Today's readings: Micah 5:1-5 and Luke 1:47-55
Then the rest of his kindred shall return to the people of Israel. And he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord... and they shall live secure... (Micah 5:3b-4)
He has shown strength with his arm... he has filled the hungry with good things... (Luke 1:51a, 53a)
The Advent journey is a trip home.
The people of God take to the road with a familiar destination drawing them forward: the lands of our ancestors, the cities of our births. When we return to our kindred, we're struck by how changed things are (how changed we are) and by how other things are exactly the same... and tears may flow down our cheeks for both reasons.
When we return, we may be prodigals, welcomed with open arms and feasting, all our hungers being filled with only good... or we may be strangers, every door closed to us, "no vacancies" voiced by every gruff innkeeper.
But there is One who awaits our return, just as we've been awaiting his.
He's waiting to feed us on his strength, on the glory of his name. He's waiting to give us security that (no matter how adamant or how confident we are) we cannot achieve ourselves. He's waiting to bring peace, through us or in spite of us. He's waiting, just as we are, for the day when every ancient promise will be fulfilled: the lowest ones lifted up, starving bodies and souls nourished. He's waiting for us to come down the road singing----but instead of "Over the river and through the woods," he's listening for choruses of "My soul magnifies the Lord..." The old family home is ready for our arrival, lights burning in the windows, the feast prepared, the joyous welcome on his lips.
Why do we keep him waiting?
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
Advent Day 20: Companions.
Today's reading: Luke 3:7-18
Do not begin to say to yourselves, "We have Abraham as our ancestor"; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. (v. 8b)
If you think you know who your companions are on the journey of Advent--on the journey of faith, the very journey of life--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) is peopled with tax collectors, soldiers, questioners, sinners. And if the pedigreed people in the religious family tree harden their hearts and close their eyes and fold their arms and refuse to be fruitful among this most unlikely company, God will raise up a brand new family from the surrounding stones.
If you think spouting your spiritual genealogy gets you off the hook of repentance--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) is the turning-around way, the bending-the-knee way, the giving-all way. What must we do to bear good fruit, to avoid the axe that cuts down even the most religious, but fruitless, tree? What must we do---recite our ancestry, repeat our bedtime prayers, regulate our creeds? No. What must we do? Give (and give more). Do your job fairly. Be kind and be truthful. Be satisfied.
If you think your religious membership is a Golden Ticket, an all-access pass, a get-out-of-jail-free card--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) echoes with Hallelujahs sung by the outcast, rings with Glorias shouted by the poor, hums with prayers whispered by the unworthy.
But.
If you think you are one of them (outcast, poor, unworthy--and we are all unworthy--); if you think there's no place for you on the holy routes; if you think you're too broken, too sick, too sad, too liberal, too conservative, too powerless, too doubtful, too angry, too hurt, too empty--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) is the Good News road! Think you've become hardened? God calls our stony hearts to life. Think you're mired in empty speeches and thoughtless recitations? God invites us to a faith that acts. Think your song has been silenced, your prayers unheard? God gathers up even the smallest grains of love into a harvest that will feed a starving world.
So if you think you're ready to join your unlikely, unworthy companions on this road (this Advent road, this Life road, this Good News road): come, and walk. We're on the way.
Do not begin to say to yourselves, "We have Abraham as our ancestor"; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. (v. 8b)
If you think you know who your companions are on the journey of Advent--on the journey of faith, the very journey of life--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) is peopled with tax collectors, soldiers, questioners, sinners. And if the pedigreed people in the religious family tree harden their hearts and close their eyes and fold their arms and refuse to be fruitful among this most unlikely company, God will raise up a brand new family from the surrounding stones.
If you think spouting your spiritual genealogy gets you off the hook of repentance--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) is the turning-around way, the bending-the-knee way, the giving-all way. What must we do to bear good fruit, to avoid the axe that cuts down even the most religious, but fruitless, tree? What must we do---recite our ancestry, repeat our bedtime prayers, regulate our creeds? No. What must we do? Give (and give more). Do your job fairly. Be kind and be truthful. Be satisfied.
