Psalm 125, The Message

Those who trust in God   
  are like Zion Mountain:
Nothing can move it, a rock-solid mountain
  you can always depend on.
Mountains encircle Jerusalem,
  and God encircles his people—   
always has and always will.

The fist of the wicked
   will never violate
What is due the righteous,
    provoking wrongful violence.
Be good to your good people, God,
    to those whose hearts are right!
God will round up the backsliders,
    corral them with the incorrigibles.
Peace over Israel!

Ah, I do love the mountains. Almost as much as I love the coastline. And here where we live, we get both. Our home is on the downward slope of a mountain foothill and two miles further down the road, the ocean awaits.

This picture showcases our backyard view – one that I enjoy every day, maybe especially as the sun begins to set, turning the nooks and crannies shades of pink and salmon, even lavender.

Those mountains are steady. They are huge and reassuring and call forth all kinds of good images for me. The one used by the psalmist in today’s text is one that is especially dear to my heart: God encircles his people like the mountains encircle Jerusalem.

Somehow, having actual mountains to look at helps me to remember this truth. When we went ‘college shopping’ with our daughters, our eldest became distinctly uncomfortable when we drove by a UC campus that was located on a plain. “I could never go to school here,” she said. “I would feel untethered.”

Exactly.

Thank you, Lord, for being our tender tether, for encircling us with your love, grace and power. When I begin to gaze out at the world, looking for who-knows-what beyond the peaks, help me to remember that you are the one who encircles me. You are my tether. Thank you.

Habakkuk 3:13-19, NRSV

 You came forth to save your people,
    to save your anointed.
You crushed the head of the wicked house,
    laying it bare from foundation to roof. Selah

You pierced with their own arrows the head of his warriors,
    who came like a whirlwind to scatter us,
    gloating as if ready to devour the poor who were in hiding.

You trampled the sea with your horses,
    churning the mighty waters.

I hear, and I tremble within;
    my lips quiver at the sound.
Rottenness enters into my bones,
    and my steps tremble beneath me.
I wait quietly for the day of calamity
    to come upon the people who attack us.

Though the fig tree does not blossom,
    and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails,
    and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold,
    and there is no herd in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
    I will exult in the God of my salvation.

God, the Lord, is my strength;
    he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
    and makes me tread upon the heights.

When this passage came up in the daily lectionary, I nearly wept with gratitude. It is one of my favorite favorites. Despite everything that is wrong, hard, painful, grievous — despite everything —

yet I will rejoice in the Lord.

Oh, that I might stand tall and sing with the prophet. That I might raise my hands to heaven and shout these words! YET. Just three letters, but so powerful, poignant, game-changing. 

Yet. . .

Of Lord of the ‘Yet,’ help me to be a person who clings to that ‘yet,’ who believes — soul-deep — that you are good, faithful, present. . . no.matter.what. Thank you for these words, for this declaration of trust and commitment, even in the bleakest of circumstances. Thank you for Habukkuk this Advent.

Psalm 126, NRSV

When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
    we were like those who dream.

Then our mouth was filled with laughter,
    and our tongue with shouts of joy;
then it was said among the nations,
    “The Lord has done great things for them.”

The Lord has done great things for us,
    and we rejoiced.

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
    like the watercourses in the Negeb.

May those who sow in tears
    reap with shouts of joy.

Those who go out weeping,
    bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy,
    carrying their sheaves.

This is one of those psalms that sings into my bones. Though there is evidence in these words of lost fortunes and weeping, the melody line is one of thanksgiving, of promise.

Even amidst the necessary lament, the loneliness of waiting and the muted, darker colors of Advent (did you know that Advent colors are dark blue and purple?), there is always a beautiful breath of light and hope. 

And here, in this song, is an image of harvest: seeds and sheaves.

And that picture of the seed, falling into the ground and dying to bring forth glorious new life — that’s one I want to hang onto this Advent.

That’s a picture worth looking at, again and again.

Thank you for this song, Lord. Thank you for the hope it contains, for the picture of small things becoming big and nourishing. Help me to hang onto hope, even when things seem darkest, to trust that even in the hardest times, there are seeds of future goodness. Amen.

Philippians 3:7-11, The Message

The very credentials these people are waving around as something special, I’m tearing up and throwing out with the trash—along with everything else I used to take credit for. And why? Because of Christ. Yes, all the things I once thought were so important are gone from my life. Compared to the high privilege of knowing Christ Jesus as my Master, firsthand, everything I once thought I had going for me is insignificant—dog dung. I’ve dumped it all in the trash so that I could embrace Christ and be embraced by him. I didn’t want some petty, inferior brand of righteousness that comes from keeping a list of rules when I could get the robust kind that comes from trusting Christ—God’s righteousness.

