A “posada” is “the tradition of taking the figures of Mary and Joseph into homes for a night or two during Advent. As the figures are in a home there may be prayers and reflections as they enter and leave and the figures may be an occasion for devotions shared with friends, family and neighbors while they are in that home. They then move on to the next home that has volunteered to put them up for the night or two, and so on through Advent.”A Posada blog is an idea to do something similar with blogging. So instead of the actual clay or wood or whatever figures of Mary and Joseph we have a picture. Instead of homes we have blogs, and instead of family prayers we have a blog post. This e-Posada originated here. Jim Palmer hosted Mary and Joseph yesterday, and tomorrow they’ll be found at the Weekend Fisher blog .
Today the Holy Family resides on my blog. Offering this space online is a reflection of my personal journey of offering Christ space within my soul and life. I can almost hear my mother’s voice now, thinking that perhaps I’ve taken this faith thing just a little too far. I was brought up to think that going to church has its place, but mostly, really, for the social aspect. I knew that prayers were expected in church and at home on major holidays when the dining room table was set with china and cloth napkins, and tapers burned in brass candlesticks. God had his place, and mostly it was on the top shelf, neatly wrapped in tissue paper and pulled out along with the good silver for special occasions.
In my life faith ebbed and flowed, the star of Bethlehem waxed and waned. Sometimes its light was almost extinguished in the glare of the world. Certainly that would cause no alarm in my family. Actually, embracing Christianity to the point I have would be more alarming, or at least somewhat embarrassing. Or disconcerting. Certainly uncomfortable.
But here I am, stuck with an unwavering beacon that keeps calling me to journey on that road to Christ, that makes me burn with a conviction that life makes absolutely no sense without him, that a world devoid of God’s presence is too unreal to contemplate. More than conviction or belief, though, is the desire birthed within me that keeps beckoning me to a life that grows ever deeper in the Spirit. I am consigned to the road that leads me to a shedding of myself for more of him, a life praying that his light will shine just a wee bit through my eyes when I encounter others.
Dear Jesus, the path was so barren all those years traveling without you, when I kept my eyes cast down on desert soil, when the neon lights of the world sparkled so invitingly. I pray that others find their gaze gently lifted heavenward, are caught in the rays of the Star, are led in breathless wonder along the wild and glorious road that leads to you.
As I write, I'm listening to my 17-year-old son out in the living room singing a worship song while playing his guitar. If I go out there, he may get self-conscious and stop. Rarely do I hear him sing, and he is out there throwing his heart into each note, lifting up his voice for God. I love that he loves God. I love that he's my son. So I'm just sitting quietly. Savoring. Smiling. And I'm not going to tell him he's off-key.