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O Adonai, and leader of the House of Israel,
who appeared to Moses in the fire of the burning bush
and gave him the law on Sinai:
Come and redeem us with an outstretched arm.
The second O Antiphon, December 18, 2021, addresses the longed-for Messiah as Adonai, influenced by Isaiah11: 4-5; 33:22.
The ancient Hebrew word Adonai means Lord or Master: it speaks to His absolute sovereignty over all life, first recorded in the Old Testament book of Genesis. At that time, the Israelites experienced the harshness, the complexity of life. Early on, they learned that their survival depended upon Another, a monotheistic God, unlike the pantheon of gods worshiped by their neighbors. Through the wisdom of the first patriarch Abraham came an inchoate calling, culminating centuries later within the covenanted relationship, finalized by the prophet Moses.
It is to this prophet’s reliance upon the power of God that we turn. Like the others, he experienced Adonai’s call in the burning bush, together with the corresponding mandate of freeing the Israelites from Pharaoh’s oppression—An impossible task Moses acceded to only after pointed dialogue. The outstretched arm played a significant role in this freedom.
Because the Red Sea thwarted the Israelites’ flight from hundreds of Pharaoh’s chariots armed to kill, Adonai instructed Moses to raise his arm, causing the waters to part into dry ground for them to cross. When everyone was freed, Moses was instructed to lower his arm, causing the rushing waters to drown horses, chariots, and drivers.
Like the Israelites, we falter before obvious good; we need help, beyond our imagination. Thus the outstretched arm from the Moses story still works. The imperatives, Come and redeem signify willingness to change. On our own, such is impossible.
Groups of ghouls, pint-sized pumpkins, princesses, skeletons, and werewolves scan porch lights for treats while moms and dads, with flashlights, watch from sidewalks. Jack-o-lanterns leer into the night, strings of orange lights pierce the gloom, and chilled winds whip banners of witches riding craggy broomsticks. Neighbors’ brazier fires create oases of light, cauldrons hold treats for the costumed, and merriment escalates with the encroaching darkness—and it’s very dark.
Again, it’s Halloween, its hilarity, a distraction from the shivers of winter’s onset. Yet, few know of its ancient origins, even its date, October 31st.
Bands of roving Celtic families, primarily located in the insular countries of Ireland and Britain, depended upon Druidic priests for their spiritual guidance. The resulting rich oral tradition—all committed to memory—included the October 31st observance of Samhain, the Celtic New Year.
Gigantic sacred bonfires, aflame through the night, signaled the holiday’s beginning. Because the protective barrier to the Other World, the realm of dead and evil spirits, was thin, the Celts donned disguises to conceal their identities. Spirit-crossovers and prognostications intended for the Druids also occurred.
Because the harvest had been completed, the Celts selected choice produce and animals from their fields to sacrifice to the gods, in thanksgiving as Druid stories and other rituals filled the night. A take-home gift from the bonfire was the new flame, to cook and warm their huts until the next New year. That was over two thousand years ago.
The Christianization of these lands brought make-overs, rather than change. In 609 CE, Pope Gregory III reconstituted the observance of Samhain into three parts: All Hallows Eve (Halloween) on October 31st; All Saints Day on November 1st; and All Soul Day on November 2nd. The Celts’ spirituality was easily amenable to this adjustment.
With them, we hold fast to the light of faith, illumining winter’s darkness: it will pass.
Who’s messing around with the rough edges of my life?
Whose sinewy hands tweak my brokenness?
Who forces me to feel my shards and claim them?
Whose fingers pull and knead, pull and knead?
More pinches, slaps, punches startle me.
Take me where I never dreamt sojourn.
Patting smooths my new shape.
A wet towel cools me.
Then explosion—
Like toddlers, jumping piles of reddening leaves.
Expanding-resting-expanding-resting.
What am I becoming?
More pulling and kneading.
Will this never end?
Yet this touch coaxes surrender.
A song releases mine, long hidden beneath barrels of stale flour.
Change continues:
More shifting from here to there.
My pregnant shape swallows my fears.
More waiting follows.
Suddenly, my belly is cleaved and braided together.
Brushed with egg yoke, I wink at the sun.
The brick oven’s fire evokes more transformation.
It’s happened–the aromatic new creation.
Above me a shawled woman blesses candles,
chants psalms to the Challah I have become,
offers me to be torn apart and consumed by her loved ones.
Within my new brokenness, I am whole.
Heart Whisperings 