If you think your religious membership is a Golden Ticket, an all-access pass, a get-out-of-jail-free card--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) echoes with Hallelujahs sung by the outcast, rings with Glorias shouted by the poor, hums with prayers whispered by the unworthy.
But.
If you think you are one of them (outcast, poor, unworthy--and we are all unworthy--); if you think there's no place for you on the holy routes; if you think you're too broken, too sick, too sad, too liberal, too conservative, too powerless, too doubtful, too angry, too hurt, too empty--prepare to be surprised. The Advent road (the Life road) is the Good News road! Think you've become hardened? God calls our stony hearts to life. Think you're mired in empty speeches and thoughtless recitations? God invites us to a faith that acts. Think your song has been silenced, your prayers unheard? God gathers up even the smallest grains of love into a harvest that will feed a starving world.
So if you think you're ready to join your unlikely, unworthy companions on this road (this Advent road, this Life road, this Good News road): come, and walk. We're on the way.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Advent Day 19: The Lord is near.
Today's scripture: Philippians 4:4-7
The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything... (vv. 5b-6a)
If there was every any question, God,
let us hear the affirmation
and believe it with every fiber:
You are near.
We don't have to feel it.
We don't even have to understand it.
But in every step of our walk,
however far or fast we go,
however distant we may be
from home
from friends
from ourselves,
we are not alone, for
You are near.
We are hurt, O God.
We are angry.
We are afraid.
But
however hurt however angry however afraid
we may be,
we lift up our wounds
confess our fury
face our fears
and faithfully claim:
You are near.
but You will throw comforting arms around us while we weep.
Your nearness may not keep us in this life,
but You will gather us in to Your Eternal Life.
We trust that
You are near...
now, Lord, keep us
near to You.
The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything... (vv. 5b-6a)
If there was every any question, God,
let us hear the affirmation
and believe it with every fiber:
You are near.
We don't have to feel it.
We don't even have to understand it.
But in every step of our walk,
however far or fast we go,
however distant we may be
from home
from friends
from ourselves,
we are not alone, for
You are near.
We are hurt, O God.
We are angry.
We are afraid.
But
however hurt however angry however afraid
we may be,
we lift up our wounds
confess our fury
face our fears
and faithfully claim:
You are near.
Your nearness may not keep us from conflict,
but You will shape us into communities of grace.
Your nearness may not keep us from harm,but You will throw comforting arms around us while we weep.
Your nearness may not keep us in this life,
but You will gather us in to Your Eternal Life.
We trust that
You are near...
now, Lord, keep us
near to You.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Advent Day 18: In That Day
Today's reading: Isaiah 12: 2-6
And you will say in that day: Give thanks to the Lord, call on his name; make known his deeds among the nations; proclaim that his name is exalted. (v. 4)
There are days that it is just plain hard to praise. (There are weeks, months, years, lifetimes that it may be hard to praise.) There are days when "Glorias" seem pointless, and when "Hallelujahs" sound hollow. There are days, weeks, lifetimes when we may wonder if we will ever again feel praise unstoppably welling up inside us, compelling us to lift our hearts and our voices to give thanks to God, to sing out God's name to the world.
But "In that day," the prophet promises... despite today's tragedies, this week's bad news, this year's downfalls, this lifetime's struggles... in that day we will give thanks. Though we can't see it from here, this journey will (will, not "might," but will) lead to a place of praise, where we will experience God's comfort, trust in God's salvation, put away our fears, and draw up joy like water. In that day we'll not only raise our own voices in song, but we'll join together and summon all the nations to the chorus. With God in our midst, the world will become a congregation of praise.
