Horrible
things are happening.
They’re happening all the time, really, in every place.
But sometimes, a people sits up and takes notice of the horrible things and
says, no more. And that is happening here right now. Sometimes the horrible things that are
happening get the attention of many people at once, and get under our collective
skin – past the worries and the habits and the routines of our day, they get all
of our attention at once and we take notice and we say, no more.
And
that can be a powerful moment – an important and clarifying moment, when a
people takes notice of the horrible things and says together, no more.
And
for a moment, when that happens, the veil is lifted and the way of fear is
exposed. The way of fear tells me that there are good guys and bad guys and
life is a struggle between the two. The
way of fear teaches me that suspicion, distrust, cynicism and tribalism are the
best way to deal with those different than myself.
These
years the way of fear tells me that life should be lived in a state of emergency, urgency
and threat. And in this state, it’s ok
to react instead of think, it’s ok to dismiss instead of engage, and everyone
else is most likely a risk to your own security in some way or another and it’s
ok to do whatever it takes to protect yourself. Security, by the way, is what
matters most. Security – of my future, my home, our nation, status, property,
bank accounts, identity, and reputation.
Achieve and maintain security, no matter the cost. And it costs some way
more than others. The way of fear is
usually an airtight status quo that keeps enough of us just content enough, and
just scared enough, to stay put and leave everything as is.
But
suddenly, in our nation, the false security is punctured, the light is blasting
in, and a people is saying, no more, to some of the horrible things.
Nowadays
when something important happens, we plug ourselves into the screens and put
the sound bites in our ears and feed ourselves on a steady diet of passion and
politics and a never-ending stream of input, because we feel like if we are not
paying constant, vigilant attention, if we turn our focus away, even for a
moment, we are letting down those who are grieving, or missing out on something
vital, or somehow not doing our part.
And the urgency is like a drug we can’t get off of, and before we know
it we have absorbed the moment of clarity and self-awareness right into way of
fear.
Because
when we’re giving constant vigilant attention like this, things just seem to get
louder and faster and some people get sharper and smarter but more of us eventually
get meaner and judgier and more divided and desperate, and confused and
hopeless until we weary ourselves of the whole mess and stumble off the merry
go round and try to steady ourselves in normal life and feel a little ashamed
and also a little relieved because, who can sustain that intensity?
And
still, horrible things are happening.
And
we’re not seeing a lot of them. We can only look one place at a time, for
crying outloud. So the refugees
streaming from war-torn countries or the still-missing kidnapped girls, or the
multiplying ebola victims or the heartbreaking poverty in our own city have
their turn as the blip front and center and then fade away again or never even
get noticed because it is not possible to hold it all at once. We are simply
not capable. How can we be responsible for it all?
And
right now, so many people are noticing something that has gone unacknowledged
or avoided for a long time, and they’re saying, no more. And it is so
important to take notice. And praise God for a people saying, no more!
But
the truth is, there will be more.
If
not this, something else. There is
always more.
And
that is heartbreaking to me.
I
wish I could turn on a different channel and soak it in for a few days. One that tells me the truth. About the horrible things, yes, but also past
the pontificating and solutions– I want to turn on the station that tells me in
no uncertain terms, Here is your
God!"
That
God is here. In the middle of it all. That we are not alone.
That
God holds onto the pain and the suffering that I cannot bear, is with those we
are not watching, and no one is lost. I
want the channel that reminds me that the people are like grass, you and me, fickle
and forgetful, and all that we’ve built up as though it is vital will crumble
and blow away.
But
that love, connection, shared humanity, and a strong and sure God who, like a
nurturing shepherd, carries us in her bosom, remains forever. Tell me about the Kingdom of God, the Big
Picture, the real reality under our fake reality, the truth that every single
human life matters, each person is deeply valued and loved and delighted in,
where the gifts of each person contribute to the whole and there is nobody
overlooked or underfoot – all belong and all are meant to be part of the big
picture.
Tell
me about how we need each other and how we’re meant to trust each other and how
we will help each other and receive help whenever we need it. I want to watch
the channel where the stories are about strangers reaching out to others until
no one is stranger, about building life together, looking out for the weak and
parentless, where nobody is hungry because we all share with each other, and
nobody hordes or stockpiles money, or weapons or power or food or the high
opinions of others because we all share so freely that it’s is not necessary to
vigilantly protect ourselves from others, or at others’ expense.
Tell
me about that kind of world.
Is it
coming, God? Is it here?
I
catch glimpses of it in the longing of protesters and the rage of rioters - the need for solidarity, the yearning for
your justice and your rightness in the world- we have a deep sense within
ourselves of how things are meant to be, how they should be!
But
we’re full up with pain and anger and weariness, and opinions of whose fault it
is that we’re so far off from that, or who should be the one to get us to it
and what kind of steps that would take, and frustration that others don’t share
our aim or our agenda or our strategy, or are always telling us what to think
or believe or crave or do.
So
we’re either drowning ourselves in consumerism and the false cheer of another chipper
Christmas season or we’re drowning ourselves in sorrow and anger and despair
over our brokenness. And right now the
passion to change is at a fever pitch, but what happens when it wanes? Oh God!
