The Shepherd's Voice

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley I fear no evil;

for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.

John 10:22-30

22 At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, 23 and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. 24 So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah,[b] tell us plainly.” 25 Jesus answered, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; 26 but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. 27 My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. 28 I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. 29 What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand. 30 The Father and I are one.”

“The Shepherd’s Voice”

Five of our UKirk students and I spent last weekend in South Alabama, a lovely weekend on Mobile Bay working with high school students, teaching them and encouraging them to be leaders in their home churches. I was so proud watching our students play and lead games with them, proud watching them help the teenagers plan a lovely worship service to close the weekend. Our keynoter for the weekend, Ray Jones, works with the Presbyterian Mission Agency in our General Assembly offices, and he used much of the 10^th chapter of John’s gospel to talk about how we, as Christians, are called to follow the lead of our shepherd Jesus Christ into the world, to carry Christ’s word and message and love to each other in all that we do.

Ray talked to us about shepherds and their flocks, about how the sheep respond to their leader. Between his keynote to us and some research I’ve done about sheep and their shepherds this week, this city girl has learned a lot. It turns out that sheep and cattle are very different creatures. While cattle are rounded up from behind with the sounds of yells and cracking whips, that doesn’t work with sheep. Sheep need to be led by their shepherd who walks in front of them, guiding them, encouraging them that everything ahead will be ok. The shepherds learn the different noises of their sheep, as any good caretaker would—they know the difference between the sheeps’ cries of pain, cries of hunger, cries of fear. And the sheep learn the voice of their shepherd, responding to that voice and that voice only, quickly able to distinguish between their shepherd’s voice and the voice of a stranger who might walk through the flock talking. It is not uncommon, at the end of the day, for many different flocks of sheep to gather and get mixed up at the same watering and feeding hole. But the shepherds don’t worry when they see this mass of mixed-up sheep. They simply use their own distinct call, their own unique message, to call their sheep—and they sheep are smart enough to hear their own shepherd’s voice, coming together again in their own flock, responding to the voice of their Shepherd.

In his keynote at the retreat, Ray asked us all a very important question: “How do you hear the voice of the Good Shepherd, the voice of Christ in your life? And what keeps you from hearing it? What other voices do you hear?” That question jumps out in our Scripture passages today. During our passage, many folks are gathered in Jerusalem for the feast of the dedication, and Jesus is walking beside them through the temple. They see him there, but still don’t believe what they have been hearing, what he has been telling them-that he is the Messiah. They want a plain, clear answer from Jesus, to hear the news once again because they still, for whatever reason, have a hard time believing it to be true. Growing frustrated at their constant questioning and disbelief, he says to them, “’I have told you, and you do not believe…you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.’” Get it together, he is telling them-I have led you, I have helped you, I have loved you, but you still refuse to believe that my voice is the true one and what I’m saying is true. “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish.” My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me.

I think this passage and its message have been sadly, sorely misinterpreted over time to say that, once we dare to express doubt in our faith or disbelief in Christ’s word to us, that once we listen to other voices other than Christ’s, that even in those times when we really can’t hear Christ’s voice, that we are kicked out of the flock, not loved or saved by Christ. We are done. There is no hope for life. That we will perish. That is a common conception, but that is not what Jesus says here. I love how Barbara Brown Taylor helps us understand this passage:

…listen to what [Jesus] says. He does not say that we are in or out of the flock depending on our ability to believe, but the exact opposite, in fact. He says that our ability to believe depends on whether we are in out of the flock, and there is every reason to believe that we are in, my woolly friends, if only because we are sitting right here with the flock this morning. If that is the case, then chances are that the way true believers believe is the way most of us believe: valiantly on some days and pitifully on others, with faith enough to move mountains on some occasions and not enough to get out of bed on others…Some days we are as firm in our faith as apostles and some days we are like lost sheep, which means that we belong to the flock not because we are certain of God but because God is certain of us, and no one is able to snatch us out of God’s hand.

