Servant of the Lord Preached on 12-24-17 at Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Luke 1:26-38These past few weeks, I’ve been watching some cute nativity videos online. You know the ones, where children, in hesitant speech, narrate the story from memory. Generally they are quite true to the biblical story. And sometimes they add some modern-day details of their own, such milk and diapers brought by the wise men. But I’ve noticed one thing. When children tell the story of the annunciation, the story we just heard, they often imagine Mary hanging out the laundry on the line, or inside doing something else homey, like sewing or cooking … doing domestic chores. This is much like the live nativity in my town, acted out in a local field with real donkeys and lamas, children and adults. Any child who arrives early enough can take a costume and participate. And so, on the evenings of Dec 22nd and 23rd, the children, adults, and new parents with their baby Jesus are all bundled up in their parkas and snowsuits, under angel, shepherd and other outfits. I enjoy the telling of the story in this way, except for one particular detail that irritates me a little. The narration begins “Mary was a religious girl, always busy at her chores.” You see the silhouette of woman in a tiny house sweeping the floor. When the angel appears and delivers the message, she falls to her knees. Mary mimes her initial fear and trembling, then a woman takes over the narration. Very softly murmuring “let it be with me according to your word” she submits, to the duty to which she is called. But, no, this will not do. If we read Luke’s gospel carefully, we’ll understand that Mary is not a submissive character. This week we focus on the announcement of the angel, a story that comes before the reading we heard last week. In last week’s text, Mary sang her song of liberation, the Magnificat, in which she credited God with bringing down the powerful and scattering the proud. Mary anticipated that she, and others who were also lowly, would be lifted up by these mighty acts of God. This is the outcome of her surrender to God’s will, her consent to carry and birth the infant Jesus. Her answer isn’t the gentle melody of the Beetle’s song “let it be”. Her reply is strong, bold and fierce “Here am I servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Mary surrenders to the task that God has chosen for her. She will nurture and birth this child, and will do all the courageous things necessary to ensure he grows into adulthood. She knows it will not be easy. She is well aware of the forces at play in her world, that would resist one who would bring down the powerful and scatter the proud. Mary’s pondering is not passive daydreaming but deep prayer. It is deep discernment seeking out God’s will for her and the child she will carry. And so, we might wonder why we have been presented with stories of a meek religious girl, busy about her chores. How has this distortion taken place? Why have our children been encouraged to think of Mary in this way? I have a hint. I believe it has to do with a resistance to the scattering of the proud. We humans often craft our sacred stories to suit our purposes. The idea of a submissive, passive Mary certainly suited the male-only priesthood that existed in the Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox churches for centuries. To hold up Mary as an example of servant-hood is a convenient model for the authority of the clergy, who wished for members to do their bidding. The problem is, Mary is not called to be a servant of the powerful, she is called to be a servant of God, for God’s purposes. I realize, this may sound confusing. The scriptures invite us to follow the Way of Jesus. We are told that way is to become like Christ, a servant of all. But we, especially we the church, have to be careful about the way we handle this instruction to serve. A little over 20 years ago, my family and I began attending a UCC church in our small town. We joined the church with a number of other young families. Like many other congregations, this church had relied on the stay-at-home mothers of the 1960’s and 70’s to provide a backbone of service. The largest organization within the church was the so-called “Women’s Association” to which every woman of the church automatically belonged. The Women’s Association ran the annual, elaborate Christmas Fair; they were responsible for the very tasteful interior decorations of the church building; and among other things they coordinated coffee hour coverage. And it is my understanding that a number of the women ensured that the gaunt but beloved pastor was kept well supplied with his favorite sweet treats. And so, come the mid-1990’s the matriarchy of the Women’s Association was aging. They expected the new cohort of young mothers to step up and take their places. They couldn’t understand why this might be a problem. Meanwhile, the new women like myself, were part of the new generation juggling work and child care. We were reluctant to spend up to $40 on babysitting to attend the lengthy Women’s Association evening meetings. I was particularly surprised to read an announcement in the newsletter that “every woman” in the church was expected to provide a baked good for the church fair. As my grandfather had been a master baker, and my dad had taken up baking in his retirement, I wondered what the church was missing, by limiting this call to women only. Rev. Ken was a wonderful pastor, approachable and diligent in pastoral care, a true servant of all. At first he couldn’t understand why the new women didn’t want to participate in