Stumblers

The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh—my adversaries and foes—they shall stumble and fall. (Psalm 27.1-2)

Yesterday Walt and I, along with many members of our Lake View Presbyterian faith community, joined more than 60 churches to walk in Chicago’s Pride Parade. There were hundreds of us—so many that our entourage stretched longer than a city block, far longer than any Chicago Coalition of Welcoming Churches parade entry ever had. It was thrilling, and our joy was made full by the ebullient response we received. Thousands of spectators cheered, thanked us, high-fived us, and more than a few embraced us with teary eyes. As we turned the corner for the parade’s last leg, we spied the Westboro Baptist crowd, a small clutch of people from the infamously homophobic Kansas church that turns up each year. And something marvelous happened. We began to rejoice! Those on the sidelines added to our chorus. The roar that went up overpowered the invective hurled our way through Westboro’s loudspeakers. Not one hateful word could be heard.

Last night, as I reflected on the event, it occurred to me that we witnessed exactly what David writes about in Psalm 27. We saw our adversaries stumble and fall. And there was an important lesson in that, I think. When we embrace God as our light and salvation—as the very stronghold of our lives—we have nothing to fear. There is no reason to suppress our joy and confidence. In fact, facing those who would denigrate our making and beliefs is cause for joy. It incites rejoicing that we are free from gnawing hatred and hollow piety. We are at peace with our God, our neighbors, and ourselves, And out of that realization flows rivers of joy that drown out those who condemn us—especially those who, like the Westboro folks, go out of their way to diminish the wonder of our making.

Our joyful antidote to the bilious attacks was the last hurrah for this year’s parade. No doubt there will be repeat engagements at future marches. Yet our number will continue to increase, and with it our joy. We will rejoice even more vibrantly in the coming years—not to prove a point, but because joy is the point. As I closed the chapter on 2012 Pride, it struck me that this year’s parade ended just as it began. Our service preceding the march closed as the choir sent us out with the “Everybody Rejoice” chorus from The Wiz:

Can you feel a brand new day!

Can you feel a brand new day!

“They shall stumble and fall,” David reminds us. And on we march, into the light, salvation, and stronghold of God’s new day.

The Chicago Coalition of Welcoming Churches prepares to step off at this year’s Pride Parade.

Wonder Words

We continue to sit with Psalm 139.14:

I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are Your works.

“I’m wonderfully made,” the psalmist rejoices, using a word that singularizes him from everyone else. And we join him in our confidence and marvel that we are all distinctive creations. God shapes and guides each of us to live out God’s will in particular ways, to serve God and others as only we can. Thus we exult in our differences, rather than disparage them or doubt their worthiness. “Wonderful are Your works,” the psalmist declares, employing a second “wonder” word that denotes our inability to grasp the vastness of God’s creative power—as well as our reluctance to believe God’s ways and thoughts surpass our own. (“Such knowledge is too wonderful me; it is so high that I cannot attain it,” the poet admits in verse 6.) So we come to God without pretense, just as we are, willing to abstain from conformity to manmade patterns and expectations, knowing full well that God transcends pattern-based creation. Unyielding trust in our Maker instills two core truths in our hearts: not one of us is ever alone, and no two of us is ever alike.

Singing Lesson

Clap your hands, all you peoples; shout to God with loud songs of joy. For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth. (Psalm 47.1-2)

Still Here

It’s a quarter of seven in the morning and I’m at my desk, not altogether happy about an early conference call due to begin on the hour. I’m hoping the coffee kicks in for me to (at least) sound awake while my brain catches up. I click through the overnight emails. Only two interest me: The New York Times and the Daily Lectionary. Since I can’t guarantee the morning’s news will buoy my spirits, I open the lectionary. The morning psalm is 47, which opens with a real bang: “Clap your hands, all you peoples; shout to God with loud songs of joy. For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth.” Clap your hands. Shout to God. Sing loud songs. I groan. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen…

The meeting host is late. While we wait for him to activate the call, we’re treated to chipper jazz—the sort of innocuous melody making whose sole purpose is confirming the line hasn’t gone dead. It’s soulless music, so intent on not offending anyone’s tastes that it has no taste at all. And I think to myself, “This is not the kind of singing the psalmists call for.” Psalm 47 is attributed to the sons of Korah, the Temple’s poets in residence, whose liturgical influence witnesses the power of redemption. The sons of Korah are descendants of a priest who led a rebellion against Moses (Numbers 16) and his name means “baldness,” denoting the empty place that remained after he and other rebel priests who sided with him were razed from Israel’s worship leadership.

