Advent Hymns of Waiting (Week 2)

Advent 2: O Holy Night

So, I am late with my post for this second week of Advent. Even still, here are my thoughts...

My pick for this week’s Advent hymn is one with which I have long held a love-hate relationship. I love the lyrics, but the message of this song can easily be overshadowed by a poorly matched messenger. This week’s song, O Holy Night should come with a warning label. One that says something akin to… 

WARNING: All amateur vocalists with big dreams and no solid awareness of their actual vocal chops should keep their distance. This song is not to be trifled with.  Don’t mess with it. Do not greet this Christmas standby with so-so vocal talent. Average church choirs should shelve this piece. Congregations? Just no. And soloists? If you aren’t Carrie Underwood, Josh Groban, or Idina freakin’ Menzel - Just. Back. Away. Before anyone gets hurt.

O Holy Night is a favorite Advent hymn of waiting for me, but only under the best conditions. The powerful lyrics be hijacked by a poor performance. So, with fear and trepidation, I name this beloved Christmas hymn as a favorite. (But everybody needs to behave themselves and possess a heavy dose of reality, otherwise O Holy Night becomes a Christmas menace before you can ever “fall on your knees” to beg for mercy.)

That said…the words of this song embody the spirit of Advent waiting and the hope of a new day dawning. This song partners peace and longing in melodic tandem, and invites the hearer to yearn for something more while simultaneously celebrating the arrival of something great.

O Holy Night

O Holy Night!

The stars are brightly shining

It is the night of the dear Savior's birth!

Long lay the world in sin and error pining

Till he appear'd and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary soul rejoices

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

Fall on your knees

Oh hear the angel voices

Oh night divine

Oh night when Christ was born

Oh night divine

Oh night divine

Truly He taught us to love one another

His law is love and His gospel is peace

Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother

And in His name all oppression shall cease

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

Let all within us praise His holy name

My favorite line is found in verse 1: “Till he appeared and the soul felt it’s worth.” I love the idea that we recognize our true worth when God shows up. 

I grew up in a conservative, evangelical tradition that reduced my humanity to the sum of my failures. Flesh and bone was seen as a depraved limitation, almost as if it was a curse to be in the body on this earth. As a result, I saw myself as wrecked, broken, flawed. None of which empowers me to embrace a healthy and accurate sense of self-worth. 

Somewhere along the way, I defined my humanness by my failures alone. Yet there was a God who took on that same flesh and joined us here. I was left to ponder how my humanness could be such a curse if God not only created it (and called it good), but also wrapped God’s self in it and showed up in Bethlehem.

O Holy Night helps settle that conundrum for me. When Jesus appears on the scene, and God moves into the neighborhood, I see me for who I am - priceless, worthwhile, messy, and beautiful. God shows up in flesh and bone and I know my humanness is infinitely valuable. He appeared and I felt my worth. 

Advent waiting reminds me of the ongoing struggle to embrace every bit of my humanity because being human is good.

Of course, verse 2 affirms the value of humanity as well. It is a reminder that Jesus modeled the ways the Kingdom (love, equality, justice). The line of the mid-crescendo of verse 2 (“all oppression shall cease”) assures us that what Jesus modeled is indeed the path toward peace. 

God doesn’t intend to strong-arm the Kingdom into existence. Jesus proves that when he comes in the fragile form of an infant to poor parents in a region of the world suffering under the cruel reign of the Romans. God’s kingdom is realized one act of love at a time. God’s kingdom comes when we help set people free from the chains that would otherwise keep us bound. God’s kingdom comes when everyone is valued and loved. Period.

Advent waiting reminds me of the ongoing struggle to embrace every bit of humanity in others because being human is good.

We help establish God’s kingdom when we embrace our humanity, and affirm the humanity in others. That’s what Jesus did. He took on flesh to affirm our humanity and worth.  

Jesus came to save us from the lies that would say we are never enough. He came to save us from the fruitless pursuit of temporary riches. He came to save us from all that would keep us from realizing the potential that is possible because of our humanness. He came to remind us that all power is fleeting, except God’s. 

And Jesus showed us that this salvation is achieved not by military might or governmental strength, but by another way. It’s an upside down way that chooses love and peace, even when it means a manger…or a cross.

May you embrace the inherent value of your humanness this Advent, for when we do a little bit of heaven comes to earth. 

O Holy Night by Josh Groban...a completely acceptable rendition of this hymn that leaves me still loving this song.

