My parents and I led a candlelight service together last night. As we were discussing worship plans, my dad raised the all-important musical question: Are we going to sing all of the verses of the hymns or just the first and last? I said, “One thing I’ve learned this Advent Season is that we miss a lot of really good words when we don’t pay attention to or skip over the verses of familiar songs, so we’re going to sing all of them.”
On the first Sunday of Advent to fit with the theme of hope and during yesterday’s Advent service centered on peace, we sang “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.” Other than the words of the first verse that always resonate with me—Peace on the earth, good will to men, from heaven’s all gracious king—the words that have been speaking to me this year are the second and third verses:
Yet with the woes of sing and strife the world has suffered long,
Beneath the angel strain have rolled two thousand years of wrong.
And man at war with man hears not the love song which they bring;
Oh hush the noise ye men of strife and hear the angels sing.
All ye, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,
Look now for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.
On the second Sunday of Advent, to fit with the theme of love, we sang these unfamiliar words to a familiar hymn-tune (Bring a Torch):
Love has come, a light in the darkness!...
Love is born! Come share in the wonder. Love is God now asleep in the hay. See the glow in the eyes of His mother; what is the name her heart is saying? Love! Love! Love is the name she whispers. Love! Love! Jesus, Immanuel.
Love has come—He never will leave us! Love is life everlasting and free. Love is Jesus within and among us; Love is the peace our hearts are seeking. Love! Love! Love is the gift of Christmas. Love! Love! Praise to you God on high!
And these:
Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven to earth come down. Fix in us thy humble dwelling, all thy faithful mercies crown. Jesus, thou are all compassion, pure, unbounded love thou art. Visit us with thy salvation; enter every trembling heart.
Breathe, oh breathe, thy loving Spirit, into every troubled breast! Let us all in thee inherit, let us find the promised rest. Take away our bent to sinning; Alpha and Omega be. End of faith, as its beginning, set our hearts at liberty.
Come, Almighty, to deliver, let us all thy grace receive…Pray and praise thee without ceasing, glory in thy perfect love.
Finish, then, thy new creation; pure and spotless let us be. Let us see thy great salvation perfectly restored in thee. Changed from glory into glory till in heaven we take our place. Till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise.
Oh God, music is such a powerful thing.
So help us as we sing, this Advent Season and beyond,
To pay attention to the words of longing and confession that have been sung by
So many people throughout the years from throughout the world.
Help us to hear—to really hear—your words of compassion, freedom, and grace and
Help us to get lost in your wonder, love, and praise.
Always.
Amen.
Showing posts with label advent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label advent. Show all posts
Monday, December 14, 2015
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Defining Moments: That Which We Cannot Control
I knew I was in trouble when I caught myself thinking, “I want to go to church tomorrow. I don’t want to miss the pastor’s sermon.”
Confession: Sometimes minister’s kids and/or ministers themselves—or at least this one—find themselves at church more out of obligation, expectation, or guilt than true desire. After working in full-time ministry in SC for a couple of years, I found myself somewhat burned out on church—or at least the Baptist church—and I was quietly determined to spend my Sundays elsewhere.
Then Patrick showed up. And more than once his words moved me to tears. And more than once I came home from church feeling as if God had spoken directly to me. And more than once I was curious to know what he would say next…until, all of a sudden, though I guess it wasn’t so sudden at all, I caught myself wanting to go to church—looking forward to it even—and I realized that my plan to jump Baptist ship had been sunk.
During Sunday’s sermon, Patrick presented the idea that fear comes from that which we cannot control. As such, the older we get and the more we realize just how much we are not in control, the more fear seems to paralyze us.
I’ve been thinking about that idea all week.
And I wanted to write it down tonight.
And I needed to further confess that while there is much that I fear in life,
I am learning to say,
Just as Mary once said,
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord;
let it be with me according to your word...”
Even if it means that I’m not in control.
