How Does a Weary World Rejoice?

“With war raging in Gaza, Christmas is effectively canceled in Bethlehem.” These were the words on my news feed from CNN this morning. Four weeks ago I began writing these blogs for the First Sunday of Advent. On that day I shared what I’d heard from NPR on the radio when I was waking up, “It will be dark in Bethlehem this year.” My heart is breaking for sisters and brothers in Bethlehem and in Jerusalem on this Christmas morning.
 
T.S. Eliot wrote, “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” In the end is our beginning. What is this place we are to be knowing now?
 
This year marks sixty-six Christmas mornings for me. This one stands alone. It feels like no other Christmas I can remember. There’s a Lutheran Church in Bethlehem whose nativity speaks to the feeling of this morning. Instead of the wise men and shepherds, instead of Mary and Joseph, there is cement rubble surrounding a baby wrapped in a keffiyeh lying in a manager. It is dark in Bethlehem this year.
 
Bearing witness to the unspeakable. That’s what it feels like as I try each day to be present with the events in Israel. On October 7th of this year, more than 1200 people were massacred by Hamas. The town I grew up in, Mattoon, IL had 18,000 residents – we are told that more than 20,000 Gaza residents have been killed since Israel’s bombings began 12 weeks ago. These numbers aren’t to be compared, because there is no math that could ever be done for these to `add up.’ I’m haunted by them, nonetheless. I am haunted hearing on the news that when the hospitals were still standing in Gaza, doctors and nurses used sharpies to write on infants’ and toddlers’ arms when the children were admitted: WONF (wounded orphan, no family). We are bearing witness to the unspeakable.
 
Don Saliers, a wise and gentle soul, taught our Worship class when I was in seminary at Candler. One of his lessons has been a helpful companion to me for the living of these days. We were talking about prayer and the significance of private and corporate prayer. “Some prayers are bigger than one person can dare say alone, and so we gather and pray aloud so these words can be given voice by the Body.” (Or something close to that idea). I remembered his words yesterday in church while we were lighting the fourth Advent candle. As soon as we began praying, I felt a lump grow in my throat and tears run down my cheeks. I followed along only mouthing the words as the gathered community prayed: “We sing songs of hope. We allow hope to change us, to strengthen us. We tell the stories of what could be. We listen for God’s word. We resist the temptation to give up or give in. We remember Mary’s song. We gather for worship. We hope. We hope. Against all odds, we hope. (prayer written by Sarah [Are] Speed/ A Sanctified Art LLC/sanctifiedart.org)”
 
On this Christmas morning every cell in my body is yearning, aching to sing every verse of “Joy to the World.” As I think back on these Advent days, I keep coming back to the words of take heart. These ancient words of encouragement bear witness to the darkness – and still, and still call me, call us to sing. Begin singing (my heart says) even if it feels like you are singing in a minor key. Sing softly, take heart and begin your singing this morning with words from the old carol you’ve heard your whole life: “Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel.” God-is-with-us. Take heart and listen for the angels’ song, “For unto us a child is born this day in Bethlehem.”
 
How does this weary world rejoice? For me and my house,   we   shall   sing.   Amin and amen and amen.

(thank you, Shelly for this picture from NC)  

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