Onward

Let anyone who is thirsty come to Me, and let the one who believes in Me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’” (John 7.37-38)

One of my favorite Taizé chants repeats this simple verse:

By night we travel in darkness, in search of the living water

Only our thirst leads us onward

Only our thirst leads us onward

The original Spanish of the chant’s last phrase, sólo la sed nos alumbra, actually translates as, “only the thirst lights us,” indicating that a deep inner desire to taste Christ’s living water somehow illumines us even though we often can’t see our way. In our driest, darkest hours, Jesus’s promise to quench our thirst becomes the lamp that draws us to Him.

If we’re feeling parched, possibly even a little listless and disoriented, at this stage in our Lenten journey, we’re actually in good shape. It means that all the other refreshments we rely on—good intentions, determination, and religious pride, for instance—are starting to evaporate. We’ve reached the point where our thirst can only be satisfied by raw faith in Christ. And the grand irony of this venture is manifest when we discover that we carry rivers of living water within us. “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water,” Jesus says. But we can’t release the rivers of life and satisfy our thirst until we reach Christ. “Let anyone who is thirsty come to Me, and let the one who believes in Me drink.”

Only our thirst leads us onward

Only the thirst lights us

Lent’s desert imagery encourages us to frame it as a daytime activity. (Advent is the nocturnal quest.) Yet if we’re looking at vast, unmapped, barren expanses, traveling by day is much the same as traveling by night. We are at place where all we have to go on resides in us. Now is the time when we let go of intellect so that instinct can take over. Our heart, full and overflowing with life-giving water that quenches our deepest thirsts, guides us. It will lead us to the place where our longing for Christ will be met.

In Philippians 3.13-16, we hear Paul’s famous “onward and upward” admonition: “This one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. Let those of us then who are mature be of the same mind; and if you think differently about anything, this too God will reveal to you. Only let us hold fast to what we have attained.”

The water we crave is already there, waiting for us to reach the place where we’re truly walking by faith and not by sight. Once we cross that tipping point, we will be satisfied, refreshed, and renewed. Right now, we have to remember that our thirst leads us onward.

Only the thirst lights us

Sharers--an Epiphany

This mystery… has now been revealed to Christ’s holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that is, the Gentiles have become… sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel. (Ephesians 3.5-6)

Room

When I was a kid, Sunday mornings began at the breakfast table with “The Revivaltime Hour,” a weekly radio broadcast. The host, Dr. C.M. Ward, was my father’s favorite preacher and over the years, he’d befriended my parents. I never met him. To my young ears, he sounded like Walter Cronkite. Most of what he said got lost in the table talk and clatter of dishes. But I recall how soothing his tones were; there was mastery in his voice that deepened my sense that God had everything under control. Most of all, it was the music that stuck with me. The program opened with “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name,” an 18^th-century anthem full of coronation imagery that climaxed with “crown Him Lord of all.” Then, after Dr. Ward’s message, “Revivaltime” closed with a gentle rendition of the invitational hymn, “Room at the Cross”:

There’s room at the cross for you

Though millions have come, there’s still room for one

Yes, there’s room at the cross for you

Sometimes, despite the breakfast hubbub, the song would grip Dad’s heart. His eyes would cloud up and I could almost see what he must have seen in his mind's eye: a young man from small-town Alabama making his way to Calvary, finding his place beside millions who’d come to kneel before their newfound Lord and Savior.

My own favorite religious program came on the air at 9 PM. It was the live broadcast from Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church—an African-American congregation whose 100-voice choir rocked the airwaves with its signature opener, “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”:

What a fellowship! What a joy divine!

Leaning on the everlasting arms

What a blessedness! What a peace is mine!