Confession: Sometimes minister’s kids and/or ministers themselves—or at least this one—find themselves at church more out of obligation, expectation, or guilt than true desire. After working in full-time ministry in SC for a couple of years, I found myself somewhat burned out on church—or at least the Baptist church—and I was quietly determined to spend my Sundays elsewhere.
Then Patrick showed up. And more than once his words moved me to tears. And more than once I came home from church feeling as if God had spoken directly to me. And more than once I was curious to know what he would say next…until, all of a sudden, though I guess it wasn’t so sudden at all, I caught myself wanting to go to church—looking forward to it even—and I realized that my plan to jump Baptist ship had been sunk.
During Sunday’s sermon, Patrick presented the idea that fear comes from that which we cannot control. As such, the older we get and the more we realize just how much we are not in control, the more fear seems to paralyze us.
I’ve been thinking about that idea all week.
And I wanted to write it down tonight.
And I needed to further confess that while there is much that I fear in life,
I am learning to say,
Just as Mary once said,
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord;
let it be with me according to your word...”
Even if it means that I’m not in control.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Probably Not. She Lost The Son of God.
At the end of church yesterday, we sang a congregational version of the modern Christmas classic, “Mary Did You Know.” We sang it more quickly than normal, with a driving beat, and I sang at the top of my lungs. Then, after the song ended, I thought to myself, “Probably not. Mary probably didn’t know that her baby boy would do all of those great things. And that’s okay. Because she chose to be his mom nonetheless.”
Mary, 12 year old Mary,
chose to say yes to God when
God asked her to do the unthinkable.
God asked Mary to do something that could have literally gotten her killed.
It didn’t.
But Mary likely still greeted death:
death of reputation,
death of family hopes,
death of fulfilled expectations,
death of tradition,
death of childhood.
Mary also likely felt
the hurt of being
the center of attention
as an outcast.
Yet Mary chose this.
She chose it because she knew
being the mother of the Messiah was
who she was meant to be—
no matter what.
Mary wasn’t a perfect mom.
She lost the son of God, for goodness sake!
But Mary did her best to raise her son because
She loved him.
And she made the choice,
took the risk,
embraced the ridicule,
accepted the many deaths
that came from
following her call and
living into who she was created to be.
Did Mary know that being herself would lead her to raise a son that would cause the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to leap, the dumb to speak, and the dead to live again? Probably not. She probably didn’t know she’d leave him at the temple either! But she chose to be his mom nonetheless. And the sleeping child in her arms turned out to be the biggest blessing imaginable: the great I am.
Mary, 12 year old Mary,
chose to say yes to God when
God asked her to do the unthinkable.
God asked Mary to do something that could have literally gotten her killed.
It didn’t.
But Mary likely still greeted death:
death of reputation,
death of family hopes,
death of fulfilled expectations,
death of tradition,
death of childhood.
Mary also likely felt
the hurt of being
the center of attention
as an outcast.
Yet Mary chose this.
She chose it because she knew
being the mother of the Messiah was
who she was meant to be—
no matter what.
Mary wasn’t a perfect mom.
She lost the son of God, for goodness sake!
But Mary did her best to raise her son because
She loved him.
And she made the choice,
took the risk,
embraced the ridicule,
accepted the many deaths
that came from
following her call and
living into who she was created to be.
Did Mary know that being herself would lead her to raise a son that would cause the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to leap, the dumb to speak, and the dead to live again? Probably not. She probably didn’t know she’d leave him at the temple either! But she chose to be his mom nonetheless. And the sleeping child in her arms turned out to be the biggest blessing imaginable: the great I am.
Monday, December 2, 2013
On Mass Murder
My pastor did it again; he delivered a sermon that shed new light on a story that I’d heard many times before.
Yesterday’s light-shedding was on the story of King Herod and the three Wisemen. Specifically, he led me to think about Herod.
