December 25, 2012
Tuesday
Christmas Day

. . . any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.
— John Donne, 1572-1631
    English cleric and poet
    from Meditation XVII

It happens most years. There will be a moment, usually late in the Advent season, but sometimes earlier, when I will know, with some conviction, that I have gotten it. The reason for the season, the journey toward hope, the renewal, an “internal difference, where the meanings are,” as Emily Dickinson put it — whatever it is, I will know that I have found it, apprehended it, seen it, if only for a moment.

In many ways this has been a typical holiday season. I made plans that I didn’t follow through on, and some that I did. I saw that I would not be able to achieve some goals, and either changed my expectations, or let them go altogether. I ate, I drank, I made merry, and during the confession portion of each Sunday service I attended, I contemplated the things I have done, and the things I have left undone.

Tree of Life Lutheran Church, the congregation I am a member of, is led by the Reverend Richard Geib and the Reverend Catharine Senft Geib, a married couple. I came into association with this church when Lynn was 7. I took her to Vacation Bible School there in the summer of 1992, and discovered that many of her VBS classmates were also friends from her public school. This event coincided with my coming to understand that the Eucharist is the heart of my spirituality. Lutherans include communion at most services. With some sadness, we left the United Church of Christ congregation that had nurtured my spiritual awakening, but where the Eucharist is observed only a dozen times a year. Lynn was confirmed at Tree of Life, and Pastor Cathy will officiate at her wedding in June.

On December 23, the Fourth Sunday in Advent, it was Richard’s turn to preach. The text was Luke 1:39-45, about the journey of Mary, the pregnant mother of Jesus, to visit her cousin Elizabeth, the pregnant mother of the individual who will become John the Baptist. I was listening, really I was, but I cannot now tell you how Richard got from the Magnificat to the part that has stuck with me. What I remember is that he began to talk about Friday, December 21, one week since the tragic events in Newtown, Connecticut. A national observance had taken shape, a plan to ring church bells at the moment that the shootings at the school began, in memory of those lost.

Richard told us that he went out to conduct a funeral that morning. Cathy went to the church. For Richard and Cathy, Friday is their day off, the church office is closed, and there are rarely activities scheduled for that day. The sanctuary was empty, and she sat for a while in the silence, preparing herself. Then she went to the sacristy, and rang the bell, 28 times, once for each person lost that awful day in Newtown, Connecticut.

Most of the graphical tributes I’d seen on my Facebook news feed made reference only to 26 lost. Some people set up and photographed displays of 26 candles. TV personality Ann Curry began promoting #26Acts, an effort to inspire people to perform one act of kindness for each person lost. But Adam Lanza, the gunman, apparently killed his mother at their home before going to the elementary school, where he killed 20 children, 6 teachers, and then himself. Every time I saw one of the tributes, every time I heard someone talk about the 26 Acts of Kindness, I would think, 28, there were 28 lost that day in that single horrible event. I would learn that although most institutions stuck with that #26, some rang their bells 27 times, to account for the gunman’s mother. And some, in an act of courage, an act of forgiveness, and an act of love, tolled 28 times, though there be anger and blame toward one or both of those who were not members of the school community. My spiritual leader confirmed for me that the more generous approach was his as well.

I was up and at my place for C&C (Coffee and Contemplation) before dawn this morning. Not a creature was stirring, except Igor the Cockatiel, chirping to be let out of his cage, and the chipmunk that lives under a cabinet in the garage, scurrying out as I raised the garage door to get the newspaper. As the light came up, I saw the four bluebirds that have continued to come to the feeder, that sit on the rail or in the branches, fat and silent, harbingers of peace and good will.

I don’t have 28 candles. I drew 28 flames around my prayer mandala for this week. I wrote 28 names within it. I hope I won’t stop at 28 Acts, as I step into the new year.