The Last Sunday

28 12 2008

Tomorrow I’m saying my hardest goodbye ever. After 16 years here in Orlando, my family is packing up and moving to Rock Hill, SC. My church cried when they found out. We all did. I’ve planned all the worship for tomorrow and put together all the music and now all that is left is to go to church tomorrow and say the hardest goodbyes yet.

Saying goodbye! I hate saying goodbye! And to these people and this home I have wrestled with and agonized for and wept over. I have grief beyond words. I wrote a song.

Call You Home

 

When I was five years old

There was a phone call

We put all our stuff in a U-haul

In August, called this home

 

Now it’s been 15 years

And least week I shed tears

When we had to break the news that we’re called on

 

And we’ve spent so long among you

And it hurts so much to leave you

And right now we believe, but we don’t understand

 

But don’t you dare give up

So chosen, so honored, so loved

The kingdom of God is among you

So don’t you dare give up

 

Weary and heavy-laden

In a soil so dry and barren

Faithfully you have born this uneasy load

This is such a hard place to call home

 

For years I have helped your plowing

And like a small plant growing

I’ve watched you from a seed to flower bloom

 

Now we’re moving on to new soil

And I won’t be here tomorrow

And it feels so much like we’re leaving you alone

 

But don’t you dare give up

So chosen, so honored, so loved

The kingdom of God is among you

So don’t you dare give up

 

Every Christmas Eve

When we dimmed the lights and held candles

It’s the closest thing to Heaven that I’ve known

And the next time I see you we might be home

 

And every Sunday morn

Singing praises, I for heaven yearn

Longing for redemption we groan

The Spirit and the Bride say come

He has given you the seal of his Son

Always crying out, let’s go home!

 

So don’t you dare give up

So chosen, so honored, so loved

The kingdom of God is among you

So don’t you dare give up

 

I will place watchmen on your walls

They will pray for you day and night

Because our Christ has invaded our world

Penetrating darkness with light

Do not fear

The restoration is near…

 

He has done such great things

Supplies you with every good blessing

Life cannot separate from the love of Christ

He will always call us home





The Word Became Flesh

25 12 2008

Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year. My childhood remembers it idyllically: the gleam of Christmas lights as I drifted to sleep, the voices of my parents wrapping presents in the room below like a lullaby and visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. As I got older, Christmas Eve became more about my church and memories are colored with romance and laughter and eggnog and the warm glow of candles as my church sang “Silent Night” and then broke up to exchange gifts and eat together. This was communion to me, this was the incarnation in all its glory. And the best was yet to come. No other night did I fall asleep (usually, with the proof of my friends’ love curled around my pillow) with so much contentment and joy. For that night, at least, my battle with lonliness and depression had reached an armistice.

The past few Christmas Eves have been hard. For at least four years, I’ve cried each year. Last year marked my transition to adulthood, and in my bitterness and abandonment, Christmas break was the darkest time of the year. I was exausted and angry and spent the night before Christmas break in the woods, crying aloud, “God, where are you?” and sobbing as my heart did break. Through the kindness of a close friend, who gently pursued me for the winter months, I slowly groped my way out of the darkness. Christmas Eve, I led worship for my church, and my childhood dreams were shattered.  Christmas Eve was just another musical production, another night of looking out at a broken church and wondering if there was any hope for them. It was like someone took Christmas Eve and turned on the florescent lights. There was no magic.

But I came back to my room, read Isaiah 9, and listened to “Ten Thousand Angels” by Sandra McCracken:

how long you have traveled in darkness weeping
no rest in language, no words to speak
but there in the wreckage beneath bricks and bindings
love has come, love has come for you

against the night sky of your waiting
your face is like starlight when he walks in
everything worth keeping comes through dying
love has come, love has come for you

so lift up your heart now, to this unfolding
all that has been broken will be restored
here runs deep waters for all who are thirsty
love has come, love has come for you

ten thousand angels will light your pathway
until the day breaks fully in the East
they will surround you and make your way straight
love has come, love has come for you
love has come, love has come for you

Listening to this song, I thought of how long the Israelites cried for a Savior before he arrived, and how we Saints are now waiting for yet another advent. My professor likes to use John Stott’s analogy to describe the “now-but-not-yet” character of the Kingdom of God. It’s like waking up early on a camping trip, and coming out of the tent, and seeing the sunrise. The sun has risen, but for those sleeping in the tent, it is still darkness.

