Lyrics to Hold Onto--December 15, 2021

Lyrics to Hold Onto--December 15, 2021

"The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not... you keep moving on." (Sunday in the Park with George)

"Nice is different than good." (Into the Woods)

"You're always sorry, you're always grateful, you're always wondering what might have been... then she walks in." (Company)

In recent weeks, fans of musical theater have been mourning the passing of the great lyricist and music writer, Stephen Sondheim. And now with a remake of West Side Story, for which he wrote lyrics, out in theaters, lots of people are being reintroduced to the poetry and images and wordplay that came from his mind. And while I'm no expert on his musicals, there are more than a few of his lines that keep coming back to me.

In fact, I will confess that on a number of occasions in the last several weeks, I've been digging up old recordings I have, or hunting for videos on the internet, of some of those songs that keep coming back.  I'm not sure why, exactly, other than that somehow it is good to hear those old familiar words again, even when they are not exactly cheerful or purely comprised of unicorns and rainbows (Sondheim never runs from the sadness of life, I must admit).  But somehow, hearing the old words, the words that have stayed stuck in the back recesses of my mind for decades in some cases, helps me these days. It's not like I go looking for specific advice in my life by trying to decipher hidden messages in songs from musicals.  I don't say to myself, "What should I do about my investment portfolio?" and then consult the score of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum," or wonder, "Should I get a haircut?" before poring over the lyrics from "Sweeney Todd" for advice.  But somehow the lyrics that have meant something to me before speak again, and I keep holding onto them, even if I'm not quite sure why.

I want to ask something similar of us today, but with the lyrics of the songs from Scripture that keep coming back to us in this season.  I don't think I had thought of the Bible as a musical much when I was a kid or even a college student--too often, the Bible was presented as something like a heavenly math textbook where sample problems were given and lessons were taught, and then you were supposed to do the rest on your own as your spiritual homework.  But truthfully, a lot more of the Scriptures have the feel and flow of a musical, where stories unfold with periodic interruptions from a chorus of angels, or a soliloquy of lament, or a ballad of praise and wonder.  Especially in this season of Advent, we are reminded again and again of those songs, whether it's the ancient poetry of prophets like Isaiah or Zephaniah, or the spontaneous songs of Zechariah or Mary in the opening chapter of Luke, or the chorus from the angels on the night of Jesus' birth.  And again and again, the lyrics come back to us as something to hold onto when other words fail us.

"Comfort, O comfort my people..." (Isaiah 40:1)

"Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and will not be afraid, for the LORD GOD is my strength and my might..." (Isaiah 12:2)

"I will save the lame and gather the outcast... I will bring you home, and the time when I gather you..." (Zephaniah 3:19-20)

"In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us..." (Zechariah's song in Luke 1)

"You have fed the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty..." (Mary's song in Luke 1)

The words keep coming back to us--in my tradition, they are woven into our worship on Sundays, especially in this season.  They aren't always preached on, or given extensive commentary or explanation, but they sit there at the back of our mind, like song lyrics that have been ingrained into our memory.  

And they are there, not so much to give us specific advice for what to do today, but to remind us of the story in which we are caught up.  They are lyrics to hold onto, to remind us of the direction of our hope, when the other things vying for our trust turn out to be unreliable.  We keep coming back to those songs because they remind us that our hope isn't in a day the Dow Jones breaks another record or your 401(k) hits a new high, but in something bigger, for all creation, where at last we are at home and at peace.  We keep coming back to these songs to remind us that the goal of Christmas isn't for us to have the perfect celebration, or put on the nicest meal, or find the ideal gift for a loved one--but rather, Christmas is about the lengths God has gone to in order to reach us, reclaim us, and restore all things in creation.  That awareness might not immediately give you a "helpful life lesson" for what to do with a particular problem at work or a trouble relationship with a friend, but it does have a way of reminding us who and what we are.  We need the lyrics of those ancient songs, even if we don't quite know why.

So today, spend time in the ancient musical songbook of this season.  When we gather in worship, listen with new ears to Mary's song, or read through Zechariah's praise of God and direction to his infant son in Luke 1.  Read the visions of the prophets and just let them sit there in your mind, stewing like soup or mulling like cider, until they become a part of you. Let the poetry of wolves and lambs lying down together capture your imagination.  Let the imagery of a peaceable kingdom shape the trajectory of your hope.  Let Mary's praise of a God who pulls down the bullies from their thrones and lifts up the lowly remind you of the character of that God.  Hold onto those songs, until they become a part of you.

