"Word and Flesh" (John 1:1-14)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 25, 2016, Christmas)

(With the help of the children and the youth)

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A Different Kind of Christmas Story

When you think of the Christmas story, what do you think of? What characters or places or events do you imagine?

In today’s scripture, John tells the Christmas story. It’s a different kind of Christmas story than the one we hear in Matthew and Luke, where we see stars and angels and the baby Jesus. John’s Christmas story is cosmic. It’s a little bit like those movies where the camera zooms out and you see all the planets and stars and galaxies.

The Word of Christmas and Creation

John says that the story of Christmas is also the story of creation, because both of them celebrate the same thing: God’s Word. A Word that brought life to the entire universe. A Word that came to life in Jesus.

All this talk about a word of great power makes me think about magic words. Do you know any magic words? What’s supposed to happen when you say them? (Does this really happen?)

What about in everyday life? Let’s say that you want a cookie, and your mom or your dad says to you, “Say the magic word.” What word do you say? And what happens?

All Words Are Magic

You know what I think? I think all words are magic. I think all words change the world.

When someone gives you a compliment, how does it make you feel? How does it change you?

Bodies Made of Words

In today’s Christmas story, John says that God’s Word became flesh. That’s sort of like saying that our bodies are made of words. That all the compliments we’ve received, and all the encouragement, and all the instruction—all these words have helped to shape us and make us who we are.

Think for a moment about who you are. What are some of the words that have shaped you—maybe words that your parents have said, or your friends?

Now I’m wondering about the baby Jesus, who’s with us today in the manger. I’m marveling about what John says: that Jesus is made up of God’s word. What do you think this means?

I think what John is saying is that as the baby Jesus grows up to be a young child, and then a teenager, and then a young adult, he keeps hearing a special word from God. Not “Abracadabra.” Not “hocus pocus.” Not even “please.” What words do you think God is saying to Jesus? I believe God’s saying, “I love you.” (I think God says the same thing to all of us, but I believe Jesus heard it most clearly and trusted in it with all his heart.)

I believe “I love you” is the Word of God that became flesh, that made up the body of Jesus.

The Word God Says

And according to John’s Christmas story, the Word that comes to life in Jesus is seeking to come to life in us. John says that if we hear this Word and trust in it, it’s like we are reborn.

So today as we welcome the baby Jesus into our world and our lives, we also welcome the Word that God says. What is this Word? What is it that God says to us?

I love you.

Prayer

Baby Jesus,
Holy Christ child,
Full of God’s love—
May we too hear that special Word of God,
And grow with you
In God’s love.
Amen.

For All the People (Luke 2:1-20)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on December 24, 2016, Christmas Eve)

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Why Only the Shepherds?

If the angel in tonight’s scripture is to be believed, the good and joyful news of Christmas is for everyone. “For all the people.”

And yet in tonight’s scripture, it is only the shepherds who hear the good and joyful news. I wonder: why do only the shepherds hear it, if it’s indeed for everyone?

…Because They’re the Only Ones to Respond?

There is an old folk tale that the Jewish rabbis tell. Abraham, they say, isn’t the only person who received God’s call. He’s the only one who said, “Yes.” Israel, they say, aren’t the only people whom God invited into a special covenant. They’re the only people who said, “Yes.”

I wonder—I wonder if a similar tale might not also be told about the shepherds. Imagine with me for a moment. Could it be that on the night Jesus was born, the shepherds were not the only ones to receive a visit from the angel of the Lord? Could it be that the angel in fact delivered the good news of great joy for all the people—to all the people?

Perhaps first the angel went to the kings and princes of the world. But because they were merrymaking in the radiance of their palaces, they could not see the shine of the angel. Nor could they hear the angel’s message above the noise of their festivities.

And so maybe the angel went next to the merchants. But because they were counting money in the light of their lodging, they could not see the shine of the angel. Nor could they hear the angel’s message above the clang of their coins.

And who knows? After that, the angel may have gone to the soldiers. But because they were eating and drinking by the great light of their campfire, they could not see the shine of the angel. Nor could they hear the angel’s message above the clamor of their carousing.

And so it was that, finally, the angel went to the shepherds, who were keeping watch over their flock by night. Dark, silent, empty night. Only the shepherds saw the angel that night, because only they had nothing else to see. Only they heard the angel’s good news, because only they had nothing else to hear.

