Advent 3.4: False and true

"As there were false prophets in the past history of our people, so you too will have your false teachers, who will insinuate their own disruptive views and, by disowning the Lord who brought them freedom, will bring upon themselves a speedy destruction. Many will copy their debauched behavior and the Way of Truth will be brought into disrepute on their account." 2 Peter 2:1-2

This passage was part of today's midday prayers. Now, I've already confessed to not being wonderfully familiar with the details and context of the Bible (I work at a seminary but I ain't no theologian), but these verses still struck me as I recited them under my breath. They struck me because I could hear myself starting to think,

AMEN, false prophets! How many of those do we have these days? Too many to count, and they all seem to be in power, *definitely* insinuating their own disruptive views not only into the cultural consciousness but pushing them into OTHER PEOPLE'S ACTUAL LIVES and grocery carts and bank accounts and medical care and uteruses and schools and safety and hopes and dreams for a new life and and and...

Basically, when I first read this passage, I thought, Yes! God is on my side!

But then I stopped. I read it again. And I thought about how many of the people (most of them other Christians) who I consider to be false prophets would be wagging their fingers and saying the exact same thing about me, and people who agree with me. False prophets! Disowning the Lord! The Way of Truth will be brought into disrepute on their (my) account!

I know there are tons of contradictory Bible verses whose meaning depends on who you're asking. (And I think pretty much ALL of us pick and choose.)

If I'm looking at it naively and optimistically, I think, how cool--a representation of the many diverse perspectives on Christianity out there! But most of the time these days, I'm thinking about it as a frustrated privileged person who continues to dig through what that means, and who feels closest to Jesus when I think about how he calls us to treat others--not simply by being nice to folks in our daily interactions, but by treating our sisters and brothers holistically--acting and living so that all may experience peace, hope, love, and joy.

More and more, I realize, this call is individual, yes, but also--especially--institutional. Societal. Systemic. I'm still figuring out how I, a privileged individual, can begin to positively shift the institutional, societal, and systemic. It feels more than daunting. But when I see what's being done in our country today by those in power, I can't help but let the words seep back into my head: False prophets.

I guess I'm a false prophet in my own way. (Although "prophet" is not a word I'd use to describe myself any day of the week...) I think and say things that I'm pretty certain aren't what God would have me think or say. I look out for my own interests a lot of the time. My opinions matter to me, and I'm sure some people would see them as "disruptive views." I tumble into judgment as easily as breathing, judgment of others and myself. All of this is true. 

In Advent we await the Christ child who came to save us from ourselves, from our sins. The whole getting-into-heaven thing. Not to be so flippant about it; I do believe that personal relationship is important, I think I'm still discovering how much. But I also believe that a huge part of our sin, a big reason God joined us on earth in the first place, is our lack of empathy and action for our brothers and sisters now, in this life. Because our sin, though it may start out as individual, quickly becomes collective. 

I don't know that I have a very clear-cut way to wind this post down. I definitely don't feel like I have all the answers. I do know that during worship on Sunday, I stepped up to the lectern and read the following passage from Isaiah:

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
    because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
    to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
    and release to the prisoners;
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,
    and the day of vengeance of our God;
    to comfort all who mourn;
to provide for those who mourn in Zion—
    to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
    the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    the planting of the Lord, to display his glory.

Advent 3.3: When waiting feels rushed

So, the day has arrived.

The day when you click on the sponsored Facebook article "33 Brilliant Gifts from Amazon with 2-Day Shipping that Don't Seem Last Minute."

The day that you go to CVS and buy $$$'s worth of stuff but forget to buy stamps to send the rest of the Christmas cards.

The day that you have to physically clear a spot at the dining room table before eating breakfast.

The 140th day in a row that you claimed you would clean your office.

The day you finish off the box of truffles and when the offer of a large ginger cookie comes from down the hall, you yell, "Of course!"

The day that all the negatives of the season begin to catch up with you and the forever flow of sugar pulses through your veins.

With six days to go, that's not so bad. There are always harried days in the midst of a journey, whatever it may be. But it feels like the frantic element of waiting is beginning to kick in. The doing part of waiting, as time winds down and speeds up all at once.

So what will you do when you get home tonight?

Let's be real: you'll get back on the computer and order a couple of the things you need to order. But then you'll put it away. You'll say the vespers prayers (It is good for me to be near God, I have made the Lord God my refuge). Go walk the dog, eat dinner, watch a bit of TV. Drink some Sleepytime tea. Get in bed early.

Quiet your soul.

[Photo: Tim Goedhart, Unsplash]

Advent 3.2: For you

First we were waiting for you to get better.

Then we were waiting for you to die.

From the first Sunday of Advent to the third, everything changed.

And you did die. Quietly. By yourself. As December 18, 2013 slipped in, you slipped out.

That was almost the biggest oddity and irony, I felt, of the whole three weeks of waiting: you were quiet. You couldn't speak anymore, or joke, or sing, or snap if someone was blocking your view of the football game. The only rumbles now came from the deep recesses of your chest and lungs, mouth open, swallow reflex gone, bacteria seeping in.

If you had to die, couldn't you at least have been allowed to be yourself until the end?

We tried to be boisterous for you. That's always been easy for us, thanks to you, in good times and bad. Singing and laughing and surrounding your bed. I hope you understood, as you flickered in and out, the truth and the hope and the beauty of what you'd created in your 86 years, the legacy you left on this earth. Not just those of us in the room that last weekend, but the countless others whose lives you touched with your generosity, your humor, your faith, and your humility.

I don't believe God plans bad things to happen or when they happen, but I do believe God is with us through them. And it somehow seemed hauntingly, devastatingly appropriate that you died one week before Christmas Day. I never asked you if December 25 was your favorite day of the year, but through a granddaughter's eyes, it sure seemed like it. And that made it my favorite day, too.

Besides your cheery scrawling letters and memories of your voice, the greatest gift I have of yours is the green embroidered stool that was your throne on Christmas morning. I hope someday we will use it again, a new generation of parents and grandparents pulling gift after gift from under the tree and watching the joyful faces of children as they rip open the paper. And I hope that they will realize that the presents don't matter half as much as the love behind them, the significance of family gathered together, the laughter and fellowship that will give the gift of memories for decades beyond.

Tonight after work we will visit your grave on the sloping hill in the chilly rain, weather that mirrors the day we buried you. We will think not of the three weeks of waiting before you bowed out of the spotlight, but of the 86 years that shone before. Your sons will most likely imitate your most famous family lines, your daughter will probably hum one or two of your favorite hymns.

I will think about how four years, 1,460 days, feels like both a snap and an everlasting sea.

Always waiting for you.