Merry Christmas!

O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.

In 1868 Philadelphia pastor Phillips Brooks went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.   He was so inspired by the view of Bethlehem – especially at night – from across the hills of then-Palestine that he was compelled to write these words… what we now know as the Christmas song “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem”.  

That view across the hill moved him so.    He didn’t “capture” the “moment” in poetry – moments like this are beyond capture.  He just put his reflections into poetry.      I wonder… how often are we moved to reflection like this?    Not just moved to putting our reflections into poetry form, but moved to reflect at all?   For us, when does a view become a vision?   When does a view of the heart and Spirit become emblazoned into our souls?     

…yet in thy dark streets shineth    the everlasting light                                                                       The hopes and fears     of all the years      are met in thee tonight…

“The hopes and fears of all the years”.    What a combination of words this moment of reflection produced!      

As was customary in my Catholic world, when I was 8 years old I prepared for my first communion.   Part of that preparation consisted of my first confession.   What would an 8 year old have to confess?   Well, it turns out this 8 year old was indeed burdened.   Without the time for reflection, I might never have uncovered a weight on my heart – at least not consciously.   Burdens, conscious or otherwise, I have learned, still have a way of asserting themselves.

A few years earlier, trying to show someone a cool trick with a rock, I accidentally broke my neighbor’s window.   It was an accident, and I was sorry for sure, but it still weighed on me evidently.   

Rather than getting me to get something out just for the sake of getting something out, the priest was indeed patient, and maybe how he explained this rite prompted me to reflect in as serious a manner as an 8 year old could muster.   He took this rite seriously – meaning this wasn’t just a “formality” for him.   Luckily for me, he was a product of Vatican II, where the scale was weighed much more towards opening the soul to God rather than making sure the ritual was done right.   And so, in this sacred space, I uncovered a burden that weighed me down.   After hearing the words of forgiveness, I left the room very much lighter.   I very much felt a burden had been laid down forever.    And ever since then, the results of confession for me have been sources of New Life!     Never again do burdens confessed weigh on me as they did before!

I learned at 8 – and I couldn’t put it in these words until many years later… after taking the time for reflection, and after years of hearing confessions, that people do indeed carry burdens on their hearts, their souls, their psyches.   

If a child of 8 could leave the confessional feeling like a burden had been lifted, I wonder as I look around at people, imagine the burdens they carry!    What burdens people must be carrying by the time they reach 20, 40, 60…80 years old!    Life does that – even though there’s certainly blessings and joys for sure, we cannot traverse this life without being burdened in Spirit.   The Hopes and Fears of all the years… the collected burdens of those years, – reflected upon or not… gather together.   It remains for us to either let these go and unburden ourselves, or leave them be and allow their cumulative weight to hunch us over more and more.              

I was with a group of pastors recently, talking about life and faith, and being a pastor now-a-days, among people who seem to be pressed on all sides with anxieties and worries and fears.   And still, we’re called to lift up Hope with and in the God of Life, in spite of –or because of –these pressings.    And one of them shared how these words made him reflect in times like this.      “Our Hopes and Fears    of all the years…”

Hopes and fears indeed!    Fears of terrorism, fears that since September 11^th, we’ve seen twist into reaction-ism and leaps beyond logic.    Fears that – reflected upon or not – have come to life in our national psyche.    Fears that have changed not only how we travel and think, but how we see each other now.  Un-reflected-upon burdens and fears have a way of asserting themselves into our conscious lives.  And unless we take the time to reflect on them, they often show up in not the best ways.  Now we believe we have reasons to suspect anyone who even remotely looks like our enemies.   If they share their religion… they are suspect.   We have national-level politicians who have no problem pandering to our unreflected-upon fears!  Because they know we – as a nation – are scared.    And fear can turn to outright panic if left unattended.   But panic is a useful tool for politicians.    With panic as a guide, we are more prone to react with gut-level, visceral emotion…   rather than respond in a thought-out manner based on reason.         

The Hopes and Fears   of all our years.   Fears indeed.    We fear the unseen, the unfelt, the unrecognized.  And because of that, we see, feel and recognize through the lens of hyperbole.   And that will, in the long run, do us little good.

 I believe in the God of Life!    No question!    I’ve seen too much, experienced too much, to question that there’s something “out there” – or rather… in here.   There is indeed a wondrous mystery of life, and we’re a part of it.   That’s probably what motivated Rev. Phillips Brooks to write this poem in the first place.    The view across the hill – what a moment it must have been.     

The Hopes and Fears of all our years…    Hopes!    Why did our prehistoric ancestors migrate from one place to another?   Why have we – as a species – always looked up to the stars for inspiration?   Or reached deep within – into the world of the Spirit?   Why have we always had something we call “arts”; poetry, music, painting, drawing, sculpting.   From where does this thing called inspiration come?    Where does it come from?   Why does it have to come from somewhere?   Maybe it has always been there – inside of us!    Just waiting to be uncovered.   But it takes some reflection… some self-reflection.     

“The Hope and Fears of all our years…”    Hope.    We want to hope!  We were made to hope!    We’re called to look up to the realms beyond the “normal”.   We hope for ourselves, for our families, for the people we love.  We hope for our country, our world.  We hope for the creation we all share.  

What are the hopes of a New Day?   What does that look like?   If these hopes realized themselves, what would that look like?    I believe in the God of Life!    I believe in the God of Hope!   Hope in the ability of our species to transcend our destructive tendencies – even in the face of events to the contrary.   

You pave over the field, turn it into a parking lot, have cars drive over it all day long for years and years… but the thing is, you have to constantly maintain it, because, leave it alone just one minute, and guess what?   The field under it, it’s never stopped wanting to come out from under that asphalt.   You stop maintaining that parking lot, and you end up with cracks in the pavement.  And soon those cracks open themselves up to blades of grass.   Those blades of grass are like our innate nature to stay alive, to live, to desire good, and wholeness.   It takes a lot to kill that!     It doesn’t have to be uncovered, it will uncover itself!   But it doesn’t hurt to reflect on it!

“The hopes and fears of all our years       are met in thee tonight.”    The Christ came into a world of oppression and hostility.   And a world of expectant hope!   We look at this child, born to carry a burden… the fears of the world.   We look at this child come to raise hope beyond… again!    He came, born to face fears squarely – the biggest fear for many… our own mortality.   

In my middle age, I fear not so much death as not having lived my life well.   Of not having my life mean something more than just itself.    Most of us, if we look deeply enough – if we put our phones down for a second, if we listen to something more than the TV, if we are mature enough… we’ll fear wasting this gift of life!  

What a weight this child had!    And yet we are in this story.   Let the celebration of his birth be a reminder to us – to live well, to love with meaning.  To face our fears, to not let them control us.   They control us best when we leave them be, hidden in our minds and hearts, allowing them free reign in our psyches.   Their powers mostly come from being in darkness, from not being identified.   But if we call out their names, identify them and confess them, then their power is greatly diminished within us.   We’re called to reflect on moments of beauty, and allow them to find a voice in our art.    To marvel at creation, to identify what scares us – so we aren’t taken by panic and fear… or those that make a living off it.   To reach, to seek, to trust in a God of life… in spite of the fears – that’s what this child awakens in us.    That’s what it means to be truly human!  

O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.