the Women’s Association. He preached many a sermon on the need for service to the church. It took a while to explain to him the cost of childcare and the fact that many of the young dads worked late or traveled for work. The mothers were worn out by the end of a day of “doing it all.” They wanted to serve the church, but on a different schedule. And they wanted to do work that felt meaningful: whether it was singing in the choir, publishing the newsletter, or being in leadership. It took a while to explain, but once the pastor understood, he helped with this transition in the power dynamic of the church. This was a “change or die” moment for the Women’s Association. The elder members were terribly sad that their group was breaking up, but they could not imagine organizing differently. And so the Association was finally dissolved. Their remaining funds were made available for special women’s retreats, which were appreciated by all ages. Subsequently several younger women took up positions of responsibility in the church. Although both the men and women in the church had always practiced service, things simply became a little more equal. I tell this story, not to criticize my pastor or the people of the church that I love. But I tell it to show how easily we can all become accustomed to an unequal situation, especially when it benefits ourselves. I tell this story, to demonstrate that there often has to be disruption in the church and culture when God’s purposes are acted upon. It is a problem for people in authority or power ascribe Mary’s role as servant to other people. And it is a problem when people in subservient positions to the powerful are held back from the worthy positions of service that God has in mind for them. The distortion of Mary’s role has been exploited in the institutional church and in the culture for generations. Pastors, priests and others in authority, have manipulated their power in order to abuse the children and others in their care. And those who have suffered domestic abuse by their partner in marriage have often been sent home by their pastor to submit to their abusers. My hope is that we are, and we can be, a church that gives the Mary’s among us the opportunity to surrender to God’s call on their lives. That often means privileging the quietest voices in the room – something I often forget to do. It means to listen wisely to the youngest and the oldest, to persons of color, and members of the LGBTQ community. To always be on the lookout for those who have been cast a lowly role in our community. There will always be domestic chores, and I am most grateful for the people here, irrespective of gender, who do that work. This is work we can do graciously and gladly together. And then we can be on the look out for what we need to do to live into God’s promise of lifting up the lowly and bringing down the proud. Mary is been given the role of Christ-bearer. It is a position of great responsibility in God’s plan of redemption for the world. It is not simply “women’s work” and is certainly not only a domestic chore. To become a servant of the Lord requires courage. Resisting the temptation to become the servant of the proud and the powerful also requires the courage. It is a role ascribed to each one of us, whether or not we are lowly or proud. And so, I invite us all to search out hearts this Christmas time, and ponder deeply, how is God inviting each of us to surrender? What mighty Christ-bearing role does God have in store for you? Let all of God’s people say Amen.
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Pure, Unadulterated Joy Preached on December 17th, 2017 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Luke 1:46b-55 When was the last time you experienced pure, unadulterated joy? As a child, maybe, at the magic of Christmastime, lights twinkling on the newly decorated tree, all ready for Santa to place something special underneath. Or, perhaps as an adult, you have found that something that brings you pure joy. A flawless, breathtaking ski run … the conditions perfect, snow just crisp enough, the sun at just the right spot in the sky. Or perhaps in a concert, the music lifting you up out of your seat, your body swaying, your arms lifted. A walk with a loved one, or alone, on a pure winter day, craning your neck to admire the flocking birds above calling to you. Or perhaps the day you held a newborn welcomed to your family, your child, a grandchild, niece of nephew? The tiny fingers wrapped around yours, you gazed into the new to the world face, taking in each detail. Pure joy. The Song of Mary, the Magnificat, is a response of joy. It comes pouring from her mouth at the moment that her cousin Elizabeth confirms what the angel said. There is a seed planted deep within her, she is to give birth the savior of Israel. The announcement of a pregnancy is often wonderful news, especially in families who have been hoping and trying for some time. The stick shows two blue stripes or a cross, making the “positive” sign. There’s hugging and weeping, but also the holding of breath. Even today, 2017, that first hint of life-to-come cannot be welcomed with entirely unadulterated joy. Miscarriages in the early weeks are common. Birth defects and complications have not been eradicated. Pregnancy and birth are still come with risks. Most parents will wait to announce the news, sometimes waiting for the results of medical tests. While pregnancy can be risky today, the chances of complications in 1st century Palestine must have been comparatively off-scale. Add to that, Mary’s status as an unwed young woman who traveled through rough