This lovely painting by Claude Monet, Impression, Sunrise, painted in 1872, is often considered the opening of a major movement in art history. Monet is sometimes called the father of Impressionism, perhaps also the first of the modernists. This painting is a favorite of mine because of the beautiful depiction of sunrise. Sharon and I have had a print hanging in our bedroom for years. Sunrise is loved by poets and artists. It is cherished by the writers of our holy scriptures. Morning by morning, we see the faithfulness of God’s love.

We’re in those days after Christmas now. How do we adjust? I need twelve days like my Catholic friends. Perhaps you have been touched, as I have, by all the angels and singing and shepherds and oxen kneeling and especially the baby Jesus in a manger. But don’t we have to get on with real life now? We will hear that “the child grew big and strong and full of wisdom; and God’s favour was upon him.” Luke 2:40 (REB) I will look soon at the part of the story soon, but just now I’m not ready to move on from the baby. This seems foundational.

On this glorious day before Christmas, in a moment of deep pondering and expectation, I’m sending along a poem that has intrigued and delighted me since I first encountered it many years ago. It’s a Christmas poem, written by Thomas Hardy in the early years of the twentieth century, called “The Oxen” (1915). You may had encountered it too.

We have just been through a horrific week: Jews slaughtered in Australia; students gunned down at Brown University, a faculty member at MIT; a Hollywood star murdered by his son even as our President issues appalling remarks. As we continue to stare speechless into the darkness of our world, we must admit, as Paul Kingsnorth is saying these days: “You just know something is wrong.”  

In my last blog post, one of my readers, my faithful friend Bill Rowley, mentioned he wanted to hear more about the “quiet revival” going on. He confessed he knew God could be doing something new, but frankly, it’s “difficult for me to see it.” I get it. Things are a mess out there. And revivals have often been announced, then fizzle.

Some of you may have noticed I’ve been away from my blog for a few months. I’ve been very busy, teaching a number of courses, chairing the committee to bring a new senior pastor to our church, and just managing life with all its various challenges. I find I have only so much creative energy left when things get busy. My blog writing suffers. I’ve missed it.

I’ve been away from my writing for a while. I’ve been busy with any number of matters that put me into a rhythm different from my writing rhythm. But I’ve been thinking a lot about church. If the church is indeed declining in numbers and influence, as so many are arguing, how can this be a good thing for us?

I find myself longing for quiet this morning. Do you ever have that feeling? Oh it’s plenty quiet inside and out in our home this early in the morning, but somehow I am not quiet. I’m stirring. Too much going on, I suppose. Once again maybe I’ve tackled way more than I should. So underneath it all there is this stirring of unquiet.

Early each morning I receive a post from Father Patrick van der Vorst with his selection of a painting for the day. His choice each day is accompanied by a Scripture reading chosen from the lectionary. His blog site is called Christian Art. I aspire to know a small measure of what he knows about both Scripture and painting.

Shakespeare provides me an apt description of how I sometimes go to bed:   

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired. Sonnet 27

Do you too sometimes take a journey in your head when you hit the pillow? I know exactly what Shakespeare’s talking about.

I have a feeling something big is going on around us. I hear it all over the place, in casual conversations, through reading some of the best writing I’ve seen in a longtime, from people who have experienced fresh, life-changing illuminations, even in our secular world that continues to scoff at such experience.

When I gather with friends these days, those who are also growing older, the conversation, when honest, often shifts to what we are losing. We mention the loss of dear friends and loved ones who have passed away. We turn to the loss of strength and agility and energy. Sometimes we are left clinging to life-giving memories of different times, though this too is mixed with sadness that those times are gone forever. Sometimes we find ourselves having to work too hard to find joy.

My daily prayer app, Pray As You Go, began this morning’s meditation with the rousing opening from Handel’s 1741 oratorio The Messiah: “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.” Through the magnificent language of the King James translation, we listen to the stirring words of Isaiah 40:1-3:

I’ve been reflecting, actually for months now, on this amazing painting by Van Gogh, Self-Portrait With Straw Hat, painted in 1887, just three years before he took his life, tragically at the age of 37. When I look at those eyes, though, I think about a man who knows how to see deeply into the heart of things, as Wordsworth phrases it. I’ve been pondering for years about how I might see more deeply. This painting encourages me.

Sharon and I have been gone for a couple of weeks, sailing with delight around the magnificent British Isles, witnessing up close some of the deep, enduring roots of our civilization, roots I have studied earnestly over time. I confess, though, I found no time to write while traveling. I’ve missed my connection with you all. I’m eager now to begin again.   

I was remembering this morning, nothing in particular, I suppose, just remembering, but flickering across my mind was one of those bright images out of the past. Wordsworth called them “spots of time,” some event that penetrated deeply. We carry the image with us for the rest of our lives. I’ve been trying lately to pay attention when those images do indeed flicker. I’ve come to believe they might hold some healing power for our anxious lives, a kind of “balm in Gilead / to make the wounded whole.”  

I’m feeling swamped by so many things these days. It may be technology coming apart. It may be the craziness of our political divide. Or perhaps it’s the pain of watching the crumbling of a common culture. I’m exhausted by the endless polarization, the outright hatred loose across the land, the snarky cynicism, our supposed gloomy prospects, the deep loss of common sense.

Good morning, patient readers. I’ve been preoccupied—some wonderful travel to be with our kids and grandkids, some other writing on my long-promised online course, a short, nasty battle with Covid, and oh, well, just dealing with the ever-expanding complexities of life. But here are some new thoughts I want to share that have been rumbling in my head.

Hunched over an emerging sculpture, the great Italian painter, sculptor, architect Michelangelo, towering out over the sixteenth-century Renaissance and beyond, is quoted as saying, “another few days and life will break through.” Every writer or artist, whether great or small, knows what this is like. There is the waiting, when nothing seems to jell, when everything lies flat and lifeless. Some days we might even question whether that new life is just an illusion. Our culture tilts heavily in that direction. Is there really new life out there to be found by my paltry words or halting brush strokes?

Someone encouraged me recently to read a contemporary poet I had not read before. I was intrigued enough to order the latest of his books. About halfway through I found myself searching for reasons why this writing was so unsatisfying. I found the poetry flat and lifeless, no depth, little resonance. Something was missing. There was brilliance of observation, but that skill seemed to draw attention only to itself. This was a closed world.