Archive for December, 2009

Dear friends in Holy Covenant,

Here we are, on the brink of another year. Some of us are getting ready to host parties, or planning our outfits for dancing through the night. Some of us will spend quiet New Year’s eves at home, around game boards, watching movies, or over pots of Hoppin’ John. Whatever your celebration style, it’s hard to avoid taking stock at this time of year, hard not to think back about where you were this time last year, or this time a decade ago. It can be exciting, frightening, promising, and overwhelming to consider where you’ll be next year. But you are not in this alone.

Just past the longest night of the winter, our days are already getting brighter. As we come back together from travels and holiday commitments, let’s move into the new year together. Let’s dream and plan about who we’ll be this time next year. What visions and hopes do you have? What new faces will have joined us? Who might you, in fact, invite to Holy Covenant this year to share what’s going on here? The light of a new day is breaking over the horizon; let’s bask in it together.

As this new year dawns, hear the words of the prophet Isaiah as God’s promise to you, here in this time and place, as part of this community:

Arise! Shine! For your light has come
And the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth
and thick darkness the peoples;
but the Lord will arise upon you
and his glory will appear over you.
Nations shall come to your light
and kings to the brightness of your dawn.

God’s blessings on you as you consider where you’ve been and where you’re going. God’s blessings on you as you travel to gather again around the Communion table. We’ll see you soon.

Peace,
Rebecca Anderson
Minister of Small Groups

by Suzanne Ecklund

My grandparents were rich and I told my playmates as much. (My parents would have frowned upon my childhood stint as a braggart so I shared this information as a secret.) The two-hour journey over the river and through the woods—literally—was always filled with wide-eyed anticipation.

“Are we there yet?”

When we saw Clark’s gas station on the right, we knew we were home free. A right turn here, followed by a 10-minute slither down the winding, wooded road and then finally, finally, grandmother’s house.

Her home was huge. Too many bedrooms to count and how many bathrooms? And food—always food. And cookies!

Out the back yard past the hunting dogs (and maybe Snookie, the cat) were the banks of the Allegheny River. The river was a year-round playground that never tired of us nor we of it.

Down in this river valley were grandparents and aunts and uncles. (both the great kind and the plain kind) And when children showed up, they were celebrated: showered with gifts and whisked off on wonderful adventures and every visit was fun.

When I returned to my grandparents’ house as an adult, I realized that their house, though lovely, was modest. And the bedrooms were few enough to count.

And no one was rich.

But my grandmother had a knack for turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. She would transform a K-Mart sticker book into a gilded scroll and make a blueberry slushee run (back out to Clark’s) a red carpet event. She made you feel as though every day that she had with you was her very best day.

I said “good-bye” to my grandmother this year.

Hers is a legacy of abundance.

I have been on my own spiritual journey regarding abundance: trying to replace monetary gifts with gifts of the self. My grandmother managed to make every day burst at the seams with the gift of her heart.

And it is in this spirit that I am abstaining from consumption this year—and have asked those in my life do the same.

But I am celebrating!

I am making homemade cards featuring this photo of my grandmother as a young girl—along with the story of her abundant legacy.

I’m sorry that I lied to my playmates. But mine was an innocent enough mistake: gifts of the heart can leave one feeling rich.

I pray that the simple gifts of the season fill your pockets with gold.

May your Christmas be true.

Dear Holy Covenant Family,

“The angel said to the shepherds, ‘Do not be afraid; for see-I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: 11to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah,* the Lord. 12This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’ 13And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host,* praising God and saying,
14′Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace among those whom God favors!’”
Luke 2:10-14

What glorious good news we receive today! Christmas blessings to all of you, near and far. For those in Chicago, I look forward to our first Christmas Eve together, services of candlelight and communion at 7 and 11. For those traveling, may the joy and peace of this season fill your hearts, and may Christ find a home in you this day.

Receive this prayer:

Holy God, whose power comes to us in vulnerability, in a crying baby,
Today, through the birth of Jesus, you are Emmanuel, God-with-us, a human being.
Divine and human, whose birth turns the world upside down.
Turning violence to peace,
hatred to forgiveness, revenge to grace, hierarchy to equality,
death to life.
Like shepherds, we follow your light and give thanks that you come to us in our common lives.
Like wise men, we humble ourselves and give generously.
Like the innkeeper, we are forgiven for our thoughtlessness.
To you we bring our joys and celebrations
Our sorrows and doubts and questions
Our grief and pain and loneliness
Knowing that as a human, you feel with us and for us.
Like Angels, may we sing your praises,
Shine your light, turn the world upside down, and proclaim your peace on earth.
Alleluia and Amen.