Leaning on the everlasting arms

This was great news to a young man steadily realizing his God-given identity would one day lead him away from his family’s faith tradition. To enter into fellowship with a God Whose love would never fail was a promise I could believe, a hope I could never surrender. While both broadcasts’ doctrines were nearly identical, I found Fellowship’s Jesus to be more than an omnipotent Sovereign. Their Christ was a Lord Who reached out with everlasting arms to enfold and protect me. The programs intersected in their final moments. Like “Revivaltime,” Fellowship left the air as the pastor, Rev. Clay Evans, led the congregation in “Room at the Cross”. Their version was much slower—less an invitation than a reassurance—and they crafted a second chorus to underscore the boundless, inclusive love of Christ:

You may be high, you may be low

Some are rich, some are poor

STILL, there’s room at the cross for you

Mystery

This weekend’s texts—celebrating Epiphany—brought back the flood of emotions that coursed through the Sundays of my youth. Matthew’s Gospel gives us the Magi, who journey from the East in search of Israel’s promised Sovereign. They come fully prepared, bearing treasure to offer the Babe as they kneel at His cradle. Yet they really have no business being there. They aren’t Jews. They’re obviously not poor or lowly or oppressed. Still, they come. They’re drawn by the bright promise a new star that rises in the east to guide them. It is a light sent just for them—a light that assures them they’re welcome to worship the Incarnate God, a Lord of lords Who willingly exchanges royal robes for swaddling clothes, throne for crib, crown for the cradle of a teenaged mother’s hand. And this image, indelibly printed on our minds, delivers the Christmas message with stunning clarity. It is a promise that follows Jesus through His life, death, resurrection, even to this day: High, low, rich, poor, there’s room for you.

It’s unlikely the Magi grasp the import of their visit—a journey born of intellectual curiosity that will become the first testament of Christ’s all-inclusive love. In an age when personal, religious, ethnic, and national identities are so tightly intertwined as to be inseparable, that God would raise a star to summon pagans to Jesus’s side boggles the mind. That the Creator would literally move heaven and earth to include people traditionally deemed unwelcome defies reason. And that the Spirit would move Matthew to record this moment—forever fixing the presence of outsiders in our Christmas iconography—confounds us. In Ephesians 3, Paul calls this phenomenon “the mystery of Christ.” He stresses the radical nature of God’s inclusion as something we can never comprehend yet nonetheless must believe. In verses 5-6, he writes, “In former generations this mystery was not made known to humankind, as it has now been revealed to Christ’s holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit: that is, the Gentiles have become fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise of Christ Jesus through the gospel.” Fellow heirs. Members of the same body. Sharers in the promise. Though millions have come, there's still room.

Epiphany

We’ve not made much progress in defeating the ancient notion that all the threads of our identity are so tightly woven together they’re all of piece. And to a large extent, that’s true. The concept falls apart, however, when we assume certain aspects of identity make us unacceptable to God. Such ideology is the illegitimate spawn of human tradition. It doesn’t square with what we see with the Magi or hear the Spirit say through the apostles and prophets. Who we are, where we come from, and whatever social and religious baggage is thrust upon us bear no relevance in terms of God’s lavish welcome. Every effort—all the powers in the world—attempting to shut us out cannot change the fact that we “have become fellow heirs, members of the same body, and sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel.”

There’s room—that is the epiphany for today, tomorrow, and all time. It is the mystery made manifest in a Creator Who displays sovereign power by moving heaven and earth to summon the least likely of us to Christ's side. It is the promise made real by a Babe Whose tiny arms unfurl, inviting us to fellowship with a God Who loves us without measure. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Trust what your eyes see and the assurance the Spirit speaks to your heart. You cannot be crowded out. You will not be turned away. Bring your gifts. Ask your questions. Follow Christ’s star. It was sent just for you. Discover what the Magi found: there’s room for you.

God’s lavish inclusion is the mystery at the heart of Epiphany’s celebration.

Postscript: “Room at the Cross”

I found this clip of Rev. Clay Evans, now in his late 80s and pastor emeritus of Chicago’s Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church, from those golden years when he led his congregation in “Room at the Cross”. It still brings joyful tears to my eyes. The hymn he segues into (“At the Cross”) says:

At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the Light

And the burdens of my heart rolled away

It was there by faith I received my sight

And now I am happy all the day

The same Light that drew the Magi to Christ’s cradle radiates from Calvary’s cross, there for all who, by faith, receive their sight. May this Epiphany overwhelm you with the joy of discovering there is room for you!

Majesty

He shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God… and he shall be the one of peace. (Micah 5.4-5)

Apocalypse Now

So the Mayan apocalypse of 12/21/12 has gone the way of all end-of-the-world predictions. The planet is still spinning. We’re still alive and kicking. It’s business as usual. For most of us, it’s no surprise. We knew not to put any credence into this latest far-fetched scenario. And we know, sooner or later, a new one will surface. Someone will forecast yet another space-time anomaly that portends global doom. We’ll chuckle at that, too, and when it turns out to be a bust, we’ll chuckle at the next one and the one after that.