So Psalm 47 is the exact opposite of the bland, on-hold Muzak that annoys me. Yet, in many ways, its purpose is the same. The sons of Korah are a noisy bunch. They like hand-clapping and shouting and loud singing because it’s a profoundly moving self-affirmation that tells Israel, “We’re still here!” And Israel follows their lead for the same reason. Its enemies watch and wait for this ungainly nation—essentially a loosely tied federation of 12 nomadic tribes—to implode and disappear, returning the land God gave them to its original tenants. Thus every time Israel unites in worship, the singing and music ring with praise for its existence and survival, its marvel at the beautiful country God has given it, and its gratitude for the land’s bounty. The same awe that brings forth raucous rejoicing is limned with defiance not unlike that of the veteran trouper in Sondheim’s Follies: “Good times and bum times, I’ve seen ‘em all, and I’m here. I’m still here!” When Israel celebrates with song, it declares to itself and its neighbors that the line hasn’t gone dead. The people and their God are actively engaged. They have a standing appointment—an ongoing call, if you will—when God and the nation discuss their lives and future together. Singing rehearses their shared history and points to what’s next. It’s not the style that makes their songs sacred; it’s what their music means and what it achieves. It’s an emotion-packed narrative device.

Necessary Soul Work

Singing and music are elemental to the believer's life, not only for specific thoughts and emotions they convey, but also as a primal, constant reminder we’re still here. When we sing or listen to song, we proclaim that our faith still holds, God remains faithful to us, and we share a common history and vision with God. As our pastor pointed out last Sunday, drawing from Psalm 98 (“Sing to the Lord a new song”), music is one of very few human activities that unite both sides of our brain—cognitive and emotional—in a singular pursuit. “But the psalmists didn’t know that,” she said. “They just knew that singing and praising God was necessary soul work.” All that we know music to be, everything it accomplishes—the feelings it mines, the truths it conveys—is God’s way of reaffirming divine presence in our lives and our existence in the world. The line between God and us isn’t dead. It’s open and alive and full of wonder and gratitude and endless possibilities for love and joy and, yes, even reckoning with God, others, and us.

We learn to sing and keep at it because singing is a perpetual life lesson. That’s why sacred songs never grow old. It’s why they creep up on us and get into our heads with feelings and messages that moor us during tumultuous times. They give voice to confessions of faith we might not articulate on our own. Notice Psalm 47’s second verse: “For the LORD, the Most High, is awesome, a great king over all the earth.” We are still here. But more than that, we are most assuredly not alone in our mortal endeavor. Our awesome God, Monarch of the universe and Captain of our souls, is with us, loving us, guiding us, and moving on our behalf. How can we not sing?

Just Sing

The Carpenters had a big 70s hit with a little ditty that housed a powerful lyric: “Don’t worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear. Just sing.” Performance quality doesn’t matter. From the greatest vocalist to the person who can’t carry a tune in a bucket, singing is an essential we can’t overlook. In Ephesians 5.18-20, we’re admonished to “be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, giving thanks to God the Father at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” We may not have what it takes to fill concert arenas. We may not know the difference between middle C and high F. Our songs may not be pleasing to anyone’s ears—not even or our own. But we've been given us this great gift of music. God wants us to sing. And especially for those of us who’ve been told we have no song—who’ve been lied to and all but convinced we don’t belong here—it’s our God-given duty to sing. As with the children of Israel, it is God Who brought us here and here we’ll remain, clapping our hands, shouting, and singing to the tops of our voices. That’s the real singing lesson. Don’t worry if you’re not “good enough” for anyone else to hear. Just sing.

When we sing or listen to song, we proclaim that our faith still holds, our God remains faithful to us, and we share a common history and vision with God.

Postscript: “Why We Sing”

Kirk Franklin’s elegant song captures the essence of why we sing. Take this with you as an inspiration to sing and keep at it. You’re still here. Your God wants you to sing.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/05/17/singing-lesson/

Lookers

She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the Child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. (Luke 2.37-38)

Weighty Words

Just before Christmas I caught a “Primetime” rerun of Diane Sawyer’s report on cloistered nuns. Unlike sisters who dedicate their lives to charitable service, these saintly women heed a monastic calling to denounce all worldly obligations so they’re free to pray for the world. What Sawyer discovered in their fortitude, discipline, and self-sacrifice was astounding. Along with a perpetual intercessory vigil within their abbey walls, they answer a congregational call to prayer every three hours. Eight times a day they forego their communal and personal needs to lift our needs before God. Sawyer’s awe focused on the physical and emotional havoc that must result from such a grueling regimen. The nuns’ selflessness elicited a different response on my part, however. I couldn’t stop thinking, “Somewhere, someone is praying for me.” Think about that. Right now, regardless when you read this, people tucked away in abbeys and monasteries around the world are bowed in prayer for you—for us.

