Sunday Scribbling #127: Miracle: The Constant Burglar

(A piece I submitted for our church newsletter this month.)

She’s a burglar

She broke into my mind

She’s a burglar

She took everything she could find—

(Freddie King, singing Jerry Ragovoy’s She’s a Burglar)

One of my favorite of Robert’s recurring metaphors is the “scandal of the incarnation,” which he extends into the notion of the Holy Spirit, like a burglar, breaking and entering into our lives. Writer Annie Lamott builds on this sacred impropriety with her story of Jesus as a nagging, cat-like presence that stalked her on a walk home one day: she is in a foul mood, full of despair and irritation at the tenacity of her stalker. When she reaches her front door, she turns in exasperation and essentially says to Jesus, “Oh, what the hell. Just come on in.” As I recall, her “invitation” is even cruder than that, but I will spare the tender ears of our readership.

I don’t think Jerry Ragovoy had the Holy Spirit in mind when he penned his wonderful blues classic, but ever since I first heard Robert invoke the notion of scandal, it has replayed in my mind to the soundtrack of Freddie King’s rough growl and stinging guitar licks.

Why scandal and why burglary? Many reasons, I’m sure, but one of them is because we get comfortable in our lives, comfortable at times even in our miseries, comfortable because even as miseries they are known, old friends. As Matt reminded us in an early sermon of his, we need never pray for God to show up in our lives; our prayer is that we will show up, offering our hearts up to be cracked by the Master Safecrackers.

In my many years of exile from a church community, I found myself still lured in by the spirit of Christmas, my soul quietly hungry for and waiting for the season’s in-breaking of the light lurking for all of us, whether in or outside a sacred haven. Invariably, there was always some small miracle of love that turned the dial on my heart’s lock into place, and voila!—light without pouring in, as light from within poured out.

I now look for burglary on a weekly basis, during what Art Ramseur lovingly calls the “performance art” of our Sunday liturgy. I come some Sundays stoked and ready for the cat burglars; other Sundays, it’s a growling Freddie King spirit that I bring through the doors. It doesn’t matter. It’s not about me. The cat burglars will have their way with us, whatever the offering, be it in the readings, the songs, the wisdom of the urchins at Robert’s feet during the children’s sermon, during the “adult” sermon, the passing of the peace, Stewart’s stewardship of us all, standing in to receive the blessings for all those who cannot come to the rail, or the light breaking in through the windows of our glorious sanctuary. God’s light, our light, is always lurking.

And just like that

My heart was gone

She put it in her pocket—

Welcome to the Burglar’s House.