So I sang this song and told this story to my church this sunday, because we lit the pink candle of advent, which anticipates the joy of Christmas morning and is colored like the sunrise. I added a last verse to Sandra’s song:

Christians awake, salute the happy morn

Whereon the savior of the world was born

Rise to adore the mystery of love

This love has come, this love has come for you

This love has come, he has come for you

For those of us outside the tent, our call is to wake those who are sleeping in darkness, to make them aware of the light and cry out to them, “The Kingdom of God is at hand!”

So this Christmas Eve I once again had high hopes of a magical evening that were, once again, dashed. The day was a dismal failure of stress and frustration and sin (yes! sin on Christmas Eve!). I was tired and worn out and frustrated and in the middle of the day lay on my bed and cried because I was so tired; so tired of fighting the Devil, so tired of being strong for someone else; ready to just rest in the protection of someone else. It was selfish, I know, but I prayed and cried out to God for rest.

As always, we dressed up and packed presents and sound equipment and food and the flannelgraph into the van and drove down to our old church building. We were setting up and practicing and running around getting things ready. And it wasn’t a magical Christmas Eve. It was messy and frustrating and I was tired and grumpy.

Then it happened. I was practicing the music with my dad, and we had just finished singing through “away in a manger,” a childhood Christmas favorite, when I put my hand on the microphone to move the stand. Instantly, 120 volts of electricity was pulsing through my body into my other hand that was resting on the metal strings of my bass guitar. I tried to pull my hand away and couldn’t, the electricity had convulsed my muscles so I was glued to the two sources. It hurt, and I couldn’t make it stop. To all eyes I was just standing there normally, but my world was a turmoil of wierd sensation. I screamed, “somebody help me!” My dad took a step toward me and said, “let go!” I told him that I couldn’t, and cried, “Oh, God, please save me!” before collapsing on the floor. My dad pried my fingers off the mic just before I passed out. Suddenly everything was better, and I was laying on the floor of the church and everyone who had come early to set up was running into the sanctuary to see what was wrong. Two nurses took my pulse and it was normal; one hand was bleeding, but not badly burned. It had maybe been a minute that the current was running through my heart, but besides some torn tendons in my hand (a result of the muscle convusions), I was fine. I got up and told everyone I was fine, and buisness continued as usual.

So we sang the Christmas carols, me being careful to avoid the mic at all costs. It wasn’t perfect, but everyone participated. My dad preached about worshipping Jesus. Finally, we lit the candles and sang “O Holy Night.”

O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Saviour’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Til He appear’d and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! O, hear the angels’ voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
O night divine, O night, O night Divine.
Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming,
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,
Here come the wise men from Orient land.
The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger;
In all our trials born to be our friend.
He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,
Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!
Behold your King, Behold your King.
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.
Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,
His power and glory evermore proclaim. Hispower and glory evermore proclaim.

 And I looked out on the people that I would see no longer. On the front row was little Kelsey, arms flung in the air, on her knees before the flannelgraph manger scene, immediately applying my dad’s sermon. I remembered when she was a shy little girl, whose autistic-like developmental difficulties made it hard for her to even speak to anyone outside her family. In the soundbooth was Ricky, my dear friend who has Parkinson’s, whose life I inadvertantly saved this summer, who became a deacon in my church on sunday. Ricky was the kid at youth group that no one could get to co-operate, who misbehaved and moped and frustrated every leader, including me. The Fraziers were there–who are so passionate about church ministry; the Rodriguizes who are so faithful and dependable; Mrs. Ellen who had a child out of wedlock but now leads worship and, along with her husband, teaches that little girl (and her little brother!) to praise Jesus so loudly; Mrs. Louis who has been so crushed by life but keeps going; The Acostas who are so full of life. These people have hope. They never give up.  And this is the essence of the incarnation: that the perfect God entered our imperfect world and transformed it. All the worship we offer is made possible by this transformation. Without this light entering the world–in all its messiness and sin and dirt–we would still be in darkness.

