The beauty and wisdom of iconography is that we can see old, familiar events in a new, restorative way. We are invited to contemplate the manger tableau in Bailey Hindmarsh’s Unto Us a Child is Born with wonder and with curiosity. Ironically, in Hindmarsh’s mini manger menagerie, the scene features paradoxical animals watching over the Babe, underscoring Isaiah’s prophesy. The absence of the traditional iconography of the Mother of God and Joseph with their child ignites our curiosity, imagining them on the periphery.

I wonder if this linocut print invites us to consider what kind of animal we might be and how we might behave. For instance, as a leopard, we sometimes change our spots depending on sticky situations, or we morph into timorous little lambs, uncertain whether or not to trust God. Other times, we act like a cowardly lion when living life on our terms, or we yearn for a life of ease like a foolish yearling wanting to nuzzle road apples and eat them, too.

Whatever the paradoxical animal we might experience at times—good, bad, or indifferent—one relationship impacts how we see God; sometimes the way we interact with God is contingent on the effects our fathers have had on us.

I wonder which, if any, of the following statements represent how you would announce the Son-providing God of the Bible: 1) God sent his son; 2) The Father sent his son; or 3) Abba—the Arabic word translated as Daddy—sent his son. Perhaps, these three demarcations differ for some readers depending on individual life experiences. For example, my father died of cancer when I was 16. My relationship with him was loving and nurturing in spite of family dysfunctions. He was not a hugger or a mess-up-my-hair kind of dad. Just 16, I was beginning to develop my personal values and adult decision-making ventures without the locking-horns angst toward parental authority. Conversely, my older brothers, who grew up in the 60s but didn’t remember it, fought with him. One particular day, when I was ten, I stood at the doorway, hearing my 16 year-old brother and Dad arguing in the house, wrestling and grunting, and then my brother running away, yelling.

As for biblical Old Testament stories, many fathers betray, belittle, and abandon their children: Isaac plays favorites (Genesis 25:28); passive David is nonplussed with his sons (II Samuel); and Mannasseh sacrifices his children (II Chronicles 33:1-6) to name a few. The Old Testament identifies God as Father 15 times. Besides his holiness, perhaps the noticeable omittance of identifying God as Father is partly due to poor examples of human fathers.

On the other hand, in the first four books of the New Testament, Jesus references God as Father over 165 times. Jesus, who arrives in a manger, grows to be the fulfilling-prophet Son of God, and announces truly good news: to whatever degree we have interacted with earthly fathers, we can vulnerably connect with our heavenly Abba…our Daddy. This is the cozy, compassionate Abba who “kisses each star,” longing to embrace us and kiss us; Abba who’s “thrilled to adopt the pulsar beat” and hold us close to his heart like John the Beloved resting on Jesus’ bosom; Abba who, because of the Son saying yes to everything his Abba asks, is “new-birthing us into fellowship” right now.

Imagine encouraging those you know and those you meet for the first time during these 12 days of Christmas, that they, like you and I, can know God as Abba intimately like he desires us to experience him. Jesus ushers into humanity a divinely deep relationship with Abba. This is gospel; this is good news.

New-birthing Us

A stable father sees his serene son

sleeping, starry-straw embracing him,

like a million galaxies one-by-one

smiling eternally, never growing dim.

Heavenly Abba kisses each star

thrilled to adopt the pulsar beat,

as Milky Way reads a heavenly memoir

narrating novae redemptive feat

So that kingdoms can come together fast—

the one way high in glorious heaven

then on earth with us, Peace-Prince at last

for that good, and just, and loving succession—

Our offspring spying who’s lying in the manger

relays unabashedly the greatest gospel news to say:

stable parents then saw their some-day Easter Son,

new-birthing us into fellowship with Abba today.

-Casey Giffen

Star of Wonder

An Epiphany Reflection 

 As you view Maureen Steward’s Star of Wonder, imagine being one of the three wise men standing in awe at the star of Bethlehem. The star has stopped. Beams of starlight reveal, reflect, and reinforce the ultimate reality of the incarnate Christ, your Messiah in flesh. Joy overwhelms you.

This is Epiphany.

          Consider what leads to this Epiphany. The wise men, also known as kings or Magi, had settled themselves in a receptive position long before setting out on their journey from the east. They learned to discern. That discernment resettles when the Magi avail themselves to trusting a mysterious dream and opting to travel back to their country by an alternate route rather than returning to the nefarious Herod determined to kill the Christ.

          At Monte Vista Chapel, formational conversations are encouraged in order to resettle us: we experience Abba’s love by observing what’s happening in our lives, we listen to the Holy Spirit’s invitation, and we cooperate intentionally as we journey with Jesus. This what-would-Jesus-do-if-he-were-in-our-shoes posture allows us to do life by discerning, and then produces wisdom to see the unseen and to hear the unheard. Epiphany invites us to sit with Jesus, allowing the Trinity not only to envelop us, but also allowing us to experience an “approximately correct” spiritual stance.

