- Echo Lake - 2010 -
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- Echo Lake - 2010 -
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Beautiful things don’t try. They just are. I just ran 150 stair steps up a dune to get a workout. Running playlist: “Bad”, U2. A proper cathedral of sound for any nighttime run. “I’m wide awake.” It’s strange to be back on the shores of Lake Michigan, a few miles from Hope, listening to my old college friends with their songs of youthful longing, idealism and that drive to urgency. I remember…
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House of Cards
Not my version of God, but God. But also, not someone else’s version of God. Jesus brought the kingdom of God, but know I’ve settled for a thing called “-ianity”. An “-ism”. He said we could do greater things than these, but I get my fix with sips and addictions to psychobabble tricks, cultural ruse, and melodic hooks. Helpers each. But helpers can be hookers too. A friend said that sometimes we…
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ADVENT(over)tures: stars
When I was a kid, I couldn’t look up at the stars without my eyes tearing and my nose watering. If there were no stars, I think we would be certain that there is a God out there. We would peer into space and see the sun and the planets and nothing else “That’s it. That is all there is and we are the center of it all.” The center. No stars. No distant unknown. No peering into the beyond and…
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What can I give back?
Today, like most, I find myself reflecting on the year and things I am thankful for. One thing I am thankful for, of course, is Owen’s health. Over the past few months, I have found myself reflecting on that time we spent in the hospital– especially when he gets a cold. I strive to be a person that can objectively reason with the stress I find myself in, but Owen’s health has the capacity to unhinge me. It can plunge me into worry and anxiety.
As a person of faith, I find myself turning to God and who I found God to be while we were in the hospital. Jesus says, do not worry about tomorrow because it has enough worries of its own. But when Owen is sick and I am lying in bed and listening to his shallow and rapid breathing, I am wondering if his next breath will be the one that plunges us back into the black hole of medical intervention. "Hey Jesus, I’m not worrying about tomorrow. I’m worrying about right now.“ Specifically, I am worrying about it at 3am when Amy is going to be really annoyed to be awakened by my possibly paranoid diligence.
There are times when life cuts to my core and has me moving down an imaginary highway away from the land of “appropriate concern”, waving as I pass a state of good “composure” and barreling right into the emotional territory known as “unhinged”. I have a special prayer life when I get to “unhinged”. Having a life that is mostly void of true struggle, I do not commonly get to “unhinged”. Most commonly, I experience it when I am doing something like driving in a whiteout or on my first night backpacking in grizzly country- when I am lying in a tent trying to fall asleep- that’s when my prayer life takes on the following tone:
10:09 Dear God, please keep me safe. 10:10 Dear God, I know you are a good shepherd. You take care of your sheep. You love your sheep. I trust you will keep me safe. 10:15 Dear God, I know you are a good shepherd and love your sheep, but sometimes your sheep die horrible, painful deaths at the hands of arbitrarily vicious and bloodthirsty bears. Even though you love your sheep and they love you. 10:18 Dear God, I know you love your sheep and I love you too, and I know, as St. Paul the Apostle says, “To live is Christ, but to die is gain”, and I think “gaining” sounds great and being in heaven sounds just wonderful too, but I really really don’t want to die tonight at the hands of an arbitrarily vicious and bloodthirsty bear.
10:21 Dear God, good things happen to those that love you and bad things happen to those that love you. What difference do these prayers really make? Tonight, I could fall into a pleasant sleep trusting you and wake up in the morning or fall asleep trusting you and wake up terror filled at the hands of an arbitrarily vicious and bloodthirsty bear.
10:23 Dear God, what is the point of prayer.
And repeat until 3:00 am.
2:59am Dear God, is the true purpose of prayer to learn that… snore… Usually, I wake up and laugh at myself. The rest of my trip I am so exhausted that I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
But this was also the basic tone of my prayers in the hospital– watching his little body fighting for each short burst of limited breath- belly in and out, neck straining, heart racing. Crying out for his mama and wanting to be so close to her that he lays on top of her neck- as if his neck against hers would release things.
Sliding into the black hole of medical intervention from that first call to the nurse to the doctor’s office to a ride in an ambulance to the children’s ER to the Pediatric ICU.
