*photo courtesy of Grace Ballantine Gorman, God bless her.
Nita wanted to die. I think
she did, anyway, but of course they say that people sometimes try to do things
but not really die. That sounds risky to me. And it’s probably not a great idea
to stand back and cite the children’s classic The Boy Who Cried Wolf as
your reason for standing back. Nita was my mom. My name is Ben Camino. Today is
the First Sunday of Advent. And this is Ironic Advent Meditation #1 for 2016.
If you’ve been with me before
for the complete set of Ironic Advent Meditations in 2012 and 2013 and the
incomplete sets for 2014 and 2015, and that would mean your name is probably
Jennifer or Edwin or Laura or Jennifer or Ross or Jennifer, you sort of know
the drill. If you’re a naïve little Mennonite baby, like Brandon Harnish, don’t
worry, you’ll catch on quickly. And if you don’t, it shouldn’t be any more
confusing that Advent really is. Oops, there I go again.
Anyway, if the great power
who sends down her blessing on all bloggers, The Great Bloz, gives me time and
breath and keeps away the rotator cuff tendonitis, I will be blessing you, not
to mention amazing you, not to mention disturbing you in my never-ending battle
to keep Advent out of the hands of the neo-gingerbread post-evangelical pre-tribulation
forces of warm and fuzzy thinking.
You know, the same people who keep telling
us that solitude is a spiritual discipline. Doesn’t anyone realize that there is
WAY TOO MUCH SOLITUDE on this <curse word> PLANET!? Doesn’t anyone
realize that more dancing is what we need? And more hugs. Here’s a little trick
I learned back in . . . oh, I don’t know, I’m making this up so fill in the
blank. Anyway, here’s the thing for all budding theologians and would-be
spiritualisticists: if it doesn’t work in the <curse word> nursing home,
do NOT bring it in to my line of sight. I will slap you. That’s another good
spiritual discipline for Advent.
I also want to take this
opportunity to personally thank the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church for making this the single longest Advent I’ve
ever tried to ironize. If I’m counting right, I’ll have to do churn out 28 of
these babies before baby Jesus even shows his divine little face at midnight
mass in Austin, Texas on December 25th. Despite the grueling
schedule, I will try to make sure you don’t know what to expect. I will also be
asking some of you, I’m sure, to help me out with your own Ironic Advent
Meditation (copyright Ben Camino, 2012). If you don't know what to expect in the ones you write yourself, I can't help you. And, remember, if you should think
about going out on your own and doing likewise (Brandon), I’m sure I can think
of another fine “spiritual discipline” or two. At least until they repeal the
Second Amendment (yeah right).
Tomorrow, the second day of Advent,
I promise to return to the story I began to tell tonight. The story of Nita and other lovely persons who feel like dying. Right now, I just
want to acknowledge two people who got this ugly little adventure called Ironic Advent Meditations started in the first place. One
was Father Richard Miller, who used to be my pastor. The other was my good
friend Jennifer Woodruff Tait, who was there in the same service with me when
Father Rich preached the first Ironic Advent Sermon I ever remember hearing. He
didn’t call it that. It’s just when you write a series every year called “Ironic
Advent,” you start seeing things through that grid, right? Sort of like why
people in Boulder, Colorado just figure everyone else must be getting high.
So Father Rich is preaching
and all of a sudden he goes off into what we might call “the high country.” We look
at each other like . . . “did he just say that?” We all knew about his
addiction to Karl Barth, but this was even beyond that. So Jennifer and I both
wrote about it after the service. She posted a Facebook post. And I did too, later, after
stealing as many ideas of hers as I could. I have tried to pay her back (not
sure it’s working) by posting her original every year. I’m not sure I can
find mine, but if I can, I’ll post it too. Because, as you will come to know
and love, Ironic Advent Meditations are almost never pithy. Oh, it’s not that I
can’t be pithy. And I’m darn sure that Jennifer can be pithy. In fact, she once said “Shut
up, Joe!” which was both pithy and the other word in this near pun thing that I'm working on here. But sometimes you’ve just got to realize that pith can only get you so far. OK, I’m sorry. Over it. I apologize. How is that? Pithy enough for you?