A Message That Means the Most to the Least

Of course there’s no way to know whether the angel actually visited others besides the shepherds on this night many years ago. But perhaps that question is beside the point. Perhaps the point of such a folk tale is to invite us into the story, to ask us, “Now what about you? Would you see the angel if the angel came to you? Would you hear the angel’s good news?”

If we return to the original story in Luke’s gospel, one thing we can say with certainty is that the shepherds did hear the angel’s good news. They received it joyfully. I think it’s more than coincidence that the shepherds are the ones to hear the angel. In the gospel of Luke, the heroes of faith are almost always on the underside of life. The poor, the crippled, the blind, the lame, the prostitutes, the sick…and here, the shepherds. The good news of a savior is for all people. But it means the most to the least among us, the people who presently have the least reason to celebrate. They are the most inclined to hear the good news, to see it, to rejoice over it. The folks who are satisfied and self-content, preoccupied with their pleasures and pursuits, like the princes and merchants and soldiers of our folk tale, are likely to miss out altogether on the angel’s proclamation. Even if they did hear it, they would be just as likely to think nothing of it. A child is being born somewhere? So what?

All of this makes me wonder. Can I really hear the angel’s good news tonight? I recently learned that my brother’s moving back to Richmond, and so my whole family really is in a festive mood this year. What does the good news of Christmas mean to folks like me and my family, who are relatively satisfied and self-content? Is it possible for us to experience what the shepherds experienced?

Standing with the Shepherds

I have a hunch that if we look deeply enough within ourselves, we will all of us find that we are standing with the shepherds tonight—in dark, empty stillness. Some of us feel the black silence of that night more immediately than others. Some of us are walking through the empty night of grief, feeling the absence of a loved one. Others of us may be walking in the shadows of uncertainty, worrying about a doctor’s prognosis or fretting about a rocky relationship. Still others of us, like my family this year, may really be doing just fine. But just fine is just as needful of a savior, of someone who will breathe new life into old routine, someone who will upset our complacency and excite us with holy adventure.

It’s like the angel says: the good news of great joy is for all people. So come. In our emptiness, our weakness, or simply our need for new life, let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.

Prayer

God of star and song,
Whose good news rings out
Across dark, silent, empty nights—
With the shepherds,
We rush eagerly
To look for you;
And with them,
We rejoice in your love,
Which is made flesh in our lives
As it was on this night long ago.

Amen.

The Shape of Immanuel (Isaiah 7:10-16)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 18, 2016, Advent IV)

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A Nickname Heavy with Memory 

My earliest Christmas memories take me across the mountains to Kentucky, where my family would always drive to visit with Maga and Granddad, Grandpa and Grandma, and all my aunts and uncles. The most memorable scene among these recollections is the cheerful ruckus that would greet us upon our arrival. After a long journey in the car, listening to the same Christmas tapes again and again, playing twenty questions, solving crossword puzzles, and counting cows, we were completely exhausted. But in an instant, that all changed. Upon our arrival and before we could all get out of the car, my grandparents and aunts and uncles would be out the front door, swarming us with hugs. Uncle Noel would bend down, embrace me against his prickly whiskers, and say, “Big Jon!” Granddad would say something silly, like, “There’s my honey-bun!” (Please know that I was only three or four when Granddad called me this. I wouldn’t tolerate it for much longer.)

“Big Jon.” “Honey-bun.” They were nicknames that I only heard once a year, but I still hear their echo every Christmas. They remind me of times gone by, of a time when I was the smallest and hearing “Big Jon” made me feel on top of the world, of a time when I was the youngest and hearing “Honey-bun” made me feel most treasured among all the family.

Chances are, you have a few such nicknames yourself. Nicknames that whisk you away back into a very specific time or place. Nicknames that only a special friend would say, or nicknames that you would only hear on special occasions.

Jesus has just such a nickname. It’s a nickname that we really only hear once a year. We read it in both of today’s scriptures. “Immanuel.” In Hebrew, it means “God with us.”

Most of us are familiar with the name. It probably comforts and reassures us. Immanuel. “God with us”: not God above us, or God beyond us, or God against us. God with us.

But just like “Big Jon” and “Honey-bun,” just like any special nickname you’ve ever had, Immanuel—“God with us”—has a special history. Immanuel is a nickname heavy with memory and full of meaning. It whisks us all the way back into the world of the ancient prophet Isaiah, into the very words that he proclaims in today’s scripture.

