On Wonder and Worry

Twentieth-century Jewish philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel once said, “Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement.” Author Annie Lamott calls this “practicing random acts of wonder.”[1]Wonder, that numinous, breathtaking blend of magic, curiosity, and joy all rolled into one. An amaryllis that suddenly blossoms on Christmas Day, after weeks without water! The text from a friend at the very same moment I think of her. The way the Holy Spirit always comes through when it’s time to write a sermon. The Magi lived it. Star of wonder, star of light… Cultivating wonder is a spiritual practice—a counterbalance to despair and worry.
 

I got to thinking, maybe it’s not just the noun, but also the verb. To wonder, to ponder the truth of something…To wonder is to venture deeper.
There’s a mysterious, ancient Christmas Carol that can perhaps help us practice this.

Coventry Carol is not your typical Christmas carol. It’s dark. It’s the hauntingly beautiful lullaby created and first performed near Coventry Cathedral in England eight hundred or so years ago. We’re unsure about the composer's identity, but the song became popular during the Middle Ages after it was performed in mystery plays, religious dramas based on biblical stories. Somehow, it survived for centuries despite a fire that destroyed the only known copy of the score and changes in the church prohibiting public performances of the song.

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child.
Bye bye, lully, lullay

Annie Lennox has a fierce emotional rendition of the Coventry Carol. There are numerous other, more traditional versions available on your favorite music app. The song is written primarily in a minor key, but with an unexpected major note at the end of the last stanza. Music theory geeks know about modaltonality, a specific arrangement of notes intended to elicit a certain emotion. One can just imagine mothers in Bethlehem, or anywhere else for that matter, holding their babies close; rocking and rocking, synchronizing breath and heartbeat, vocalizing lament to calm their anxiety.

O sisters too, how may we do,
For to preserve this day
This poor young ling for whom we do sing
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.

In case you were wondering, Coventry Carol was written about the so-called slaughter of the innocents from Matthew’s gospel. But apparently, there’s no credible historical proof of an actual massacre. However, the ancient historian Josephus affirmed that Herod’s temperament was such that an event like this was altogether possible. Herod was a piece of work, it seems. He was not born Jewish; he married into the faith. Herod was one of those frightening tyrants who would stop at nothing to hold onto power. To be a benevolent “King of the Jews,” ironically, the title given to Jesus by the Magi and later by Pontius Pilate, was far from Herod’s nature, and yet this was his station. Rather than ruling justly, Herod was known to frequently seek political revenge, often resorting to murder, including members of his own family.[2]

Herod, the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day
His men of might, in his own sight,
All young children to slay.

Amidst all the violence, somehow, the world keeps turning. And mothers everywhere, keep rocking and singing.

Catching wind of Herod’s evil plan in a dream, Joseph whisks Mary and Jesus off from Roman-occupied Bethlehem to find safety in Egypt. Crossing the border into Egypt is perhaps a provocative move. You might recall that the other Joseph, the earlier biblical dreamer, was famously enslaved there. Also, curiously, although outside of Herod’s jurisdiction, Egypt was also under Roman control. However, there is ample theological precedent for political asylum in Egypt (for fun, read about Hadad in 1 Kings 11:17). Also, around the time of Jesus’ birth, there was apparently a large Jewish population in Egypt. Perhaps the Holy Family stayed with friends. We might also wonder about the Jewish tradition that claims the boy Jesus may have learned magic during time spent in Egypt.[3]

We might wonder if the author of the Gospel according to Matthew is establishing Jesus as the prophesied Messiah by recapitulating events from the Hebrew scriptures, comparing Jesus to Moses in the Exodus story. Matthew’s Gospel also includes a hyperlink to Hosea: “Out of Egypt I have called my son,” the prophet writes. 

We might wonder how the birth narratives in Luke and Matthew could be so different. Was creative license taken by one or both evangelists? If we consider the violence during the time the gospels were being recorded, decades after Jesus' death and resurrection, it seems plausible that writers may have taken some liberties to reassure anxious followers of the risen Christ. With countless others, we might also wonder whether secret encoded messages may have been tucked into the gospels for those early followers.[4]

Andrea Gibson, the prolific poet and activist who died way too young in July of last year, wrote, “We have to create. It’s the only thing louder than destruction.” 
I wonder what they had in mind when they wrote that.