To the doctor’s voice, steady and professional, but her eyes so worried- as wide as the gaping fear in my chest. He was nearly listless. And fighting so hard. Three liters of oxygen. Nine liters. Fourteen liters. The ventilator isn’t cutting it. The doctor said, “We have to intubate”. We said “okay”. A team, standing by, rushed into the room and immediately prepared to sedate our boy. They connect him to machines that will breath for him, and keep him alive for two weeks while his body fights an invisible little virus. Forty years ago, such interventions did not exist. Children didn’t survive.
We stepped out of the fury of activity and into a quiet waiting room where we… wait.
Waiting is the same as powerlessness. But much busier. You breath a lot, you swallow a lot, your hands alternately sit still and fumble aimlessly and your mind races. Your heart is wrung. Your mind is displaced. The problem is that your body exists in the space of the waiting room, but your life is in the other room altogether. The rending of the two is fierce and intolerable. But you are absolutely powerless. So you do the only thing you are actively able to do. You wait.
This was so much more real than lying in a tent imagining bears outside. This time, the bear was there in the room with me, pacing. When the bear is in the room, you can’t do much but stare into it- claws, teeth and all. And pray. And my prayers took on the form they normally do when there are bears: “Dear God, good things happen to those that love you and bad things happen to those that love you. What difference do these prayers really make? I want to trust you, but I’m not sure that trusting and praying will give me the outcome I want. I know that you love me if our boy lives. I know you love me if our boy dies. I know I will do my best to love you too. But right now, it feels like the bottom is falling out and there is a vicious bear staring into my eyes and showing me a world that I don’t want. And there is only one person that has the power to fix it. And that is you. And you might not fix it. And I can’t imagine that reality becoming my world and I don’t want to. I really don’t want to… So please, I don’t know what else there is to…” How can a God that I love, who I believe also loves me, allow this unimaginable thing to happen when he has all of the power to prevent it? Here’s where thanksgiving comes into play. I got a response. It’s not an answer to my question, but something that my feeble mind and little faith have chewed on for the past eight months.
Why do I only ask that question when bad things happen? Why do I only hold God responsible when the stakes are immensely high and tragedy frighteningly near. I am a fickle, fickle being. I am nearly blind. How many days do I drive safely from point A to B? But I don’t notice unless I get delayed or into an accident.
Every day that I wake up, I get to wake up. Every day I breath, both intentionally and unintentionally, at least a bazillion-hundred times. My heart beats. My eyes blink. My synapses fire. I move successfully through gravity.
I eat and chew and ingest and a trillion processes rage energy through my body.
There is a cell, in my arm, in my ulna, in the marrow that chugs away twenty-four hours a day doing work, doing it’s processes, doing it’s job, giving me life. There are a trillion-trillion of these working twenty four hours a day in my body. They don’t sleep. Sometimes they die, but my body takes care of that too.
Those cells in my body are severely dependent on a godzillion (a number I just made up to describe somewhere between unimaginably large and infinity)- a godzillion cells in green trees, plants, weeds and algae that practice the art of photosynthesis everyday so that I can breath. Photosynthesis is the ancient practice of taking carbon dioxide and invisible radiation particles that travel millions of miles from the sun (in something like 14 seconds) and turning them into oxygen. Everyday, I live because of this.
I walk, run and type. Sometimes I text.
I see the sun.
I see the horizon. There is a strata of geologic time compacted below me and hidden all the way to China that has accumulated over time and I stand on it.
I speak to my loved ones tens and hundreds of words. Some say it is like the rudder of a ship able to influence and steer.
I receive a language of love spoken and unspoken from loved ones every day.
Co-workers do their jobs and keep my place of employment running.
Truckers drive fruit and vegetables from Argentina, Chile and California when they are out of season in the place where I live. And the worms make the soil predisposed for growth.
That car and that car and that car and that car stay in their lane and stop at that red light. I get to stay alive, but I don’t think about it. These blessings. All of these and more in the mind of God, though I can barely care to notice. But one bad thing happens and I am filing my case in the courts of deity. I ask God why God allows a bad thing to happen to people. In response, I am nudged to remember that for every one “bad thing” I might notice, there are ten thousand blessings that I don’t care to identify and many more innumerable that I am unable to notice. A thousand-thousand blessings. A million-million “life”. And life is good. It is rain, the blessings, and they are raining upon us every day. And I rarely talk to God about those things.