Ahaz and the Bullies 

In Isaiah’s day, the king of Judah, Ahaz, faced a dilemma. On the one hand, the massive empire of Assyria was conquering people after people, nation after nation, and King Ahaz was next in line. On the other hand, there were a couple of other middling kings like Ahaz himself who were conspiring against Assyria. They came to Ahaz with a proposition: join us and fight back against the Assyrian juggernaut…or we’ll just conquer you ourselves and make use of your resources.

To put it more simply, King Ahaz found himself cornered in a dark alley. Off to the distance on one side stands the biggest bully in town. On the other side are approaching two smaller but no less capable bullies. There’s simply no way out. Beside Ahaz is his puny compatriot, Isaiah, a prophet. And while Ahaz contemplates whether to fling himself at the mercy of the big bully or the two smaller tough guys, Isaiah keeps whispering into his ear, “Don’t worry about these bullies. Just trust in God!”

Today’s scripture picks the story up at this point. God is repeating Isaiah’s plea: Just trust me. Ask for a sign, and I’ll prove to you that you can trust me (cf. 7:11). Ahaz responds, “I will not ask, and I will not put the Lord to the test” (7:12). He probably hopes that his response will pass for piety.[1] But the truth is, Ahaz doesn’t want to test God because Ahaz doesn’t want to trust God. He’s already made up his mind to trust the gods of power, which is to say, he’s decided to throw himself at the mercy of the world superpower, Assyria.

The God of Immanuel Versus the Gods of Power 

Isaiah calls his bluff: “Is it too little for you to weary humans, that you weary my God also?” (7:13). “My God,” Isaiah says. He already see that Ahaz trusts in different gods, in the gods of war with their thundering chariots and iron-cast weapons and fearsome warrior kings.

Even so, the Lord God insists on giving Ahaz a sign to prove that the Lord God is on his side. The bizarre thing is, the Lord God chooses probably the last sign that would convince Ahaz: a baby boy. His name is Immanuel. This baby boy is the sign that God is with Ahaz and the fearful people of Judah. This baby boy is proof that God stands with them.

So imagine with me again: Ahaz is cowering in that dark alley, cornered between the biggest bully in town and two other sizable bullies. The puny Isaiah suddenly presents him with a baby child and says, “See! You can trust God.” We can understand, perhaps, why Ahaz would shake his head with a smirk. If God had given him the sign of an angelic army or an unstoppable new weapon, then perhaps he would have trusted God.[2] As it is, Ahaz must be practical. He must be realistic. And so he chooses to submit himself to the greatest power he can see, Assyria. It’s only smart to join the side that’s going to win. Right?

God in the Shape of a Child 

Brigitte Kahl, a New Testament scholar in New York, grew up in the former East Germany. Her father, like many other Germans of his generation, served in Hitler’s army. When that army invaded the surrounding countries of Europe, the German soldiers wore belt buckles engraved with the words, “Gott mitt unz.”[3] “God with us.” Immanuel.

Over two thousands have passed since the time of Isaiah. But we have not progressed much further than Ahaz himself did. Much of the world still worships a warrior God, a God of power. For much of the world, the sign of “God with us” is triumph and success. The sign of “God with us” is the megachurch with thousands or the superpower nation that dominates the globe.

That’s why it’s important to remember the special history behind Jesus’ nickname, “Immanuel,” the memory that makes it heavy with meaning. When we sing, “O come, o come, Immanuel,” or when we read about Immanuel being born by Mary, we are also reciting the story of King Ahaz. We are proclaiming that in our darkest hour, God comes to us not in the shape of power but in the shape of a child. We are changing the tune of history, trusting in infants instead of infantry, cheering on children instead of chariots. We are singing a song of love instead of power. Indeed, if the rest of Jesus’ story is anything to go by, the story of Immanuel means that God’s “power” is love. A love that forgives people and empowers them to have new life. A love that welcomes outsiders and empowers them to have new life. A love that embraces the lowly and empowers them to have new life. A love that makes peace with the enemy and empowers them to have new life. Love is a powerless “power,” as powerless as a child. And yet it does what no warrior king or army of chariots ever can.

Love bears new life.

