The magic of Christmas

 In a recent post, I reflected on my kids' developing logic brains, in particular regarding Santa. The parent of one of Grace's friends texted us after Grace told her daughter she didn't believe in Santa - she was, in her words, "pissed." It wasn't clear to me whether she was pissed at Grace, or us, or the situation, or what, nor what she was hoping to accomplish by telling us about it (she ended the text, "Do with that what you will"). Maybe she was just venting.

I remember a workshop I attended with Kit Miller, director emeritus of the Gandhi Institute for NonViolence, in which she said that usually when we feel angry, there is another emotion beneath it, and she encouraged us, next time we feel angry, to get curious about what might be underneath it. If I were in this mom's position, I would probably feel... sad and disappointed. Because these times when we see bits of our kids' childhood start to slip away, always feel a bit like grief. When we give away the board books and baby clothes, when they no longer need to hold our hand all the time, when a hug and a kiss can no longer heal their broken heart, and yes, when they start to question whether Santa is real... "Losing" those things is appropriate, of course, and a sign that they are growing and developing as they should. But it is still really stinking hard as a parent to say goodbye to that era. And I absolutely understand why this mom who texted us was upset, and told her as much. "I'm so sorry that happened," I said. "That must be so disappointing."

Several things this mom said have continued to bother me. While I certainly don't want or need to get into all of them, I wanted to comment here on one. She said, "If you guys choose to eliminate Christmas magic from your house, fine." I have been wrestling over the last week with this, and trying to figure out why I have allowed it to bother me so much. Maybe I do have some guilt, because we never entered fully into Santa magic - as I described in my previous post, my husband felt strongly that we focus on "the story of Santa," but be honest from the start that Santa is a story, not a real person. "I won't lie to my children," he said. While I think this was the right choice for us, I do harbor some sadness that my kids missed out on that magical part of childhood. (Though I do think they believed at first, despite our honesty! It's hard not to get swept up in it!)

But I think the reason I'm feeling resentful about her comment is that we have not chosen to eliminate Christmas magic from our house. My kids have experienced no lack of richness of both magic and mystery around Christmas, and none of it has required us to compromise on our being fully honest with them.

Clara and her Nutcracker

1) Play is magical. And there has been plenty of play! We put out cookies and milk and wonder if they will be there in the morning (they aren't, but a thank you note is). I have been ridden like a reindeer. Grace loves to play with our little plush nativity, giving all the characters personalities and backstories. She talks to them. We read Christmas storybooks and then act them out. We joke about how Santa knew we all needed new toothbrushes. I have a picture of Grace pretending to sleep in a four-poster bed (the upside-down coffee table), wearing a tutu and clinging to her wooden Nutcracker, waiting for Isaac to come in and save her, Clara, from the Mouse King. Speaking of which...

2) The Nutcracker is magical. A cherished memory from when Grace was a ballerina-obsessed 3-year-old was when a friend gifted us tickets to the Nutcracker. Grace danced along with the Sugarplum Fairy in the aisle. The people in front of us were so charmed by her, they said, "Our daughter is one of the
ballerinas. Would you like to go and meet her?" While we were backstage, we also got to meet the Sugarplum Fairy herself. The picture we have of Grace's sweet little face is pure magic. 

3) Generosity is magical. We recently went on a post-Christmas outing, and when we saw someone in need, we gave her a couple of bucks and one of the winter kits I keep in my car. The smile lit up the woman's face, and she offered us a blessing and expression of gratitude for another day of life. It was magical and meaningful for all of us. Seeing the kids get excited about all the gifts they want to give to their friends and family is magical. Witnessing their pride when we gush over their presents to us is magical. 

4) Family time is magical. This week, after an exceptionally busy month for me (pastor!), we have hunkered down together, hardly leaving the house. We have played games, made crafts, and watched so many movies together, with no other agenda. We cuddle on the couch, a kid under each arm and a dog on my lap, and all the stress of the month has melted away. Isaac has come into our room each morning about 7:30 or 8, and climbs in to cuddle while I read my book. Eventually we make jokes and tickle and giggle and it is a magical way to start the day. 