country to stay with her cousin who was also pregnant. Add to that the possibility that her betrothed might well abandon her, to face the rejection and even stoning given to unmarried women found to be pregnant. Add to that the alarming responsibility of birthing and protecting this new life, for God’s purpose of redeeming Israel, and indeed the world. I am astounded that Mary could possibly respond with pure joy. And yet Mary’s song is not only joy for the blessing of a child in her womb. Mary’s song is a song of joy for what God, the Mighty One, “has done.” Her song continues in this strange past/present/future tense. This is known as the aorist tense … past, but without reference to duration or completion of an action. Perfect for describing God’s activity in the world. And especially perfect for describing God’s activity in this moment. The seed has already been planted, growing within Mary’s womb. The act has been done, and yet is has not been completed. The child is yet to be born, to live and grow, to reach maturity and teach and preach and heal. And, even in our times, the Christ is yet to come in fullness. Mary is rejoicing at God’s actions in history and in the world. These are dramatic actions. They involve upheaval and reversal of the status quo. Mary anticipates that with the birth of her child, God will scatter the proud, bring down the powerful from their thrones, lift up the lowly and fill the hungry with good things, all while sending the rich away empty. Mary lives in a world in which she, a poor unmarried young woman, is in a lowly position. The actions of the proud and powerful dictate the circumstances of her life. As her pregnancy progresses she will be required to make the dangerous journey to Bethlehem, simply because the occupier requires it. She will give birth in a stable, because poor travelers will be overcrowded in that outlying Jerusalem neighborhood. She will be separated from the traditional support system of her family, because of the Roman Empire’s whims. No wonder Mary rejoices at the possibility of the reversal of this situation. And yet, I wonder, does she not have the least sense of foreboding? Isn’t her joy tinged with just a little fear? Doesn’t the enormity of what she is going to do cause her to shudder just a little? For Mary, in this moment at least, the answer is “no.” But I suspect for any of us the answer to all of the above would be a firm “yes.” Unadulterated joy is rare these days, except in the very young. In her book “Daring Greatly”, Brené Brown says, “in a culture of scarcity, joy can seem like a setup.” Do you feel, sometimes, that things seem to be going too well. You are feeling so happy that there must be a catch? So often, when we feel joy we also fear that disaster is coming, perhaps in the shape of a terror attack, a terrible car accident, or other tragic event. [1] What Brown describes as “foreboding joy” comes from the fear that we cannot trust when things are going too well. She says that many of us use foreboding joy as a shield to protect ourselves from becoming too vulnerable. In her research she learned that people describe themselves as most vulnerable when they
All of these things seem like reasons for joy, and yet, they make us feel so vulnerable, vulnerable to pain and the possibility of loss. I know for myself, motherhood brought my vulnerability to the surface. The blessing of the most beautiful children I could have imagined could have brought about pure joy. But the vulnerability was almost unbearable. I put off bathing our first child, fearful that I would scald him or drown him. The responsibility of driving our children in the car on icy days panicked me. Like many moms, I felt an irresistible need to mitigate the joy of my children. I’d scold them (and their dad) when I thought that they were getting too rambunctious and silly, using the excuse that an accident might happen. I so regret the part I played in teaching my children to distrust joy. My protection of them was really a kind of self-protection. “Mark my words, there’ll be tears before bedtime” was a family motto I’d learned years before from my grandmother, aunt and my own mom. We did not like to admit that we feared they would be our own tears. And so, you see, joy and vulnerability are deeply connected. To feel pure joy, we must be willing to be vulnerable. No wonder we see pure joy in Mary. She must be one of the most vulnerable young women in human history! Mary sees the consequences of saying “yes” to this heart-opening moment of joy. She is not simply waiting to give birth to the baby she will cuddle and play with. She has no doubt that there is a deeper meaning to this baby’s birth. She knows that the reversals that Jesus is supposed to bring about will also bring danger upon himself. And yet, her joy is full. One reason why I think we struggle with joy as adults is that we know too much. While we feel gratitude for home, food, and shelter, we know that others suffered for our material gain. Migrant workers, living far from home in miserable conditions, have harvested the fruit and vegetables we eat. Slave labor is used to produce the clothes in our most popular stores. This is a part of our growing up experience. When we were young we may have delighted in a simple plastic toy, or the latest technology. But as we grew up we learned the realities of the sweatshop workers that assemble our cell phones and the pollution of plastics in the environment. Remember how Harry Potter delighted in the sumptuous Christmas feasts that seemed to appear at Hogwarts? It was later that he learned about the plight of house elves like