God: Weathered, Wrinkled, and Textured

 On those days when scrolling for something – anything- to bring a little joy, a little hope, the comfort of distraction, seems like a good idea… I go to Pinterest. One of my favourite scrolling topics is ‘old doors.’ I also love to come across old doors still in use when out walking or repurposed in peoples’ homes.

 

Old doors are fascinating: painted with many different coloured layers of oil-based paint, perhaps a layer or two of stain in between. Each door patinas over time in its own unique pattern.  The paint gets cracked by cold weather, peeled by water, and curled in on its edges by hot sun. In places the paint is chipped and worn down to the wood. Each crack shows different colours of paint. The wood has dents and divots, while the doorknob tarnishes and is polished depending on where it has been touched.

 

The beauty of the old door can not be replicated, and it can not be rushed.

Designers have various techniques to distress wood doors and furniture to make them look like they are old… but the new-made-to-look-old items pale in comparison to that which has weathered, wrinkled, and textured by an accumulation of experiences.

 

I recently finished reading and reflecting on a book by Canadian photographer Freeman Patterson. He has many photos of old doors and windows and abandoned rooms. In his book, “the Odyssey” he wrote: “Many religious groups … main enterprise is offering the ‘ultimate cosmetic’ --- life everlasting--- to people who feel unable or unwilling to cope with cracks and wrinkles they encounter in their lives on Earth.”

 

This gave me pause.

To think that ‘life everlasting’ is offering an ‘ultimate cosmetic’ – the idea that it matters not what happens here because some day in the next life, at the time of the Second Coming, bodies are transformed to glory, everything is new and beautiful, filled with peace, no pain, no dying.  My main enterprise – a Lutheran understanding- is not offering the ‘ultimate cosmetic,’ – the oft longed-for fountain of youth.

My experience is that church community is about the enterprise of the weathered, the wrinkled, and the textured. It is about welcome and belonging, just as we are, refugees, weary travelers, faith-seekers. It is my experience that God is found when I am most vulnerable: in suffering, in grief, in heart-ache. It is not the glory of later, it is in the ashes of now where hope and love grow, and where God’s kindom comes. Now, not tomorrow.

 

One need not sing very many Advent or Christmas carols before realizing that whatever joy, peace, hope, comfort, we find in them, the words and message are wrought with images of Jesus’ last days and his death, death on a cross.  This is not ‘glory’ as a cosmetic. This is real life wrestling with life’s purpose, mission, vocation, and being willing to love so much that one comes to a place where they are willing to die for another. 

Advent and Christmas hold the tensions experienced in life, and particularly focus on the risk of hoping and the risk of loving.  Hope and love are not feelings that grow overnight, not items that can be purchased. Hope and love require an accumulation of experience, of risk-taking. 

 

There is a story of a young person who posts all over social media how beautiful they are and that they have the most beautiful heart in world. The pics on Instagram have a gleaming, shiny, and strong heart for everyone to see. One day the young person is at an influencer’s event, showing off this magnificent heart. There is a crowd that has gathered to take selfies with the influencer and the heart.   A member of the security staff – a retired commissioner- has had enough of the fool-heartedness. Removing their security jacket, the retired commissioner walks to the centre of the crowd and looking at the young influencer, pulls out their heart.  The crowd gasps and steps back.  The heart is worn.  It is lumpy and dripping and not keeping a steady beat. There are scars and bruises and holes. The commissioner says, “This is a beautiful heart.”

 The crowd asks, “How is that beautiful, compared to the glow and perfect beating of the other heart?”  The commissioner draws in a breathe and begins to explain: “This biggest hole is from when my spouse died, part of my love went with them; this scare is the aftermath of harsh words spoken to a once-friend; this black bruise is a matter of forgiveness that I am still working on; these lumpy patches are promises that have been made to me and that I have made to others, that have not been kept; these marks are the times I loved and it was not received; these pinpricks are the helplessness I have when I am unable to help another…”  The commissioner went on and the crowd became ever more silent.

When finished speaking the commissioner was in tears and whispered, “The beauty of the heart accumulates through loving.”  With that the commissioner took out a piece of their heart, walked to the young influencer and placed it into their heart; risking the first mark of love  - the first texture- on that heart.  And then, having shared love, walked away.

 

Weathered, wrinkled, textured.

 

Our text this morning opens a door to a beautiful story that is weathered, wrinkled, and textured. It is one of few scripture texts that passes what is called the Bechdel-Wallace test, named after the cartoonist Alison Bechdel who assessed the role of women in cultural narratives. To pass the test, two or more women have to be named and have a conversation with each other about something other than a man. Here Mary and Elizabeth are named and have a conversation. For three months they are together: weathering pregnancy, watching the formation of stretch marks, experiencing textures of emotions; waiting with expectation and perhaps fear for all that will come to pass. Motherhood, parenthood, is weathering, wrinkling, and texturing of life.

 

 

In the final days of Advent, when I encounter an old door, I am going to pause and reflect on the beauty to be found in the accumulation of experience, in the risk of loving, in stretch marks, in wrinkles, in silvery-white hair… in natural patinas…

And I will wonder:

Has this old door witnessed the leaping of a child in the womb? Women filled with the Holy Spirit? Women talking about God? Has this old door felt joy from those who passed through its threshold? Has it heard the singing of rejoicing? Was it ever slammed in the face of the proud, did it welcome the hungry to be filled with good things, or close behind the rich leaving empty handed? Behind the door do the residents live secure and in peace? Has this old door been a witness to love?

 

Has this old door experienced God – love- in the weathered, the wrinkled, and the textured?  Does it know that it is beautiful?