Time for Tears

I cry.

Some who know me might find that hard to believe, but most likely not, I think. Probably too many moments noticing that I paused just a little too long while trying to share something emotional.

There’s been a lot of crying lately. That there was cause, I wish were different. We can debate the whole “balance of grief and joy” thing some other time, this isn’t the time for that. This is the time for tears and that’s what it should be.

I firmly believe that “Jesus wept” at the tomb of his friend Lazarus isn’t an isolated incident. I also don’t think Jesus’ tears were just for Lazarus. They were also for those he saw around him in such grief and pain.

I think Jesus wept frequently. I think that every time we hear a story about Jesus healing someone who’s broken, there were tears when they shared their story with him. And Jesus shared in that. It makes me sad that sharing isn’t included in the story we read. I can’t imagine why the author didn’t think we needed to hear the story which led to the miracle of healing. As it is, we might be inclined to think it was simply the magical power of Jesus that did it, not the power of love, compassion and grace, a power that’s in all of us. It is.

I think that every time we hear about Jesus going off by himself to pray, I think there were tears then, too, for all that he’d seen and shared. There was surely joy, also, the balance of those two things is life. So I think there were tears of joy as well as grief. Not just happiness, but joy, the deep, trusting, empowering joy that is in each of us.

But in the moments the tears came, I don’t think Jesus tried to stop them until they were done. And we each will know that time differently. Tears flow more readily for some than others. We’re all different. But, understand: it’s not weakness. It’s strength. It’s a physical sign of our love.

Too many people have said this to attribute it to one person, but you might have heard “grief is the price we pay for love.” Is it, though? That feels like a way to quantify and exchange something for another. And it’s not that. Grief is love.

True love goes on. It changes its shape, perhaps its feeling. But love is. That’s why sharing our tears, sharing our presence, our thoughts, our prayers - sharing our love - is so deeply important.

Love, in its many forms, connects us, and love, like tears, is ready to flow when we need to share it. When our love turns to grief, it’s the love of others that holds us and gives us strength. We are each on our own journey, but we are built to travel together.

I believe that God is that very love that is in us and connects us. However you know God, please know that God doesn’t control or manipulate us. God is love, the energy of life and creation, the light that is in all things and holds all thing together. The light is with us always, even in the moments that seem darkest. We can see it in each other. We can see it in our loss: the light changes, but it never goes out. Never.

That’s why we share tears. And share stories and experiences and laughter, too. It’s how we remember and heal and grow and live. Tears come when they do. So does laughter. Let them come. Let the love flow.

The Kind of Story We Need Right Now

I think today’s a good day to hear the story of Jonah.

You might remember Jonah from Sunday school as the guy in the whale. He’s probably one of the most familiar bible characters, especially with children, because of that part of his story. His story makes for, well, great story, but I wonder if we sometimes lose the point of the story in the telling.

Thing is, it’s a story we need to hear, I mean really “hear,” right now. It’s worth reading and it’s only four short chapters. It’s a whale of a tale.

Briefly, it goes something like this. Jonah’s a Hebrew prophet. God tells him to go to Nineveh, the capital of Israel’s enemy, the Assyrians, and prophesy to them that God intends to punish them for their wickedness. But Jonah doesn’t want to, so he runs away and gets on a boat. He ends up in a giant fish for three days. Rescued by God, he goes to Nineveh where he tells them that God will destroy the city in forty days. Hoping to stop it, the people instantly repent. When God saw that they repented, God decides to not destroy them.

Jonah’s mad about that. He tells God that this is exactly why he didn’t want to do it: he knew that God would forgive the Assyrians. They’re enemies. He wanted to see them punished. He goes and sits on a hill to see if they keep to their repentance. And probably to sulk a little. In a closing exchange with God, God challenges his anger and lack of concern for the people of Nineveh.

That’s the end. But is it? We’re left hanging: what’s Jonah say to God next? What’s he do next? Do the Assyrians truly repent? Have they really changed their ways? Does Jonah learn from this experience? Do we? There’s lots to wonder about.

Here’s what I think’s worth reflecting on in our world today. First, Jonah is the constant beneficiary of understanding, compassion, care and forgiveness from everyone, including the sailors who didn’t want to do him any harm, to the Assyrians who listened rather than imprison an enemy, to God who kept calling and forgiving and caring. But Jonah has none for the people of Nineveh. They’re his enemy. Even when they repent, with a willingness and enthusiasm Jonah’s likely never seen, he’s still unwilling to see them as anything but an enemy that should be destroyed. There’s no understanding, compassion or mercy for them.