Just the fact that we are all here this morning, trying to believe, trying to understand, trying to hear Christ’s message, means that we are part of the flock. It means that we do belong to the Good Shepherd. It means that, although things are not often easy and oftentimes brutal, that we are still being led by Christ, called to make out his voice in the midst of so many other voices in our world. As frustrated as he is with all of those asking questions during that dedication day, Jesus doesn’t say, “Forget this. I’m tired of these persistent questions. I’m done with you.” Instead, he challenges them to listen, to hear his voice in the midst of so many other voices fighting for attention. He challenges them to believe. To be led. And to follow. Just the fact that we are hear this morning means that God’s voice has led us here, that God is certain of us, even when we have no certainty to be found.

The reality of the matter is that we live in a broken and sinful world, one in which there are so many competing voices fighting for our attention. There are the voices of the stress and the stresses of school and work. There are voices telling us that if we don’t make enough money, dress the right way, drive the right car, or have the best house, then we aren’t worthy. There are the voices of events and games and concerts and schoolwork telling us that they are the most important things, that everything else must fall by the wayside. There are the voices constantly found in our news and social media, the ones telling us that if we believe differently, than we are unpatriotic or unchristian or stupid or thoughtless. There are our inner voices, telling us that we aren’t good enough or beautiful enough or worthy enough for love. Those voices are constantly there, telling us that what we want for ourselves is more important than what God wants for us.

Jesus knows that there are so many voices clamoring for our attention, and his message here is one of love, of welcome, a message of a shepherd who wants to lead a flock, who yearns to be heard. In the midst of so many voices in the world fighting for our attention, it is vital that we discover and discern the way to hear Christ’s voice in the world, to constantly challenge ourselves about how to hear the voice of Christ in the clamoring. I asked our students Thursday night how they seek out and hear and discern the voice of Christ in the messiness of the world, when asking questions and making decisions about their lives. They said that they pray and listen and read Scripture, and that they depend on their gut feeling when searching for Christ’s voice. They said that they ask themselves who and what Christ would really give his time and attention to in the world. They said that they look for the work and guidance of the Holy Spirit. They said that they spend a great time in discernment, discovering that they hear Christ’s voice when they feel most at peace in their hearts. That’s something that we all have to discern for ourselves, to discern as a community. We have to ask ourselves every day—how do we hear the shepherding voice of Christ in the world, the voice leading us to wholeness, the voice leading us to love like Christ did in the world?

As I thought about our students and their responses that night, I had a little self-revelation and moment of discernment of my own. I’m about to get a bit personal here, which makes me nervous—but, hey, whenever one of you lovely folks tells me you needed to hear the sermon I just preached, I say, “Thanks. I don’t preach anything I don’t need to hear for myself.” And I mean it, so hear goes. I was in an off and on relationship for a couple of years with a man I deeply loved. For many reasons, the relationship was hard—but I always thought that it would work. I’ve never been more convinced of anything. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed more for discernment in my life during those tough times, to hear the voice of Christ helping me decide whether I should stay or go. But here’s the thing—I only wanted to hear the voice of Christ telling me that it would work, telling me what I wanted to hear, not the voice telling me to walk away even as much as I loved. But I was so wrong, so wrong that the relationship finally ended after I got sick last April. It has been a brutal year since of asking questions about what happened and why. I prayed to hear God’s voice telling me that the relationship would work, and in the year since, I’ve asked God and myself some pretty tough questions.

As I thought about all of this Thursday night, about how we truly hear the shepherd’s voice, I knew that what I wanted—that my voice—was the one I was really hearing. I thought about our reading from John’s gospel, and then I started reflecting on the 23^rd Psalm. As I went over and over it in my head, I finally accepted that the voice telling me to stay in the relationship wasn’t the voice of Christ, as much as I wanted it to be, but instead the voice of my heart, of my yearning, of my hope.

            The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. But I did want. And that want made me yearn for things that only ended up causing me pain.

            He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters. But the grass in the pastures I was walking through was dead, and the waters were dark and stormy and certainly not still.

            The Lord restores my soul. But my soul was dark and damaged and broken.

