Holy Innocents - 28 December 2019

"...not only [Creation] but we also...groan as we wait patiently" (Romans 8:23)

I was struck by something written in Christian Century this week about this season. In the post, Daniel Schultz reminds us that Christmas, while a time for rejoicing, is also a reminder that the redemption of all things is, in fact, incomplete (https://www.christiancentury.org/blog-post/sundays-coming/long-way-go-isaiah-92-7-luke-21-20). The very season of Christmas attests to this. We move from the celebration with the shepherds to the stoning of Stephen. And, then, the slaughter of the Holy Innocents.

This day of the year is not a pleasant one to meditate upon. One would have to be heartless or willfully ignorant to not think of some part of Creation that is not a victim of humanity's fear, jealousy, or ambition. Herod, Matthew's account tells us, had all children under two years of age killed in order to eliminate this potential political rival. This "newborn king" was a threat to his power. He was fearful of what might happen. He was jealous regarding his position.

And we are called this day to think on those who our broken nature has harmed and to whom it is bringing suffering and pain. This could be the immigrants and refugees held in detention at our borders here in the United States. It could be the animals who are mistreated, neglected, or abandoned like trash. Or, it could even be the fragile world that we continue to wound.

I find it difficult to sit with the thoughts of these Innocents. I want to push them out of my mind; because, I begin to slip into despair. There is too much pain, too much suffering, and the healing of any of it seems beyond me. In fact, I am not only reminded that the work of redemption is incomplete, it seems impossible for it to be accomplished.

In truth, it is, at least for me. And, I suppose, for you. Christ alone, perhaps, could have done it. But he instead left it in our hands, our hands. And we are called to the Innocents of the world in order to save, heal, and comfort those we can.

Come Christmas next year, we will still mourn Innocents past and present. But, as we each take our task, there will be fewer in grief than there are this year.

Fourth Sunday of Advent

"...we despised him, considered him without value" (Isaiah 53:3)

Sometimes, we get things we don't want. Christmas is full of this. Be it clothes or books or household decorations, lots of people this week will end up with stuff that doesn't meet their expectation.

While no commercial will ever say it—what with their promises of the perfect gift—this experience, this feeling of not really getting what you want is right at the heart of the story of Christmas.

Think about it this way: about two thousand years ago, there was an expectation regarding the Anointed One. He'd be of royal blood, probably rich. He'd be a strong, tough leader. And he'd own those in charge. He'd kick them out, put things right again. He'd be a no-nonsense sort of fellow. He'd say what he wanted. He'd make a lot of people in power very unhappy. Those same people would unite against him, but they'd never defeat him. He was, after all, God's anointed.

In case it's been a year since you last heard the story of Christmas, I'll recap it for you: none of the above happened. The Anointed One was born, no one noticed. He wasn't rich. He didn't act at all like he was supposed to act. He did, of course, make those in power uncomfortable. And they got together, plotted, and put him on trial. But he lost that trial, and ended up dead.

"I thought," Lucy says to Aslan in Prince Caspian, "you'd come roaring in and chase away all my enemies." People gave this Anointed One every chance to be the leader, the person they wanted. They celebrated his grand entrance into Jerusalem, they followed him around, and even put up with some of the odd things he decided to say.

In the end, though, he wasn't what they wanted. They'd preferred to give him back, so to say, continue looking. But, as can happen, everyone around them seemed to think that this was just the perfect gift. So, they were stuck with it and, like some unwanted gifts, they tucked him away, pulling it out when on Sundays and when company came.

If I'm honest, Jesus isn't who I really want. I want the wild lion who'll roar and chase away the darkness. I want that warrior who shows up and destroys my enemies with the fire in his eyes, the sword from his lips.

Instead, I get someone who refuses to do this. I get someone who eats with those I disagree with, insists on loving people who don't deserve it, and, instead of being invincible, is just as vulnerable as I am.

And I wonder what I'm supposed to do with this gift.

