Kingdom Manifesto (Matthew 5:1-12)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 29, 2017, Epiphany IV)

-----

Sunday School and the Ten Commandments

My chief memory of Sunday School consists not of the lessons we learned or the verses we memorized. What I remember most are the crafts that we did. Popsicle sticks. Pipe cleaners. Toilet paper cardboard rolls. Macaroni. Socks. You name it, we probably used it in Sunday School.

I still have a number of these crafted masterpieces. Some go up on the family Christmas tree each year. Others of them are tucked away in my childhood Bible. One craft that we did on several occasions—and so I have several duplicates—is a Bible bookmark. Can you guess what was on that bookmark?

The Ten Commandments.

I wonder, why were these bookmarks always the Ten Commandments, and not some other Bible verse? A couple reasons immediately spring to my mind. First, the Ten Commandments can almost all be captured in just two or three words—“don’t steal,” “don’t lie,” “honor your parents”—so it’s easy to display them on a paper imitation of the two stone tablets where Moses wrote them. Second, and perhaps more significantly: what better reminder for a bunch of rowdy church children to behave, than a replica of the Ten Commandments staring up at them through their Bibles?

The Ten Commandments: 

A Me-First Manifesto?

But now that I look back on it, having lived through the culture wars of the last few decades, I wonder if there weren’t perhaps a deeper reason for the popularity of these Ten Commandment bookmarks. For many people, the Ten Commandments were more than ten very important laws; they were a flag to wave, a line to draw in the sand, a mark of religious identity. To display the Ten Commandments was another way of saying, I’m a Christian.

Which is a bit odd, I think. What about the Ten Commandments distinguishes us as Christ-followers? Jesus doesn’t say, “Don’t kill.” He says, “Watch out for anger in your heart.” Jesus doesn’t say, “Don’t commit adultery.” He says, “Don’t lust.”

The Ten Commandments originally signified a holy relationship between the people of Israel and God. They were sort of like the wedding ring that God and the people of Israel wore on their fingers, marking their commitment. But I’m afraid that, in today’s world, the Ten Commandments have been hijacked by our me-first culture. If you think about it, the Ten Commandments now pass as a rather good manifesto of our modern world, where what matters most is what’s yours: your money, your property, your good name. “Don’t steal,” “don’t give false witness,” “don’t covet,” “don’t murder”—these laws are self-evident to anyone who fears losing what they have acquired and earned and achieved.

In today’s world, the Ten Commandments have become laws that protect and preserve the way things are. Is that how the kingdom of God will come on earth as it is in heaven?

The Beatitudes:

Pointing toward Goodness 

Not according to Jesus in today’s scripture….

Last week, Jesus called his disciples. This week, he prepares them for the adventure of faith that lies ahead. I think of today’s scene a little bit like a locker room huddle. The disciples have put on their uniforms; they’re ready to take the field. But before they do that, Jesus sits down, and they gather around him in a holy huddle. At this point, we might be expecting them all to put in a hand and give an enthusiastic shout, “One, two, three—go God!” But instead we get something very different.

In our translation, it looks like Jesus is giving his disciples a lesson in holiness, a sort of “sainthood for dummies.” Sort of like he’s saying, if you really want to excel out there, to raise your game, to play your best, here’s what you need to do.

But this is where, I think, our translation lets us down a little bit. That word “blessed” elevates Jesus’ message to the playing field of angels and saints, monks and nuns. We read this passage as a list of heavenly ideals, which allows us who live in the real world to settle sometimes for a lower, more practical way. Being meek and merciful is great if you’re living in a sheltered community of like-minded brothers and sisters, but to be that way in the dog-eat-dog world of business and politics would just be silly.

If we read this passage in the original Greek, though, the heavenly elevator drops beneath our feet and we find ourselves plummeting to solid, earthy soil. The word with which Jesus blesses is not a religious word, a holy term of consecration. It is a worldly word, an everyday word, makarios, a word that means something more like “good for him or her.” It’s the sort of word you would use to describe someone who is in a good place. Someone’s just gotten engaged? Good for him. Someone’s just received a college degree? Good for her. A couple has just had their first child? Good for them!