And then, let life come at us as it will.  With the lyrics of those inspired voices at the back of our mind, we will know how best to tune out the angry noise of the world around us, and to hear more clearly the melody of God's new creation rising above the din.

Lord God, thank you for the songs your people have sung--which you inspired in the first place--which remind us who we are.  Let us keep them with us today, as we head into the world to which you send us.

The God Who Lifts--December 14, 2021

The God Who Lifts--December 14, 2021

We aren't just waiting for anybody.  That much needs to be clear.

This season we keep coming back to in church time, this thing called "Advent," it's not just about waiting "in general" or about the importance of delayed gratification as an abstract life principle. It's about whom we are waiting FOR--and about the question, "Who is really worth waiting for in this life?"

And the answer to that, of course, is that the particular God we meet in the Scriptures, the God who has come to us in Jesus, this is the One who is worth the wait.  It's a peculiar sort of God at the heart of Advent and Christmas, not just any old placeholder deity.

The Greeks and Romans, the Egyptians and the old Norse peoples, too, they all had their own pantheons of deities on whom they waited, as well.  But they were by and large giant capricious sky-bullies.  They were short-tempered lightning-bolt throwers like Zeus, or warriors with thunder like Thor.  But they weren't particularly known for lifting up the lowly, or strengthening the weak.  They were projections of human imagination, and like all such inventions, they reflected our own capacity to be selfish, fickle, and volatile.  You are free, I suppose, to wait for such gods to show up... but I hardly think they are worth the wait.

By contrast, the Scriptures keep reminding us that the God of Abraham and Sarah, the God of Moses and Miriam, the God of Mary and Elizabeth and their sons, is always committed to lifting up those who are bowed down.  It's there in Mary's song, as she sings about God filling the hungry with good things while sending the rich away empty, and it's there in her life story, as God calls her to bear the Savior while leaving all the powerful people around her out of the conversation.  It's there in the words of so many of the prophets' visions, too--they spoke of God coming to gather in the outcast, to be gentle with those who were wavering and wobbly, and to strengthen the weak and wayward.  It's there throughout the story of ancient Israel, from liberating the enslaved Hebrews at the expense of Pharaoh's power through the laws commanding debt cancellation and provision for the poor, to little David's victory over the arrogant giant Goliath, to the hope of return from exile.   Over and over, the God we meet in the Scriptures is one who lifts others up who need it.

And at the very same time, this God--whose coming in Christ is what we are looking toward this Advent--always leads us to lift others up as well.  The God who freed the enslaved Israelites then commanded them to look out for foreigners, refugees, and strangers who came across their paths as well, because, as God reminded them, they knew what it was like to be the ones in need and to be lifted up when they were low.  The Savior who was always willing to stop and help the person in need then also called his followers to "Go and do likewise."  The early church, too, was full of people who used their energy to build others up--from Barnabas (who was given that nickname because it means "Son of encouragement,") to the Apostle Paul who instructed his congregations over and over again in his letters to strengthen the fainthearted, to support the weak, and to weep with those who weep.

So, what if today we showed the watching world what sort of God we are waiting for this Christmas--by choosing to lift someone up in our own lives?  It can be an encouraging word, a gesture of kindness, a gift that would brighten someone's day, a compliment to build someone up, or a way of amplifying someone else's voice when you have a platform to help them be heard.  Whatever action it is, let it be a way of letting your own life be shaped by the character of the God who lifts up the lowly, who strengthens the weary, and who encourages the faint-hearted.  Let people see the wonderfully peculiar ways of our God--the God who calls the Marys and Elizabeths of the world while leaving Herod and Caesar out of the loop--in the ways we fill up the people around us who are running on empty.

Lord God, we thank you for your way of lifting us up when we are bowed down, and for your care for the ones who have been stepped on.  Help us to do the same as a witness to your own presence in the world.  Having been lifted up already by you, enable us to lift up others.

Deliberate Communication--December 13, 2021

Deliberate Communication--December 13, 2021

There are a million ways in this techno-savvy age of ours to send a message in an instant.  Text messages, email, instant messenger apps, social media comments, and more are all readily at our fingertips and take virtually no time at all to send.  But the trouble with all of those electronic formats is that it is terribly easy to send a message without actually putting thought into what we are saying.  Through technology, we have made it so easy to send a message that half the time our own devices are suggesting words to complete our thoughts for us (with features like "predictive text" or "autocorrect") or taking our words and reducing them into cartoon faces.  

