The Sixth Dance of Christmas: Half Epiphany on Highway 79

The Sixth Dance of Christmas:  
Half Epiphany on Highway 79
 

Prologue:
Sitting in the Super 8 in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, 

tired of driving but I'm scared of dying and old man river . . . .
Oops. Sorry.
Obviously too much coffee plus all that pan dulce from Austin Missy and I bought last night that was supposed to make it home to Indiana but that I've been eating in the car all day.

More about that later.

So, the sixth dance of Christmas would be . . . . ?
Let's see, the Catholikapedia (I just made that up) gives it this snappy name:

The Sixth Day in the Octave of Christmas. Oooooh. Like it.

What, no slaughter? No martyr? 

Maybe I could do some Dan Brown thing like: "Six geese a'laying: the hidden meaning."

But then it hit me like a ginger pig in a Mexican bakery--
Today is half-way to Epiphany.

Those wise men, kings, magi, whatever, whoever,
have been on the road at least six of the twelve days of Christmas,
and apparently, just like this year with our sub-tropical temps and all, 
a moderately cold coming they had of it.
 
But halfway to Epiphany is still only half way,
and if the Epiphany is sort of one of those "infinity" moments (and why not? since epiphany as we all learned in high school English pretty much means whatever your teacher wants it to mean),
AND if we can trust Zeno and his paradox,
then those wise, kings, magi, whatever, whoever,
very possibly still have an awfully long way to go.
And, probably, they need my advice,
as do most of you, although I haven't yet put out my "top ten holiday movies" list yet. 
Yet, I said. 
 
Anyway, today I began an unsentimental sacramental journey home from my native home,
and I'm doing it in a specific intentional way, all on what we now call "back roads,"
in honor of those who seek Epiphany not just movement,
who maybe are half way there (whether they know it or not),
who maybe need some last minute advice or even a model (c'est moi!)
to imitate.

Believe me friends, I myself don't take a step in this crazy dance without consulting my mentors.
Unfortunately, all of them are dead, but that shouldn't disqualify them for anything but public office.
So my steps aren't really mine.
And if this time warp works, those magic magi steps (whatever, whoever) were not only not theirs alone,
but are mine as well. And yours. If you will just pay better attention. That's why you get to celebrate/endure the long journey of Christmas obviously. 
 
So here they are: Six Simple Steps on the Road to Epiphany. Or, a little thing I like to call: Dancing towards the Star.

1. Ask directions from local people.
Listen to a real person tell you which way to go. 
If possible, get conflicting directions from different people.
Then tell them a joke.
Ask them again which way to turn at the Sphinx.
Also ask about where to get good hummous.

Don't believe your GPS about anything. 
It doesn't work for this journey.
If you must use a map, use one of those you found in the basement from when you cleaned out your dad's stuff. 

Half the roads aren't on it and you're liable to get good and lost.

I mean, If you already know what you're doing and exactly where you're going,
what the heck are you going to see God for?

2. Rest your camel occasionally.
Walk with him. Get to know him. Feed him part of your protein bar.
Baby Jesus will wait for you.
And he'll be happy that you took good care of your camel.
If he isn't respectful of your camel, take back the presents.
Give them to PETA instead. 
 
3. Do as I did today. Do NOT take the interstate.
What's your hurry?
Do you really only want to see every Wal-Mart and Dick's Sporting Goods between Austin and Bethlehem?
Being kings and all,
you might kind of like seeing all those bail bond places next to the court house in Shreveport.
You might also take away some lessons on the mutability of earthly civilizations when you see its downtown that looks like a bombed out war zone
(really it's just another victim of Wal-mart and Dick's Sporting Goods and First Baptist Church who all moved out by the interstate twenty years ago).

Another note of interest, I stopped and waited for trains three times today.
Twice in Shreveport, and I'm pretty sure it was the same train both times.
You'll miss seeing those trains if you take the interstate.
As Isaiah writes, those who wait for trains will be more successful pilgrims than they who waiteth not.
 
