Dona nobis pacem

 

In the world’s most memorable sermon, the Man of Galilee said to a world haunted by violence: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”
                                                                           *~*

It’s a moonless night in a small, poor village in Galilee, not far from Nazareth.
In a dimly lit cinder block home, a woman lies dying.
A priest sits with her, holding her cold, tremulous hand.
Toward the dark morning hours, her breathing stops.
The priest offers to deliver the news to the grieving son’s three brothers.
But the son stiffens, scowls, and says: “If they set foot in this house, we will kill each other.”
For the truth is that the brothers have such hate in their hearts for each other that even the death of their mother cannot bring them together.

These brothers are believers, once active in their village church.  Their vicious hostility toward each other has infected others, like an invisible toxic fog seeping through the walls of souls and spreading its evil poison.  Fathers won’t speak to sons, mothers and daughters spread false rumors about each other. 
Most of the Christians in this village no longer show up in church.

Except for Holy Week.  On Palm Sunday every seat is taken, though the hostility is palpable.  The feuding brothers are there also, but sitting widely apart from each other.

Before the benediction and dismissal, the priest descends from the pulpit and strides toward the back of the church.  He locks the huge double doors that have been open with a chain and padlock. Returning to the front, he faces his astonished congregation.
The priest now turns prophet: he confronts God’s people who have become lost in their hate and malice. 

“If you can’t love your brother,” he thunders, “whom you see, how can you say you love God who is invisible?  I have failed to unite you, but there is someone who can.  His name is Jesus Christ, who gives you power to forgive.  And if you will not forgive, we will stay locked in here.  You can kill each other and I’ll provide your funerals gratis.” 
Silence.  Tight lips.  Clenched fists.  Stony glares.  But silence, as the minutes crawl by in agonizing slowness.

Then the mysterious power of God invades.
Someone rises.  It is the man who would not let his brothers come to mourn their mother’s death.
Head lowered, voice faltering, the hardness of his heart melting with the irresistible grace of God, he turns to his fellow villagers: “I have hated my brothers enough to want to kill them.  I need forgiveness more than any.”
He turns to the priest now.  “Can you forgive me, too, Father?”
They move toward each other, embrace, give the kiss of peace, and of forgiveness.
The repentant brother now moves down the aisle, where, the wonder of it all, his three brothers rush to meet him.  They hold each other in a long, tearful embrace of forgiveness and long-denied love.

God’s peace that’s beyond understanding descends on the congregation.  People who haven’t spoken to each other for years now weep together.  Repentance and forgiveness mingle in a holy stream of divine grace.
A second service follows, a joyous service of love and reconciliation.
Afterward, the transformed spill into the streets.  Groups move from house to house to ask forgiveness for a certain wrong.  And, amazingly, it’s always freely given.
                                                                                          ~*~

Today, more than 40 years later, that once almost forgotten village of Ibillin in northern Galilee is a pilgrim and tourist destination.  The man from Galilee, Elias Chacour, is now Archbishop, Leader of the Melkite Catholic Church of Akko, Haifa, Nazareth, and all Galilee, the first Palestinian leader of the Palestine Christians in the Holy Land. 

The dilapidated church he came to has been replaced by a beautiful and thriving Church of the Sermon on the Mount located on the campus of the Mar Elias Educational Institutions, named after the prophet Elijah.  Founded by Father Chacour, the eight schools include kindergarten through high school, a gifted student program, technical college, theological school and university, and open to students of all races and religions.  More than half are Muslims.                                                                                           ~*~

We long for peace: within our heart, our family, our church, our land, our world.
But how serious are we about peacemaking?  Is our church and denomination a force for peace?
Are our politics?  Do we know about organizations like Peace Direct, Peace Action, Peace Now, or the Canadian Peace Alliance, and do we offer them our participation and support?
If we are not peacemakers, can we still be the sons of God?

 

 

 

Maundy Thursday

I must follow you, Lord, on this Lenten Journey
I must go where you went
with ears and eyes wide open
if I'm to change.

I follow you to the "holy city,"
and hear the pity and anguish in your words:
"O Jerusalem, how often I have longed
to gather your children, all of them
as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings
but you were unwilling."
I think of Jews, Arabs, all your children
who have not come, but kill each other
and break your heart.
Lord, let me not get lost of hide among
the heedless sons and daughters
of my own Jerusalem.

I follow you to another place
the Upper Room where bread
becomes your body, wine your blood.
I'd much prefer to keep it simply bread and wine
and not remember that for me
your body broke and your blood flowed.
I feel unworthy of such sacrifice.
It's so hard to let go of this guilt of mine
freely receive your pardon and your grace...

Now I must follow you along the Garden path,
but I'm afraid,
for there the Prince of Darkness waits.

Must you go on, dear Lord?
For me?  For me?