Over the years, Herod, though not a Jew himself, earned the title “King of the Jews” through hard work and government-pleasing decisions. In the process of obtaining this title, Herod became obsessed with power and began living a paranoid, possessive, self-absorbed reality.
Herod had people killed if he even suspected a threat or sensed disloyalty, so it’s no surprise that he was not happy when three strange men, obviously from a far away land, arrived in Jerusalem asking for the newly born King of the Jews. It’s also no surprise that he quickly devised a plan to find and destroy this newly born babe. Noone, and he meant no one, was going to usurp Herod’s power—not today, or tomorrow, or any day in the future.
And so…when Herod’s first plan to capture Jesus failed, Herod went into survival mode. Ruled by fear of losing the status that consumed him, Herod made a decree that he likely never imagined himself making: kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under. Mass murder. To kill one, unknown child who could possibly, one day, pose a threat to Herod’s throne.
Sometimes, when we’re in survival mode—when we’re trying to hold on to everything we know—good or bad—we do things we never thought we’d do. As my pastor said, “When Herod was young,I’m sure he never said, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a mass murderer.”
Likewise, I would wager that none of us ever said, “When I grow up, I want to be an adulterer. Or an addict. Or a thief. Or a liar. Or a murderer.”
But sometimes, when the world is falling apart, and all that we have worked for is slipping away, and thoughts of being alone scream louder than anything sane, and we see nothing in front of us except a string that is slipping away, we think, say, and do things we never dreamed possible. We order the mass murder of all males under the age of two,along with dreams of fidelity, freedom, righteousness, humility, integrity, and truth.
Whether we like it or not, life really does come down to a battle between two kingdoms: the kingdom of God and the kingdom of self. When Jesus was born into this world, he ushered in the kingdom of God which stood in stark contrast to Herod’s kingdom of self…and Herod wasn’t yet ready to lay down his crown.
Lyrics from two songs come to mind as I wrap up this note:
“Grasping to a string in the cold, dark stale air. It won’t get you very far. It won’t get you anywhere. It’s crying out in the night and standing for what it right that’ll heal the hurt.It’ll heal the hurt…” (--D.Deaton)
(and)
“I will rise up, rise up. And bow down and lay my crown. At his wounded feet.” (--Caedmon’s Call)
This holiday season, as we wait in anticipation to celebrate the radically, unsettling but all-together world changing birth of the King of the Jews, ask yourself to what strings you are grasping and if you are ready to begin letting go. When Jesus was born, Herod wasn’t yet there and henceforth made a horrific decree. Yet if we believe in the redemption that Jesus was born to provide, then maybe one day Herod got there. And maybe his crown is now at Jesus’ feet. And maybe ours can be, too.
Yesterday’s light-shedding was on the story of King Herod and the three Wisemen. Specifically, he led me to think about Herod.
Over the years, Herod, though not a Jew himself, earned the title “King of the Jews” through hard work and government-pleasing decisions. In the process of obtaining this title, Herod became obsessed with power and began living a paranoid, possessive, self-absorbed reality.
Herod had people killed if he even suspected a threat or sensed disloyalty, so it’s no surprise that he was not happy when three strange men, obviously from a far away land, arrived in Jerusalem asking for the newly born King of the Jews. It’s also no surprise that he quickly devised a plan to find and destroy this newly born babe. Noone, and he meant no one, was going to usurp Herod’s power—not today, or tomorrow, or any day in the future.
And so…when Herod’s first plan to capture Jesus failed, Herod went into survival mode. Ruled by fear of losing the status that consumed him, Herod made a decree that he likely never imagined himself making: kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under. Mass murder. To kill one, unknown child who could possibly, one day, pose a threat to Herod’s throne.
Sometimes, when we’re in survival mode—when we’re trying to hold on to everything we know—good or bad—we do things we never thought we’d do. As my pastor said, “When Herod was young,I’m sure he never said, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a mass murderer.”
Likewise, I would wager that none of us ever said, “When I grow up, I want to be an adulterer. Or an addict. Or a thief. Or a liar. Or a murderer.”