So for today--for this week, this year, this life--even if we don't feel like praising, and even if we don't feel grateful, we can cling to the surety of that destination. We can cling to the faithfulness of God to lead us there and to nourish us from the well of salvation when we arrive. We can voice our praises all along the way, clinging with every syllable to the promise that in that day, there will be joy.
And you will say in that day: Give thanks to the Lord, call on his name; make known his deeds among the nations; proclaim that his name is exalted. (v. 4)
There are days that it is just plain hard to praise. (There are weeks, months, years, lifetimes that it may be hard to praise.) There are days when "Glorias" seem pointless, and when "Hallelujahs" sound hollow. There are days, weeks, lifetimes when we may wonder if we will ever again feel praise unstoppably welling up inside us, compelling us to lift our hearts and our voices to give thanks to God, to sing out God's name to the world.
But "In that day," the prophet promises... despite today's tragedies, this week's bad news, this year's downfalls, this lifetime's struggles... in that day we will give thanks. Though we can't see it from here, this journey will (will, not "might," but will) lead to a place of praise, where we will experience God's comfort, trust in God's salvation, put away our fears, and draw up joy like water. In that day we'll not only raise our own voices in song, but we'll join together and summon all the nations to the chorus. With God in our midst, the world will become a congregation of praise.
So for today--for this week, this year, this life--even if we don't feel like praising, and even if we don't feel grateful, we can cling to the surety of that destination. We can cling to the faithfulness of God to lead us there and to nourish us from the well of salvation when we arrive. We can voice our praises all along the way, clinging with every syllable to the promise that in that day, there will be joy.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Advent Day 16: Joy, As If.
Today's reading: Zephaniah 3:14-20
The King of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more. (v. 15b)
Remember when "As if" was a complete sentence? It was the "what-ev-er" of the 1980s, a concise, cutting expression of derision and disagreement. A verbal roll-of-the-eyes.
Today, as I think about the concept of joy, as I consider the head-in-the-clouds optimism of this prophet's pronouncement, the response that comes to mind is: "As if."
Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The Lord has taken away the judgments against you, he has turned away your enemies. The king of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more.
As if.
But this is the journey of Advent. A journey through a dark land. A journey of tears, of wailing and rending of clothes. A journey whose path is in shadow, twisting and turning, seeming to disappear for awhile, leading us across valleys of death and over the treacherous climbs of seemingly insurmountable peaks.
A journey of joy, because we believe that the Light comes to us, that the Way leads us, that the Child welcomes us. In Advent, no matter how dark, how twisted, how lonely the world's ways seem, we can speak of Joy. As if.
Joy, as if God's complete redemption of our world has already happened---because in God's eternal timespan, we believe that we are ever redeemed.
Joy, as if there is nothing to fear.
Joy, as if our enemies have been changed, turned around into companions.
Joy, as if God is at this moment singing over us and rejoicing in us, renewing us in love and to love.
Joy, as if we have all been brought Home.
May our every song, every prayer, every opinion, every comment, every toast, every gathering of this season be full of this Joy---even in the dark; especially in the dark---as if the Joy of the World himself is already come.
The King of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more. (v. 15b)
Remember when "As if" was a complete sentence? It was the "what-ev-er" of the 1980s, a concise, cutting expression of derision and disagreement. A verbal roll-of-the-eyes.
Today, as I think about the concept of joy, as I consider the head-in-the-clouds optimism of this prophet's pronouncement, the response that comes to mind is: "As if."
Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The Lord has taken away the judgments against you, he has turned away your enemies. The king of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more.
As if.
But this is the journey of Advent. A journey through a dark land. A journey of tears, of wailing and rending of clothes. A journey whose path is in shadow, twisting and turning, seeming to disappear for awhile, leading us across valleys of death and over the treacherous climbs of seemingly insurmountable peaks.
A journey of joy, because we believe that the Light comes to us, that the Way leads us, that the Child welcomes us. In Advent, no matter how dark, how twisted, how lonely the world's ways seem, we can speak of Joy. As if.
