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

Always Believe the Woman

I came across a familiar quote from MLK. These convicting words are ones I hear quoted every January, February, and April - months when it seems acceptable to allow the weighty words of this justice giant to interrupt our comfortable world.

Dr. King’s up in my business again. Speaking from across the decades, his words are ringing in my ears during a week of turmoil and upheaval on The Hill. 

Allegations. Denials. Judgements. Accusations. 

There are things that matter happening here and I’m not ready for my life to begin to end. So, I will not remain silent.

Sixteen years ago was my first exposure to training and instruction on domestic violence. I ended up in a classroom “by accident”, not prepared for an hour that would change my trajectory of thought on abuse forever.

In the front of the room, a tall man talked to pastors and laity about the reality of abuse and assault. Rev. Al Miles made abuse personal. He made it uncomfortable. He was the first person I recall hearing talk about victim blaming. The first to stare Jesus people in the eye and challenge us with the fact that the church is one of the hardest places for women to find safety. 

He told us, in no uncertain terms, to always believe the woman*. 

Always.

Always.

FULL STOP.

I spent several years working with Al Miles - contributing in small ways to books he wrote and in conferences he taught. Over and again, it was the clergy of the church who gave heated resistance to his words. Al never wavered. He showed up every time, stared the pastors down, and pushed back on every flimsy excuse, chauvinistic assumption, and outright ungodly attitude that leads us to create further trauma for the victim.

“Always believe the woman.”

I’ve spent my pastoral ministry attempting to live by these words. I’ve spent hours listening to the stories of women who have suffered abuse or assault. I’ve watched them shaking as they recall the details. I’ve seen their shifting glance as they wonder if they’ve said too much. I’ve held their hand as they bravely own what has happened to them - none of which is their fault. Ever. And I’ve looked them in the eye and said, “I believe you.”

I believe the woman.

Al Miles was right, and he still is, about so many things. 

And here we are again, with headlines splashed across our news feed. A woman (actually three women) have dared to tell their story. And we’d rather talk about the timing of the allegations. As if there is too much at stake to believe the woman.

And that’s just it, isn’t it. The stakes feel too high to give any credence to the claims, so we shut it down and shut them up and victimize people all over again. 

“Always believe the woman.”

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

Today, the voices of two men (of all people) are spurring me to assert that the stakes are never too high to believe the woman. 

Never. 

There’s never too much at risk to slow down, hear the victim, believe the victim, and practice due diligence in response to the allegations.

No matter how long it takes.

A Facebook friend was taking a survey today asking “Who do you believe - Kavanaugh or Ford?” After all my domestic violence training, I have to admit I find it an asinine question to ask. 

My answer is emphatic. "I believe the woman.”

*Woman is used as victim's gender because in the vast majority of domestic violence cases, the victim is female.

Face Beauty Auto (a poem)

Face Beauty Auto

Autobiography

beauty, they say, is only skin deep

a decorated package wrapping up the soul and heart.

motorola makes beauty effortless

available at the touch of a button.

face beauty auto.

blending away the lines

smoothing out the blemishes

perfection erasing evidence of life lived,

covering the freckles that testify to sun-kissed summer.

even complexion, airbrushed ideal

denying the hard-earned lines grooved by

laughter and tears

and memories made

and battles waged

in the invisible depths.

hyper-reality,

youth regained

but only temporarily

on a hand-held device.

better to embrace visible pores

than to pour over elusive perfection.

better a face worn by life and love

than loving my face more than living.

round off the edges, smooth out the roughness

but never obstruct the evidence I wear

that declares I’ve lived full

in all the wonder and mess.

luminescence, not from concealing,

but evoked from being alive

for years enough

to gain wisdom

and experience

and to soften the edges

of my heart

and words

and critique.

my honest face

behind the screen

is more rugged

 less softened

more weathered.

that face

is my autobiography.

Social Media and My Big Girl Pants

Call it brave. Call it stupid. Call it empowered. Or maybe stirring the pot. Whatever it is, it has me “voicing” my opinion a little more on social media lately. 