Prayer 

God who is Love,
Who stirs ever in the womb
Of a world shackled still to power—
Be born among us
In the little and the lowly.
As you entrust your life to us,
So may we entrust ours to you.
May the shape of your love
Shape our hearts
And bring heaven to earth,
Close by us, we pray.
Amen.

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[1] On the face of things, this seems like a pretty pious response. Jesus said something similar when Satan tempted him in the wilderness. But whereas Jesus refused to test God as a result of his trust in God, Ahaz refuses to test God because he does not want to trust in God. He’s already made up his mind to trust the gods of power, who at that time are embodied by Assyria.


[2] Cf. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, God Is in the Manger: Reflections on Advent and Christmas (trans. O. C. Dean Jr.; ed. Jana Reiss; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010), 11: “A shaking of heads, perhaps even an evil laugh, must go through our old, smart, experienced, self-assured world, when it hears the call of salvation of believing Christians: ‘For a child has been born for us, a son given to us.’”


[3] Barbara Lundblad, “Commentary on Isaiah 7:10-16,” https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1942, accessed on December 15, 2016.

Irresistible Joy (Isa 35:1-10)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 11, 2016, Advent III)

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Green Is Stronger

Some of you who have lived near Short Pump for a long time will know, it’s not always been like it is today. Today it is a happening place. In this season especially, it is spilling over with shoppers and stress and enough traffic to give you a headache just thinking about it.

But twenty years or so ago, there was none of that. I remember when there was nothing but trees across from Short Pump Elementary. I remember when the service station there at the corner of Pump and Broad still had that upended airplane sticking out of its roof. And I remember Shorty’s gas station. In my 5-year-old mind, I thought of Shorty’s as a country version of 7-Eleven. There was a sort of comfort that came from driving by its familiar, rustic presence. It smiled at us in an old country way whenever we passed by.

And so it was no little thing, when one day the building that was Shorty’s was dismantled. Not only that, but all the trees behind and around Shorty’s were razed to the ground. What was once a simple, sympathetic corner station, was now nothing but a wasteland of weeds, a wilderness without warmth. What once gave a friendly nod and said, “Howdy,” as we passed by, now uttered nothing more than a sorrowful sigh.

For years, the land on that corner lot remained sad and empty. I never paid it much attention until a few years ago—when my own eyes were surprised to see trees where before there had only been weeds! The glory and majesty of this green growth grabbed me with joy and gladness. The trees were singing a song of praise and thanksgiving. The land was alive again.

Apparently, the same sort of thing happens all over the world. I read recently that the rainforests are growing back in places where they had been bulldozed and burned to the earth. How relentless trees and plants and vines are. They cannot be repressed. They are, in a sense, irresistible.

Green is quietly stronger than our machines.

The Wilderness Is Glad, the Desert Is Singing

What I saw in that corner lot where Shorty’s once stood, and what we see all over this earth, is the mysterious gospel that Isaiah proclaims today. In today’s scripture, Isaiah rhapsodizes about blossoms and streams, about reeds and rushes. He sings about the green joy of creation.

But in the chapter before today’s scripture, the picture is entirely the opposite. There he speaks the language of death and decay. He talks about rotting and withering, about thorns and nettles and thistles, about a barren wilderness dominated by hyenas and hawks (34:4, 13-15). It is Isaiah’s colorful way of saying that the people of Israel’s self-destructive ways are about to catch up with them. And we know that this is true. To live by the sword is to die by the sword: as Israel neglected the love of God and sought worldly power, so they fell to the powers of the world.

Isaiah sees this fateful future and mourns the death and decay that fills his vision. But that death and decay is not the end of the story. In today’s scripture, Isaiah sees a bit further and proclaims what might be called a gospel of greenness. Looking out across the vast wasteland of Israel’s destruction, Isaiah sees the most curious thing: the wilderness is glad, the desert is singing. The earth that has been razed to its roots is now rejoicing. How strange! You’d think that such a fate would lead it to sorrow and sighing, not gladness and singing.

But having seen the transformation of the wasteland where Shorty’s once stood, I now have an inkling of the green gospel that Isaiah announces. The land is never completely silenced. It’s as though Isaiah hears the land vibrantly proclaim, “You can burn us, flood us, tear us up beyond all recognition…but you will never silence the Godly greenness from which comes our life.” And indeed, Isaiah sees the green beginnings of life blossoming across the land once more: he sees crocuses blooming where before there had been nothing, pools of waters where there had been sand, and reeds and rushes where there had been thorns.