I got this book for Christmas called “Telling the Truth: the Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy and Fairy Tale,” by Frederick Buechner. I’ve been reading it all day. Buechner talks about how, without the darkness of this world properly acknowledged as truth, the Gospel is just not good news. We must acknowledge the suffering to savor the hope. But it does not end in suffering and tragedy: there is the sudden good turn, the hope that emerges at the last moment. All those saints who looked ahead to what was promised but never saw it–until Simeon finally did.

Luke 2:25-32

Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon , who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord’s Christ. Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:

“Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace. 
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel.”

And I remembered what it was like to feel so helpless and in pain, and to scream out for a savior. If my dad had not been standing right next to me when I was electrocuted–my dad who has a degree in electronics and instantly recognized what was happening–I could have died. I was helpless to do anything. I cried, “God save me” from my agony and was answered. That is the miracle of Christmas: that the God who had been silent for so long finally answered. That Immanuel heard the cries of his people and saved.

It took me a year, but here I am now. No longer in darkness; the sun has risen. I see now the hope that the Incarnation is. Without a God who entered our suffering, the consolation he offers is meaningless. Without coming through the dark night of the soul, the light holds no promise. But when it does, we want to fall on our knees before the manger like Kelsey, to cry out for someone stronger to save us like I cried in terror to my Dad, to worship like Simeon and rest in the consummation of this promise, to behold our King wrapped in our familiar frailty and know that in this fulfillment there is hope that all things will be made new.

Isa 9:2

The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of the shadow of death
a light has dawned.

Rev 21:3-5

 

I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, “Look, the home of God is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them. He will remove all of their sorrows, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. For the old world and its evils are gone forever.”

 And the one sitting on the throne said, “Look, I am making all things new!”





Too good not to share

15 12 2008

Some homework that partiucularly has a lot to do with Christmas!

This is part of my poetry presentation for my Inklings class on Monday. I was just super-excited about what I learned and decided it was too cool not to share with the world!

The Late Passenger by C. S. Lewis

The sky was low, the sounding rain was falling dense and dark,
And Noah’s sons were standing at the window of the Ark.

The beasts were in, but Japhet said, ‘I see one creature more
Belated and unmated there come knocking at the door.’

‘Well let him knock,’ said Ham, ‘Or let him drown or learn to swim.
We’re overcrowded as it is; we’ve got no room for him.’

‘And yet it knocks, how terribly it knocks,’ said Shem, ‘Its feet
Are hard as horn–but oh the air that comes from it is sweet.
‘Now hush,’ said Ham, ‘You’ll waken Dad, and once he comes to see
What’s at the door, it’s sure to mean more work for you and me.’

Noah’s voice came roaring from the darkness down below,
‘Some animal is knocking. Take it in before we go.’

Ham shouted back, and savagely he nudged the other two,
‘That’s only Japhet knocking down a brad-nail in his shoe.’

Said Noah, ‘Boys, I hear a noise that’s like a horse’s hoof.’
Said Ham, ‘Why, that’s the dreadful rain that drums upon the roof.’

Noah tumbled up on deck and out he put his head;

His face went grey, his knees were loosed, he tore his beard and said,

‘Look, look! It would not wait. It turns away. It takes its flight.
Fine work you’ve made of it, my sons, between you all to-night!

‘Even if I could outrun it now, it would not turn again
–Not now. Our great discourtesy has earned its high disdain.
‘Oh noble and unmated beast, my sons were all unkind;
In such a night what stable and what manger will you find?

‘Oh golden hoofs, oh cataracts of mane, oh nostrils wide
With indignation! Oh the neck wave-arched, the lovely pride!