Dobby, slaving to produce the food for him and his fellow students. The root of Mary’s joy is in the reversal she anticipates for the world. The reversal that will put these things right. This reversal will be birthed by the Christ whom she bears in her womb. Her joy is in the role she will play in this in-breaking of God into the suffering of the world. Her role, in this moment is simply to gestate that hidden seed of Christ’s coming. The invitation to lean into Advent joy includes becoming vulnerable enough to delight in our closest relationships. But it also includes embracing joy in the role that God has for us in the coming of Christ to the world. And so this week, as we seek Advent joy, let’s imagine that third pink candle shedding its light on the hidden ways, the seeds, in which God enters the world and the role that we will play. This weekend, at Wollaston Congregational Church, we resumed hosting of a group from Ohio State University who are going to be serving the poor of Boston this week. A seed. And a car load of coats, mittens, hats, shoes and longed-for toys, were/will be taken to Interfaith Social Services for our “snow ball” family this year. A seed. This week I received a message of great gratitude from our friend in Africa, telling us that our gift for him was safely delivered last week by a brave woman. A seed. Friends, this side of the coming kingdom of God, our joy will be like tiny seeds … momentary glimpses. Mary has a hard road ahead of her. There will be pain, sadness and grief. But, in this moment, her joy is pure and unadulterated. And so, my prayer for you is that in this season you would find the same moments, the same seeds, of joy, pure and unadulterated. Amen [1] Brené Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead, (Penguin Random House, New York, 2014) “And Now Let us Confess Our Sins to God…” Preached on December 10th, 2017 at Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Mark 1:1-8 This is the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, Son of God, according to the gospel of Mark. John the Baptizer, a messenger, is sent ahead of Jesus and like the prophet Isaiah of old, cries out in the wilderness “prepare the way of the Lord.” In the days of Isaiah, the cry was for the people of Israel, exiled and separated from their only spiritual and physical home by the Empire of Babylon. For the people of John’s day the cry is for a people whose spiritual and physical home is occupied by the Roman Empire. The Baptizer has separated himself from the tainted religious institution. While some temple leaders have decided to cooperate with the Roman rulers, John has removed himself to the wilderness. People come from miles around to hear John preach as he reminds them that God has every intention of coming to end their suffering. They are required to prepare the way for the Christ who is to come. We might imagine that John would send them back to their synagogues to begin a fundraising campaign. After all, they are going to need build up their space to make room for the Messiah and all those will come to hear him speak. They will need to get the crews working on the highways and paths, so that the Messiah will be able to travel efficiently around the country. Even though they dislike the Romans, thank goodness for their focus on transportation and infrastructure. But, no, this is not how John tells the people to prepare a way for the coming of the Lord. Instead of getting buildings and systems into shape, John invites them to come and confess their sins. They are to get themselves into shape. They are to promise to turn their lives around, and receive forgiveness. And then they are to be baptized: adults and children, gentiles and Jews, pushed under the chilly waters of the River Jordan. The work of preparation is the deep heart work of confession and repentance. So, what do you think? Should we follow John’s example as we prepare the way for Christ this Advent? Should we call ourselves and others to confession and repentance? I have a feeling that many of us in the mainline church might shudder and say “no thank you.” Why might that be? Is it because the idea of repentance from sin is too much vulnerability for us? Is it because we associate the idea of sin and repentance with dire, unforgiveable acts? For most people, the things we believe we have done wrong, or failed to do right, are the most difficult things to share. We prefer to hide these things because they cause us shame. Exposing our sin and shame is probably one of the most excruciating things we could do, but also one of the most healing things we could do. So, let’s consider what we mean by sin. The best definition I have come across is from theologian, Paul Tillich’s who says sin is anything that separates us from God, others, or our own best selves. Molly Baskette, UCC minister and author draws on this definition, saying that “sin might manifest something that doesn’t immediately sound like sin: say, clinical depression, or anxiety or control issues.” But she goes on to say “of course, depression like addiction, is an illness and not a sin. But refusing treatment or keeping such issues secret from loved ones is [a sin], because it undermines our relationships and denies God the power to help us by all possible means.” [1] So, perhaps confessing sin is less about what we have done wrong and more about admitting our need for help. Of course, we frail human beings do things wrong. We hurt our loved ones ... spouses, children, parents and friends; we turn our backs on those in need; we make judgments about others; we over-indulge ourselves; and we take what