Although we scoff at doomsday predictions, our laughter reveals something we should seriously consider. Poking fun at apocalyptic notions exorcises our anxieties about them. Something inside us—something we can’t quite reach and disarm—insists the whole thing could come crashing down around us at any moment. (It only took one meteor to wipe out the dinosaurs.) And somewhat perversely, I think we find a degree of comfort in the possibility that All Of This might suddenly end with a big bang. Keeping the planet alive and peaceful is hard work. The constant toil and conflicts of everyday life wear us out. And I suspect a few of us may have been disappointed that 12/21 came and went uneventfully. Apocalypse now is the weary soul’s way out.

Prophetic Vision

In Advent’s steady ascent to the manger, a very specific sort of weariness sets in. We can’t sing hopeful hymns and recite promises of salvation without registering how greatly we need hope and saving. Our world is in a sorry state that trickles down into our everyday lives. With so much of what affects us beyond our control—nearly all of it headed the wrong way—it’s no wonder that we greet apocalyptic panic with cordial ambivalence. But the prophets constantly remind us the antidote for weariness isn’t looking for a cosmic cataclysm that will sweep away all of our troubles. We combat weariness by placing our trust in God’s creative power to make something new. As the light of Christmas dawn breaks through Advent’s night, Scripture beckons us to embrace prophetic vision that looks beyond human deficiencies to see a God of limitless possibilities. War and violence are precursors to peace. Injustice and hatred set the stage for mercy and love. Despair delivers hope. Sorrow gives way to joy. Christ’s birth heralds the birth of all that is good and right in us. Lest weariness overtake us, the Nativity enables us to know that nothing is impossible for God.

This God of infinite possibilities can only be found in our darkness and chaos. It is from there that God speaks and works wonders. It is in the despair of night that prophetic vision sharpens its focus and sees what God is actually doing. Sunday’s prophetic text (Micah 5.2-5) calls to us from a world shrouded in hopelessness, discord, and looming defeat. Assyrian invaders have trampled the northern half of the Jewish kingdom. Pagan cults have infiltrated the nation’s faith life and the erosion of belief is evidenced in the corruption of civic and religious leaders. Apocalyptic doom is on the up-rise. But Micah sees light breaking through the chaos and darkness. “This is not the end,” he declares. “It’s the beginning.” He compares this season of violence and injustice to childbirth, urging the people to push ahead. There is no time for weariness. A Savior is coming. “He shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God. And they shall live secure, for now he shall be great to the ends of the earth, and he shall be the one of peace,” he promises. (Micah 5.4-5) A New Order will rise out of the nation’s wearying confusion, oppression, and self-destructiveness.

The Newborn King

In the coming days, we will sing, “Glory to the newborn King!” And in that song we should exercise prophetic vision that sees Christ for all that Christ is. The lowliness of Jesus’s birth is wreathed in majesty—not of the pompous, ceremonial kind, but of certain power and authority that makes all things possible. Our Savior, Who chose to live among us as one of us, is the One of Peace. God comes to us not as a tyrant placing undue demands on us, but as a gentle Shepherd, Who watches over us and feeds us. God reaches us in our darkness and chaos, because that’s where God’s infinite possibilities reside.

May this Christmas overflow with prophetic insight that illuminates the majestic hope, joy, love, and peace that is born to us and lives in us. May we exchange our weariness with the world for the invigorating glory of our newborn King.

God’s infinite possibilities reside in our darkness and chaos.

Postscript: “Come Darkness, Come Light”

A couple of years ago, I put together a little video to Mary Chapin Carpenter’s lovely ballad, “Come Darkness, Come Light.” I’ve posted it before. But I’m reprising it as my Christmas prayer for all of us. Have a joyous celebration!

