by Christie Purifoy | Dec 9, 2012 | Advent, prayer, Uncategorized
Prayer to Welcome the Sabbath
Lord of Creation,
create in us a new rhythm of life
composed of hours that sustain rather than stress,
of days that deliver rather than destroy,
of time that tickles rather than tackles.
Lord of Liberation,
by the rhythm of your truth, set us free
from the bondage and baggage that break us,
from the Pharaohs and fellows who fail us,
from the plans and pursuits that prey upon us.
Lord of Resurrection,
may we be raised into the rhythm of your new life,
dead to deceitful calendars,
dead to fleeting friend requests,
dead to the empty peace of our accomplishments.
To our packed-full planners, we bid, “Peace!”
To our over-caffeinated consciences, we say, “Cease!”
To our suffocating selves, Lord, grant release.
Drowning in a sea of deadlines and death chimes,
we rest in you, our lifeline.
By your ever-restful grace,
allow us to enter your Sabbath rest
as your Sabbath rest enters into us.
In the name of our Creator,
our Liberator,
our Resurrection and Life,
we pray.
Amen.
– From Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals
by Christie Purifoy | Dec 8, 2012 | Advent, Family, Music, Uncategorized
O Come O Come Emmanuel
O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny
From depths of Hell Thy people save
And give them victory o’er the grave
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai’s height,
In ancient times did’st give the Law,
In cloud, and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
by Christie Purifoy | Dec 7, 2012 | Advent, book of quotations, Uncategorized
“Lots of people these days are seeking recollection, writing books about it, urging us to do it. It seems like a nice idea all right – until you try it. What a lot of the books don’t tell you about is the terror. To know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge may mean not knowing much of anything else.
With the peace and quiet of recollection may come the stark edge of fear that this doing nothing, this being, this offering of oneself for God to be the actor, cannot possibly be enough. It all seems so passive. Do something, produce, perform, earn your keep. Don’t just sit there. It may be good and well for Mary to offer space in herself for God to dwell and be born into the world, but few of us possess the radical belief such recollection requires.
What matters in the deeper experience of contemplation is not the doing and accomplishing. What matters is relationship, the being with. We create holy ground and give birth to Christ in our time not by doing but by believing and by loving the mysterious Infinite One who stirs within. This requires trust that something of great and saving importance is growing and kicking its heels in you.”
– from “To Be Virgin” by Loretta Ross-Gotta, Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas
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by Christie Purifoy | Dec 6, 2012 | Advent, Uncategorized, Waiting
We are still waiting for snow.
We’ve seen flurries now and again, but the inches we’ve been promised have yet to materialize.
This sixty-degree day is mocking my hope. It’s hard to believe in snow when the sun is this warm. I’ve decided it will be easier if I stop thinking about it. If I stop hoping.
If snow will come when snow will come then what is the point of anticipation? What is the point of hopeful watching? If the end result will be the same (because snow will come when snow will come), then why not pass the time thinking of other things? Why not try to forget that I have new sleds hidden in the basement?
And yet, because this waiting for snow corresponds with Advent, I can’t quite accept that waiting is pointless. I wonder if our waiting does something. Could the end be different not simply because time has passed but because we have waited and watched with heavy, hopeful hearts?
It hurts to wait. Especially when we do not know how long our wait will last. When we have no idea when the end will come.
How long, Lord, how long?
And, of course, I’m writing about more than snow. I’m writing about snow, and spring, and babies, and degrees, and jobs, and weddings, and healing, and hope and peace and love.
How long, Lord, how long?
Waiting is like wind. It appears to be just nothing, but it can do so much. I don’t mean that it teaches us some lesson, though, I suppose that is sometimes true. I mean, rather, that the waiting itself shapes us, changes us, makes us ready in some hard to grasp way.
Snow is snow, but snow we have waited for …
Snow we have longed for …
Snow we have watched for … it is what snow was always meant to be. It is more itself because we have changed.
We now have eyes to see.
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by Christie Purifoy | Dec 5, 2012 | Advent, Family, motherhood, Uncategorized, Waiting
We gathered around our advent wreath Sunday night.
The boys were too loud, and the baby needed to be fed halfway through, the three-year-old whined because we wouldn’t light all four candles, and then, of course, everyone fought over who would get to blow the candle out. But, the dining-room lights were low, and it was sort of beautiful, too.
We avoided wordy explanation and long prayers and passed out bread and grape juice instead (gluten-free for the big boy). My bread was a little stale, but, like I said, the lights were low, and it was all sort of beautiful.
If Advent is supposed to be a kind of journey, I wonder where we’ll be in a few more weeks. Will anything be different? Will I be any different?
It’s hard to imagine because my hormones are in new-baby upheaval and the boys I love so much are much too loud so I’m always yelling when I mean to be loving and the only change I can imagine is this:
We will sit together by the light of four candles instead of one.
The room we share will be just a little brighter.
My family may look its best in low light, but I still think this is what I want – this is the change I most desire.
A little more light to see by.
And the grace to love what it reveals.
What does Advent look like to you? Click here for the Advent flickr group hosted by our own photographer, Kelli Campbell.
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by Christie Purifoy | Dec 4, 2012 | Advent, Family, Jesus, motherhood, Uncategorized
It is dark, four children are finally quiet and in bed, and I am carrying a basket of folded laundry up the stairs.
I lift my head and see this: the tall double-hung window that presides over the turn in our staircase. The bottom is etched glass, and a battery-operated candle on the sill has filled it with one perfect rainbow. The top is clear glass, and a full moon hangs precisely at its center.
A full moon and a rainbow. I’ve heard the voice of God in signs like those.
I stop and listen, but I don’t hear that voice tonight.
Maybe I silenced it when I shouted at the boys? First, there was sword fighting with the curtain rods I had carefully placed in the corner (we’re in the middle of painting the family room). I couldn’t handle the noise, was worried the glass finials would break. Next, there was jumping from the couch, so I left them alone, yelled over my shoulder, “Someone will be crying soon!”
When the older boy started crying, I had no sympathy. Later, when I finally checked and saw the blood on his scalp, I somehow had even less.
Putting them to bed, I stepped on the baby Jesus, and I saw red. The baby Jesus from our wooden nativity set is sharp, and my foot hurt, but I saw red because I had told them, told them!, not to bring the Christmas decorations up into their room. It’s like a black hole in there, and I can’t take it anymore, and why did it have to be the baby Jesus accusing me with its painted-on-smile? Why not the donkey? I’d have had no problem throwing that donkey against the wall.
Lying in bed, I think about the full moon and the rainbow. I think about how silent they were. “Jesus, where are you??”
I hear these words in my head: Jesus was a little boy.
I tend to think of the incarnation and remember the baby. Or, the man. Never the little boy.
And the truth is, I don’t want to think about Jesus, the little boy. I don’t want to imagine Jesus jumping off the furniture. I don’t want to consider whether Jesus knew how to use his inside voice.
I want God to speak to me in rainbows and full moons. I want to see angels and follow stars.
I resist the thought that Jesus might be nearer than I think. Perhaps as near as the toddler bed down the hall where a little boy clutches a wooden Mary in one hand and a Lego astronaut in the other.
Too near.
