The priest's vestments are ripped off and the glass chalice falls to the ground, shattering into tiny pieces.
As the priest walks slowly through the debris of his former glory, barefoot and wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, he hears children's voices singing off stage, Laude. Laude. Laude. Praise! Praise! Praise!
His eyes, transformed by God's grace, suddenly notice the broken chalice. He looks at it for a long, long time. And then, haltingly he says, "I never realized that broken glass could shine so brightly."

Things do not always go the way we plan. Not that we don't try. Somehow, well made plans make us feel better. More presentable. Even acceptable. (Including my plans for this Sabbath Moment, for which I had prepared another subject altogether.)
But life changes.
Life turns left.
Things--plans, dreams, relationships, can break.
Sometimes, shatter.
And hearts can be broken.
Not long ago, I spent some time with a group of people weighed down by broken things. They invited me to sit, to listen, and if I had any, to offer some insight.
I wanted to say all the right things. 
I wanted, in effect, to fix it.
I wanted to put the chalice back together.

But since when are tidiness and the presence of the sacred one in the same?
In the end, I realized that I could only invite them to the epiphany of the priest in Bernstein's Mass. That if we have eyes to see, there are no unsacred moments. And that God is alive and well in all things.
Even in the broken glass. 
Or, in the words of Van Morrison, "Whenever God shines His light."  

Larsen's The Far Side puts things in focus. The comic shows Cowboys under siege by Indians. The Indians are shooting arrows with fire, burning the wagons. One cowboy says to the other, "Hey, they're lighting their arrows. Can they do that?"

We live smack-dab in the middle of a crazy war about expectations. 
You know, when the hardest thing to accept is the way our life has gone. It should have been different, we tell ourselves. Or in the words of Captain Jack Aubrey in Master and Commander, "Not all of us become the men we once hoped we might be."

The irony is that once I recognize this dilemma, I try to compensate. I keep myself busier, and work even harder to impress. Which kind of puts me into another pickle. In the words of John Nash (from A Brilliant Mind), "What if I'm not capable and busy? Or, in the end, truly original?"

So that's what it's all about. Whether we matter. Maybe deep down I don't want to be original, I just want to be liked. Or admired. Or appreciated. Or just noticed. We sure do complicate things, don't we?  

A family went out to a restaurant for dinner. When the waitress arrived, the parent gave their orders. Immediately, the five-year-old daughter piped up with her own: 'I'll have a hot dog, french fries, and a Coke.' 'Oh no you won't, interjected the dad and turning to the waitress he said, 'She'll have meat loaf, mashed potatoes, milk.' Looking at the child with a smile, the waitress said, 'So, hon, what do want on that hot dog?' When she left, the family sat stunned and silent. A few moments later the little girl, eyes shining, said, 'She thinks I'm real.'  

Yes.

Whenever God shines His light...  

We've all wrestled with the internal dialogue about life's unfairness. That's old hat. And depending on what sort of beverage may be near by, some of us have given in to a spell of melancholy or regret.

This much I do know. I spend too much of my energy running from my life as it is, assuming that answers are down the road, or around the corner, or buried in some Bible verse. If there is any unease, or mess, or brokenness, I spend a good deal of fuel--mental, spiritual and physical energy trying to appease it, dampen it, control it or manage it. Like some political damage control public relations campaign. (I may be a mess, but I don't want people to see it, or know about it.) And in the end, I wear this new persona (you know, the one trying so hard to look like he has his act together) like a hand me down suit, and carry myself self-consciously.

Ah, the wisdom of the Eagles, who reminded us that "Every form of refuge has its price."

And my solace? Came in what... my need for control? And with that control, a low-grade resentment at my life as it is.

I'm glad for my garden. Even in winter. It helps with perspective and the need to let go of the internal frenzy for tidiness. It is cool here--just above freezing--and the sun is out. The air smells crisp and clean. I take a break from Sabbath Moment to meander around.  I see the resolute blades of our bearded iris--in summer, with falls of violet, one we call Grandma's Mystery--remembering its refreshing fragrance of French-milled soap. I stand for a minute and watch the birds negotiate the traffic at our four feeders. Every once in a while, the air is pierced by the cackle of a pileated woodpecker or the bark of a neighborhood dog.