Besides, at some point, you might find a wonderful Mexican bakery along the way, you can talk to the little nine-year-old girl, ask her how much Ginger Pigs are, then barter with her trying to get three for the price of two, laugh, and leave her a big tip. Don't worry about the labor laws this time. You want her home watching TV or surfing the web instead of being with her mom in the store?
Really? For wise men, you could stand to use your brains a bit more.
 
4. Do NOT eat at a restaurant that would be just the same if you were in Austin, Shreveport, Pine Bluffs, Jerusalem, or Fort Wayne.
If they have arches, hand out crowns, or feature a picture of a Colonel, ride your camel right on past.
Look for names like Joe or Sara or even Bubba.
Alternatively, pick blackberries and make a crumble (easier than a pie).
Or ask the people at the Super 8 in Pine Bluff where you can get the best local breakfast.
Or, even better, stand out in a narrow alley way and sing until they give you something from the local bakery. 

Say you are a pilgrim. Dress funny if it helps. 
 
Penultimately. Listen pals. You have a lot of spare time on this long journey.
Use it wisely.
Not by thinking about your investments. 
Or by making a checklist of the appointments you will need to meet when you get back home to the Orient R
or wherever it is you live and are kings, wise men, or magi, whatever, whoever.

Also, don't worry unnecessarily about those credits that didn't count towards your major or, for that matter,
what you are going to do with that philosophy major anyway.
No, as I said. Use. Your. Time. Wisely. 
For example, wonder why you didn't go off on a crazy journey like this sooner.

Or why you haven't thought more about the treatment of camels.
 
Make up a song about your crazy journey following yonder star (throw in a funny line about a cigar if you can think of one).

Think about what you're going to do after you see God, if you're allowed to live that is.
 
Just in case you aren't (going to live), take a day off and tell those other kings, wise men, magi about that girl you love (though you know it will never work out ) and about your favorite family table game and about the first time you saw a camel being born (or a human, whichever makes you cry when telling about it).

Pretend to be Swedish for several hours and try to convince all the local merchants with your bad Swedish accent that you are really a Swedish tourist who is just dressed like a king, wise man, magus, whatever, whoever from the Orient R.

Since you may very well be exploding in about a week, sing a Rhianna song at the top of your lungs
and dance like it's 1999.

6. Consider well what gifts you will give the baby when you arrive (and find the place satisfactory).
Gold is good.
Frankincense is smelly.
Myrrh . . . well, I guess it's an acquired test.
What about a Ginger Pig? A cockatiel? A ukelele? Don't worry, he will grow into it.

Truthfully, regardless of what you give, fear not, we poets (which means "liars" in Platonese) will find a way to make it symbolic.

The most important thing is that you make this journey.
Follow in my steps, though I'm only halfway home myself.
Bear some gifts. 
Traverse afar. 
Take care of your camels.

Whatever else you do, do NOT accept any invitations from local dignitaries. 

I'm dead serious. Look at my eyes.

One other thing--

remember that your heart will probably get sucked out of your chest at some point on your pilgrimage.
Don't worry, that's as it should be.

And, finally, learn the lesson of all true Epiphanies--
you aren't really kings,
you aren't really wise,
But you may very well be magic. 

A Fiddle Song for Saint John's Day: The Third Dance of Christmas (revised)

 The Third Dance of Christmas: 

A Fiddle Dance for St. John's Day*

Saint John was a dancer
on the shores of old Capernaum
a lovely boy not fit for fishing,
carpentry, or marrying.
They tell he left his boat one day
for the sake of the bold young fellow
who looked at him one early morn
and said, my love, come follow.

Saint John said yes, he left his nets
for the rest of life seemed hollow,
compared to the love of the wild-eyed one
who said, my love, come follow.

John saw the hungry eat their fill,
saw the sinful girl forgiven.
He saw the hardened hearts of men
flow freely with compassion.
He saw the one he loved so dear,
betrayed and shamed and tortured,
by those who could not hear the word
of the awful grace he offered.
 