It takes longer to plan out what you are going to say in a hand-written note.  Not only because our hands our slower to write out words in longhand, but because we actually have to think and communicate in complete sentences.  Without a "delete" button or an "undo" feature, you have to think out an entire idea or phrase before you put it down on paper.  That has a way of forcing us to slow down, to plan what we want to say, and to choose our words deliberately.  It has a way of conveying something of our actual selves to another person, rather than letting an algorithm guess what you were going to say, minus any of your own actual personality.

The beauty of a handwritten note is exactly in its costliness--not just the price of postage, but the gift of time that goes into writing it, the effort that goes into composing it, and the precious glimpse of the sender's own soul that's communicated.  When you get a note in the mail from someone, you are receiving something they themselves have touched, seeing marks their own hands have created, and ideas that came out of their own mind.  There is something beautiful about that, and the patience required of the whole process, from writing and sending to receiving and reading, is part of that beauty, too.  It's rather like the difference between ordering an assembly-line hamburger from the drive-thru and wolfing it down with one hand as you drive with the other and eating a meal that's been cooking for hours in the kitchen and prepared by someone who knew what they were doing, and who knows how much paprika you like in the sauce.

As people of faith, too, there is something really powerful about the act of taking the time to think about what you want to say, committing it to paper, and then sending those words off to someone important enough to you that you have gone to all that trouble.  It is a way of stepping into the perspective of God in a sense, if you think about it.  The coming of Christ at Christmas is all about God communicating to us--first, in the visions of prophets and words of poets inspired to announce the Messiah, and then ultimately in God's self-expression in the baby in the manger.  And that says something about God's willingness to be deliberate... methodical... patient... in the sending of the message.  The writer of Hebrews says that Jesus is "the exact imprint of God's very being" (Heb. 1:3), which is to say that Jesus is what it looks like when God communicates the fullness of God's own identity.  Jesus is God's love letter to us. And the way God took the time in our human history to prepare the way, to nudge prophets to speak, to plant visions like seeds in their minds, to get through to us, and then ultimately to share our own existence as one of us--that reveals God's deep intentionality.  There's nothing haphazard or random about the incarnation of God in Jesus. This isn't a whim of a bored deity, looking for some new thrill of experience otherwise unavailable up in heaven.  This isn't a half-baked scheme, either.   It is God's conscious, chosen path to communicate with us.

We get a glimpse of what that is like in the effort and thought it takes to write someone else a note.  We get a hint of the love, care, and attention God has poured out to humanity in the way we have to craft a letter.  And when the other person receives what you write and reads it, they realize how important they were to you that you took the time to put pen to paper.  That means all the more in a society full of instant communication.  The choice to be patient and thoughtful rather that quick and mindless goes a long way.  Even before you get to any other words, the mere choice to write shows someone else they were worth taking the time for.  What a gift that is.

So today, as a way of learning maybe just a bit more deeply how beloved we are that God chose to communicate so deliberately with us, take the time and make the effort to write a note to someone else.  It doesn't have to be long or poetic--just real, and just you being authentic.  And as you place your envelope in the mailbox, know that God has gone to even greater lengths to communicate with us all.

Lord God, thank you for reaching out to us.  Thank you for Jesus, for all the prophets who got our attention, and for your continuing to speak to us that we might know you.

An Ear for Peace--December 10, 2021

An Ear for Peace--December 10, 2021

You can't rightly celebrate Mothers Day by making mom cook and clean and scrub the bathrooms.  That just violates the spirit of what the holiday is about.

Similarly, it would be a mockery to barge into a Teacher Appreciation Day event while berating public education and destroying the books they taught us to love and learn from.  And it would hardly be a loving way of honoring your friend by cooking all the foods they hate or are allergic to at their birthday dinner.  Please don't do any of those things.  Just don't.

Along the same lines, the preparations we go through every year to commemorate Jesus' birth beg a really important question: how well do our Christmas celebrations fit with the character of the Christ we worship?  How much of our Yuletide feast is Jesus allergic to, so to speak, and once we realize it, will we change the menu accordingly?