We Are a Part of This Green Creation

But why all this focus on trees and water and blossoms? It’s inspirational, perhaps, but what does it have to do with us? What did it have to do with the people of Israel after they had fallen to the oppressive power of foreign empires?

What if Isaiah is telling us that the story of the wasteland—which is also the story of Shorty’s and the story of the rainforests—is also our story? What if Isaiah is inviting us to join with the rest of creation—or rather, to realize that we are a part of this green creation, that the green joy of God overtakes us as it does the rest of creation? If this is so, then Isaiah’s gospel for us is the gospel of greenness. It proclaims that nothing can extinguish life. Even when we are empty and lifeless and languishing in the shadow of death, even when we cannot see, cannot hear, cannot move, cannot find a single word to say—even then, there is among us and within us the tiny, green, budding promise of life.

For Isaiah, it is this promise of life that brings joy. What a timely reminder for us. In this season especially, folks confuse joy with certain outward signs of cheer, or with the feeling that these things bring. Folks confuse joy with big presents, lively gatherings, and sumptuous meals, or with the warm, fuzzy feelings of such things. This isn’t to say that Isaiah is against presents or gatherings or feasts or warm, fuzzy feelings. It’s only to say, rather, that he cares more about what’s behind these things, the unseen joy that inspires these things, that inspires us even when we don’t have these things.

For Isaiah, joy has nothing to do with the glass being full or the glass being empty, but with the promise of a pitcher that is always pouring more water. Joy has nothing to do with the forest or the wasteland, but with the irresistible green power that inspires life in either place. Joy is what inspired those trees on the weeded wilderness where Shorty’s once stood. Joy is what inspires those rainforests that keep coming back.

And this same irresistible joy, according to Isaiah, is what inspires us.

Death Does Not Have the Final Word

A short time ago, I attended a memorial service where I reunited with a couple of my cousins. One of them has a young old son, Luke, who has Joubert’s Syndrome. He walks with a firm limp, often requiring the aid of a walker, and he socializes with the simplest of gestures and words. He may also live a shorter life than many of us. On top of these complications, Luke also recently lost his mother and his grandfather to cancer. His circumstances are not what we would characterize as joyful.

We commonly hear at funerals and memorial services that death does not have the final word. At this memorial service, I saw that this is true. Because Luke, who has confronted death time and time again, was full of life. When the choir sang a beautiful anthem, he alone rejoiced with great applause. At the reception, he leapt around in his walker with the spring-step of a deer. His smile blossomed and brought joy to whomever he encountered. He was the “greenest” spirit around. His evergreen presence at that memorial service led people from “sorrow and sighing” to “joy and gladness.”

Joy:

All of Creation Believing in the Song That the Creator Sings

Little Luke helped to open my eyes to the truth of joy. Joy is not the conviction that things will turn out well, that we will all live happily ever after. Such a joy would be proved false and empty. Not everything has turned out well for Luke.

Joy, instead, means trusting that the life God gives us, and the love that we share, is good and beautiful and true, regardless of how everything turns out.

Joy is not a guarantee of happiness. Joy did not prevent the corner lot where Shorty’s stood from being razed to its roots, nor does it protect the rainforests from destruction at the hand of greedy corporations. Joy is simply the irresistible, evergreen spirit that inspires life. Joy is life believing in the goodness of life. It is all of creation believing in the song that the Creator sings.

Joy is the reason that the wilderness of Shorty’s blossomed once more. Joy is the reason that Luke was found frolicking at a funeral, bursting with life in the face of death. Joy is the reason that Jesus came to us years ago, keeps coming to us today—insistent that the life God gives us is good and beautiful and true.

Joy to the world, indeed—for it is through the God’s green joy that this world leaps back to life, again and again.

Prayer

Evergreen God,
Whose irresistible joy
Inspires blossoms in the dry desert
And abundant life at funerals—
May the empty and sorrowful spaces in our hearts
Become fertile ground for the new life
That your joy brings.
In the name of our song, Jesus Christ.
Amen.

The Peace of Broken Hearts (Isa 11:1-10)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 4, 2016, Advent II)

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Dreams of the Fragile and Vulnerable

Anyone who has dreamed before will know that there’s often something askew in a dream, something not quite aligned with the real world. Maybe your pets can talk. Maybe you’re living in someone else’s house. Maybe you’re just going about your normal day—missing a key article of clothing!