Of course to me, Christmas is not really about creating what I would call artificial magic - that is, the magic that is manufactured and fleeting, around a fun but mythical story. Christmas is really about mystery - in particular, the mystery of the incarnation. I know, some of the very people who devote all kinds of energy to making Santa magic do not believe in the mystery of the incarnation (this same mom made sure to tell me she was one of them). 

But I will (and do) devote all the energy to celebrating this mystery, which is more lasting and soul-filling than Santa can ever provide. What is more "magical" than sharing candlelight with one another, gradually brightening a darkened sanctuary while a string quartet plays Silent Night, inviting us to join them? What is more "magical" than the grins and greetings of young adults home from college for the holiday, excited to be back at church with these friends? What is more "magical" than a normally stoic congregation so delighted by a rollicking rendition of Go Tell It On the Mountain, that they spontaneously burst into joyful applause? 

I love magic. It's fun. But give me the mystery of the incarnation over manufactured Santa magic any day!

When Santa stops being "real"

 

At 7 and 8 years old, my kids are working on developing their logic brains, discerning what is fantasy and what is real. It is both sad (who doesn't love the magical world of childhood?) and exciting to see them making really smart observations about their world. 

At this time of year, you can imagine a lot of this energy has gone toward figuring out Santa. Now, my husband was insistent from the beginning of our parenting adventure that he did NOT want to tell our kids that Santa was real. His family had taken Santa very seriously, and he loved it as a kid... until he realized it was all a lie, and he felt betrayed. "I won't do that to my kids," he said. I had no problem doing Santa with the kids - I have fond memories and no trauma around figuring out it was just a story - but he felt so strongly about it, that his view was where we landed. 

So we have definitely leaned into the story of Santa, learning about his origins, telling the story of the real St. Nicolas (and celebrating St. Nicolas Day on Dec. 6), visiting Santa and getting pictures, putting out cookies and milk and a carrot, reading books, filling stockings, and even signing some cards "from Santa." We "play" Santa, the way we play princesses or monsters or weddings with stuffies, and in that way Santa is incredibly real to them, just like their toys are. At the same time, our kids have known that the presents come from us, at least the big ones. We want them to know that we work hard in order to provide this for them, and that if their friends don't get as much, it is not because they were naughty, but because these kids either got non-material gifts, or they couldn't afford more than that. When they were little, if the kids asked if Santa was real, I would answer with things like, "Well, the stockings were filled, weren't they?" thus avoiding actually answering their questions in ways that would be a lie. Honesty is a core family value, and we have stood by it, while trying to maintain the playful aspect of Santa.

(Though this choice is not actually theologically motivated for me, I also have some concerns about the theology around Santa: that you get rewarded for good deeds, and punished for being bad. The theology of Christmas is exactly the opposite: that God so loved the world, despite its brokenness, that he sent his only son, came to dwell with us, to redeem us. Jesus didn't come because we were good, but because we needed help. I cringe when well-meaning adults say things to my kids like, "Don't do that or Santa won't bring you any presents!")

All this said, of course I don't want my kids ruining Santa for kids who do believe Santa is real. So I have told especially my outspoken daughter not to say anything to her friends. "If they believe in Santa, just let them. Don't ruin it for them." She asked why? Even at 8, she has a sense that honesty is kind, so why would it be a bad thing to tell her friends the truth? Hard to argue with that! But I have reiterated, "Just don't be that kid. Some kids find a lot of joy in believing in Santa, so let them, and play along. Trust me on this." 

But anyone who parents knows we cannot control our kids every word or action, and anyone who knows Grace knows that she is always hard at work trying to make sense of her world. So she has been trying to figure out which of her friends believes and which don't, willingly sharing her own opinions. In my view, this is appropriate conversation, developmentally, for kids this age. This is their Big Issue, right? Like adults might talk about politics or global climate change in their effort to make sense of the world, this is what 2nd graders talk about. Sorting it out with their peers is, in my opinion, awesome, especially the way Grace has been doing it, which is to ask, "Do you believe in Santa?" and then offering, "I don't, and here's why." She's not telling anyone else what to think, just sharing what she thinks with her good friends. Good on her. If this shakes her friends' belief, they probably already had some questions. Firm belief would not be troubled by someone else's lack of belief. As someone who works in the field of faith and belief, I know this to be true.

