Back Deck

 It is the second Sunday of Advent, and I did not make it to church. I woke briefly when my radio station came to life, but rolled over and woke too late for the 10 am service. So, I sit with my Advent wreath at my table, read some of the devotions that others have so thoughtfully prepared, and reflect on the readings appointed for this day--Isaiah 40 (Comfort ye my people) and Mark's appearance of John in the wilderness preparing the way.

Some years ago, our staff at St. Luke's recorded reflections for each day of Advent. I was assigned today's readings and wrote this:

When I was a young girl living in a rural community where nearly all the extended family lived within a few miles, Christmas Eve was reserved for my dad’s side of the family.  It began with church at 7 or 7:30 PM--only the Catholics in our town had a late service.  We would fill the row of pews across the aisle from those occupied by our second cousins.
After  church we drove the few blocks to my grandparents’ house where the living room was piled high with Christmas presents.  But we could not dive into these gifts.  We had to wait.  Wait for Grandma, the choir director to get home.  Then wait again for the buffet supper to be put out and eaten.  It was  torture!  But at last, the magic moment would come, and the room soon strewn with bows and ripped paper, was filled with the happy noise of children and their new toys.
 
Once the bounty was packed into the car, we would head home, put on pajamas, hang our stockings and prepare the ilk and plate of cookies for Santa.  Then, my mother would turn on the radio.  I was lucky.  As the eldest, I was allowed to stay up.  There was always  a performance of Handel’s Messiah, maybe by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
 
At that age, I did not understand the message--only the beauty of the tenor’s voice singing of comfort to the people, of preparing a highway through the desert with the crooked spots made straight and the rough places plain.  And then the joyous chorus bursting forth to sing of the glory of the Lord.

         These days, I understand it a little better.  I have been in the desert, in the wilderness that may seem            be a scary place of confused wandering with no way out.  I have learned that it can also be a place             of preparation and change--a place of hope and beauty, if we are able to adjust our eyes. 

And all we must do is open ourselves to hear that news that God is ready to break into our lives, into the dry, brown places, the hurting places.  The way will be prepared for us where God is doing a new thing.

This week as I prepared to lead Bible studies at two of our diocesan parishes, it was the metaphors of leveling that struck me: the mountains being brought low and the valleys being lifted. The rough places being smoothed. 

The contrasting landscape of mountains, hills, and valleys, of wilderness and green places, is beautiful. Far more than an endless flat land. And yet, it is challenging terrain. Treacherous in spots. Wild and barren. But beautiful. I cannot help but think how the leveling to make highways and places habitable to humans has destroyed forests and carved through rocks and changed the course of rivers. 

But Isaiah was being poetic and concerned with power inequalities--those mountains holding sway over the rough and desolate wilderness--the powerful oppressing and controlling the rest. He was talking about the conquerors and the exiles in ancient times, but it continues today. In this time of war and hatred and cruelty among humans, I am especially mindful of the plight of those in Gaza--whether they be Israelis or Palestinians--whose lives have again been uprooted through loss of loved ones and destruction of their homes and communities. I deplore the terrorism of Hamas and  I deplore the disproportionate retaliation, both sides intent on exterminating the other.

Having seen the situation in Palestine for myself just a year ago--    the occupation of the West Bank with its separating of Palestinian communities through physical access, rationing of water and electricity, random closure of roads and checkpoints that restrict access to medical care, work, and other essential needs--I do understand how it is that a people whose cries for justice have been ignored become desperate. And how unexplained, unwarranted detentions, particularly of young men, breed hopelessness, and then, violence. I also understand that most Palestinians and Jews do not want this military "solution." They cannot be equated with Hamas or the IDF.

Whether in Israel or the Occupied territories, most people want some measure of equality and humanity. And that is true among Jews and non-Jews in the U.S. And yet, we are having trouble being in dialog with one another. There are reports of horrendous escalations of anti-Semitism. This is real. This is outrageous! Yet so is the occupation. And trying to talk about it often leads to being labeled "anti-Semitic." We are mired in dualism. "Either/or," "for/against," "this/that." . For Heaven's sake, our faith is filled with paradox: "the last shall be first," "those who lose their lives for Christ will find it," "Christ died yet lives." So why can't we seem to hold two things that seem different or even incompatible side by side? Why can't we support a safe, secure homeland for the Jews while also yearning for the same for the Palestinian people? Why can't we aspire to self-determination for all?

It is happening in some small settings but this is rarely acknowledged in the media. Or overshadowed by the terror and violence. Many of our churches are having these conversations--in some communities, it is interfaith groups. So, we learn face to face about the fears of both our Jewish and Muslim neighbors. The security that they have had to put in place at their mosques and temples. Their feeling abandoned by Christian friends and colleagues. We must change the dialog. It is not about taking sides so much as it is digging back to the basics of our baptismal promises to "strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the diginity of every human being." To lower some mountains and smooth out some rough places.