Joy, as if God's complete redemption of our world has already happened---because in God's eternal timespan, we believe that we are ever redeemed.
Joy, as if there is nothing to fear.
Joy, as if our enemies have been changed, turned around into companions.
Joy, as if God is at this moment singing over us and rejoicing in us, renewing us in love and to love.
Joy, as if we have all been brought Home.
May our every song, every prayer, every opinion, every comment, every toast, every gathering of this season be full of this Joy---even in the dark; especially in the dark---as if the Joy of the World himself is already come.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Advent Day 13: Tears in the Wilderness
Today's reading: Luke 3:1-6
The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: (v. 4b)
I've always read this description of John the Baptist as "calling out in a loud voice," imagining him with every stereotype I can summon: camel-shirted, bug-eating, wild-eyed, crazy-haired streetcorner preacher, completely unashamed of (oblivious to) his appearance or to how he is perceived. A guy not so good with the whole "indoor voice" thing, every proclamation a few too many notches up on the volume scale.
But today, with tears in my eyes as I read the news of yet another unimaginable horror, I'm reading this passage differently. Today, in my head, the voice of the prophet of the wilderness is not so much crying out as just plain crying. In the wilderness that is this world (that has always been--not just in today's tragedy, or this generation's failures, or this nation's problems, or this century's decline)--in this ancient and sustained wilderness of pain, of death, of anger and hate, of self-righteousness and disrespect, of actual victims and of victim mentalities, of "mineminemine" and of "screw you"--in such a wilderness, what is there to do but weep?
Today, I hear John like Jimmy Stewart in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," after hours of talking, endlessly proclaiming (but never being heard), the prophet's voice breaking and cracking and failing and finally dissolving into exhausted tears. I hear the comforting promise not as a proud, bellowing announcement, but choked out between sobs to a wilderness of a world that still (still, after millennia) doesn't seem to be listening. But maybe words whispered through tears are the only ones we can really hear, when the wilderness is crushing in on us, confusing our sense of direction, obscuring paths, surrounding us with the dark. Let us believe them and speak them again and again into the wilderness, no matter how our voices fade and our tears roll. Let us believe and speak endlessly until that day when
every valley shall be filled,
and
every mountain and hill shall be made low,
and
the crooked shall be made straight,
and
the rough ways smooth;
and
all flesh shall see the salvation of God.
May it come soon.
The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: (v. 4b)
I've always read this description of John the Baptist as "calling out in a loud voice," imagining him with every stereotype I can summon: camel-shirted, bug-eating, wild-eyed, crazy-haired streetcorner preacher, completely unashamed of (oblivious to) his appearance or to how he is perceived. A guy not so good with the whole "indoor voice" thing, every proclamation a few too many notches up on the volume scale.
But today, with tears in my eyes as I read the news of yet another unimaginable horror, I'm reading this passage differently. Today, in my head, the voice of the prophet of the wilderness is not so much crying out as just plain crying. In the wilderness that is this world (that has always been--not just in today's tragedy, or this generation's failures, or this nation's problems, or this century's decline)--in this ancient and sustained wilderness of pain, of death, of anger and hate, of self-righteousness and disrespect, of actual victims and of victim mentalities, of "mineminemine" and of "screw you"--in such a wilderness, what is there to do but weep?
Today, I hear John like Jimmy Stewart in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," after hours of talking, endlessly proclaiming (but never being heard), the prophet's voice breaking and cracking and failing and finally dissolving into exhausted tears. I hear the comforting promise not as a proud, bellowing announcement, but choked out between sobs to a wilderness of a world that still (still, after millennia) doesn't seem to be listening. But maybe words whispered through tears are the only ones we can really hear, when the wilderness is crushing in on us, confusing our sense of direction, obscuring paths, surrounding us with the dark. Let us believe them and speak them again and again into the wilderness, no matter how our voices fade and our tears roll. Let us believe and speak endlessly until that day when
every valley shall be filled,
and
every mountain and hill shall be made low,
and
the crooked shall be made straight,
and
the rough ways smooth;
and
all flesh shall see the salvation of God.