But sometimes, when the world is falling apart, and all that we have worked for is slipping away, and thoughts of being alone scream louder than anything sane, and we see nothing in front of us except a string that is slipping away, we think, say, and do things we never dreamed possible. We order the mass murder of all males under the age of two,along with dreams of fidelity, freedom, righteousness, humility, integrity, and truth.
Whether we like it or not, life really does come down to a battle between two kingdoms: the kingdom of God and the kingdom of self. When Jesus was born into this world, he ushered in the kingdom of God which stood in stark contrast to Herod’s kingdom of self…and Herod wasn’t yet ready to lay down his crown.
Lyrics from two songs come to mind as I wrap up this note:
“Grasping to a string in the cold, dark stale air. It won’t get you very far. It won’t get you anywhere. It’s crying out in the night and standing for what it right that’ll heal the hurt.It’ll heal the hurt…” (--D.Deaton)
(and)
“I will rise up, rise up. And bow down and lay my crown. At his wounded feet.” (--Caedmon’s Call)
This holiday season, as we wait in anticipation to celebrate the radically, unsettling but all-together world changing birth of the King of the Jews, ask yourself to what strings you are grasping and if you are ready to begin letting go. When Jesus was born, Herod wasn’t yet there and henceforth made a horrific decree. Yet if we believe in the redemption that Jesus was born to provide, then maybe one day Herod got there. And maybe his crown is now at Jesus’ feet. And maybe ours can be, too.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Was It Or Wasn't It A Silent Night (Part Two)
Yes.
It was a silent night.
Yes.
It was not a silent night.
Or at least that’s what I think these days.
And here’s what changed my mind:
The memory of a college fire drill.
It was my junior year at Meredith.
I was sick, much like I am now.
I had Vicks vapor-rubbed my chest and taken some NyQuil.
I was very asleep when the fire alarm went off.
I stumbled out of the building with the help of a friend.
I sat down on a little wall and swayed back and forth,
Trying not to fall onto the ground.
It was foggy outside.
The fog against the street light created that unique foggy orange light look.
It was silent.
It was ringingly silent.
It was middle-of-the-night-silent that comes when you’re jolted awake or
You’re sick or
You just can’t sleep.
There was noise.
Yet it was silent.
It was a silent night.
It was not a silent night.
And I’m thinking that’s how things were the night that Jesus was born.
As my friend Amy said in response to my note on Monday:
I like Amy Grant's spin on the song..."I need a silent night, a holy night, to hear an angel voice through the chaos and the noise. I need a midnight clear, a little peace right here--to end this crazy day with a silent night." I imagine it was super hectic for Mary, and loud, with all the doors Joseph was knocking on and all the grumpy people who were irritated that 2 kids would have the nerve to interrupt their sleep to ask for a place to have a baby. Shuffling feet, doors slamming, Mary's cries, Joseph's pleas, cows mooing, sheep baahing, horses nickering, the scraping of stone as Joseph cleans out the only thing in the stable he could find to prepare for a baby. Mary screams, a new born baby cries, and then. Then. There is that one silent moment as Joseph wipes Mary's brow and Mary smiles down at her sweet sleeping baby through silent glistening tears. And I think that that moment is what the silent night is about—the moment when we realize that while the world is busy slamming doors and being rude we miss out on the mercy that is meek and mild and the truth that is as pure as this child. That night, redemption was knocking on the doors of Bethlehem (and our hearts) but they couldn't drown out the noise (or chose not too) long enough to hear the heartbeat of the Savior. So maybe every now and then, a silent night is a good thing.
Or as my friend Jaime said:
I have always loved the song Silent Night and always (even as a child) pictured it as a scene from AFTER Christ was born. And, as a mom who has cuddled and coo'd and watched two precious newborns sleep peacefully in my arms (and am eagerly awaiting this one), I think Mary DID probably have those moments of peaceful, silent euphoria with her sleeping or nursing baby that night.
