The Slow Way: A Universe Shook to its Core by the Power of Love
What if the manger scene is only a glimpse of the cosmic power of Christ?
This Advent each issue of The Slow Way newsletter will come from the transcripts of the first five episodes of The Slow Way Podcast from last December. Each episode (which are also re-airing throughout the month of December), contains an original poem I’ve written for the season of Advent, as well as a prayer practice to help us open our hearts and minds in the presence of God. I hope this can be a holiday season in which we lean into to the quiet, where we slow ourselves down when we’re tempted to hustle, and where we experience sacred spaces and moments all around us.
Let’s practice.
How He Entered
“…a son, a male child, who will rule all nations with an iron scepter.”
-Revelation 12:5
He entered, not a barn, not a hay-filled nursery, but a galaxy, a kingdom groaning for his rule. He arrived, not from a young woman, trembling and homeless, but a queen enthroned in stars. We saw him, one fleshy hand raised in reflex, as if in his infancy, we might grasp deliverance. He was found, not in David’s town, not in swaddling cloths, an unknown child wiggling in straw, but as a hero in royal thread, a sorcerer, whose tap of scepter sends the dragon scurrying in fear. He came, not to angelic song above hills of sheep, not to glittering starlight that drew kings, but to a symphony of fire, treble clefs undone, in which the blaze melts our noise to gold. He came, not to silence, not to bowing camels, not to carolers in moonlight, not to candles, not to peace, not to our praises, our prayers, our attempts at holy. He came not to power, not to battle, not to shouts of glory. He came in weakness, in furious rule, a God in infancy. He came. Receive the mystery.
A Slow Practice
One of the gifts of my journey out of certainty and into the perplexity of doubt, has been the invitation to consider that the sacred power of God might just be beyond anything I can comprehend. Maybe the God I was introduced to as a child, the one I struggled to fit into my narrow understanding of the universe as an adult, simply didn’t fit because my knowledge is too limited, because Divine Love is so profoundly beyond my definitions.
I’m not interesting in an Advent as apologetic, an explanation for why it’s even possible that God came to us as a human child two thousand years ago. Maybe there’s a place for explanations, but they stopped serving me a long time ago. I’m much more interested in how profound it might be that God came. How deeply vibrant God’s coming to earth might have been if we imagine the universe being shook to its core by the power of love.
That’s my invitation to you today, and that’s what this poem is about. What if the magic and glory of the birth of Jesus is entirely beyond our comprehension? What if all we have to go off of is the song the angels sang in the sky, but in reality, in what Richard Rohr calls the Really Real, the song was fire, and knowledge of it is something our finite minds just can’t comprehend, just as we can’t sing a song of fire.
Today, I want you to sit with the word, Glory.
In some Christian circles it’s thrown around, overused and undersold. But what if Glory is the Really Real, the Dream of God coming true in the world, in the universe?
Here’s your practice.
Imagine each image we carry with us of the nativity. Sit with the picture, and then replace it with a different image of glory in your mind.
Let’s start here. Take a deep breath.
Imagine what comes to your mind when you see the manger scene, the hay and the cows, sheep and donkeys, a young woman and her betrothed. And a baby in a barn.
Now breathe in and out again.
Imagine that space transformed, galactic. What is really real about this moment? Use your imagination. What might it look like on a level beyond our imaginations?
Now breathe in and out again.
Imagine a newborn baby, born in the middle east, his brown skin, his dark hair, his tiny fist raised in reflex. Squirming, wiggling, crying for milk.
Breathe in and out.
Now imagine that baby as a sorcerer, a presence of utter power, a presence beyond your understanding. Breathe in and out
Imagine what the poem called “an angelic song above hills of sheep,” and “glittering starlight that drew kings.”
Breathe
Now imagine that song on a level we don’t know how to dream of. Sounds so beautiful our hearts would break.
Breathe.
We love to talk about “glory” in churches. But the reality is that “glory” would undo us. We cannot imagine. Every attempt we make at prayer is an attempt to enter that mystery. As you lean into this Advent season, my hope is that you’ll remember that you don’t have to understand. You can’t understand. You can only imagine, hope, and practice seeing a world beyond dirt and stardust and music as we know it. Imagine the glory, friends.
Let’s take a moment for our own reflection.