is not ours. In cases where we have hurt others repentance will involve making amends, and asking the hurt one for forgiveness. We need help from God for these things too. Even though it can be excruciating to confess our sins to others, I have learned that there is a deep human need to do so. People often share details of their lives with me, in a way that could be thought of as confession. I want you to know that you are welcome to come and talk to me confidentially anytime. Feel free to reach out - we can have coffee together, or meet before or after church, or during my office hours. This is one of the most important aspects of my ministry with you. It feels good once a burden is shared, that is why so many of us will confide in a walking partner, our coffee buddies, our mom-and-me groups. Some years ago, while my children were young, I went on a retreat with a group of church women. One of the activities was to use a sand tray - like the one up here on the table here – to create the “story” of one’s life. The women on the retreat loved doing this. Moreover there was an unintended consequence of the activity. One by one, each woman would take another aside to explain their sand tray. One woman, a young mom like me, showed me her tray. She showed me how her children and her husband featured on the tray and the things they did together. But then she pointed to a tangled mass of moss, like this on the tray. “That is my spiritual life … confused and messy, I don’t seem to be able to find my way through to God.” The other moms who were on the retreat shared similar stories with me … “I don’t feel close to God” … “I want a spiritual life but don’t know how” … “I never really learned enough about my faith, and now I’m really challenged.” Besides going on the retreat, this group met every alternate week at the church. The idea of the “young mothers” group was to support parents in raising their children in the Christian faith. But it became clear to me after that retreat that the first thing these women needed was support for their own faith. During our meetings we would share confessions: the times when we had yelled at our kids or had felt small or judged by other members of the church or community. It was a safe space in which to share our failings as parents, as well as our joys. And it was particularly needed in a community, where so many parents attempt to project images of joy and perfection from what are often very broken and lonely lives. In the book “Standing Naked Before God”, Molly Baskette describes the way that confession saved her church’s life, while she was minister at the First Church Somerville, UCC. [2] She tells of a feature called the “liturgist program.” The liturgists at First Church don’t only read scripture. Each week a different person volunteers to make a public confession. They present a prepared story of a time when they needed God’s help in their brokenness. These are not things they are currently struggling with, but things they have worked through and, by grace, have come out on the other side. Liturgists talk of their struggles with addictions or eating disorders, anger management or taking a particular pleasure to excess. There is a beginning, middle and end to each story, after which the liturgist invites the congregation to please join them in a unison prayer of confession. The liturgist finishes the story with their own composed “words of assurance”, telling of how they received grace in their situation. Dare I dream that this program might one day be a feature at the Wollaston Congregational Church? Of course, not all our confessions are ready for public hearing. Sometimes we find ourselves in the middle of a struggle and cannot see the way out. Confession within a small group, like my moms’ group, or one on one with the pastor is a safe place. But there are times when formal confession, repentance and the assurance of grace, needs some ritual and the support of the faith community. John the Baptizer understood that this was needed for the people of Judah, all those years ago. As they came flocking together, I imagine him working his way through the crowd, beckoning them one by one down to the water. He listens to their confessions privately and then lays hands on them, praying with each one, before the gentle dunking them in the waters of life. For me, the most meaningful ritual confession in my own faith life, took place some years ago. The minister and the deacons of the church I attended at the time offered the imposition of ashes during an evening Ash Wednesday service. Each member of the congregation was invited to ask for healing prayers as they came forward for their ashes. The pianist played soft, reverent music as people walked up the aisle. A respectful distance was left between the head of the line and the person receiving healing prayer at the front. I came forward to my pastor and the deacon I had known for years. “What can we pray for, Liz?” my pastor asked. In the moment I knew what I needed “I need help letting go of past hurts.” And so they both laid hands on me, and my pastor gave thanks for me, “sister in faith, wife, mother and daughter,” and then lifted my confession to God asking for my healing. The ashes were imposed, and I walked back to my pew, the ash cross planted on my forehead like a medieval penitent. As others came forward I saw the same ritual repeated, the private prayers, lips moving and heads bowed. Everyone participated. Finally when all were seated, my pastor, and the guest pastor from the AME church worshiping with us, came together in the front. Words were exchanged, their heads were