God…thank you for both/and rather than either/or. Amen.
It was a silent night.
Yes.
It was not a silent night.
Or at least that’s what I think these days.
And here’s what changed my mind:
The memory of a college fire drill.
It was my junior year at Meredith.
I was sick, much like I am now.
I had Vicks vapor-rubbed my chest and taken some NyQuil.
I was very asleep when the fire alarm went off.
I stumbled out of the building with the help of a friend.
I sat down on a little wall and swayed back and forth,
Trying not to fall onto the ground.
It was foggy outside.
The fog against the street light created that unique foggy orange light look.
It was silent.
It was ringingly silent.
It was middle-of-the-night-silent that comes when you’re jolted awake or
You’re sick or
You just can’t sleep.
There was noise.
Yet it was silent.
It was a silent night.
It was not a silent night.
And I’m thinking that’s how things were the night that Jesus was born.
As my friend Amy said in response to my note on Monday:
I like Amy Grant's spin on the song..."I need a silent night, a holy night, to hear an angel voice through the chaos and the noise. I need a midnight clear, a little peace right here--to end this crazy day with a silent night." I imagine it was super hectic for Mary, and loud, with all the doors Joseph was knocking on and all the grumpy people who were irritated that 2 kids would have the nerve to interrupt their sleep to ask for a place to have a baby. Shuffling feet, doors slamming, Mary's cries, Joseph's pleas, cows mooing, sheep baahing, horses nickering, the scraping of stone as Joseph cleans out the only thing in the stable he could find to prepare for a baby. Mary screams, a new born baby cries, and then. Then. There is that one silent moment as Joseph wipes Mary's brow and Mary smiles down at her sweet sleeping baby through silent glistening tears. And I think that that moment is what the silent night is about—the moment when we realize that while the world is busy slamming doors and being rude we miss out on the mercy that is meek and mild and the truth that is as pure as this child. That night, redemption was knocking on the doors of Bethlehem (and our hearts) but they couldn't drown out the noise (or chose not too) long enough to hear the heartbeat of the Savior. So maybe every now and then, a silent night is a good thing.
Or as my friend Jaime said:
I have always loved the song Silent Night and always (even as a child) pictured it as a scene from AFTER Christ was born. And, as a mom who has cuddled and coo'd and watched two precious newborns sleep peacefully in my arms (and am eagerly awaiting this one), I think Mary DID probably have those moments of peaceful, silent euphoria with her sleeping or nursing baby that night.
God…thank you for both/and rather than either/or. Amen.
Monday, December 19, 2011
The Moon and The Nativity
I had the privilege of babysitting my niece (Amelia) and nephew (Griffin) on Saturday night. As part of their bedtime routine, they each chose one book for me to read aloud. Amelia chose a short picture book while Griffin chose two chapters of a Magic Tree House Book. They each listened to the other’s selection, Amelia sitting on my lap, Griffin curled around my shoulders like a comfortable cat or dog.
As I read from The Magic Tree House, Amelia leaned her head back and looked around the room. She said, “I can look anywhere I want during this story because there aren’t any pictures.” I didn’t think much of her comment until church on Sunday morning. As I sat listening to the cantata, I thought about the Christmas story that was being read to me through music and spoken word. For some reason, it made me think about reading to Griffin and Amelia the night before—reading and imagining what it would be like to travel to the moon and ride on a moon buggy.
