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Inspiration for this litany is drawn from the texts for the 2nd Sunday after Christmas, Year C.
God, we are becoming more mature,
More capacious in our inward hearts,
Able to bear witness to our hardships and sorrow,
But still keep hold of gratitude and joy.
We know that a great deal of inner space and nuance is required,
If we want to be happy and healthy in these times.
Y’all, I couldn’t decide which Lectionary Proper to focus on for this litany, so I drew from all 3! Hence the more-than-usual number of citations.
The final (not penultimate, just the last left to discuss here. Some of us have to repeat stages here and there, hello) stage of grief is Acceptance. In acceptance we, at least temporarily, move into a place of non-resistance to our reality, and from here we find that we can actually function, do some good, find some relief, move forward with building a life in the New Normal.
And what’s the New Normal that Christ points us to? Now that we have done all this preparation in Advent; now that we’ve let ourselves feel sorrow and grief, and taken a hard look at our world and our own responses to it? How will we live now?
What we longed for has arrived. With the arrival of Christ - this cohesive force, gathering up all the world's suffering and pronouncing it No Longer Necessary; showing us a different way to be in the world, new structures and systems available for imaginative people - we are looking at a New Normal.
So the question for us is: Will we live in the New Normal that Christ points out for us? Or will we revert back to living in our old ways, our old harmful structures, re-living our pain and trauma in a loop? Will the Word, as John calls the Christ, become flesh among us? And will we enter into the joy, gladness, and gratitude offered to us in the world that Christ envisions and embodies?
I hope we will. Merry Christmas, friends.
God, at times we become so identified with our pain
That we can’t even imagine a different experience.
We hold onto trauma and suffering like a life-raft,
Thinking it will take us somewhere we haven’t been before.
In Mary’s Magnificat we hear the voice of a young prophet - not only is Mary a woman, but she is YOUNG - and yet she demonstrates a deep understanding of the plight of her people, and of herself as part of that people. And, even more remarkably to me today, her expression is uttered to her cousin Elizabeth. One of the most radical and often suppressed songs of resistance ever recorded by humans is spoken by a young woman to an older woman.
I especially love how she speaks in present tense: God has filled the hungry. God has shown strength. Here and now, God has done this. She is sure, even though she can’t see all the evidence. This is the Advent posture.
So I’m thinking of the Magnificat this week alongside my own feelings and observations of holiday futility - obligatory shopping and gift-giving, obligatory visits with family we may or may not enjoy, the ongoing pandemic and worsening environmental crisis, wealth disparity and racial inequity, and on and on. They want me to think about hope, peace, joy, and love NOW? Even though I can’t see the evidence?
It’s not a far leap for me, in light of the plight of my own people, from love to depression - the 4th stage of grief according to Dr. Kessler and Dr. Kubler-Ross. It occurs to me that I wouldn’t feel such grief for the world if I did not love it. I wouldn’t experience the low feelings of depression if they had no contrast with the heights of love. It’s almost as if depression, with its cynical but fairly (overly?) realistic take on things as they are, invites me into more love. Love in spite of. Love bearing witness to. Love wide open. Love loving everything, here and now.
People tell us: love is risky. Love opens us to the pain of loss. They say: grief is love with nowhere to go.* I mostly think they’re right. Love has polarity, like every unified thing in existence. And it seems grief, specifically depression, can be a very Advent-y pathway to perceiving that whole.
God, many of us experience melancholy, even despair.
We know what it's like to feel overwhelmed by sadness at times.
Some of us are lifelong companions of depression.
We empathize with the misery we witness in the world.
If you missed my introduction to this Advent litany series, please go back and read the previous post.
The second stage of the grief process, as observed and synthesized by Dr. Elizabeth Kubler Ross and Dr. David Kessler, is anger. I say it’s “second” but that doesn’t mean it always appears for everyone in some perfect order. My own experience has taught me that grief is cyclical, and I often find myself returning to various phases for deeper work. And certainly moving through phases of anger has been a significant part of my own journey.
We stay in each phase as long as it takes, which is an unpredictable length of time because grief is an unruly process.
