Christmas, the Shepherds, and Fear

In Alice Walker’s novel, The Color Purple, a wise blues singer named Shug says “I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.” Because then God has to go and make another purple flower to catch your eye and dazzle you.

Christmas is when the agenda changes, when it is no longer about our longing for a God who is missing-in-action, but rather about our recognizing the One who is already here, right here, Emmanuel, God-with-us.

When God was the one missing, we could shake our fists at the sky and ask the ticked-off rhetorical questions that have no answers: “Where the hell are you in this mess? How long, O Lord?”

But when the agenda gets switched up, and we are the ones missing, then God can’t be blamed. Our flickering mind, unable to see and touch the One right here in our midst, that is the problem.

So I guess spiritual guides and gurus are right when they urge us to wake up, be attentive to what’s really going on all around us, pray, meditate, take up a spiritual practice so we won’t fall asleep, so we won’t become numb to what’s happening right in front of us. They’re right.

But what’s also true is that all our efforts to be alert to God’s presence are matched by God’s relentless determination to catch our eye. This is what God does, relentlessly trying to catch our eye, dazzle us, as he did in a more spectacular than usual way on this night with the shepherds.

It happened at the birth of a child. An angel of the Lord suddenly stood before them. The glory of the Lord shone all around them. And they were terrified.

This is what our scriptures call “the fear of the Lord”.

This fear is not like the one that permeates the rest of this Christmas story, the fear arising from the Roman occupation of Israel with its massive registrations to keep a restless Jewish population both under control and taxed. It is not the fear unleashed by an empire that mercilessly slaughters infants and violently and bloodily destroys their temple in Jerusalem, the very center of Jewish universe and all they hold dear.

The fear felt by the shepherds is not that same kind of fear that endures to our very own day -- the kind that results from drone strikes and terrorist attacks and torture. It is not the kind that results from the police killings of Amilcar, Alex Nieto, Mario Woods. Nor from the recent announcement from Homeland Security that they are about to launch another round of raids against immigrant families, deporting 100,000 immigrants back to the violence in Central America from which they fled for their lives -- with so many families destroyed along the way, so many children left without their parents.

The fear that overcomes the shepherds when the angel stands before them is not like the worry you feel as you wonder where you’ll move in these days of gentrification if the landlord doubles your rent.

Rather, their fear, the "fear of the Lord", is a defiant counterpoint to the one unleashed by the Caesars of this world. This fear of the Lord does not cause you to cower, or despair, or weep.

Rather, the fear the shepherds feel is more like a billion glorious sunsets all rolled into one -- all bright purple and orange and salmon colored. Overwhelmingly beautiful. In fact, too much.

The fear the shepherds feel is like when you look up at the sky on a dark, clear night and see our vast Milky Way galaxy, and you realize it is just one of over a billion galaxies in an even more vast universe, and that you are somehow a part of it all.

This is the kind of fear the shepherds feel, this “fear of the Lord”.

They had never felt this before, didn’t know what to make of it, and they felt overwhelmed, terrified.

But the angel tells them, “Do not be afraid.” “Do not be afraid.” There is no phrase repeated in our scriptures as frequently as this one: “Do not be afraid.” This great joy revealed to you is something you can drink in. Go ahead, drink it in! As much as you possibly can!

Unlike the fear of the Caesars of this world, this kind of fear brings them to their feet, swells their hearts to overflowing, gives them goosebumps, tears of joy, more music, more life.

And then the moment fades, the angel goes back to heaven, and the shepherds are left to treasure and ponder that moment, to let it work its great work in them, to transform them, make them more in love with the world and with life.

Once in awhile all of this happens in the ordinary course of our own lives. For the shepherds, it was triggered by the simple birth of a child -- and if you’ve ever held your own newborn child in your arms you may know something about this. Other moments along the way can can also take us there.

It happened to a friend of mine whose husband died of cancer a few years ago. She writes of her final days with him:

I remember having to walk with Eric once we entered the "night side of life". Those days were the richest fullest moments I have lived with someone. Once the pain comes and their body starts to go, it gets harder but that's when we got to really realize the full meaning of being alive, right there at the scary edge of the unknown -- when it's too late to go on trips or to do farewell parties because his body and mind could barely withstand living-- but that's when we were able to see the sweetness of life and truly say our goodbyes. 