As a case in point, I want to ask how we can use this season to become more peaceable people, rather than more hostile, antagonistic, or belligerent.  Jesus, after all, is the One the prophets envisioned as "the Prince of Peace," and they looked forward in hope to the Messiah bringing in God's Reign of endless "shalom"--not merely peace as the absence of conflict, but the presence of wholeness for all.  Those ancient words of the prophet Isaiah have been shouting from the page for thousands of years to us: "For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given... and he shall be called... "Prince of peace."  The prophets envisioned the Messiah's coming as a time when all the old weapons and trappings of war and military might were done away with, burned "as fuel for the fire" because humanity has no more need of them. They dared to envision the coming of the Messiah as good news for all nations, who would come streaming to his throne to learn the ways of peace and justice.  

And yet--I wonder how well any of us actually use this season celebrating the birth of the Prince of Peace actually practicing peacemaking.  And I say this to my own shame as well--it is just so much easier to be angry, dismissive, and bellicose, especially with folks we know we have disagreements with.  It is easier to assume the worst about what they think or why they believe what they do.  It is easier to frame their thinking or actions in the worst possible light than to give them the benefit of the doubt.  It is easier to settle for caricatures of what "they" must think rather than to ask someone else how they come to the conclusions they do.  And it is also easier to try and provoke someone else into an argument because we are spoiling for a fight than to offer in good will to listen as well as to be open to changing your own mind, or at least to revising your assumptions about the other person. 

Honestly, that is the beginning of peacemaking.  It's the willingness to see another person, even when you know you are starting from very different perspectives, as a human being made in the image of God, and to honor and respect that in the other even if there's little else you find admirable in them.  It's the willingness to listen, even to those with whom you disagree strongly.  And it's the willingness where you actually are in the right to work for the other person's transformation, not their destruction. 

Along with all of that, practical peacemaking also means the refusal to make everything into a battle to be won or lost, and the refusal to intimidate, threaten, or manipulate as your way of projecting strength.  For Christians, it means we don't get suckered into seeing things as a "culture war" and casting ourselves as noble victims or valiant crusaders in such a war.  It means we don't try and intimidate others or put others who do not share our faith beneath us.  It means we don't assume we have all the answers, and that we acknowledge there are probably places in each of our thinking and believing where we are wrong.  It means the willingness to let someone else help us to rethink, re-examine, re-consider, and--to use a word Lutherans should like--to "re-form," rather than lashing out every time someone presents an idea or a thought or a fact that makes us squirm with discomfort.

There's today's challenge then: that we would be people who take the first immediate step of genuine peacemaking by deliberately and openly listening to someone we know we disagree with, to find out where they are coming from, how they have arrived at their current thinking, and to see the humanity in them that forums like social media have a way of masking.  Take the step of offering an ear for peace--the willingness to hear someone else's perspective rather than shouting them down as the first step.  Disarm those who have been antagonistic by being willing to hear how they see the world and why they do, and remove from them the ammunition of accusing you of "never listening."  It may not change someone else's mind to take that step, but you will have changed the lay of the land by refusing to make something into a battle that was meant to remain a conversation.  Seeing those we most struggle to love as people for whom Jesus still came (and knowing they may be having just as big an epiphany realizing that Jesus came for you, too!) has a way of changing things.  That's where the work of peacemaking begins in our actual lives.

Look, we've got to be honest: every time some firebrand demagogue takes a photo with everyone in the family packing their assault rifles and slaps a "Merry Christmas" greeting on it, the watching world thinks that's what Christians believe their faith in Jesus is about.  And it's an outright mockery of the One the Scriptures proclaim as "Prince of Peace."  Our calling is to be different--our calling is to celebrate Christ by becoming peaceable people ourselves.  And that will mean we come unarmed and empty-handed to listen to others, with open ears and open minds. That's how to honor the coming of the Prince of Peace.

O Christ, help us to rightly honor your coming among us by letting our lives be shaped by your peace.

The Gift of Empty Space--December 9, 2021

 

The Gift of Empty Space--December 9, 2021

It is so easy for this season to become nothing but a stack of to-do lists.  Resist that temptation.  Choose differently.  

Refuse to get sucked into the vortex of itemized checkboxes and chores to be accomplished--all by December 25th, of course! While the busy-ness whirls around you, keep yourself connected to other people by making time for them.  Hold open time in your day, even if it feels just like empty (wasted) space on your calendar, for the possibility of where you might be needed--just for conversation with someone else.

