In Growing Wonder

Friends,

Anne Dufourmantelle in her book Power of Gentleness, writes in the final chapter that is entitled: A Gentle Revolution:

“It is sometimes inadvertently that a revolution takes place. An effect of extreme gentleness, barely different from other moments, and then life suddenly catches fire, is ablaze. But burning with inexplicable gentleness. As if suddenly you were taken by the hand along a precipice and needed not only to walk along the edge but to dance, and yes, you dance without fear or vertigo as if the very space took refuge in you, and then as if, upon arriving on the other side, everything had changed, but without violence. Is the intimate revolution of this kind?”

She then goes on to tell a short story of a young Italian soldier. It is a story of surprising ordinariness, “barely different from other moments”, yet I find myself reading and re-reading it with a growing sense of wonder. With each reading it “suddenly catches fire” and the “surprise holds” me.

A young Italian was drafted into the army during the First World War. For months he hid in the mountains with his comrades. They had almost no provisions left. The order was to defend the mountain pass at any cost. Feeling a sense of absurdity that he tried to hide from the others, he kept a journal. One night he noticed the movement of troops in the pass on the other side of the cliffs separating the narrow valley, and he thought that all was lost. The offensive would occur the very next day, that much was certain, and he knew he and his comrades would not have enough ammunition. That night, without his comrades knowing, he decided to venture as close as possible to the enemy camp. Halfway there he almost turned back; he heard a song rising from a gramophone. The surprise held him. He was so moved by it that he decided to come forward until he was seen in the open, a sign of surrender in his hand. He was captured immediately and brought to the officer of the German army. The record was still playing. They both knew the tune. The voice that rose from the recording had an unusual gentleness. The German officer talked with this man all night. Risking everything, the Italian explained the position of his troops, their certain death, and put their fate completely in his hands. The German officer let him leave in the morning. And he never launched the attack. He went in the direction of another valley, leaving them time to withdraw and make their escape. This is a story of gentleness.

This story involves no less wonder than sipping wine from a water-filled-cup and no less surprise than the Creator of the cosmos “contracted to a span, incomprehensibly made man” (Charles Wesley).

The epicentre of the story’s surprising wonder lies deep beneath the surface of expectation. “Their certain death” escapes certainty. The story’s surprise rests in what does not happen rather than what does happen just like a tree spared from the woodcutters axe. The tree stands today as it did yesterday. Nothing has changed and yet everything is different. The tree, though rooted in the same soil is now rooted in a new story. The story of what could have been, but wasn’t. The tree, though not dead, inherits the wonder of new life.

So it is with the soldiers. Though not dead, they too inherit new life. This new life is birthed out of a gentle revolution. A gentle revolution that involves radical risk taking, courageous vulnerability and musical invitation that travels over enemy lines and creeps beneath ideological uniforms to build a bridge between enemy hearts.

I share this story of gentle revolution with you at this time in the hope that it can help us to see the Christmas story as one of gentle revolution that catches fire precisely because of its surprising ordinariness: A peasant girl giving birth to a baby in poverty, yet held by the musical invitation of God’s loving favour.

In growing wonder,
Alan

 

Do time differently

“Do not let me be put to shame …”

Psalm 25:2

 

Friends,

Today is Advent. Advent is the start of the Christian calendar. The Christian calendar invites us to do time differently. Instead of seasons or seconds determining our time, Advent calls us to re-set our lives to the clock of Jesus’ character of justice, mercy and humility. Advent is the grace-full invitation to start over. To begin again, to prepare for Jesus’ coming. Jesus’ coming is the coming of love and truth in the flesh.

Advent asks each of us: How do we prepare for the coming of love and truth in our lives and world?

Here is a prayer and poem to help us wrestle with this Advent question…

With grace,
Alan

 

A prayer…

“We carry old secrets too painful to utter,
too shameful to acknowledge,
too burdensome to bear,
of failures we cannot undo,
of alienations we regret but cannot fix,
of grandiose exhibits we cannot curb.

And you know them.
You know them all.

And so we take a deep sigh in your presence,
no longer needing to pretend and
cover up and
deny.
We mostly do not have big sins to confess,
only modest shames that do not
fit our hoped-for selves.

And then we find that your knowing is more
powerful than our secrets.

You know and do not turn away,
and our secrets that seemed too powerful
are emptied of strength,
secrets that seemed too burdensome
are now less severe.

We marvel that when you find us out
you stay with us,
taking us seriously,
taking our secrets soberly,
but not ultimately,
overpowering our little failure
with your massive love
and abiding patience.

We long to be fully, honestly
exposed to your gaze of gentleness.

In the moment of your knowing
we are eased and lightened,
and we feel the surge of joy move in our bodies,
because we are not ours in cringing
but yours in communion.

We are yours and find the truth before you
makes us free for
wonder, love, and praise—and new life.” 

Walter Brueggemann, Prayers for a Privileged People

 

A poem…

“Go gently today, don’t hurry 
or think about the next thing. Walk 
with the quiet trees, can you believe 
how brave they are—how kind? Model your life 
after theirs. Blow kisses 
at yourself in the mirror 

especially when 
you think you’ve messed up. Forgive 
yourself for not meeting your unreasonable 
expectations. You are human, not 
God—don’t be so arrogant. 

Praise fresh air 
clean water, good dogs. Spin 
something from joy. Open 
a window, even if 
it’s cold outside. Sit. Close 
your eyes. Breathe. Allow 

the river 
of it all to pulse 
through eyelashes 
fingertips, bare toes. Breathe in 
breathe out. Breathe until 

you feel 
your bigness, until the sun 
rises in your veins. Breathe 
until you stop needing 
anything 
to be different.”

Julia Fehrenbacher