          Discernment, wisdom, epiphany…these are mysterious concepts, divine descriptors which humble us while any possible pride evaporates. If we tend to look for a self-imposed, epiphanic discovery—one where we are not comfortable with mystery but prefer knowing answers thus eliminating Trinitarian mysteries—we might undergo a season just like any other season. Perhaps Thomas Moore received an epiphany when he stated, “At best we can never be more than approximately correct when we speak about spiritual matters. The part that remains unknown and unspoken gives our words and ideas the emptiness they require.” This season of Epiphany provides a paradoxically “purposeful, selfless destination” where we die to our ways of searching for an epiphany yet live with our sitting in overwhelming joy. Set aside a sacred space for “emptiness” this season so that the Trinity can interact with you, fulfilling your longing to become and to do.

Water Into Wine 

An Epiphany Reflection 

Cindy MeKenna’s acrylic on canvas Water into Wine illustrates a “…contemporary depiction of the first miracle of Jesus…” The calendar comment provides a beautiful reminder: “Trusting in Jesus, we are assured that the abundant life God intends for all is full of the splendor of God’s glory.”

The inspiration for The Satisfying Wonder of Water is soaked with God’s glory. I wonder if some of the same H2O molecules morphed throughout the Old Testament into the New Testament. Parting the Red Sea. Flowing water from a rock. Dousing water on a fiery alter. These are astonishing interactions.

Then we read of Jesus’ first miracle in John 2:1-11. Enter Jesus. A wedding ceremony. Six stone water jars. Imagine the uber-satisfaction on the face of the banquet master, on the face of the bridegroom. Talk about an epiphany! What happens? “He (Jesus) thus revealed his glory, and his disciples put their faith in him.” The Trinity perpetuates glory. The disciples put faith and trust into their Rabbi. All from the rearranging of a few molecules.

Last month, folks who call Monte Vista Chapel home pondered the beginning of Epiphany: “…that Christ Jesus manifests God. Jesus is the One to follow. We sit at his feet in this season, learning again what we are called to be and to do.” The “to be” is glorious. All of humanity, each individual body composed of roughly 60 percent water, we are created in God’s glorious image. The “do” part is divine, too. Like the twelve disciple who trust their Rabbi—a soul-satisfying relationship much more significant than a creed, tenet, or doctrine—we are called to do the discipleship marriage dance. We two-step in step with the Trinity as we go and make disciples. We tango with those in the name of the glorious Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We foxtrot to teach what Jesus commands, especially as coined by Dallas Willard in the Discourse on the Hill commands. The organic “miracle” of conversion ensues, just as miraculously as water into wine, but not based on our “to do.” The miracle of inner transformation takes place on a divine dance floor where the Trinity is in step with the soon-to-be-convert disciple. It’s a waltz with the Trinity serenaded by a this-is-my-beloved love song. For the satisfying soul we long for/ is the Vine where wine will pour.

Gethsemane – mixed media/photograph by Lin Eizabeth Priss

Gethsemane

A Lent Reflection

    In Lin Eizabeth Priss’ mixed media/photograph Gethsemane, something about the slitted opening of the veil and spying the tree in the background is fascinating. It’s an image that balances the essence of Lent, a forty-day intentionality designed to deepen our discipleship with Jesus with a both/and outlook. Exiting Epiphany, a season to wonder why, allows us to enter Lent, a season to say hello to how we journey with our Rabbi.

          In my early fifties, I experienced my first Ash Wednesday service. It was in the quaint sanctuary of the then St. Francis Anglican Church in Turlock. My curiosity carried me into a marvelously mysterious event. The aroma of the scented candles soothed my soul, inviting me to sit in awe and satisfaction. The icons welcomed my spirit to see Christ in new ways: he looked at me and loved me with unfathomable compassion. Although I was ignorant of the Latin inscriptions, the scripts spoke to my intuition, reminding me that the Holy Spirit speaks with clarity in a supernatural fashion. I appreciated welcoming one another with a “Peace be with you; and to you as well.” greeting. My friend informed me that the ashes about to be fingered on my forehead were the ashes burned on the previous Palm Sunday. Curiosity did not kill this cat, but it did create a question: how was I to live out a season of Lent?

          For decades, my Catholic colleagues had arrived at school with ashen foreheads and a pale tale of giving up something. Whether it was chocolate or libations, the intent was to sacrifice in order to grow closer to our servant savior. My curiosity kicked in anew. I discovered that giving up something for Lent was one side of the coin. What flipped my lid was cashing in on the entering into something for Lent. That first experience with Lent was intriguing. I gave up playing Candy Crush on my tablet (I didn’t own a cell phone), and I entered into writing a poem each day of Lent. What a gift God had given me. By giving up something that had become a numbing activity, I entered into a renewed sensitivity for creativity. What a joy for me to tap into one aspect of Creator God’s character!

          The prayer for Lent meant dusting off my preconceived notion that the event was bent on wearing ashes: “Remember that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.” Never was a blessing so accurate and sobering. By sporting ashes, we deny and become reconnected with the Trinity. However, prior to us dying and returning to dust, we have the choice to live life within God’s desire for us…a life of Shalom. “Lent to Remember” is an attempt to convey creatively the transition from the interlude of Epiphany to the grateful reality of Holy Week and Easter. Moreover, the poem reminds us that we are not parts—we have a body, we have a soul, and we have a spirit, we have an intellect as separate parts—but that we are one, whole. You and I, simply put, are: we are a body, a soul, a spirit, an intellect. We are not four-leafed parts; we grow as one. With Lent, we experience a both/and counterintuitive and opportunistic prospect—not a sacrificial have to, but a discerning want to—a time for living a way of life that is fully human, fully alive, fully Shalom.