The story on Saturday night was exciting and alive. While Amelia looked around the room, she pretended to be in the story. She wasn’t tied to pictures on a page but free to imagine images in her head. She was fully engaged in the story. So was Griffin. They didn’t want me to stop reading because they wanted to know what would happen next…
I wish I could say that I greet the Christmas story with this same excitement and imagination. But if I’m honest, then I must admit that I don’t. I’ve heard the story so many times and I’ve seen so many nativity scenes and I’ve witnessed so many arguments about keeping Christ in Christmas that the story has lost something along the way. I wish this confession weren’t true. I wish that I approached the season of Advent with the same anticipation and wondering with which Griffin and Amelia approached The Magic Tree House on Saturday night or that I’ve approached the 57 audio books that I’ve “read” this year. But I don’t. I know the Christmas story. I know how Christ’s life began and I know how it ended. The story is familiar. It’s comforting. It’s part of the narrative of my life. Yet I grieve the fact that it’s been reduced to a still, stale nativity scene. I grieve that the “greatest story ever told” has gotten stuck on the page in a clean, perfect moment…
Because it couldn’t have been a clean, perfect moment. Well. It could have been perfect, but I doubt it was clean. Mary had a baby in a stable. On its own, having a baby isn’t clean. I’ll leave you to ponder the details of childbirth. And on its own, a stable isn’t clean. I’ll leave you to ponder the smells that accompany a stable. And Mary and Joseph couldn’t have remained frozen in a posture of peaceful adoration while shepherds and wise men came to visit. They still had to eat and drink and sleep and take care of normal bodily functions and “household” chores. And Joseph probably had to leave the stable to be counted in the census, right? [I don’t know about this because I don’t know how the census worked…but the census is why they were going to Bethlehem, right? So it makes sense that they had to do something with the census at some point.]
And the shepherds probably had to heavily weigh whether or not to leave their sheep—their livelihood—alone in the fields to do what the angels said. They probably had to discuss what they’d just seen and heard and figure out what they wanted to do. And they probably had to figure out what to say when they arrived at the stable. How do you introduce yourself to the parents of a newborn baby who is declared to be the Son of God? And when they got there, they probably didn’t freeze in humble submission as much as they gazed upon the baby Jesus in awe—like we gaze upon newborns in awe. They probably made silly little noises and funny little faces and ooo-ed and ahh-ed about how beautiful Jesus was. I’m not saying they didn’t bow down. But I don’t think they froze in one silent position.
And…I don’t know. The possibilities of LIFE in the nativity scene and the Christmas story seem endless when I take the time to read or listen beyond the page—to look around the room and imagine what it might have been like to be there—not just on the night Jesus was born but during the moments when Mary and Joseph found out they were having a child, when Mary marveled at the changes taking place in her body during pregnancy, when Simeon and Anna saw their lives’ ambitions fulfilled when Jesus was presented at the temple, when Joseph changed his first diaper, when…you fill in the blank.
Oh God, forgive me for allowing your story to become stale. Give me fresh eyes to see and new ears with which to hear and allow my holy imagination to sense the same excitement, anticipation, and wonder about your presence in this world as children sense about their visit to the moon. Amen.
Monday, December 12, 2011
An Advent Confession
I had one of those moments during worship yesterday when God’s spirit overwhelmed me and I was left in tears. And these weren’t small, unnoticeable tears. These were large, uncontrollable tears that streamed down my face, onto my neck, and into my shirt. And I totally didn’t expect it.
The preacher began to preach, and I began to cry. At first, I cried tears of sadness for grieving family members, lost traditions, and the deep hurts of this world.
Then I cried tears of conviction as I realized just how small my faith had become. I live and breathe God and theology and the ministry and the church, yet somehow my faith has become stagnant and stale. The preacher asked one very simple question: Will you believe in what God can do this Christmas? If God came to earth in the form of the Christ-child over two thousand years ago and if that Christ-child changed how we view the law, how we treat humanity, and how we believe in true life eternal, then why could God not do it again? Why could God not take normal, hum-drum reality and transform it into something more wonderful than anything we can imagine? Why could God not take stagnant, stale, or impossible reality and breathe new life into existence? If I believe in our God of Advent—our God of life and creation—our God that I profess to love and serve with my whole life—then should I not believe in what God can do this Christmas? And not just this Christmas, but in life in general?