When I asked God how God could be loving and still allow a bad thing to happen, the answer wasn’t “Count your blessings”. The answer was ”Try to count your blessings”. See if you can.
So I tried and was found wanting. I am unable. I swim in them. They literally blast through time, through exploding stars, space and sky and breath. They flow through our veins and our hearts and our hands and the soil worked by our hands and the clouds that sit heavy above us and the rain that falls on our backs and the backs of our children.
So, this is my thanksgiving. As a machine breathed for our boy for two weeks, and God and I played tug-of-war with a rope of prayer, I learned that If I am going to take an account and carry a complaint before God, I have to take a full accounting. Terrible things happen. But wonderful things happen too. God spent two weeks with us in the PICU as we stared into the dark. God gave us so many people’s prayers, support and an inexplicable peace. Though not the case for many of the parents we shared the hallway with, God gave us our boy back into our hands.
I see now that we are so deeply and extensively blessed by God- both in plenty and in want- that we are unable to see it all, yet we are always invited to. Like the noonday sun that is so bright it renders itself nearly invisible to our our sight, we are so immensely blessed by God that we are blinded in the brilliance.
And we are dared to try and count it all.
This is my thanksgiving.
“What can I give back to God for the blessings he’s poured out on me? I’ll lift high the cup of salvation - a toast to God!” Psalm 116:12-18

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As I have read the Gospels over the years, the belief has grown in me that Christ did not come to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one. He seems to have come to carry religion out of the temples into the fields and sheep pastures, onto the roadsides and the banks of the rivers, into the houses of sinners and publicans, into the town and the wilderness, toward the membership of all that is here. Well, you can read and see what you think.”
Wendell Berry (via theohpioneer)
Anna's Song
Over the past few months, individuals in my church have been interviewed and their responses have been posted in the bulletin. During Advent, I was asked to creatively imagine and write interviews with biblical figures that that are known for prophesies, prayers or songs related to the Advent account. I have been challenged to reimagine these sometimes cliche biblical figures in new ways as well as being inspired by their faith this Advent season. I have decided to publish and share them in hopes that these creative imaginings will challenge and inspire you also as you step into Christmas celebrations.In a small coffeehouse near downtown I met Anna. She was well into her nineties. Her eyesight was weak but she carried her small frame with confidence.
You met Jesus as an infant in the temple. Can you tell me what that was like? (She laughed to herself.)
That was the day Simeon was in the temple. He was a gentleman and a ragamuffin. He was a righteous man. I knew him for many, many years. He always knew how to make a scene and when he was done making a scene, I was there to clean up the mess. The people had questions.
What did you tell them?
I reminded them about redemption. I reminded them about our Lord who trades a crown of beauty for ashes and a garment of praise for a spirit of despair. I told them that this baby has come to bind the brokenhearted and provide release from darkness for the prisoners- to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.
How did you know this about this baby Jesus in the temple?
My husband is dead. He has been dead since the year of our seventh anniversary. The Lord dwells in Heaven. But he has also dwelled in a tabernacle and a temple. Since my husband died, the temple is also where I dwell- to be near The Lord. Every day, I rise. I fast. I pray. I worship. The other day I saw a young girl enter the temple gate. She begged for money and food. She was no older than ten years old. I asked her where her parents were. She said they were dead. I asked her why she came to the temple to ask for money and food. She said because The Lord is here. Every day I see the same. I see widows and orphans and foreigners come to the temple with the smallest hope that nearness to God would cause God's people to be as merciful and gracious as they say their God is. Isaiah said that his servant would preach good news to the poor.
Well, this is the good news I know: I am a spiritual orphan, but I hope to be adopted by my Father in Heaven. I am a widow by my husband's death, but he binds my broken heart. I stand as a foreigner to a holy God, yet by his mercy I might one day be a citizen of the kingdom of heaven. My friend, our God is a people person. In the beginning, he walked with Adam and Eve in the cool of the day. It only makes sense that he would long to walk with us, breathe our air, eat our food, cry our tears and join our laughter just, if not only, to be near us. Would it not also make sense that he would want to defend the fatherless, rescue the widow and shelter the foreigner?