I’m leaning into contradictions and paradox. Into what sometimes feels like impossibility! Like this: in a world of anger, violence, injustice, suffering, we are continually advised by the Christ to be at peace, to create peace, and to not be fearful. How on earth? I can see how in heaven, but how on earth? Luke writes that, going along with God’s promise, “By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us.”
In the meantime we have plenty to be angry about. Neither inner or societal peace are going to come about consistently without some work on our part - some training and continual embracing of the Peace of Christ, even in light of our righteous anger about unjust systems and trauma.
Advent invites us to reconcile the irreconcilable, and to learn to be comfortable with that dissonance and keep faith in spite of it. Advent offers us a peek behind the veil: what are we looking at? Now, what are we looking FOR?
God, we are challenged to live peaceably in a society filled with anger,
In which reactivity and outrage are normal,
Where most everyone is living with trauma of some kind or other,
And systemic dysfunction is all around.
We see how the dominant culture habitually covers up conflict, calling it peace,
While disregarding justice…
The Christian religion traditionally places an emphasis on the virtue of waiting with patience and hope and dedicates an entire month of its calendar to pursuit of that virtue. “Have patience ... wait for the Lord ... wait with hope,” the scriptures urge us. But when we witness the words of Christ in the texts, he embodies an immediacy - the kingdom of God is near! It’s within you! - that contradicts our churchy teachings on waiting and the traditional and Psalmic norms. A paradox.
Each year in Advent, I try to come to the season with fresh perspective, looking for something I haven’t seen before. But the truth is, I get bored by the same old Advent themes. Hope, peace, joy, love - every year the same. The boredom makes sense: Advent is a season created for waiting and waiting is often boring.
Like other worthy spiritual pursuits such as grief, shadow/ego work, lament, repentance; waiting is one we would mostly rather avoid. It feels pointless until it isn’t. And every year the wait feels longer. Not the wait for Christmas, psssht ... the wait for a better world, for the things Jesus spoke of to become our lived reality. And every year our griefs pile up.
This year I’m contemplating the boredom I personally feel toward a church ritual that can sometimes ring hollow … You know, what with murderers routinely getting off scot-free, climate emergency breathing down our necks, the deep grief of the pandemic and all the loss of life it has caused, ongoing hate and division that feels insurmountable, ongoing racial injustice and oppression, plus a million other deeply discouraging problems - given all this, having hope/peace/joy/love feels like a denial of reality. It feels less like subversion and more like insanity.
And I’m thinking about the grief so many of us feel, the grief road we walk daily. The stages of grief: Denial -> Anger -> Bargaining -> Depression -> Acceptance.
We who follow the Christ are invited onto a path of paradox, to live into many contradictions: contradictions between what we see and what we hope for, but also that contradiction between the tradition’s emphasis on waiting for “someday” and Christ’s insistence that someday is now; the tradition telling us we are waiting for a “savior” and Christ telling us that we are “it” alongside him (“greater things than these” he says we’ll do, and so forth).
How can we, in the same season, the same moment even, be present to both grief and joy, both longing and gratitude, both lament and hope? I don’t have any satisfying answers to this question. But I know I want to find them. I want to get better at living peacefully inside those tensions. And I want to be aware enough of the world around me to do at least some good here. With all this in my mind, I’m creating this year’s Advent series with a robust acknowledgement of these tensions and the paradoxes in which we live a life of faith. I’m facing the stages of grief* - denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, and depression, culminating in acceptance - head on; right alongside the traditional virtues celebrated each week during Advent: hope, peace, joy, and love, culminating in what we perceive as the Gift - God With Us.
I’m using this framework in part to state the obvious: life is a mixed bag. And in part to offer a prayerful start to doing the hard work of keeping faith in the midst of the messy mixed bag, the tension of which takes some emotional maturity to keep company with.
If this is more complexity than you bargained for (lol), no worries; go check out my litanies from 2018, where I take a more simple approach.