These days, I find myself keeping all sorts of running checklists: presents that have been ordered or bought, along with presents that have arrived and are waiting to be wrapped... items to do at work for the day, the week, and the season... phone calls to make and emails to reply to... along with the usual routines of laundry, cooking, and keeping some level of awareness of whether my kids are doing their homework or not.  You have your own set of lists, I'm sure.  And there's nothing wrong with having those things to do in life, or keeping track of what you have to do each day, either.  It's better than constantly letting people down because you haven't done what you were supposed to do at any rate. 

But with the busyness of the pre-Christmas season (which adds itself to the regular busyness of life), it is very easy to become cut off from other people... or to lose focus on what is most important--or who, rather, is most important. It's easy to see the day ahead of you only in terms of how many errands can be checked off between work and bed, or how many things can be cleared off the desk before quitting time.  And when we do that--when we slide too far into that mentality of finishing tasks in the name of "preparing for Christmas"--we can forget that it is for people, not productivity, that Jesus came.  We can forget that it is God's love for human beings like us that prompted God's coming in a human life like ours. And we can forget that the Jesus whose birth we celebrate this season was always willing to let himself be held up for a conversation with someone who needed to talk.  

This year, I am trying for my own part to think differently, despite the pull of the to-do list and its promises of rewards for productivity.  I am trying to start from the premise that my ways of preparing for Jesus' coming and celebrating his birth should make me more like him, not less.  That just seems reasonable.  If my pre-Christmas practices are making me meaner, or less compassionate, something has gone wrong.  If my observation of Advent is making me less attentive to other human beings in the name of looking busy, I am missing the point.  And if my focus on filling every moment with as much accomplishment as possible makes me unable to be detoured when someone else needs me to listen, well, I fear that is making me less like Jesus rather than more.

So today, my own dare--and one I'll offer to you as well--is to make the time for conversation with someone.  Hold open time--let there be wiggle room in your day, whether at work or at home or in between--so that you are available.  Give the gift of empty space that someone else might--or might not--ask of you.  And when someone reaches out needing to talk, needing to share something, or needing to process some heartache weighing on them, or even just to check in with you, set aside the idol of accomplishment... and give them the time.

And let that become a gift in both directions--a gift for the person you are making time for, and for yourself as well.  That's just it: our relentless devotion to our to-do lists ends up being a life-draining ordeal for us.  It never lets up, and it never gives us rest, and it certainly never lets us find joy in being with other people just for the sake of being with them.  The to-do list, especially the Christmas to-do list, may be an efficient organizational tool, but it is also a ruthless master.  Holding open time in our day that isn't meant to "check stuff off the list" but is open for reaching out to other people has a way of breaking that master's power over us, and keeping our to-do lists as tools rather than tyrants.

Using time differently will take some practice, to be sure.  It will mean we have to be uncomfortable with spaces in our days that aren't crammed full of things we need to finish, and it will probably mean learning to be ok with having fewer check marks of things we've done.  But it will also mean that we are available to be more human--and to see again our own humanity, with our need to talk and to be listened to, our need for pauses and breaks, our need for the unexpected conversation that was possible because we weren't in a rush to get somewhere else.

So today, let us dare to give the gift that at first looks like nothing but empty space. Let us hold open the space in our days and in our lives for conversation with people we haven't made appointments with, but whose paths will cross our own unexpectedly.  And when they do, we can choose to be ready to receive them... and to have the time to give them.

Lord Jesus, you entered into our time and our lives as one of us, simply for the love of being in relationship with us.  When we forget that, pull us back, in relationship to you and in connection with those around us whom you love as well.

Daring a New Tune--December 8, 2021

Daring a New Tune--December 8, 2021

I've heard it said, "The four most terrifying words in Scripture are, 'Sing a new song'."  I think that's just about right.

That sentence could just be taken as a cheap shot, a criticism of how church folk don't like change, don't want to move out of familiar routines, and don't take too kindly to anybody trying to nudge them to learn a new hymn out of the hymnal.  I don't think it's meant that way.  I think it's more to say, we like our deity to be as predictable as a rhyme we've learned from memory.  We like to already know what God is going to do before God does it, or maybe even better, a God who has already done everything that God is going to do, leaving it just to us to report to others the list of God's accomplished deeds.  We like to think that God has to check with us before doing anything new... and therefore the same old songs we've "always sung" will do just fine.  They hold no surprises for us.  They cannot catch us off guard.