Favorite Hymns of Waiting (Week 1)

Advent 1: O Come, O Come Emmanuel

I have eschewed social media for the season of Advent. That may seem ill-timed as Lent (the 40 days leading up to Easter) is the popular season for giving up particulars for the sake of something more, but the heart knows what the heart needs. And sometimes, the need for respite doesn’t always correspond with the church calendar.

There are moments when the world feels like too much. Too much injustice. Too much oppression. Too much selfishness. Too much darkness. For me, this is one of those moments. I approach the Advent season feeling as if my heart understands a little more the crying and yearning of the Israelites who were desperate for a savior to arrive.

Advent is a time of waiting, but the waiting is never passive. Advent is about preparing in the midst of waiting; about looking ahead and anticipating a coming reality even while the longing remains.

This Advent, in consideration of the state of my heart and mind, I thought I would share some of my favorite hymns  associated with this season. These December songs are ones that have accompanied me and still soothe my soul during this time of great waiting.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel

And ransom captive Israel

That mourns in lonely exile here

Until the Son of God appears

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee O Israel

O come, O Dayspring, come and cheer

Our spirits by thine advent here

Disperse the gloomy clouds of night

And death's dark shadows put to flight

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee O Israel

Oh come Desire of nations bind

In one the hearts of all mankind

Bid Thou our sad divisions cease

And be Thyself our King of Peace

Rejoice rejoice

Emmanuel shall come to thee oh Israel

For as long as I can remember, this hymn was the official invitation to get ready for Christmas. Every December would dawn and the church organist would usher in the season with the strains of this song. 

Even as a child, something connected deep down with me. Long before I could name the ache I carried for this not-yet-as-it-should-be world, this carol - in minor key - gave me the words. “O Come O Come Emmanuel” was the accompaniment for my internal melancholy that knew things were not as they were meant to be. My 11-year old self had no idea what a Dayspring was. I certainly did not comprehend the depth of division among humankind. Even still, this melody spoke truth to me before I could articulate it’s presence.

For every year I can recall, I've had the privilege of allowing my soul to stretch out it’s arms and link up with the ransom plea on behalf of captive Israel. This December is no different. I still lean in close and allow myself to feel the lament woven into the music. Why? Because this world, with all it’s advancements and cultural expanse, is still in need of the deliverance Israel cried out for in the Old Testament. 

The chains that once bound humanity, still bind us. Ancient peoples were captives, and today we are still captivated by the temptations that lock us up. As the headlines of the day scroll, I can’t help but feel we are still a world mourning in lonely exile waiting for God to appear. We still fight the dark shadows. We still are divided.

Advent is a time of waiting, and yet this waiting is not passive. As we prepare to celebrate the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, we can also prepare to receive anew the call to the Jesus life. The life that says hope is a reality in the Kingdom of God. The life that proclaims a better way to live, but it comes at the expense of our own agendas, power, privilege, and excess. 

Advent is a season when we can ready ourselves and commit fully to life on the Kingdom road - a road that is paved with nonviolence, justice, equality, human dignity, generosity, and a stubborn belief that it really will be ok. 

This Jesus life is one that invites us to embrace the indiscriminate love of God that sings to shepherds, exalts peasant girls, and saves people of color, transgender teens, gun owners, the homeless, Baptists, Catholics, sanitation workers, dictators, and white people. In spite of ourselves.

Until that life is realized, we join in the Advent waiting. We actively prepare to usher in the incarnation of this life in God. A life divinely designed and humanly peculiar. It’s a life that proclaims that God shows up in a manger AND in every act of justice, in every kind word, in every act of forgiveness, in every voice given to the downtrodden and marginalized.

In the midst of the waiting, we cry out for God to come and set us free. All the while, we press into the life Jesus modeled for us, believing that the God who put on skin 2000 years ago still shows up in and through us today. God became flesh in Judea, and God still takes on flesh in Flint, MI, Cape Town, South Africa and Tijuana, Mexico.

Even still, we live with the ache and mystery that we are both waiting for salvation and the embodiment of that salvation. God for us. God with us. God in us.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel. We still wait on you.

Below is an instrumental rendition of this hymn that moves me. Beyond the simple yet exquisite arrangement, the background landscape is beautiful. Streets of an ancient, Palestinian city while the sun sets. So poetic in sound and sight. 

Find a quiet place. Listen. Absorb. Lean into the longing and be moved to active waiting.

O Come O Come Emmanuel

We Sing: A Holy Week Manifesto

The sun is shining this morning and the harbingers of spring are singing from the trees. There is no evidence of budding leaves, but there is plenty of proof that winter is being pushed back. 

It’s curious to me that I spied my first robin of the season nearly two weeks ago, long before the snow had disappeared from the ground. Yet, there he was, redbreast and sure, sitting in the bare branches of our front yard tree. 

