Ten days to Christmas - "called out"?

"Called out" of the cold--5 by 7 watercolor

Ten days to Christmas - season of the "called out."
In a season of "going to church," we forget the meaning of the word makes that impossible.
"Church" is wrongly translated from the Greek word word meaning "called out," ekklesia  (ἐκκλησία), and Jesus used it only three times. Greeks used the word to refer to an assembly of citizens, called forth, from "ek" meaning "out of" and "klesis" meaning "a calling."  
In Matthew 16:18 the proper translation should be "I will build my "assembly" not "church," and other teachings in the New Testament make it clear that the "assembly" is Christ's mystical body. (See Christ's ekklesia and church compared.)
How much better would this world, and this season be, if people thought of themselves as the living church, the actual body,  of Jesus, rather than  a place to go remember him as someone born long ago.
Would that affect behavior, and the way we treat our fellow humans --knowing that all followers of him are actually part of him, are "church"? Would that end division and hatred and judgment between all the groups that gather "in church"?
"Called out" of the cold, out of the material world, into the warmth, into a life of putting his teachings into practice in our own lives and in how we treat others--isn't that what "Christ" mass is supposed to be about? Not "church."
You can't "go to church"--you "are church."

21 days to Christmas--mass time

Mass time, 5 by 7 watercolor

Sunday. 21 days to Christmas--"Christ mass."
While the intricate liturgy and practice is foreign to me, its tradition and deep meaning to millions of people around the world commands my respect.
The word "mass" itself tells much about the season and day. Old English "mæsse" was derived from   from Latin "missa," which was in use by the Sixth Century, meaning a "sending, a dismissal" "sending toward God. Other older origins are possible, from Hebrew and Greek words meaning "unleavened bread" or "initiation," respectively. All seem appropriate. 
In this hectic, commercial season, it helps to slow down and think about "Christ mass," and on a Sunday, about "going to mass."

Christmas eve--beckoning

Beckoning--Christmas eve, 5 by 7 watercolor, card

When it's time...parents anticipate, knowing the time of birth is near. All thoughts and prayers focus on an event that may happen at any time. 
You've worried, wondered, wanted for months. Some have wandered. It is a time of uncertainty, hope, excitement, fear, expectation. You are helpless, dependent. Every parent can remember.
Christmas eve church services beckon across the world, bringing pilgrims and the faithful and no-so-faithful to sanctuaries, to celebrate, to anticipate one birth. There will be carols and candles, messages and masses, all seeking blessings and peace in a world that always needs them.
Take time to remember the emotions and experiences of young parents far away, long ago, alone except for each other and their God. All parents have made that journey, know that beckoning.

The pages of February

Watching gentle, large flake snowfall out my window this morning, sipping coffee, thinking of travels past and future, I journeyed in other worlds this month, in the pages of eight books, five of them completed, one sampled, one mostly read, and one underway.

Five of the books came from friend Jeanetta Calhoun Mish's Mongrel Empire Press in Norman, poems, short stories and a fictional novel, all with strong Oklahoma roots and subjects. 
The other included Longmire creator Craig Johnson's "Wait for Signs," a collection of short stories, purchased from friend Joe Hight's Best of Books in Edmond.
The books of poetry were "The Walmart Republic," J.L. Jacobs' Streets as Elsewhere," and Carter Revard's, "From the Extinct Volcano-A Bird of Paradise."
"The Long Rifle Season" by James Murray is a bunch of short stories, appropriately titled "Tales," most of them set in southeast Oklahoma, and including a fictional view inside Timothy McVeigh's mind. The fictionalized novel by William Cunningham is "Pretty Boy Floyd."
The seventh book is Natalie Goldberg's "Loving Color--Painting, Writing and the Bones of Seeing." Writer-teacher Goldberg lives in Taos, doing what I dream about, and I bought the book thinking it would be about writing. Instead, it is a book about a writer taking up painting, filled with her art and prompting. I found it has a chapter on Cezanne, my favorite artist, which means it's a must read to complete.
The eighth book was OKC Mayflower UCC church pastor Robin Meyer's book, "Saving Jesus from the Church," a discussion prompt in our Sunday night "Soul Detox" group. He has lots to say about the difference in institutionalized Christianity and what Jesus taught.
Reviews and comments on most of these are coming. The poetry books are the most difficult, as you can see from my previous review of "The Walmart Republic."

          

Christmas Eve journey--one day to Christmas

Christmas eve journey...4 by 6 watercolor

Where I grew up in New Mexico, pilgrimages to sacred sites and shrines and churches are common at Christmas. There is something pure and crisp and ancient about religion in cold mountain air with the smell of pinon and the sound of bells ringing. Adobe is richer when snow is the garland and real candles flicker shadows on the earthen walls.
Feliz Navidad indeed.