The manner in which the nuns discussed their vows took Sawyer aback. They spoke of their symbolic marriage to Christ as if it were an actual union and described their relationship in intimate terms—not merely loving Christ, but being in love with Christ. Although their passion was startling, their commitment defused any skepticism about their sincerity. Their lives gave weight to their words. In Sunday’s Gospel (Luke 2.22-40), we meet Anna, perhaps the New Testament’s finest example of a cloistered, intensely devout woman. Like the nuns that Sawyer interviewed, her integrity precedes her. On seeing the Infant, she rejoices and bears witness that He is Israel’s Promised Redeemer. And when Anna speaks, people listen. They may be taken aback but, still, they listen.

Substitution

Christmas’s majesty invites us to overlook a sad aspect of its tale. By necessity, it scuttles any dreams Mary and Joseph harbor about being newlyweds and first-time parents. What enthralls us surely disappoints them on many levels. Luke 2.19 suggests Mary comes to terms with it, saying when the shepherds depart, she “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Eight days pass before things resemble anything Mary or Joseph may have dreamt about. Per custom, their Baby is circumcised and named “Jesus.” Like today, the bris is a private affair—a notable, yet not notably “big,” event. The big day that Joseph and Mary dream of comes 32 days later, when they go to Jerusalem, where Mary presents herself and Jesus to the Temple priests. That’s when Anna enters the picture, and grasping her importance requires fully understanding what’s going on.

Two essential rites are publicly observed. The first ends Mary’s purification—the 40-day period banning her contact with anyone outside her household. The second, designated for first-born sons, declares Jesus “holy to the Lord” (v23), with a sacrificial ritual that redeems Him just as Israel’s oldest males are saved when the Death Angel visited Egypt. The offering mirrors that of the first Passover: the blood of a lamb. But Mosaic Law makes exceptions for mothers who can’t afford a lamb. In its place, she offers a pair of turtledoves or young pigeons—one to seal her purification and the other a redemptive offering for her first-born son. Mary takes this option for many reasons. With pregnancy coming before her marriage is finalized, it’s doubtful her dowry has been transferred. Her 40-day confinement in Bethlehem has likely drained the couple’s resources. The costs of caring for a new mother and child have added to their burden. So we can assume they’re near penniless when they reach the Temple.

Putting practicalities aside, however, the presentation’s specifics are no less illuminating than the Nativity’s attention to detail. Once again, arbitrary factors combine to establish Jesus’s identification with the poor, uprooted, and those incapable of meeting the Law’s highest demands. More than that, it’s here that the substitution theme comes to the fore. The usual sacrifice is bypassed for a seemingly lower—nonetheless exceptional—offering that obtains astounding beauty in the nature of the exchange. It replaces an earthbound, dim-witted beast with a free and heavenly creature that lights on the ground yet lives in the sky.

Although we often call Jesus “the Lamb of God,” the avian substitution for His redemption more aptly presages His substitution for our redemption. The Lord of Heaven alights on Earth to save us. Our vantage from the far side of Calvary crystallizes the substitution’s meaning, but we can’t fathom anyone who witnesses the presentation perceiving its import. Yet two elderly prophets—Simeon and Anna—not only see it. They get it, because they’ve spent their lives looking for it. They glory in having the long-awaited Christ is in their midst.

All

Luke writes that the Spirit guides Simeon to the Temple, where he takes the month-old Child in his arms and praises God. He tells his Creator he’s ready to die, “for my eyes have seen Your salvation, which You have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” (v30-32) He prophesies to Mary, foretelling Jesus’s death by saying He’s destined “to be a Sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (v34-35)

While Mary and Joseph marvel at Simeon’s words, Anna appears. Luke tells us she’s 84 and cloistered herself in the Temple after her husband of seven years died. Since women of her time marry in their teens, Anna has spent 60-plus years fasting, praying, and anticipating the Savior. To three generations of worshipers she’s a Temple fixture whose permanence and devotion endow her testimony with enduring truth. She enlarges on Simeon’s praise and prophecy by including everyone who wisely attends to her message. Verse 38 reads, “At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the Child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.”

