An Advent Wail

I revised and adapted one of my very favorite sermons from SBCC to preach at FCCWS last Sunday. (Thanks, Fred Craddock, for saying that if a sermon isn't good enough to preach a second time, it wasn't good enough to preach the first time.) I heard a bit of grumbling on FB last week about the wacky lectionary scriptures for the first Sunday of Advent, but I love that stuff. We can't let the billboard people be the only ones talking about eschatology, right?

Without further adieu:

An Advent Wail

Isaiah 64:1-9

Mark 13:24-37

A few weeks ago – I think it was the morning of our Family Service – the children in worship were really loud. We expect that, of course. Welcoming children into worship means welcoming their frequent whispers and their wiggling – as well as their occasional shouts and stomps. Before long the dull roar quieted, as even the squirmiest children were either engaged in worship or off to childcare.

Thankfully, we hear children not just on family service days but most every Sunday. There’s the bustle of First Steps and the exodus to Sunday School. And, we almost always hear at least one nice big holler from one of our babies, letting us know, in no uncertain terms, that they need some attention. I think I speak pretty confidently on behalf of all the parents of young children that we are really, really grateful that this is not the kind of church where you get dirty looks when your baby fusses.

And the capacity for a young child to wail is an awesome thing. We tend to think that grown-ups have the corner on self-expression. After all, we have words. We can be as precise in our meanings as our vocabularies will allow. We can go on for paragraphs about how we feel on a particular subject. When we’re angry, we can say, “I’m angry.” When we’re hungry, we can say, “When’s lunch?” A baby communicates without words, which leaves parents with some guesswork. That being said, I’ve never mistaken diaper cry for separation anxiety cry. The screaming panic of a baby who is experiencing the normal developmental stage of separation anxiety is enough to send the mountains quaking.

As we grow up, we’re taught to speak politely. No interrupting, no public weeping, and certainly no breaking the solemn quiet of worship. If anybody but a baby made such a ruckus during worship, we’d have pretty significant concern for that person.

Kirsten Linklater, a voice and acting teacher, explains the transformation like this. One day your two year old runs into the room and hollers, in his biggest outdoor voice, “I want a cookie!” You tell him he can have a cookie when he asks for it nicely. So he runs in again, and says in a slightly unnatural sounding voice, “May I have a cookie please?” He receives praise; he learned to say the right words and use the right tone.

But the reason he sounded a little unnatural is because it was a little unnatural; he’s in the process of being socialized. Which isn’t a bad thing. Most parents consider it a very good thing when their children develop good language and etiquette.

So what do we lose in the process? There’s a trade-off, for sure. We gain a lot – the capacity to have conversations and express ourselves with greater clarity. In turn, our freedom to haul off and wail is history. We clip the full range of our voices to whatever is considered socially acceptable.

But what about when we need what we’ve lost? What about when we need to express joy, sorrow, or longing that is beyond our socially acceptable range of expression? I wonder if it’s even possible to reclaim the outer reaches of the voice we were born with, to weep and rejoice as completely as children do.

In this year’s lectionary cycle, Advent season begins with a wail. Isaiah weeps, and even though he uses words to give voice to his longing, the sentiment he shares is certainly past what is socially acceptable for the holiday season. “Oh, that you would rend the heavens and come down, that the mountains would tremble before you!”, he howls.

 
“As when fire sets twigs ablaze and causes water to boil, come down to make your name known to your enemies and cause the nations to quake before you!”

You see, Isaiah and his people were wracked with separation anxiety. Like an infant panicking when her father leaves the room, the Israelites keened in the absence of their Father. They knew the stories of God’s providential care, unrelenting mercy, and awesome deeds. But they knew the stories only by hearsay. They had not seen this God for themselves. They recognized that they had sinned against God. They had broken their covenant with him. And in turn, God had hidden his face from them.

Or maybe it was the other way around. Isaiah can’t seem to think straight here. Was it God’s absence that drove the people to sin, or the peoples’ sin that chased God away? All he knows is sheer despair. All he wants is for God to come and save his people, to wrap them in his merciful embrace, to replace their filthy rags with robes of righteousness, to make it okay again.

It isn’t a polite speech. Our Advent prophet is fed up and freaked out. Our reading stopped at verse nine, perhaps to spare us from the worst of his rant. Eugene Peterson translates the climax of Isaiah’s diatribe like this: “In the face of all this, are you going to sit there unmoved, God? Aren't you going to say something? Haven't you made us miserable long enough?”
 

It’s just not the kind of thing you can say in your indoor voice.

The words of Jesus we heard today, though profoundly different than the words of Isaiah, share his fever pitch. Where Isaiah is consumed by God’s absence, Jesus embodies the presence of God. Isaiah longed for God to tear open the heavens and come down; well, here you go. In the flesh. And just as the mountains quaked at the presence of God in times past, the words of Jesus here could easily ignite fires and boil water.

