Destination Bethlehem. J. Barrie Shepherd

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СКАЧАТЬ fresh and somewhat different. So I decided to look back at some of those well-worn traditions, to check over some of those carefully crafted sermons, to see if anything there might be salvaged, or better say, reclaimed, even recycled. In the thrifty spirit of my Scottish homeland, and new ideas and perspectives being scarce in any of our seasons, I began to sift through the homiletical mementos of those long and weary “nights before Christmas,” looking for tales to be retold, gems to be repolished, gifts to be reopened.

      It is my hope and prayer that, recaptured here and set within a holiday wreath of poetry and prayer, these Advent/Christmas meditations might open up a way for you, dear reader, to pause a moment in these hectic days, to reflect, perhaps, on some of your own cherished Christmases past, to find yourself a welcoming spot beneath the tree, a quiet place beside the manger.

      I have arranged these selections to follow the traditional sequence of Advent, providing a meditation, prayer, and/or poetry, for each day of the season’s four weeks. In addition there is a series of meditations and poems for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and a final selection covering the period between Christmas and Epiphany, including New Year. A few of the poems are specifically dated. I ask the reader’s indulgence when such dates do not correspond with the actual days of the Advent calendar in any particular year.

      As I look back, in putting this book to rest, over some fourscore Christmas celebrations of my own, I feel profoundly thankful for all that this warmest and most welcoming season has added to those years, and pray that my words may call forth a similar grateful response from all who read them.

      Piper Shores, Scarborough, Maine

      Epiphany 2015

      Acknowledgments

      A debt of gratitude is owed to the faithful readers, colleagues, and friends who have supported and encouraged me in the writing of this, my sixteenth book. Particular thanks to Mhairi, my wife of fifty-one years, for her careful reading of this text, her editorial skills, fact checking, grammatical expertise, and her gently remedial observations whenever the preacher within me attempted to prevail.

Last Sunday in November

      The Manger Calls Again

      and for all the humdrum daily-ness

      of places, things, and persons too,

      all the sheer predictability

      of politics and power—those same-old,

      same-old headlines on the news—

      for all the dwindling of these days

      so that the memory far outweighs

      the flimsy realm of possibility and promise,

      still one rummages for candle-stubs and matches,

      turns thoughts toward new ways to bring delight,

      a fleeting sense, at least, of generosity both given

      and received, then folds the hands in prayer

      that this season’s secret music might—

      before it’s vanished in thin air—

      lift all our lives in momentary,

      yet still mending melody.

      Homeland Security

      (Eve of Advent)

      Times like these—

      what with daily news of terror,

      the random ways of cold malevolence,

      fanatic dedication to the cause of savage death—

      the customary comforts of this season

      can seem thin, at best,

      and threadbare,

      offering scant protection

      from December’s chill and dying days.

      Times like these

      may yet recall a child

      whose birth was also framed

      by bloodshed, and a bleak indifference,

      who found seeming scant protection

      in a mother’s arms, a father’s watchful wisdom,

      that old, eternal tenderness, whose shield

      is nevertheless the only, sure, and best defense

      against the savage dark.

      At the Brink

      There is a mild portending in the air

      this last November morning,

      a persistent wish

      that, with tomorrow’s wreath

      and purple candles, at least something will begin,

      or should I say, “begin again.”

      Almost eighty of these now, after all,

      and still—like weary Simeon—

      I’m scanning faces for him, seeking, hoping,

      perhaps fearing.

      If he did come in the end, how would I know him?

      Would there be certain words exchanged,

      a knowing look, even a fierce embrace?

      Might I have already missed whatever is to come,

      failing to recognize the fathoms, deep beneath the daily pageant?

      Or will this be the year when ancient word and melody,

      rich color, and the candled scent of evergreen,

      bear light to life and everlasting joy

      within these timeworn, aching bones?

Advent Week One Sunday

      Something for Christmas I

      Something Worth Hoping For

      . . . we rejoice in our hope of sharing the glory of God. More than that we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us.

      —Romans 5:2–3

      If ever there was a season set aside for hoping, surely СКАЧАТЬ