A Breed Apart

No matter who, what, or where we are, trusting God’s Word transforms us from passive listeners into passionate lookers. Like Simeon, we live to see God’s pledges materialize before our eyes. Like Anna, we make great sacrifices to watch patiently for the joy and salvation promised to us. Like Mary and Joseph, we cope with the deferral of ordinary dreams and discover—to our amazement—God’s extraordinary purpose for our lives. As lookers, we’re a breed apart. We’re undaunted when what we observe conflicts with the vision God instills in our beings. We look for something better, purer, and truer than worldly favor or fortune—something so marvelous it can’t be mistaken as anything less than God’s handiwork. And we know it when we see it, because we know how God works. Material hardships result in spiritual windfalls. Periods of isolation bring us into the company of righteous prophets and people, fellow lookers one and all. When the best we can offer falls below traditional standards, faith magnifies our ability to see more than meets the eye. We view moments of inadequacy as new promises of greater things. Mary’s poor sacrifice activates Simeon and Anna’s vision to see the promise is bigger than they realized. The Christ Child’s symbolic redemption signals a New Order of inclusion God has “prepared in the presence of all peoples,” Simeon declares, “a revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.” That’s incredibly big, completely unexpected and unprecedented good news.

How serendipitous that this passage finds its way to us on New Year’s Day, just as midnight resolutions start losing their fizz. The challenge at hand isn’t about resolving to do better in the coming months. It’s about mustering resolve to look for promises God wants to reveal to, in, and through us. Time is immaterial. Tenacious faith is what counts. Marching into 2012, our eyes fixed on God’s pledges, we’ll inevitably stumble on blind spots and momentary impasses of doubt and impatience. We’ll mistake harsh realities for hard-set impossibilities. Dim-witted, earthbound logic will present every reason to stop believing, praying, and watching for God’s Word to come to pass. In those moments, we reach for Christ, the Lord of heaven and earth, the Promise of all promises, Who with infinite compassion and wisdom calls people we don’t know to pray us through hours when our vision falters. May Anna and Simeon’s examples light our way through the coming year and the remainder of our days.

Savior, Whose promises are ever true, we begin another year resolved to look for Your promises to be realized in us. Illuminate our understanding that each ordinary day brings us one day closer to Big Days, when we marvel at Your handiwork. Make us tenacious lookers. Endow us with trust to await the visions You instill in our beings. Amen.

When what we observe conflicts with the vision God instills in us, we look beyond what we see, viewing moments of inadequacy as new promises of greater things.

Postscript: New Venture for a New Year

For some time, Britt, a longtime S-F reader and friend, has urged me to podcast the posts in tandem with publishing them here. It took a while for me to grasp why she was so enthusiastic and confident about the idea. But I finally got it and I’m delighted to report today launches the audio version of Straight-Friendly. It’s not much—just me reading the post—but it’s a start. Currently, I’m posting the podcasts on S-F’s freshly minted podbean site. I’ve yet to solve the inevitable Apple mysteries embedded in making them available via iTunes. Hopefully, that will happen very soon. I ask your prayers for this new venture, invite you to listen, and pass the link along to others who might want to listen in too!

http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/01/lookers/

(Thank you so much, Britt, for your gentle insistence. It wasn’t as difficult as I imagined!)

Happy New Year, everyone! May God bless you richly!

Always, In All Circumstances

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (1 Thessalonians 5.16-18)

Continuing a tradition begun last year, Straight-Friendly celebrates Thanksgiving in song—with an emphasis on giving thanks when we may not feel like it, when true gratitude may set us apart, and when the complexity of life frays our connection to thankfulness as an act of faith.

Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances. This is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

“Take a Little Time,” Andraé Crouch

“Now Thank We All Our God,” Lincoln Minister School Chamber Choir

“Gratitude,” Nichole Nordeman

“In Everything (Give Him Thanks),” The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

“Jubilate Deo,” The University of Utah Singers

(Rather than translate “Jubilate Deo,” I’ll let these charming you fellows do it.)

“Thanksgiving Song,” Mary Chapin Carpenter

“For All You’ve Done,” Hillsong

“Simple Gifts,” Yo-Yo Ma and Alison Krauss

Prayer of Thanks, Rabbi Lazer Brody

“Be Grateful,” John Legend & Roots, featuring Jennifer Hudson

Always, and ever, I thank God for all of you!