Unfortunately, some of her friends' parents have been less than impressed by Grace's critical thinking, and in particular her expression of it. One posted a "friendly reminder" on Facebook, requesting that parents teach their kids to "be kind" and not ruin Santa for kids who still believe. Though Grace wasn't named, I learned later that this happened shortly after Grace had told this mom's daughter that she didn't believe in Santa. Another mom texted us directly, saying Grace had just told her daughter that she didn't believe Santa was real and she has proof. This parent was incredibly frustrated by this exchange, though it wasn't clear to me whether she wanted us to do something about it, or was just reporting. (More on that in a separate post.)

I told both of these parents that I have asked Grace not to ruin Santa magic for her friends, though neither seemed satisfied with this. I like Christmas magic as much as the next gal, but other people's kids' belief isn't really my responsibility. If these exchanges troubled their kids, then that's a great chance to have a conversation with them about it. For our part, we have taught our kids to be kind, and instilled a value of honesty. (When Grace recently asked me, "I need you to be honest with me: where do the gifts come from?" I told told her the truth, because if honesty is what I expect of her, I'd better model it.) We have applauded their ability to think critically about things, and celebrated their attempts to gather data. One piece of evidence they found was, "If Santa is supposed to visit all the little boys and girls, then why doesn't my Muslim friend get a visit from Santa?" The story didn't work in this instance, and therefore called other aspects of the story into question. Telling them, "Well your friend doesn't celebrate Christmas, that's why," sounds a bit too much like religious discrimination - Muslims are not included in Santa's generosity. Magic does not apply when you have a different faith.

Point is, I am proud of my little thinkers. I know it is hard to see the magic of childhood start to dissipate, but it is a sign that they are growing and developing right on track. This development is probably much harder on parents than it is on the kids themselves (with exceptions for people like my husband who felt betrayed when the truth came out). I think of giving away the last of the baby clothes, the board books they no longer read, the sippy cups... it is all a sort of grief. But it is also a joy: just look at the amazing little people our kids are becoming!

By the way, in the midst of these conversations with parents, we were accused of "eliminating all magic from our house," an accusation I still find myself resenting. In my next post, I will reflect a bit on the magic of childhood that has nothing to do with Santa.

Sermon: Is this story real? (Christmas Eve, 2023)

 Christmas Eve 2023

Full service can be viewed HERE.

My mom used to teach kindergarten, and each year, she did a unit about The Nutcracker. They learned the whole kindergarten curriculum using this beloved story, from literacy to math to art. They also learned about ballet, and about the beautiful music written by Tchaikovsky. Mom’s favorite day of the unit was the day they got to the part of the story where the tree grows. They had a large bulletin board with a paper Christmas tree on it, and the characters, made by the children, of course, were all dancing on stage around it. The night before “the magic happened,” she would add a few layers to the tree – enough that it went off the bulletin board and popped right up through the ceiling! And then she added Christmas lights all around the board. Now, none of the 5-year-olds noticed this when they came in the next day. When it came time to learn this part of the story, they’d turn off the lights, and the kids would sit in a circle with their eyes closed, and she’d play the wonderful music that makes the tree grow. (See it here.) You can practically see the tree growing in your mind’s eye, right? The teacher’s aid would sneak over and plug in the lights. When it was done, they would all open their eyes and look at the tree, and – lo and behold! – the tree had grown! They were flabbergasted. “Our tree grew!! How did that happen?!” It was magical! 

Of course, there were always some skeptics. Some kid would always say, “Oh, you did that while our eyes were closed.” She would remind them that she was sitting with them the whole time, so how could she have done it? They’d work through it, but eventually, even the skeptics would come around. Maybe they really did start to believe, or maybe they realized it was just more satisfying to believe that the impossible could happen.

