“We Sing Songs of Hope and Love”
Luke 1:46-55
Lyrics from “O Holy Night”
In the controversial movie “Don’t Look Up,” a planet-killing comet is headed toward Earth. Astronomers try to get the U.S. government to do something, but no one takes them seriously. First, the top government officials refuse to believe the science, and then they devise a technological plan to destroy the comet, until they realize there is money to be made from it.
The comet, meanwhile, hurtles closer and closer toward Earth.
Finally, with the comet—and their certain annihilation—just hours away, the astronomers gather with their loved ones for a last supper together. They prepare their favorite foods, sit down at the table, and then, when it seems there is nothing left to do but eat and drink, they realize they want some sort of blessing. Unfortunately, no one seems to know how to pray. Then the most unlikely person at the table offers to say a grace, and they all join hands and bow their heads.
His remarkable prayer goes like this:
Dearest Father and Almighty Creator,
We ask for your grace tonight, despite our pride.
Your forgiveness, despite our doubt.
Most of all, Lord, we ask for your love.
To soothe us through these dark times.
May we face whatever is to come, in your divine will,
With courage and open hearts of acceptance. Amen.
And with that, the doomed friends proceed to eat together, sharing a meal with such deep love, gratitude, and peace that it felt to me that they were celebrating Communion.
Now we, unlike the characters in the movie, are not, thank God, facing imminent annihilation. We can trust that tomorrow will come, and that we will still be called to love one another and this world with everything we’ve got. We can celebrate Christmas without reserve, delight in the joy and excitement of our children and grandchildren, and gratefully gather with family and friends around tables piled high with delicious food.
May it be so for all of us tomorrow, and for all who celebrate Christmas!
At the same time, we have walked together through this Advent season faithfully acknowledging that all is not right with the world. We have named the pain and suffering of the world; we’ve wept over the violence and death in Israel and Gaza; we’ve been encouraged to recognize the struggles of our own lives; and we’ve actually been invited to admit that our all best intentions, all our hard work for peace and justice, can make us weary.
It’s been a challenging line to walk: On the one hand, to confess that the real and overwhelming evils and disasters of the world and the day-to-day struggles of our own lives sometimes break our hearts and crush our spirits. While, on the other hand, trying to make room for the steadfast love and amazing grace of our endlessly faithful, ever-present, and always-arriving God.
We have reflected together on how, even in a weary world, and even in our own weariness and grief, we might find hope, we might know peace and feel joy, and how we might make room in our hearts and our lives for the kind of love that changes everything.
And, as ever, we have gathered together every week to light candles in the darkness, pass the peace that passes understanding, and share the precious gifts of communion.
How challenging has it been? As if to confirm that we’re not exaggerating the sad state of affairs, the New York Times’ photo roundup of the year 2023 is called . . . “A Weary World.” To view the photos and read the text is to be reminded that this year was filled with the brokenness of war and mass migration, earthquakes, floods, tornados, and mass shootings long before Hamas militants attacked Israeli citizens on October 7th, long before Israeli forces killed more than 20,000 Palestinians in Gaza.
A weary world, indeed.
And still I would like to think that we’ve arrived at this Fourth Sunday of Advent and Christmas Eve more resilient and more joyful than we were before—not because circumstances have improved, but because we’re more aware of the many ways we can experience and share God’s peace, God’s presence, God’s healing, and God’s love.
By acknowledging our weariness and grief, by seeking out connections with others and trusting that we will find the love and joy and healing power of God in relationship; by allowing ourselves to be amazed at all the goodness, beauty, preciousness, and hope of this great gift we call life; and by singing God’s love and power even in the darkness, we have made room. We have re-committed ourselves to making peace and doing justice. We have found joy in our growing community, and we have not grown weary in doing good or loving God, one another, and the world.
And here we are on the threshold of another Christmas. Here we are in the heart of the mystery that is God, a Love so wide and deep and constant that our human hearts cannot fully comprehend it. A Love so radical and real that it transforms us and turns the ways of the world upside-down. A Love made of light so bright that the longest, deepest darkness cannot overcome it. A Love made of the life-force that created us, provided for us, and then became us: taking on our humanity so that we might become more divine, living among us so that we might know we are never alone, loving us unto death so that we might know the abundance of life, revealing to us who God is so that we might live into the fullness of the power and the glory for which we were created.
And given that we have been made to connect, to trust, to be amazed, to shine, to give thanks, to rejoice, and to love in the fullest sense of the word, how can we keep from singing?
How can we not be moved by Mary’s song, the Magnificat, which invites us to rejoice—not only in the long-ago birth of Jesus but also in the new life God would bring into this world, through us? How can we not be inspired by Mary’s song to sing our own love songs to the God who who wants to give birth not only to a baby, not only to new life in us, but also to a whole new world order? Hearing Mary’s song, how can we not also say “yes” to the great things God wants to do in us and through us, for us and all creation?
How can we not sing of a love that is always showing up in the most unlikely places and people and times? How can we keep from singing about God’s promise to cast the mighty down from their thrones and lift up the lowly? How can we not sing our hearts out—with our lives, if not our voices—about God’s plan to give the hungry more than enough to eat and send the rich away with nothing? How can we not sing out, as does the subversively abolitionist carol “O Holy Night,” that Jesus came to free all people?
Tonight we’ll hear the angels singing. In the soft glow of Christmas light, in the company of dear ones and amidst the contagious, high-energy joy of our children, we will be unable to resist singing along.
May we feel the same tomorrow and every day after, as we re-connect more directly with the pain of the world. With open eyes and strong and grateful hearts may we gaze upon all creation and join hands with everyone gathered around this table of life. And with love in our hearts, may we sing out so loudly that even a weary world can hear the thrill of hope, so that we and all people can hear God’s beautiful love song to the world.