A note on denial
No stage of the grief process is bad. Each serves its purpose. In the context of grief, Dr. Ross and Dr. Kessler note that the denial stage serves as a necessary survival strategy in the midst of shock and loss, allowing the person’s body and mind time to catch up with the new reality.
I think this also applies to our denial of problems in life - sometimes we need a little time to wrap our heads around things. But trouble starts when we stay in denial and numb ourselves to pain and decline to do anything to help. Trouble also starts when we allow pie-in-the-sky religious hope to insulate us from reality, which I judge to be bad/unhelpful behavior and I think we are reaping the rewards of that now in many areas, as anyone who is paying attention to the problems plaguing the US Church of late can observe. I suspect you Canadian and overseas friends can attest as well.
All that said, here is my litany for week 1 of Advent 2021. It feels like now is not the time for platitudes; so I’m going right in here.
God, we find ourselves with the challenge of living hopefully in a world full of pain.
We have seen how religious hope can become a toxic thing
That numbs us to reality,
Suppresses expressions of grief,
And declines to do anything to create change.
This denial is not what we want to practice …
The Human Rights Campaign reports that 2021 has been the most deadly year on record so far for our Transgender siblings in the USA. This year 45 Transgender people have been murdered as a result of anti-trans violence. November 13-19 is Trans Awareness week, and November 20 will mark the 22nd annual Transgender Day of Remembrance. Read about Transgender Day of Remembrance here.
I have written this litany for interfaith gatherings happening this week. And my particular hope is that Christians will wake up to the plight of our Trans siblings, made in the image of God, and lend their collective weight to the effort of creating a safe world for them.
Also, I write this prayer to be read aloud among gatherings of people, most of whom I assume will not be trans. Where noted, please us alternative “we/our” pronouns in place of “they/their” if that makes more sense for your group. I could not figure a way to pray for and about my trans siblings without it feeling at least somewhat “othering” toward them - toward you my beloved human family. It is not my intention to other, but to embrace. If I have misstepped in any of the language in this prayer, I sincerely ask for correction.
It is with great joy that we celebrate our transgender siblings (1),
And great grief that we mourn the violence done to them.
We give thanks for each of our trans kindred
Who embody the uncategorizable and boundary-defining nature of the Divine.
Like all of humanity, they* too are made in the Divine image,
Reflecting the Divine imprint.
We remember our trans siblings who have been lost to violence,
Unjustly sacrificed on the altar of society’s hatred and intolerance.
[We confess our society’s indifference and un-love,
And our own complicity in allowing these tragedies to continue.
We ask that forgiveness and justice bear fruit in us.
We are sorry. ] (1)
We honor them and send love to their spirits,
With prayers for their peace and well-being.
We set the intention to do better:
Provide safety and care,
Nourishment and acceptance,
To the most unique and vulnerable among us,
And to normalize their* place in our communities,
Cherishing the ways they* teach us (2) about goodness and love.
We ask for wisdom in going about creating a world
That is safe and welcoming for humans of all kinds,
Knowing that when the world is safe for trans people,
It is safer for all of Earth’s children.
We ask that the minds and hearts of all people on Earth
Will be open to practicing kindness, hospitality, friendship, and love
Toward those among us who bear the Divine image in uncommon or surprising ways;
And that our governments and systems will work for their protection,
Undoing patterns of oppression and violence,
Fostering liberation and joy for every human being.
May our transgender family be safe, healed, provisioned, and happy,
Sharing in the abundance of Earth,
The blessings of nature, joy, community, and freedom,
And the blessing of home.
May it be so.
*Exchange they/their pronouns for we/our pronouns if the group praying the prayer is made up of primarily Trans people.
1) Exchange “our transgender siblings” for “our community” if the group praying the prayer is made up of primarily Trans people.
2)Omit the bracketed section if the group praying the prayer is made up of primarily Trans people.
3) Exchange us for “the world” if the group praying the prayer is made up of primarily Trans people.
I like how Job, in this week’s text, longs for darkness. He says, “ If only I could vanish in darkness, and thick darkness would cover my face!” (Job 23:17). As though the covering of darkness would be a balm, a peaceful comfort.