Saint John said yes, he left his nets
for the rest of life seemed hollow
compared to the love of the wild-eyed boy
who said, my love, come follow.
 
On the twenty-seventh of December
we remember his devotion,
his courage, and his faithfulness,
and his delicate emotion.
Rare visions he was said to have,
Deep mysteries he expounded.
But we love his love for the lovely one
whose love sweet John astounded.

Saint John said yes, he left his nets
and the rest of life seemed hollow
compared to the love of the wild-eyed god
who said, my love, come follow,
compared to the love of the lovely one
who says, my love, come follow.

(long instrumental reel, with difficult but frenzied dance should follow--sans irony)

Here's a link to a bad video I just recorded (I didn't have time to mirror flip the image but will eventually). My voice is ragged today, but it will sound better if you sing (and dance) along. I also recommend headphones since it's just a phone recording.  Here we go : https://youtu.be/Rlu__VnM_fk?feature=shared

*first posted on this day, 2013.  

Intense Ironic Advent Meditation XLVIIb: Love Burps (Guest Meditation by Michele Pinkham)

          

Ironic Advent Guest Meditation XLVIIb:

Love Burps

(Guest Meditation by Michele Pinkham*)

          The following ironic advent meditation was composed by Michele Pinkam*, a heck of a writer. She's also a teacher, a student, a parent, a yoga aficionado, and a post-er of food pictures. And a great lover of the poetry of Mary Oliver. 

          To my mind, Mr. Ben Camino himself has been a little too tame lately. Maybe lost his edge. Or maybe worn out by trying to understand what the population of earth is SO ANGRY ABOUT on Facebook. Or maybe, and I hope this is the truth, this whole thing isn't or shouldn't be about one person's voice. And maybe the Ironic Advent and NOEL Blogverse (© myownselfdamnit 2012)not to mention the BenCaminoSoul itself, resides not in a place or a person but in a community of pilgrims. 

          Whatever, I think you'll agree, Michele has what we used to call VOICE before that word was co-opted by NBC. Read, listen, and breath along with this exercise in creatureliness. And, in the words and phrasing of Rorie the dog: If. It. Does. Not. Smell. Human. It. Ain't. Jesus. 

So take it away Michele. . . .

          Disclaimer: My faith status right now might politely be described as hanging by a thread. On any given day, this thread is attached to Tradition, or Love, or now, in the Advent season, Hope.  I mean, there are twinkle lights and peppermint bark and carols.  I should—or at least I think I want to—feel something.  Maybe just want something. Some connection to the pastpresentfuture of Hope. And so, the thread. 

            Plus, there is “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus.” I heard that old Wesleyan Advent hymn the other day in the background of a friend’s Facebook video. In the video, she was listening to it as she decorated her Christmas tree, her baby strapped to her chest: 

                    Come, Thou long-expected Jesus/ Born to set Thy people free/

                    From our fears and sins release us/Let us find our rest in Thee/

                    Israel’s strength and consolation/Hope of all the earth Thou art/

                    Dear Desire of every nation/Joy of every longing heart. 

          It was a simple scene. Serene, even. The baby is NOT a sleeper, so I was glad for this moment of peace (on earth) for her mama. I could smell the Frazier Fir and the baby's lavender-scented fuzzy head. So, obviously, I Facebook LIKED her video.  And then I thought two things:  1) Those people waiting for the long-expected Messiah got a unexpected diaper full of God and also . . . shit.  And 2) the Gospels are pretty much the Facebook version of the Jesus story. Song. Baby. Peace on earth. LIKE. 

            I’m not particularly trying to be offensive, what with God and shit in the same sentence.  Actually, God put God’s own little Godself there, in the swaddling clothes, helpless and puking and pooping.  My friend Luke and his wife just had a baby, and Luke posted a picture of his girl, slung limp and blotchy over his shoulder, her forehead a plowed field of concern. Her brow is worried, but her eyes shine with relief and trust. She’s not three weeks old, and she is secure in the arms that hold her.  The caption under the photo reads, “Burping ain't easy!”  Luke's gospel in three words.