I was discerning the wrong voice. As we discern the voice of Christ in our lives, in our world, perhaps it’s those questions we need to be asking. Is this voice we hear leading us to wholeness, to the things we need instead of the things we want? Is the voice we hear leading us to open, green spaces instead of dead ones, to still, calm waters instead of stormy, turbulent ones? Is the voice we hear leading us to wholeness, to restoration in our bodies, minds, and souls, instead of being damaged and broken? Is the voice leading us away from fear and towards comfort in God? Is the voice leading us to full, ample tables where we can sit peacefully with all of God’s children—those with whom we might agree and those with whom we might not? Is the voice leading us to create goodness and mercy and justice for all of God’s children and following us through the days of our lives?

Maybe, just maybe, if our answer to those questions is “yes,” then we are discerning the Shepherd’s voice, the voice of Christ in our lives. It is the voice of a God who will leave the rest of the flock to find us, the voice of a God who is certain of us—in those times when we can discern God’s voice in the midst of all the others, and most importantly, especially in the times when we can’t. That is, after all, the message of love found in the cross, found in the great news of Christ’s resurrection. Thanks be to God.

The First Miracle

The First Miracle

2 On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. 2 Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. 3 When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” 4 And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” 5 His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” 6 Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. 7 Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. 8 He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.” So they took it. 9 When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom 10 and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” 11 Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

During my three years of seminary, I held two work-study jobs to help me pay for school. One was pretty boring--I sorted mail every morning into the boxes of students and faculty and staff members. But the other was a bit more interesting. Every Friday, as the seminary community gathered for our chapel service, I set up for our celebration of communion. I placed paraments on the table, placing the bread on the plates, and grape juice and wine in the cups. The fun part of the job, though, was buying the wine, bread, and grape juice—now this was before I realized the joys in different kinds of wines, and I was on a budget—so I usually just bought a jug of white wine at the store that would last for several weeks. I would inevitably walk down the hall in front of the Old Testament class carrying the jug of wine. Some folks would look at me funny, like: “Why is this crazy woman carrying a jug of wine down the hall in front of these Bible classes?” But other folks were more fun: “Where’s the party? What time should I be there?” I always smiled and said something witty like, “The blood of Christ given for you,” or, “Hey, it was the first miracle, after all!” And it was the first miracle, this gift of wine that Jesus gave the wedding goers, gave to all of us—this miracle of water turned into wine, this gift of grace, this sign of welcome at the banquet feast.

In those days, it was customary for wedding celebrations to last for seven days—no honeymooning as is typical today—but a lavish banquet for family and friends filled with purification rituals and food and drink and the best wines available. It was customary for the best wine to be served first, and then the not-so-good wines served as people drank more and wouldn’t necessarily care about quality. The groom’s family served as the hosts, and they cared greatly about hospitality—about making sure their guests were fed and welcomed and cared for.

Maybe the family during this wedding celebration was too busy to notice that the wine was running out, but Mary caught on, knowing that Jesus, the miracle maker, was the one who could do something about it, asking him to help. This is one of my favorite parts of the passage—Mary said to Jesus, “’They have no wine.” His response: “’Woman, what concern is that to you and me? My hour has not yet come.’” And, as Kathy pointed out to us a few weeks ago, Mary, who always lived in the tension that her Son was Lord—but still her child—completely ignored his response and said to the servants, “’Do whatever he tells you.’” They responded, and so did Jesus. He might’ve been the Savior, but he still obeyed his mom.

Jesus saw the jars used for purification and asked that they be filled with water, 6 jars of 20-30 gallons each—not small, and he turned the water into wine. It was his first miracle, according to John, the water turned into wine, the good wine of purification, the good wine that would keep the guests happy and filled, the good wine that would inevitably point them and all of us from the banquet table to the communion table. The party continued, and the guests were filled with joy, happy to be feasting at the table, enjoying life together as a community.