All this to say, Jesus isn’t giving his disciples a crash course in sainthood. He’s not raising the bar for those who want to take their faith to the next level. He’s plainly pointing to where the goodness already is in this world.

The Kingdom of a Fool and a Weakling

And look to where he’s pointing. If you asked the world where is the goodness of life, it would probably say: “Good for them who are content with what they have, who have a happy family, who sit at a fully furnished dinner table; good for them who dwell in a comfortable home, who have secured their future, whose strength always wins out.” But Jesus points in the opposite direction. Good for them whose spirits are empty, whose faces are tear-stained, he says; good for them whose hands are unguarded and childlike, whose hearts are simple.

It’s just like Paul says in our other scripture today (1 Cor 1:18-31). Jesus is a fool and a weakling. He does not proclaim the goodness of power and achievement, might and material. He proclaims the goodness of the nobodies and the nothings, “the things that are not.”

For Jesus, the kingdom of God has already breached our world, but it is not where the world would expect a kingdom: the goodness of the kingdom is here where there is need and lack; it is here in the shadows of possibility and potential. The kingdom dwells in prayers and promises, in starry hopes and unseen visions—which is to say, in all the places that are empty enough to welcome it. The kingdom comes not where we are content and well rested and self-assured, where we are ready to put up our feet and call it a good day. It comes where we are restless and risky and hopeful, where we are spooked and haunted by the holy possibility of something more. The kingdom of God is not coming by way of world leaders or CEOs or pop stars, whose lives are consumed with protecting and preserving their own kingdoms, but by way of people who claim no kingdom of their own: by way of hearts that are hungry, fists that unfold into helping hands, spirits that are always seeking, eyes that see the best possibilities in the worst realities.

From the Ten Commandments to the Beatitudes

The Ten Commandments make a lot of sense to the modern world, because the modern world hears in them the promise of protection and preservation. “Don’t take my stuff,” “don’t even get any ideas about my stuff,” “don’t say anything bad about me”—above all, “don’t take my life.”

I wonder then: when we enshrine these words in the halls of our courts of justice, what are we really saying? Are we proclaiming the kingdom of God? Or the kingdom that we have built and acquired and secured for ourselves?

The Ten Commandments seem so obvious, so commonsensical, and the Beatitudes so strange, because we generally live by the rule of self-interest. We can appreciate the Ten Commandments because they protect our interests and preserve our life. But Jesus goes beyond them, because his interest is the kingdom of God, where life is not something to protect or preserve, but something to seek out and something to share, something to sow and something to grow.

What would it look like, I wonder, if the Beatitudes adorned the halls of our courts of justice? How crazy would it be if the poor-spirited and humble were lifted up in our halls of power? If ever such a day were to come, then, I imagine, would we have relinquished our own small kingdoms for the kingdom of God.

“Good Adventure” to You

Letting go of what we have so that we might welcome the kingdom of God is not easy. But it is good. It is a good risk, a good leap of faith, a good adventure.

Which is exactly what the Spanish translation of today’s scripture beautifully and prophetically proclaims. Bienaventurados. “Good adventure.” Good adventure to you who have nothing, to you who have given away what you have, to you who have lost and are losing. Good adventure to you, for you are open to a new way, a better way. Good adventure to you, for you more than anyone are on the cusp of life; you stand at the trailhead of the kingdom.

Prayer

Lord of the lowly,
God of “the things that are not,”
Whose power is neither might nor material—
Lead us on the good adventure
Into your kingdom.
Grant us the poverty of spirit
That finds riches only
In love for the other. Amen.

God of Goodbyes (Matthew 4:12-23)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 22, 2017, Epiphany III)

-----

A Faith Full of Farewells

For many religious folks, faith is another word for the familiar. Faith means the same seat in church, the same friendly faces every week, the same routine of worship.

But when I read the Bible, I get the sneaking suspicion that we have domesticated faith. Because in the Bible, faith is not the assurance of the familiar. Quite the opposite. In the Bible, faith always seems to be waving farewell to the familiar. Faith is always saying goodbye to what is safe and secure.