Grace and Peace,
Kate

by Wyatt Sheeder

When I think of Christmas I think of all the regular things: pageants, decorating, parties, too many sweets, and the music. The last part is my favorite. Ever since my 3rd grade teacher Ms. Hegstrom strummed her guitar and sang “Silver Bells” every day in December before class, I was hooked! I’m a sponge when it comes to songs and have collected many favorites over the years. When we decorated the tree with my mom, she would always play Mannheim Steamroller music. I wax nostalgic when I remember this but can’t quite get myself to listen to it now (sorry Mom!).

When I first moved to Chicago and was entering the third month of my job as a hospice music therapist, a friend gave me Bette Midler’s Christmas album. God bless her for finally giving in to all her Gentile fans. Mazel tov, Bette, mazel. “I’ll be Home For Christmas” came on and I had to pull the car to the side of the interstate as the tears obstructed my vision. This came out of nowhere, as I’m not really a crier. Looking back, it was probably the carryover from a lot of changes: moving from Iowa to Chicago, my first few patients dying, the cold weather and short days. But I don’t think my tears were sad ones. They were emotional, yes, but more than that they were honest. Good, honest tears. I had a good cry right there on the side of I-94 and I thought of my mom, my family, my friends, and of my home.

I thought of my little Guthrie Center, Iowa where my father and grandmother and almost my entire extended family live. I could envision Main Street and I could imagine myself driving into town late just before Christmas. I closed my eyes and could picture the snow falling, the same decorations on the light poles, and the bank sign scrolling a greeting, the time, temperature, and grain prices. And I realized that home didn’t mean the same thing anymore. “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.” The home in my dreams was different. It included people who had died and places that had changed. It included a magic and wonder that I seemed to have lost.

I wiped my eyes and carefully pulled back onto the interstate. I finished seeing my patients for the day. On my way home, I bought the ingredients to make cookies and I listened to more Christmas songs. I opened the door to my vintage 3rd floor walk-up apartment in Portage Park. I looked around at my new home and thought to myself that it wouldn’t always be like this, just me. And then I closed my eyes and relaxed, knowing that home was where I felt loved and comfortable and known.

Whatever comes to mind for you this time of year, know that you are loved by the Church and its people. You are treasured and known ,and wherever you call home; Lincoln Park, Bucktown, Lakeview, Uptown or your version of Guthrie Center, Holy Covenant is always there for you. It is a place that honors your yesterday, strengthens you today, and propels you toward tomorrow. Blessings and thanks to my Holy Covenant family. You have enriched my life in so many ways.

by Katie Cook

On my mom’s side of the family, we started a new Christmas tradition four years ago. It stemmed from of a couple of issues we were having with the gift-giving season. First, Christmas was just getting too expensive. Second, we were physically farther apart, making it more difficult to keep up with each others’ lives. The presents were becoming less meaningful, and more of a financial burden. There’s no joy in giving a gift out of necessity, only to wonder if the cousin or uncle even liked it.

Being the problem solver that I am, I came up with a new system. We would do the Secret Santa name-draw thing, only there was a theme – keepsakes and memories. And, there was no spending minimum or maximum. The first year was hard– everyone struggled with what the theme meant, and nobody knew what to expect in the way of gifts. The “secret” part was hard to keep, because we were all so stumped on what to give. But the gifts, or memories rather, were truly a blessing.

That first year, my cousin Bucky gave me a Joy of Cooking cookbook that had been my late grandmother’s; and to add to the memory, he spelled my name wrong when writing on the inside cover (he happens to have another cousin named Katy with a “y”). He scribbled a correction, and I love it all the more.

Last year, my Uncle Dave gave my Aunt Tina a floor tile, made into a trivet, from the house they grew up in – one he’d been holding onto for years. My grandfather had picked up the Mexican tiles on one of his road trips south of the border in the 60’s. Other gifts included a quilt that had been on my grandmother’s guest bed for years, photo gifts, a harmonica, an old Navy chest that was my grandfathers at one time, Christmas ornaments and more.

I’m always so excited to see whose name I’ll draw, because it really brings back wonderful memories of me and that person… the time my uncles Lee and Dave had a “beard-off” with me as the sole judge to see whose beard was softer, playing a game of “hide the pillow’”with my brother Bill and cousin Holly, pushing Dixie & Bucky on the tire swing, persuading my parents to let me drive the mini van home, sprinkling bird seed with my grandpa, wrapping gifts in Sunday’s colorful comic strips with my grandma, fishing with my father off the pier, or just catching up with my Aunt Tina.