As I was preparing for this sermon this week, I read an interpretation of this wedding feast at Cana, this first miracle, that was so fascinating to me. In the Feasting on the Word series, Robert Brearley suggests that

Sometimes the church has forgotten that our Lord once attended a wedding feast and said yes to gladness and joy. Prompted by his earthly mother, Jesus turned water into wine to point us to his heavenly Father, a God who loves to hear the laughter of people celebrating people. Sometimes the church has forgotten to live the joy of such revelation…God does not want our religion to be too holy to be happy in. Throughout his life and ministry, Jesus of Nazareth celebrated people—people getting married, people being healed of disease and deformity, people enjoying meals together. He carried a spirit of celebration with him wherever he went as he proclaimed a God of mercy and peace and joy. This joyous feast at Cana is still a sign to the church that we are to rejoice in the people of God and to toast the world with the amazing good news of grace.

In talking about this kind of grace, Brearley quotes another pastor, David Steele, who refers to this kind of grace as a spirit of celebration, a spirit called “’Cana-grace,’ the knack for throwing parties that combine food, decorations, music, and laughter to create an atmosphere of welcome, of well-being, and love.”

Cana-grace. I love that—the kind of grace where lavish feasts are set and where people are welcomed, where doors are opened, where food and drink are shared with everyone and there is always enough to go around, for everyone to be fed, for everyone to be filled. Friends, we live in a world, especially in a country, where Christians are often known more for what we’re against than what we’re for, where we are known more for who we’re against than who we’re for, where we commonly live in fear of the other instead of living in the joy of our neighbor, where we are more commonly called “judgmental” than “welcoming,” where folks are turned away from our church doors because of who they are or how they live or who they are called to be. Wouldn’t it be incredible to be known instead as people of Cana-grace, as followers who have been welcomed to the table and invited to the feast? Wouldn’t it be incredible to be known as folks who extend incredible grace and welcome to others because it has first been given to us? Wouldn’t it be incredible to be known as people who have been given liberty from fear and given the gift of life? Wouldn’t it be incredible to truly embody the name by which we are called—CHRISTIANS—to embody the welcome, joy, and love of Christ in all that we say and all that we do?

We so often tend to live in fear, in judgment, in apprehension of the world and its people around us—but through this first miracle, we are called to remember and follow a Christ who, from the beginning of his ministry, said no to fear and darkness, and instead said yes to gladness and joy. We are called to revel in that joy because we have been created by God and redeemed by Christ who lived in joy for all of us. This Cana banquet points us ultimately to Christ’s table, a table of community, a table of welcome, a table of grace, a table where we are reminded of Christ’s life-giving sacrifice for us all. This Cana feast inspires us to live as people of Cana grace, people who revel in a Christ who welcomed and provided for us—and took joy in us. This Cana celebration reminds us to live as people who respond to that welcome and provision by providing welcome and provision for every other single one of God’s children. This first miracle was given for all of those who were invited to that week-long wedding celebration, and this first miracle is given for all of us, who are always invited to the feast of Christ. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Preparing the Way

Luke 3:1-20

3 In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar—when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, Herod tetrarch of Galilee, his brother Philip tetrarch of Iturea and Traconitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene— 2 during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. 3 He went into all the country around the Jordan, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 4 As it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet:

“A voice of one calling in the wilderness,

‘Prepare the way for the Lord,

make straight paths for him.

5 Every valley shall be filled in,

every mountain and hill made low.

The crooked roads shall become straight,

the rough ways smooth.

6 And all people will see God’s salvation.’”

7 John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? 8 Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ For I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. 9 The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.”10 “What should we do then?” the crowd asked.11 John answered, “Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same.”12 Even tax collectors came to be baptized. “Teacher,” they asked, “what should we do?”13 “Don’t collect any more than you are required to,” he told them.14 Then some soldiers asked him, “And what should we do?”He replied, “Don’t extort money and don’t accuse people falsely—be content with your pay.”15 The people were waiting expectantly and were all wondering in their hearts if John might possibly be the Messiah. 16 John answered them all, “I baptize you with[b] water. But one who is more powerful than I will come, the straps of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with[c] the Holy Spirit and fire. 17 His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire.” 18 And with many other words John exhorted the people and proclaimed the good news to them.19 But when John rebuked Herod the tetrarch because of his marriage to Herodias, his brother’s wife, and all the other evil things he had done, 20 Herod added this to them all: He locked John up in prison.