So, before I get back to Father Rich and Jennifer and the sermon that started it all, please know that I'd like you to share these if you want to. I don’t say you like them. But you’re
allowed. That’s all I’m saying. If you do, though, please don’t say something like:
“this is really long, but it has a good sentence in the 14th
paragraph.” Just let people discover it’s really long. I write them for people
who will read long things. If you don't read things, you should. Especially when they are this thoughtful. I can do haiku if I wanted to. I even have another
blog with my Lenten haiku. Find it, I dare you.
I am trying to make this difficult. Because it is. As
I suggested at the beginning, people try to kill themselves or at least want to
die. Even during what Macy’s calls “the holiday season.” That’s not simple.
That’s not uncomplicated. Everything we say has to be resisted as well as said
(you can tell your friends about that line because I admire it myself).
So Father Rich preached. And,
as I remember, it was a really short sermon. Pithy. Well done, Father Rich.
Totally messing with my blissful verbosity. Anyway, or anyways as Jennifer Lynne Ricke says,
it was, as I say, summed up admirably by Jennifer Woodruff Tait in her poem
and, shortly thereafter, “liked” by Jennifer Strange (confused?). This was the beginning. And
believe you me (I love that strange syntax), this is the place you want to be
getting your Advent nourishment throughout "the holiday season." It will be all roots and spring water, with
maybe some salty tears and raw intestines thrown in for good measure.
So, here we go. Hold on Brandon,
you pup.
Anything Useful:
a guest meditation by
Jennifer Woodruff Tait (2012)
a guest meditation by
Jennifer Woodruff Tait (2012)
AKA: The Original Ironic Advent Meditation
*Joe Martyn Ricke and M Richard Miller, this poem is all your fault.
If you came to church for anything useful today,
forget it.
Anything practical:
three points to help you in the Monday workplace,
two tips for witnessing to your coworkers,
five guides to a good marriage.
If you came to church for the hats,
coffee,
cookies,
friends,
family,
cheese,
pew cushions,
happy songs,
warm feelings,
or even a blessing,
forget it.
This is the first Sunday of Advent.
Lo, He comes with clouds descending, once for ransomed sinners slain.
The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ.
three points to help you in the Monday workplace,
two tips for witnessing to your coworkers,
five guides to a good marriage.
If you came to church for the hats,
coffee,
cookies,
friends,
family,
cheese,
pew cushions,
happy songs,
warm feelings,
or even a blessing,
forget it.
This is the first Sunday of Advent.
Lo, He comes with clouds descending, once for ransomed sinners slain.
The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ.
And here is what I wrote a little later (thus,
the “official” original Ironic Advent Meditation)
Ironic Advent Meditation (2012)
All signs are negative (well, all but one). A child shall be named Grace. And she will understand why. And she will be an artist and cry tears that make the angels fall off their comfy cloudy perches.
But if this doesn't blow your mind and squeeze your lungs, you can light every candle you got and it won't be enough. You want some sweet words to get you through? Sorry, it's the first week of Advent, forget about it. This is going to get way stranger than that. Clearly, the Lord desireth to shocketh His people. I cometh to thee wild, weird, and riding on a donkey (well inside a person riding on a donkey). I mean, if any of this means anything, it's got to be bigger than . . . the Kardashians. Your redemption draweth nigh. That is actually scary if you think about it, which you probably don't want to do. I think I'd rather go back to Ordinary Time.
Thanks Grace Ballantine Gorman for the picture.
Thanks M Richard Miller for the Advent sermon.
Thanks Jennifer Woodruff Tait for the earlier draft (ha ha)
Thanks squirrels, birds, and pilgrims.
Dear Readers of 2016. They won’t all be this long. It’s like Pascal said . . . (oops, I cut the rest).
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