Which is why, when I came across a comment that seemed narrow and critical on a Facebook thread about an issue important to me, I couldn’t let it be. So I typed my respectful but straightforward response, took a deep breath, and clicked “post.” 

And then I panicked. I should be a peacekeeper. In other words, the recovering people pleaser in me shouldn’t rock the boat, but should instead stuff my feelings and avoid conflict. Except repressed opinions or thoughts doesn’t really lead to peace. At least not for me. 

So, I pulled myself together, told my husband I’d done it again, and remembered to breathe. I’d stirred the pot. I’d stuck my neck out. Opened myself up for further criticism.

Sure enough, about 75 seconds later, there was a response to my comment. And it read as I expected it to. The author seemed defensive and ended by telling me I could choose to be offended if I wanted.

My initial responses were frustration, anger, increased defensiveness in myself. I felt a need to keep explaining why I felt as I did. I felt a need to put her in her place because I was right, of course. (Please read sarcasm there.)

I was mad. Exasperated. Adding reason #68 to eschew social media. And maybe people. 

This was a social media situation that was primed to escalate and turn out badly.

So what should I do?

I stared at that response for 4 whole minutes, which felt like the longest emotional roller coastal I’d ever boarded.

What should I do?

I was about to write it off. I was going to close my laptop and leave it be. I’d rocked the boat enough. Stirred the pot enough. I would simply file this away as a failed attempt to broaden conversation and illuminate where another perspective might be possible.

And then I was typing again. I can’t claim responsibility in generating my next move. It came from someplace different or deeper than my conscious mind or adolescent emotions were allowing. 

“Thank you for clarifying. I understand the need for exploration and wrestling.” Click.

75 seconds later, she had sent a second reply. This time the tone seemed completely different to me. This woman was apologizing for any offense she caused and added important understanding as to why she made the comments she made.

I was floored. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that the same person had written those two responses minutes apart. 

And right there, in that moment, I knew something I had known before and needed to reminded of again. 

Kindness matters.

A willingness to lay down our defenses can diffuse the tension.

Acknowledging someone’s viewpoint is powerful.

No matter how much I think I might know, I don’t know everything.

It’s more important to listen than to be heard.

I control me, and only me.

First impressions can be dead wrong.

Enemies might just be friends waiting for permission to express their perspective.

When I refused to enter into the debate any further and simply acknowledged this woman’s journey, things changed. I put on my big girl pants and laid down my right to be right.

And lest you think I alone salvaged this interaction, don’t miss the fact that this woman also showed up with her big girl pants too. She took responsibility for the effect her words had, intended or not. She owned up, said she was sorry, and increased her vulnerability by telling more of her story.

Do we realize that many social media wars can be neutralized if we practice kindness, understanding, and humility? Are we willing to hear someone else regardless of whether we get heard? Mutual shouting just makes noise. Mutual name calling just reduces our humanity. Refusing to acknowledge different perspectives just leaves us isolated, angry, and bitter.

We are better than this...if we want to be. If we choose to be. But it requires everybody showing up to the party with their big girl and big boy pants. 

I am not an expert at this social media deal. As evidenced by the inordinate amount of anxiety it creates for me that I then tend to mismanage. 

What helps me is to remember this - there are real people behind that comment that rubs me the wrong way. Real people with real stories and real feelings. And that makes me want to show up. It makes me want to fight...not with them, but for them and alongside them.

I sometimes feel social media should come with a warning label. It’s not for the faint of heart. But neither is doing the right thing, doing the respectful thing, and sacrificing my need to be heard. 

So, I’ll do what I can. I will keep showing up and put on my big girl pants. I will risk stating my opinion with respect and I will listen to others. And sometimes, thanks to a tense  Facebook post turned love fest, I'm reminded that we all just might make it after all.

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

where there is sadness, joy. 

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console,

to be understood as to understand,

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive, 

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, 

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Amen."

- St. Francis of Assisi -

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.