            And I think all of a sudden that maybe this is why God came as a baby.  Burping ain't easy. And God wanted someone to pat God’s back, and sing God soothing songs, and football hold God out under a tree, with the breeze in God’s face, a pinky finger in God’s mouth, whispering and kissing and cooing, “You are fine.  You are going to be okay.  It is all going to be okay.” 

            Those people who long expected Jesus?  I’ll bet they expected what I still expect when I have moaned and beseeched and cried upside-down in child’s pose for a shift: they (as I) expected the answer on a white horse with the magic potion that was going to make it All Better.  And they got a diaper full of God. And . . . well, you know. Don't make me say it again. They got a God who, in this particularly needy form said, I need you. Really. 

            And, if they were anything like me, I imagine they responded, “W. T. Actual. F!  I needed and asked for help, not a divorce or a diagnosis or a decline on my credit card.  And I certainly wasn’t asking for a load of poopy diapers.  I was actually looking for an answer, and you gave me just One. More. Thing. To. Take. Care. Of!”  As my friend Ben said when presented with such a miracle: “Send that shit back marked ‘Return to Sender.’” 

            In the Facebook version of the story, God comes to earth as a baby, and God’s parents are pretty cool with it, and three nice guys bring presents—some useful (gold) and some not-so-much (myrrh?)—and everybody apparently sort of feels good about the fact that this Hope they’ve been waiting for and dying for and baking-their-bread-over-poop-for (ask Ezekiel, you can’t make this up) is away in a manger and asleep on the hay. In the Facebook version, there are Angels We Have Heard on High and Little Drummer Boys and probably even Bing Crosby (But not Frank Sinatra. He had ties to the Mob. And also, martinis. The Facebook version of Jesus doesn’t do John Gotti or gin for that matter).

            In the real life version, there is meconium, and a placenta, and an umbilical cord (what did Joseph use to cut that?). Also, birth smells. Along with animal smells and humans-traveling-for-weeks-across-the-desert-on-a-donkey smells. I mean all this had to add up to a Christmas-candle-scent-you-don’t-want-in-your-house smell.  Stick with the Sugar Cookie and Plum Pudding Yankee Candle smells.  Balsam Fir, if you want au naturel smell.  Seriously. Christmas, like burping, ain't easy.

        

            Maybe God (if you believe in such things, which I am conditioned toward this time of year, but I totally get it if you don’t) came, with blood and pain and yes, shitty diapers, in need of us. I mean, what if God came helpless so that we could learn to take care of God?  The God in my divorce. The God in my friend’s infidelity. The God in a hysterectomy, or in cancer, or the God in aplastic anemia (which my friend’s son has, and it is wearing them out beyond the bone). The God in my selfishness, or my bottle of wine, or my desire to disengage. The God in cerebral palsy or Down Syndrome or autism. The God in every poor decision, every broken promise, every weak moment. The God in the refugee, the marginalized, the broke-ass. The God who knocks at the door of the inn. What if God lies pressed against our shoulders, blotchy and wrinkled, eyes full of trust?   

          How, then, do we respond to God?

the only known picture of Michele without her kids. OK, I jest. A little. 

Ironic Advent Meditation #xy-y: Crunky Advent Yo (Guest Meditation by Jennifer Strange)

Ironic Advent Meditation #xy-y: 

Crunky Advent Yo!

(Guest Meditation by Jennifer Strange)

Ta-da-ta-da! Friends, Grinches, Crunkyfolk—I hereby introduce a new Ironic Advent Meditation-er, perhaps the strangest of them all, my friend, Jennifer Strange*.

I asked her if she’d like to write a guest meditation this year, and she said, "Yo, I'm down with that." That bothered me, but not as much as this . . . thing she wrote. 

