Lent: Revealed

About 30 years ago, I woke my roommate up talking i my sleep.

I'd been reading the "The Brothers Karamazov," and was trying to figure out which of the two main suspects it was who had killed old Karamazov, and why. I'd been knee-deep in the novel for two weeks, and it was driving me nuts.

The reveal is one of the great things about mysteries. Who can watch "The Unicorn and the Wasp' and not want to know who tried to kill Donna, poison the Doctor and murder Lady Eddison's son? For that matter, who can read any Agatha Christie novel and not wait for the moment when the killer is unmasked and brought to justice? We all love it when the truth comes out.

Lent is meant to be a period of reveals. Certainly its focus on fasts is meant to bring us to a place where we are open to experiencing the transcendent through incremental revelations and gains in understanding. But any time of contemplation also leads us to understand ourselves better.

There's a story told in these parts about a man who hid himself so well that no one knew who he was, not even he himself. But he grew in understanding and in time his commitment to the truth revealed not only who he was, but everyone else as well.

The truth, once revealed, set people free.

What truth is revealed about and within you?

Lent: Celebrate

Here's a neat little observation about celebrations: They always require other people

Fourth of July cookouts. Bat mitzvahs. Graduation parties. Thanksgiving dinner. Wedding receptions. They all involve food, but more importantly they include the presence of loved ones.

You don't even need a reason. Just gather some friends and some family around, and enjoy one another's company. You'll celebrate in no time.

Lent: Fruit

Fruit is an odd photo prompt for mid-March. We still have six weeks to go until last frost in this state. We're just getting started planting cold weather crops like lettuce and peas. Fruit won't grow on the trees until July.

These little fellows came here from Mexico. My daughter likes to snack on them, and I was able to get them at the store on Tuesday before the leagues started canceling games and everyone started to realize how ill-prepared we were for a pandemic.

The rush on stores the past several days are fruit too, born of the seeds we planted months and years ago, to elect someone unqualified for office, to wait idly by when news of the virus first surfaced in China, not to store items sooner, not to store our own surplus produce from last summer's garden, not to garden at all.

Every moment of our lives, we sow the seeds of the future. Every moment we harvest the fruit of the seeds we sowed in the past, or that others sowed before us.

Sometimes the seed fails, and other times it's a bumper crop we'll be eating for years to come.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Work

Lots to do this coming week, There's paperwork to catch up on for my internship, assignments coming due for class, and projects that while not due yet, are now visible on the horizon.

Then there's the never-ending procession of work and projects that happen when you live in New Jersey have a family, and own a house. It never stops.

And then there are the other thing we do, to give life meaning and purpose.

Work is a good thing. It was one of the first gifts given in Paradise.

Work while it is still light; night is coming when no one can work.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Seeks

There’s a saying attributed to Jesus in the gospels that goes like this: Seek and you shall find; knock, and the door will be opened; ask, and the gift shall be given.”

It all begins with our determination to seek. An old woman tears apart her house looking for the money she’d planned to live off in her old age. A jeweler looks for the deal of a lifetime. A heartsick father goes searching highways and ditches for his headstrong absent child.

The tricky thing about seeking is that what we think we're looking for and what we find aren't always the same thing. We tell everyone we want to climb the mountain; we may even describe with fascination the road to the peak and the wonders that wait at the top. But all the while, our feet tell a different story; the path we choose day to day takes us to the beach instead of even to the foothills.

Why the discrepancy? It's a question many of us face halfway to the finish line. Maybe we really do want to stand above the snowline and plant our flag there, in which case we need to make major changes and reset our daily priorities in order to realize our dreams. Maybe we once desired the blazing glory of the mountaintop but have a discovered a softer glory in obscurity. Or maybe we still want it, but have lost our way and are fighting a contrary current to push our way back and seek what was lost before it's too late and opportunity is gone forever.

What is it you seek? And are you seeking it in such a way that it will be found?


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Spring

Down by the foot of our driveway is a maple tree growing on a small strip of grass between the sidewalk and the road on an easement the city owns that runs through our front yard.

The tree is about fifteen high, with a canopy that spreads over our flower bed, our driveway and the neighbor's, and a piece segment of the road big enough to park a car under, during the summer. Part of this spread is because, about 6 feet from the ground, the tree trunk forks into three co-dominant stems, and each segment grows about 120 degrees from each of its sisters.

Or they used to. About nine years ago, Hurricane Irene came through the area, canceling flights, flooding low-lying areas and generally being a hurricane. A week after the storm had passed, the old girl dropped one of her three stems, kerplunk, right onto the road.

The city (eventually) came and carted the fallen branch away, and in the nine years since, the tree has continued to grow new leaves every spring, stretch its arms out a little wider and stand a little taller ... as the wound where the missing stem grew becomes a little worse, and more and more of the lesser branches on the surviving stems wither and die under the strain.

We always think of spring as a time of new beginnings and renewal, but that's a hollow promise to some. It must be awful when you don't know you're already dead.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Valley of Dry Bones

 If you had ten minutes to talk with any one person in the Bible, whom would you talk to?

Would you talk theology with Paul? Ask Jesus to explain why it has to hurt so much? Maybe you'd ask Joshua what it was like to see the walls of Jericho fall, or Moses how he felt to see Pharaoh's army drown and know that Israel was really and finally free.

Go ahead and ask David to talk about courage, or ask Daniel about lions. I want to hear what they tell you. As for me, I want to talk to one of those nameless multitudes in Ezekiel's valley.

"What was it like?" I want to ask. "How did you end up in the valley? Did someone lead you there, or was it just an accident? Were all those other people with you, or did you think you were going there by yourself?"

And what was it like in the valley? It seems like such a desolate place by the time Ezekiel found it, but what did it look like when you arrived? Did you stay because it seemed beautiful, or was it so barren that you just gave up?

It must have been a dreadful experience being dead in a place like that. All around you are neighbors with stories like your own, but it's impossible to share them because birds have eaten the tongue you once used to tell them, and you've lost the ears that would have understood anything that was spoken.

