are drying by the stove with mine. Just a moment, I'll tell your father we are going for a walk."
"A walk! A walk in the moonlight!" the children shouted.
Scripture Reading
Matthew 2: 1-12
And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, you are by no means the least among the leaders of Judah, for from you shall come a leader who will shepherd my people Israel.'
Then Herod summoned the wise men to see him privately. He asked them the exact date on which the star had appeared and sent them on to Bethlehem with the words, 'Go and find out all about the child, and when you have found him, let me know, so that I too may go and do him homage.' Having listened to what the king had to say, they set out. And suddenly the star they had seen rising went forward and halted over the place where the child was. The sight of the star filled them with delight, and going into the house they saw the child with his mother Mary, and falling to their knees they did him homage. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. But they were given a warning and returned to their own country by a different way. Here ends the Scripture readings for the Feast of Epiphany. |