It
takes very little rationalization for me to make a trip to the bookstore where I will browse for a new book—not that
there isn’t a stack of several unread ones on my bedside table already—but just in case one catches my eye. So
it was a few years ago, on the eve of the bishop’s election in Little Rock. I knew there would be substantial breaks
in the action, waiting for votes to be counted, and so I resolved that I should be prepared for the pauses—and what
better way than with a book in hand.
I suspect some psychotherapist could have great fun by observing
my patterns of browsing in Barnes and Noble—some days it is history and current events; other days I gravitate to the
religion section. I’ve been known to sit for a while in the teen literature section, but that’s another story…
On this Friday evening, it was poetry—I was looking to see if my favorite contemporary poet, Billy Collins, had something
new in print, but what immediately caught my eye was a bright yellow book of poems by Maya Angelou.
Now
I know you can’t tell a book by its cover, but the title was a hook, too—Celebrations: Rituals of Peace and
Prayer. She had me. But the real flavor came as I chewed on her words the next morning, sitting as I was, in the crucible
of change for our church.
The poem that seemed most poignant that morning, and still did
this past week when I pulled it from the shelf and perused it again, is entitled Continue. It was written to an individual
who is a dear friend of Maya Angelou’s—a person who had traveled a similar path out of childhood poverty and pain,
and into a life of commitment to make the world a better place. There is a matriarchal wisdom that emanates from the pages;
her graceful words bear witness to a perpetual and tireless hope that her friend can make a difference, and should.
The poem was offered as a gift on the occasion of the friend’s birthday—an occasion that marks both an
end of another year, and the beginning of another. In the end is a new beginning…A transition. A celebration of what
has been, and a challenge to look at what lies ahead.
That is what we are called to do, especially on this First Sunday
of Advent—it is a time of reflection and of preparation for what lies ahead. Advent is indeed a Celebration—A
Ritual of Peace and Prayer. Her poem opens:
On the day of your birth
The Creator filled countless storehouses and stockings
With rich ointment
Luscious tapestries
And antique
coins of incredible value
Jewels worthy
of a queen’s dowry
They were set
aside for your use
Alone
Armed with faith and hope
And
without knowing of the wealth which awaited
You
broke through dense walls
Of poverty
And loosed the chained of ignorance which
Threatened to cripple you so that you
Could walk
A free woman
Into a world which needed you
We are now about the business
of celebrating the birth of the Christ Child—we are about the business of preparing for this event of cosmic transition
that offers a newborn hope of peace and good will. ‘Tis the season of peace and good will after all. Although, looking
at the gospel, there does not seem to be much peace or good will, does there? “Distress among the nations…people
fainting from fear and foreboding…heaven and earth passing away…”
This is apocalyptic literature—a much misunderstood genre of scripture texts,
and we always get some during Advent—this time of transition between what has been and what will be. Some other time
I will say more on this style of writing that is found in several books of the bible—both Old and New Testament—but
for now let me just say two things so as to establish the connection between a poem and this Lukan apocalypse and our task
at hand as observers of a holy Advent.
First, apocalypse is literally an “uncovering,
an unveiling” of the realities of life as they will be at some point, and secondly, what is unveiled is intimately connected
to what is now—often the realities of life as they will be are reflected in the realities of life as they are now—the
unveiling comes simultaneously as a prediction of something to come, and as a calling attention to what is already—a
disturbing mess buried beneath the grime of this existence so that it is out of sight or out of mind.
Surely
a preacher could stand here today, or could have stood before people a hundred years ago, or a thousand years ago, or in Jesus’
time and say that today these scriptures are being fulfilled: There is distress among the nations; people are wrought with
fear and foreboding; there is much ecological evidence that the earth is dying from the burden of human development.
And on a personal level, people are hurting, even if they are hidden away from our view at any given moment. And
so what are we to do?
Rituals of Peace and Prayer is the subtitle to Maya Angelou’s collection
of poems;
Advent is a season of ritual living, in home, in church, and in the ways we engage
this broken hurting world—Rituals of Peace and Prayer…Transitions…in the end is a new beginning for someone,
somewhere.
And so now the rest of Maya Angelou’s poem, graceful words that bear witness
to a perpetual and tireless hope that we—you and I—can make a difference, and should.
My wish for you
Is that you continue
Continue
To be who and how you are
To astonish a mean world
With your acts of kindness
Continue
To allow humor to lighten the burden
Of your tender heart
Continue
In a society dark with cruelty
To let the people hear the grandeur
Of God in the peals of your laughter
Continue
To let your eloquence
Elevate the people to heights
They had only imagined
Continue
To remind the people that
Each is as good as the other
And the no one is beneath
Nor above you
Continue
To remember your own young years
And look with favor upon the lost
And the least and the lonely
Continue
To put the mantel of your protection
Around the bodies of
The
young and defenseless
Continue
To take the hand of the despised
And diseased and walk proudly with them
In the high street
Some
might see you and
Be encouraged
to do likewise
Continue
To plant a public kiss of concern
On the cheek of the sick
And
the aged and infirm
And count
that as a
Natural action to
be expected
Continue
To let gratitude be the pillow
Upon which you kneel to
Say
your nightly prayer
And let
faith be the bridge
You build
to overcome evil
And welcome
good
Continue
To ignore no vision
Which
comes to enlarge your range
And
increase your spirit
Continue
To dare to love deeply
And
risk everything
For the good
thing
Continue
To float
Happily
in the sea of infinite substance
Which
set aside riches for you
Before
you had a name
Continue
And by doing so
You
and your work
Will be able
to continue
Eternally
