The Twelve Days of Christmas, Six Geese a Laying

On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Six Geese a Laying
Five Golden Rings
Four Calling Birds
Three French Hens
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

I'm continuing my series on The Twelve Days of Christmas. As I shared previously, Brian McLaren pushed me to ponder how I might put the Twelve Days of Christmas into action. Today, I ponder geese and a wild God.

Six geese a laying. Six geese a birthing. Six ganders partnering with six geese, guarding young and birthing life. Cooperative spirits in a wild land. They are wild migrating noisy spirits, honking their approval and encouragement.

They fly intentionally. They fly formally. One never carries the high winds alone for long before dropping back. Another will step up to shoulder the burden. He who is rested moves up to where winds rage strong. They trade off the highest winds and coldest air. They commit to togetherness, no matter the cost. A sick, weak, or wounded comrade will be escorted by two geese to the ground. They wait with the gander or goose until she or he has recovered or died. They commit in birthing. They commit in dying. A sancto insulam tres. 

Insula Sancta

Iona Abbey, island of Mull. Ii-shona. Picture by Oliver Bonjoch (Wikipedia)

The Celts likened God's spirit to wild geese. Migrating, even today, the committed gather at Iona Abbey, and take the spirit of Iona back to homeland and hearth. The spirit of Iona: craftsman who minister and ministers who craft. Poverty and mankind meet, living out the wild Spirit through hands and feet.

Here I Stand 

by Iona

Here I stand, looking out to sea
Where a thousand souls have prayed
And a thousand lives were laid on the sand
Were laid on the sand
Years have passed, since they have died
And The Word shall last
And the wild goose shall fly
Shall fly
Here I stand, looking out to sea
And I say a prayer
That the wild goose will come to me
That the wild goose will come to me

Iona is pilgrimage. Iona is a living breathing cell. Discerning the Spirit is the present desire. Do I want to know, hold the wild Spirit of God within?

Like wild things in our world, how quickly we dispense of God, if He encroaches upon our realm. Like the farmer, whose grasslands border the wildlife refuge, who is forever chasing wild geese away, we chase God away.

We shoot Him out the sky, the stars, and the heavens. With feet bound by us, and His comrades gathered round, He says, "Father forgive them. They know not what they do." And the grave shall not hold Him.

If visions be lacking, if prophecy be false, if revelations be lost, it is because we no longer want God in our wilderness.

Sunday it's easy to pretend we seek a wild God, but maybe we are simply running from our demons. Some Sunday's the drums rage so very loud, I'm convinced the noise is the clanging bells of hell. Yet, as we run from our demons, God speaks. The One wild Spirit lives.

God of the stillness speak today. Your voice cannot be tamed by men. Your voice cannot be taught. Your voice cannot be bought. Your voice is found in wild places. Your voice is caught in the silent space between the storms.

I tune my ear to the wind, Son, and Word. 

God speaks into the wilderness.

The Word.

Hearing God's voice in my ear? 

My choice.