I have been known to retreat to the comfort of a dark room, when I have felt overwhelmed or overstimulated, when the work and the world become too much. I take solace in that Christ sympathizes with my weakness (Hebrews 4:15), and is approving of my rest. I take solace in these expressions of despair from characters in the texts; they are like me, limited in energy and understanding, in need of restoration.
Like every person who has ever lived, I am tempted to make too much of worldly possessions, of societal status, of achievements, of reputation. And thank goodness for the liberating example of Christ, who points me again and again, back to my true priorities: the thriving of my own soul, the being of help to the needy, the being present to the world’s beauty as well as its pain.
In a complex and overwhelming life, we are invited back to simplicity.
God, this life has never been simple.
We humans are complex creatures,
Capable of great suffering
And great love…
Helloooooo! This is me, back in real time after my Lenten rest. Thank you all for your prayers, and thanks and welcome to new patrons who have come on board during that time. I offer this litany today with renewed strength.
This week’s Lectionary gospel selection is one of my absolute favorites in scripture, second only to the Beatitudes. In John 20, Jesus, freshly risen from a tomb preceded by unimaginable trauma, speaks some of the most revolutionary and radical ideas of his career. I rarely preach a sermon or give a talk without mentioning them. In fact, I was assigned this weekend to preach at my church and when I discovered that this was the text I got a shiver of rightness. I honestly can’t get over this account of Jesus’ statements.
He does 3 radical, amazing, mind-bending things in this passage:
1) He speaks peace, like a magic word, like a balm, like a miracle, to the disciples as they cower in fear in a locked room. “Peace be with you” he says. Which is even more crazy when you consider all the things he did NOT say in this moment. Wow.
2) He breathes on them saying, “receive the holy spirit.” What? Just like that? Breathe it in? It was right here all along like the air? Whoooooosh and there you have it. Everything you ever needed.
3) He tells them that if they “forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” …. Wait like, us? Like we are the ones who have this power? Not just you, not just God?
In this moment, the disciples are given access to all the power in the world: the power of peace, the power of the Spirit, and the power of forgiveness. This moment tells me everything I need to know about how to live a life of following Jesus and what I am to embody and spread: peace, spriit, forgiveness. Three fulcrums of transformation. And they are presented so briefly here that we might miss them if we aren’t looking for them.
Look, go back and read and contemplate it. I hope it will give you chills like it gives me every time.
God we lay hold of the power you have shared with us
The Peace Christ speaks out over us
The Spirit Christ breathes upon us
The Forgiveness Christ invites us to spread ….
When Christ turned over the tables of the sellers and money-changers in the temple, he declared that productivity culture has no business in the inner sanctuary of God. God is not about consumption or production. The inner life is a closed-loop: we are divinely resourced and divinely Allowed. We can turn our attention away from pressure to Do, and Produce, and toward the opportunity to Rest, Be, Dwell. There is nothing to prove, nothing to win, nothing to achieve, nothing to earn. All we need has been achieved for us. Cycles of sacrifice ended with Christ’s work - he completed them and we no longer need to play them out.
This theme also comes to us in the Exodus passage. The people are instructed to observe a Sabbath, to remember it, and “keep it holy.” One day out of every seven is reserved for rest and resistance to productivity culture, resistance to exhaustion, to remind them (and us) that our worth is not our work. Even resting, accomplishing nothing, producing nothing, only receiving and allowing, we are worthy, beloved, whole.
This doesn’t mean we don’t participate in economies and systems while we are here on earth. It means we don’t identify ourselves with them. They are not us. Our work, our doing, is not us. And it means that the Inner Sanctuary is always available to us - the place of rest and peace, of acceptance and being.
God, we feel the pull of the Inner Sanctuary
We are drawn in by your love and beauty,
Into the welcome and peace of Spirit.
The true temple, the dwelling place of God, is within us …
I’m a firm believer that Lent, practiced consciously, is a guardrail against spiritual bypassing. The regular observance of seasons of austerity, lament, and penance, which we Christians get in Lent and Advent, guide us to enter into aspects of the human experience we’d rather not endure.