Four hours before he died, when his body was completely in pain and broken, he told me "Lore, I am going to die"; and I asked him if he was afraid still, and he said "No, I am really curious about what comes next". We smiled with each other and fell asleep in a soft embrace. 

Three hours later, his breathing changed into a disturbing rattling sound "the death rattle" and I gathered his brother and mom to just be with him, I played his favorite songs, his breathing got soft and then it stopped. 

The hard part is to be the one that did not die and had to stay behind and keep on living without knowing when it will end. I try to hold on to the urge to live fully and with intensity. Life became more important, extremely urgent and in full HD color after I got to witness the edge of death. I am more curious about life now. And grateful. 

I can’t say for sure if there are times like these in every life, but I hope there are -- a beautiful angel lighting up a forebodingly dark night sky at the birth of a child, an intense feeling of life while standing with a loved one at the edge of death.

If you have not yet had such a moment, I hope you will. And I hope that when God gives it to you, you will be awake and not miss it. And when the angel goes back to heaven and that moment vanishes, I hope you will do as Mary does: Treasure that moment and ponder it in your heart. It is given to you as a gift, and it is given for a reason: to transform you so that you can transform the world.

This week in our parish email I included words from the great African-American theologian, Howard Thurman. Let me close by reading these words once again as we treasure and ponder what is given to us on this night.

When the song of the angels is stilled,
when the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,
the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people,
to make music in the heart.

Irish Alzheimer's

Second Sunday of Advent 2015, Year C

The Rev'd Dr Richard Smith

You may have heard me mention that peculiar form of Alzheimer's that afflicts Irish people. (I’m half Irish, so I can attest to this.) It’s called  Irish Alzheimer's, and it’s when you can’t remember who anyone is except your enemies.

Over the years I’ve come to suspect it’s not just we Irish who have this particular affliction. It actually seems to afflict other ethnic groups as well.

And I think it’s what John the Baptist is trying to heal in today’s gospel. He’s trying to get us Irish, and other folks with this affliction, ready for our extreme makeovers.

We get seduced into identifying with sin, all the wrongs inflicted on us -- the humiliations, the hateful glances, and the mocking words. We identify ourselves as the victims of others’ wrongdoing, and this can take its toll on us.

I remember talking to a woman married for thirty years whose husband had hurt her deeply many years before. Over the years, that hurt had festered, turned into a profound resentment and bitterness that you could see in the way the lines had formed on her face. That bitterness had taken its toll, stolen her joy and her zest for life.

We can also end up identifying ourselves with the wrongs we ourselves have done -- the hitting, lying cheating, betraying we have done, the selfish choices we’ve made. “I’m the one who wasted all those years on booze and drugs.” “I’m the one who said those hurtful, angry words to the one I love the most.” “I’m the coward who remained silent when a co-worker made that racist or homophobic remark.” Identifying ourselves with our own sinfulness in this way -- this, too, can steal our joy, our passion and zest for life.

Soon we’re telling our life story in terms of our own worst moments, the blows received and blows given. We take on a victimhood from the wrongs of others; we wallow in guilt over our own mistakes. We identify, in other words, with the sin.

There’s a truth in all of this. We really have been mistreated by others, been victims of their wrongdoing. And we really have sinned against others, making them the victims of our own wrongdoing. These are simple facts. We can’t deny this.

The problem is that we come to identify ourselves and each other by these, our worst moments, defining ourselves by all the wrongs done to us and by us.

When we so closely identify ourselves with all the negative, we’ve unconsciously erected a such an effective barricade that God can’t get near us, can’t touch us. We can’t hear God speak to us the words he wants to speak, the words he spoke to Jesus: "You are my beloved child. In you I am well pleased."

Before we can let that love sink in, we have a few barricades to remove. We have to stop with the Irish Alzheimer's, stop identifying ourselves with our worst moments of either victimhood or guilt.

Which is where John the Baptist comes in.

John sees himself as a construction worker. He is building a highway for the arrival of the Lord. Whatever is an obstacle will be eliminated. If the road is winding, it will be straightened. If it is rough, it will be smoothed. If a mountain is in the way, it will be flattened. Whatever is needed to ease the Lord’s arrival will be done. (Shea, John. The Spiritual Wisdom of the Gospels for Christian Preachers and Teachers. Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2004. 6.)