And yet, as the quotation reminds us, it's from the Scriptures themselves that we find the words of poets and prophets daring us to do the thing we are a little afraid of:  to sing a new song.  It is the Scriptures themselves that push us, not just to sing, but to learn, to write, and to share new words, new images, and new melodies to draw us into praise of the God who stubbornly insists on continuing to do new things.

So today, let's allow that dare to be our own way of embodying hope.  Let's make the attempt to sing a new song this Advent.  I mean that as literally as I can.  In Sunday worship, or in a midweek Advent service, or on your own in your own personal devotional and prayer time, or with a group of friends, learn a new song of praise.  It doesn't matter if you are a professional singer or can't carry a tune in a bucket--dare to learn and to sing a new song, and see what it does to your soul.

See, I have a hunch.  I think like so many things in life, our ability to see God moving in the world has a great deal to do with what are already looking for.  We will spot God more often than not in the places we expect to find God, and we'll recognize God's presence in the places we are prepared to see the divine.  But if that's a closed feedback loop where we only ever look for God in the times and locations we assume a respectable deity to be, we'll never be able to see God anywhere new.  And a god who cannot appear anywhere except in your list of pre-approved venues or settings is an idol for sure.

The God whose coming we look for at Christmas, however, is the sort of God who insists on surprise.  The story we retell each year at Christmas is all about overturned expectations, isn't it?  A God who operates, not in the seats of power (Rome) or respectable religion (Jerusalem and its temple), but on the margins in some tiny town that was easily overlookable.  A birth, not in a palace or even a private room, but in the basement with a house full of people upstairs while animals tried to eat out of the trough they were going to put the baby in (remember that there isn't really an "inn"--and definitely not an "innkeeper" in this story; the word that got mistranslated "inn" is better translated "guest room" and suggest that Mary and Joseph have indeed found relatives to stay with, but they don't have their own private accommodations in Bethlehem).  A flutter of angels appearing to night-shift shepherds.  None of these were the expectation. All these details we take for granted in the Christmas story were utter surprises when they first happened--and the only reason anybody dared to believe such things as a Messiah in a manger is that they were open to a God who would do the unexpected... a God for whom new songs would need to be sung.

When we dare to learn a new song, something happens in that place where our minds and our hearts meet.  We learn to see God from a new perspective, to recognize something true about God that we had never known before, but maybe which had always been there.  We come to recognize that God has never been obligated to stay inside the boxes we have created to contain the divine, and yet is also surprisingly willing to be located in the tiny, fragile body of a Middle Eastern baby boy.

And not only that, when we sing a new song, we start to dethrone the idol we've made of predictability, and we can be open to God doing surprising things in the world in front of us.  We can be open to the unexpected guest list of those God will include and invite to join with us in worship.  We'll be better able to spot God's movement drawing in the ones who were told they weren't good enough or are unacceptable.  We'll be equipped to recognize God rearranging what we thought was the "natural" order of things by promising a new creation where wolves and lambs are at peace. We'll be ready to see the expansiveness of God's reign, reaching beyond the boundaries of national borders or political parties or the other lines we draw.  We'll be ready, in short, to let ourselves be surprised by God, too.

I get it, though.  It takes some getting used to.  Singing a new song takes more than one try, and it requires a willingness to stumble through words and notes until the new becomes familiar enough to add our voice.  Fair enough--let's stumble through.  Let's take the time, let's risk the wrong notes, let's dare to be pushed out of our comfort zone, enough to let the practice of new songs do its work on our spirits.

There will be time for all the old favorites, too, in their own moment.  For today, let's dare to sing a new song.

Lord God, help us to be open to the surprising ways you move--and train the eyes of our hearts to recognize you in all the places we weren't looking for you, but where you have set up shop and gone to work.

The Case for Olive Branches--December 7, 2021

The Case for Olive Branches--December 7, 2021

I know in our part of the world, this is the season for evergreens.  This is the time of year when wreaths are made of pine boughs, sprigs of fir or spruce, or circles of holly, and with good reason.  I know the symbolism, reaching back many centuries, of these plants as signs of life that continues even when the winter is at its coldest and the winds blow their strongest.  I know, living in a county that prizes its reputation as the "Christmas Tree Capital of the World," to appreciate the beauty of all those conifers that keep their color all year long, even through a bleak midwinter.

But I want to make the case that--at least in our actions--this is also a time for olive branches.  That is to say, the season of waiting and watching for Christ's coming is ripe for reconciliation, and for mending relationships that have gone too long in estrangement and discord.  Today's dare, then, to embody hope this Advent, is just that: to extend an olive branch and take a small step toward reconciling with someone in some relationship that has been frayed lately.  