I remembered this during a recent conversation with my own child, now a very mature 8 years old. She is astute, and does not miss much. And at 8, her logic brain is kicking in and she is very interested in figuring out what is real and what is fantasy. You can imagine, this has resulted in some important conversations about some beloved secular Christmas traditions, if you know what I mean. One day recently, she looked me in the eye and said, “I really want to believe this, but I also really want to know what is real. Can you just tell me honestly: what is happening here?” (More reflection on this exchange HERE.)

These sorts of conversations with my bright, inquisitive children always shed such light on the most essential human traits. I was so moved by her stating so plainly this tension: we want to believe in something, but we don’t want to be duped. We don’t want to be made a fool. We have well-developed logic brains, after all, and we put them to good use. So yes, we want to believe in something, but we want it to be something that is real. We want to understand what is really going on here.  

Well, hate to tell ya: the Christmas story blows this desire out of the water. Each year we are confronted with this mysterious story about a God who for some reason decides to become human. It’s an absurd prospect. What kind of all-powerful God would want to be viewed as vulnerable – and what is more vulnerable than a baby? Who could possibly take seriously such a God, who comes not with the might of a warrior, but with the clumsy, soft, and squishy body of a newborn babe, unable to feed himself, or wipe himself for goodness’ sake! 

We sometimes talk about “the mystery of the incarnation.” I love that word, “mystery.” It makes me think of candle-lit sanctuaries, and cozy novels I might read in front of the fire. But a mystery is also simply this: something that seems to have no reasonable explanation.

Now don’t get me wrong: the story we come here tonight to hear and share and celebrate is decidedly good news, and I believe it to be true. As absurd as it may be, the fact that God would become one of us, to walk among us, to feel our pain and ultimately to redeem us, is really loving and lovely. It is a story worth believing!

And, at the same time, I admit I sometimes feel like my daughter: I’m looking around this world, so broken and war-torn, and wondering, “Can we really believe this good news?” With war in Ukraine and the Holy Land; with poverty all too prevalent even in this, the richest country in the world; with fractures in our democracy filling the news cycle; with illness and addiction and fear and loss… It makes it pretty hard some days to believe in the good news of Jesus’ birth. We really want to believe, but we also want to know what is real. And sometimes all that pain that’s right in front of us is what feels far more real to us than a savior born some 2000 years ago, an almighty God mysteriously become human and laid in a manger. 

So, what is real? 

I heard a story this week of a pastor whose brother was not a Christian. So whenever this pastor would visit his young nephew, he would regale him with the fantastic stories of the Bible. Once he told him the story of Jonah and the Whale, the incredible story of a prophet getting swallowed up by a big fish after being thrown overboard, only to be spewed out on the beach after three days so he could deliver his prophecy. The pastor’s nephew relished in the story, but at the end he was, like those kids in my mom’s kindergarten class, skeptical. “Is that story real, Uncle?” And the pastor uncle said, “That story is so real, that even if it never was, it always is.” 

You see, mysterious as the Christmas story is, there is still so much of this incredible story that is undeniably real, as it has played out with different details many times throughout history. It is the story of a scared but courageous young women carrying out God’s will; of a man conflicted about what is the right and faithful thing to do when he is faced with impossible options; of these new parents, managing emotions and experiences they had never before imagined, even as God is undeniably with them. This is a story about a poor family being at the mercy of the government and abuse of power, but trusting God just the same. It’s about encountering the living God, like the shepherds, and being changed. It is a story about light shining hope into the darkest part of night. 

This story is so real, that it has been told and retold for 2000 years. The details and circumstances of its telling have changed in two millennia, yet it continues to resonate, continues to be real to people. 

And it is real to us this night, December 24, 2023, in Pittsford, NY. I don’t know what part of it feels the most real to you at this moment, but I can speak for myself. As I look around at the pain and fear in the world, and as I reflect on my own struggles, here is what is absolutely real to me about this mysterious night: that God loves us so much, that God chose to come down into the often dark hole of our broken humanity and be in solidarity with us in our pain, even going so far as to take on a vulnerable human body to do it. That God saw the pain and longing of the world – yes, then, and also now – and did not want us to be alone in it. 