Abraham, the legendary ancestor of three world religions, begins his journey of faith when he hears God’s call. And God’s call is simple: “Leave your country and your family and your home” (cf. Gen 12:1). So Abraham waves farewell to all that he knows and strikes out into the wilderness, traveling to God knows where.

Like father, like son. Abraham’s children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren also live a life full of farewells. The Bible calls them all sojourners, which means that they are always strangers in a strange land, always leaving one place and journeying to another. When Pharaoh asks Jacob how many are the years of his “life,” Jacob responds by saying, “The years of my wandering are one hundred thirty” (Gen 47:8-9).[1] For Jacob, life is defined by wandering, by leaving one place after another.

Before the story in today’s scripture, Jesus himself has said plenty of farewells. First he must say farewell to his manger in Bethlehem: for he and his parents must flee to Egypt when King Herod discovers about Jesus and flies into a rage. Later they say farewell to Egypt and return to a different town in Israel. And then just before today’s scripture, Jesus hears the call of God and is led into the wilderness, after which he will journey for the rest of his life as one who has no home—as one who has “nowhere to lay his head” (Matt 8:20).

If Jesus’ life has anything to say about it, faith is full of farewells.

Farewell to Safety and Security

That is certainly the case for Peter and Andrew, James and John, in today’s scripture.

When Jesus calls Peter and Andrew, they leave behind their nets, which is to say, they say farewell to their livelihood. In first century Galilee, the fishing industry had a wide market. Fishing may not have been the most glamorous of lifestyles, but it was solid and certain. It would have put bread—and fish—on the table. For Peter and Andrew to leave behind their nets, is no less than to leave behind their life.

James and John leave behind their father. Scripture commonly calls James and John “the sons of Zebedee,” which suggests to me that their family heritage is important—and perhaps even that they are particularly close to their father. Indeed, when Jesus calls James and John, they are with whom else but their dad.

If I’m being honest, it’s this part of the story that upsets me the most. I know that James and John are going to leave, as Peter and Andrew just did. I know that they are going to make a big sacrifice; Peter and Andrew left behind the security of work, James and John are going to leave behind the safety of family. But there’s not one mention, not even a hint, of a tearful goodbye or a long hug. James and John simply leave the boat—and their father in it. (A goodbye like this would be an unspeakable sin in my mother’s book.)

If It Were I

And so I have to wonder: did it really happen like this? Do Peter and Andrew, James and John, say farewell to safety and security so easily, so abruptly, without a look over the shoulder, without a hint of regret or worry? Perhaps so.

But I like to think that maybe our storyteller, Matthew, is just getting ahead of himself. Maybe he wants to get to the good stuff, the adventure of Jesus’ life, and so he rushes through this opening scene breathlessly, failing to mention some of the details. Maybe before Peter and Andrew leave, they first give their nets to some of their fishing buddies and let them know that they’ll be taking an indefinite leave of absence. Maybe James and John really do give their father a gruff hug before leaving him alone in the boat.

I wonder: how would it have looked if it had been us in the fishing boat? If it were I there, I know things would have looked a bit different. In fact, I imagine it would have looked a lot more like the beginning of another adventure, a story with which many of us may be familiar….

The Hobbit Who Left His Hobbit Hole

Bilbo Baggins was standing just outside his door, enjoying the morning, when a man in a long, grey cloak approached. After exchanging pleasantries—for everyone knows that there is little a hobbit enjoys more than small talk—the grey man said what Jesus said: Follow me. Except—he said it a bit differently.

“I am looking,” he said, “for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.”

Unlike Peter or Andrew, James or John, Bilbo did not immediately say farewell to his life. No self-respecting hobbit would up and leave for an adventure. Instead, he responded: “Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea—any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good bye!”

Now if their conversation had ended there, there would be no epic tale. No The Hobbit. No The Lord of the Rings. But things do not end there. The next day, the grey wizard Gandalf returns, and with him an entire troupe of dwarves, ready to set out on an adventure. As the dwarves whisper tales and sing songs of danger and triumph and glory, something strange happens inside Bilbo. For a glimmer of a moment, the prospect of new life captivates him. As the storyteller puts it: “Something…woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves.”

