For the dawn draws near, and the world is about to turn.

It has been a tough Advent.

The Newtown shootings, the Pope speaking out vociferously against homosexuals, and, just yesterday, a fire and shooting in Webster, NY where it seems the fire was a trap so that the gunman could attack the firemen, killing two and injuring two more before killing himself.

While these events are tragic no matter when they happen, there is an extra sting to them when they happen in this season.  In a time where the focus is supposed to be caring for our neighbors, tragedies like this are an extra affront.  And when we are subject to such horrors, singing about "peace on earth" and angels in the skies seems almost insensitive.  How do you talk about joy when there are so many who have had that ripped away from them?  How do you talk about love in a world that seems to wholeheartedly give itself to hate?  How do we look for God in a world that it seems He abandoned?

One of my favorite songs that particularly resonated with me at Montreat this summer is the "Canticle of the Turning". It is a version of the Magnificat--the song Mary sings after the Angel Gabriel tells her she is to bear the Son of God.  The Canticle of the Turning focuses on the social justice aspect of her song, of what this coming means for the oppressed of the world.

Here is a video of it being sung at Bon Air UMC on the 16th as part of their Advent offering of music.  (And yes, that is my mother directing.)  Lyrics below.

My soul cries out with a joyful shout
that the God of my heart is great,
And my spirit sings of the wondrous things
that you bring to the ones who wait.
You fixed your sight on your servant's plight,
and my weakness you did not spurn,
So from east to west shall my name be blest.
Could the world be about to turn?
My heart shall sing of the day you bring.
Let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near,
and the world is about to turn! 

Though I am small, my God, my all,
you work great things in me,
And your mercy will last from the depths of the past
to the end of the age to be.
Your very name puts the proud to shame,
and to those who would for you yearn,
You will show your might, put the strong to flight,
for the world is about to turn.
My heart shall sing of the day you bring.
Let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near,
and the world is about to turn! 

From the halls of power to the fortress tower,
not a stone will be left on stone.
Let the king beware for your justice tears
ev'ry tyrant from his throne.
The hungry poor shall weep no more,
for the food they can never earn;
There are tables spread, ev'ry mouth be fed,
for the world is about to turn.
My heart shall sing of the day you bring.
Let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near,
and the world is about to turn! 

Though the nations rage from age to age,
we remember who holds us fast:
God's mercy must deliver us
from the conqueror's crushing grasp.
This saving word that our forebears heard
is the promise which holds us bound,
'Til the spear and rod can be crushed by God,
who is turning the world around.
My heart shall sing of the day you bring.
Let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near,
and the world is about to turn!

I love this because the focus is not on "salvation", it's not on how Right Religion Is--it is about breaking those forms, it is about justice that is not born of vengeance, it is singing for the day when we won't find ourselves mired in news that breaks our hearts.

Listen closely, friends: the coming of Christ was NOT because people were Godless heathens.  It was NOT because they weren't praying enough, or had lost sight of God's Grand Path, or had fallen into ways of sin.  It was not with the attitude of those who have been shouting that the gun violence in America is because we no "do not allow" prayer in schools and have abandoned God.  If it was, wouldn't God have come like the visions of the rapture, separating the sheep from the goats and championing the elite "saved"?

But instead, God chose to take human flesh, to become weak and small, to limit God-self to the confines of humanity.  And why?  To become God-WITH-us.  God saw the broken world, the injustices, and instead of ending it as we know it, or sweeping in as the ultimate Deus ex machine, fixing all our problems and eliminating our free will, He did perhaps the most loving thing imaginable--He joined us.  He became truly human.  He said, "You are hurting--I will hurt, too.  I will feel as you feel.  I will not stay removed, I will not just watch, I will walk with you and experience all you are experiencing--the joy and the hurt and the confusion and the awe."  And in doing so, He modeled for us how we might continue his work in the world through living with that same love that caused Him to be born to a poor young girl in the midst of turmoil.

Though, as I write that, it makes me think that maybe it WAS because people had become Godless heathens--because the religious leaders cared more about keeping up appearances than than being stewards of creation and each other.  Maybe it WAS because people weren't praying enough, because they were more focused on saying the right words than the thoughtful, centering prayer that focuses energy upwards and outwards towards God and each other.  Maybe it was because the path towards compassion had been lost and God saw people committing the ultimate sin - stripping others of their worth because of differences in class, race, sexuality, or religion.  And that God came to be with all those who were shut out by the ruling powers--including the Church.