So you just lay there in the valley, as the the sun slowly rises in the east, inches his way across the sky, and then goes to sleep at night. Years pass that way until all your flesh has blown away; your bones are bleached and white, picked clean by worms; and you lie there forgotten even to yourself, no name, no story, not even a clear claim to which bones are yours and which belong to your neighbor.

Until one day that man appeared in the valley, and impossible things happened. The valley shook, the rattling of bones echoed from the hills, and the legions of the dead remembered who they were. Shins to femurs. Femurs to hips. Vertebra to vertebra. All across the ground, dust swirled, organs grew, sinews knitted themselves once more to frames, skin stretched itself over bodies, and the bodies stood and to a one, they all remembered how to breathe.

Tell me about that moment. Everything else I want to know pales in comparison.

Lent: Drink

A walk in the woods never seems too bad when you're starting early enough. With the birds providing accompaniment to the rising sun and the air still heavy with dew, it's easy to feel the worst part isn't the thought of a few more stolen moments under the covers, but that annoying fellow nearby who keeps singing "Here Comes the Sun" and cheerfully mangling the words.

And you set out, the mist still hanging over the trail and snaking through the ferns, your spirits are high. Who can blame you for singing every Eagles song you can think of, from "Lyin' Eyes" and "Take It Easy" on down through "Take it to the Limit."

But after a while, silence sounds nice too. So you give your throat a rest, and you keep walking. You're still feeling fine, and the hike is easy; but it's a quiet time now. A more thoughtful time.

By noon your feet are feeling tired, your legs are a little sore, and though it's not time to stop, efforts to buoy the spirit with a few Beatles songs failed. For the life of you, you don't remember the second verse to "Yellow Submarine," can't think of how "Nowhere Man" starts and every time you start on one of the classic early Beatles songs, you start wondering what it means when Paul McCartney said he was the walrus.

When it turns two o'clock, you're sweating so profusely that your shirt sticks to you like a second skin. It's the heat of the day. You keep wiping the sweat from your eyes with you arm, but it doesn't make a difference. It just keeps coming in rivulets that leave you irritated and grouch at everyone you think of.

By three in the afternoon your head hurts, your throat is too sore to sing even if you wanted, and your entire body feels jostled about, You're walking,but it's on automatic. You're no longer sweating; you're just hot, and your skin feels too tight. Your eye is starting to twitch.

And then at four, someone hands you a glass of water. It is the most wonderful thing you have ever had,

You open your mouth and pour the water in. Half of it falls on your dried and dirty shirt, but you don't care. It tastes like standing outside in rainfall, and every drop that you drink explodes inside you like sunlight. The second glass is even better than the first, and the third is like the second. Your mind sharpens, your limbs surge with vitality, and at once you want to laugh, and dance and sing.

To the thirsty, a drink of water is like health to the dying. It's a new chapter in a favorite book, a gift of laughter to the lonely.

Drink your fill.

#rethinkchurch

Lent: Journey

Was it the years, or the mileage?

It was a question the pilgrim had asked himself more times than he could count. There was the night he had fled his city, driven half-mad with a desire to leave, spurred on by the words of the stranger who had come to town: “Flee the wrath that is to come.”

He had walked through one pair of shoes after another, until finally the soles of his feet themselves were as thick as any shoe’s he had owned, so perhaps it was the miles. The road had led him ever onward, over hill and dale, through strange terrain, through strange lands, until his legs which had ached with the distance no longer ached even at the thought of what was to come. 

On the other hand, maybe it was the years for the journey had aged the pilgrim more than he had expected it would. There were the expected challenges like the sand pit, but he’d also faced horrors that had crawled out of his worst nightmares when he’d passed through the Valley of Shadows. He’d arrived at waystations as the sun had set, and slept; but when he woke in the morning the hostels were gone and in their place he was left with visions that left him with a lingering foreboding. 

And of course there had been the long and thirsty night deep in the forest with the enchantress by the well. She’d offered him a drink, if only he’d sign his name in her guest book first. 

It had been a long journey, and it still wasn’t at an end. More years awaited the pilgrim on the road, and so did the miles. His final destination, always on his mind, still seemed as distant as it did the day he’d begun. 

He knew he’d make it there, eventually, the same way he’d started. 

One step, and one day, at a time. 

#rethinkchurch.

Lent: Celebrate

Lent often is associated with foregoing pleasures and some manner of fast -- no meat on Fridays, if you're Catholic; and none on Wednesdays either, if you're a traditional Catholic -- but Sunday is always a day for celebration.

Our lives are rounded out with celebrations, and we mark those celebrations with the food that we eat.

We enter the world to celebration. We drink our mothers' milk while our families feed on meals provided by supportive friends.

Each year we celebrate our lives with cake and choice foods.

We round out our holidays and holy days with the foods that have been selected by our elders. Bitter herbs, corn on the cob and roast turkey.

And when the time comes for us to leave, our loved ones gather around to celebrate our lives with one last feast in our honor.

The life we are given is good, and we celebrate it together with good food, in good abundance. The Hebrew Bible is filled with feasts of Trumpets, tabernacles, first grains and more. The Kingdom of God is a celebration with food, music and dancing, not a joyless and spartan affair.

Fill your plate and raise your glass. Celebrate!


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Saved

There’s a great scene in Terry Pratchett’s “Mort” where Death, on a fishing holiday, pulls another fisherman from the river before he can drown. The man is grateful, but confused by Death’s parting words. “What did he mean by ‘Save you for later?’”

Savings aren’t just about rescuing in the here and now. They’re also about savoring hereafter. We save money and forego immediate gratification now to pay for expensive things later: a gift, a vacation, an overdue visit to a friend.

The rescue matters now: the fisherman does not drown, the money doesn’t go to waste, the opportunity is not squandered. But when there’s saving involved, you can bet there’s a longtime benefit, deep satisfaction and real enjoyment on the way.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Testify

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty once famously told Alice, "it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less."