bowed, each prayed over the other and they imposed ashes on one another. It was a powerful moment in my life, but it was also a powerful moment in the life of that church. The people who had participated that day had come together, connected by a deeper authenticity than they had experienced before. I believe this is the preparation that John the Baptizer called for among the people of his time, and I believe it is the kind of preparation for the coming of Christ we are called to do today. It’s not for the faint hearted, it’s deep heart work, and at times it can be excruciating. But it is our own best hope for healing. And it’s our own best hope to create the space, so desperately needed, for the Christ to come to our world today. Let all of God's people say, Amen. [1] Molly Phinney Baskette, Standing Naked Before God: The Art of Public Confession, (Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim Press, 2015), 8 [2] Ibid. The Coming of Our Hidden God Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On December 3rd, 2017 Scripture: Isaiah 64:1-9 O that you would tear open the heavens and come down! Isaiah rails against God, in this lament over the desolation of the people of Israel, Their sanctuary is in ruins and their city, Jerusalem, is now a wilderness. The people have got what they thought they wanted. Once Babylon had fallen, Cyrus the Great of Persia took control of Mesopotamia and allowed the Hebrew exiles to return to Jerusalem. They are reunited with the remnant who stayed in Judah over the years of exile. But both groups have experienced terrible trauma. The farmers, shepherds and soldiers who remained in Judea have scratched a living on the land surrounding Jerusalem. They have endured drought and fears of invasion. Meanwhile the returning exiles come with temple gold, reclaimed from the Babylonians. They expect the royal welcome, having traveled 1,00 miles in caravan. But the reality is that even with the riches they have brought there is a long haul ahead of them. The devastation is extreme, those able to work on reconstruction are few. The restoration of Jerusalem is a distant dream. The people become disheartened, conflict arises and they fall into evil practices. And so Isaiah cries out to God, to come down from heaven with full-on wonder and awe. He expects the forests to burst into flame and the mountains to shake and quake at God’s presence. Isaiah knows that he is calling upon the terrifying power of God. And yet it seems that God is hidden from the people, there is no response to their prayers, just a deafening silence. Did God deliberately withdraw Godself from the people because of their unrighteousness. Or is it because God has hidden, that the people are sinning? What about us, in our time, are we also crying out to God? Have we reached that point of asking God to tear open the heavens and come down? Is our planet crying out for intervention from God, the Holy One? Is the desolation of our environment, demonstrated in the thousands of tons of plastic, ingested each year by fish, turtles, birds and ocean mammals, beyond our control? [1] Or is the fair distribution of food and other resources to all the world’s people beyond our capability? Are we overwhelmed and beyond helping the 28 million people in East Africa alone, who need humanitarian assistance. Are we devastated by the news that around 6.9 million children are suffering from right now and that a total of 1 million are in danger of dying by the end of this year? [2] Do we, like Isaiah, hear a deafening silence as we cry out in our need? Is God hidden from our sight, as in the days following the exile in Babylon? What does this hiddenness of God mean for us today? I think there are a couple of options to consider. Those of us who maintain our faith and hope in God may imagine that God is still present, even if hidden. Perhaps God has donned a Harry Potter-type invisibility cloak. In this guise God is able to move in the world unseen, looking in on what we are doing, influencing people and moving objects into the right positions to do the most good. It’s an appealing thought, but it doesn’t really seem to be working for us. How could it be that God, creator and originator of all, even if acting as an adolescent student wizard, is unable to do more good? Would our world still seem to have so many places of desolation, if God was constantly at work manipulating things for the good? A less comforting option is offered to us by German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was imprisoned and then executed by the Nazis for his participation in a plot to assassinate Hitler. Bonhoeffer wrote from the concentration camp in 1944: “God would have us know that we must live as [people] who manage our lives without him. The God who is with us is the God who forsakes us … God lets himself be pushed out of the world on the cross. [God] is weak and powerless in the world, and that is precisely the way, the only way, in which he is with us and helps us.” [3] Bonhoeffer was indeed writing from a place of desolation. We can imagine that the Nazi’s cruelty reduced Bonhoeffer to a state of depression and brokenness. And yet, even in this condition, he was capable of profound understanding. Bonhoeffer had discovered what the world feels like when God is hidden by the sins of humanity. And I think this get us a little closer to what God’s hiddenness means for us today. And how we might discover God, again, in that hiddenness. In Bonhoeffer’s world, evil was a palpable weighty darkness: the dangers and fears of the plot to assassinate a megalomaniac, the emaciated people of the concentration