Saturday, December 16, 2017

Sand Dancing

Last minute.  I heard advertisements for last minutes gifts at the end of November.  That didn’t seem like last minute to me.  Miles to go, I thought, weeks and weeks to get things accomplished.  Yes, I had Christmas Eve services to plan in a new place with new people who couldn’t be sure I knew what I was doing, but I’ve got lots of time.  Sure there are gifts to get and decorations to put up, there is time aplenty.  Don’t worry.  Except now we’re a week out.  The clock is ticking.  Decisions still to be made.  Questions to be answered.  Jesus to be found.

Yeah, well, that’s a story too.  The Nativity set at Southport seems to be missing a vital ingredient.  A central cast member of the drama of Christmas seems to be missing.  The central cast member.  We’ve looked everywhere, even contacted the previous pastor who kept it in his desk throughout the year for some reason.  In my desk.  But it isn’t there.  And I’m struck with the panic that in the transition I tossed it out.  Him out.  But, no, I wouldn’t have done that, would I?  Throw away a baby Jesus in the manger because it was in the wrong place.  A desk drawer is an unexpected place.  I mean, of all the places to keep a baby Jesus figurine, a desk drawer seems the least likely.  The center drawer, the junk drawer where you throw the stuff you don’t know what do with but don’t want to throw away.   The hidden stuff, the forgotten stuff, some broken, some given by someone but you’ve forgotten who, knick-knacks, odd bits, the island of misfit toys, that’s what’s in the middle drawer of the desk.  Not a place for baby Jesus. A desert of stuff, some useful, some not, but unorganized and lost, just there, in the drawer.

But then is there any place where He doesn’t belong.  The more I thought about it, the more I thought it was a great idea to keep the baby close to me all year long, in amidst the rubble of my life, until He can be brought out at Christmas time to say - See, He’s here! He’s been here, all along.  Right along side, through the joys and the heartaches, through the struggles and the accomplishments.  Right there, maybe out of sight for a time, but close by.  Within reach.  Even in the desert.  Even in a place of exile.  Of uncertainty.  Right there, all the time.  Emmanuel.  

Isaiah 35:1-10   The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus  2 it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the LORD, the majesty of our God.  3 Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees.  4 Say to those who are of a fearful heart, "Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come and save you."  5 Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped;  6 then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert;  7 the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp, the grass shall become reeds and rushes.  8 A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God's people; no traveler, not even fools, shall go astray.  9 No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there.  10 And the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. 

Chapter thirty-five of Isaiah is considered a transitional chapter.  Though they aren’t named, most scholars talk about three different Isaiahs all contained within the sixty-six chapters of the book that bears that name.  And this chapter is a transition between First Isaiah and Second Isaiah.  First Isaiah is largely about warning, trying to get God’s people to see that their present course is going to lead to disaster, that the political relationships they have created will be their undoing, that their economic policies are unsustainable, that the road they are on will lead to destruction and exile.  And Second Isaiah, written during that time of exile, is largely about hope and a promised return.  

“Largely”, because there is hope in First Isaiah and there is warning in Second Isaiah.  But in the middle section of the book we are looking longingly for home, that much is clear.  From about chapter forty on there is this sense that all is not right, that we aren’t where we are supposed to be and we aren’t who we are supposed to be.  But overriding that sense of unease there is a word that says it won’t always be this way.  But this message doesn’t come in some vague, impersonal way.  It comes with exuberant joy.  It comes with lushness and excess.  It comes with promise and with security.   It comes with applause.

The desert blooms and blossoms to usher us back home.  The waters, normally such a temporary thing in that climate, will break forth, splashing up, pouring out, rising high, like the dancing waters at Disney World, like an open fire hydrant at on a hot summer day, like a cold bucket of Gatorade dumped on the winning coach.  We’re all winners on the road home.  We are all celebrated on the journey to where we belong.  

But do you see the promise?  Not only is there a route home, but it is safe and secure, protected from all sorts of enemies, and it is well provisioned, there is water to quench our thirsts, and there is some sort of divine GPS, we simply can’t get lost.  And better than that, our aches and pains, our brokenness and infirmity will disappear on this journey.  Our disabilities don’t limit us, don’t handicap us.  We can dance and sing, we can see and we can hear, because this journey is one of beauty and of joy.

Best of all, however, is we are not alone.  This is not a solitary journey where we cross the miles and work our way into the preparations to face family who seem to both lift us up and knock us down at the same time.  Not a “find your own way” and then the party starts once you get there.  No, indeed.  

First of all, God has come.  That’s the reason for all the celebration anyway.  God has come to bring us home.  God has come to escort us home.  God has come to walk with us every step of the way.  No wonder there is joy on our heads.  No wonder sorry and sighing shall flee away.  No wonder there is all the dancing and singing and splashing around in the courtyard fountains.  John Wesley’s dying words were reported to be “best of all, God is with us.”

Best of all.  But the second is like it.  Isaiah tells us what we will do when we are on our way home, to this home of all homes, the home of our heart and soul, the home that will make us whole again for the first time.  And what we do is share it.  Say to those, he tells us, strengthen, he proclaims, make firm, he encourages us.  He isn’t talking to God here, he is talking to us.  And he isn’t telling us to strengthen our own weak hands, or to make firm our own feeble knees, though God knows they are feeble and in need of strengthening.  God knows our hearts are fearful even at the best of times, it seems.  We are hardly the best ambassadors of God’s grace and hope, hardly the best witnesses to comfort and joy.  And we are what God has to work with.  We are the sign that the journey home has begun.  We are witnesses to God with us - to Emmanuel.  We are the light in the darkness, announcing to any and all that the season of joy and light, of peace and goodwill, is here.  Say to those of a fearful heart, be strong, fear not.

He’s right there.  God’s right there, as we walk on the road, through the desert that might not yet be blooming.  The seeds are there, hidden away, behind the paper clips and the rubber bands, covered up by the stacks of post-it notes that you couldn’t use in a lifetime, the business cards, the note that someone scrawled on the back of the bulletin telling you what a poor excuse for a human being you are and then didn’t sign just to mess with your head, underneath the drawing at a bored child did of you up there in front, with your head too big and your hands swollen to an incredible size, and a word bubble coming out of your mouth saying “Jesus loves you!”  Yeah, He’s there.  Emmanuel.  God-with-us.  Even in the desert.  

Which is why we dance, this Christmas dance, this desert dance of celebration, this sand dance as we shuffle along this highway of hope and peace and joy.  Gaudate, the third week of Advent, gaudate - Latin for joy.  Join in, shall we dance?

Shalom, 
Derek

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