To me, this is what Christmas is about. Jesus was the gift that keeps on giving and I hope my family’s little tradition, in some small way, can follow suit.

by Linda Effinger Quinde

“While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.” (Luke 2:6-7)

It’s Christmas Eve, circa 1970’s. Our family piles into the station wagon, carols playing on the radio, and we make our way to the midnight church service. My dad takes the long way, winding through the neighborhoods. And as we drive, it finally happens: The real meaning of Christmas catches up with me and fills my heart. This happened every year when I was a child, and it still happens now, when I’m following the same Christmas Eve ritual with my own husband and daughter. For me, the event that finally breaks through all the Christmas commercialism and clutter is our annual drive through the luminarias.

Luminarias are simple brown paper bags partially filled with sand, with a lit candle nestled into the sand inside each bag. The candlelight glows softly through the bag. The people of my hometown and the surrounding communities have been lining their yards, sidewalks and driveways with luminarias on Christmas Eve for decades. I’m not sure how the tradition started in the Chicago suburbs, but luminarias have been used as Christmas decorations in the American Southwest for centuries. They signify lighting the way for Joseph and Mary as they make their way to Bethlehem and search for lodging on the night of Jesus’ birth.

It’s lovely to drive down the deserted streets of Hinsdale and Clarendon Hills late on Christmas Eve and see thousands of paper lanterns lighting the way for the Christ Child. Driving through the luminarias is a family tradition, and as we quietly absorb the peaceful sight from the warmth of our car, I think of someone from every home going to the trouble of assembling, placing and lighting the luminarias on this bitter cold Chicago night. No doubt some simply think of them as holiday decorations, but I envision others, including my father, lighting them with a prayer: “Christ, our door is open. Come abide with us.” After church, we drive straight home. The hour is late and it’s time for bed. We turn into our street and there they are – dozens more luminarias flickering in the dark, lining my parents’ driveway and leading the way to our front door. My bedroom is directly above the main entrance. After turning out the light, I reach over and raise the window shade. As my eyes grow heavy, the last thing I see is the comforting sight of the luminarias welcoming the Christ Child to our home. I fall asleep secure in the knowledge of His presence on that holy night.

O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by;
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
O holy Child of Bethlehem!
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Immanuel.

- “O Little Town Of Bethlehem,” Phillip Brooks, 1868

How Sweet It Is
Holy Covenant UMC, December 20, 2009
4th Sunday of Advent
Rev. Kate Floyd

Luke 3:1-18

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

“Be sweet!”

In the south, this is a command told over and over again by parents to their children. Southern girls, especially, are instructed to “be sweet”.

I come from a long line of southern women, on both sides of my family, women who have passed down sweetness from generation to generation.

Here’s the scenario, played over and over again:
A mother watches her daughter board the school bus for the first time: “be sweet!” She yells after her.
A grandmother sees her granddaughter playing with a puppy…”sugarpie, be sweet now!”
A father sends his 10 year old daughter to spend the night at a friend’s house. His last words to her: “honey, be sweet!”

Boys, too, are taught to be southern gentleman…told from an early age to open doors for friends and strangers; to always say please and thank you, to address their elders with ma’am and sir.

Sweetness is in the very soil of southern sensibilities.

Well, here we are, almost to Christmas, and we are in the season of sweetness, not just in the south, but all around us. There are actual sweet treats everywhere: cookies, cakes, candy canes, hot cocoa, peppermint hot cocoa, peppermint hot cocoa laced with whip cream and white chocolate… (more…)

by Cindy Kuzma

My favorite part of Christmas has got to be the singing. There’s no other time of year when there are so many songs we all know by heart filling the airwaves and the city streets and the TV ads. And when we gather at the church Advent party and sing the hymns together—well, it’s nothing short of breathtaking.

The time-worn melodies give us the chance to do what the choir does every week, but that the rest of us only occasionally bravely attempt: to harmonize. It’s a beautiful thing to find a part that isn’t in the spotlight, but that brings breadth and depth to the tune. My low voice finds new strength when I can pick the alto line out of a lofty aria like “Angels We Have Heard on High.” And when I can close my eyes and sing along, without even needing to consult the hymnal, the music reaches through my body and comes not from my mouth but from my soul.