Let’s not let it wane! so we stoke the fires of anger and sadness in order to
keep on caring intensely so that change might actually happen.
And
either way we’re drowning.
Either
way we are still immersed in the way of fear.
It can feel so hopeless.
And there will be more.
Our
text today is the word of God to a people in exile. Their homeland has been
destroyed by the Babylonians and they are displaced and disoriented. Fifty years now, give or take, they’ve either
made do scattered who knows where, suffering and struggling, or settled into
lives in Babylon. Some are in despair and suffering. Others are getting comfortable in the empire-
while Babylon isn’t their choice, and it isn’t their home, it is where they are
living. And if we’re comfortably living in
exile, buying into the security the empire provides, perhaps we’ve lost the
pining for the homeland – which is to say, if the kingdom of security and power
and self-protection, keeps us just comfortable enough, and just scared enough, that
we may stop longing for the upheaval of the Kingdom of God.
So
as terrible as it is, when horrible things happening come to our collective attention
and we sit up and take notice and say no more, we are at least recognizing
things as they truly are, and telling the truth about them, and refusing,
momentarily, to be lulled into placated acceptance that this is as good as it
gets.
I
feel hopeful when I see people saying no more – when I see outcries for
justice. Not because I have any faith in people’s good intentions, or
collective voice, or any other human-centered strategy to fix what is so broken
within and around us.
I
feel hopeful because it is points to real reality, where we all belong to each
other and we will stand side by side and not let others be dehumanized.
I
feel hopeful because it is people briefly wanting to be who we were created to
be, living out of our true image-of-God-ness.
And
while I know we’re definitely going to blow it a few minutes later and make an
enemy out of someone else or ourselves, in this moment, I am reminded that
justice will prevail, that death doesn’t win, that love is stronger than evil,
and that God is at work, in and through you and me and ordinary people
everywhere. God, who comes with might and draws us in gently, is the real
sovereign, the real authority, the maker of the Big Picture, and the rest of it
will fade and wither like grass.
I
once asked a Benedictine Monk about evil. Real, terrible evil that afflicts
people and causes genuine suffering and terror.
What is the best way to fight it? I wondered.
He
looked at me and said simply, there are two ways to fight evil. One is go
directly after evil. Study it, pursue it, go after it, become adept at
recognizing it and dedicate yourself to eradicating it. That is one way to
fight evil. The other way is to go
directly after God. Immerse yourself in love and kindness, prayer and gratitude,
search for points of connection and glimpses of redemption and opportunities to
forgive and spend time with our maker.
Seek
first the Kingdom of God. The Big
Picture. Be drawn into God’s way of life. The way of hope, and draw others along with
you.
Comfort
my defeated people, God says. Tell them I see them. And they’ve paid way more in suffering than
they ever deserved for whatever they’ve done. Speak tenderly, though, they’ve been
through a lot. And they’re pretty hard
on themselves. Gently, let them know they are free. Lead them into the way of
hope.
With
all the glaring non-stop light of our televisions and smart phones and breaking
news and speeding traffic and artificial trees and neon sales and florescent
malls, Advent speaks tenderly and offers Comfort. Truth. Honesty. Hope.
Advent
is the time of sitting in the darkness.
Sitting in the darkness but not in the fear. Sitting in the honesty of what’s really
within us and between us and around us, and trusting that God is with us here
in this darkness. And when Advent begins like it did for us this year, when a floodlight
is shone onto our streets and into our souls and reveals ugliness and pain,
suffering and struggle, the darkness of Advent is a gift.
Advent is the night shift nurse after the painful surgery, the quiet, turned-down sheets of healing sleep. There is nothing here in the darkness
that isn’t out there in the light – the wounds remain and the recovery
continues. But here, in the shelter of
Advent, waiting for God, we can talk about the hard things and the sad things
and the confusing and frustrating things, and we don’t have to be afraid. And where fear is put to rest, hope is born.
In
this text, the comforted ones, those who needs tenderness and care and a gentle
word of hope, are also the ones told to get to the highest mountain and declare
that God is here. The broken ones are
called the herald of good news.
Our
only security is in the promise of God. Everything
else will crumble and disappear.
The
future that is coming, even now breaking in, it’s God’s future. It is not our
own.
It
is not our job to make it come; it is our privilege to welcome it each day.
It
is not our responsibility to bring it about; it is our invitation to join in as
it unfolds.
There
will be more.
Horrible
things will happen. There will be more
evil and pain and suffering than we can bear. And God sees and holds it all.
More than we ever could.
But
there will also be more love and peace and joy than we can begin to fathom. And we are called to live fully and joyfully, to weep with those who weep, and
dance with those who dance, and to live in the real reality, trusting in and pining
for the Kingdom of God, and inviting each other, even now, to live into the
day when the way of fear will be no more, and God’s way of hope will be all in all.
Then
the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall
see it together.
So get you up to a high
mountain,
O herald of good tidings;
lift up your voice with strength,
O herald
of good tidings,
lift it up, do not fear;
say to a weary and wary world,
"Here is your God!"
Amen.
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