“Preparing the Way”

This week’s gospel reading in our Advent journey brings us to the story of John the son on Zechariah, the cousin of Christ, the one who baptized before Christ, the one who promised that Christ was coming to follow. Luke brings us a unique description of how John appeared, not using the words found in other parts of the gospel of his clothes made from camel’s hair, his meals of locusts and honey. Instead, Luke describes John’s political and social context, describing the governors and rulers of his time, naming Herod as one of the leaders. Herod was a notoriously brutal ruler, taxing people to their last dollar, sending his sons and flunkies to threaten the lives of the folks in the community, causing people to live in uncertainty and sadness and fear—fear of their ruler, fear of each other, fear of the world, fear of the unknown. This fear caused the people to sin themselves—to hoard what they had, closing off their homes and their lives, not sharing with others, not welcoming and loving them as sisters and brothers in love.

It was dark and fearful and scary time, a time when rulers used their people, a time when the people reacted themselves in dark ways. Knowing that he would be seen as a threat to the rulers of the day, John appeared anyway, hanging out with the folks who were scared, giving them hope for the future, preaching to them about the right way to live, baptizing them—asking them to repent for their sins, while also giving them hope for the future. During this Advent time, we tend to focus mainly on John’s hopeful words, echoed from the prophet Isaiah, about the one who will soon follow after him, the one who is to come:

The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.

We focus mainly on these words because we are Advent people, preparing ourselves to welcome Christ, getting ready to welcome into our lives once again as our Savior. The people gathered around John as he preached, clamoring for some good news, yearning for a word of hope. And what hopeful words they heard—in a world of deep darkness and fear and sadness, John reminds all of us, those gathered that day so long ago, those sitting here today, that, with Christ, every deep valley will be filled, that the crooked sins and sinners of the world will be made straight, that every one of us will see the salvation of God. That is the hope of this Advent time, the hope of our Advent journey together—that Christ will be coming to make the world right again, to make us feel whole again, to bring us peace in a time that seems so dark.

It is right that we should focus on this message of preparation, this promise of hope for which John prepares us, but we also need to notice and celebrate that his message doesn’t end there. In his message of preparation, John reminded everyone gathered there that day that they were sinful and broken people, that they couldn’t simply blame the darkness on the world on their rulers, that they were just as responsible for the sadness and fear and chaos that seems to reign in their lives. He reminded them that the one who is coming to save the world is not simply coming to save the rulers from darkness and chaos, but coming to save them from it, too: “You brood of vipers,” he yelled at them, “who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance…every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”

To the crowds, he said, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.”

To the tax collectors, “Collect no more that the amount prescribed for you.”

To the soldiers, “Do not extort money from anyone.”

To the ones asking if he were the Messiah, “…the one who is more powerful than I is coming.”

For John, the preparation for the coming of Christ meant then and means today that hope must be mixed with repentance. It meant that baptism was not simply a sign of the entrance into community, but a true cleansing of sin. For John, the preparation for the coming of Christ meant that they must truly examine the chaos and disappointment and sin that pervade their own lives. It meant that they must examine the fear that kept them from loving and accepting each other.

I wonder what John would have to say to us today, to our world today. I have a sinking feeling that his yell of “You brood of vipers” would be just as loud and just as convicting. I don’t know about you, but I feel like we’re a world right now that is enveloped in chaos, a world run by selfishness and suspicion, a world overcome with fear and brokenness and sin. I feel like we are a people who judge each other without first getting to know each other, a people who hurl insults at each other over social media because then we don’t have to look into each other’s eyes and see that they, too are a child of God. I feel that we are a people who are living lives of fear, closing our doors to strangers and neighbors alike, closing ourselves off, ignoring Christ’s command to welcome and love. We are living in a time when, sadly, it doesn’t shock us to turn on our tvs to see what’s happening around the world--that concert goers in Paris have been ambushed and murdered and teenaged school children in Africa have been kidnapped to be raped and sold. It no longer surprises us to see in our country that worshipers have been gunned down in a Bible study, to see that folks in California attending a Christmas party have been murdered, to see that 5 and 6 year olds have been slaughtered in their classroom. Thank God is still saddens us, but in so many ways, we have become numb to it.