I think that’s precisely the point of God sending him: Jonah needs to learn to love his enemies. That doesn’t ignore the rightful consequences of their actions or the need for justice. But it recognizes that the long process of healing, reconciliation and restoration begins with repentance, and requires compassionate engagement and mercy.

Second, the story’s not just about Jonah. Sure, the Assyrians seem unrealistically quick to change their ways. Perhaps the author of the story is even exaggerating for effect.  It’s rarely that simple and the reality is that it can take a lot of work. And Jonah was their enemy. But maybe it’s worth considering that Jonah touched them somewhere deep down, that it was time for them to change their ways and they knew it. Perhaps they, collectively, began to realize that this isn’t who they really are and their behaviour needed to change. That, too, is a long journey that begins with repentance, and requires compassionate engagement and mercy.

A Come and See Community

I truly believe that the best way to know God is in community. And I interpret that broadly, far beyond just the idea of a religious community. I mean the common-unity that is us. All of us in creation. Go to church, sure. But you could also wonder at the stars. Commune with the trees. Feel the grass under your bare feet. Maybe not today, it’s winter. But you could make a snow angel. Or even just ponder the hope that is under the snow, in the hard ground, just waiting for spring. That’s all part of being community. It’s all part of knowing God, even if that’s not what you might name it.

For me, that’s a key thing about Jesus. I think “the Word made flesh,” as the Gospel of John describes him, is meant to show us how we, too, are both divine and earthly. Far from being set apart, Jesus means to embrace us, hold us close, teach us how we’re connected by love, how we’re part of the community of people and the community of creation. All of us, but especially the broken, the hurting, the needy, the left out and the excluded. The way Jesus lived was meant to show us how to bring together, connect, engage, embrace and heal. The way Jesus lived was meant to show us that we are capable of miracles, too.

Things don’t always turn out how, or when, you expect. But even things that might seem impossible or improbable aren’t for Jesus. Or us. But it all hinges on our openness to embracing community.

Jesus, the Bible says, had twelve followers that were closer to him than the rest. Even Jesus couldn’t reach everyone, he had to start out with a small community of “apprentice Jesuses.” We might be most familiar with the story of how Jesus saw some fishermen and called them to come fish for people with him. He said “follow me” and they dropped everything and did.

I think that story always needs a lot of unpacking, but I’m going to leave it for now because I’m more interested in a lesser known story told only in the Gospel of John. In that story, John had his own followers - I’d call them “apprentice Johns,” but that sounds awkward - and he points Jesus out to a couple of them and tells them that’s the guy he’s been talking about, the messiah. They go watch Jesus for a bit and finally Jesus asks what they want. They want to see what he’s doing. So Jesus tells them to “come and see.”

Come and see. And he didn’t mean just stand and watch. He meant come and be a part of things, experience things, learn things, share things. Be connected. Be part of the community.

This is why it’s so important to see Jesus as one us - so that we can see that we are one with Jesus. And each other. And creation. Our uniqueness, our own thread in the fabric, helps make the fabric stronger, healthier and whole, when we see ourselves in community.

It might, at first, seem a little tone-deaf to talk about engagement and community at a time when we can’t gather or embrace or engage each other in person as we’d like. But Jesus, I believe, invited those first apprentices to something different, something that wasn’t like what they knew. He invited them to create, to be open to discovering new ways to engage the world. Come and see.

Just Like Jesus

"You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased." Mark 1:11.

This verse from the Gospel of Mark comes from the story of Jesus being baptized in the Jordan river by John, the Baptizer. It's, quite literally, the beginning: Mark’s story of Jesus begins with it. And it's very straight forward. John’s been calling people to repent and be baptized because someone greater is coming. Along comes Jesus, who gets in line with everyone else. “In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’”

You remember how that happened at your baptism, right? No? Well, maybe it was an infant baptism or so long ago you don’t remember. Or maybe you didn’t realize it was in the heart of every person who witnessed your baptism. Because it truly happened.

Listen. Here’s why I love this simple, unembellished story from Mark. I think it’s Mark’s “birth story” for Jesus. Or maybe “born again” story’s better. But it’s a story about us, too, one that sets the tone for how we might know Jesus.

Jesus appears, just like everyone else. Earlier, Mark described John the Baptist as appearing in the wilderness, “clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey.” But for Jesus, not a word of a description beyond being from Nazareth. As if he’s just like everyone else.