I gave up all that inferior stuff so I could know Christ personally, experience his resurrection power, be a partner in his suffering, and go all the way with him to death itself. If there was any way to get in on the resurrection from the dead, I wanted to do it.

I want that kind of righteousness, too, Paul. I do. Really, I do.

But I’m not at all sure I want the suffering — and the death! — that goes along with it. I wrestle with that one a lot, you know?

Here’s the truth: rule-following was a lifestyle for me for many, many years. Slowly, with time and study and gentle cues from the Spirit, I began to let go of the list and embrace the freedom that God makes possible through the life, death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus. Can’t say I’m 100% done with the ‘inferior,’ as Paul labels it, but I’m gettin’ there.

And sure enough, getting there has involved some suffering and some very real ‘deaths’ along the way. And every time I find myself facing into that truth, I struggle! 

Fortunately, it seems that God enjoys a good wrestle. And for that, I am eternally grateful. 

God of Jacob, God of the Jabbok riverbank, thank you for letting me push back from time to time. Thank you for loving me enough to welcome my questions, my slowness, my resistance. And thank you for helping me walk through the dark valleys, knowing that I am not alone, even there. Amen.

Luke 1:5-17, The Message

During the rule of Herod, King of Judea, there was a priest assigned service in the regiment of Abijah. His name was Zachariah. His wife was descended from the daughters of Aaron. Her name was Elizabeth. Together they lived honorably before God, careful in keeping to the ways of the commandments and enjoying a clear conscience before God. But they were childless because Elizabeth could never conceive, and now they were quite old.

It so happened that as Zachariah was carrying out his priestly duties before God, working the shift assigned to his regiment, it came his one turn in life to enter the sanctuary of God and burn incense. The congregation was gathered and praying outside the Temple at the hour of the incense offering. Unannounced, an angel of God appeared just to the right of the altar of incense. Zachariah was paralyzed in fear.

But the angel reassured him, “Don’t fear, Zachariah. Your prayer has been heard. Elizabeth, your wife, will bear a son by you. You are to name him John. You’re going to leap like a gazelle for joy, and not only you—many will delight in his birth. He’ll achieve great stature with God.

“He’ll drink neither wine nor beer. He’ll be filled with the Holy Spirit from the moment he leaves his mother’s womb. He will turn many sons and daughters of Israel back to their God. He will herald God’s arrival in the style and strength of Elijah, soften the hearts of parents to children, and kindle devout understanding among hardened skeptics—he’ll get the people ready for God.”

I love Zechariah. Such a godly man, and still, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut when he needed to. I can relate just a little too well to that!

And I love this story of God’s faithfulness over time to this elderly couple. But when I think of all the beautiful promises that are contained in this word from the angel, the one about parents and children is my fave. 

We’ve talked about soft hearts already in this series, but this is a specific application of that whole idea, one that we need lots and lots of today. Parents turning to their kids with softness, with love and openness and encouragement and tenderness and joy. 

In the midst of the day-to-day drudgery that is part and parcel of parenting (let’s tell the truth, okay?), it is good . . . IT IS GOOD . . . to remember that tender hearts are priority numero uno. And right here, the angel of the Lord talks about how John the Baptist will help to begin that tender, turning process. May it continue . . . in us and through us.

Lord, help me to have a tender heart towards the children you place in my life. My own grandchildren, of course. But the other kids in my girls’ schools, the kids at church, and ones I meet at the grocery store and on the road. A tender heart is a very good thing to have . . . and I want one. 

Isaiah 4:2-6, the Message

And that’s when God’s Branch will sprout green and lush. The produce of the country will give Israel’s survivors something to be proud of again. Oh, they’ll hold their heads high! Everyone left behind in Zion, all the discards and rejects in Jerusalem, will be reclassified as “holy”—alive and therefore precious. God will give Zion’s women a good bath. He’ll scrub the bloodstained city of its violence and brutality, purge the place with a firestorm of judgment.

Then God will bring back the ancient pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night and mark Mount Zion and everyone in it with his glorious presence, his immense, protective presence, shade from the burning sun and shelter from the driving rain.

It seems the prophet Isaiah likes the idea of ‘glory’ a lot himself! This is a familiar Advent text, so I’m glad I chose to read it in an unfamiliar translation/paraphrase. “God’s branch will sprout green and lush. . . ” 

Yes, indeed! Sprout, it did, in the person and work of Jesus the Messiah. And this passage, in many ways looks forward to the ongoing work of that Messiah in the lives and hearts of people. At some point, we will see the glory of God, live and in person — “his immense, protective presence . . .” as shade and shelter.