But it’s only for a moment. Before too much longer has passed, the hobbit’s good sense returns, and he demands some assurances, similar to the ones I think we might demand: “First I should like to know a bit more about things,” he says. “‘I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth’—by which he meant: ‘What am I going to get out of it? and am I going to come back alive?”[2]

An Adventure with Risk and Danger…and Life

He takes some convincing, but eventually Bilbo says goodbye to the familiarity and comfort his hobbit-hole. Never does he receive a guarantee of safety or security or survival. Quite the opposite, in fact: this is a journey filled with risk and danger. He is stepping foot into a most incredible adventure, where he will encounter trolls and wolves, elves and giant spiders, and the most fearsome of all, a fire-breathing dragon. And yet it is also an adventure where he will live more abundantly than ever before: trusting in strangers, forgiving quarrelsome companions, hoping against hope in the darkest of situations. By saying goodbye to the safety and security of the familiar, Bilbo—for the first time in his life—comes to life.

I wonder if the same might not be said for the disciples in today’s scripture. When Jesus says, “Follow me,” he doesn’t promise them a safe journey. Quite the opposite: when they say goodbye to the life they know, they will be stepping foot onto a most incredible adventure, filled with risk and danger and ultimately a cross. But it is on this adventure of faith that they will also find abundant life through some of the strangest experiences, like loving their enemies and welcoming strangers and trusting in a leader who leads them into the darkest of valleys and beyond.

Blessed Be the Ones Who Let Their Blessings Go

Life is a curious thing. As Jesus says elsewhere in scripture, if we seek to hold onto life, to preserve it in safety and security, we actually lose our life. But if we say goodbye to the life we know, if we strike out onto the path of faith, which is also a path of risk and danger, there we may actually find life, new life, the life of a holy adventure.

In our culture, “goodbye” is generally a sad word. It means loss. It means the end. But as I reflect on the experience of the disciples, who say goodbye to their work and their family, and also Bilbo Baggins, who says goodbye to his homey hobbit hole, I cannot help but think that “goodbye” might also be a good word, a word of hope, a word of promise.

I don’t think this means we must literally say “goodbye” to our family or our work, but rather that we must say “goodbye” to the life that these and other things bring us, in the faith that there is always more life ahead. Faith means we are in the habit of saying “goodbye” wherever we are, because we’re also in the habit of following God somewhere new. Our God is a God of “goodbyes” because our God is also a God of new life.

And so for us Christ-followers, the word “goodbye” takes the form of a paradox. If we were to put it into the shape of a beatitude, we might say, “Blessed be the ones who lets their blessings go.”

Perhaps the easiest way of remembering the good news and blessing of this word, “goodbye,” is to remember what it actually means. “Goodbye” is a contraction of a longer phrase: “God be with ye.” At the heart of every “goodbye,” then, is God, who goes with us and invites us ever forward onto the road of faith, the holy adventure that goes ever, ever on.

Prayer

God of holy adventure,
Loosen our lips
To say “goodbye,”
Whether we are confronted with loss,
Or we are comfortable and content;
May we like the disciples
Leave behind our life
In order to follow you into new life.
In the name of him who had no place to lay his head, Jesus Christ.
Amen.

-----

[1] Literally, “the years of my sojourn.”

[2] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (New York: Ballantine, 1997), 4-22. All narration and dialogue taken from the novel are enclosed within quotation marks.

Strange Messengers (Matthew 2:1-12)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 8, 2017, Epiphany Sunday)

-----

Epiphany: The Little Cousin of Christmas 

The angels proclaimed the good news loud and proud. The glory of God shined bright into the Bethlehem night. The shepherds saw the child and raised a holy ruckus.

But now, two weeks later, the wonder and joy of Christmas is beginning to fade. Families return from their travels, children return to school, life returns to normal. And Christmas—it returns to the attic or the basement, to the boxes and bags from which it sprang not too long ago.

It is always a sad affair, saying goodbye to Christmas.