From somewhere inside, beating from the heart of instinct, the birds know to return north at the appointed time. Migration isn’t dependent upon the external assurances that spring has arrived. Birds don’t fly north when the grass is visible, the flower buds have sprung, and trees are about to burst. Before there is tangible documentation that winter has receded, robins are here showing up and singing on a sunny Thursday morning in Holy Week.

I was reading about Jesus’ last week on earth. He rides a donkey on Sunday to proclaim the kind of kingdom of which he was king. He turns over tables on Monday to show he's serious about this new kingdom. And then, for the next few days of Holy Week, until the table is set in an upper room, we are given a interesting collection of parables and conversations Jesus had.

In Matthew 21, Jesus encountered the religious leaders twice after calling them out in the temple courtyard on Monday. In both conversations, we are told that the religious leaders refrained from doing or saying certain things because they feared the crowd. 

The word for fear, in both places, is “phobeo”, a Greek root from which we get the English word phobia. It means to “be afraid, seized with alarm, startled by stranger sights and occurrences.” 

People who play a political game will always be playing a political game. Pharisees and Saducees seemed to have long forgotten whatever fledging faith compelled them in their early ministry. Somewhere within the walls of the temple, serving God had become a power play. A strategy that entailed keeping control and a semblance of peace instead of speaking for God regardless of consequences.

The religious leaders had become experts at reading the field and strategizing the next best move so that they remained firmly in control, not God. 

The problem with that kind of existence, one where you always vie for power and strive to keep a peace that keeps you in control, is that fear is the motivator. Moves in the political game of cat and mouse are compelled by “phobia”  even when the moves are offensive ones. 

Fear is not rational.

Which is why I am particularly struck by the robin’s song this spring. Long before it makes sense for them to arrive, they have come and have begun their melody. Long before it would seem logical, the birds have taken to the air, flown north, and built a nest that will hold new life. They are a feathered promise to us, and they are not hindered by fear. 

Spring is not ushered in by nature’s analysis regarding whether the weather is already laying witness. If there is any proof of spring, it’s the testimonial tune that is completely unaffected by a sense of startle. 

I guess what I am trying to say is that birds aren’t afraid to signal the season change, even if the weather refuses to corroborate their witness. 

They sing anyway.

I believe the kingdom of God is an actual reality that can be experienced, in part, right here on earth. I believe that God, in infinite wisdom, understands what true life looks like. I believe that God desires everyone to experience real life, in its fullest and best. I believe that the kingdom is when people are living as God longs for us to live. I believe fear is the greatest single barrier to this kind of living.

St. Ignatius said, “The glory of God is man fully alive.”

The second we allow fear to elbow it’s way into that picture, is the moment we forfeit living fully alive, and therefore surrender the right to show God as God is meant to be seen.

Long before there is peace on earth, I believe God is calling people to show up and work toward it anyway. Long before there is substantial proof that the kingdom of God can be an actual reality, we are to show up and signal a change is coming. Not might come. Not hope will come. IS coming.

The hardened ground of sexism may show no sign of thaw,

but we sing anyway.

The bloodied history of racism may hold little evidence of healing, 

but we sing anyway.

The chaotic din of the gun conversation may seem impenetrable, 

but we sing anyway.

The fight to end human trafficking may seem like a losing one, 

but we sing anyway.

As long as the color of our skin alters our opportunities afforded us,

as long as women are considered second class citizens, 

as long as sexual orientation means only hate and ostracization,

as long as sexual abuse is embedded as normalized male behavior, 

as long as American schools are not safe,

as long as children are sold into slavery, 

as long as there are still Trayvon Martins,

as long as Flint still lacks clean water, 

and Haitian families are starving, 

and Syrian refugees are fleeing, 

we sing.

And our song will become the confirmation of change.

Fear will not silence us. We will not succumb to the temptation of keeping a peace so we can keep our place. 

The religious leaders had traded their song for fear, and they caved to political advantage and grew content with power and privilege. So when they came face to face with Jesus, they stayed silent because the were “afraid of the crowd.”

That can not be us. 

We are to be robins.

We are to perch 

in the branches, 

long before 

the snow has left, 

and sing.

We are to push 

aside the fear 

and sing.

Our song authenticates 

the changing of the season, 

not the other way around.

The ground 

may be hard.

The trees 

may be bare.

Winter may still appear

to be here,

but we sing.

We are a feathered promise 

A proclamation

that the kingdom 

that rode in on a donkey

and turned tables in the temple

is a reality.

We are robins.

So we sing.