Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel. (Isaiah 7:14)

We read about the dislocated people in the Nativity story. Mary was startled by the angel’s announcement of the Messiah’s coming into the world through her. Joseph was told a similar story in a dream, and both of them set off into strange, dangerous, history-making circumstances. The Wise Men followed a star across deserts and mountains to the Messiah’s manger-crib. Sheepherders in the fields—minding their own business!—received the news from a heavenly host. All these people were given signs; and all of them were given companions as they wondered and wandered.

This seems to be how God works: strangely, for sure, yet always compassionately aware of our need for human accompaniment, especially when experiencing divine revelation.

Although [Wisdom] is but one, she can do all things, and while remaining in herself, she renews all things; in every generation she passes into holy souls and makes them friends of God….—Wisdom 7:27

“I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.” —John 15:15

Dear Friends,

Jesus called us “friends.” The message of the Book of Wisdom is that even before Jesus walked the earth, divine Logos/Wisdom worked in people’s souls to make them “friends of God.”  As friends of God we become siblings in Christ, a community connected by the Holy Spirit.

I write to you now with immense thanksgiving. Knowing you in this New College Berkeley community of Christian faith and study has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. My husband Steve and I moved to Berkeley just as David Gill, Earl Palmer, and others were bringing the hope for a new college in Berkeley to fruition. We happily joined that community of people seeking to follow Jesus in thought, word, and deed. 

Throughout the COVID-19 pandemic, New College Berkeley spiritual directors have met with people in small, prayerful groups by Zoom. We’ve witnessed the stresses and the opportunities of this strange, isolated time; a time of great loss for many people, yet also a time of discovering novel ways of gathering together and orienting ourselves toward God.

People keep telling me this is a “murky season” spiritually. We grope for clarity, for hope, for the Light shining in the darkness. During this long pandemic season, so fraught with social unrest and losses of all kinds, I’ve been amazed that contemplative time with other people—over the phone and by Zoom—have been rich despite physical absence. You may have discovered this, too. Now that we’re venturing out from quarantine, we do so with caution and also with hope of holding onto the gifts of the pandemic.

January—the new year. The time of Epiphany—discovery and illumination. So we hope. We hope, too, for mass immunizations against the novel coronavirus and for a peaceful transfer of power in the United States. Every day I feel the intense longing for good news.

We’ve yearned toward the Holy One throughout the season of Advent, and in this new year the adventure continues. In our COVID-19 moment I’m reflecting on the fact that the word “adventure” underwent some evolution in its meaning many centuries ago. In 1200 it referred to that which happens by chance, with the possibility of wonder, miracle, and marvelous happenings. Then disaster struck and the word’s sense changed to denote risk and danger. In 1347 the Black Death struck Europe, and over the course of four years more than 20 million lives were lost on the continent, about one-third of the population. Everyone suffered. It’s no surprise that the understandings of common words would shift in grim ways. Over the course of the last year, I’ve developed an aversion reaction to the word “unprecedented.”

Advent, like Lent, is a speed bump in the galloping year, slowing us down, and waking us to deep realities. And how we need Advent in the blur of the pandemic and the rush of Yuletide. Advent and Lent are also confessional seasons and, in effect, extended Sabbaths. They exist in Kairos time, the time of reflection, of prayer, of communion.

It’s, as it were, folded time. We remember other Advents in our lives as though through a wormhole in time, and they seem near as we enter into the familiar patterns of Advent worship, even in this strange, isolated year. Perhaps especially in this particular year, we also anticipate future Advent seasons. Times of gathering together again in worship, retreat, caroling, and feasting.

All Jesus did that day was tell stories––a long storytelling afternoon. His storytelling fulfilled the prophecy: I will open my mouth and tell stories; I will bring out into the open things hidden since the world’s first day. Matthew 13:34-35; MSG

Dear friends,

When I was a child, my great-aunt Hat would gather her grand-nieces and grand- nephews around her and recite a looping tale. Brown eyes wide open and her expression mock-somber, she would recite:

High in the windy hills of Italy lived a little band of bandits.

One night as the lightning flashed and the thunder roared and the rain came down in torrents, the Captain turned to his lieutenant and said, “Sandy, give us a story,” which he did in the following manner.

“High in the windy hills of Italy lived a little band of bandits. One night as the lightning flashed….”

We squealed with delight at the absurdity, even the youngest among us knowing that—silly, Aunt Hat!—stories ought not to loop like that.

Stories need to go somewhere.