                                             -fr. Talking with God

In the Courtyard

Peter too was there in the high priest’s courtyard that late night
when fearful angels high above me hovered around the Father’s throne
when smirking legions pushed and shoved in early celebration
when impulsively he sat down with guards around the fire
to keep his eye on Jesus—

He too was there
he heard and saw vile, scheming, evil men
disguised as priests, elders, and teachers of the law
abuse the God they never knew
for they had not followed him
had not heard his Sermon on the Mount bless
the poor in spirit, the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart
which they were not and never aimed to be
which Peter was not but always longed to be.

They had not followed him
hence they did not know this Son of God
or had they never wanted to
had they not seen the lame man dance in ecstasy
had they not seen the glory in the eyes of him born blind
had they not seen the new skin’s beauty glow on a former leper’s arm
had they not seen the widow’s spirit leap when she got back her son
and if they had, would they have called him Christ, the Son of God?

Peter knows, and so do I.

Yet Peter denies it with an oath; have I too
when it was safer or more convenient to pretend?
The angels cry, while devils dance.

We hear this Holy One condemned to die for being who he was
we see him mocked and struck, we see him turn his face
the filthy spit of spiteful men mingling with his blood
he turns his face and he looks straight at Peter

and at me
at each of us who’ve betrayed whom we’ve professed
and in that look was not his judgment but his love
the love that breaks the sinner’s heart.

Peter went out into the darkness and wept bitterly.
As I weep too.

                                                                -Talking with God

Fatherhood

A few days ago I held a tiny newborn in my arms, all five pounds of her.
No, she was not my child, though she reminded me.
And she was not even my grandchild, though I thought she looked precious enough to qualify.
But she was my great-granddaughter!
And yes, Talia reminded me.

Reminded me of many years ago, when our own came in what seemed a somewhat hurried succession, a bit faster than I thought reasonable at the time, though I did not reflect long on our own implication.
But admittedly, it sometimes made it hard to be always equally fascinated by each of them, especially when one needed burping, the other tried to pull the third one’s few silky strands of hair, and the fourth was trying, without permission, to get a dangerously unsteady bead on the whole scene through Dad’s new camera.

Ah, but they grew up, too soon of course, though more or less in order.  Still, the growing up hardly diminished the fascination, fondness, and love.
Oh, there was the usual dosage of frustration, fretting, and fear even.
It’s after all no small matter to see a frolicsome family of four through many changes: changes of diapers, of height and weight, of schools, of preferences, of moods, of voice, of friends and enemies.
Not that our family was particularly fickle, I think. As a matter of fact, it was a fun bunch of young’uns.
But as the Frisians say, “time stands not still,” and one gets a little winded sometimes trying to keep a firm grip on Time’s coattails.

I was beginning to relax a bit, though.  Almost finished with an exciting, sometimes exhausting, and often challenging task, I’d venture to think to myself.
And so far so good, thank God.  Nobody ran away in those fifteen years, nobody refused to go to school or church, nobody even had a cavity in all those years (though the first one appeared soon thereafter)!
They had been good years, and the years ahead promised to be good too – a little quieter and a little more independent.

Well, I didn’t know then that parenthood doesn’t end when children eventually go it alone.
But least of all did I know that our parenthood was about to begin anew: an unexpected expecting!
We were flabbergasted, and that’s not saying all of it.
Our thinking had been a grandchild, some future day maybe.
But to start all over again with another of our own??
Bibs again, and a crib and a playpen and a highchair and little booties and baby blankies, and then toys and teething rings and snowsuits, and a trike and – oh my goodness, all this all over again?
And what about the population explosion!  I always had a fear of explosions, and now I was causing one of my own?  I could feel the accusing eyes of zero-populationists smite my conscience.
I cringed a little.  And I tightened my coattails grip again: I’d be raising a child toward the dawn of the 21^st century.

The truth is that it did sort of take my breath away; it did for the whole family, in fact, and Mama not least among them.  But not just because of the sheer shock of the surprise.
Also and especially because of being in the presence of an unfolding miracle.

When I held little Talia, I was reminded again of what a miracle it is!
The growth of a single cell to an almost fully formed embryo in little more than two months’ time!
The fluttering development of a soft bulging piece of tissue into a tiny but complete human being.
What a wonder of God’s creation it really is!
And we celebrated that miracle together, for this time the kids were old enough to appreciate the wonder of it all.  We researched medical books, felt the baby’s lively movements, made cutesy baby things, gathered the necessary baby stuff from everywhere, proposed names, anticipated the actual arrival, prayed for a safe delivery and a healthy child – all this and more became a big part of the family’s excitement during the last several months.

Yes, I was reminded.
And I prayed that the parents of little Talia will be blessed as they rise to the challenge of raising a new human being, as they experience the joy of watching her grow, of eliciting the magic of the first smile, hearing the first word, the first phrase, the first original sentence, the first prayer.

What a privilege it was to have and to love another child.
What a blessing to still have all our children; and grandchildren.
What a privilege now to have a great grandchild!

Thank you, God.

