Month: December 2019

It is the time of year for giving. The many traditions of the season, be they religious or secular, offer ample opportunities for us to think of and express feelings for one another in the form of physical objects that we purchase or make and then hide inside boxes and beneath wrapping paper. Presents. some call them. Surprises.

Our holiday customs are not just quaint. They can be touching, even eloquent. There is an expressiveness within the selection of the ‘perfect present’ that embodies emotions more fully than words can sometimes suffice.

If you are like me, you may struggle, at least intermittently, with the scheduled routine of some gift exchanges. “Are you ready?” we occasionally ask each other in December. The reference is to the purchase of sufficient items for exchange with family, friends, and colleagues. It hints at the semi-obligatory nature of the season, expectations that must be lived up to, preparations made such that an adequate display of affection and caring is possible at certain times and in certain events. This isn’t just for Christmas. It includes Hanukkah, New Years, Solstice, and other traditions. There are also end-of-year non-profit donations, and tokens of cheer and appreciation at holiday events and parties. During the final two weeks of December, there is no shortage of circumstance for us to demonstrate magnanimity, thoughtfulness, and generosity.

It can feel a bit burdensome, at least sometimes. Which can, in turn, lead to intermittent self-deprecation and cynicism. What kind of person am I that I don’t unequivocally enjoy the annual chance to shower fondness and good will on others?

Well, I am human. Actually, I am one human. In truth, I am one of billions of humans, all on a journey to experience something beyond our individual selves, something that some like to call the divine.

As part of my own journey, I have, in recent years, begun a new personal tradition in December: a visit to the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona. The building is small but structurally inspiring; twenty-eight meters of textured concrete ascend within the red rock buttes of the high Arizona desert. A large iron cross supports both narrow chapel walls and a large bronze crucifix stationed internal to the southern smoked glass side. The aesthetic affect is stunning. The personal impact is stirring.

“Let’s stop by.” Last Christmas Eve, my wife and I happened to be driving in the vicinity of the Chapel and decided to brave what we expected would be significant crowds. We weren’t disappointed, either by the crowd size or the experience. So this year, as part of some inexplicable motivation for renewal, a sort of seasonal homing instinct, I returned. Again, I was not disappointed.

The morning was unusually damp, cold, and moist; clouds floated against the Sedona rocks as if they themselves understood the rarity of the day. People gathered on the walkway and within the walls of the small chapel in varying states of presence. Quietly, I moved through tourists and spiritual pilgrims to the front of the chapel. As a child, when I attended church with my mom, we always sat up front. In memory of her, I did the same. A wooden bench was free, so I used it. A stand of devotional candles was before me, so I made a donation and lit some candles. I did not, at first, look up. I simply sat. I closed my eyes. I was.

It is a remarkable experience to feel loved. In my life, I have been blessed with much love – from my parents, my wife, my family, and many friends. I know they love me. They know I love them. But knowledge is different from experience, from being. Resting beneath the gaze of compassion in that chapel, I felt an acceptance that previously I have been hesitant, even fearful, to let myself feel. To be willingly held by the universe in a state of non-judgmental love is to live a moment of the marvelous, the mystical, the eternal. It is to learn a bit more about the nature of love.

Love is freely given. Love is willingly offered. Love is a gift in the truest sense.

When I opened my eyes, a mother and daughter were standing next to the stand of candles. They offered a donation, identified an unlit candle, and found a partially unused wooden taper stick. The candle they selected to light the taper stick, and hence transfer the devotional flame ,was one that I myself had lit. Minutes later, another family approached the stand of candles. The same process ensued. And second candle that I had personally lit was used to transfer this next family’s own intention to another newly ignited wick.

We are able to love freely. In doing so, we accept and share more than we will ever know. Love is the most precious of gifts.

As a child, you may have learned the custom of giving thanks before meals. In my family, this was called “saying grace”. It was a recited expression of spiritual appreciation for the food set before us at table. I must admit to not thinking much about the words I murmured before grabbing the knife and fork. It was just part of the meal process in our house, the ritual that we followed most evenings prior to eating.

Over the years, I’ve watched, listened, and learned about a variety of customs that people follow before eating. Some of these are tied to religion; my father liked to utter a brief prayer for the peaceful repose of the “souls of the dearly departed”. Others are part of more earthbound traditions; many family members and friends prefer to acknowledge, even briefly, that life, in some form, was sacrificed so that we might be nourished. Regardless of perspective, all pre-meal routines that I’ve witnessed have involved the simple yet profound practice of pausing before action, of reflection, of awareness.

Pushing pause in our lives is a challenge. The globe rotates at the same speed and yet our days seem to move more quickly than ever. There seems no shortage of event, information, and activity for us to monitor, absorb, or keep pace with. Devices enable us to “connect”, to stay up-to-date. And yet the so-called cycle of news spins faster and faster. We can feel more and more disconnected.

It is easy to get caught up in the do of the world, not the be. For me, when I let myself become imbalanced in the do, I find it important to return to ritualistic inaction. I try to sit. I try to empty. I try to say more grace.

But what does that mean? And what is “grace” anyway?

It turns out that I have not understood grace at all. When I researched it, I found many perspectives, most more alike than different. One of them, however, stood out for me. It was a definition from Webster’s dictionary: the “unmerited divine assistance given to humans for their regeneration or sanctification”. I had expected to find definitions of grace as the shower of something soft and soothing. Grace as comfort. Grace as a shaw of protection, not a potential revealing or raw exposure. But within the Webster’s definition, the definition that most spoke to me, lay the dualistic nature of grace’s reality. Qualities of tenderness and tribulation are both inherently part of what it means to experience grace in our lives.

Because grace is received, not said. Grace is freely offered to us, not earned by us. Grace is aid from the outside for our individual internal betterment, not positive fortune that we experience as reward for external good behavior.

The reminder stops me: I don’t necessarily deserve the grace I receive. In fact, the grace I receive is sometimes unexpected or unwarranted assistance focused on my shortcomings rather than my strengths or my longings. The help I need is sometimes not the help I think I need or I want. And so I may miss much grace in my life because the most meaningful moments of grace sometimes hurt.

This can be really hard to accept. “The universe is moving me again.” I say that, externally, when the grace I am given is challenging yet bearable. “I can’t handle this.” I say this, internally, when I simply feel overwhelmed. Both may be moments of grace.

This is not to posit that all bad is good; the ugly things that happen in human lives are not necessarily grace. I cannot accept that the divine would deliberately distribute anguish and misery, abuse and violence, as a means toward personal regeneration. Whatever is the essence of divinity, that essence, be it named God, Allah, Buddha, or the Creator, is life-affirming, holy. It must be. Despite this, I must accept that sometimes change is only possible through challenge, that some troubles are not random trials, that my very human ego and perspective inherently require routine lessons in humility. “Unmerited divine assistance” can take many forms.

So I must listen. Continuously. I must stop, regularly, to ask, probe, and wonder whether some, or even most, of my daily woes are not opportunities for – dare I say – sanctification, in whatever small way is possible. I am blessed to have a life in which the good far outweighs the difficult. I must embrace my fortune but not become complacent, too comfortable.

As we enter the calendar season in which we celebrate renewal, regeneration, and rebirth, I must do more than periodically pause in brief reflection before lifting my fork and knife, do more than simply closing my eyes at table and thankfully “saying grace”. I must remain open to humbly “receiving grace”.

Let us bow our heads together.