In the massive World War II bombing campaign known as the Blitz on November 14, 1940, German bombs devastated Coventry, England, including Coventry Cathedral. Several weeks later, on Christmas Day, the BBC broadcast a Christmas service from the rubble of the once-grand cathedral. 
 
According to one BBC article, “Despite the devastation, Provost Richard Howard addressed the Empire from the ruins, speaking of forgiveness and hope… 

The service concluded with the choir singing the Coventry Carol, music as old as the cathedral itself, and a song which now exists alongside it as a symbol of peace and reconciliation born from tragedy.”[5]

That woe is me 

Poor child for thee!

And ever morn and day…

 

I wonder how the Holy Family managed as refugees for those few years in exile before Joseph received the all-clear sign from his angel. 

I wonder if it’s possible that Herod’s slaughter of the innocents was fake news. God, I hope so. I wonder if we are doing absolutely everything we can to protect our babies from unnecessary violence today.

For thy parting

Neither say nor sing

Bye bye lully lullay

 

As we head into Epiphany season this week, I wonder about these kinds of things. Epiphany season is when the church shines a light on the one prophesied about and prayed for: God incarnate with us, one of us, the refugee with no place to lay down his sweet head, whose life would hereafter be in constant danger. There’s a tension here that’s worrisome. And yet, wonder of wonders, a song of love and lament arises out of the ashes of despair and destruction, inviting humanity to pay attention, to listen more closely for the not-so-subtle note of hope and redemption mysteriously encoded into the everyday music of our lives.

Spiritual Practice: Inhale: Keep, Exhale: Wondering

My amaryllis. Is she a beauty?

Some Episcopal immigration resources here.

For a terrific podcast about the Coventry Carol, listen here.

And if you cannot get enough of the Wise Men, here’s last year’s sermon.

---

[1] Mirabai Starr, Ordinary Mysticism: Your Life as Sacred Ground, First edition. (New York, NY: Harper One, 2024), 70.

[2] Andrew McGowan, “A Christmas Version 2025: The Flight into Egypt (and Luke’s Nativity, and John’s Prologue),” Substack newsletter, Andrew’s Version, December 23, 2025, https://abmcg.substack.com/p/a-christmas-version-2025-the-flight.

 

[3] Ben Witherington, III, Matthew (Macon, Georgia: Smyth & Helwys, 2016), bks. 68–74.

 

[4] Elaine H. Pagels, Miracles and Wonder: The Historical Mystery of Jesus, First edition (New York: Doubleday, 2025), 72.

[5] “The Coventry Peace Carol Based on a Biblical Massacre,” December 25, 2025, https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cwyg2lgw14xo.

 

God Comes to the Herod in Us (A children's sermon with illustrations by Chat GPT)

 I love you,

 I love you, 

 I love you.

 The little bird sang to the ogre.

 

The ogre, being an ogre, didn’t know what to make of it.

So he grunted and snorted and puffed up his chest.

I love you,

I love you,

I love you.

The little bird sang again.

The ogre’s face turned bright red. His hands began to tremble.

He wanted to grab the little bird and crush it between his fingers.

Instead, he let out three horrible shrieks.

                                                                       The little bird didn’t waver.

                                                                        I love you,

                                                                        I love you,

                                                                        I love you.

Suddenly, the ogre’s shoulders softened. He breathed out a deep sigh.

Then, without quite understanding why, the ogre reached out his hands, and the little bird came to perch there.

                                   The bird sang again.

                                    I love you,

                                    I love you,

                                    I love you.

A single tear rolled down the ogre’s cheek, for he’d never in all his life heard such a beautiful song.

I Wonder...

This year, I plan to lean heavily into wonder...

 I read the scriptures appointed for this day. A blessing from Numbers, a couple of psalms, an epistle, a little Luke, and Matthew to wrap up the Christmas story. There was some Isaiah, a bit of prophecy to shore up our confidence. Oh, and Revelation – the white horse  – to further confuse us. These days, we can be sure of one thing: we have no idea what is coming down the pike. But we can trust that God is in this mess with us. 

 Then I read a social media post from a 19-year-old homeless young man who needs a job and a place to live, and I think immediately of Jesus. He had no place to lay his head; we read in the scriptures. His mom was there for him, always. Not sure about Joseph, though he seemed like a good guy. He was just a little dreamy, you know. Not putting down permanent roots, always traveling. Maybe Jesus got his wanderlust from his (earthly) dad. 