Then I cried tears of, oh, I don’t know what they were tears of, but they came as I prayed the Lord’s prayer and asked God to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” If I am honest, then I must confess that there are many people and institutions who I feel have trespassed against me—who have hurt me with words, actions, and deeds because of theological or political beliefs, past actions, and other issues that need not be discussed. If I am honest, then I must confess that there are many people and institutions toward which I feel bitter and judgmental and for whom I have lost belief that anything good can come. Yet if I am to live as one forgiven, and if I am to hope that others will grant forgiveness toward me, then I must extend forgiveness—and hope—to those who have trespassed against me. I must release the bitterness and judgment that I feel—however overt it is—because I really didn’t realize it was there to the extent with which I was tearful yesterday—if I am to live with a faith that is healthy and whole and that believes in what God can do.
One of my favorite passages of scripture is Isaiah 55. I like the whole passage, but my favorite verses are from 8-13: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are my ways your ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth:It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the Lord’s renown, for an everlasting sign which will not be destroyed.”
Oh, Deanna. Oh that you would remember these words. Oh that you would live into these beliefs that God is so much bigger than you and that God can do so much more than anything you can imagine.
And oh, dear friends. Won’t you join me in this confession? Won’t you allow yourself to cry tears of grief for those who are hurting, repentance for faith that is dying, and whatever other emotion needs to be cried for whatever conviction God lays upon your heart?
And then, together, may we go out in joy and be led forth in peace this holiday season, answering yes to this question and to the God whom we love and serve: Will you believe in what God can do this Christmas today?
The preacher began to preach, and I began to cry. At first, I cried tears of sadness for grieving family members, lost traditions, and the deep hurts of this world.
Then I cried tears of conviction as I realized just how small my faith had become. I live and breathe God and theology and the ministry and the church, yet somehow my faith has become stagnant and stale. The preacher asked one very simple question: Will you believe in what God can do this Christmas? If God came to earth in the form of the Christ-child over two thousand years ago and if that Christ-child changed how we view the law, how we treat humanity, and how we believe in true life eternal, then why could God not do it again? Why could God not take normal, hum-drum reality and transform it into something more wonderful than anything we can imagine? Why could God not take stagnant, stale, or impossible reality and breathe new life into existence? If I believe in our God of Advent—our God of life and creation—our God that I profess to love and serve with my whole life—then should I not believe in what God can do this Christmas? And not just this Christmas, but in life in general?
Then I cried tears of, oh, I don’t know what they were tears of, but they came as I prayed the Lord’s prayer and asked God to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” If I am honest, then I must confess that there are many people and institutions who I feel have trespassed against me—who have hurt me with words, actions, and deeds because of theological or political beliefs, past actions, and other issues that need not be discussed. If I am honest, then I must confess that there are many people and institutions toward which I feel bitter and judgmental and for whom I have lost belief that anything good can come. Yet if I am to live as one forgiven, and if I am to hope that others will grant forgiveness toward me, then I must extend forgiveness—and hope—to those who have trespassed against me. I must release the bitterness and judgment that I feel—however overt it is—because I really didn’t realize it was there to the extent with which I was tearful yesterday—if I am to live with a faith that is healthy and whole and that believes in what God can do.
One of my favorite passages of scripture is Isaiah 55. I like the whole passage, but my favorite verses are from 8-13: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are my ways your ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth:It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the Lord’s renown, for an everlasting sign which will not be destroyed.”
Oh, Deanna. Oh that you would remember these words. Oh that you would live into these beliefs that God is so much bigger than you and that God can do so much more than anything you can imagine.
And oh, dear friends. Won’t you join me in this confession? Won’t you allow yourself to cry tears of grief for those who are hurting, repentance for faith that is dying, and whatever other emotion needs to be cried for whatever conviction God lays upon your heart?
And then, together, may we go out in joy and be led forth in peace this holiday season, answering yes to this question and to the God whom we love and serve: Will you believe in what God can do this Christmas today?
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