This love feels real to me because I experience it even still: I never feel so loved and cared for as when someone is willing to sit with me in my pain, not to fix it immediately, but just to witness it with humility, compassion and authenticity. The fixing can come later – and it does with Jesus, that’s what Easter is for! But first, I long to be seen and known. 

And that is precisely what happens on this Christmas night. On this night, the hopes and fears of all the years are met in this babe in the manger. On this night, God is “pleased as man with us to dwell,” laying aside his glory to abide with us, and witness our broken hearts. On this night, God enters into our lives in the most intimate and vulnerable way possible, to show us the great depth of his love.

If you really want to believe in something that is real… then that is about as real as it gets. 

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Advent 4 Introductions

 I didn't preach on this morning because we performed Vivaldi's Magnificat, which can be viewed HERE.

Below are the introductions to the readings and the Magnificat.

The performance

Advent 4B

December 24, 2023

Magnificat (Vivaldi)

INTRODUCTION TO READINGS

This week’s readings are a ramp-up to the Big Moment that is about to occur (tonight!), reminding us of how we got here. Let’s walk through this, I’ll show you:

Back in Genesis, God made an everlasting covenant with Abraham, promising three things: 

1) Descendants, as numerous as the stars; 

2) Land, aka the Promised Land, aka Canaan; and,

3) that God would bring blessing and redemption to all people through Abraham’s descendants. 

So far, the first two had happened: land, and descendants. But Israel had yet to see this blessing and redemption come about. 

Around 1000 BC, David became king. One of his goals was to build a temple, a house for God. To this point, God (that is, the Torah, or the 10 Commandments) had been carried around in a big box called an ark, and housed in a tent, so God dwelt with Israel wherever they went. Now, David wanted to build a house of cedar in Jerusalem in which God could dwell. But God says, “No, this is not for you to do. BUT, how about instead, I will make YOU a house.” By this, God means he will make a dynasty for David, an everlasting throne. And from that house will come the promised messianic king who will bring blessing and redemption to the world, that third part of the Abrahamic covenant. (Remember tonight, we will meet Joseph, who was “descended from the house and family of David.”)

Israel clung to this promise through numerous bad kings, through exile and their return, through the 400-year gap between the end of the Old Testament and the birth of Christ. In other words, they had been waiting a really long time. 

So now, here we are, on Advent 4. Our first reading from Samuel reminds us of this promise God made to David. In Romans, Paul says, in case we missed it, “Jesus is the guy you’ve been waiting for!” Luke will tell us the remarkable story of the annunciation, when Gabriel came to Mary and said, “All this waiting is over: it’s happening, and you’re going to bring that promised messiah into the world!” 

Mary’s gorgeous response to this, which we’ll sing as our Psalm, is known to us as the Magnificat, and we’ll hear Vivaldi’s setting of her song performed and proclaimed in worship this morning. I’ll say more about that right before. 

As you listen to these readings, just enter into the excitement from the perspective of Abraham and David’s descendants. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for! God is good, and God makes good on his promises. Let’s listen.

INTRODUCTION TO MAGNIFICAT 

Though having the fourth Sunday of Advent fall on Christmas Eve makes for a long, exhausting day for church workers and musicians, I secretly love that we start off Christmas Eve this year by hearing Mary’s magnificent song, the Magnificat. We often portray Mary, the mother of Jesus, as meek and mild, but this song shows her as anything but! In fact, her words have been used by revolutionaries and the oppressed for generations – “Scatter the proud! Bring down the powerful and lift up the lowly! Fill the hungry! Send the rich away!” She sounds less like an obedient and devout teen, and more like a rebel intending to reorient the unjust systems of the world! In fact, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German pastor and theologian, called this song “the most passionate, the wildest, one might even say the most revolutionary hymn ever sung.” 

And all of this, Mary roots in God’s promise: “He has come to the aid of his servant Israel… according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and his descendants forever.” This is who God is, and always has been and will be, she declares: one who cares for the lowly, who desires a just and compassionate world, who makes good on promises.