My daughter has taken this to heart. She insists it's not a problem, and usually it's not. People will figure out that you mean "sweatshirt" even though you keep calling it a "sweater," but if you start referring to trucks as cars, computers as elephants and left as right, you're going to sow a lot of semantic anarchy.

We testify about what we know and to what we have seen, but our testimony as only reliable as our words. Even if we're not shameless liars who let the moment's impulse trump the truth on a regular basis, the words we use can affect our testimony. Clumsy word choice, an unusual or unexpected point of view, lubricational slang, or an unfamiliar language -- they can all affect how our message is received and whether our testimony is understood.

Another thing about testimony. Whatever we offer, and how we offer it, stands as a testament about us. What does our testimony say, when we testify to what we know?


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Teacher

The best, most memorable teachers I’ve had generally didn’t impart knowledge.

Sometimes they’ve shared an insight or an observation, but mostly what they do is state the blindingly obvious in such a way that we’re drawn up short and realize “I never thought of it that way.” When they're really good, they don't even do that. They just ask a question, and we do the rest of the work for them.

What teachers teach is not information, nor even a new perspective, but a way of finding both. As that lesson slowly sinks in, we grow aware of how we think, and how how we think limits our thinking.

In the end the best teachers grow silent and let us learn on our own and from our fellow students and journeymen.

May your life by a lifetime of learning and a lifetime of teaching. And in the end, aren’t they the same?


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Spirit

The wind comes like the breath of a lion, and leaves with the sigh of a lamb. We hear it approach, and we feel it come upon us; but we can mark neither its coming nor its going.

Buds swell in the spring and soon burst into flowers and leaves, and then branches hang heavy with fruit. In the morning breath fills the lungs of us all, beast and human alike. When night comes breath departs and the flesh grows still, yet no one knows where the breath has gone.

Flesh is born of flesh and returns to dust, but spirit is born of spirit and with spirit evermore remains.

Will these bones rise and dance, and will the dust echo once more with the music of singing? The spirit blows where it will, and we must answer.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Enter

Sometimes it seems like doors should come with an advisory label,

Doors mark the transition between one place and another. Cross the threshold and everything changes. You may go from a confident teen in her own space to a daughter trying to navigate a web of complicate relationships with parents and siblings; or from a confident educator to a nervous adult all alone with 20 hostile children. On this side of the door you're one thing; on the other side, you may be something entirely different.

And yet it's precisely the change waiting on the other side that makes a door so alluring. So many stories begin with the decision to go through a door. Richard Mayhew goes through a door and finds himself in an unfamiliar London with black friars, velvets, a floating market and a Down Street that leads to the Angel Islington. The Pevensie children enter a wardrobe and find themselves in a land where it's been winter for a hundred years. Bilbo walks out his front door and finds himself on a road that leads to the Lonely Mountain, self-discovery, and a ring, the least of all rings, merely a trifle that Sauron fancies.

Doors are an invitation to explore in ways that mere hallways and open spaces are not, and Opportunity waits on the other side to help us grow, to transform us, and to make us beautiful.

The door was shut, but now as you stand there, it opens and a loud Voice calls out "Enter!"

The adventure of a lifetime awaits. The choice is yours.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Signs

Hundreds of years ago, ravens developed a reputation as birds of ill omen. The birds, which feast on carrion, had discovered that when armies of humans moved with horses and siege engines, they would lead the birds to a massive picnic.

The peasants on the ground would look up at the sky darkening with blackbirds and shudder as they felt death gather its cloak around the countryside. Like the ravens, they had learned to recognize the signs and knew what they meant.

Signs are shy on details but good as general indicators for what's to come. When the clouds grow heavy, we know it's going to rain; when people stop going out to eat, we know the economy is going to shrink; and when the first tender shoots of flowers burst through the mulch we know spring is near.

Red in the morning is a shepherd's warning. A cold wind from the northeast brings heavy rain. God keeps the particulars to himself, but he has painted signs of his purpose on heaven and earth and on the canvas of the human heart.

Open your eyes and open your ears. What signs do you see, and what are they telling you?


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent — Celebrate

Got a flat on the way to church today. Disappointing. It’s the sort of thing to put a Pollyanna gloss on and pretend it’s a blessing in disguise and cause to celebrate. But it’s not. It’s just annoying.

AAA sent a tow truck driver who was there in 30 minutes and knew a place that was open and could fix me up. Convenient, nice. Not a celebration.

Sundays are days of celebration, even amid the Lenten fast. God wants to eat well, to drink well, to party and to celebrate like the match that flares to life and drives back the darkness. We live! We love! God draws near! Celebrate.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Serve

It's the poor one's idea of wealth to spoil himself with luxury and to fill his life with gaudy baubles; the truly wealthy spend their wealth to change the world around them for the better.

The weak envision strength as the opportunity to belittle, bully and humiliate their opponents. Those who have strength are confident in it and see no need to waste it on detractors, and use their strength instead to lift up those who can never repay them.

Those without talent boast endlessly about their accomplishments, and those with neither vision nor capacity to lead surround themselves with craven admirers who croak their praises all day long like a chorus of toads.

The most successful ventures are made possible by people whose contributions we never see. The news commentator whose show bears his name would never make it to air if someone didn't empty his wastebasket each week. The billionaire would have no corporation if it weren't for the hourly workers he's left struggling to make ends meet. The state dinner and G7 conference would have foundered without people working in the kitchen, chopping carrots, grinding pepper and plucking chickens.

Who are greatest and the most important? Don't look in the halls of status and power. Learn to look instead in the lowest of places, for the battered wife holding it together for her children, for the custodian mopping the floor everyone walks on without a second thought, for the nameless waitress who brings you pancakes and coffee in the morning.

Look for those who serve and escape notice entirely, and be dazzled by how close they are to heaven.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Command

The Lent photo prompt for today is "command." We think of that as a verb, like God commands us to do something, or maybe as the command itself; i.e., "I am a jealous God. Do not put sausage links in your nose." But command is also a position or status. Jesus is in command.