Our beloved soft-spoken healer is more like an alarm clock here, imploring us with the refrain: Keep awake, keep awake, keep awake.

And for what must we keep awake? For what does Jesus bid us watch, at the start of this Advent season? His glorious return. 

So let’s get this straight. On this first Sunday of Advent, the season in which we prepare our hearts to celebrate the birth of Christ, we begin with the cries of two impassioned, impolite prophets. One begs for the presence of God. His yearning would be sharpened into prayers for the Messiah, the anointed one of God who would bring reconciliation and restoration to Israel. The second prophecy is spoken by the One whom we believe is that Messiah. Yet he points to another time of separation, another period of waiting and hoping, and ultimately, at a day and hour no one knows, a second Advent.

If you’re wondering, as I have wondered, why this season begins with such jarring cries, consider the words of a wise preacher: “if the church cannot proclaim and look forward to the second Advent of Christ, then in all honesty there is precious little sense in making much ado about his first advent in Bethlehem". What began at that blessed nativity, when the hopes and fears of all of the years found a home in a squalling baby boy, is not yet finished.

The words of Isaiah remind us how desperately we need our savior. And the words of Christ remind us that the work of salvation is yet unfolding.

The Advent work of waiting and watching is not for the faint-hearted. It means confessing with brutal honesty just how badly we need God. It means uncovering our shame and doubt and failures. It even means, sometimes, railing against a God who refuses to operate according to our fickle whims and wills.
Our throats may go hoarse if we pray in the fever pitch of Isaiah’s prayers, yet I wonder if there is any other way to do it.

But take heart, you who long to be ready for Christ when he comes. Though we may need the fullness of our voices now to express the depth of our longing and lamentation, there will be a time, soon and very soon, to shout praises and alleluias with a fervor we’ve never before experienced.

We will give voice to a purer joy than we’ve ever known. We will tell it on the mountaintops and whisper it in our babies’ ears and we will sing, and we will sing, and we will sing. May we lose our voices and give our lives for the one who will restore light and life to a darkened, dying world. Amen.

Family, Afar

We just got back from a week in Arizona, visiting Ben's side of the family for Thanksgiving. Juliette was pretty excited to see her "big kid cousins" for the first time since early spring 2010.

Who knew that big kid cousins could be as fun as little kid cousins?

It was a wonderful visit.

Those big kid cousins were so great with their little kid cousins.

Supposedly Juliette even beat Austin once during their post-Thanksgiving feast arcade extravaganza.

Meanwhile, Genevieve chatted about politics with the grown-ups.

(Doesn't it look like that's what she's doing?)

After having seen most of our immediate family within the last few months, I'm grateful but also a little bit sad.

Maybe even more than a little bit sad.

Sometimes we go well over a year without seeing family members. We try to keep up, through phone calls and video chats and blog posts and Facebook (one of the cool things about having big kid nephews and niece - though, really, the older two aren't even big kids anymore. They're in college!).

But it isn't the same as seeing them in person. At this stage, even a few months means a whole lot of change, at least in the little kids. They are moving targets - no sooner do you get to know them on one visit, but time swoops in and transforms them into something new by the next visit.

It's a darn good thing we always manage to just pick up where we left off.

Ten on Tuesday

1. Shhh, don't tell G**gle, but I made a G+ account the other day and I cannot figure out the flow of that site for the life of me. Every so often a web thing comes along that is over my head. Like Twitter. I haven't the foggiest idea how a hashtag works, #excepttohavefiguredoutpeoplemakeupfakeones.

2. I ate sloppy joes yesterday for the first time in probably twenty years. Before I started working with people who are quite into them, I had nearly forgotten they even existed. I had to admit they were pretty tasty. Our ministry team has decided to have them for lunch on a quarterly basis; I volunteered to make the next batch from scratch. Supposedly you can't beat the can, but I'm boldly taking the manwichmafia on.

3. How fun is it that I work with people who make long-term plans involving sloppy joes? And if that weren't enough, we've been dipping into some leftover ice cream and root beer in the church kitchen to make root beer floats.

4. Juliette and Ben have been getting into all kinds of papercrafting lately; they are destined to be the team to beat in the World Kirigami Competition in 2016, if there is such a thing. And, Juliette's drawing has exploded. She draws all kinds of things that look like the things they are supposed to be.

Exhibit A, Rapunzel:

Exhibit B, Tiger:

5. Five or six years ago, my mother-in-law gave me a pair of lavender pajamas with scotty dogs printed all over them. Reader, I did not know I wanted such unusual pajamas until they landed in my lap one fateful Christmas morning. I have worn those flannel lovelies into the ground. Today Ben surprised me with red and white polka dot replacements. They aren't scotty dogs, but they'll do!

6. I love this baby. She is just so sweet.

 So, so sweet.