So why this baby in the temple? Why would a rescuer make himself so vulnerable when he could, by the power of his hand, make it all right?
My husband was such a good and loving man. It took him nearly three years to woo me. He could have asked my father for my hand at any time, but he waited for me to come around. He waited so patiently and did the hard work of winning my affection.
We are desolate and treacherous beings and we live in a desolate and treacherous world. When I saw the baby, the Spirit of The Lord visited me and I knew it was him though the sight surprised me. His parents were very poor. He was not the prettiest baby I had seen. He was skinny and he was crying the whole time. He was a mess. How perfectly sneaky!
This is the unexpected power of the redeeming hand of God: without privilege or comfort he came to bring our privilege and comfort to stand before the throne of God. He was a mess, sure, but he was one of us. He has come to be with us, to know us and to woo us. He is Emmanuel, God with us.
Simeon's Song
Over the past few months, individuals in my church have been interviewed and their responses have been posted in the bulletin. During Advent, I was asked to creatively imagine and write interviews with biblical figures that that are known for prophesies, prayers or songs related to the Advent account. I have been challenged to reimagine these sometimes cliche biblical figures in new ways as well as being inspired by their faith this Advent season. I have decided to publish and share them in hopes that these creative imaginings will challenge and inspire you also as you step into Christmas celebrations.
Simeon had long since passed away. I was unable to find any relatives to find out more about him, but uncovered an old temple custodian who had known him in younger days.
Simeon was a righteous man. He usually arrived at the temple around sunrise. He had a limp and I remember on so many mornings watching him walk through the empty courtyards before the crowds arrived. He was very devoted.
Do you think life was hard for Simeon?
Oh no. Simeon was a clown. He was a natural extrovert. After he had spent his mornings worshipping in the temple, you could count on him standing in the Gentile Courtyard talking to as many folks as were willing. He had these really big eyes, a really big nose and gigantic ears- and he was very tall. He would spend the day leaning on his cane at one of the pillars underneath the portico. When he crossed the courtyard to tell a story to some unsuspecting family, he would put his prayer shawl on. His one lame foot would drag behind him and he looked like some kind of strange bird trying to take flight.
Did this scare people?
Some. I began to call it the wheat and the chaff effect. It showed you a little bit about a person. Some rose to the occasion. Others would seize up. Sure, he seemed crazy, but some didn’t give him a chance. His unqualified and uninhibited joy was an offense to them. They would pretend to ignore him and walk by or they would scorn him- accused him of being a beggar, a loiterer, or worse.
How did the others respond?
Others would be absorbed into his electrified reality. The children loved him. He would make funny faces and juggle. He would sweep them up in his long arms and throw them in the air as high as he could only to catch them a half-moment before they went splat. They would gather about with their parents as his arms waved and his eyes bulged and he told them stories with such conviction and passion that they were too true to question and too outrageous to believe. There was always a circle of laughter around Simeon.
What is your most vivid memory of Simeon?
That last day, when the baby arrived, I hadn't seen Simeon in years. To be honest, I thought he had died long before that day. It was obvious that his limp had nearly debilitated him. He arrived as the sun was rising, slowly making his way to the inner courts. He worshipped and then came back out to the Courtyard of the Gentiles, he leaned against the pillar for hours. His big eyes darted here and there at all the people as they passed. Some recognized him. He nodded and smiled a tired old smile at them. Then out of nowhere, the electricity was back. I saw him hobble out across the courtyard like he was some sort of spring chicken. His joy rang throughout the temple courts. Everybody stopped to watch. I was on a high portico where I got a view of the whole thing. His gigantic eyes were blazing with laughter. As he approached this young family with a baby, he stretched his long arms and like so many before, they melted in his effervescing friendliness. He took the baby and looked in into its eyes for the longest time before his tired frame shook with the deepest belly laugh. Then he began to speak.
Do you remember his words?
I didn’t hear it all until later when others wrote it down. But I did hear this: “Lord, as you promised me, you may let your servant die in peace. My eyes have seen your salvation.” Everyone was shocked. Some people laughed, some people gasped and some shook their heads and drifted away. Others drew near to have a look at the baby.
