Mirabile mysterium

A wondrous mystery is proclaimed today; all natures are renewed: God has become human: he remained what he was, and what he was not he became, suffering neither confusion nor division. – Jacob Handl (1550-1591), Mirabile mysterium (as quoted in The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind, Mark A. Noll, Eerdmans, 1994, p. i.)

The Mystery of the Incarnation

My fellow-blogger, Phil Reinders, over at Squinch, reminded me of this gem of a poem by one of our favourite poets. Of course, poetry is made for slow reading. So make yourself a cup of tea and dip your biscotti as you read (well, that is what I did today). The poem is entitled, “On the mystery of the Incarnation” and it is by Denise Levertov. Make certain you read it several times and catch the phrasing. Read it out loud (swallow that biscotti first). Convince yourself of the correct places for pauses. Wait for the moment when the meaning of this poem enters your heart and then meditate upon it throughout the day. May this mystery be good news of great joy for you this Christmas. 

On the mystery of the Incarnation 

It's when we face for a moment
the worst our kind can do, and shudder to know
the taint in our own selves, that awe
cracks the mind's shell and enters the heart:
not to a flower, not to a dolphin,
to no innocent form
but to this creature vainly sure
it and no other is god-like, God
(out of compassion for our ugly
failure to evolve) entrusts,
as guest, as brother,
the Word.

 - Denise Levertov

Welcome to Our World

We have been enjoying a wonderful Christmas season in Simcoe, Ontario with our daughter, Twila, son-in-law, Brad, and grandson, Clayton. Yesterday, we had the opportunity to go to Sunday worship at the Selkirk Christian Chapel in Selkirk, where they attend and are loved by a great church family. Brad, Twila, and I performed this Chris Rice song at the Sunday morning service. As you read these amazing lyrics you will notice that they describe the mystery of a baby born for the purpose of dying for every human who has ever lived on earth. Welcome long-awaited Holy Stranger; welcome Holy Child; welcome to our world.

Welcome to Our World (Lyrics and music by Chris Rice - listen to his recording here.)

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking
How we need to hear from God
You've been promised, we've been waiting
Welcome Holy Child; Welcome Holy Child

Hope that you don't mind our manger
How I wish we would have known
But long-awaited Holy Stranger
Make Yourself at home; Please make Yourself at home

Bring Your peace into our violence
Bid our hungry souls be filled
Word now breaking Heaven's silence
Welcome to our world; Welcome to our world

Fragile finger sent to heal us
Tender brow prepared for thorn
Tiny heart whose blood will save us
Unto us is born; Unto us is born

So wrap our injured flesh around You
Breathe our air and walk our sod
Rob our sin and make us holy
Perfect Son of God; Perfect Son of God
Welcome to our world

Merry Christmas to all who take the time to read this blog. May your Christmas season be filled with love, grace, peace, family, and friends. May you continue to hunger and thirst for righteousness.

The Dumbfounding

My friend Jay Gurnett wrote an article in which he mentioned the poet Margaret Avison. I did a little research and learned that she is a Canadian poet who was given the Order of Canada for her poetry and yet not many Canadians have ever heard of her. I encourage you to grab a cup of coffee or tea and slowly read this Margaret Avison poem. We used it last night as a communion meditation for the gathering of the church in our home.

The Dumbfounding
(Margaret Avison; from: The Dumbfounding. New York: Norton, 1966. pp.58-59.)

When you walked here,
took skin, muscle, hair,
eyes, larynx, we
withheld all honor: "His house is clay,
how can he tell us of his far country ?"

Your not familiar pace
in flesh, across the waves,
woke only our distrust.
Twice-torn we cried "A ghost"
and only on our planks counted you fast.

Dust wet with your spittle
cleared mortal trouble.
We called you a blasphemer,
a devil-tamer.

The evening you spoke of going away
we could not stay.
All legions massed. You had to wash, and rise,
alone, and face
out of the light, for us.

You died.
We said,
"The worst is true, our bliss
has come to this."

When you were seen by men
in holy flesh again
we hoped so despairingly for such report
we closed their windpipes for it.

Now you have sought
and seek, in all our ways, all thoughts,
streets, musics--and we make of these a din
trying to lock you out, or in,
to be intent. And dying.

Yet you are
constant and sure,
the all-lovely, all-men's way
to that far country.

Winning one, you again
all ways would begin
life: to make new
flesh, to empower
the weak in nature
to restore
or stay the sufferer;

lead through the garden to
trash, rubble, hill,
where, the outcast's outcast, you
sound dark's uttermost, strangely light-brimming, until
time be full.