Taking Down the Tree

There is one ritual I really hate during the holidays: taking down the tree.
It's a sad job, as it marks the end of the season. And it's messy-- dragging out a month old, dried up balsam. Most of all it leaves the house with this big empty hole in the corner of the living room. What was there before the tree? I can't even remember.

But I took it down. And here I sit, feeling sad, staring at a bare spot in the living room and a house strewn with needles.

I really need to get over this annual trauma. January is supposedly the month of moving on, cleaning out, and lightening up, right? It invites us to think of the things like my tree - the old, dried up parts of our lives - that need clearing out. Maybe it is an old grudge that we need to release or a lingering sense of self doubt. Whatever it is, the hardest part of the holidays is the clearing out. For with it come sadness, messiness and emptiness.

When we let go of something, even the old, bad, dried up stuff, we feel loss. What is known (good or bad) is gone. And any loss brings sadness.

The clearing out can also be messy, as it shakes loose a load of emotional Christmas tree needles in our lives; ones that can show up later in strange places we didn't expect (like the needles I found in the vegetable bin of the refrigerator last May).

Most of all, letting go can leave a hole we're not sure how to fill. If we let go of anger, for example, then what goes in its place? If we aren't mad, then who are we?

Hard as it was, I guess I'm glad I took down the tree. Sure I have a lot of needles to sweep and furniture to rearrange. But if I didn't take down the old dried up tree, then where would I find room for the new tree - and the new joy - next Christmas? Happy New Years cleaning to you all!

Thoughts from a Snowman

To whom it may concern:

I am a tiny snowman sitting on a stoop outside some place called Madison Avenue Baptist Church on a snowy Sunday morning. I’m not quite sure how I got here, but here I am. My entire life (all thirty minutes of it) has been spent watching people… watching and thinking and wondering. So I thought I’d write down what I learned. I mean if Meredith Baxter can write a memoir, I certainly can too.

It all started when I was very young, which was about 15 minutes ago. I noticed how no one looked like me. Granted I’m only a foot tall and I have a scarf made out of a piece of a garbage bag. But it’s people’s faces that I’m talking about. Unlike most people, I have a big smile – thanks to a yellow twisty tie.

I stand out here smiling at passersby. Some see me and smile. But, most don’t. The ones that always smile are little people. And the smaller, the more excited they are. “A snowman!” they’ll squeal and then reach down and fix my scarf and pat on more snow. I like them. The big people, however, don’t usually smile; in fact they don’t even notice me.

But of course, how can they? They walk by too fast, looking down at the sidewalk like they are going to find the $270 million dollar mega-bucks lottery ticket. They seem in a great hurry; seem terribly worried about something. They seem so sad.

I’m only a snowman, but on a day like this, why worry? There’s magic in the air! There’s joy to be found--even in the tiniest things like a snowflake. Every crystal is unique. Every crystal is a masterpiece of design. And not one design is ever repeated. When a snowflake falls, the masterpiece is revealed. And when it hits the pavement and melts, it is forever lost.

Most big folks miss the snowflakes like they miss the other great moments of beauty and magic in this life. Moments that will never be repeated; moments lost to worry. And for what? Do you remember what you were worrying about six months ago? It’s like a saying I read on a fortune cookie paper blowing by: “today is the tomorrow that we worried about yesterday.”

I wish I could write more. But I can tell that the snow is starting to wane and the air is beginning to warm. I don’t want to waste one minute of my short time here on this stoop. So I’d best get going. I have work to do … and smiles to offer. Just slow down your pace and look up from the sidewalk -- maybe you'll see me!

SOURDOUGH JESUS

One of the most important lessons I have learned as a minister is this: never read scripture that involves food when you are hungry. Recently, before breakfast, I read: "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry." All I could think about was what kind of bread was it? Cinnamon raisin? Herb? Or perhaps chocolate cherry?

To get me off the bread fixation, I did a little research on the Greek word, "artos," that John used to denote bread in this passage. It is defined as food mixed with flour and water and baked. Some have even interpreted it as meaning an ancient version of sourdough. Now that definitely puts a new spin on the passage: "And Jesus said to them 'I am the sourdough of life.'"

Sourdough or not, Jesus as the bread of life is a common metaphor we see in the gospels: Jesus as the unending source of nourishment, Jesus as the giver, Jesus always putting others first.

But here's the problem: some of us have taken that metaphor a little too far. We all know folks like this-or maybe we are folks like this: People who believe that in order to serve others, you have to sacrifice yourself; people who believe that in order to be whole, you have to give yourself away -- piece by piece, obligation by obligation, a yes here, a yes there until there is nothing left. There are way too many people who believe that they need to sacrifice themselves even unto death, or at a minimum unto heart disease, diabetes, high blood pressure and stroke.

Especially during this chaotic holiday season, we might consider looking closer at the wisdom offered by Sourdough Jesus. It involves two simple lessons:

FEED THE DOUGH
Sourdough is made with what's called a starter, which consists of water and flour (and maybe yeast if you aren't a purist). The "starter" sits in your refrigerator and requires a regular feeding of flour and water. If you feed it, it becomes an unending supply of nourishment.

Not unlike sourdough Jesus. It seems almost every day of his life, Jesus is doing something to feed himself: stopping for a meal, stopping for water or pausing for conversation with friends. But one of the most important things he does is allow others to nurture him. Who could forget the story of how he allowed Mary to pour expensive perfume onto his feet and to dry it with her hair?

To allow others to care for us is not the easiest thing. But in order to make the bread, you have to feed the dough.

LET IT REST
Anyone who bakes bread knows the creation process involves cycles of feeding key ingredients to the dough and then allowing it to rest.

Jesus followed the same process. He took time to feed himself and he rested. (OK, OK, maybe not in 21st century terms. You don't necessarily see Jesus doing an exorcism then going to recover at Canyon Ranch.) But he found his own ways to rest. Time and time again, he would say "no" to the crowds, "no" to the disciples and pull away into the mountains for quiet and prayer. He knew without food and rest, he could feed no one.

This holiday season, don't fall into the trap of thinking you aren't loveable unless you feed everyone else first; that you will be a better person when you heal and care for the entire world to the exclusion of yourself. Take time everyday to feed yourself and to rest. If you follow this recipe closely, then like Sourdough Jesus you can be an unending source of life and nourishment for others without losing yourself.