In truth, Ben Camino doesn't even know what Crunk means, but I’m sure my spiritual director, Tara Owens, does, so maybe she will give us an interpretation when she quits posting baby pictures for five minutes.

More about Jennifer* after the meditation. Enjoy. And may all your blessed days of Christ’s Coming Days (as Jennifer puts it) make you blush.

           Friends, forgive me. But do love Lady Gaga’s “Christmas Tree” and Dirty Boyz’s “All I Want for Christmas Is to Get it Crunk.”

      In the spirit of the season, let’s scapegoat Amazon: they gave the songs away free one year or another in their Advent Calendar Reason-for-the-Season Free Music Extravaganza (which I gather they don’t do anymore—the grinches), and I downloaded them digitally because they were (as mentioned) free, and now I’m hooked.

 

      When you think about it, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” isn’t so different from “All I want for Christmas is peace in the ‘hood.” Just turn a blind ear to the other stuff, and imagine Lady Gaga simply wants to spread wholesome Christmas cheer, and you’ll be fine.

      Every year since its acquisition, “All I Want for Christmas Is to Get it Crunk” has been the first song I play from my “xmas favs” playlist during Advent. Like the day after Thanksgiving when I start decking the halls with nativity scenes and twinkly lights. Because it’s worshipful and stuff. And first time I’m in the car without the kids, Lady Gaga and I fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la down the road. She helps me handle the construction inevitable between here and there during the blessed days of Christ’s Coming Days. 

       Also, “Dashin’ through the snow in a stolen Chevrolet / with my broken taillight ridin’ dirty all the way” is a good alternative to the Honking Horn of Justice that I’m otherwise prone to exercise with my kids during this holy season. I love the songs of Advent and Christmas.

       Don’t get me wrong, I love the lights and the trees. I love the creches, whether ceramic or hand-sewn or Playskool. I love the stories and the planning and the fruitcake and the cookies and the hot cocoa and the excuses to stay up late. But I don’t so much love the busyness and the never-ending sales and the crazed drivers. 

       And maybe that’s exactly why I love these songs? There’s something shockingly wrong about them that somehow seems right for Advent. They’re irreverent and raunchy, and they make me laugh at all the silliness. They’re raw and lusty and broken. They make me blush and hope no one’s watching . . . while I dance and sing loudly in the elementary-school carpool line. 

       Ben Camino would say that I need to get off my scarved high horse here and just admit I like the beat. But don’t tell my violin teachers from back in the day . . . or if you do, please make sure to mention Lady Gaga’s compositional nods to unaccompanied Bach partitas. And if you don’t think it would lay things on too thick, suggest also how that crunk song alludes to that one Christmas cantata—you know, that one. 

       Maybe after we sing about getting crunk, my playlist will offer “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus,” and I laugh because I really do want him to come. That would be better by far.

 

       OK, so this may not exactly be a recommendable devotional practice, but it’s become a personal Advent liturgy. Thanks, iTunes and Amazon. Thanks, Lady Gaga. Thanks for helping me worship the coming King. Thanks for reminding me how serious this cosmic longing is. You don’t give me any answers, but you make me dance to the ridiculousness. 

       How befuddling our God is to wait out all that. If I were him, I’d have been done with all that silliness a long time ago. He’s patient. He’s kind. And it sure is fun to let the Dirty Boyz help me look East for the Redeemer to come again. I’m sure that’s the point of Amazon’s Advent Calendar Reason-for-the-Season Free Music Extravaganza (may it rest in peace). Right, friends? Here endeth my ironic Advent  confession.

