Week 3: Songs of Hope (3.1)
You heard the cry of our hearts
And you came down
Freely you gave us your love
Showing us how
Make me an instrument of your peace
Where there is hatred let me show love
Where there is darkness let me shine light and
May your love cause us to open up
Cause us to open up our hearts
May your light cause us to shine so bright
That we bring hope into the dark
Open Up, from the album Advent, Vol. 1, by The Brilliance
Bryan Stevenson, founder of Equal Justice Initiative and author of the acclaimed book, Just Mercy (which has been turned into an incredible film), has worked for decades to bring justice into the justice system of our country, specifically focusing on redemption for wrongfully incarcerated inmates on death row. In a conversation and lecture with Pastor Tim Keller of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York City, Stevenson says,
“We’ve got to stay hopeful…. Hope is the enemy of injustice. Injustice prevails where hopelessness persists… your power resonates in your hopefulness. Hope is what will get you to stand up when other people say sit down. Hope is what will get you to speak when other people say be quiet. You’ve got to be hopeful.”
I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately.
Today, my hope feels lost. Today, I really want an angel to sit down next to me and tell me everything is going to be okay. There is so much tumult, heaviness and grief in the world; it seems like so much, too much. I don’t feel like I have the courage to keep fighting, to keep smiling, to keep turning off my alarm and putting my bare feet on the carpet in the dark each morning. I don’t want to open my mouth, or pick up my pen, or place my hands on the keys of the piano.
Sometimes, it is too much, and I want to curl up in a ball underneath my pink blanket, or run away into some warm, far off place.
I have sort of done that today. Only the far off place is the river a few miles away from my house. The winter sun is strangely warm, and the birds are chirping, as if they are singing, little messengers that remind me I am not alone, that my broken heart is seen and known. They remind me again of that risky, bold word: hope.
With Emmanuel, our cries in the wilderness turn into songs of hope.
I imagine Elizabeth, standing in her home, barefoot on the dirt floor, six months pregnant, and staring out the window at the setting sun, strong hands idly preparing dinner from muscle memory. The light, warm and soft, glows on her aged face and her greying hair. She brushes a stray hair from her eyes, her thoughts wandering to the miracle child inside her so-long-empty womb. And then three things happen at once: a dark flurry of a girl flying towards the house catches her eye, she gasps and clutches her abdomen as the baby in her womb suddenly jolts, and everything-the baby, the prophecy, the girl running up the path- seems to fall into place.
I imagine Elizabeth, running out the door and holding Mary in her arms as she weeps into her shoulder. The words seem to whisper from her mouth, even though she doesn’t know exactly what it is she is saying, even though Mary hasn’t explained: how her own baby leapt with joy at Mary’s arrival, how Mary- the mother of her Lord, the fulfillment of the prophecy she has clung to for so long- is blessed and loved, and cared for, because she believed. Mary’s body relaxes into the weight of her cousin, her friend, no longer alone- never again alone!
I imagine Mary, a few days later, sitting outside her refuge in the desert, weary traveller, eyes closed and long hair brushing the wall. The rising sun, like the baby inside of her, warms her, bit by bit. Her fear subsides into a soft undercurrent of hope, and somehow, she is sure that Elizabeth’s words were true, that the angel’s words were true. Her spirit filled body inhales, and the hope gives her permission to believe it, permission to begin her journey of preparing the way of the Lord. She opens her lips, and sings her song to the wind and to the baby inside her womb, a song of healing, a song of blessing, a song of revolution.
With Emmanuel, our cries in the wilderness turn into songs of hope.
Mary’s song-or the Magnificat- begins with an affirmation of the promises of God, which reads as a personal reminder of the fact that she is seen and taken care of, and ends with a declaration that, with the return of God, the world will see an upheaval as God’s kingdom draws near. In other words, she is filled first with hope, and then she is filled with the strength to proclaim the message of the baby she carries. The message that the proud will be scattered, the mighty will be brought down from their thrones, the poor will be exalted, the hungry will be filled with good things, and the rich will be sent away empty. As the spirit fills her body, kingdom language fills her song.
In this Christmas season, we are both Elizabeth and Mary. Like Elizabeth, we speak the hope to each other that Christ has come into our body just as she did to Mary. Like Mary, we ourselves are filled with the Spirit of God, the light that has come into the darkness. The same Spirit overshadows us, lives in us, comes down in a human body to be with us, sees us, knows us, blesses us. This hope whispers the truth that someday, everything will be made right, that the kingdom is coming, even as all creation groans in labor. This hope lights the little candle in our hand, and slowly illuminates the darkness around us. Once our candle is lit, we are able to see our fellow travelers around us and know we are no longer alone. Hope gives us the strength to take a step forward, and to light the candles that have been snuffed out.
The hope of Emmanuel, of Christmas, is a gift for everyone to share, not something exclusive or secret, to keep hidden for ourselves. Mary’s song, like a prophecy, spoke the kingdom of her child into existence, and she includes us in the task of continuing to cultivate that kingdom. Mary’s song tells us that her baby is a messenger of hope for the oppressed, the weary, the poor, the outcast, the hungry. So too then should we be. As we follow the life of the God who came to be human in order to bring healing and peace, we too are messengers of that hope. O Lord, make us instruments of your peace.
Friends, we can only prepare the way because we have hope. Because we know that our actions actually have weight. Because we believe that something better is possible. Because the kingdom is coming, and the Lord created us as partners in that work, hands and feet of Jesus’ body, bringing the love we have been filled with near. We can do justice and love mercy and walk humbly with our God, because we have hope. Our God has come and is coming!
In this day and age, as Bryan Stevenson said, we cannot afford to lose hope. Jesus needs us to be active participants in bringing the kingdom near, singers in the great choir of justice as we help to bring tangible love- hands-dirty, proximate, generous love- to the people around us that need it. And the most beautiful thing of all is that God knew we could not afford to lose hope, so God became it.
With peace and light in his hands, Jesus moved into our neighborhood.
With Emmanuel, our cries in the wilderness turn into songs of hope.
May we sing ever louder, our songs giving us the strength to stand up, shoulder our packs, and hand-in-hand, return home.
-alyssa