We are living in a world where chaos and fear and sin run our lives and overtake our souls. Sure, we can blame it on our rulers and our governments like those gathered around John that day wanted to do, but doesn’t the blame fall at our own feet? Aren’t we, ourselves, living as a brood of vipers? Aren’t we the ones who refuse to stand up and say, “I’m tired of this chaos?” Aren’t we the ones who refuse to stand up and say, “God created every single one of us as God’s children—and called us to live as brothers and sisters together?” Aren’t we the ones who create bigger and more dangerous and more deadly weapons instead of creating new roads to peace? Aren’t we the ones who judge based on religion or preference or skin color or belief instead of listening the stories of people’s lives? Aren’t we the ones who close the doors and borders of our homes and our lives, instead of extending a welcome? Aren’t we the ones who choose to live in fear instead of hope?

Our Advent journey together is a paradox—during this Advent time, John calls us to both live in the hope of the one who is coming, AND to examine the sin and brokenness in our lives that we have caused. And he calls us to do something about it—to repent. The Greek word used for “repent” in this text is “metanoia,” which means to reorient oneself, to change one’s mind, literally to turn around. John calls us to turn our lives around, turning the world around in the process, while hoping at the same time for Christ to come into our lives and help us and celebrate the newness.

If all of this feels hard for you, it should. It sure feels hard for me to literally turn my life around when I am scared about the chaos of our world, scared of the hatred and hostility, scared for my own life when I never know what’s coming from minute to minute, day to day. I won’t stand here and pretend that any of this is easy. As I sat in front of the tv in our student center this Wednesday watching the brutal, horrific news that seems to hit us each day, news that 14 people were killed in a center where folks with developmental disabilities are offered help, I wept, feeling scared for our world, feeling hatred for someone who would take so many lives without thinking twice about it, and I wondered when it would inevitably happen again. I sat there wondering if there was any hope left in our world. I went in my office and reached for something that I have turned to in other times of chaos, a poem called “A Christmas Peace,” written by the fabulous Maya Angelou for a lighting of the White House Christmas tree. I’ll read her words, hoping that they offer you the hope they offered me:

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes, and lightning rattles the eaves of our houses. Floodwaters await in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche, over unprotected villages. The sky slips low and gray and threatening.

We question ourselves. What have we done to so affront nature? We interrogate and worry God. Are you there? Are you there, really? Does the covenant you make with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters, streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope and singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air. The world is encouraged to come away from rancor, come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season. Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner. Floodwaters recede into memory. Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us as we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children. It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets. Hope spreads around the earth, brightening all things-EVEN HATE-which crouches breeding in our dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper. At first it is too soft. Then only half heard. We listen carefully as it gathers strength. We hear a sweetness. The world is Peace. It is loud now. Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence. It is what we have hungered for. Not just the absence of war. But true Peace. A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies. Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Prince of Christmas. We beckon this good season to wait awhile with us. We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come. Peace. Come and fill us and our world with your majesty. We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian, implore you to stay awhile with us so we may learn by your shimmering light how to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time. On this platform of peace, we can create a language to translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the [coming] of Jesus Christ into the great religions of the world. We jubilate the precious advent of trust. We shout with glorious tongues the coming of hope. All the earth’s tribes loosen their voices to celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and nonbelievers, look heavenward and speak the word aloud. Peace. We look at our world and speak the world aloud. Peace, We look at each other, then into ourselves, and we say without shyness or apology or hesitation: Peace, my brother. Peace, my sister. Peace, my soul.

We speak the word aloud. Peace. Let it be so. Thanks be to God.