Sometimes we forget the biblical origins of that phrase, "extending an olive branch," but it really is fitting for new beginnings in our broken relationships.  You know the end of the flood story in Genesis, how as Noah is waiting to see if the waters have subsided, he sends out different birds at different times and watches to see if they'll return with any evidence that the world outside the ark is coming back to life.  First, the raven comes back with nothing... so he waits.  Then, he sends a second bird (our translations in English often render it "dove," but the Hebrew is the same word for "pigeon," and scientifically, they are the same family of birds, but that's a conversation for another day), and this one brings back a fresh sprig from an olive tree.  Noah understands what this means--there are new plants springing up somewhere nearby, and the bird has brought back evidence.  Ever since that story was first told, we've been borrowing the image of an olive branch as a sign of new beginnings being possible.

That image may go back a long way into our ancient past, but there's also a reason for making amends with others that comes from the future: the Scriptures keep pointing us to a day when God not only renews creation but transforms us so that old enmities are put away.  Wolves and lambs lie down together in safety, without anyone getting eaten. Cows and bears, snakes and toddler, too.  All safely in God's "peaceable kingdom."  The old animosities are gone, and new kinds of relationships can be begun.  The same with the images of swords being beaten into plows and spears into pruning hooks--they speak of God's promise to train our hearts so we will no longer kill one another, when, indeed, we "will learn war no more."  (I have to tell you, just days after another school shooting in our country, those words from the prophets weigh heavily on my heart.)  God's promised future, in other words, is one of restored, transformed relationships, where no one needs to live in fear of being attacked or harmed by others, and where we do not lash out first for fear of someone else hurting us first.

And if this is a season for us to embody hope--to show people around us what our trust in God's good news really looks like--then this is a perfect moment for taking the first steps, even if they are small ones, to make peace with someone whose relationship with you has been strained.  It doesn't mean we'll paper over our past conflicts in the sentimentality of Christmas, only to have the old wounds return in the blah of January.  It doesn't mean we are saying whatever the other person did or said to you once upon a time was OK (nor does it mean that whatever it was you said or did to them was OK, either).  But it does mean we make the decision not to let those past choices dictate our future ones.  It means we don't have to keep weaponizing the past, nor nursing old grudges to keep the pain fresh and bitterness from going away.  It means we break silences we have allowed to go for too long, at least to let the other person know, "I want to try to make things right again."

Look, I don't know what the particular heartaches are that you have been through.  I don't know which particular relationships in your life have been strained.  I don't know what was said to you or done to you, and I don't know what you have carried with regret in your memory, either, that you wish you could take back now.  I don't know the specific pains in your life, but I know what it feels like in my own life to bear those hurts and feel those absences.  I know that it can feel like it's impossible to ever get a strained relationship to grow back, and I know what it's like, too, have just survived in life by leaving old broken ones behind and never looked back.  And I make no promises that our mere good intentions can heal the lingering hurts between us.

But I do believe that the followers of Jesus are called to live now in light of what we believe God promises us.  I believe we are meant to live with confidence that our weapons will be hammered into something actually useful someday, and to act like it now by attempting to hammer out our differences now.  I believe that we are called to trust the prophet that one day we will learn war no more, and to anticipate that day now by risking the vulnerability of offering ourselves, disarmed, to others in a first step of peace.  I believe that a God who can raise the dead can resurrect an estranged relationship.  And I believe that a God who can transform creation itself so that wolves and lambs can be at peace can also transform past dysfunction in our relationships if we are willing to make amends for the past hurts we have inflicted and willing to dare forgiveness for the hurts we have born.  I believe the most courageous, hope-filled, and Christ-centered thing we can do is to step out in a violent and resentful world without a sword, a spear, or a gun in hand, but rather with an olive branch.

Today, what if you and I took the first step?  A phone call, a voicemail, a text, an email.  A handwritten note.  An olive branch.  What if we were so confident that in God's promise that one day our old enmities will be overcome that we started to practice at it now, and offered the possibility of starting over--whatever that might look like--where we have been cut off from one another for too long?  Could we dare such courage?  

Let us dare it.

Lord God, you promise to make all things new, even our relationships. Give us the courage to mend and begin again with one another, in light of the promised reconciliation you have in store for all things.