In the book of Revelation, St. John of Patmos records a vision of the Lamb on a throne next to the throne of God, surrounded by four living creatures and a host of angels. There's been a lot of silliness written and spoken about this passage, but it's pretty straightforward: Jesus is on the throne at the center of the heavenly court. He is worthy to open the scroll and declare the will of God. Those four famous horsemen ride out when he wants them to.

Today popular preachers see that as Jesus enacting judgment on wicked people in the final days of the earth, but the ancients understood it differently. They saw that changes come, sometimes dramatic changes, but they're changes that come ultimately to advance God's purposes. The wicked may flourish and rule the nations for a while, but in the end it was God who placed them there and it is God who will remove them.

Things are unsettling, and it's okay to be concerned by them.

It's okay to feel the weight of what's going on, and to wonder what kind of future we're leaving to our children.

It's okay to be preoccupied by political corruption and by the cruel spite that guides our president, to be troubled by the news and the rumors that swirl around.

It's okay and it's normal to feel trepidation over a situation that seems to be getting worse and more uncertain all the time.

It's even okay to feel abandoned by people who said they were going to be there for you but then who weren't.

Don't feel bad when these things upset you. That's only normal.

But we walk through darkness and troubled waters holding the hand of a God who knows the way of old. The path is seldom easy and it isn't even always safe, but by faith we know the shore it's going to.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Wilderness

There used to be a forest here. Oak and hickory grew side by side as they brushed the tips of their fingers against the underbelly of heaven, while wolves and foxes hunted their prey through the shadows of the understory. Meanwhile the river nearby hid colonies of bivalves, played host to flocks of waterfowl and schools of fish navigated its waters.

The place was alive.

That's all gone now. The river is so polluted that we have signs warning against eating the fish. There are still birds, but they no longer darken the sky for hours at a time as they fly overhead. As for raccoons, they nest in the storm sewers instead of the hollows of trees.

We call ourselves the Garden State, but our chief crop is asphalt.

In the ancient world, cities were places of strength and security. They marked the evolution of the human mind, and provided the laboratory where we rubbed shoulders with one another and together grew our languages, politics, religion and philosophy. Wilderness was that desolate expanse between here and there, where jackals and demons lived. You went there at your own risk, because no one would be there to rescue you if the monsters came.

The city still holds a lot of the allure it did in years past, but I can't help but wonder as we pass through the city, alone in our own manufactured bubbles that keep us from one another, our private cars, our earbuds that say "Leave me alone" and our smart phones that keep us from seeing each other. I wonder if we haven't replaced one wilderness with another far lonelier than any the ancients knew.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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The Ash Wednesday holocaust

It started that June with a spark.

The spark found a dry place to take shelter and it grew, and grew. And grew. Before long it was a raging fire, consuming deadwood, undergrowth and everything else combustible that it could find. No one worried at first. Fires are a part of the life cycle of forests, and the National Park Service had a policy of letting them burn themselves out.

But as the fire grew, people started questioning that wisdom. Homes and lives were threatened, and before long the fire had created its own weather system, sucking in air to keep itself going, and triggering lightning strikes that caused still more fires.

That summer more than 25,000 firefighters from across the United States traveled to Yellowstone to contain the fire. By the time the fire drifted quietly to sleep, lulled by the soft winter snows of November of 1988, more than 1.2 million acres in the greater Yellowstone National Park area were in ashes.

As the winter passed, fears grew that the park -- the oldest in the nation -- had been destroyed. It wasn't just a horrible forest fire. It had been a holocaust.

Ashes are the gray ruins of beauty. Stream flowers in your hair and you look as lovely as a dryad in the spring. Streak ashes on your face and you're just filthy. Grass rolls when the wind blows, and trees sway; but ashes just spread, covering everything in a fine layer of bitter.

Ashes mark the end of things. They're the funeral, the dissolution of life's chemistry, the final debasement. Oh, look, it's a pile of ashes! Was this a cedar tree, a house, or Aunt Sally? Can't tell. Move on, move on.

Except a phoenix, when its end comes, will burst into flames, crumble into ashes, and then emerge as its own chick.

Tragic ending. Beautiful beginning.

So it was at Yellowstone. As spring came in 1989 it brought with it an explosion of new life. Ground that hadn't felt sunlight in decades brought forth a new arrangement of plants, fueling an explosion of insects and the birds that ate them. Rivers teemed with fish. Wildflowers and wild grasses burst from soil laden with new depths of carbon, so that herds of grazing animals swelled in number and grew fat.

There is a lesson here.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the day we come together and recall the things that we have endured, together and as individuals.

The consuming fire was intense. It was more than we were ready for, and we thought it would destroy us. When we stood in the ashes left in its wake, we thought it had, and we wept.

Have faith. The ashes are only the beginning. In time we will find ourselves transformed and made into something more beautiful than we can remember ever being in the past.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Advent: Awake

Awake is such an interesting word. What are you like when you're awake?

I have one daughter who insists she's awake when I first come into her room to get her up for school. Her eyes are shut, she's unresponsive to prodding, and ignores my entreaties to get up for school. If I come back in ten minutes, she won't have moved, but she'll swear she was awake all along.

Another daughter will audibly protest at being disturbed, but she's been known to go have lengthy conversations and even to go downstairs, eyes wide open;; only to have no recollection of the experience two hours later when you pry her from bed a second (or third, or fourth) time.

The third daughter springs out of bed alert, jumps into her clothes and is ready to face the door before you can say jack sassafras, but even she has been known to smack the alarm clock into next week and then complain that it never went off.

What does it mean to be awake, anyway?

I think a lot of us imagine ourselves as fully awake and alert, like the Buddha on the day he was born. According to Buddhist Scriptures, Siddharta Gautama came out of his mother's womb, looked around and presciently announced that this would be his final trip around the karmic wheel.