Jesus, forgive me for following the Christ I want rather than the One you are.

Prayer for the Longest Night

Jesus, hear me. Tonight the darkness seems never-ending. I don't know if I can make it through. It's too dark and too quiet to distract me and drown out the litany that just goes on and on in my head. Will you help me, please? Help me through this night; because, I cannot make it through alone. Help me believe that morning will come, that this is not how it will always be, and that, tomorrow, the night will not last as long. Thank you, my friend. Amen.

First Sunday of Advent

"...weren't our hearts burning in us?" Luke 24:32

In the depths of Spring and in summer the crepe myrtles and other foliage block the view from my backyard to the nearby condos. But, when everything is, like now, bare branches, I can stand on the back steps and look across the fairway to a view framed by two of the buildings.

What I see is a streetlight and the cars lined up, parked, still in the cold nights. If I go out in the early evening, I might catch someone going in or coming out, the car lights flashing as they press their fobs. Often, though, it's early in the morning or well into the evening and things are still. The cars are in their places for the night, the people tucked away in their warm homes.

It's a special view; because, it reminds me of something from the house where I grew up. There was a fence around our back yard. Beyond it, in most directions, was another house. However, at the back of the yard and to the right, you could see the parking lot of the church around the corner.

Like the view I have today, it wasn't visible in summer. But in the winter, when the world was sleeping, I could go to the back of the yard and see one single streetlight that shone down on the parking lot and the back corner of the church's gymnasium.

The view I can see on mornings like today is one that reminds me of that earlier view. It connects me, I guess you could say, with that experience from many years ago. That explains why I wander out into the cold and dark to look at it many nights, but it doesn't capture why that earlier view was special. It was, after all, nothing but a streetlight, shining away on an empty lot, polluting the sky with its unnecessary light.

But it was something I could only see in the winter months. Only when wind and darkness had left the tree limbs bare could I see that scene. Only when most people spent their nights indoors.

Does this tie in with the Advent season that's now beginning? Seems like there should be a turn of phrase, a twist of the narrative that lets me put my hand inside my cuff and pull out a meaning, hidden before now.

It has the elements of Advent—quiet, darkness, a world asleep, light. I could stop there, sit with that as I wait for the sun to rise.

But there is more to it. It's something from the subtler parts of this season's story. It's how we receive gifts when we aren't even looking.

Like shepherds I'm merely out there caring for the creatures with whom I share this earth—the neighborhood cats who stop by each day. In the midst of my work, I look up to see that God has taken a moment to say hello. It is not angels that fill the sky with song, but it is something quiet, like the soft breathing of a newborn. And, in the moment, I find the One who didn't just come among us but comes among us, again and again, to walk a little way on the journey before disappearing. Leaving me wondering why my heart wasn't burning.

Draw near, Jesus, and set my heart afire against the cold days to come.

Fifth Sunday After the Epiphany (1 Corinthians 15:1-11)

Paul tells us the story of his life, and how it was changed. He pulls no punches, does not try to spin the facts, but lays it out in all its flaws and failings. I'm not fit to be doing what I am doing, he admits; because, I was once persecuting the very faith I now preach. The fact that he is living the life before him is because of grace. He is who he is because of God's grace.

We are all products of grace. Someone, somewhere gave us a hand up at a critical moment, those around us sacrificed for us, a stranger or a friend took a chance on us. This is grace. The person I am today is not my doing alone. My wife, my parents, my friends all granted me grace so I might be who I am. God's grace chose me for the paths I have walked, paths I would never have walked on my own.

Recognizing the role of grace in our lives is an act of humility. We are not self-made people, but those who have become who we are because of others and because of God. Acknowledging this gives us the freedom to admit where we've failed, to confess our shortcomings. This frees us from the fear of being found out, and releases us to be graceful to others. And in so doing we show that the grace we've received has not been given in vain.

May we live abundantly; so, the grace we receive might never be given in vain.