Other spiritual traditions have similar seasons: Jews have Yom Kippur; Muslims have Ramadan; Hindus have Navaratri; and so forth. These rhythms keep us pain-avoidant human beings honest: they take us into the shadow so that we have an opportunity to alchemize - or if you prefer a Christianese word: redeem - what we find there: the uncomfortable feelings, the limiting beliefs, patterns of harm, the losses we didn’t have time to grieve, traumas we didn’t have resources to heal before. These seasons offer us the opportunity to make meaning of the human condition and to accept it as it is, to accept ourselves as we are. In Lent we are invited to stop judging our pain and instead feel it and allow it to teach us. It is part of a cycle: we don’t stay in Lent forever. Death comes, and then Resurrection. Weeping comes in the soul’s night, then joy in the morning. We sow in tears, we reap in joy. If we never accept the rhythm of sowing in tears, we have little appreciation, much less gratitude, for joy. We know light by its contrast to darkness.
In Western culture we make very little space for weakness, pain, mourning, lament, sadness. We are taught early on that excessive feeling that doesn’t fall in the category of anger or excitement is unwelcome, and that sadness is a pathology. But the rhythms of the Christian faith tradition offer a different paradigm: one that welcomes the mourner, blesses the weak, and gives space and voice to lament. It assigns value to loneliness and suffering even as it assures us that we are never alone in suffering.
Jesus heading out to the desert wilderness for a period of solitude and austerity sets the precedent for Lenten practice. Jesus accepts all parts of human experience, entering into the full spectrum of emotion. He rejects no parts of the whole.
In week 2 of Lent, Year B, we are invited along with the disciples to “deny” ourselves, take up the instrument of our suffering, and follow him into the totality of embodied adventure, and to do this willingly, without judgement or resistance, trusting that the way out is the way through.
God, our culture teaches us to avoid pain, And to suppress emotion; But in the wisdom tradition that Christ practiced, We find space for pain, emotion, and much more.
In light of my own state of exhaustion, and the exhausting times we have endured together, I offer this prayer based on this week’s Lectionary selections.
Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
Yahweh is the everlasting God,
The Creator of the ends of the earth (1)
Yet, in our weariness, we often forget
The lovingkindness of Spirit to us when we falter. …
In Jonah 3, a group of people turn from idolatrous and evil ways, repenting (turning away from) their old, exploitative ways.
Psalm 62 exhorts us to look to God - not to any earthly thing. Not to riches or wealth. Not to powerful people. To the Divine Within.
In Mark 1, John the Baptist is arrested and imprisoned. Jesus is assembling a group of followers - disciples, they’re called. His unifying message is: the Kingdom of God is near! Repent!... In other words: Turn away from your old ways of thinking about success, about victory, about what is really happening, and what is really important in the world; and believe instead in the good news of God - that all divine resources are yours for the taking, that the commonwealth of heaven is a place where you and every other person belongs. Re-wire your brain with the understanding that all are one, all are Beloved, all are welcome, and all are forgiven for whatever they did before they understood that.
I write this litany immediately following the inauguration of the new president and vice-president of the US. We (some of us) in the US are tentatively hopeful, anxiously expectant. It is a moment in which we have the opportunity to listen to this week’s scriptures in an open-minded way - to hear of the Ninevites repentance, the Psalmic call to trust in God and not in economies or rulers, and the invitation of Christ to turn our attention to the Kingdom of God, which is near at hand and available to us as we move forward, working for change. I hope this prayer inspires and offers some hope. . .
In the past I haven’t posted a litany for the day of Epiphany. But my love for this season has grown and deepened, and I find myself praying to become like the wise men from the east who were able to perceive a far off occurrence: a new and powerful embodiment of Divine Love in the world. I want to be that attuned, that attentive. And to be part of that embodiment.
So I offer this prayer, along with my greetings in this new year. May you be well, happy, and full of life and joy.
Arise, shine,
For your light has come.
The glory of God has risen upon us.
Let your heart thrill and rejoice.