We don’t know what happened to Jesus between 13 or so and 30. Was he 19 and homeless? Did he ever wander around Nazareth, knocking on doors, looking for a job and a roof over his head? I wonder. 

If so, it would stand to reason his hometown peeps might be wary when he shows up to preach.

Maybe Jesus was a rebellious teenager. Maybe it took him till 30 to finally grow up. These days, that’s nothing. I wonder if the gospel writers thought it best to keep those turbulent years quiet. 

The Long Way Home: Wild Advent

Very early on, humans learn to settle for less. In the absence of loving care, human nervous systems cannot thrive. They often do survive, however. But we're created for so much more than mere survival. Made in the image of God, we are created by Love, for love. 

Humans are endlessly resilient, adapting to all sorts of substandard environments: war, poverty, abuse, addictions of all sorts... The remarkable ways our brains and bodies change to accommodate various stressors are, to me, signs of a loving creator who ultimately desires our flourishing.

There is a story in the Hebrew Bible of Moses leading the ancient Israelites through the treacherous wilderness out of Egypt, where they had been enslaved. The people were not led by the shorter route through potentially dangerous Philistine territory; instead, God leads them along the longer route. According to the biblical writers, by the shorter route, the people may have decided to retreat back to Egypt, where, despite their forced servitude, they had learned to settle. 

Sometimes, frustrating though it may seem, the long way home is crucial to the changes necessary for our flourishing. (Nobody says wilderness is easy!) This being human is a guest house, the poet Rumi suggests. Try to welcome everything, even the hard stuff. 

We are created by Love for love. Settling for less is, I suppose, optional. I pray you will choose otherwise as best you can. You deserve nothing less.

May you soften enough to receive the Love you deserve. 

Because I love you, here's a sweet excerpt from Margery Williams Bianco's The Velveteen Rabbit...
 

'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.' 

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' 

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'

Although I will continue to ponder the biblical theme of wilderness, this is my final reflection on Advent wilderness.  Remember, God meets us in all the wildernesses of our lives, but often in creative and unexpected ways. Our job is only to try our best to stay awake.💛

Wild About Joseph: Wild Advent

I am totally taken by Joseph’s willingness to listen to his conscience. Matthew's gospel calls him a righteous man. I call him a bad ass superhero. He didn’t have to go through with his marriage to Mary, and yet he did. He became the protector of Mary and her unborn child, Jesus. Stronger people with more resources should be the protectors of the vulnerable. That is just the way it should be, I believe.

We don’t know so many of the specific details of the Christmas story. We are left with questions. It’s okay to wonder, imagine, and put ourselves in the place of the different characters. What would we have done in Joseph’s place? In Mary’s? Perhaps we have experienced circumstances somewhat similar to these in our contemporary lives. Would we be so brave?

These bible stories are a wilderness. We walk in faith that the stories can be anchors for our lives, but often there are unanswered questions that concern us. Perhaps that is the point. What if we were to walk into the wilderness of the holy scriptures with all our questions, sticking with them despite (maybe even because of) our uncertainty?  That seems to be what Joseph did. One courageous step at a time, he did what he knew was the next right(eous) thing. And thank God he did.

The Blur of Grief: Wild Advent

  

Blur seems like an appropriate word for that first holiday after the loss of a loved one. Nothing is clear. Nothing is certain. The world goes on around us at a dizzying pace. In our foggy, shaky, blurry-ass reality, shock can, thankfully, dull the pain somewhat. We are forced to move slowly, to feel our way, slogging slowly through each exhausting moment, day, week, month... 

Been there.

Years later, when I wrote Back to Happy, I wanted to offer practical advice for the newly grieving, such as making a daily list of simple tasks to complete, e.g., brushing your teeth, making your bed...  For me, checking completed tasks off a list offered an instant dopamine hit. It was practical. Practical advice was what I needed. Writing that little book was one way to make meaning out of the incomprehensible. There are other ways. 

Grief is a wilderness, and God is endlessly creative. God meets us there in a variety of ways. God comes in natural ways; in the scent of a real, freshly cut Christmas tree, in the peaceful silence of the first snowfall. God comes in the form of fellow humans who sit quietly with us, bring us meals, pray for us, and love us back to some semblance of our former selves. God shows up in supernatural ways, too, often with an intensity that takes years to process and assimilate.  

