fire and ice

A couple of weeks ago we did something so deliciously creative in church that I can't help but share it.  We made candleholders out of ice (hollowed-out clumps of ice we found outside, and molds we made in the freezer with containers from around the house), and then we lit tealights inside of them.  They filled the table up front in the sanctuary, and as they melted, we read the following reflection:

Our hearts are hard, frozen solid against the constant bruising and wounding of the world; they are hardened by fear, insecurity, and bitterness.

Our hearts are hard, frozen solid by argument after argument; harden by anger, by someone who did us wrong, by grief, suffering, cancer and depression.

That’s when we hear your words:  Blessed are the poor.  Blessed are those who mourn.  Blessed are the meek.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.  Blessed are the merciful.  Blessed are the pure in heart.  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  Blessed are you who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for yours is the kingdom of heaven.

With these words, dear rabbi, you melt our wintery hearts.

Blessed, blessed, blessed...

These blessings have travelled over thousands of miles and thousands of years, passed down from generation to generation...

Blessed, blessed, blessed...

Written down on scrolls, hidden in caves, bound into books, illuminated with gold and green and red...

Blessed, blessed, blessed...

In the drawers of hotel rooms, in family bibles, passed down from generation to generation...

Blessed are the humble, not the arrogant.  Blessed are the meek, not the aggressive.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, who ache and agonize to make the world right.  Blessed are those who are persecuted and abused.

Blessed, blessed, blessed...

These luminous words melts our wintery hearts and turn the whole world upside down.  They break all the rules.  These words are like fire inside of ice.

Blessed, blessed, blessed...

After hearing you preach, the authorities plotted out how they were going to muzzle you.  How they were going to crush your movement of blessing.  How they were going to kill you -- and, oh, how they tried.  

They persecuted you, they came after you with arrogance and agression, and they made you mourn, they made those who loved you lament and when they broke your body, and then buried it in a tomb.

But just three days later, the tomb was empty.  The revolution had begun, and the message got out, multiplying into a thousand different forms.

Blessed, blessed, blessed...

The message got out into memories, and homes, and whispers before bed, mothers and fathers telling their children over and over, generation to generation.

The message was written down on scrolls, hidden in caves, bound into books, illuminated with gold and blue and red, stitched into cloth, and tucked into hotel room drawers.

A thousand flames holding back the night.

A thousand thousand flames, meant to melt the ice:  Blessed are the poor.  Blessed are those who mourn.  Blessed are the meek.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.  Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.   Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. 

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Loving God, melt our hardened, frozen hearts so that we too might open our mouths and proclaim your blessing.  Make us your light, your lamp on a stand, your flame meant to melt the ice of a wintry, weary world.  We pray this in the name of the one who preached blessing upon blessing, in Jesus name we pray, Amen.

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Thanks to Mark Berry for the inspiration and to Hiroyuki Takeda for the beautiful photo.