Being awake is a learned process, begun with the incoherent grunts that suggest we actually might be human, and running up the spectrum to the point that we actually know where and who we are, if nothing else. Usually we stop there, and become awake to our desires and needs.

Wake further. Learn to hear the lonely cry of the child seeking approval from her parents; the torment of those who struggle through life without friends to laugh, love and live with; and the pain of those whom the world was chewed on for too long and too well.

Wake still more, and discover that you have the tools within you to be the one who sets prisoners free, teaches the lame to dance, and even breathes new life to the dead.

Be awake.

Advent: When waiting is agony

Today’s the first day of Advent, the season when Christians traditionally mark with anticipation the birth of Jesus.

To the extent that we think of it, we usually think that Advent carries less importance than Christmas. It's an easily skipped prelude to the main event of the Incarnation, when the eternal, unchanging and unknowable Tao changed and became mortal for the first time and was an unremarkable baby few people outside his own family even noticed.

That’s so wrong. Oh God, we desperately miss the point when we do that.

Advent is a heavy season, darker even than Lent and that brutal Saturday when Jesus lay decomposing in the Tomb. Advent is heavy, oppressively so. It hunches our shoulders, bows our necks and furrows our foreheads with grief, with anger and despair.

Advent raises the accusing finger of human history, of every war, of every holocaust and genocide, every year of children’s lives stolen in slavery, every refugee denied safe harbor, every hour the wicked sit enthroned and defended by the powerful, and it points that finger in the face of the Almighty, and it demands justice.

“Don’t you give a shit?” it asks, and heaven’s only response is “Be patient.”

And the years grind slowly on, and God stays silent, and his people are patient, and they grow old and die; and another generation replaces them and it too is patient, and grows old and dies; and so does another generation, and another and then another.

“Come into the darkness,” the generations cry together. “Come into the darkness and make a difference.”

This month join the cloud of all the others throughout the ages who waited for something they knew was missing, even if they couldn’t express it. Learn the longing they felt, and decide with them if it was worth the wait.

Welcome to Advent.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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When the spirit of revival came

It was the summer of 1995, and the revival spirit had come to Easton. The days were a blaze of August heat that scorched the grass and trees and burned white skin to the color of bronze. Water flowed easily for those who worked and played outside, and every breeze was seized and set upon with a desperation that defied belief.

But if the body ached and burned during the day, at night the spirit yearned for new living. As the sun set, the faithful and their children would shower and change into clean pressed shirts and they'd out for the revival.

The revival! It came every year at this time, reliable as the start of school, as the idle on an '82 Chevy, as the ripening of the summer squash. From the third Sunday of August through the fourth, the revival preacher would arrive with a new word from the Lord and an unpredictable, uncontainable move of the Holy Spirit.

He would begin preaching in the early evening, once the music had stopped and the offering was given, exhorting the people of God to break anew from the ways of sin and return to their first love. Sweat would streak his forehead and soak his shirt under his arms, and as he called out the people would respond with one voice, holy and loud and determined.

There were no tongues of fire in those days, though you wouldn't know it by the people who were there. Women would swoon. Men would faint. Amid the clamor and the shouting of the revival preacher, the children would speak in tongues no one could understand and they would prophesy until peals of holy laughter would roll around those gathered and the church was filled with glory and the sighing of angels' wings.

And now the revival preacher, would grow quiet and earnest. "Are you ready to commit yourself, brother? Sinner, are you ready to come home?" The music returned, soft and pleading until one by one, in the summer's heat, the wandering children found Jesus and the lost came home.

Testimonies came from the revival meetings like bulletins from the front. Little Warren Jameson had come to the Lord on Sunday night. Old Betsy Worthington had received a miracle on Tuesday, when her left leg had been healed and she had danced in the aisle like a young girl again, and let us pray for Old Betsy, as it is now three days later and Satan's attack has left her unable to stand or even get out of bed for three days now.

The Holy Spirit was moving, the messengers said. Come prepared for a tremendous work of God on Sunday night!

And Ystur Redneb listened to it all, and nodded his head, and he asked what the work was that God was doing. Were the elders going to open a soup kitchen in the city? Would there be a partnership going forward with Mt. Zion Holy Tabernacle Baptist Church? Was God raising an army from the church to enter the missions field? People are coming home excited, but what are they excited for, or will this all be another memory in just two more weeks?

To everyone he spoke, he asked the same question. "If this is real, please tell me. Give me a reason to go." And the pastor shook his head to see such lack of faith, and the elders shook their heads at his lack of faith, and the righteous shook their heads at his lack of faith.

And Ystur never did go, and he never knew whether it was all excitement without form or substance

... or if God truly spoke and he simply missed it.

Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Suggestions to improve the men's retreat

It's time for the annual men's retreat once again, and my wife already has noted my negative attitude. (What can I say? I am nothing if not consistent.)

I would like to make a few modest proposals to improve these retreats, broaden their appeal, and deepen their value to attendees. Follow some of these, and I'm more likely to show up, as are other people who have avoided men's retreats for the past 20 years.

First, no speakers. Get someone to lead a group discussion instead. Truth does not follow a hierarchy; it spreads through relationships and we discover it together. Paul didn't lecture his audiences, he reasoned with them. 

Second, anyone who talks about the manly atmosphere or who says how great it is to be surrounded by men is a toxic, misogynistic asshole. Kick him out, even if he's the leader. Especially if he's the leader. 

Open the retreat to people of all genders, sexualities and identities who want to come. Please note that this includes gays, lesbians, bisexuals, the transgender and women. We won't learn and grow in grace until and unless we spend time with people different from us.

If you expect me to listen to you yammer on about the Mets, the Eagles and the NBA, you'd better be prepared to hear me explain why the Tenth Doctor is the best, why I'd rather serve under Kirk than Picard, and why I hate what DC Comics has done with the Watchmen characters.

Seriously. Not every guy likes sports. This cannot be the default conversation. Show some consideration for the rest of the room.

In fact, make way for me to talk about gardening, someone else to discuss his sewing hobby, and so on. You want us there? Then welcome us.