Here's what I tell you on this Christmas Day: the only ones who are Godless are those who live without compassion for their neighbors.  The only ones who have abandoned God are those who have limited the love that they give.  The only ones who have fallen off of God's path are the ones who do not care for those that are abandoned and marginalized.  There are atheists who know God better than many Christians.

Because, friends, the only counter to the violence and tragedy that we've encountered over the past few weeks is love.  Love for each other, love for those we don't know, love for people we don't understand, trying to bridge the gap so that they don't have to lash out.  That's it.  And from the Christian perspective, the model for that is Jesus Christ, Emmanuel, God with us, who came to be with us in our brokenness, who came to share in the pain we feel, and show us how to love each other so that we might bring for the day of which Mary sings.

God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them. This is how love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment: In this world we are like Jesus. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
We love because he first loved us. Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen. And he has given us this command: Anyone who loves God must also love their brother and sister. (1 John 4:16-21) 

The road goes ever on and on...

Yes, yes, yes, it is the second week of Advent, but there is also another major event happening this week.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey is being released.

TONIGHT.

I AM IN FACT SITTING IN THE THEATER WAITING FOR IT TO START AND POSTING THIS BLOG.

DEDICATION.

One of the early loves of my life was science fiction/fantasy literature.  I often lean more towards fantasy than hardcore sci-fi, and I grew up devouring the Chronicles of Narnia, the Dragonriders of Pern, Harry Potter, and, of course, Lord of the Rings.  When I was in 7th grade, we were studying the Hobbit, and my group was assigned present chapter 14, Fire and Water, which we did as a skit.  I played Bard, got to practice archery in class, and can still recite Bard's "arrow, black arrow, I have saved you to the last" speech.

I will, of course, be seeing The Hobbit at midnight.  I did not schedule myself to go to any rehearsals on Friday for that specific reason.  In my pre-Hobbit preparation, I've been rereading The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, and my roommates and I have watched all of the LOTR movies.

I have had trouble relating to the Advent theme this week.  On the 2nd Sunday of Advent we light the candle of peace, which always seems a little hokey to me.  I am a New Yorker--my life is governed by the lack of peace in it, and furthermore, I am in theater, a business built on conflict.  Good plays have good conflict.  Good theater is built on anything BUT peace, because peace is ultimately boring.  One of my favorite lines from Jane Eyre is, "It is in vain to say that humans ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it."    We thrive in conflict--we love it, we hate it, but conflict is what makes us feel alive.  That's why peace is such an impossible idea… we simply cannot make it last, and secretly, we don't want it to.

I recently gave into the "Keep Calm and…" trend that has spiked recently.  From the original "Keep Calm and Carry On", a saying from Britain in WWII, has come a plethora of journals, posters, t-shirts, keychains, mugs, etc, proclaiming that phrase or variants on it.  Different fan communities have coined phrases having to do with their fandom, such as "Keep Calm and Call Batman" and "Keep Calm and Carry a Sonic Screwdriver" (Doctor Who).  My resistance to this finally caved when I found a shirt that said "Keep Calm and Leave the Shire". This is of course the shirt I am wearing to the midnight release of The Hobbit, but beyond that, there's something that's very geekily emotional that that phrase opens up.  (noting that this is largely because I'm making major changes in how I live my life, like… how I pay my rent, etc, and there's a part of me that would love to stay in the familiar Shire instead of making the changes I know I need to make.)

Leaving the Shire is no reason to keep calm.  The Shire is the peaceful part of Middle-Earth, where hobbits live with only minor conflicts (like uppity young hobbits stealing Farmer Maggot's mushrooms).  Once you leave the Shire, though, you are subjected to the dangers of the world, where there are dragons, goblins, orcs, and wraiths. 

But perhaps the scariest part of leaving the shirt is the fact that you never know exactly what's going to happen when you leave.  Things never go exactly as planned.  There are always twists and turns and trolls threatening to sit on you and squash you into jelly.  No one has ever had an adventure that went smoothly, no roadblocks, everything achieved in record time and home in time for dinner--otherwise they wouldn't be adventures. As Bilbo says to Frodo, "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

This image returns in the Hobbit and LOTR again, particularly by way of a traveling song sung by Gandalf, Bilbo, and Frodo.  You don't know where the road will lead, but by stepping onto it into an adventure, you agree to follow it.  There is a comfort in the road.  This isn't perfect.  Eventually decisions are made about which way to go at forks, sometimes the road leads strange places, and other times the road is lost altogether.

