on dirt & earthed divine

I have dirt under my fingernails, and it's the very best kind ... from scratch-baked cinnamon rolls, and dozens of dishes and then some - dirt from dusting and scrubbing and re-tin-foiling casserole dishes. Dirt from scraping deep down into and with the people I love most.  

This is family, this hodge-podge or friends new and old ... when two drinks of gin and three sips of beer soften our hearts and loosen our tongues, and words and truth flow from way down, way back and way ahead. We say too much in the best possible way.

This is good, these late nights and long conversations and old jokes that still make us laugh. This is beautiful, when we slip into song (be it from Les Mis or the Methodist Hymnal) and don't bite our tongues. This is a sip of heaven, a taste of the not yet, a homespun church of the best and worst, the broken and confused, the weary and the faithful. This is ours, for these moments - and I, for one, am immensely grateful.  

In a Covenant Theology lecture I listened to over the weekend, I heard this -  

Historic Christianity is a live and earthed faith … because God became incarnate in a visible and tangible person, the divine is communicated to us in concrete earthed realities. {Robert Webber}

We are living out an earthed faith, embodied and beautiful. It is anchored into our souls; it is etched into our hearts. And when we gathered around the table this weekend, and when we stood on the bluff and watched the sun drip crimson-and-gold over the purple-clouded horizon, when we sang and cooked and cleaned and laughed, we danced - for a moment - with the divine.

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