Grief is a blurry-ass wilderness— you have permission to sit this Christmas out if you need to. But do stay open to the possibility of Emmanuel, of God with us. 

And do brush your teeth.

Allow: Wild Advent

Beavers seem to be taking over the peaceful little stream that meanders along behind our house. They have constructed a new dam downstream from their other, larger one, which begs the question: How many dams does one beaver family really need? Yesterday, thanks to the nature cam our son installed to keep an eye on the very busy beavers,  we got the chance to check out a gorgeous great blue heron. A pleasant surprise, she/he was a magnificent creature. (According to at least one source, it can be difficult to tell male great blues from females.)  

So much is out of our control: Nature, the stock market, other people, the passing of time...ugh. Discernment and trust and a modicum of acceptance, therefore, must, of necessity, be a daily practice.

It's as though we must constantly remind ourselves," that worked out, and so did that one - never dreamed that could ever happen..." Like the ancient Israelites who were guided safely through the wilderness, we often discover God has been walking with us all the way. It's about trust. 

It's about allowing God to be God.

Allowing is a practice of observing and "bearing the truth," poet Danna Faulds writes. Sometimes, when it comes to faith, allowing God to be God becomes our last best, most miraculous resort.

Allow 

There is no controlling life.

Try corralling a lightning bolt, containing a tornado.

Dam a stream and it will create a new channel.

Resist, and the tide will sweep you off your feet.

Allow, and grace will carry you to higher ground.

The only safety lies in letting it all in –

the wild and the weak; fear, fantasies, failures, and success.

When loss rips off the doors of the heart, or sadness veils your

vision with despair,

Practice becomes simply bearing the truth.

In the choice to let go of your known way of being,

the whole world is revealed to your new eyes.

~~Danna Faulds

Angelic Influencers: Wild Advent

Consider with me the incredible way the Christmas story has spread throughout the world. I mean, that story! Mary and Joseph travel on foot, maybe donkey, from Nazareth to Bethlehem to register for the census. It's about a 65-mile journey. Their hike was twice as long as mine! And she was pregnant! They had to travel light. 

Likely, they were with a group that would have helped look after Mary. Likely, they would have shared provisions along the route. They may have made new friends along the way. That's the nature of a pilgrimage. 

When Joseph and Mary arrive in Bethlehem, as the story goes, there is no hotel room available. Mary is in active labor. She gives birth outside, under the stars, likely with the help of local women. Luke's Gospel tells of shepherds receiving an angelic visitation announcing Jesus' birth. The shepherds travel to Bethlehem to behold the little family in their temporary shelter, surrounded by livestock. 

There was no Instagram or Facebook then, yet remarkably, this story spread widely around the world in unique ways, reflecting each local context. I feel like that's the whole point - to see God in ourselves - and in our neighbors.

It is wild, totally wild, to consider how the story of Jesus' birth spread to the ends of the earth. Clearly, social media's got nothing on the angels.

Travelling Light: Wild Advent

A few years ago, I hiked 30 or so miles of the Appalachian Trail with my husband during one of the hottest weeks of the summer. In my backpack were things I would never use. It was so heavy. 

The ancient people who traveled through the wilderness knew how to travel light. The wilderness was about survival under the most difficult circumstances. The wilderness was about learning to let go of control and trust the Creator of the universe. 

In the Hebrew Bible, luminaries like Moses and Hagar met God in the terrible wildness of the natural world. Jesus seemed to enter the wilderness somewhat willingly after his baptism. Meeting physical, emotional, and spiritual challenges there, Jesus emerged from the wilderness ready to get the job done. Wilderness experiences can shape us, make us stronger, more resilient, and trusting of God. Excess stuff only slows us down.

💛

Travelling Light

Because sometimes we travel heavy
and those heady times we can barely
imagine the freebody movement of dance.

Because sometimes we travel dark

and from those hard paths we can’t even
conjure an image of sunrise or moonrise or starlight or fire.

Because sometimes we travel solo

and those lonely times we forget all the others
we’ve travelled with lovingly
travelled with home.

Because sometimes we need to be 
travelling lightly
because sometimes we’re in need of
regular reminding
that light comes in circles
and waves
and small moments
and light
comes to find us
and light comes with hope.

~~Pádraig Ó Tuoma

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. 💛