Just once, I'd like to have an actual Bible study. You know, where we study the Bible together and talk about it, rather than what the speaker said or what some author wrote. An actual Bible study, where we wrestle with how complicated Scripture really is.

Poetry slam. Give a chance for artistic types to go artistic, and give everyone else a chance to explore in a friendly, welcoming format. Share a poem, read a story you're working on, perform an original song or scene from a play. The arts speak in a way church rarely does.

What, that's too awkward to read a poem or share a song? Remember that time I didn't really want to play soccer with you guys but did anyway, in the name of "community?" Trust me, I'll be more gracious and encouraging than you were. 

Absolutely no "accountability time." If I want to talk about my personal stuff, I will. I'm not "wounded" or "afraid of vulnerability," I just don't share deeply personal feelings with people unless I have a deeply personal connection. 

Topics. Please don't pick "relevant" retreat topics; pick stuff we're actually dealing with, like "Help! My parents voted for Trump" or "Liberation: What the gospel really looks like when you're not a straight white male." Also, remember what I said about group discussions.

Downtime. I like you, but I don't want to spend every minute of the retreat in group meetings and discussions. Having time to read a book, work on some writing by myself or just chat with a couple close friends will do more to recharge me than everything else planned. 

Promote this event honestly. "It's the best hundred bucks you'll spend this year," "The food is excellent" and "It's an amazing time with God" are empty words. Tell me what's being planned, so I can make an honest and informed decision.

Saying that it's a men's retreat already has invited my derision. Focus on this with comments about how manly it is, and I'll never show up. I don't care about your testosterone.

Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Understanding the wounded heart of God

I wonder sometimes about God's attachment pattern.

He claims he wants a close, loving relationship with us, and frequently describes an ideal where all know and are fully known, where our dignity and identity are affirmed, and when we pull away, he pursues.

Think of the Garden, when he comes looking for Adam and Eve after they break fellowship with him; or the Parable of the Prodigal Son, where the father goes out looking for the son who wandered away, and then for the self-righteous son who won't celebrate his brother's homecoming. These are all examples of a healthy attachment style. He wants to be close, but recognizes our moral agency. He asks respectful questions to understand our choices, but doesn't press the issue beyond what is comfortable,

In practice, he's extremely dysfunctional. You can talk to him for hours, asking the same question over and over, and never get an answer. He says he wants a close relationship, but then have you seen how he treats people who care about him? And on those rare occasions when he does speak to someone, off they go to get psychoactive medication so they don't have to go through that again.

I have a friend with a fearful avoidant attachment style, but at least I understand that because I know my friend's story.

Sometimes I just want to hold God close, let him cry it out, and ask "Who hurt you?" but if I did that, he'd probably just tell me to go to hell.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Building bridges with my Muslim neighbors

Sunday evening found me at the local Islamic center cynically debating the merits of interfaith meetings and events such as the one I was attending, my third iftar in as many years. (The iftar is the sunset breaking of the fast during Ramadan, when faithful Muslims do not eat during daylight hours, to celebrate the revelation of the Quran.)

I've been to enough of these that I have the whole routine memorized. First the director of the Islamic center will say a few words to introduce the hafiz, who will proceed to chant a passage of the Quran. After he finishes, a rabbi from the area will speak, followed by a local representative of the Christian clergy. A few local political figures will speak, followed again by the director of the Islamic center. Everyone will say how nice it is that we're all here together; and everyone will stress our commonality and the value of community.

At sunset, there will be a signal, and everyone will take a date or a candy from the middle of the table and break the fast. (Children often sneak candies before sunset while the adults pretend not to notice.) After this there's a call to prayer and everyone moves into another room for the prayer service. The men pray up front and the women pray in back, everyone face down and turned toward Mecca.

With the prayers done, everyone returns to the dining area and eats the meal, which is delicious as always. Polite conversation ensues between guests and hosts. What's your name? Where do you live? (This year we sat with a gentleman who grew up in Bridgewater, attended Rutgers University, and now lives in Somerset. I'm pretty sure I sat with him the first year we came too.)

The whole evening is congenial and pleasant, but when it's over, we've built no bridges, and closed no gaps. Our communities are still separate from one another, our knowledge of our respective faiths is no deeper than it was before, and that great interfaith moment still hasn't arrived.

Meanwhile the hatred and Islamophobia that has permeated our nation for at least the past 11 years is as strong as ever. This interfaith event, which we attended to light a candle against the darkness, seems weak and pallid. What can it possibly do to thwart a Christian nationalist with a gun?

Never mind the nightmare scenarios, what about the smaller hatreds? For all our pretty words, I'm certain that if the preacher's son at my church attended one of these events and began a spiritual odyssey that led him to convert to Islam, there would be a strong negative reaction from some quarters of our church. A few people would affirm his right to self-determination if not his actual decision, but others would feel hurt, angry and betrayed. Some might even call for removing the pastor as unfit for the job.

I know very little about the internal culture of the local mosque, but I wouldn't be surprised if something similar happened should a family member of the hafiz convert to Christianity.

As we all attest at these interfaith events, Islam, Judaism and Christianity do have a lot in common. All three are Abrahamic religions, for starters, tracing a common spiritual heritage to a nomadic Hebrew who lived 3,500 years ago and worshiped one god. Our sacred books tell many of the same stories, about Noah and the Flood, God calling Abraham to sacrifice his son, Solomon and his wisdom, and more.

But for all that we have in common, there remain impressive gaps that keep us separate. Even when our different sets of Scriptures align with one another, our understanding of what they mean often will disagree. All three religions place a premium on peace, but the 1500 to 2000 years of history that we share are marred by bigotry, conflict and even outright war. And, amazingly, we can't even agree what monotheism looks like.

When the evening comes to an end, my hosts at the Islamic center and I are still strangers to one another, belonging to two separate communities that live side by side and rarely interact.

We need to stop waving the Mission Accomplished banners at these events. They're just the start.

