When I need a break, I often
drive to a small lake near my home and go for a walk along the pathway that
winds along the shore. This week I have a lot of things on my plate, but still
decided to try to make it before the sun set. I arrived at twilight, and didn’t
really have time to do more than park near the dripping springs at one end of that
lake, and then walk a short way onto the rough sand that lines the banks of the
lake.
It didn’t take long for my
attention to be drawn to the gulls taking advantage of the weirdly warm weather
we’ve had this week, contending with each other out on the surface of the lake.
Although gulls are terribly ungainly on land, they really are not much better
on the water-- nothing more than giant white corks bobbing on the waves kicked
up by the squabbling of their brother and sister gulls, jealously fighting with
each other over as they crowd together, probably contending for a spot on a
warm water current.
It is only out in the open
air that they seem at all graceful. Only when they dare to rise up into the
darkening skies does it become apparent how long and graceful their wings are.
Only when they dare to fling their wings out and embrace the air with every
square millimeter of wing surface are they able to rise, and proclaim fully how
beautiful they can be.
There have been repeated
times lately that I have felt as leaden and earthbound as those gulls looked
bobbing on the water. And yet, in the back of my mind, I remember words of
comfort spoken from the midst of turmoil that call me to lift up my heart
nonetheless—calling me not just to endurance but to rejoicing.
Surely it is God who saves me;
I will trust in God and not be afraid.
For the Lord is my stronghold
And my sure defense,
And he will be my Savior.
This Sunday we will say or
sing together Canticle 9, which starts with this comforting declaration of
trust in God. We will declare not just our hope but our faith that, as
insignificant and fragile as we feel, that we are nonetheless God’s beloveds,
known, named, and precious in the embrace of the Merciful One, in whose
compassion we are surrounded and uplifted on wings of hope.
We need the words of Isaiah
12. Even though written hundreds of years ago, the vision of the cooling water
of salvation being brought up to slake our burning fears and anxieties calls us
to remember that trust is the bedrock of faith. Isaiah’s words remind us that we are not saved
somewhere in the distant future, but saved right now through the grace of God,
through trusting in God’s mercy which has made its home right here among us.
There are some who allow the
anxiety and insecurity they feel to cause them to turn inward upon themselves,
turning that fear into anger, division, and xenophobia. We are too prone right
now to throw epithets at each other, and it’s almost impossible not to get
caught up in that. We are being tempted to transfer our faith from the gospel
of grace and love to the gospel of suspicion and hatred. We are being tempted to
believe that we can keep ourselves safe by simply excluding entire groups of
people from being among us. But that won’t work—and would be accomplished only
at the expense of our call as people of faith to welcome the stranger and the
refugee—people who are fleeing the same terror that has grasped swaths of our
own country by the throat.
Believing in God certainly
does not solve our problems or eliminate threats and enemies. But turning our
backs on the helpless has never worked to keep us safe, although it has,
throughout history, made us at the very least guilty bystanders rather than
explicit opponents of evil. We are called to be people of hope and courage, who
have Love Incarnate as our sure defense.
What if we dared to believe
that, by being the best versions of ourselves rather than the worst, we could
take hold of the promises of salvation? Our hope during Advent is a waiting,
watchful hope for the coming savior, mighty to save, yet who will come into the
world as one of the most helpless creatures of all. What if we dared to believe
enough in our savior that we could welcome the helpless of today into our
midst? What if we dared to believe in the radical grace we receive from God
enough to embody a glimmer of that grace into the world? May we dare to
believe, to cast away our fears, and rise on wings of faith to embrace with
confidence the true freedom embodied in Christ.
(This post was previously published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on December 11, 2015.)
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