The thing is, if we step into the road, if we make the choice to join an adventure, we are accepting all of the toils that the road can bring.  We know that things won't be perfect, but we also know that that imperfection, those conflicts, and those dangers enliven us in a way the comfort of our hobbitholes do.  And in that acceptance, there is a certain kind of beautiful, active peace.  It is not a peace that promises ease… and incidentally, neither is Christ's peace.  One of my theological pet peeves is when people try to convert people to Christianity by offering an easy pass through life, when they say that Christ will solve all their problems.  Christ never promises ease.  Christ calls us to take up our crosses and follow, and the early Christians were subject to persecution and death.  Following Christ's call means leaving behind all that is familiar, not stopping to say goodbye to loved ones or bury your dead.  There is nothing easy about that road.  But there is a peace in accepting what the road has in store, and deciding to follow it forward.  In this peace, you can breathe in all the humanity our conflicts have to offer, step forward, and live.

The road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began
Now far away the road has gone
And I must follow, if I can
Pursuing it with eager feet
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

Sleepers, awake!

A note before we begin: I made a slightly belated New Year's Resolution (because the first Sunday of Advent is the Christian New Year), which has caused this blog to appear a bit late.  I am posting it late on Saturday night, so it'll seem like Sunday morning for most folks.  Just to clear up any confusion; LAST Sunday (12/2) was the first Sunday of Advent. THIS Sunday (12/9) is the second Sunday of Advent.



I have recently started reading scripture at my church.

This is a weird sentence, as many people who read this blog might say, "But I've heard you read scripture so many times/I've seen you teach workshops on the thing, and you haven't been reading scripture?"  But truth be told, it took me a long time to start to get involved at the church I attend in New York.  Partially because I started attending this church while I was still in school and therefore had no time outside of Sunday mornings, partially because I'm shy, and maybe partially because I wanted to experience simply attending service instead of being involved.  But one fellow parishioner finally got through to me--after probably a year of sitting in front of me in worship and trying to get me in the Parish choir, she told me that they only rehearsed Sunday mornings before church, and I agreed, and crossed the threshold to the parish house.  It was only recently that I informed the rector that I had experience as a scripture reader and crucifer--knowing, of course, that once I volunteered that information, I would never find myself in service without a job again.  (Such is life in the church.)

And so, with eagerness a couple weeks ago I opened the email with my first assignment for reading scripture at the 9am service, and what I found was…

…this.

As I watched, thrones were set in place, and an Ancient One took his throne, his clothing was white as snow, and the hair of his head like pure wool; his throne was fiery flames, and its wheels were burning fire. A stream of fire issued  and flowed out from his presence. A thousand thousands served him, and ten thousand times ten thousand stood attending him. The court sat in judgment, and the books were opened. As I watched in the night visions, I saw one like a human being coming with the clouds of heaven. And he came to the Ancient One and was presented before him. To him was given dominion and glory and kingship, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him.  His dominion is an everlasting dominion that shall not pass away, and his kingship is one that shall never be destroyed. (Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14)

…WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!  OF ALL SCRIPTURES I GET THAT?!  THERE'S ONLY SO MANY TIMES I CAN MAKE A VARIANT ON "FIRE" AN OPERATIVE WORD!

But I calmed down.  A challenging scripture, to be sure, but I reached out to my religious friends on Facebook for help (special shoutouts here to Jenny McDevitt and David Bone!), read the verses cut out of this reading (which were even more confusing and involved several beasts and a talking horn), and was able to come into worship with a strong understanding and a clear reading.  The reading was referenced in the sermon and I grinned as I understood the context that the rector was giving us, and I assured myself that the next reading wouldn't be so difficult.

But then when I received the reading for the next week's Evensong, I found:

Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon a donkey, and upon a colt, the foal of a donkey. And I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim, and the war horse from Jerusalem, and the battle bow shall be cut off: and he shall speak peace unto the nations: and his dominion shall be from sea even to sea, and from the river even to the ends of the earth. (Zechariah 9:9-10)

…WHAT'S GOING ON?! AM I BEING TYPECAST AS A PROPHET READER?!