I do have hope that we can forge a deeper interfaith connection. The director of the Islamic center laments that his children don't know the Beatles. I've heard Muslim congregants lament when speakers take too long that the food is getting cold, and I've watched as teens in hijab text their friends on the phone during the recitation of the Quran.

With minor variants, these are all things that happen in churches all over America. They seem minor and inconsequential, but they all speak to our common humanity. For all the differences in our religious beliefs, we're all weighted down by the same concerns, faced with the same distractions, and led ever onward and ever upward by the same insatiable longing for purpose and meaning.

It's a mystery how it works, but with effort we can find common cause in our common questions. Even if the answers each of us finds don't satisfy us all equally, still we can learn to appreciate the value others do see in them. Like everything of value, it won't come in just one evening. It will take work, and it will take time – a whole lifetime, to be exact – of respect, listening and open conversation.

As my family left the iftar Sunday night, the director of the Islamic center intercepted us at the door and invited us to come back for Family Night. It involves a talk or sermon, followed by group discussion. He stressed the other parts as well, such as the food and childcare. I joked later to my wife "We've been tagged as potential converts." (I'm sure that's not the main intent. He's probably just noticed we come whenever we're invited.)

So I find as I leave the iftar that I am given the answer to the quandary I mulled when I entered. Want to gain understanding and build bridges with the local Muslim community? Want to dispel stereotypes and poke a finger in the eye of those who peddle hate?

Family night is the fourth Friday of the month. Discussion and dinner start at 7:30 p.m., and child care is provided. This year the talks are based on "Treatise for the Seekers of Guidance," by Imam al-Muhasibi. I have no idea what that means.

I guess I'll find out on Friday.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Be

This rock is part of a memorial near where I have my social work internship.

The memorial obviously is important to the borough, in how it honors a group of veterans The face of the rock anchors the plaque that explains the memorial's purpose.That's important, but it's not what the rock does that gives it its value, it's what the rock is.

The rock is large. It's solid. It's heavy. It's smooth. The rock is common, and not easily moved. Replace any of these intrinsic qualities of the rock -- replace it with a different rock-- and its value is gone. A larger rock would overwhelm the memorial, while a smaller rock would let the memorial be overshadowed by the very grass. A different sort of rock could be too fragile, too uneven to hold a plaque, too costly or too easy a target for vandals.

The rock doesn't have to do anything to make this memorial. It just is what it is, and that's all it needs to be.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Name

Ever wonder what your name says about you? If you think about it, you'll find that it says quite a lot. My name, for instance, is David Learn. Let's break it down.

My first name is David. That name ultimately comes from the Hebrew Scriptures, and some people automatically assume that I was named for the biblical king of Judah To them this name suggests something about my religious devotion, or the religious devotion of my parents, since David was a man after God's own heart.

Alas, it is not so. I was named for my Uncle David. David Dahlman was a salesman who married my Aunt Frances, and even became an Episcopal to do so. (He was, as you might have guessed from his last name, born Jewish.) My mother liked her brother-in-law and saw qualities in him that she admired, and gave him his name when I was born.

My name is David, but my closer friends and intimates generally call me Dave, the name I prefer and usually introduce myself with. It's friendly. It's informal. It's relaxed and unassuming. "David" is the name I use professionally, in my byline or when I have to sign things; so it's usually how I'm known in formal contexts. (A theater director once asked if I prefer Dave, or David. I responded: "Well, my friends all call me Dave, so I guess you'd better call me Robert.")

Some people use their middle names to carry a piece of their identity, like ethnicity or a family name with meaning. My brother's middle name is Hayward, for instance; the maiden name of one of our great-grandmothers. My middle is name is Andrew. Its chief function in my childhood was to serve as an early warning system. I only heard it in the context of my full name, and when my mother called "David Andrew Learn," I knew I was in trouble.

My last name is Learn. What it reveals is less obvious than you might think. When a surname is also a common English word, it often reveals something about an ancestor: where he lived,,what he did, or who his father was, for instance.

"Learn" is not actually an English name. Originally it was Loehrner, a name that reflects Prussian roots and a Germanic heritage. That it was shortened and given a common spelling reflects how long my family has been in America. (The earliest Learns on record fought in the Pennsylvania militia during the War for Independence.)

I first saw the value of a good name when I was 26 and trying without much success to buy auto parts with a check. Bob Plante happened to be working at the store, and rang me through because he knew me from church and trusted my name. His co-workers let him do it not because of any respect they had for my name but because of the respect they had for his.

My name as a whole has different meanings, depending on who says it. Some people hear the name and they think "hard worker." Others think "royal jerk." I'd like to think a few hear my name and think it means integrity, creativity, or decency and compassion. My name says many things about me, not all of which are pleasant to hear but most of which have some truth to them,

And what does your name reveal about you?


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Favor

Right now I'm killing time between dropping my daughter off for dress rehearsal for her end-of-term circus show and the show itself. While she practices her stilt-walking I'm taking a couple hours to get some work done and to eat.

Dinner tonight is a barbecue chicken sandwich on flatbread. Over the years since I first became aware of this place, I've found that this is the sandwich they have that I like most. I sometimes get something else to shake things up, but for the most part when I come in, I know what I want, I tell the cashier, and five minutes later I'm in gustatory paradise. It's good to have a favorite.

Granted, it's not such a great deal for the sandwich, but what can you do about it?

I read a story once that God asked all the peoples of earth to be his chosen people, and only the Jewish people were wiling to take the risk. Everyone recognized what a golden opportunity they were being offered to be God's favored, but they also recognized the burden that such a status would carry, with its obligations to keep Torah and to be a light to draw all nations to God.

Being favored with honor, wealth or status carries with it the obligation of using those things for the good of others. In the 1995 release "Braveheart," while Mel Gibson's William Wallace has been fighting a long battle for Scottish independence against King Edward Longshanks, the Scottish nobles have been bickering over status, titles and lands.

"There's a difference between us," Wallace tells them. "You think the people of this country exist to provide you with position. I think your position exists to provide those people with freedom."