*Jennifer Strange likes exchanging raised eyebrows with her husband, basking in the angelic glow of their three young sons, eating good chocolate, remembering that she has written poems, and applying her liberal arts education to the critical assessment of holiday songs (#fortheloveoffoucault). Seriously, she said that stuff. Ben Camino says that she is a poet, editor, sometimes lecturer, and, most important to him, said something nice about his ironic memoirish meditation once-upon-a-time in a Lauren Winner seminar when everyone else was saying "WHAT IS THIS? WHEN WILL SOMETHING HAPPEN? I DON'T GET IT!" She lives in Shreveport LA (once-upon-a-time home of the Louisiana Hayride), which Ben Camino thought sounded rather exotic until he drove through it a couple of years ago. It’s not. She looks kinda' like the lady in the opening picture.

 

Ironic Advent Meditation ##: The Ballad of John the Baptist

Ironic Advent Meditation ##: The Ballad of John the Baptist

These song lyrics were written to be sung at Christ the King Church in Huntington, Indiana, on the Third Sunday of Advent in the Year of Our Lord 2012. Or maybe it was the Year of Our Lord 2013. Whatever, I know it was some gloomy day of Our Lord when a new Star Wars movie was NOT coming out. Why don't they just make one for everyday. They have enough money. 

Anyway, John plays a surprisingly large role in the traditions of traditional Advent, although you wouldn't know it from the most of the inspirational Advent chocolate and poetry you can get at Starbucks and your local Christian bookstore. 

In a way, even before W. H. Auden and your 'umble servant Ben Camino, John was the original ironic advent meditation-er. "Come on now, let's make it happen, let's get it done, gotta' change our ways, kingdom is coming." 

Plunk. That's the sound of landing in prison. "Hmm." That's the sound of wondering whether this whole thing was (in an image I've used before but in case you either forgot it or forgot how witty your 'umble servant is) . . . some weird Twister game which gets you all excited to touch the lovely desired . . . object you desire but then the youth group leader comes in and says, "OK, don't get carried away. Let's get back to Bible study about the millennium." 

So . . . John. Not a Baptist, really, but the name has stuck. At least not a Baptist like my grandmother Jewel was. So that's ironic too.  

Anyway, I recorded this song the other night on my phone. Sorry for the distoration, but, somehow, I think JB would like it. He'd probably like Christian death metal if there is such a thing.

Thanks to Jennifer Woodruff Tait for sort of commissioning it (that is, by asking me to play an Introit for the Third Sunday of Advent). Then she missed church and never heard it, but I sent her the phone message right after I recorded it. So now she has it. On her phone, I imagine. These kids today.

Anyway, I hope you profit (get it?) from the song (link below) and the lyrics (further down the page). Lord knows I'm not profiting from taking a few more hours out of my life to do this. But if I'm propheting at all, you can send the love offering down to Austin because that's where I'm headed as soon as I get those last two papers which are due at 5 P.M. (It's 4.39 as I write this).

Here's the link to listen to the song, as recorded on my phone. Yeah, I mean that sentence you just skipped; click on it. 


The Ballad of John the Baptist

John the Baptist knew one song and he beat it like a drum
turn around, oh turn around
he wore camel-skins, ate lovely bugs, but he never touched the rum
turn around, oh turn around
Turn around my brother, turn around and come
Turn around you sinners, turn and find the kingdom

Angel told old Zacharias "your wife will have a son"
turn around, now turn around
Zacharias said "how can that be . . . oh Lord, what have I done?"
turn around, oh turn around
The whole nine months while Zacharias never said a thing
The baby in Eliz'beth's womb was busy prophesying
turn around, oh mother turn around
turn around and find the kingdom

Every mountain will be brought low, every valley shall be raised
turn around, oh turn around 
Until we make a highway for our God in this rough place
Come down to the water, all you hypocrites and liars
The One who's coming after me will baptize you with fire

OH, John the Baptist knew one song, he beat it like a drum
turn around, oh turn around
preaching in the wilderness to hearts as hard as stone
turn around, oh turn around
turn around, my brothers, turn around and come
turn around my brothers, turn and find the kingdom

Waiting in his prison cell to die there all alone
turn around, turn around
John asked "was this all some mistake
or were you the one to come . . . ."