"Life's Wintry Days"

"Tis winter now; the fallen snow

Has left the heavens all coldly clear;

Through leafless boughs the sharp winds blow,

And all the earth lies dead and drear."

Although I offer this first stanza from the hymn by Samuel Longfellow in anticipation of official winter, this "dead and drear" season has descended upon the part of Central New York where I live already. It is also a beautiful time of year as Longfellow continued.

"And yet God's love is not withdrawn;
[God's] life within the keen air breathes;
[God's] beauty paints the crimson dawn,
And warmer glows her light within."

Geoffrey Black in his article in the December/January edition of the New York Conference wrap around edition of UCNews urged developing a certain balance as we approach the season of Advent, especially in the light of the excesses of this time of year. He wrote,

"With a balanced approach to this season of the year we are more inclined to face the harsh realities of this world: the wars that rage, the injustices inflicted on so many because of race, gender of sexual orientation, that poverty and inequity of opportunity that oppresses people here and throughout the world, the suffering of people uprooted from their homes and homelands, the evil face of genocide the degradation of the natural environment -- God's Creation."

Indeed! I've been thinking (or rather, I've been brought to think) about the balance of life recently. In his novel, The Cunning Man, Canadian author Robertson Davies tells the story of a doctor concerned with the uncertain death of a saintly old Episcopal priest in Toronto.

I say "uncertain" because the priest died while consuming the host during the Eucharist on a Sunday morning in front of his gathered flock. While everyone thought it a natural death, Dr. Jonathan Hullah wondered otherwise.

This is a mystery novel, but with a twist. You forget (almost) that there is a mystery afoot. Father Hobbs dies at the beginning. Yet most of the book (until about page 370) tells the story of the life of Dr. Hullah and his friends and associates. It's an interesting character study as well as an insightful look into the philosophy of the healing arts (medical and spiritual).

Dr. Hullah specializes in the diagnosis of dis-eases (and patients) that most other doctors have given up on. Dr. Hullah is "the Cunning Man" ( or the "wizard" of folk traditions) because of his holistic approach to both diagnosis and treatment.

As a reminder of this approach he commissioned a painting of the symbol of the medial profession (the two serpents intertwined around a pole) and hung it in his waiting room. The serpents symbolize knowledge and wisdom. That they are intertwined points to the need for doctors to balance the two.

Balancing knowledge and wisdom is always a tricky business. We want to get to the truth of the matter. We look for experts. We demand the facts. We want to know how things work. But, does knowing the way things work also tell us the whole truth about the way things are? Is it possible that what the heart sees is at least equally trustworthy to what the mind knows? Is it any less important to promote humanity for humanity's sake than to hold humanity to certain ideals and standards that, after all, certain humans have imposed upon others?

Dr. Hullah recalled his appointment with a man who complained of a constant and medically inexplicable indigestion. "I did not tell him that I was certain he was married to the cause of his indigestion."

I think we Christians all too often forget that it's okay to be a humanist, and to look for the human cause underlying health as well as dis-ease. After all, God is the greatest of all humanists! (Isn't that what "God so loved the world..." means?) It's often much more meaninful when we speak to the heart (and soul) of those in need (all of us), then to preach the loveliest of sermons.

Craig Cowing, pastor of our church in Blooming Grove (Hudson Mohawk Association), wrote of his pastoral experiences as a volunteer in an addiction treatment center in his area. He regularly visits the residents to have conversation and to play the Tibetan Singing Bowls.

He writes, "Addiction, the staff tell me, is a spiritual disease. It is a constant searching for fulfillment from something that can’t provide it. Each fix is only temporary. This constant use of substances or behavior patterns is called "self-medication'—making up for the lack of self-esteem by engaging in addictive behavior."

Craig concluded his remarks, "I can see from their responses that this is a deeply restorative experience for them. They experience the healing sounds of singing bowls in a safe, secure environment. They learn that it is possible to feel very good without using their substance of choice. For me, this is a good community outreach for the church, but it is a good experience professionally, as I learn about the nature of addiction, and as I learn more about giving to those who can only give their thanks as a reward."

"And though abroad the sharp winds blow,
And skies are chill, and frosts are keen,
Home closer draws her circle now,
And warmer glows her light within."

"The Cunning Man," Dr. Hullah, had one more reminder of the balance that he, as a medical professional needed to take. Over the painting of the serpents, he had printed on the wall the Greek word that we translate as "Fate". That is, he reminded himself that all human healing is temporary. We are all governed by fate. He wasn't questioning our freedom of will. He merely acknowledged that our fate is universal and the same. We all must die.

But even acknowledging our fate points to developing a proper balance. Acknowledging the reality of our fate begs the question of how we will live. In Christian terms the balance (and eternal, even) antidote to fate is faith. We trust God that there is more to life than what we can see or measure. We trust God that in coming to us in human form, we have been given the proof that living life faithfully, hopefully and lovingly is the best way to live to the fullest.

The so-called "Venerable" Bede wrote a history of the Christianization of England in the 7th century BCE. In 627 a Christian named Paulinus preached the Gospel to King Edwin and his council. During the ensuing debate about whether or not to accept this new faith, one of the king's advisors spoke up,

"Your Majesty, when we compare the present life...on earth with that time of which we have no knowledge, it seems to me like the swift flight of a single sparrow through the banqueting-hall where you are sitting at dinner on a winter's day with your thanes and counsellors. In the midst there is a comforting fire to warm the hall; outside, the storms of winter rain or snow are raging. This sparrow flies swiftly in through one door of the hall, and out through another. While he is inside, he is safe from the winter storms' but after a few moments of comfort, he vanishes from sight into the wintry world from which he came. Even so, [we appear] on earth for a little while; but of what went before this life or of what follows, we know nothing. Therefore, if this new teaching has brought any more certain knowledge, it seems only right that we should follow it."

Indeed! The light that comes to us from God through the coming of the Christ tips the balance from fate to faith, from death to life. It seems only right that we should follow.

"O God! who givest the winter's cold,
As well as summer's joyous rays,
Us warmly in thy love enfold,
And keep us through life's wintry days."

Blessings,

Rick Cowles