No Place Like Home

Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting You are God. (Psalm 90.1-2)

Get Up Everybody and Sing

Was I really 20 when Sister Sledge released “We Are Family”? It’s one of those tunes you feel like you’ve known your entire life. Even after you Google it and learn it was released in 1979—despite reminding yourself it’s a disco hit that, at the very earliest, wouldn’t have run the charts until the late 70s—you’re apt to scratch your head. How can that be? As far as disco tunes go, “We Are Family” was remarkably tame; the beat and the music laid back and the four Sledge sisters stepped forward to sing:

We are family

I got all my sisters and me

We are family

Get up everybody and sing!

Their song celebrated their family, not the human family or the “circle of life” or other grandiose concepts so big they get away from us before the singing ends. If you remember the lyrics (and I’ll bet you do), rerun them in your head. It’s about them. The image of family unity they presented was worth singing about. It touched us on a primal level, reminding us family, by nature, should foster togetherness and accord. “We’re like birds of a feather,” they sang. “We're giving love in a family dose.” In some ways their song counterbalanced Carly Simon’s hit, “The Way I Always Heard It Should Be,” which portrayed misgivings about the whole marriage-and-children thing based on her own family’s dysfunction. When Kim, Debbie, Joni, and Kathy Sledge rejoiced, “We are family!” they told the world, “This family idea works!” No wonder their song spoke to us in a timeless fashion.

Alive and Together

Millennia before “We Are Family,” Moses also composed a timeless hit about family, Psalm 90. “Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations,” he sings in the first verse, going on to praise God’s faithfulness and the enduring nature of God’s people in the midst of constant change. And Moses immediately announces that this realization touches a primal nerve by predating our existence: “Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting You are God,” verse 2 observes, as the poem goes on to contemplate the brevity of life and how each of us fits in the ongoing epic of familial longevity. “We’re like grass,” Moses says. “We sprout in the morning. By evening, we wither away.” Yet his metaphor for transience doesn’t dismay him in the least. Thrumming beneath his adoration of the eternal God, one senses undiluted family joy of being alive and together. Moses says, “Look at us, tiny blades of grass closely rooted beside each other, growing and thriving!”

Moses is the last Bible hero we’d expect to write a song that rhapsodizes God’s faithfulness, and rejoices about family and rootedness. He’s the Old Testament’s poster foster child. He’s born into a loving family of Hebrew slaves, only to be ripped from its bosom before he can walk and grows up as an Egyptian prince. That he’s not related to Pharaoh’s family by blood is apparent from his first glance in a mirror. We don’t know if anyone ever told Moses how he came to live in the palace. Yet it must be disconcerting for a privileged child to recognize a closer familial resemblance to his slave nurse (and true mother) than those claiming to be his elders and siblings.

The identity crisis that surfaces in a persistent stammer and lifelong insecurity surely begins there. Just when he’s poised to come into his own, a desperate attempt to reclaim his ethnic roots makes him a fugitive. Wanted for killing an Egyptian who abuses a Hebrew slave, Moses flees to the outback, where he’s adopted again—giving him three families in all before starting his own. Then, once he settles into life as a husband and father, God sends him back into the mess he managed to escape. The Hebrew slaves distrust him. His Egyptian family can’t believe the gall to demand freedom for captives that form the backbone of their economy. And whom does God assign to compensate for Moses’s inadequacies? His blood brother, Aaron—a stranger with no cause to help Moses! None of this sounds like the way Moses (or anyone swept up in his saga) “heard it should be,” let alone something to sing about. Nor does it get better as the story goes.

Securing the slaves’ freedom tasks Moses with leading thousands of legitimately anxious people he’s never met in search of a Promised Land. He has no map or timetable. For 40 years, he pushes them to keep moving. Two generations are born and two generations buried in the wild. By the end, impermanence is all that most of them know. Yet along the way, Moses teaches them his song about God’s faithfulness and human frailty and rootedness—a song about family. Despite every reason why it shouldn’t, the song resonates. It’s a big hit, an instant classic, they sing over and over. It survives Moses. It survives them. It’s a song we sing and generations after us will, too. God is our dwelling place. We’re rooted in God. For the brief time we’re alive, we grow up together in God. We flourish, fade, and a new generation takes root to replace us. We are family.