Presumably he gets in line, just like everyone else. And Mark doesn’t say that John recognizes him. He dunks him in the water and up he comes, just like everyone else. 

And then, Jesus alone sees the sign of the spirit and hears the voice.

I want to say a “just like everyone else” there, but I’m betting that you don’t think that’s just like anyone else. And that’s just the point. I think you should think about that.

Sure, maybe there’s no description of Jesus because he’s beyond description. Maybe the dove and the voice are unique and set Jesus apart, as befits The Son of God. And then we will hear the stories and know that Jesus is not like us, so we can’t possibly be like Jesus and we can hold Jesus at a respectful distance.

Or maybe “the Word was made flesh and lived among us” so that we would see that we, too are human and divine. Maybe Jesus came to be baptized just like everyone else because Jesus was part of the community, just like everyone else. Maybe Jesus experienced the Spirit, the power of God, and knew that he was a child of God, that God loves him and that God is filled with joy at his being because that’s what we, too, should know. Maybe that’s why we share in baptism as a community, so that we’ll see that love and joy being reflected from the faces of everyone else, all children of God.

Imagine how empowering that could be. Knowing all that, embracing all that, we could embrace Jesus, not hold him apart, we could learn from Jesus knowing that we, too, are capable of extravagant love, unlimited forgiveness, compassionate understanding and life-giving grace. Just like Jesus.

Where to now?

What we often refer to as “The Christmas Story” is a combination of stories from different sources. You probably already new that. Some are biblical, some are tradition. The naming of the magi, for instance, is a tradition. The story from Matthew’s gospel doesn’t name them, but over the centuries we’ve come to know them as Gaspar, Melchior and Balthasar. There are other names, too, depending on the tradition. The bible doesn’t specifically say there was only three, either, we assume that from the three gifts. There are many stories that explore the idea that there might have been more.

We don’t know how many shepherds showed up, either. Even our view of the stable, full of traditional and not-so-traditional animals is more about tradition than the story itself. And then there’s that little boy with the drum.

I don’t think any of that’s a bad thing if the tradition is meaningful and gives us more experience of the story. It can draw us in and invite an insight into how the story is relevant to our life and faith.

That’s the great thing about the manger scene or creche that many people and churches have out at Christmas. It creates a little tableau that represents not just one story but many. It’s easy to just look at it and think “isn’t that a pretty pastoral scene.” Because it is. But there’s so much more to it, so much more that we could wonder about. Here’s a couple of thoughts about that.

First, try picking up each piece and wondering how they would tell the story. Mary and Joseph, of course, there’s some story in the bible, but you might wonder about how they met or what life was like for them. You might wonder how their stories might go if they were being told today. Especially in a year like this has been.

How about the shepherds? Again, we have a bit of their story, but there must be more that we could imagine. The magi, too, their story is even more sparse, less detailed. Pick up a figure and wonder where they’re from, wonder why these gifts were chosen or wonder at the faith they must have had to follow a sign that they interpreted to mean a prophecy was being fulfilled. What were they thinking?

Go ahead and try it. Pick up a figure, maybe learn a little more about them, if you can, and then wonder about how they got to be here, in this particular story. And don’t forget to wonder about where they’ll go next.

That’s the second thing. Every year, we get the box out, we unpack the figures and arrange them into the scene of that night and then, when Christmas is “done,” we pack them all up again in their box and put them back on the shelf. We put them away as if their story was over.

It’s not. They’re not just statues. They’re alive. Everyone in the story had lives that went on long after this one night. Lives that were lived one day at a time, beginning the very next day. Just like ours. Maybe they all went back to their regular jobs. But their lives were changed, just as Mary and Joseph’s lives were changed by the new life they welcomed into theirs. Love is in the world, not just this one night, in this one scene, in this one story, but everyday. You can’t keep that in a box.

Meet Me At The Manger

I’m sure it’s a long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem when you’re walking. It’s only a little over 100 km, but, back in the day, there’d only be a dusty dirt road made by the caravans and soldiers who travelled the route. It sure would have felt long. Even more so, if you’re pregnant. It would be nice to think riding a donkey would help, but you’d probably be more comfortable walking. Let the donkey carry the luggage over this bumpy, uneven terrain.