Like any good prophet, Isaiah is a dreamer. His dreams depict a strange, surreal world. Last week, he dreamed of spears and swords being beaten into plowshares and pruning hooks. This week, his dream begins with a modest vision: he sees a small stalk growing from the stump of a great tree (cf. 11:1). For a prophet who proclaims nothing less than the salvation of all creation, how frail and feeble this dream. Just a stalk? This is how the world will be put right? While most prophets in Isaiah’s day would have been making grandiose announcements of military victory and the conquest of kings, Isaiah is dreaming of a single delicate shoot.

Typical Isaiah. His dreams are so humble. His other famous image? It’s one that we recite often in this Advent season: a child, a baby boy, born from a young woman (cf. 7:14; 9:6).

Anyone who has dreamed before will know that there’s often something askew in a dream. In the case of Isaiah, he dreams of the fragile and vulnerable, and calls it our savior.

How the World Will Be Saved?

Of course, we could give Isaiah the benefit of the doubt, and say that his frail dreams have a card up their sleeve, that actually this tender stalk will grow into an imposing tree, that this helpless baby will grow into a mighty ruler. Maybe Isaiah was just dreaming of a humble beginning to what would ultimately be a mighty triumph of power.

Or maybe not. Jesus, remember, gave pride of place to the little children. And according to Paul, Jesus himself is weakness and foolishness to the world (cf. 1 Corinthians 1). Far from growing into something mighty and powerful, he did the opposite: he emptied himself, becoming powerless in his love for us (cf. Philippians 2).

So when Isaiah dreams of a fragile shoot and a vulnerable baby, maybe he’s actually onto something. Maybe these are images of how the world will be saved, however askew that seems.

God with a Green Card?

Tender stalks and defenseless babies are not the only things askew in Isaiah’s dream. What comes next in today’s scripture really does seem like a dream, the kind of bizarre scene that makes us do a double-take when we awake. Did we really see that?

A wolf and a lamb living side by side. A little child leading a host of wild beasts around, leopards and livestock both. A bear and a lion grazing as cool as you like with the rest of the cattle.

If that weren’t enough, this scene becomes even more bizarre the closer we look at it. A literal translation of Isaiah’s vision zooms in on this strangeness: “The wolf,” Isaiah says, “shall sojourn with the lamb” (11:6). This word “sojourn” is the word used for strangers dwelling in a foreign land, outsiders “whose survival is dependent on the goodwill of the natives.”[1] In other words, this isn’t just a wolf resisting the temptation to chow down. This is a wolf immigrant, a wolf resident alien, a wolf carrying a green card, a wolf who has given up his former way of living and made his life dependent on the ways of the lamb, who has embraced the lifestyle of the lamb. And apparently it’s not only the wolf who is sojourning. If we continue to examine this bizarre scene of Isaiah’s dream, we’ll notice that the bear is grazing with the cow, and the lion is eating straw like an ox (cf. 11:7). Like humble immigrants among the cattle, the bears and the lions have adopted their bovine ways as their own. The mighty predators are making themselves dependent on their prey.

I don’t know how much Isaiah understood his own prophecies, if he could really foresee what kind of savior Jesus would be. But this image of the mighty ones making themselves dependent on the weak—as bizarre as it is, is it not what we see in Christ? Is it not in fact a scene of how God enters into relationship with us? Isn’t that what God does: make Godself dependent on us, being born into our world as helpless as any child of our own, living within the limits of a body just like yours or mine? Who is Christ but God with a green card, subject even to human judgment and corporal punishment?

“People Can Change…”

I can’t help but wonder, then, if this is how peace is made: by the powerful not only giving up their claim to power, but making themselves dependent on the weak? If so, this peace would look different than what passes for peace in our world. In our world, what we call peace is more often a truce, a treaty, or a ceasefire. It is more often a mutual separation, a live-and-let-live policy. Peace in our world tries to preserve the way things are, and usually the people who broker peace are the people in power, which means that the peace privileges the powerful.

So it was in times of segregation. Ultimately that “peace” was exposed for what it was: an unjust suppression of life. Only when the folks on the underside of this separation agreement spoke out, and only when the folks in power relinquished their unspoken privilege, could peace become an authentic possibility. It’s one that we’re still working toward today.