John is doing the preparation work, healing us of our Irish Alzheimer’s to make it possible for us to receive a still greater revelation, an extreme makeover. It is the revelation, the extreme makeover Jesus received the day of his baptism in the Jordan when he found he was unconditionally loved.

When a reporter asked Pope Francis who he was at his deepest core, the Pope leaned back in his chair, thought for a moment, then said, “I am a sinner who is deeply loved and forgiven by God.” The pope gets this right.

True, we’re sinners. Can’t deny it. But we’re not just sinners, we are redeemed sinners, we are children of God, deeply loved and forgiven by a God who is simply crazy about us.

That forgiveness, that redemption trumps everything else you want to say about us. That forgiveness enables us to own the evil inflicted on us and by us, and yet not be defined by it. We are sinners deeply loved and forgiven by God.

There’s a cliche within Christianity: “Jesus saves.” The question, of course, is “From what?” And we answer, “Well, from sin. Jesus saves us from sin.”

Sin is whatever separates us from God, erects a barricade, puts God at a distance from us. And when we say that Jesus saves us from sin, we’re saying that in Jesus, God overcomes that distance, draws close to us, just as we are, with all our wounds and whatever evil we may carry in our own hearts, embraces us just as we are, accompanies us on our journey. This is unconditional love; it’s what we savor in these Advent days, God overcoming the distance.

This unconditional love is transformative. It’s what brings us back to life. It makes for an extreme makeover.

One spiritual writer puts it this way:

I was a neurotic for years. I was anxious and depressed and selfish. Everyone kept telling me to change. I resented them, and I agreed with them, and I wanted to change, but simply couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. What hurt the most was that, like the others, my best friend kept insisting that I change. So I felt powerless and trapped. Then, one day, he said to me, “Don’t change, I love you just as you are.” These words were music to my ears: Don’t change. Don’t change. Don’t change...I love you as you are.” I relaxed. I came alive. And suddenly I changed.! Now I know that I couldn’t really change until I found someone who would love me whether I changed or not.(De Mello, Anthony. "Don't Change." In The Song of the Bird, 67-68. Garden City, N.Y.: Image Books, 1984.)

This is how God loves us, this God who, by taking on our own human flesh, overcomes the distance, draws near, embraces us just as we are. This is what we celebrate in these days of Advent: God overcoming the distance, “saving us from sin”, leading us into an extreme makeover.

In the last few years, I’ve come to know a few ex-gang members. They had grown up in the gangs. They had been deeply traumatized by violence and abuse from an early age, and they went on to inflict violence and abuse on others through the gangs. I’ve asked them what made them decide to leave the gangs. “It’s a big step, often a dangerous one. What made you decide to leave?” They often tell me, “It all started when Ray Balberan asked me if I wanted to go out for pizza.”

Ray is an amazing Latino elder here in the Mission. Years ago, late on Friday nights, he went out to these young men and invited them out for pizza. Over pizza and conversation, he’d notice how talented they were, how smart and good they were. He’d point that out to them. No one had ever told them that before.

A few nights later, Ray would invite them to a movie. No one had ever paid this kind of attention to them before. Next thing, they’re all going on a camping trip, their first time out of the neighborhood.

Slowly, after all the relentless love they got from Ray, they started to change, to see themselves differently, to envision how their own lives could be different. Eventually they made the heroic decision to leave the gangs and start a whole new life.

This is how grace works. God is like Ray Balberan. God comes close to us -- isn’t put off by our own woundedness and our own sinfulness -- and loves us just as we are. This is transformative. It’s what saves us, brings us back to life.

And in this transformation, we can begin to hear what Jesus heard on the day of his baptism, “You are my beloved child. In you I am well pleased.” Even despite our own wounds and our own worst moments, we are beloved children of God, deeply loved, forgiven, cherished, redeemed.

This love trumps everything else about us. But before we can let it sink into our bones, we need to stop with the Irish Alzheimer's already! Stop identifying with our own worst moments. If we do this in these Advent days, the path is cleared.