Even getting this far was quite the journey. When you’re expecting to begin married life quietly, in a relatively unknown corner of Judea, and suddenly there’s an angel and things change, well, Mary would have had a lot on her mind. Joseph, too. Carpentry was a good trade, but it didn’t make a lot of money and he wasn’t expecting an instant family or the Roman census that demanded they travel. It wasn’t good timing.

Then there was the whole child of God thing. That’s a lot of pressure, a lot of expectations, a lot of - well, who knows what? Who knows where that’s going? But let’s get to Bethlehem and find somewhere to have the baby. We just need to get to Bethlehem.

For shepherds, minding their flocks outside of town, the geographical distance to find the baby wasn’t that far to travel. But the social one was. Shepherds were the lowest of the low in society back then, but that night, they felt like royalty. Angels told them the best news and sent them to find Mary and Joseph and the child lying in the manger. No one would believe we were worthy, they might have thought, we just need to get to Bethlehem.

But if you’re looking for a long, complicated journey, the magi certainly fit the bill. From far to the east, magi followed a sign, a star, they believed would lead them to the Promised One, a new king that would change everything. Sure, as wise astronomers, they knew what they were doing, tracking the star and figuring out a route, and maybe they had camels and were reasonably well off. But they still had distance and Herod to contend with. I don’t imagine the current king was comfortable with their arrival looking for the new one. And I doubt a child of poor parents in a tiny town in the backend of the Roman empire was what they were expecting to find. I’m sure they were glad to reach their destination, to finally get to Bethlehem.

That’s just it, though. Bethlehem isn’t the destination. It’s not the end of the journey, it’s the beginning. Not just for Jesus, but for all of us.

It was the beginning of a new family. Perhaps Mary and Joseph were anxious about what might be ahead for their new son. But I hope they also knew the joy of a newborn and were filled with hope for the future.

For the shepherds, they might have felt the beginning of a new sense of wonder and well being. They were chosen to be the first to hear the news. At the very least, they would have been filled with hope for the future.

And the magi went home having found what they sought. They didn’t just escape Herod, they stepped boldly into the hope of a promise fulfilled.

Come to the manger this Christmas. Perhaps you’ll find not the end of a journey, but the beginning of one.

The Story Will Be Told

We have a Christmas play in our church service this Sunday. Lots of churches do a Christmas play. Usually on the third or fourth Sunday of Advent, but sometimes, really daring churches will do it on Christmas Eve.

It’s a great idea, the Christmas play. It can be anything from a traditional dramatization of the Christmas story to something a little more exotic that explores a Christmas theme or one of the many social justice issues that are in the story (yes, they’re there) or examine questions of faith. It might be put on by kids or by adults for the kids or by everyone for everyone. It might have a script or follow the biblical narrative or be made up on the spot. It could be rehearsed and practiced for a few weeks or, well, not. There’s lots to be said for the spontaneity of an “on the spot” Christmas play.

We’ve done lots of those things over the past years. We’ve had a traditional “here’s the bible story” play, we’ve had plays about being stars and angels and giving gifts and finding the stable and, as I recall, one involved an altercation between ninja sheep and desert pirates. One year, we even handed costumes to people as they came in and literally everyone was in the play that day.

I think the whole point of doing it is to bring life to the story, to refresh a story that can become just a little too familiar and maybe offer a different perspective. The story is full of drama, why not dramatize that? Besides, what a great opportunity to bring people together, create community and find a way for an ancient story to still be so relevant to our lives today.

Hmm. Well that’s going to be tricky this year, isn’t it? Especially since we, like many churches, have decided to not have in-person services until next year. Even if we were, under the current restrictions, we still couldn’t bring people together and there’d still be no costumes. And who wants a play in which everyone would wear a mask?

Well, as it happens … did I mention we have a Christmas play in our church service this Sunday?

Thing is, Christmas will happen and the story will be told. It might be accompanied by the story of this Christmas. In fact, the story of this Christmas might well be how we found new ways to make an old story new again, to find new traditions, new ways - simpler ways, perhaps - to share the love which is at the heart of the Christmas story. It might be about how we overcame physical separation to realize just how deeply in our hearts love lives. It might be an opportunity to see just how much stuff we pile around ourselves that gets in the way of how we really feel, what we really hope for, and how we really love. However Christmas comes this year, it will come and the love that breaks into the world with Jesus’ birth will still find its way to us.

Oh, our Christmas play this year? It’s a video. It includes short video clips from some people in our congregations. It includes an odd assortment of animals, a donkey and a very pregnant couple and, yes, there are a lot of masks. There’s a pandemic on, you know.