May it come soon.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Advent Day 12: Being Completed
Today's reading: Philippians 1:1-11
I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ. (v. 6)
Every Advent, we are traveling two roads at once.
We journey toward Bethlehem with the family, the shepherds, the angels, the kings. With sheep and camels and donkey; with the Hosannah-ing multitudes filling the skies. We journey in remembrance, doing our best to imagine ourselves in the footsteps that finally found rest among the livestock out behind the hotel. Counting down the days to Christmas, we know we will eventually arrive because there is a deadline, circled in red on our calendars----by December 25th, all the presents must be wrapped, the cookies baked, the tree decorated, and the manger padded with clean new straw for the newborn baby. We know there is an end to our planning and preparing, a culmination of our efforts. We will get there.
The other road we're walking isn't as sure. It leads off to a horizon in the far distance, and we can't see the final destination, can't mark our calendars and countdown the days til we get there. The second Advent we travel is the path to Christ's second Arrival, which we await just as anxiously as the prophets who foretold his first coming.
At times, we may be so anxious that we become obsessed with looking for signs that suggest we're nearly there (a habit that has preoccupied travelers since this route was first laid out). At times our anxiety may push us to move faster so we'll get there sooner, or to ignore the laws of respect and etiquette in our rush to arrive. In our hurry, we may be so focused on the horizon and its dreamed-of destination that we fail to remember that the journey is not ours alone, but that other pilgrims are making their way as well.
Just as Christmas inevitably comes, just as we count down daily to number 25, so the day of Jesus Christ will come. The inn on the horizon will slowly come into focus, and our tired footsteps will reach its door. The God who started us on this road will faithfully bring us to its endpoint--where not only the journey but we will reach completion. There's no need to count milemarkers, or to run red lights, or to change lanes to try to outpace each other; God's route is sure, and God's destination is secure. The good work of the Way will bring us Home.
I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ. (v. 6)
Every Advent, we are traveling two roads at once.
We journey toward Bethlehem with the family, the shepherds, the angels, the kings. With sheep and camels and donkey; with the Hosannah-ing multitudes filling the skies. We journey in remembrance, doing our best to imagine ourselves in the footsteps that finally found rest among the livestock out behind the hotel. Counting down the days to Christmas, we know we will eventually arrive because there is a deadline, circled in red on our calendars----by December 25th, all the presents must be wrapped, the cookies baked, the tree decorated, and the manger padded with clean new straw for the newborn baby. We know there is an end to our planning and preparing, a culmination of our efforts. We will get there.
The other road we're walking isn't as sure. It leads off to a horizon in the far distance, and we can't see the final destination, can't mark our calendars and countdown the days til we get there. The second Advent we travel is the path to Christ's second Arrival, which we await just as anxiously as the prophets who foretold his first coming.
At times, we may be so anxious that we become obsessed with looking for signs that suggest we're nearly there (a habit that has preoccupied travelers since this route was first laid out). At times our anxiety may push us to move faster so we'll get there sooner, or to ignore the laws of respect and etiquette in our rush to arrive. In our hurry, we may be so focused on the horizon and its dreamed-of destination that we fail to remember that the journey is not ours alone, but that other pilgrims are making their way as well.
Just as Christmas inevitably comes, just as we count down daily to number 25, so the day of Jesus Christ will come. The inn on the horizon will slowly come into focus, and our tired footsteps will reach its door. The God who started us on this road will faithfully bring us to its endpoint--where not only the journey but we will reach completion. There's no need to count milemarkers, or to run red lights, or to change lanes to try to outpace each other; God's route is sure, and God's destination is secure. The good work of the Way will bring us Home.
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