Blessing What's Holy: Wild Advent

                                                                           

How the Stars Get in Your Bones

 

Sapphire, diamond, emerald, quartz:

think of every hard thing

that carries its own brilliance,

shining with the luster that comes

only from uncountable ages

in the earth, in the dark,

buried beneath unimaginable weight,

bearing what seemed impossible,

bearing it still.

 

And you, shouldering the grief

you had thought so solid, so impermeable,

the terrible anguish

you carried as a burden

now become—

who can say what day it happened?—

a beginning.

 

See how the sorrow in you

slowly makes its own light,

how it conjures its own fire.

 

See how radiant

even your despair has become

in the grace of that sun.

 

Did you think this would happen

by holding the weight of the world,

by giving in to the press of sadness

and time?

 

I tell you, this blazing in you—

it does not come by choosing

the most difficult way, the most daunting;

it does not come by the sheer force

of your will.

It comes from the helpless place in you

that, despite all, cannot help but hope,

the part of you that does not know

how not to keep turning

toward this world,

to keep turning your face

toward this sky,

to keep turning your heart

toward this unendurable earth,

knowing your heart will break

but turning it still.

 

I tell you,

this is how the stars

get in your bones.

 

This is how the brightness

makes a home in you,

as you open to the hope that burnishes

every fractured thing it finds

and sets it shimmering,

a generous light that will not cease,

no matter how deep the darkness grows,

no matter how long the night becomes. 

 

Still, still, still

the secret of secrets

keeps turning in you,

becoming beautiful,

becoming blessed,

kindling the luminous way

by which you will emerge,

carrying your shattered heart

like a constellation within you,

singing to the day

that will not fail to come.

 

—Jan Richardson

The faith traditions of others can feel like a wilderness. unless we 

make a conscious effort to learn about them. Author Barbara Brown Taylor writes in her book, Holy Envy, that when she began to explore faith traditions different from her own, she found aspects she admired and wanted to emulate.

Every year for each of the eight nights of Hanukkah, my daughter, who was raised an Episcopalian, lights a candle on a menorah, a gift from her beloved teacher, mentor, and friend. I love that she does this. 

In these last darkest days of the year, perhaps we are called, as author Jan Richardson so poignantly writes, to keep turning our hearts toward "this unendurable earth," this wilderness of a life, not in spite of its hardships, but rather with them. "This is how the stars get in our bones," Richardson suggests. 

God knows this is no easy task. Horrific events call for human response. How do we "keep the faith" in light of such atrocities?  Perhaps that's the whole point of embracing any religion: to help us navigate the dark times with grace, to help us "kindle the luminous," each in our own ways, and with admiration and appreciation of and for the faith of others. 

 May the light of the One Holy Presence bless us, sustain us, and open our hearts to the needs of others, that all may know deep in their bones the brilliance of Your love. 💛