The prophets are the books of the Bible I know the least about (yup, I know more about the wisdom books than the prophets!).  I always feel like the prophets require a good amount of context to make sense of them.  (And on the flip-side, they provide context for the significance of the Christ story to the Jewish people of the time.)  When I studied Daniel, for instance, I learned about the corrupt political sphere at the time (represented by the beasts and horn cut out of the lectionary reading), and how the promise in the prophet's words is that God will come to reign and release the world from these corrupt systems.

The language of the prophets is always intense, and sometimes can sound a bit absurd to the modern ear.  In preparing for this blog post I realized that prophetic scriptures are the only ones I've turned into image macros.

THIS IS ACTUALLY A LINE IN ISAIAH.

AMOS CAT WAITS FOR JUSTICE

But in the past few weeks I've started to grow towards the prophets, and that was brought together last Sunday - the first Sunday of Advent.

I was raised in a tradition that associates each candle on the Advent wreath with something like "joy" or "love".  The first Sunday of Advent, in this tradition, is the Sunday of Hope... also known as the "Prophecy Candle". (Sensing a theme yet?)

In our liturgical year, Advent is the season of waiting, of preparation, before the birth of Christ.  It is also the beginning of a new year--and new years are always associated with times of change and renewal.  A new year is a reason for us to think, "things can be different."  And as we come to the Christian New Year, we start with hope for that renewal, that Christ's coming will be the change we wish it to be.

But this Advent, I would like to hope like a prophet hopes.

As I've studied the words of these prophets, I've been astounded at the insistence of their hope.  Their words are strong and bold.  Their hope is not a wish.  It is not a dream.  It is not like our passive Christmastime thoughts of "what if goodwill and cheer lasted all year?" that get dismissed along with the remains of Christmas trees and tinsel.  It is a vibrant hope, an active hope, a living hope that the kingdom will come upon the earth.  One of Webster's definitions for hoping is "expecting with confidence".  That is a prophet's hope. 

Of course, it is easy to think of such a confident hope as a delusion.  It is easy to dismiss that as foolishness, accuse those who hope of refusing to see the world as it is.  It's so easy.  And that's the problem.  It is easy.  It takes no effort to resign yourself to the way that things are.  It is hard to insist, "But this is not the end of the story."  It is hard to look around and see the state that the world is in and see not only what it is, but what it can be.  In a world that as tumultuous as ours, where gulfs between social, political and economic groups grow wider and wider, it is hard to even dream of what these prophets envision, let alone expect it confidently.

But that is what we are challenged to do--because if we do not insist that this is possible, who will?  If we do not say, "Change is coming!" it will not.  A living hope is subversive.  A living hope is one of the most dangerous weapons against the status quo--because no one can force that hope away from you if you hold onto it with the verve of the prophets--and that hope can wake us up, open us up, put us on alert for that change moving through the world, so we start to listen, start to look, start to become attuned for it.  The hope begins the process of making us a vessel.

And hope is dangerous because it's contagious.  We all want to believe that things can get better, but sometimes we just can't.  Despite being a pretty hopeful person, I recently went through a period where I ran out of hope regarding a major part of my life.  It felt like it hit a dead end and I flatlined.  Completely.  Even my rugged "I'm-obsessed-with-Job-and-Ecclesiastes-and-wrote-multiple-papers-on-St.-John-of-the-Cross-and-the-Dark-Night-of-the-Soul-and-read-Bonhoeffer-for-comfort" hope failed me, and I rarely left the house and I panicked on the subway one day and texted one of my friends, "What if I never shake this?"  It took people sitting down with me and saying, "You know, you don't have to keep living the way you have been.  There are so many other options for you," for that hope to rekindle.  It didn't take alcohol, it didn't take anti-depression medications, it took a spark of hope.  It took an idea of what life could be.

So that's where we begin the new year, and the season of Advent--with an insistent idea that things can change.  We begin with opening ourselves to that hope--to sharing it when we feel it, and receiving it when we need it.  We wake up to that hope and therefore what the world can be, seen through the prophets' eyes--a world ruled not by whoever has the most money, or friends, or bombs, but instead by the ultimate law of love and understanding and care for all people.