camp: forced labor, starvation and execution. No wonder God felt absent in that place. But in these Advent days, as we attempt to surround ourselves by with joyful noises and bright lights, we often seem surprised when evil shows up. I was devastated by an investigative report, this week, on slave trade in Northern Africa. This is the work of unscrupulous traders taking advantage of desperate African migrants, who are fleeing famine and trying to reach Europe. By means of secret cameras, CNN reporters exposed a slave auction in Nigeria. Libyans were selling people taken as slaves for the equivalent of $800. One of my colleagues responded to this news story that included a photograph of a line of shackled men. She lamented “how can we say that Christ has come to the world, when we see scenes like this?” And yet, we know that slavery has existed in the world, in one form or another, even in supposedly civilized cultures, since the time of Jesus of Nazareth. Closer to home, in recent weeks we have also heard of women, and others, coming forward and naming instances of sexual assault, harassment, and abuse in the workplace. These acts have been hidden in plain sight and silently tolerated for generations. And they take place in every kind of organization ranging from the entertainment industry, education, and government, to religious institutions. We may lament, with Isaiah, asking “what is our world coming to?” But actually we are simply discovering some of the powers in the world that have been active throughout the ages. What is new, is the visibility of these particular powers. So, how are we to prepare for what we hope is the coming of Christ to the world, yet again this Advent? Are we to avoid the depressing “bad news” cycle, by focusing on “the positive”? Are we to sing our hearts out, with the comforting and familiar carols, as if we can amp-up God’s coming by drowning out the cries of despair? Are we to crank up the power in our homes, like Chevy Chase in that old favorite movie “Christmas Vacation”, covering every square inch of our roofs and windows with twinkling Christmas lights, to usher in the light of Christ? Of course, we can and we probably will do these things and more, for the sake of our own sanity. But in order to prepare for the coming of Christ, perhaps Isaiah is suggesting something different. Joyful music brings cheer, but it may also drown out the silence of our God in Christ who is coming. Bright lights overpower darkness, but too much light will hide the tiny spark, the dimmest glow, of the holy One who is to be found in the darkness. Fortunately, I didn’t spend my entire week in desolation. Another media story that captured my attention this week was Tom Ashbrook’s On Point program called “The Benefits of Silence.” In this show, Ashbrook interviewed Norwegian explorer and publisher Erling Kagge, author of the book “Silence In an Age of Noise.” [4] Kagge talked about his own discovery of the benefits of silence, beginning with the silence he encountered on a solo trek in Antartica to the South Pole. He reminded listeners that “the age of noise” has increased dramatically over the last 10 years, as smart phones have changed our world. In our world today, we are assaulted by noise, and also by continual distractions and interruptions. You don’t need a smart phone to experience this. I have sat with parishioners in nursing homes and seen the TV shows that blast out entertainment, advertisements, and a scrolling banner of breaking news across the bottom of the screen. Kagge sees people in our culture as “running away from themselves” through the interruptions and distractions of their electronic devices. He sees silence as an opportunity to spend time with oneself, something we do very little in modern living. Spending time with ourselves is something many of us wish to avoid, but sadly if we run from ourselves we also run from God. I have to believe that the noise and distractions of modern living are the things that hide God from us in these times. Of course, not everyone can embark on a trek to the South Pole, but Kagge recommends creating one’s own silence:
I was attracted to this interview, because I discover my times of deepest spiritual connection in silence. Once each month, I visit my spiritual director, Susie, who does what she describes as “holding the silence” for me. We sit in the room she has set aside for the purpose, on the small table between our chairs Susie lights a candle and we set down our glasses or water or cups of tea. Following a brief prayer we sit. There are the sounds of traffic passing, birds calling, our bodies settling. And still the silence washes over. The heavens are not torn open. God does not appear in full glory. Christ does not, to my knowledge, descend on the clouds. And yet deep in that time of silence, in the single candle light, we remember God is present. We are settled and strengthened to go on. And so, this first Sunday in Advent, as we meditate the coming of our hidden God, we light just one candle. It is enough, as we wait for God in the almost-darkness. So let us sit, in the dark and the silence, and first let us wait … for our hidden God to enter the world. Amen [1] http://www.biologicaldiversity.org/campaigns/ocean_plastics/ [2] https://www.worldvision.org/hunger-news-stories/africa-hunger-famine-facts-faqs-help [3] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison, (New York: Macmillan, 1971), 360 [4] http://www.wbur.org/onpoint/2017/11/26/the-benefits-of-silence |
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April 2022
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