Such a righteous man and such an audacious claim over a baby boy. He whispered something to the baby’s mother and then he hobbled through the gates and out of the temple for the last time.
Heaven's Song
Over the past few months, individuals in my church have been interviewed and their responses have been posted in the bulletin. During Advent, I was asked to creatively imagine and write interviews with biblical figures that that are known for prophesies, prayers or songs related to the Advent account. I have been challenged to reimagine these sometimes cliche biblical figures in new ways as well as being inspired by their faith this Advent season. I have decided to publish and share them in hopes that these creative imaginings will challenge and inspire you also as you step into Christmas celebrations. I met the shepherd at a dive of a diner. The coffee was bad and the waitresses were worse. It was the kind of place that stayed in business thanks to the loyalty of a few regulars. So, tell me your story. Well I've been tending sheep since I returned to Bethlehem. When I was fourteen, my father and I went away on business. Due to unfortunate circumstances, we were illegally taken by some Romans and forced to work in a quarry for about fifteen years. Nothing short of a miracle, I was eventually given my freedom. I returned here where my widowed mother lived. As you can imagine, it's hard to get a job with no connections. You were there the night it went down. How did it happen? First, the herd shifted. We pay attention. It could be a foxes, thieves, wolves, or... something worse. We sat there, listened and stared into the dark. Then, it was as if something rushed past us... I don't even like saying it, but it felt like dark things, unwelcome things, scattered and on the run. And this doesn't even make sense, but it seemed to block the stars. It happened so quick we barely got our bearings, but it felt as heavy as a hundred years in that rock quarry. In 22 years shepherding, I don't remember anything like that. After it passed, this man walks over the hill. Now we're truly afraid, but it's different. It's like the fear you feel on a mountain when you realize how small you are. Then things get very strange. He talks about joy and a savior and babies lying in feeding troughs. Then he disappears. For a moment, it feels like the calm after a storm. Or, maybe I should say, "the calm before the storm". It was like the darkness was some kind of "fox on the run" and the hounds were just over the hill. So, we're scratching our heads when the sky starts to grows bright over the hill like it's morning- but it's not morning. The next second: "BAM!" It's so bright the stars look like grey dots in the sky behind the light. There's a rush and a blast and the sheep start falling all over each other. These people- not like you and me- but these (he swallowed hard) angelic beings came racing over the hill. They're everywhere. I can only describe it this way: This Jesus- there's a story about him sending demons into pigs and off a cliff. That's what it seemed like- like they were chasing that darkness, whatever it was. And they kept coming like a parade and singing. Amazing songs. Melodies I will never forget but could never repeat. It was like the sound of ten thousand years passing. That's the only way I can describe it. From the angels in the lead to the very last one, they were singing the same song together: "Glory to God" and "Peace to men on whom his favor rests." And then, like nothing, they're gone. One shepherd said he saw angels doing cartwheels. As for me, it sounded like joyful wailing. You're thinking, "Wailing, really?" Yes. It was like the sound my mother made when I came home at long last, from captivity. Not mournfulness, but floodgates of joy and relief pouring open, dams of weariness breaking down. Like a long wait ending. Like long worn expectation colliding with its fulfillment. Like a mother holding her baby after long labor. So then what did you do? Well, we went down to see this baby for ourselves. This baby that is Israel's consolation. It was like we won the lottery. We ran and sure enough, the baby there. Funny thing is, it was just a baby. It was just like any other baby- except that it was lying in a feeding trough. No halos. No glow. Just a little baby boy. 10 fingers. 10 toes.