John Lewis, a black Georgia congressman, lived through the so-called peace of segregation. Several years ago, while he was riding a bus and reflecting on his life, he told a moving story that Quaker educator and activist Parker Palmer overheard.

In 1961—John Lewis said—while he waiting for a bus, he was attacked by several young white men. Bloodied by their bats, Lewis did not fight back. Nor did he press charges. One day, nearly 50 years after the incident, an old white man and his middle-aged son entered Lewis’ congressional office on Capitol Hill. The man introduced himself: “Mr. Lewis, my name is Elwin Wilson. I’m one of the men who beat you in that bus station back in 1961. I want to atone for the terrible thing I did, so I’ve come to seek your forgiveness. Will you forgive me?” Lewis forgave him, embraced him on the spot, and then the three of them cried.

As Lewis finished telling this story on the bus, he gazed out the window in a pensive silence. “Then, in a very soft voice—as if speaking to himself about the story he had just told and all of the memories that must have been moving in him—Lewis [whispered], ‘People can change… People can change.’”[2]

A Peace Born of Repentance and Dependence

Peace, according to Isaiah and John Lewis, is not simply a truce or a ceasefire. Peace is not private; it is not people living separate and self-content; and it is certainly not the preservation of power and privilege. Peace, instead, is public. It is people coming together. Peace is power emptying itself and putting others first. It is downwardly mobile. Peace is people changing.

In today’s other scripture, John the Baptist preaches a very short sermon: “Repent, for the kingdom…is near!” (Matt 3:2). That word “repent” means very literally, “to change your mind, your heart.” I wonder if we might not color this image in with the help of Isaiah’s wolf sojourning with lamb. I wonder if we might not say that to repent is to immigrate, to adopt a different way of life, to make oneself dependent on people with less power and privilege?

Only a Heart That Has Been Broken

But even if that’s the case, the question remains: How? How do people change? How do people choose to repent, to make themselves dependent on others? How does the wolf decide to sojourn with the lamb, the bear and the lion with the cattle? What made Elwin Wilson go to John Lewis after 50 years to seek forgiveness?

I don’t know about you, but in my own experience, genuine change only happens when I have been broken. Only when I am confronted with my own brokenness—my own wrongdoing, my own limits—do I change. Only a heart that has been broken asks for forgiveness. Only a heart that has been broken looks for healing and reconciliation. Only a heart that’s been broken acknowledges its dependability on others.

Isaiah says that our savior will “kill what is wicked”[3]—not with a sword or an army, but with “his mouth,” with “the breath of his lips.” John the Baptist says that the savior will baptize with the Spirit and fire. These images suggest to me that true change—true repentance—happens not by might and muscle that act on bodies but by conversation of the lips that breaks hearts and refines them like fire. Maybe the wolf finally hears the bleating of the lamb, listens more closely than it ever had before, and the sound burns within. Maybe the bear and the lion finally pay attention to the moos of the cow. Elwin Wilson, it seems, was convicted in his heart after 50 years. I imagine that his repentance was a slow, painful process, one that involved listened to a difficult voice in his heart, to a voice that burned like a refining fire.

The peace that Isaiah paints is a peace in community, a peace where the predator communes with the prey, where enemies dwell together. Perhaps this peace will only come from the fragile and the vulnerable, from people who become like tender stalks and helpless babies. Perhaps this peace will only come when hearts have been broken enough that they become dependent on others, the way the wolf became dependent on the lamb—the way that God becomes dependent on us.

Prayer

Tender stalk,
Helpless child,
God with a green card—
Dependent on us:
May your words,
And the many lips that speak them,
Break our hearts
And make them like yours:
Helpless and peaceable.
Amen.

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[1] John N. Oswalt, The Book of Isaiah: Chapters 1-39 (New International Commentary on the Old Testament Series; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986), 283.

[2] This story, and the quoted portions within it, were taken from Maria Popova, “Healing the Heart of Democracy: Parker Palmer on Holding the Tension of Our Differences in a Creative Way,” accessed on https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/11/23/healing-the-heart-of-democracy-parker-palmer/, November 30, 2016.

[3] Isa 11:4. The NRSV simply says “kill the wicked,” implying the wicked persons. But the Hebrew here uses the adjective “wicked” substantivally, which may also be translated “kill what is wicked.” This translation allows for the possibility that wickedness is not identified with certain persons among us all, but with certain tendencies among all persons.