It’s a lesson worth remembering the year round, I think. God calls us each to fill our own role, sing our own part, and the beauty of a place like Holy Covenant is its openness to every pitch and timbre. We don’t have to belt out the descant in the Christmas cantata to have a voice worth hearing—and in fact, if we aim for the bass notes but miss the mark, it doesn’t diminish the resonance. It’s our collective voices that bring meaning to the song, the season, and to life. May our community continue to sing the notes of our souls as loud as we can this Advent and on into the New Year.

by Andrew Collins

There were a bunch of Scripture “starter” selections for this Advent blog, and so I threw on the geezer glasses, hunkered down at the desk, opened the Bible, and intensely researched for…about 60 seconds. Ya see, I got to where I needed to be in pretty short order. The first Scripture I turned to was Matthew 1. Verse 23 says “and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means ‘God is with us’.” And that to me sums up our focus this year. While the passage is about Jesus, certainly God is with us always, in our hearts and in our souls. And with that certainty comes our responsibility to do God’s work hear on earth to love all people and change the world.

Since our Advent season theme is “Sing A New Song,” I quote an only slightly old one I composed as part of an Advent series several years ago.

We are waiting once again
On a wing and a prayer;
That we’ll look into the night
And the light will be there.
Yes the story has been told
‘Bout a million times before,
But it never gets too old;
We keep listening for more….
And hope is alive-hope is alive in me.
We anticipate the treasure
That the dawn will surely bring.
We are sleeping one eye open;
We don’t want to miss a thing.
From the prophet to the Baptist,
To the people all around;
Everybody’s started singing,
And it’s such a glorious sound.
And hope is alive-hope is alive in me.

May it be so. Peace.

by Mary Colleran

Whenever my brother Jim and I want to laugh hysterically, we play a cassette tape that we recorded when I was six and he was thirteen. Jim was interviewing me and asked in his squeaky pre-teen way, what I liked. I immediately and assertively answered with my New Jersey accent, “I like Christmas! And birthdays too! And I loooooooooove JEZIZ!”

When I was about eight years old, I had a dream that I’ll never forget. I was standing in the kitchen, on the phone with my mother, arguing about something mundane. After hanging up the phone, I sat at the kitchen table, frustrated and sad. My pity party was quickly interrupted by a rapping on the screen door. I went to the door and there was Jesus, with his scraggly brown beard and well-worn Birkenstocks, looking as dejected as I was.

“Hey, Mary. I’m so frustrated. I came back from the dead, and went to every house in your neighborhood, but no one believes that it’s really me.”

“Wow, that’s so annoying,” I said, “Ya wanna come in?”

So Jesus and I sat down and he immediately asked, “What’s wrong? You seem upset.” I filled him in on my third grade worries and he was refreshingly empathetic.

“Glad you came over, Jesus! Do you want some ice cream?”

“Sure!” he replied. I took a gallon of Breyer’s Rocky Road out of the freezer, removed the lid, and saw that there was only one tiny scoopful left.

I turned to Jesus and said, “Oh darn, there’s barely any left.”

Jesus said, “Yes there is.”

I looked down and there, before my very eyes, was a full gallon of ice cream. “How did that happen?” I joyfully yelled.

Jesus smirked at me and said, “I’m Jesus.”

Now, at age 36, I don’t have any Holy ice cream dreams and when I’m asked what I like, pumpkin spice lattes and Irish accents may beat out Jesus.

Advent is the time when I tend to reflect back on the year and think about how I changed, what I did, was I useful, what exactly transpired in the past 365 days.  This past year was a rough one for many people.  I spent a large part of it underemployed and looking for work, which–no matter how you slice it–is not all that fun.  But it did force me to simplify my life and make decisions about what I really want to do with my time, money, and energy.

At some point in the spring, a friend told me about Holy Covenant.  I was raised Catholic and had been church-shopping for years, and hadn’t found a place that felt like home.  It never even occurred to me to expand my shopping to another denomination!  Well, during this holiday season, I am so happy to report that I’m done shopping.  I’m not shopping for Christmas gifts because I plan to make gifts.  And I’m done shopping for a church because I found one that feels like home.

To me, Advent is hope.  And acceptance.  And giving what matters.  And healing. Where there is someone who is sick, there is a person from the Care Committee showing up with homemade soup.  Where there is someone who is cold, there is someone giving him his coat.  Where there is a community without clean water, there is a community contributing money so they can build a well.  Where there is someone fresh outta Breyer’s Rocky Road ice cream, there is someone mysteriously filling it right back up.