‘Oh long shall be the furrows ploughed across the hearts of men
Before it comes to stable and to manger once again,

‘And dark and crooked all the ways in which our race shall walk,
And shrivelled all their manhood like a flower with broken stalk,

‘And all the world, oh Ham, may curse the hour when you were born;
Because of you the Ark must sail without the Unicorn.’
 

 The unicorn is a beast too strong for any hunter to take; but if you set a virgin before him he loses all his ferocity, lays down his head in her lap, and sleeps. Then we can kill him. It is hard to believe that any Christian can think for long about this exquisite myth without seeing in it an allegory of the Incarnation and Crucifixion. (Lewis, The Discarded Image, pp. 149-150)

 

Revelation 3:20: “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in….”

‘And yet it knocks, how terribly it knocks,’ said Shem, ‘Its feet/Are hard as horn–but oh the air that comes from it is sweet.’:   An allusion to the mythology surrounding the unicorn: the scent of a virgin is “sweet” and therefore attractive to the unicorn; here, Shem is attracted to the purity of the unicorn—its “sweet air”, and in his heart a longing is awakened.

 Noah tumbled up on deck and out he put his head;/His face went grey, his knees were loosed, he tore his beard and said: Several ancient tapestries depict the unicorn tethered to a pomegranate tree, a symbol of youthful vitality and fertility. With its departure, Noah’s face turns “grey,” a symbol of age, for life has departed with it.

 Our great discourtesy has earned its high disdain: Noah, as the last righteous man alive, is aware of how his world has rejected God, and how it has been rejected. In consequence, they face the death of an innocent victim.

 Oh long shall be the furrows ploughed across the hearts of men/Before it comes to stable and to manger once again: Echoes of the curse: Gen 3:17

“Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life.”

This is where the myth fades into reality. Looking forward to the Nativity, Noah anticipates the next time Christ shall reveal himself, and how far in the future this will be.

 

The Late Passenger, the unicorn left out of the ark, is a perfect example of Lewis’ ability to use his extensive knowledge of Medieval mythology to awaken the transcendent truth latent within it. Understanding the analogy of the unicorn being Christ, this lighthearted poem quickly becomes heavy with theological meaning, inviting the reader to answer the “knock at the door” before it is too late.

 

__________________________________________

Psalm 126: You Have Done Great Things

                                                                                                                         

Introduction: the Psalms of Ascent

Psalms 120-134 are a grouping of psalms entitled the Psalms of Ascent. Although their specific purpose is not clearly explained in the Psalms, the probable use was for pilgrims ascending to Jerusalem (situated in the mountains) for religious festivals. Psalm 122 alludes to this use in verses 3-4: “Jerusalem — built as a city that is bound firmly together, to which the tribes go up, the tribes of the LORD, as was decreed for Israel, to give thanks to the name of Yahweh” (ESV). This practice is mentioned in 1 Kings 12:28, as well as in Luke 2:42, where we find Jesus and his family participating. Mays, in particular, argues for this use of the Psalms of Ascent, for several reasons:

1. The psalms are short and easy to memorize.

2. They are filled with references to Jerusalem and Zion, and the word Israel is used more

frequently than in other psalms.

3. They are full of liturgical phrases and benedictions, and have a particular emphasis on

blessings.[1]

Other than these common characteristics, however, they are a variety of different genres, and in fact, many are difficult to classify.

Psalm 126 is no exception. Interpretations differ as to whether this is a lament (communal petition) or a thanksgiving psalm. Much of this confusion in interpretation has to do with the fact that the Hebrew is ridiculously obscure. The meaning of the psalm is drastically affected by whether or not this psalm is in future or past tense. The NJPS is the only translation that translates the psalm in future tense, all other modern translations (including Eaton’s) place all the activity in the verses in the past. How the tense is translated is affected by one little word and its function in Hebrew grammar. This may not seem that important, but it is. The translation of this little word affects the interpretation of the whole psalm: whether it is past tense or not puts its setting either before or after the exile and thus gives it an entirely different meaning.