 

At Year's Turning

Father, your Son did not stay in Bethlehem, and neither can we.
Of course, we’d rather linger in the fields near David’s city
waiting for more angel choirs and dazzling stars
to chase the dark and silence from our souls,
here in the land where death’s shadow casts its pall.

We’d rather hunker near the place where the family from Nazareth
received the homage of burly shepherds and travel-weary kings,
and bask with all who long for rest in the presence of this Prince of Peace.

But you had other plans.
Your will took him to Jerusalem, and if we’re serious about Christmas,
we need to follow him.
Follow him, with the heavenly strains of the “Gloria” ringing in our ears,
till we reach the Via Dolorosa, where groans and curses fill the air.

The journey is not an easy one, we know;
and we hesitate as we take down the Christmas tree.
But the Master‘s words come to us as surely as they did
to Peter, James, and John: “Come, follow me.

Follow me through the tempter’s wilderness
till angels take the devil’s place and give you what you truly need.
Follow me among the crowds who hunger for daily bread
and feed them with the basketsful of those who share,
but who hunger also for the nourishment of good news,
and tell them that they are blessed when they are meek and merciful,
when they make peace and do what’s pure,
when they show love to those who hate
and forgive when they’ve been  sinned against,
for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Follow me when I heal the sick and resurrect the dead
through the power that the Father gives, and learn
that neither sickness nor death separates you from the Father’s love.

Follow me when I flee the crowds and find a solitary place
where I can meet the Father,
sometimes in transfiguring glory on a mountain top,
sometimes under the silent stars of a Judean night,
wrestling through blood and tears with my Father’s will.

Follow me to Jerusalem, where only faith and love can follow,
and truth and grace meet in a broken body on the bloody cross.”

Father, that’s our prayer at the dawn of this new year:
to walk where Jesus walked, in faith that knows no fear.

                                                                           [from Talking with God: Prayers, meditations & conversations for God-seekers]

Hope at Christmastime

Note: Advent is a time to ponder.  To ponder the world's needs and our own expectations.  It forces us back to God's appearance in a manger.  In that appearance lies our hope for all the years to come.  They may be long, they may be violent, they may be dark.  They always have been.  But God has come among us.  To comfort us.  To walk with us.  To help us walk in step with him. To carry us when we collapse.  To lead us to the light.  To save us.  To keep our hope alive.

Emily Dickinson's poem (in italics) has reminded me of the astonishing quality of hope and how inextricably a believer's hope is connected to faith.
Our Advent prayer in 2012 is for faith-fulness and unswerving hope.

 

We live by hope.

It’s the song deep within that is never silent,

the song of “the promised land.”

 “Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul.

It sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.”

Hope is audacious and is constant.

It does not fade but brightens when
storms flatten the farmer’s fields of grain, when
recessions wipe out one’s savings for old age, or when
one’s prayed-for child becomes untracked.

 “And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.”

Hope lived among the stumps and shacks

of those who, more than a hundred-fifty years ago,
sailed across a treacherous ocean to “the promised land”
of hunger, hardship, and disease.

 

Hope lived among the starving in the Warsaw Ghetto,
where one left this inscription on the Wall:
“I believe in the sun, even if it does not shine.
I believe in love, even if I do not feel it.
I believe in God, even if I do not see him.”

Hope lived on Robben Island within Mandela’s heart.

Hope lives among the Tutsis and the Hutu,
it lives among the exiled families of Syria,
it lives within the ghettos of our own land,

and even among the laments of Newtown, Connecticut?

“I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”

Hope never wavers, but is steadfast like a star.

It looks beyond what is, toward what is to come.
The ancient hope of Abraham, Isaiah, and Simeon.
The ancient Advent hope of all at Christmastime:
when the hopes - and fears - of all our years
are met in God’s gift of love, his Son,
our Hope for all the years to come,
into the perfect promised land.


                                                                          -emily dickinson

In the Beginning

God made.
And He called it good.

How He made
We do not know,
But he called  it good.

What He made
We know only in part;
But it was good.

The moon, the sun, the stars,
The wind-swept haunted places,
Proud peaks and gentle valleys,
The waves and sands and trees;

And images of God walked everywhere.

All this was good
For a short season.

Then all things fell apart.

Hate hardened,
Cruelty coarsened,
Sickness, hunger, and terror
Bent divine images in groteque shapes,
While death darkened all the good.

Again God made.
And Christ was born,
And it was good.

How He made
We do not understand.

What He made
We know only in part.

Why He made
He has clearly told us;
And it is good.

For what was lost
Can now be found again,
What was apart made whole,
What was doomed redeemed;
And that is good.

Now Creative Word was flesh.

Light pierced a great darkness;
Then we saw an infinite, astonishing Love,
For God is good.

Still God makes.
Love is born in human hearts,
Trembling and frail,
Reaching out beyond the self,
Touching comfort, healing, grace,
Changed through faith and hope and love;
God calls that good.

It's Christmas time!
Behold, all things are and will be new!
Behold, how He loves us!

Let us love one another.
God calls that good.