One Roof

We can regard “God is our dwelling place” as poetic metaphor and leave it at that. But in doing so, we drain Moses’s song of its power to make the metaphor real. If God truly is our Home—if, as Paul testifies in Acts 17.28, “we live and move and have our being” in God—what does that say about us? It seems fairly obvious. As people of God, we share one Roof with all people of God. Sheer size of our family precludes knowing most of them personally, and diversity of backgrounds alone advises against assuming we should like, agree with, and relate to every member of the family. Merely by the millions of ways we come to God, we can rid ourselves of expecting we’ll blend into some kind of homogenized, harmonious “Brady Bunch” dwelling in a spacious, suburban comfort. Residing in God makes for overcrowded, tumultuous conditions. We are, by nature, a family on the move. Impermanence is all we know. New infants are born into our family and beloved elders pass on. Our only sustenance comes from God. We have no map or timetable. It should neither amaze nor alarm us to encounter family members with radically different notions about where we’re going or how we’ll get there. It’s no surprise when far removed relations adamantly refute our claim as kin. We’ve done it; why shouldn’t they?

Yet for all our jostling and anxiety and skepticism, the constant transitions and uncertainties of our pilgrim lifestyle, we celebrate our common roots in God. We rejoice in the gift of growing side-by-side, alive and together, flourishing as individuals under one roof. “Teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart,” Moses’s song prays (v12), concluding with an entreaty that summarizes what dwelling in God is ultimately about: “Let Your work be manifest to your servants, and Your glorious power to their children. Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the work of our hands—O prosper the work of our hands!” (v16-17) The work we do and legacy we leave behind are most important. It makes us anxious to concede many we find so disagreeable, and vice versa, are kin with whom we share a common dwelling. That’s not the way we always heard it should be. Nonetheless, that’s the way it is. We are family. Puts a new spin on “No place like home,” doesn’t it?

O God, as You’ve always been and forever will be, You are our dwelling place. Endow us with courage to overlook differences so we may celebrate our common roots in You. Prosper for us the work of our hands—O prosper the work of our hands. Amen.

With God as our dwelling place, we share one roof with all God’s people. Sure, our Home is overcrowded and our family stays on the move. Yet we’re closely rooted, alive and together.

Postscript: “We Are Family”

Just in case you couldn’t recall all the words…

Down in Our Hearts

Many, LORD, are asking, “Who will bring us prosperity?” Let the light of your face shine on us. Fill my heart with joy when their grain and new wine abound. (Psalm 4.6-7)

Where Real Joy Resides

One of the ditties that never failed to excite us as Sunday school kids went:

I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart

Down in my heart, down in my heart!

I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart

Down in my heart to stay!

The second verse said, “If the devil doesn’t like it, he can sit on a tack!”—whereupon we’d deliriously yell, “Ouch!” To this day, I haven’t the slightest idea what that was supposed to mean. Only inattentive people sit on tacks. And that certainly didn’t describe the devil, who according to our teachers, was a wily sort always lurking in shadows—like the Big Bad Wolf—to pounce on any unsuspecting child who meandered his way. Of course, as children, we didn’t worry ourselves with the tune’s unseemly contradiction. As far as we were concerned, we had joy in our hearts. It wasn’t going anywhere. So what if the devil didn’t like it? He couldn’t do anything to stop it. We had joy in our hearts to stay. There. Case closed.

I’ve not given much thought to the song over the years. But now that it’s sprung to mind, I regret not doing so. When I consider how often I’ve forgot where real joy resides, how secure and amazingly durable it is, and why there’s no cause to fear for its survival, I wish I’d kept “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy” handier. It sure would have been helpful when no signs, let alone promises, of joy were visible and no outward evidence of it seemed to exist. I could have used it when I felt bankrupt of joy and unsure how and when it might be replenished. And I truly needed it for times when I’d lost touch with my joy while others—who, from what I could tell, had done nothing to deserve happiness—appeared to be head-over-heels in joy. If only I’d remembered to hum a few bars of that cockeyed little melody, I’d have realized when we have real joy down in our hearts, it remains and sorrow passes. It's safe and secure from temporary trials and emotional storms. We don’t always see joy, because it’s often hidden from sight. But if we open our hearts to real joy—God’s joy—it’s there to stay. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. If that makes them unhappy, well, there’s a seat and tack with their name on it. (Ouch!)

Resistant and Responsive Joy

God’s joy is like all of God’s gifts. It’s unconditional. It comes by way of God’s favor, through no effort or merit of ours. That means joy down in our hearts is decidedly unlike joy we experience from human kindness and good fortune. Indeed, we’d be wise to distinguish the two to prevent our confidence in God’s joy from foundering when we’re troubled by the unreliability of human joy. We might define the joy God gives as “resistant joy.” It’s impervious, implacable, and immune to any and all conditions. There are no causes and effects attached to God’s joy. It just is, because God is, and assurance God is the sole source of God’s joy. Joy we receive from others and by chance is “responsive joy.” Though we position ourselves to receive as much responsive joy as possible, it still depends on factors beyond our control—whereas God’s joy resists anything that interferes with it abiding in our hearts. Because it comes from God, it’s like God. It requires no reason other than God to exist and needs nothing from us to persist. It’s unconditional and eternal!