"Church Services" -- Closing Prayer

Brother Daniel Bingham dozed in his usual spot, at the end of the pew seven rows back from the pulpit, next to the window.
Brother Bob Bowen, the pastor of First Church, was droning on  about some little known scripture, in a sermon he'd rehashed late last night from one of his Seminary research papers in Homiletics a year ago.
Most of the audience was fighting to stay awake, nervously looking at their watches, and the kids were fidgeting as mothers tried to keep them quiet with coloring books. Almost everybody was sweating and the ladies were all waving themselves with the cheap hand fans with a photo of the local funeral home on them, Wilmer W. Williams. Brother Daniel, the oldest deacon in the church at 79, was not alone with his head nodding now and then to his chest, where it'd touch and he'd jerk it up.
The air-conditioning had quit yesterday, so the windows were cracked while three ceiling fans silently wobbling high overhead in the auditorium, barely stirring the hot August air.
Brother Bob had been going about 30 minutes now, and the congregation was getting irritated. When he'd been hired five months ago, it was because his lessons were always 20 minutes or less, he was full of energy and young, and he'd take less salary and was willing to relocated to the small town, a long drive from the city. They were excited because they'd be the first of the Sunday church-going crowd to get to the only restaurant open, Grace's Kitchen.
Now, besides being hot and miserable,  they were going to be late again... they could hear the cars starting at the Nazarene church across the street.
At the last deacon's meeting, Brother Daniel and the other deacons had expressed their discontent with how Brother Bob had changed since he'd arrived. He usually played golf all day Saturdays and sat up late at night watching those talk shows, sleeping late in the mornings. And his sermons had gone from 15 to 20 minutes to well over 30 minutes--sometimes as much as 45 minutes. Their complaints had had no effect.
Yesterday when the air conditioner broke down, he didn't discover it until late in the day after coming in from the golf course to hastily rewrite his research paper into something of a sermon. It was too late to call a repairman.
 When they arrived at the stifling hot church this morning, the deacons needed all their Christian religion to keep from losing their tempers. They agreed to meet that evening, when it was cooler, to do something. Then the deacons asked Brother Daniel to lead the closing prayer for that day--in spite of being the oldest, he knew how to lead a short prayer.
But he'd dozed off, and beside him, his wife Sister Lucinda was patiently fanning herself with one of the funeral home fans, patting the sweat off her forehead with a lace hanky.
Just then, Brother Daniel started snoring, loud enough to be heard for several pews. Some of the nearby kids snickered, and the men smirked. It was all Sister Lucinda could take, and she jabbed him in the ribs with her free elbow.
Brother  Daniel jerked and jumped to his feet, eyes shut,  and began praying loudly in his strong baritone voice, interrupting Brother Bob in mid-sentence, to the horror of sister Lucinda and the amusement of the congregation.
"Heavenly Father, thank you for this beautiful day and the lesson from your word. Watch over  us this week. Forgive us of our sins and at last in heaven save us. In Christ name, Amen."
Then he opened his eyes. Brother Bob had stopped talking. The kids giggled. The other deacons  grabbed the opportunity and said "Amen," in unison and the congregation headed for the doors, with Brother Bob just standing in the pulpit.
Brother Daniel looked sheepish and Sister Lucinda scowled in embarrassment. Another deacon walked by, on his way out the door. Smiling, he reached to shake hands and said, "Great closing prayer."

"Church services"--Introduction

"Give Brother Bob a ready recollection of what he has studied as he preaches your Word," Deacon Wayne, with eyes shut,  was praying from the pulpit when Harold Kelly slumped over in the pew, dead.

Sitting beside him, Sister Mary King heard the sound, opened her eyes and gasped. Deacon Wayne was still droning on at the front of the auditorium.  Her gasp caught the attention of another deacon, Samuel Lovett, who rose quietly, came over and checked  Kelly, and laid his head down in the pew. 

By this time, others in the surrounding pews had opened their eyes and were whispering. Deacon Lovett gingerly made his way to the podium and tugged Deacon Wayne's arm, interrupting the prayer and whispering that Kelly had died. Deacon Wayne then quickly recited, "Forgive us of our sins and at last in heaven save us. In the name of Jesus, Amen," so it would be properly heard on high.

Brother Bob Bowen had risen from his front pew in First Church, gone to the office to call an ambulance, and returned to tell the congregation that services were dismissed. Communion would be served at 6 pm that evening and that it would probably be best that the pot luck lunch be served as a dinner instead.

Kelly, 89 years old, had been laid on the cushions of the pew and Sister King was nearby weeping. Deacon Wayne was upset that his prayer had been interrupted, as was Brother Bob, who regretted not being able to preach today's lesson from the Sermon on the Mount about living today, and worried that the collection plate not being passed would hurt the church budget.

"At least there's no doubt he's gone to heaven," said Deacon Lovett. "I wish we could all go like that," said Sister King.

The children of the congregation, at first disappointed at missing out on the lunch, were already outside running around,  happy to get to go home early.

When the ambulance arrived, siren blaring and lights flashing, it interrupted the services of the Nazarene and Christian churches across the street, irritating those preachers as parishioners went outside to see what was going on.

Their children joined their friends across the street, laughing and happy to get out of boring church services. A few of the adults edged across the street as the First Church members filed out onto the lawn, asking in whispers about what had happened. As the ambulance attendants brought Kelly's body out on the gurney, adult scowls and  hissed "shhhs" silenced the children.

But as soon as the ambulance pulled away, the children were back running around, as the adults tried to shepherd them, complaining, back to their churches, and the pastors tried to coax the adults inside to the unfilled collection plates and unfinished sermons, even though it was almost noon.

To the relief and joy of the children, they all gave up as the First Church members headed for their parked cars, determined to beat the Sunday crowd to the town's only restaurant, Grace's Kitchen.

My newspaper

"You've got your newspaper back," said a friend last night, as I was showing him some photos and writing on my blog.

Immediate thoughts about The Waurika News-Democrat, and the smell of printer's ink and newsprint.  Hmm. Printer's ink without the ink? 

Fascinating. More soon. Now it's time to go to "church." The church of Panera Bread down the street where friends have communion, read the Bible (NY Times on- and off-line), sermonize and fellowship. (It's open communion, but the bread isn't unleavened.)