Shade and shelter — something I crave whenever the sun is beating down on me. And I love this word picture here — that God, our great and glorious God, is available to us as exactly that: shade and shelter.

Right about now, Lord, I could use a goodly dose of both! So thank you for your promised presence and for your generous gift of what I need, when I need it. 

Psalm 27, NRSV

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid?

When evildoers assail me
    to devour my flesh—
my adversaries and foes—
    they shall stumble and fall.

Though an army encamp against me,
    my heart shall not fear;
though war rise up against me,
    yet I will be confident.

 One thing I asked of the Lord,
that will I seek after:
   to live in the house of theLord
all the days of my life,
   to behold the beauty of theLord,
and to inquire in his temple.

For he will hide me in his shelter
    in the day of trouble;
he will conceal me under the cover of his tent;
    he will set me high on a rock.

Now my head is lifted up
    above my enemies all around me,
and I will offer in his tent
    sacrifices with shouts of joy;
I will sing and make melody to the Lord.

Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud,
    be gracious to me and answer me!

“Come,” my heart says, “seek his face!”
    Your face,Lord, do I seek.

     Do not hide your face from me.

Do not turn your servant away in anger,
    you who have been my help.
Do not cast me off, do not forsake me,
    O God of my salvation!

If my father and mother forsake me,
    the Lord will take me up.

Teach me your way, O Lord,
    and lead me on a level path
    because of my enemies.

Do not give me up to the will of my adversaries,
    for false witnesses have risen against me,
    and they are breathing out violence.

I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord
    in the land of the living.

Wait for theLord;
    be strong, and let your heart take courage;
    wait for theLord!

I love this psalm. I could easily have ‘bolded’ the entire song, because every word is precious to me. But when I read it through this year, it was that penultimate line that grabbed my heart.

I do believe I see — and will continue to see — the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. I see it in my husband’s face, in my children’s love for their children, in my grandchildren’s growing understanding of who they are and who they want to become.

I see it in the beauty of this town we call home, in the beauty that still resides inside my aging, dementing mama, in my church community. I see the goodness of the Lord threading its way through my entire life, all the great stuff, and all the hard stuff, too.

And I am grateful, right down to my toes.

Thank  you for your goodness, Lord. For the ways in which you remind us that life is good, even when it doesn’t always feel like it is. Give me eyes to see and ears to hear and a heart to understand where you are and what you’re doing in the people and situations of my life. And help me to show forth your goodness in all my words and actions, during Advent and always.

 Isaiah 40:1-11, NRSV

Comfort, O comfort my people,
    says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
    and cry to her
that she has served her term,
    that her penalty is paid,
that she has received from the Lord’s hand
    double for all her sins.

A voice cries out:
“In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
    make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

Every valley shall be lifted up,
    and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
    and the rough places a plain.

Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
    and all people shall see it together,
    for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

A voice says, “Cry out!”
    And I said, “What shall I cry?”
All people are grass,
    their constancy is like the flower of the field.

The grass withers, the flower fades,
    when the breath of theLord blows upon it;
    surely the people are grass.

The grass withers, the flower fades;
    but the word of our God will stand forever.

Get you up to a high mountain,
    O Zion, herald of good tidings;
lift up your voice with strength,
    O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings,
    lift it up, do not fear;
say to the cities of Judah,
    “Here is your God!”

See, the Lord God comes with might,
    and his arm rules for him;
his reward is with him,
    and his recompense before him.

He will feed his flock like a shepherd;
    he will gather the lambs in his arms,
and carry them in his bosom,
    and gently lead the mother sheep.

I cannot read this passage without hearing Handel’s ‘Messiah’ in my head. Just cannot do it. Talk about divine inspiration — that guy Handel had a direct pipeline, I do believe. 

During this Advent season, I’m asking God to show me glory, to give me a peek at who God is in all that radiant beauty. And more often than not, the glory I find is in the sky. Early or late, the autumn/winter sky is just plain glorious here on the central coast of California.

It’s something to do with the position of the planet in relation to the sun, the angle of the light and how it changes with the seasons. And during these months, the sky is magnificent! 

I’d like to make sure my own, personal ‘planet’ is lined up well with the Son as I continue to occupy this autumn season of my long life, moving ever closer to winter, one day at at time. Because if I can stand in the right place, then maybe some of that glory will shine right through me.

Wouldn’t that be amazing?

Thank you for words like ‘glory,’ Lord, and for what they conjure up in our imaginations. Thank you that you are a God of glory and that you invite us right into that radiance. Shine on me, Lord. And shine through me, too.