In Psalm 4 we see two kinds of people seeking different kinds of joy. The first wants responsive, conditional joy. “Many, LORD, are asking, ‘Who will bring us prosperity?’” verse 6 says. These people allow circumstances to define their happiness—in this case, prosperity. When the coffers and cupboards are full, their joy is full. When their means run dry, their joy dries up. David charitably prays for their wellbeing: “Let the light of your face shine on us.” As their king, their happiness is paramount. Yet he doesn’t include himself with them. In verse 3, he attests, “Know that the LORD has set apart his faithful servant for himself; the LORD hears when I call to him.” Then, in verse 7, he differentiates himself again by praying for a very specific kind of joy—God’s unconditional joy that resists temporal factors, joy that delights in blessings without relying on them: “Fill my heart with joy when their grain and new wine abound.” This joy sustains David in any situation. “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety,” he writes, closing the psalm in verse 8. The joy David seeks requires no reason other than God and persists because of God. He asks for joy down in his heart to stay.

Big on Joy

The Gospels go out of their way to emphasize Jesus was big on joy. In fact, joy is the very first emotion we “see” Him elicit. When the newly pregnant Mary visits Elizabeth, her cousin witnesses Christ’s reality by telling Mary, “As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy.” (Luke 1.44) After warning us we’ll be hated because of Him, Jesus says, “Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven.” (Luke 6.23) Many of His parables (too many to list) end joyfully—lost treasures are found, babies are born, patience is rewarded. And, explicitly in John, but implicitly in the other Gospels, Jesus pointedly distinguishes God’s joy from earthly joy. He calls it “My joy” and says it will reside in us and be complete (John 15.11), succeed grief (16.20), resist human interference (v22), and be given for the asking (16.24) in full measure (17.13). The distinction between our responsive joy and God’s resistant joy is so vivid to the Apostles that their letters specify which they’re writing about. God’s joy is always “complete,” “glorious,” “in the Holy Spirit,” and “by faith”—i.e., unconditional and eternal. It transcends emotion, refutes logic, and resists circumstances. The joy down in our hearts just is, because God is. It’s more than feeling. It’s fact. And whoever doesn’t believe or like that—well, we talked about what they can do.

God’s joy down in our hearts isn’t the same as joy we feel in response to kindness and good fortune. It’s impervious, implacable, and immune to circumstances. It’s not feeling. It’s fact.

Overtaken

Those the LORD has rescued will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away. (Isaiah 35.10)

Weary

It sounds trite to say Maria, our housekeeper, is like family, yet she is. She’s shown up every Tuesday for the past 16 years to set our house straight. With Walt and me both working from home, she seldom has the place to herself. Over the years, Tuesdays have evolved into a wonderful sort of unhurried family time. While the three of us go about our respective tasks, we stop for long chats about how her family's doing, what’s going on with us, current events, and so on. We ride out the seasons together: the school year, holidays, and my work’s annual cycle—which invariably speeds up between Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day.

Last week, Maria came in to find me already in the second hour of a conference call. I’d been at my desk since 4:30, playing catch-up on what time didn’t permit me to finish on Monday, hoping to get a jump on Tuesday’s madness. After the call, I dashed through the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee en route to a fast shower before running off to a meeting. Maria said, “Oh my God”—her favorite pet phrase—“every year like this, it’s so crazy for you!” We laughed when I remarked that growing older doesn’t help. “Everything is harder,” she said, shaking her head. I took a deep breath. “I’m weary, Maria. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll make it.” Only Maria could tell me, “I know,” with enough empathy and reassurance to convince me she understood, but more than that, had faith in me. She went back to what she was doing. So did I. Yet somewhere between the kitchen and shower, my steps picked up. The weight of another grueling day lightened. “I can do this,” I told myself. The joy came back to the job.

Happening

Today’s Advent readings invite us to contemplate joy—to expect it, prepare for it, and practice it. After wrestling with hope and peace these past two weeks, one imagines thinking about joy would be a respite from the heavier stuff. Not really. Advent sets joy in a context where none seems to exist. It dares us to ride out our seasons, having faith while we await the promise of joy together. Both the Gospel and Old Testament texts feel particularly poignant by calling to us from very dark, grim places where weariness and the weight of what lies ahead offer no sign of joy. Nonetheless, they teach us it's there, ready to happen when we say, "We can do this."