7.  This morning I mixed up a new batch of my face cleanser, which is 1/2 cup of olive oil and 1/2 cup of castor oil. Oh, and a few drops of Tea Tree oil, but that's totally optional. It took me about a year to use up the first batch. I absolutely adore the Oil Cleansing Method for face washing: cheap, natural, effective, pleasant.

8. I planned our worship service for the first Sunday of Advent this afternoon, and I felt all giddy just thinking about the purple paraments and greens and Advent candles. I love Advent, and the first Sunday of Advent is the one Sunday you really get to go all-out on Advent without the Christmassy stuff starting to sneak in.

9. I've been rereading Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace for my book group. He was such a brilliant, exuberant writer. I still grieve his death as a casual fan of his writing, and also as someone who knows people who knew and loved him personally, not as "David Foster Wallace" but as Dave.

10. Perhaps it's a bit late to be posting the Halloween photos, but I only just got around to taking them off my camera. Juliette was a fantastic Fancy Nancy, and Genevieve borrowed a Dillow costume to be an utterly bewitching witch.

Happy Tuesday!

Nametag, etc.

I am in danger of becoming one of those people who talks about how busy they are all the time. I have been so busy lately.

One of the things I've been working on happened today, a half day retreat for the Moms in Faith group at church. It was really, really good. Especially the Christian Yoga experience and the collage-nametag making experience.

(Which were, incidentally, the two things I didn't have anything to do with planning or leading.)

Here's my nametag, front and back:

There's bricks for our new house, the ocean for the bit of California that still resides in me, books for, well, books, and a peacock feather. Peacock feathers have become a symbol of friendship for me... they remind me of dear Allison, who wore a peacock feather in her hair when I did her wedding to dear Anthony. And dear Allison is such a quintessential friend she reminds me of friendship in general, if that makes sense. 

So, from now on, as far as I'm concerned, peacock feathers = friendship. Sadly, that piece was the aspirational aspect of my collage, as somehow regular contact with my friends has been all but squeezed out of my calendar these days. 

(See, there I go talking about The Busyness again.)

The backside, the heart-side, is all about peace and beauty and family and rootedness. And a sea turtle. I learned while researching a chapter for my book that turtles are a symbol of motherhood and wisdom. 

I like the juxtaposition of the sea turtle and the state of Illinois. Just like I liked the front size juxtaposition of the bricks and the ocean. It makes a lot of sense to me that California is a place I yearned for, a place I went, and a place I left. 

It's a place I miss, but a place I do not want to live again.

I didn't expect this to be about California. 

But it is. 

But, it's even more so about home. And as much as I love, love, love the people I met in California - including a certain Juliette, who is 100% Californian - it was never home. 

I'm home.

Book (And Snow Wolf) Update

Remember how Ben suggested one might purchase a copy of my book along with a Snow Wolf when ordering from Amazon? Guess what comes up on the bottom of the book listing, thanks to Amazon's algorithms?

"Customers who viewed this item also viewed the Snow Wolf."

I laughed out loud. It reminded me of a totally inane algorithmic suggestion back in the early days of Amazon selling things other than books; I think it was for a Friedrich Schleiermacher book, and the customers were also viewing underwear.

I don't think I will ever stop thinking things like that are funny.

Anyway, the really big news is that we finally have our cover. Marie took the photograph, and Elizabeth did a mock-up of the design to help me convey my vision to the folks at Chalice. Fitting for a book about family, eh?

Here it is:

I love it. I love that it's us, but that you can't actually see any of our faces. (Especially since I really disliked my haircut at the time.)

In other news, the Snow Wolf is now shipping for free! Two weeks ago it was $17. You know you want one...

All Those Ribbons

A terrible thing happened nearby last week. This post is cross-published on my local Patch blog. 

Last week I happened upon a quote I immediately recognized as a near-perfect reflection of my philosophy of life: “It’s a beautiful heartbreaking imperfect world. And it’s a gift to be alive in it."

The next day the gift of life was violently stolen from Kelli Joy O’Laughlin, and the world abruptly became that much more heartbreaking and imperfect. Not just the world; the neighborhood.

We have all been deeply affected by her tragic and senseless murder. We mourn for the death of a beloved child of God, ache for her devastated family, and shudder at the nearness of the crime. We ask harrowing questions: How can humanity be so vile? How can God let such things happen?

We weep, and double check the locks on our doors, and hug our children too tightly.

I was out of town over the weekend, and returned home at dusk on Tuesday night to behold tree after tree marked with white ribbons. The sight of all those ribbons is devastating and moving. Each one evokes the memory of a girl named Kelli Joy. Each one bears testimony to our shared horror at her death. Each one cries out for justice to be done. And each one silently proclaims that this community refuses to let fear and violence prevail.

We will be a hopeful community, despite our grief. A trusting community, despite the loss of our innocence. A loving community, despite our rage. We will not forsake this beautiful heartbreaking imperfect world, or let the incursion of evil convince us that life is anything but a profoundly sacred gift.

Each one of those ribbons pledges we will be neighbors.