In the church, part of the way we say goodbye to Christmas, is by celebrating another holiday: Epiphany. Epiphany is like the little cousin of Christmas. Christmas is all fireworks and flashing light, miracle and glory. Epiphany is the quiet child in the shadows, likely to be overlooked. Unlike Christmas, it doesn’t have angels or a heavenly chorus. There is no divine shine or holy hubbub to catch your attention. All that Epiphany really has, is a strange entourage of characters: authorities who are fearful of losing their power; a group of strangers from the East, talking about something mysterious and wonderful; and a silent star.

Epiphany: Where We Live Most of Our Lives? 

But I feel a special closeness to Epiphany, the neglected cousin of Christmas. Because I think Epiphany is where we live most of our lives.

Many people imagine faith to look a lot like Christmas. For them, faith is the spectacular: angels in the sky with glory, a chorus of heaven breaking the silence of night, the miraculous erupting amid the ordinary. And so they expect to experience these things in their own life. They expect to live in the time of Christmas.

But if I’m being honest about my experience of faith, I don’t live in the time of Christmas. I’ve never heard angels singing in the sky. I’ve never had a dream where I’ve heard an unmediated word of God. I’ve never had a moment when I immediately think, that was an undisputed miracle of God.

I live in the quieter, less certain time of Epiphany. A time when the religious leaders are facing inward and don’t quite know what’s going on. A time when political leaders act out of fear and self-interest. A time when outsiders are coming in, when strangers are using different words than I do and living in a different way.

Something Special 

The quieter, less certain time of Epiphany can be frightening. If I cannot rely on the angels to come to me, like they came to the shepherds, or if I cannot depend on divine communication directly disclosed in dreams, then where does my faith become real? Where do I encounter God?

The good and difficult news of today’s Epiphany scripture is that we might encounter God where we least expect to: in the face of the stranger.

In today’s story, the strangers from the East—the ones who rather blindly followed a star—are the messengers of God. The more I think about this, the more I am amazed. These strangers from the East would not have called God by the same name that the ancient Israelites used. They would not have known about the prophecies of a Messiah. They would not have known how to offer a proper sacrifice at the Temple. All that they knew was that there was Something special—Something that demanded their attention and even their worship—underneath this star.

Beyond the Stopgap “God” of Religion 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German minister and theologian famous for his resistance to Hitler, once wrote that he felt a “brotherhood” with religious outsiders more than he felt with people in the church. He complained that when he talked about God with religious folks, he started to feel “awkward and uncomfortable” and even “slightly dishonest.”[1] Why? Because in the church, the name “God” often becomes a reference to a spectacular solution. The name “God” becomes a stopgap solution of supernatural proportions. Can’t explain something scientifically? Bring in God. Afraid of death? Bring in God. Feel really bad about yourself and want to feel better? Bring in God.

But for Bonhoeffer, God wasn’t a solution to be brought in when we couldn’t do things ourselves. God was already at the center of life, already at the heart of our daily experience. Our normal lives—everything from working and eating to talking and sleeping—all of this was already filled with the wonder and mystery of God. And so Bonhoeffer said that he actually felt more comfortable using the name “God” with religionless folks, because with them “God” was not a name used to solve a problem but rather a name used to express wonder at the mystery of life and gratitude for all that is good.

Strange Messengers Pointing to Something Special 

I have to agree with Bonhoeffer. For me, strangers outside of our religion can point us to what really matters in our faith.

Some of you know that I moved to a new house a couple months ago. The best way I could quickly sum up my new housemate, Nick, is to say that his list of recent accomplishments includes serving the police department and performing stand-up comedy. He is both dependable and droll. He is also agnostic. So he is an outsider to today’s church, a stranger, and yet I would also call him “wise”—not unlike the wise men in our scripture today.

Much like the strangers from the East, who surely spoke in a strange dialect, Nick speaks with different words than I do. He wouldn’t normally use words like “sin” or “forgiveness.” Rather, he’d talk about messing up or getting a second chance. And yet despite this difference, Nick takes life seriously, as though there is something special in it, something worth paying attention to—even if that something doesn’t go by the name “God” or doesn’t have a God-shaped appearance. Just like the strangers from the East, whose words alerted the religious leaders to something those leaders were not aware of, Nick and his impious jokes often point me beyond my own selfish and self-certain projections of God to something more mysterious and more alive.