Matthew 11 starts with John the Baptist in prison. His ministry has reached its nadir. It’s tough for him to accept, especially since Jesus’s reputation as a Healer and Teacher continues to grow. Questions that never would have taunted John in his glory days echo in his head. Was he too hasty in declaring Jesus the Messiah? Has Jesus become enamored with popularity and lost His way? Why hasn’t He intervened? John sends his disciples to ask, “Are You the Promised One, or should we wait for another?” Jesus overlooks the question’s impudence and responds to its despondency: “Go back and report to John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor. Blessed is anyone who does not stumble on account of me.” (v4-6)

Jesus chooses His words so John will recognize their source: Isaiah 35’s great promise of joy to a people under siege. Trapped between warring enemies, they’ve lost their land and many of their family are imprisoned in exile. “Your God will come,” verse 4 pledges. “He will come with vengeance; with divine retribution he will come to save you.” Verses 5-6 predict, “Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then will the lame leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy.” Jesus asks John, “Remember this? It’s happening,” prompting John to recall the entire passage and claim all of its promises, down to the final one: “Those the LORD has rescued will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away.” (v10) Jesus wants John to realize the promise is being fulfilled even as he waits. Joy has come.

Let Joy Happen

Isaiah 35 merits attention for its candid conclusion. Until its last sentence, it reads like a Disney spectacle. The wilderness blooms into a flower field. Disabled people regain their faculties and break into song and dance. Fresh springs burst through sun-baked ground. Lions, jackals, and ravenous beasts vanish. A new road paves the way for the exiles’ return. They enter Jerusalem singing happily ever. If this were a Disney film, that would be that. Yet Isaiah’s final statement wants to tell us something very real about joy. The Jerusalem the exiles enter won’t be what they left or dreamt of during captivity. They’ll return to ruins. Restoring its pre-war beauty will be a grueling task. Weariness from the season they’ve just endured will be amplified by the hard work ahead. Joy will dissipate swiftly. That’s why Isaiah ends with one final promise: Gladness and joy will overtake them, proceeding ahead of them to drive out sorrow and despair. The exiles’ eyes will be opened to see joy in devastation; their ears will hear joy in clamor; joy will heal their city’s paralysis. As living proof of God’s faithfulness, they’ll expect to be overtaken by joy and, as they work, they’ll let joy happen.

This is Advent’s message to us. Expect joy to overtake you. Let joy happen. Weariness isn’t for the weak. They give up before things get truly exhausting. As it turns out, joy isn’t for the weak, either. It takes tremendous courage and fortitude to ride out the season, holding with all one’s strength to joy’s promise. It demands great vision to face disappointments and losses with confidence we’ll be overtaken by joy. Advent’s message goes beyond the promise of joy. It assures us joy is already in front of us to restore our sight and hearing, to heal our paralysis and revive our spirits. When we’re weary from yesterday’s toil and disheartened by today’s tasks, we remember God’s promises are true. Joy has come. It has overtaken us. Let joy happen.

Though we may be weary from what’s behind us, God promises joy will overtake us, going before us to restore our senses, heal our paralysis, and revive our spirits.

Postscript: "Center of My Joy"

This is, for me, the greatest gospel song about joy ever written. It's more of an anthem, actually, a testimony of confidence in Christ's joy. Written decades ago by two favorite composers, Bill Gaither and Richard Smallwood (who sings the lead here), it's timeless. And this video has special meaning for me, as the chorus is comprised of dozens of Chicago gospel legends I've loved all of my life. Many have gone on, yet much of what they gave me as a kid who listened and learned at their feet lives in these pages. These great lions of faith were tested in every way by racial hatred, religious opposition, and social stigma. Yet here they are, many in their 60's, 70's, and 80's, singing of joy! Oh yes, they surely knew how to let joy happen.

THE CENTER OF MY JOY

Jesus, You're the center of my joy

All that's good and perfect comes from You

You're the heart of my contentment

Hope for all I do

Jesus, You're the center of my joy

When I've lost my direction

You're the compass for my way

You're the fire and lights when nights are long and cold

In sadness You are the laughter that shatters all my fear

When I'm all alone, Your hand is there to hold.

Jesus, You're the center of my joy...

You are why I find pleasure

In the simple things in life

You're the music in the meadows and the streams

The voices of the children, my family and my home

You're the Source and Finish of my highest dreams

Jesus, You're the center of my joy...