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Zechariah's Song
Over the past few months, individuals in my church have been interviewed and their responses have been posted in the bulletin. During Advent, I was asked to creatively imagine and write interviews with biblical figures that that are known for prophesies, prayers or songs related to the Advent account. I have been challenged to reimagine these sometimes cliche biblical figures in new ways as well as being inspired by their faith this Advent season. I have decided to publish and share them in hopes that these creative imaginings will challenge and inspire you also as you step into Christmas celebrations. I met Zechariah, father of John the Baptist, in a cafe on a sunny afternoon. He was an elderly gentleman who moved slowly and took time to speak. His words carried years of experience. If you had to describe your experience in one word, what would it be? Expectation. Or maybe silence. Elizabeth and I were married young and we planned to start a family immediately. When Elizabeth lost the first few pregnancies, we were very devastated. I prayed, but at times it seemed our prayers were met with silence. I hate to say it, but I learned not to get my hopes up. I simply stopped expecting. If I didn't have an expectation, I couldn't be disappointed, right? But then I think of my ancestors and the way they endured the silence of God for nearly 500 years. They too waited for a baby. I suppose there are times when faith means waiting one more day. Was this also Elizabeth's experience? Somewhat. But Elizabeth's faith remained strong. When I asked her how she dealt with alternating hope and disappointment, she simply said, "one day at a time". Sometimes I heard her crying. Sometimes I heard her praying. Praying, waiting, crying and laughter can all be choices of faith in their appropriate moments; each can be an act of worship. Speaking of worship, tell us about that day in the temple. Well, the temple was a structure of limitations and foreboding. In the outer courts, there were walls to keep women and gentiles in the outer places. Past the outer courts was the smell of blood, burning and the smoke of sacrifices; but inside the temple, mystery and smoke filled the holy space. The incense makes your nostrils raw with the scent of the ancient. God dwelled there. When I placed it in the bowl, the incense crackled. Thin lines of smoke rose past my face as I looked down into it. I got lost in my thoughts as I am prone to do. It reminded me of Abraham when God passed through covenantal sacrifices one a dark night establishing a covenantal blessing for the ages. I thought of the pillar of fire leading Moses and our people to the holy mountain and the holiness of God raging there with fire and smoke. There, our people worshipped God and they heard his voice with their own ears. I remembered the covenant they made with fear and trembling, though it was a covenant they would quickly break. But God was not silent. I remembered his prophets- how with their hearts on fire they bore his heart and words with shouts and whispers and moans. I remembered how they went silent. We waited for nearly 500 years. We waited with our hearts on fire. We waited for a deliverer and a righteous king. I thought to myself: What if Adonai could dwell with us now? Could a pillar of fire show the way in our desert? Could we be free to worship without fear again? "How long, Oh Lord", I thought to myself there in the temple, "How long can you be silent?" Little did I know that the silence was about to end- though not for me, of course. Because of my unbelief, I couldn't talk for a good time after the angel visited me (he laughed heartily). You mentioned Abraham in your song. As an oder father, did you identify with him? Sort of. Both he and I were very old fathers. But Abraham's son was a child of a covenantal promise. Mary's son was a child of covenantal promise. My son was not. When John was born, I thought more about Hannah, the mother of Samuel. For many years she also asked God for a son and when Samuel was born, he was born to point to King David. Elizabeth and I knew that we must give John back to The Lord just as Hannah did. We knew that John was also born to point to a king. From Luke 1 8 Once when Zechariah’s division was on duty and he was serving as priest before God, 9 he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to go into the temple of the Lord and burn incense. 10 And when the time for the burning of incense came, all the assembled worshipers were praying outside. 11 Then an angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. 12 When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped with fear. 13 But the angel said to him: “Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to call him John. 21 Meanwhile, the people were waiting for Zechariah and wondering why he stayed so long in the temple. 22 When he came out, he could not speak to them. They realized he had seen a vision in the temple, for he kept making signs to them but remained unable to speak. Zechariah’s Song 67 His father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and prophesied: 68 “Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has come to his people and redeemed them. 69 He has raised up a horn[c] of salvation for us in the house of his servant David 70 (as he said through his holy prophets of long ago), 71 salvation from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us— 72 to show mercy to our ancestors and to remember his holy covenant, 73 the oath he swore to our father Abraham: 74 to rescue us from the hand of our enemies, and to enable us to serve him without fear 75 in holiness and righteousness before him all our days. 76 And you, my child, will be called a prophet of the Most High; for you will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him, 77 to give his people the knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins, 78 because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven 79 to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace.” 80 And the child grew and became strong in spirit[d]; and he lived in the wilderness until he appeared publicly to Israel.