Mary is a willing servant, yes, but she is also fiercely passionate and tough. And wouldn’t she have to be, to participate so intimately in God’s plan to completely change the world, even to turn it upside down by becoming one of us? After all, Jesus was no docile lamb himself – he also lived and preached a table-turning message about the poor being lifted up, and the powerful brought low.

I hope you will hear both Mary’s passion and her devotion in our performance today, on this Christmas Eve morning. Jon has put together some program notes about the music itself, including some things to listen for, some ways Vivaldi has tried to bring out Mary’s message through music. You can see that as well as the translation and performers on the insert in your bulletin. And now, enjoy this proclamation of Mary’s song, The Magnificat.

Sermon: Faithful stories of hope and resilience (Dec. 10, 2023)

 Advent 2B
December 10, 2023
Isaiah 40:1-11
Mark 1:1-8

INTRODUCTION

One of the things I love about the Advent readings each year is that it is often so clear how the witness of scripture hangs together over the centuries of its writing. Today it is especially so, as John the Baptist will quote our text from Isaiah. In quoting Isaiah’s prophecy, John reinterprets that proclamation to speak to his own time. So let me give you a bit of context here: 

Isaiah 40 offers a marvelous word of hope to the Israelites who are in exile in Babylon. Remember this part of the story? I talked a couple weeks ago about the history of bad kings in Israel, and how their idolatry and greed ultimately led to the split of Israel into Northern and Southern Kingdoms, and both kingdoms’ ultimate downfall. The Temple was destroyed, Jerusalem taken by the Babylonians, and the Israelites sent away into exile in Babylon. At the point Isaiah 40 was written, they have been in Babylonian captivity for two full generations, 40-50 years. And now, into this context, Isaiah speaks this word of hope. The voicing is kind of confusing; hopefully the way we read it today will help. You’ll hear God’s voice, the voice of someone in the divine council or heavenly host, then Isaiah, and then God again.

As for the Gospel, always on this second Sunday of Advent we hear from John the Baptist, calling out in the wilderness – and quoting today’s passage from Isaiah. As Mark is telling us this story, he is also speaking to a community living under oppression, Roman oppression. Mark was writing either right before or right after the second Temple was destroyed in the Jewish-Roman Wars. So, a similar situation to the Israelites! And so he starts off his Gospel by calling back to a previous story of how God showed up and delivered them in a time of oppression. 

Both Isaiah and Mark bring to mind the possibility of new beginnings, especially when we are suffering. As you listen, think about some of the beginnings you have experienced, and some of the emotions you’ve had around those beginnings. Let’s listen. 

[READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

It wasn’t Jerusalem, but it was home. That’s how it had started to feel for the Israelites living in Babylon. After all, it had been nearly 50 years here. There was hardly anyone left who even remembered Jerusalem. A few of their elders remembered being deported as children, but for the most part that golden age of living in Canaan, the land God had promised to Abraham, had been reduced to spotty memories and stories told and passed down around the table. 

When they first arrived in Babylon, all anyone could talk about was having watched their beautiful Temple, the house King Solomon had built for God, burning to the ground as they left. The Temple was gone. The land was gone. They couldn’t imagine how they could possibly go on living as God’s chosen people as they endured this atrocity. The Babylonians would taunt them, asking them to sing songs in their Hebrew tongue, but how could they sing in this foreign land? When they remembered Zion, and all that they had lost, they could only weep. The worst part of all was that they knew it was their own fault. God had warned them, through the prophets, and they didn’t change their ways. They had gone too far off the path. This exile, they knew, was the natural consequence of their sin.

That was when God sent the prophet Jeremiah. “Build houses and live in them,” Jeremiah said. “Plant gardens, and eat the produce. Get married, have kids.” In other words, keep on living, and make the best of a bad situation. And they did. They had to – what other option was there? And so, in this new land, they told their old stories, and even started to write them down, lest they, too, be lost. They told their stories in ways that tried to make sense of their current reality. They found new ways to worship Yahweh, even without the Temple to serve as the center of their worship life. And they did their best to make Babylon their “home.” For two generations they had done this, and, well, they supposed it was working. 