In fact, I have a working hypothesis now that a good comedian is just the alter ego of a pastor. His jokes do much more than make you laugh. They open your eyes to what really matters and what doesn’t. A good comedian smashes our idols even as he suggests there is something special, something worth living for. Much like Jesus, he brings down the powerful and lifts up the lowly. Seen in a certain light, a good comedian is the prophet of a coming kingdom—a kingdom that has not quite found flesh yet, but stirs somewhere in our hearts and echoes in our laughter.

The Best “Hangover Cure” for Christmas 

Living with Nick reminds me of the good news proclaimed by Epiphany. Even if we don’t receive the visits of angels, or dreams that make the divine will distinctly clear, God lives among us. The flipside to this good news is perhaps difficult to digest: we might encounter God where we least expect to—on the lips of strange messengers. Perhaps someone who calls God by a different name will point us to where Christ is living in our world. Perhaps someone who does not believe in the name “God” at all, will reveal to us the mystery and wonder of God in a fresh and vibrant and unexpected way.

If you’ll allow me to channel Nick’s language for a moment, I would say that Epiphany is the best “hangover cure” for Christmas. Having come down from a celebration of angels and divine dreams and God’s glory written across the sky, we might feel a sudden despondency at the unremarkable plainness of our lives. Where is God?

Epiphany proclaims the good news that Christ has not left us. He’s here as he always has been. We may just need the helping hand of a stranger to find him.

Prayer 

Incognito Christ,
Whose good news
We sometimes hear
By the lips of strange messengers—
Be revealed among us
This Epiphany season,
And confront us
With life-giving truth.
Amen.

-----

[1] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, “Letter to Eberhard Bethge: 30 April 1944,” http://www.onbeing.org/program/ethics-and-will-god-legacy-dietrich-bonhoeffer/feature/letter-eberhard-bethge/879, accessed January 5, 2017.

The Song of God (Psalm 148)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 1, 2017, Christmas I)

(With the help of the children and the youth)

-----

“The Music of Heaven in All Things”

Who here has listened to a seashell before? I’m guessing most of you already have. In case you haven’t, I’ve brought one with me. Let’s take a listen. What do you hear?

The ocean! This seashell sings the song of the sea.

Now what about Peppermint Patties? Have you ever listened to one before? Here, take one, and break it in half close to your ear.

What do you hear?

Both the seashell and the Peppermint Pattie sing a song.

Nearly one thousand years ago, there was a woman leader in the church, Hildegard, who said that everything in the world is singing a song of praise to God. She said that she heard “the music of heaven in all things.”[1]

I bet if the person who wrote today’s scripture were here with us today, she would say the exact same thing. I imagine that she would be so excited to hear the seashell and the Peppermint Patties, that she herself would start to sing along, whooshing with the seashell and ppphhing with the Peppermint Patties.[2]

And then I imagine that her excitement would spill over, and she would begin to share with us all the other songs she had heard. That’s sort of what she does in today’s scripture. She listens to everything around her—the sky, the earth, the water, all the animals big and small—and she hears them singing praise to God. Here’s how she describes it. [Read Psalm 148]

What a song our writer hears! Everyone and everything is singing. The moon and the snow and the trees and the birds. All of creation.

Our writer lets us in on a secret that much of our world has forgot:

If you listen closely enough to something—anything—you will hear a beautiful song.

Hearing the Song in Christmas

I wonder if it’s not this song that we hear in the story of Christmas. Just like in today’s scripture, all of creation sings. Remember all the characters in the Christmas story? First we have angels in heaven praising God. Then we have a star in the sky, singing a song that captivates the wise men. And around the baby Jesus in the manger, there must have been cattle and sheep, singing their songs, “Moo…” and “Bahh….” And then we have all sorts of people praising God: the shepherds singing in the field, the old and faithful Simeon and Anna praying softly in wonder, the baby Jesus cooing and crying as all babies do. In the Christmas story, all of creation sings a beautiful song of praise to God.

And then we join that song ourselves, whenever we sing Christmas carols.

A Song of Life

Today’s scripture is a wonderful reminder that the song of Christmas never ends. Even as we take down the stockings and the lights and the ornaments, all of creation continues to sing a beautiful song of praise to God.