There seems to be good reason to translate it in past tense. Allen points out that the future tense is awkward: “The Lord will have had done great things” doesn’t make sense in English or Hebrew.[2] The psalm has the adverb az which can modify a future tense into a past tense.[3] With the exception of Eaton, the majority of commentators I read thought it was post-exilic writing, possibly by Ezra. One good reason for this is the stylistic and theological similarities between this psalm and the book of Joel (e.g., Joel 3:1).[4]

 Structure

The Psalm can easily be divided into two sections:

vv. 1-3: Remembering the restoration

vv. 4-6: Petition for renewal

It is so easily divided because of the parallel verses 1 and 4: “restores the fortunes” in verse 1 is repeated again in verse 4, “restore our fortunes.” The psalm is full of little couplets: “The Lord has done great things for us” is repeated twice verbatim; sowing in tears and reaping in joy is repeated and expanded; even verse 6’s “carrying the seed-bag” is paralleled by “carrying the sheaves.” It is a tight little poem, beautiful in its simplicity.

 Difficulties and Interpretation

The commentators I read really wrestled with the Hebrew wording in Psalm 126; “restores the fortunes” seemed to be the most problematic phrase. The word translated “restore” can mean a variety of things that are hard to carry over into English. Calvin and Eaton argue back and forth, metaphorically speaking, about whether or not the phrase translated as “brought back captives” in the NIV and “restored the fortunes” in the ESV would be better translated “restore greatly” or, literally, “turned the turning.” The Hebrew word Shibath can either mean captivity or reversal. Calvin suggests it is a play on words: that the captive ones have been turned around and brought home.[5] The basis of each translator’s decision is, again, the result of their theology. The question of Psalm 126 is its setting: is this psalm a prediction about Yahweh bringing his people back from exile, a psalm of thanksgiving for the Cyrus Edict, or a seasonal psalm about the harvest? I think there are elements of each interpretation that help us understand the psalm, but the majority, and some of the most reliable commentators I read—Calvin, Matthew Henry, Leslie Allen—conclude that this is a post-exilic psalm of praise.

The essence of the word Shibath is a dramatic reversal—something has drastically changed. Throughout the psalm this is emphasized: the imagery of water in a dry land (literally: “like the wadis in the Negev”: canyons in the arid south that would flood with water when the rains came), the dichotomy between tears and joy, sowing (death of the seed) and reaping (life for the community).  This concept is central in prophetic literature, specifically literature from the time of the exile onward. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Hosea—all are prophets of judgment and yet point forward to a time of great forgiveness, the “eucatastrophy,” when the community moves from a position of Divine wrath to Divine favor, from participating in death to being given new life. Whether it is referring to the return of exiles or simply the seasonal restoration of life to the community, the point is that God brings about restoration—a restoration so drastic even the pagan nations see and are amazed.

 Application

The Israelites looked back at their history to build their trust in God. When they traveled to Jerusalem to worship, they recounted to each other, through song, what God had done in the past. This restoration is a promise New Testament believers can cling to as well. Looking back at the dramatic reversal God has done in our lives can lead us to trust God more fully in the future. Furthermore, the promise of restoration is greater than simply salvation here and now—we are looking forward to a future Jerusalem, when God’s people scattered across the world will finally come home, and leave weeping in the past. This is the hope we cling to, and it is hope because we know our God can do it. In the midst of death, we have seen him bring life, and thus we can trust him. It is a reminder in a time of waiting that life will spring forth if we are just patient. God is working.

Mays commented that this psalm is traditionally read at Thanksgiving, as Christians look back on what God has done for them. It is also read as part of the Advent and Lent traditions.[6] Looking back on these two huge acts that God has done in history, how can we not look forward with hope? Paul’s words in Galatians ring true here: “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Gal 6:9, NIV). Understanding the great reversal he has worked in our own lives makes our expectations for the future greater, as we look ahead and pray, “your kingdom come, your will be done,” we eagerly wait and expect to see “God moving…and his coming as brilliant as the sunrise” (Hab 3:4).


[1] Mays, 400.

[2] Allen, 184.

[3] Calvin, 96.

[4] Allen, 184.

[5] Calvin, 96.

[6] Mays, 400.