Do Not Fear

Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak. The LORD, your God, is in Your midst. (Zephaniah 4.16-17)

Enflamed with Defiance

Last Friday I was on the phone with a San Diego colleague who'd been awakened in the wee hours by an earthquake. “It went on quite a while,” he said, “long enough to look out and see the water sloshing around in my pool.” I told him I lived in L.A. when the Whittier earthquake struck and knew how unsettling it is. “Then there’s the eerie period waiting for the aftershocks,” I observed, adding that I was so unnerved that, for the first time since relocating to the West Coast, I seriously considered moving back home. “In the Midwest, we have the advantage of knowing a tornado or blizzard is headed our way,” I said. “We have time to brace ourselves. Earthquakes don’t give you that.”

As we concluded our business, I kidded, “Here’s hoping nothing else rocks your world today!” To which he replied, “We’ll be fine.” No sooner had I hung up than Walt rushed into the study and turned on the television. There it was: 27 dead in elementary school shooting. The ground shook so hard I gripped the arms of my chair. The prior evening, at our church's annual holiday remembrance service, I recited the roll of nearly 150 young Chicagoans killed by firearms in 2012. We sang songs of solace and hope, heard Advent poems about light’s power to conquer darkness, and prayed God’s strength in our endeavors to vanquish gun violence in our city. And now this—the latest in an increasingly frequent series of moments when it feels as though there’s nowhere to hide from an onslaught of mad violence we can’t foresee or contain. A brutal flood of emotions poured through me, threatening to take all of Advent’s optimism with it. I felt stranded in a midnight world of menacing evil.

This weekend, as we gather in our communities of faith, we must adamantly reclaim Advent’s promises of peace and salvation. We must attend closely to the prophets’ assurances that God hasn’t left us. Our worship—the hymns we sing, the prayers we pray, and every word we speak—must be enflamed with defiance. We will not surrender hope. God is with us. Christ is coming to us. Darkness will not stand.

Out of the Ancient Mist

Sunday’s Old Testament reading (Zephaniah 3.14-20) steps out of the ancient mist to grab us by the collar, confronting issues that could be ripped from today’s headlines. The prophet addresses a nation gripped with religious and social malaise. He takes prophetic office during the reign of Josiah, Judah’s great reformer. Previous kings were lax in honoring God’s demands for faithfulness and justice. As a result, the nation founders on the hollow shoulders of idolatry and conspicuous consumption. Unlike other prophets, who seek to restore the faith of God’s people after long nights of foreign opposition, Zephaniah speaks to a country rotting from within. The gaps between rich and poor, powerful and powerless, are wider than ever. Violence, injustice, poverty, and despair have reached intolerable levels. Only those who profit from Judah’s indifference feel safe. An even slimmer minority realizes their nation has lost its way. The vast majority has grown woefully apathetic, presuming things have got so bad they can't be fixed. “Not so!” Zephaniah cries. With true reformist zeal, he proclaims the advent of better times—“the day of the Lord,” he calls it—when God’s righteousness and faithful presence will once again prevail. Does any of this sound familiar?

After he scorns the corruption of Judah’s officials and indicts the majority’s lethargy, Zechariah speaks to the relative few profoundly distressed with their nation’s descent into chaos and violence. Listen to the confidence—the unshakable defiance—with which he assures them their faith will be vindicated:

The king of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more. On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem: Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak. The LORD, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory; God will rejoice over you with gladness, God will renew you in God’s love; God will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.

Then, speaking in God’s own voice, Zephaniah declares:

I will remove disaster from you, so that you will not bear reproach for it. I will deal with all your oppressors at that time. And I will save the lame and gather the outcast, and I will change their shame into praise and renown in all the earth.

God’s Song

Tragedies like the one we’ve just seen in Newtown, Connecticut evoke natural reflexes we struggle to absorb: first the horror, next the grief, soon followed by reproach and recriminations for not having prevented them, the vast majority of us ultimately believing the lie such horrors are unpreventable. We are momentarily quaked out of our national slumber and wring weak hands, as if nothing can be done to brake our perilous slide into chaos, violence, and fear.

But the Word of God reaches us this weekend in the defiant voice of a reformer from long ago, urging us not to surrender hope. Do not fear, it says. Do not let your hands grow weak. God is in your midst. The day of the Lord draws near. God will renew us in love and exult over us in loud singing. In the crushing darkness of our anguish, confusion, and despair, we listen for the faraway strains of God’s song beckoning us to the light of God’s day. The darkness that presently engulfs us will not stand.

God is with us. Christ is coming to us. The crushing darkness of our anguish, confusion, and despair will not stand.