Abundance

Yesterday was the final Sunday of the church year--Christ the King Sunday. It's one of those festivals I used to hate (because I didn't do my research) but now love because its the best kind of old school subversive. You can read a sermon I wrote a few years ago if you're curious.

This year, and many others but not all, the calendar has worked out such that Thanksgiving falls on the Thursday between church years. Yesterday, we said goodbye to a year of celebrations and lamentations; on Thursday, we'll declare our deep gratitude for our families, friends, communities, and nation; next Sunday, we'll begin the new year and the season of Advent, as we await the Christ child once more.

Poignant, I'd say.

Framing the transition from year to year around gratitude is what I'd do if I had it my way--this year, the calendar has done it for me. Thanks, Revised Common Lectionary and lunar whatever that placed Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of a five-Sunday November!

Looking back at the year and forward to the new centered in the communal giving of thanks, I am hopeful. I am hopeful that the remainder of 2014 and the transition into 2015 will be plentiful and abundant--and that I will be able to recognize where my life overflows, even if it seems mundane or disappointing in some ways on some days.

Our country's and our Church's attitudes of scarcity are self-fulfilling. Entering the year with an attitude of abundance will cause us to recognize our abundance and share in our abundance. I'm sure of it.

I have more of everything than I need, and I want to share it all with you.

Clean out your damn desk.

"Clean out your damn desk" has been on my to-do list for roughly three months. It's technically not even off the list now because I only did a cosmetic job of it this morning. The drawers still lurk, over-full with maybe-dry pens and maybe-dead batteries and maybe-expired gum and maybe-salvageable post-it notes...it's been a decade-long dumping ground. You can see why I hesitate to dig in.

This morning, though, I went through the pile of papers on the surface and found the check I'd been meaning to deposit and the clothes I'd been meaning to exchange and the books I'd been meaning to shelve for a few weeks. I came across some half-full notebooks from ages past--I'd actually dug those up a few months ago in attempt one to clean out my damn desk, distracted myself thoroughly with the reading of them, and never put them away. Fortunately, that meant I had no interest in them today and was not similarly derailed. Putting them away, though, I found 7 empty journals I'd acquired over the years as gifts (and as unmet-goal purchases). I seem like a person who journals, I guess. All blogging evidence to the contrary, I am not really a person who journals. Amanda introduced me to the five-year journal, where you write just three lines a day for five years. I couldn't even keep that up consistently, and gave it up completely after like two-and-a-half. I have intentions of starting fresh in a new one this January 1. We'll see.

If you know my reading habits, you know that the stop-and-start journals are in good company. I found three books I'd begun reading and never finished--that means I'm wading in seven right now. I picked one and brought it with me to Pannikin this morning in order to dive back in. It's glorious. I'm not normal.

It's the inspiration for the post, though. I've been reading a lot lately: a few clever memoirs, powering through all six of John Green's novels (two halves to go!), and some non-fiction essay anthologies. I've been sort of uncharacteristically deep-novel-less. What I mean is that while John Green's novels have deeply influenced me--The Fault in Our Stars influenced my relationship with Jonathan literally overnight--they are young adult novels, and therefore aren't bursting with fanciful sentences like "The lamp hissed in the silence of the room, eloquent looks ran up and down in the thicket of wallpaper patterns, whispers of venomous tongues floated in the air, zigzags of thought..." that close a chapter, ellipses and all. I've re-entered Bruno Schulz' Street of Crocodiles, the impetus of Jonathan Safran Foer's Tree of Codes, which I wrote about here.

The authors I've spent the summer and entered fall with--John Green, Rachel Held Evans, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Dave Hickey, Terry Eagleton, Elias Khoury--just haven't spoken to me in this manner. And in case you're somehow still curious as to how I feel about the act of reading, it is precisely these varieties and vagaries of literature that keep me alive.

Two Alexes Are Better Than One Alex -- A&A 10/4/14

I officiated the wedding of my brother (Alex) and my now brother-in-law (Alexander) earlier this month. These are the words I preached about what their union could be like.

 Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

 Much to my chagrin, today (like each day before it) is not about me. Today is about a God who has blessed two giant families with two wonderful men named Alex. And as our main man Ecclesiastes has just proclaimed, two Alexes are better than one Alex.

And Hafiz, who, in the 14th century, wrote the poem that Aunt Jackie read, knew that your union could be like this.

Alex and Alexander, you chose this poem, I believe, because of its extraordinariness and ordinariness. In the poem, Hafiz explains, “You felt cold, so I…” and “A hunger comes into your body, so I…” and “You ask for a few words of comfort and guidance, so I…” Hafiz responds to the needs of his partner, as you are promising to do. Here, you have recognized that this wonderful celebration (while the end of a year of planning and anticipating) is in fact the beginning of a lifetime of regular old togetherness. You will go through the ordinary and extraordinary experiences of life, now, together. You will make ordinary experiences into extraordinary ones, by your togetherness.

The Ecclesiastes reading dealt in twos—two Alexes are better than one Alex. If one falls, the other catches. If one is cold, the other warms. If one feels weak, the other strengthens. But then the last line suddenly mentions that a threefold cord is not quickly broken. It’s like, thanks for the advice, Eagle Scout, but what does that have to do with anything? It turns out that the relevant information in this passage is not just that two Alexes are better than one Alex, but that there’s even a third ply at play. Congratulations, y’all—it’s you.

Earlier in this very ceremony, you, the third ply, agreed to “support and care for them, sustain and pray for them, give thanks with them, honor the bonds of their promise, and affirm the love of God reflected in their life together.” You promised that. Thank you.

We’re gathered here today as people of a variety of faiths, cultures, and political persuasions. And we’re gathered here today because Alex and Alexander are our beloved brothers, sons, cousins, nephews, friends, colleagues, classmates, comrades. We’re gathered here because we believe—or are coming to believe—that this marriage is about love and commitment and joy, and that this union does nothing to threaten anyone. The only thing this marriage threatens to do is celebrate in the midst of those who would tear it down.

Because while we—all of us present today and all those who will be present later this month in Sterling Heights—are that threefold cord, we find the strength to be so because God, too, is with us.

For me as a Christian, the most important words I ever preach are, of course, the greatest commandment Jesus ever preached—love one another. That’s what we’re here to do today. We’re not here to do anything if not to celebrate love and multiply love. This is radical and this is exponential.

Like you promised, when you support and care for Alex and Alexander in the coming years—as you have always done—that will radiate. When you pray for them—as you have always done—that will radiate. When you give thanks with them—as you have always done—that will radiate. When you honor the bonds of their promise, and uphold yours, that will radiate. When you affirm that love of God reflected in their life together—the love of God will radiate.

When I look at your faces, Alex and Alex, my dear ones, the love of God radiates. 


Thanks be to God! Amen!