But now came something truly shocking. The prophet Isaiah had begun to proclaim a word from God – indicating the possibility of returning to Zion, to Jerusalem! He spoke words of comfort, words about them having “served their term,” saying that their “penalty was paid.” 

Could it be? Was it possible they were forgiven? Could God be about to restore Israel? Isaiah spoke about a new exodus, in which they would be led once again out of captivity – not slavery in Egypt this time, as their ancestors, but out of Babylonian captivity and back toward their beloved Zion. They would be led out of captivity and into the wilderness. But this time, Isaiah said, the wilderness would not be the place of hunger and fear that it had been for their ancestors, back during the infancy of their faith. This time, all obstacles would be removed. “Every valley shall be lifted up,” Isaiah declared, “and every mountain made low. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed – you’ll see it! The Lord has spoken!” In other words: God was indeed bringing them back to the Promised Land, and this time, rather than wandering around for 40 years, it would be a straight shot. 

It was a lot to take in. Surely, it was exciting – it was what they had longed for, all these years in Babylon! They had begun to think they would never get back! And yet, now that it was before them, a real possibility, even a promise… they had, well, a lot of feelings about it. After all, they had made Babylon their home. Most of them didn’t even remember Jerusalem; they knew it only through their elders’ stories. What would they find when they returned? Would it be a mere pile of rubble from a previously glorious city? What had the Babylonians done to it since they’d been deported? Maybe they would be better off just staying here in Babylon. It wasn’t great, no, but it was at least known to them. They had built lives here. On the other hand, here in Babylon, they were not living into God’s hope and promise for them. How were they supposed to feel about this?

Isaiah heard their concerns, and voiced them to God. “These people are feeling a bit withered and faded, God, after all these years of punishment. What am I supposed to say to them?” 

God told Isaiah to assure the people it would be okay: “I know they’re feeling exhausted from all this, that the grass withers and the flower fades. I know this has been hard. But the word of God stands forever. So stand up and say it loud and proud: Here is your God! He comes with the might of a warrior, and the tenderness of a shepherd. God has got you! You will be okay.” 

And they were. Many, though not all, did return to Jerusalem. They rebuilt the city and the Temple. Their new beginning was not an easy one, but God said he would be with them, and he was. Because God makes good on his promises.

…

Five hundred years later, when John the Baptist proclaims that the coming of the Lord is near, this is the story he calls upon. This story, of hope and resilience, against all odds. This story, in which the people were fearful of a change, a new beginning – that they wanted, yes, and yet, which scared them out of their wits. By calling back to this story, John is saying to the people, “I know life is rough right now. But life has been rough before, and God delivered.” It isn’t always according to our time, but according to God’s time. (After all, to God a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like a single day!) Restoration and deliverance may look different than we imagined. But God has always come through, and would this time, too.

I love how John reaches back to this story of hope to bring a similar hope to his contemporary audience, because it shows us how we can do the same. Maybe we aren’t living in occupied territory, like the first century Christians, but we are no strangers to complex and terrifying political realities. Maybe we aren’t longing to return to the land of our ancestors, like the Israelites in Babylon, but we know what it is like to long for change, even as that same change is terrifying in its uncertainty. Maybe we aren’t about to enter the literal wilderness for a long journey, but we know our own wildernesses, whether navigating difficult relationship dynamics, or seeking job satisfaction, or dealing with an addiction or a mental illness in ourselves or a loved one. When John reaches back to tell his current story through the historical story of faith, he gives meaning to the current struggle, and gives the people what they need in order to endure what lies before them with faith and hope. 

This is what I love about the biblical witness: it shows us how the story of God and God’s people repeats itself, in different times with different characters. But one character is constant: The word of the Lord stands forever. Here is our God. Here in our pain. Here, in this place of uncertainty. Here, in the darkness and fear. Here as we figure out this new way to walk in this new place we are entering. Here is our God.

Let us pray… Emmanuel, we give you thanks for the witness of your people across the ages. Help us to see our story in their story, and in that let us find the hope and resilience that we need to endure our own struggles. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

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