Every gift,ever honor or privilege, every favor we enjoy, whether we were born into it, were awarded with it, or earned it with our own hard work, is never ours to enjoy exclusively. It comes with the responsibility to use it advance the welfare of others, particularly the lowest and least regarded.

It's a good thing to receive favor. And a tremendous burden.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Ponder

"Ponder" sounds so weighty.

 If "think" means that you're dropping stones plink-plink-plink into the pond, and "meditate" means that you're floating belly-up somewhere out near the middle, then "ponder" is that big rock you drop kerplunk into deepest part of the lake, and watch as it sinks down to bottom.Tie a rope to that rock, and it'll anchor your canoe to the spot for a summer afternoon, if not for the entire season. It's not the length of time that matters to those who ponder, it's the depth of thought.

Pondering is a solitary process, best done in places that might be considered lonely, if we stopped to notice.

What is good? I have one thing, but want something else that I have no right to. How do I live like this?

If service means more when it is given than when someone compels it, then which is greater in the eyes of heaven: a rich man with many servants, or the servants who make soup in the kitchen?

Who am I? What is God?

And how is that the key to answering all these questions is "Who are you?"


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: With

I like "with." Grammatically, it's a conjunction that shows the relationship between its object and the word it modifies. As words go, it's all about partnerships and doing things together. "I went to the store with Joey." Or "With Heather's help, I made sure we put frogs in the boots of everyone in first grade."

Some things just belong together, after all. Peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Spidey and MJ, bacon and eggs, Sylvester and Tweety. They're a two-for-one package deal that can't be broken up without inviting calamity:

It makes it odd that we so often romanticize being alone.

And that's what Lent is about, isn't it? Kids whose families observe Lent frequently are admonished to pick something to give up for the six weeks of Lent, as teens and adults we tell ourselves that somehow not eating cheeseburgers will help our personal spiritual walk, and giving up Fortnite is just the penance God requires of us.

There's something to be said for entering the desert by yourself. Away from the press of the daily grind, you lose the distractions and start to notice what's essential. Separated from the inane and repetitious chatter that fills our lives, we start to hear One Voice clearly and we realize that there is another with us.

But what I love about the story of Jesus' time in the wilderness was that the mystic journey wasn't enough. In order to be in harmony with that voice he needed to be with others.

I like to think that in the Judean desert, Jesus came to the same profound understanding that rocked John Steinbeck's preacher Jim Casy in "The Grapes of Wrath." Casy went out into the wilderness to find his own soul, only to discover he didn't have one. He just had one piece of a great big soul, and the only way to care for that piece was to care for the pieces held by others.

In the end, we all need to be with one another. It's a package deal and to break it up would only invite calamity.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Fruit

I planted raspberry cane in a sunny corner of my back yard several years ago. New shoots have grown and old ones have died, but every year the cane grows a crop of berries. Not now, and not next month, but only during raspberry season.

Every year I've had to remove some stalks. They look healthy enough right now, in the early spring, but by the time summer comes, these stalks have turned brown, and produce no fruit. And if you're not going to produce fruit, what good are you anyway? I cut them off at the base and toss them into the compost pile, where they decay in short order and end up boosting the garden some other way. (I mean, come on, raspberry cane. You had one job.)


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Planted

Shortly after we bought our house in 1999, we planted a maple sapling in the hole that had been left in the front yard by the post of the Realtor's sign.

The tree was planted with two things in mind. One, we were planting it to celebrate the impending birth of our daughter. Second, like all things that we plant, it was an expression of hope for the future, that we one day would enjoy benefits from that act of faith.

That first summer was touch-and-go,and the tree didn't seem to grow any taller. The summer was hot and dry, and at the end of every day, the leaves of the sapling would droop and the tree as a whole looked wilted as a result. Every morning and every evening I would dutifully water the tree, the leaves would pick up and it would survive another day.

The second summer wasn't so bad. It was still hot, but not as dry; and while it no longer wilted, it grew a few new leaves but seemed no taller at the end  of the season than it had been at the start.

Something happened between years three and four. This tiny maple grew taller and stronger. The trunk shot up so quickly that you could hear it, and a crown of branches spread out that began to shield the rest of the front yard.It turns out that for the first two years the maple was putting down roots where it was planted to anchor itself and boost its own chances of survival.

We're coming up on 20 years since we planted that tree, and it's amazing the difference it has made. Its branches are so thick and so leafy that they shade the front of the house from the heat of the day during the summer. Every fall it blankets the front yard in a thick layer of color that our youngest rustles through on the way to school in the morning. Birds have built nests in its branches, squirrels have raced up and down its trunk, and on the ground below shade-tolerant plants have begun to establish themselves.

It's like that all over the yard where we've planted flower beds and gardens. Painted ladies and monarchs have had their fill at the butterfly garden, and bees of all sorts celebrate the arrival of spring as the crocuses life their faces to the sun. Whether I planted these things myself or if as is often the case they planted themselves is irrelevant. The plants are flourishing where they are planted, and they make the yard a wonderful place to sit in the evening, or to walk through during the day.

What about you? Where are you planted,and how is it better for your presence?


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Lent: Frame

We have a lot of picture frames in my house. We need them, for all the photos and art we have on display.

My kids have prints of classic art like "The Vetruvian Man" and "The Virgin on the Rocks" in their bedrooms, and on the fridge we've had originals like "Sleeping Beauty Descending a Staircase" and "The Big Bad Spotted Wolf." Around the living room are a zebra painted with coffee, a palm tree drawn in inks and this sunflower painted in oils, among many others.

Frames almost seem like an afterthought to the work, but they have a lot of potential to shape how people perceive the work that they're presenting. The wrong framing material can clash with the picture, tell a different story and provide so many distractions that anyone would be left wondering what the point was. But with the right framing, you can emphasize or draw out important details of the artwork, improve the story it tells, and make its beauty accessible in ways you never imagined. It just takes a little extra work.

For him with ears to hear.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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