I’m not a great listener, but even I hear the song sometimes. Whenever I hear the song, it brings me new life. I hear the song in the sunrise and in my first cup of coffee. I hear it in other people as we share new ideas. Sometimes I hear the song when I play a board game with my family or good friends. I wonder: where do you hear the song? What brings you new life? (What do you do before you go to bed—read? play a game? eat a snack? Do you hear it then? Have you ever heard it in the stars? Or maybe when you’re standing on top of a mountain?)

According to our writer today, wherever we hear this song, we are not just an audience. We are invited to join the song—“young men and women alike, old and young together!” says our writer. This doesn’t necessarily mean we’re singing out loud. (Some of us do have beautiful voices, like Rob who sung for us today. Others of us, like my brother, couldn’t hit a note if you handed it to him.) I think singing means bringing life to the people around you. My brother does this by encouraging people when they’re down. Others might sing by doing something beautiful, painting a picture or telling a story. Others might sing simply by smiling or hugging or saying, “I think you’re great.”

How many of you have seen The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings? J.R.R. Tolkien, the man who wrote those stories, was a curious and creative Christ-follower. And when he told the story of Middle Earth, he said that all of life began with a song: a song that went out into the emptiness, so that there was no longer emptiness but life. That, I think, is a wonderful picture for what it means to sing the song of God. We bring life to our world.

“You’re Not Singing Anymore!”

A couple of years ago when I was in England, I went to several soccer games—what the British would call “football matches.” Watching a soccer game in England is a lot like watching a sports game in the United States, with one major difference.

Here, at a sports game, sometimes the fans sing a chant or a song. What songs or chants do they sing?

In England, the fans don’t just sing now and then. They’re singing all the time. And not only chants like, “Defense!” or “We will rock you,” but songs that they themselves created. And the fans wouldn’t just sing for their own team. They would sometime sing songs against the opposing fans. For example, if your team was losing and you were sad and you had stopped singing, the other fans would start singing at you, “You’re not singing, you’re not singing, you’re not singing anymore! You’re not singing anymore!” (All this to the tune of “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah,” no less.) It was very irritating to hear.

I wonder, though, if that’s true in life. Sometimes when life is tough, or when I’m feeling sad, I don’t feel like singing.

But according to our writer today, the song of God is not simply a victory song, a song that we sing after we’ve won. The song of God is much bigger than that. It’s a song that creation is always singing. Maybe you’ve noticed at times when you haven’t felt so good, when things have been difficult, that the sun still shines, the birds still sing, the wind still whispers, the stars still hum in the night sky, the seashell still whistles, the Peppermint Patties still ppphh. Our writer says that creation is always praising God, not only when things are good, but also when things are difficult. We might remember that the Christmas story came at a dark and difficult time in the history of Israel—but even then, the angels and the stars and the cattle and the shepherds sang, and what wonderful life came forth.

Maybe the Christmas story is our story too. I wonder if it’s not this very song that brings us back to life when we feel down, that gives us new life when everything around us has faded.

The Song Sings Out into the Emptiness

Today is the beginning of a new year. Much of the world is quiet. We can almost feel the emptiness of the days ahead, the days waiting to be filled with life. Some of these days will bring us happiness, and others sorrow. The good news of our scripture is that whatever the days bring, the song of God will always surround us; that if we listen closely enough, we can hear this beautiful song in anything—in everything. We can join it ourselves, not only when we’re winning but also when we’re losing. In fact, it’s especially important to sing then. Because the song of God brings life. Like Tolkien said: it sings out into the emptiness, and the emptiness cannot overcome it.

Prayer

God of new life,
Whose song we hear
In stars and seashells and everything in-between—
Open our ears
And loosen our tongues,
That we may hear your song in all creation
And join its life-giving chorus.
Amen.

-----

[1] Two quotes commonly attributed to Hildegard of Bingen are: “All of creation is a song of praise to God,” and, “There is the music of heaven in all things.”

[2] Nobody knows who wrote today’s scripture; it could have been a guy or a girl. I’m imagining a girl, because many of the girls I know are careful listeners, the kind who would hear these songs.