Mary's Song
Over the past few months, individuals in my church have been interviewed and their responses have been posted in the bulletin. During Advent, I was asked to creatively imagine and write interviews with biblical figures that that are known for prophesies, prayers or songs related to the Advent account. I have been challenged to reimagine these sometimes cliche biblical figures in new ways as well as inspired by their faith this Advent season. I have decided to publish and share them in hopes that these creative imaginings will challenge and inspire you also as you step into Christmas celebrations. I met Mary at her home. When I called, she insisted I come over for dinner. It was an unassuming home. The meal was warm and the light low. Her voice was soft and her manner welcoming. I began by asking her what dreams she had for herself as a child. "When I was a child, I did not have dreams for myself. When you are so young and poor, you find ways to feel rich. I loved to sing and I sang songs everywhere I went. "Mary", they said, "she's always singing"." Now, obviously, you are known for a very famous song, is this one of those songs? "Yes and no. This is a song that rose out of me, and I suppose it came from years of worshipping my Lord. You see, we were the people of God's promises but there were those who placed themselves in power over us and they did not fear God; they consumed all the blessing the land could afford. But we were hungry in more than one way: we longed for the promises of God to be fulfilled. I prayed everyday that God would hear the prayers of my people. It was unto this hunger for deliverance that we received Messiah. The messenger who visited me said he would rise to David's throne. He said is name was to be Yeshua: God saves. Still, when I looked into his little baby face the first time, I imagined it so different. I should have known how it would be from the start. He was, after all, born in a barn." And yet generations would call you blessed. "For the Mighty One has done great things for me". Yes, this is my song... but there was not blessing without burden. My pregnancy was wrought with scandal; I was only betrothed and very young. During his early years, we were on the run. My heart escaped to Egypt when so many other mother's hearts broke under the murderous hand of Herod." She paused. "Still, there was that first night." She smiled to herself. "I held my baby- his little hands and his little toes. I bundled him so tight. Most people don't think that it snows in Israel, but it does. That night the quietest snowflakes fell. Visitors came and went, but I could barely find the words for all the wonder that filled me. When I can't find words, I sing. I gazed into my baby's eyes and I sang. He just stared up at me. My spirit rejoiced in God my Savior. That little baby- he changed everything." She paused and I waited. "I was not the only mother who had to watch the Romans do what they did..." Then her head bowed. In the low light I waited for her. "I witnessed him struggle to take his first breath. Like any mother, I never expected to see him struggle to take his last. On the Friday that he died, a part of me died also." Her hands twisted the napkin on her lap. "Holy is his name," she breathed. I waited quietly. The candle flickered on the table between us. When she lifted her eyes, they met mine with a kind of fire. She smiled. Her voice was soft, but strong. "But when he was lifted to life, I found a new life too. This is true; "He has brought rulers down from their thrones, but has lifted the humble." That makes all the difference. My son did not claim the throne of the Most High, but has been lifted to it. And to his throne of mercy, he lifts you and me. 'He has helped his servant Israel, remembering to be merciful, to Abraham and his descendants forever, even as he said to our fathers'. For so long we waited in the dark for our Messiah. Now, in the light and with hope, we anticipate his return." Mary’s Song (The Magnificat) Luke 1:46-56 And Mary said: “My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me— holy is his name. His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation. He has performed mighty deeds with his arm; he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, remembering to be merciful to Abraham and his descendants forever, just as he promised our ancestors.” Mary stayed with Elizabeth for about three months and then returned home.
... Is.60 ...
See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the LORD rises upon you and his glory appears over you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.
“Lift up your eyes and look about you: All assemble and come to you; your sons come from afar, and your daughters are carried on the hip.
Then you will look and be radiant, your heart will throb and swell with joy; the wealth on the seas will be brought to you, to you the riches of the nations will come.
The sun will no more be your light by day, nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you, for the LORD will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory. Your sun will never set again, and your moon will wane no more; the LORD will be your everlasting light, and your days of sorrow will end. Then all your people will be righteous and they will possess the land forever. They are the shoot I have planted, the work of my hands, for the display of my splendor. The least of you will become a thousand, the smallest a mighty nation. I am the LORD; in its time I will do this swiftly.”
Is.60.1