We’ve been talking the past few weeks about fear, and how faith keeps reminding us through the clear voices of prophets and angels and Jesus not to fear. In some ways, the imperative works kind of like commanding someone not to think of a purple cow. The only thing you’re going to see in your mind’s eye is a purple cow.
So before we read the text (which I’ll let you know right off the bat is another example of it), let’s do a little preparation. Bring to mind right now the worries, anxiety and concerns you’re holding. Close your eyes if it’s helpful and picture them. The season is so jam-packed with all the tasks we do before we get to a holly-jolly Christmas. You know what your calendar looks like. Add to those mental images the people for whom you’re especially concerned. And now include the generalized anxiety you have about the future, your own, Central’s, the nation and our world. Faith never asks us to deny fear but instead offers an antidote to it.
So right now with your mind’s-eye filled with things that make you afraid, take a deep, deep breath. Let it fill your belly and lungs. . . and then exhale it through your open mouth, like a giant sigh of relief. Breathe in again, deeply. Breathe out that air, and with it all the stuff that keeps you from experiencing the joy that God intends for you. Breathe deeply one more time; hold it for a couple of seconds, and then slowly release it through your open mouth. Ahhhhh!
A reading from the apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippian churches, in the fourth chapter, verses four through seven. Listen for God’s Word to you and me and all who are worried and stressed out. [Philippians 4:4-7]
I won’t ask for a show of hands, but is there anyone here who enjoys Hallmark Holiday movies? (I’m not above a “Hot Frosty” myself). In his affection for his Philippian congregations, Paul comes perilously close to writing the ending of every sentimental last one of them. Don’t worry. . . be happy. Or rather, be joyful. Give thanks.
Acknowledge your needs and fears, but don’t be too assertive—let everyone see how gentle and sweet you are. And you’ll have peace. Hold hands and embrace, for all is well. The end.
Let me tell you a story, one that is decidedly not of Hallmark origin. It’s true, and I think it offers insight into finding joy to counter our fears.
Two friends from Boulder went on a bike trip in South Dakota in late September. On their final day they decided to ride through a narrow, twisty canyon with tall bluffs on either side flanking a crystal clear stream. The day was perfect. When the shoulder of the road disappeared, they decided it was too dangerous given the number of cars whizzing by. They stopped at a pullout to grab a drink of water and started heading back. Suddenly, one of them stopped and held up a finger. Did you hear that? A faint voice was calling for help, down a steep embankment, entirely hidden in tall undergrowth.
They came closer and started calling We’re here. Through the weeds and brambles, they saw a young man bleeding, in shock, and holding his arm. Nearby, an overturned motorcycle gave mute testimony to what had happened. They leapt into action, talking all the while to the young man who told them his name was Dylan. He had lost control trying to dodge some roadkill and flew off the road. He’d been calling for help for over 12 hours, and scared because he couldn’t feel anything below his waist. One of my friends called 9-1-1, and flagged down a passing car. Soon other cars stopped to assist.
A sheriff’s deputy arrived shortly before the ambulance and four people in addition to the Emergency Medical Team to bring him up out of the ditch on a back board, his neck secured in a cervical collar. The last my friends saw of him that day was when he was loaded into the ambulance with serious injuries. My friends were understandably shaken. If they hadn’t stopped right there. . . . if they’d kept riding. . . . Scores of cars had passed that place without hearing the frantic calls.
My friends returned to their campground but couldn’t stop thinking about the fate of this young man. They contacted the local hospital and were told nothing. It was days later that Dylan’s mother called, using the cell number the hospital had given her, to thank them for what she said was nothing less than saving her son’s life. He had been air-lifted to Denver and was headed to Craig for rehabilitation and further recovery. She said he would love a visit from them.
Then she delivered the news they had feared: Dylan would remain paralyzed from the waist down. My friends had no idea what to expect when they visited this nineteen year old, active, outdoorsy guy who had hoped to work for the Forest Service. They walked into his room. . . . and found a smiling, grateful young man who repeatedly thanked them for saving his life. When I get out of here, I wanna do something for you. I know I’ve got some rehab ahead, but I intend to walk out of here on my own two feet.
If this were a Hallmark movie, it would end with Dylan facing a diagnosis of permanent paralysis with determination and courage (and perhaps the help of a dark-eyed beauty), discover many truths about himself through hard work and incredible struggle and in the end, walk through the door of his parent’s home with the girl on his arm, just in time for Christmas morning.
It’s easy to see the appeal. These made-for-television movies are meant to renew our sense of reality that those who work hard and accept love, even when mired in challenges will be saved. Sadness may tarry for the night, but joy comes in the morning. We who wait in Advent are sure to be rewarded with a happy ending, and one that aligns perfectly with our expectations.
……except when it doesn’t. No amount of physical therapy and rehabilitation will grant Dylan use of his legs again. I’m anticipating the joy of Christmas with my grandchildren (and their parents 😊), and then the sad, dark eyes of a child in Gaza stare out at me from the newspaper and I am undone. The little town of Bethlehem is anything but still and peaceful this year, and an angel’s command to “Fear not! For behold I bring you good news of a great joy,” feels like nothing more than wishful thinking.
My little efforts to recycle newspapers, cans, and bottles hardly seem worthwhile in the looming threat of climate deniers occupying the White House and major environmental positions. Where is the joy when you cannot see or even imagine a good outcome?
Wendell Berry has been a farmer in Kentucky for some six decades. A poet and best-selling author, he has long written about the need to heal the separation between human beings and the natural world. Now in his 90s, he has never stopped protesting the degradation of the planet, and argues that any protest should not be measured by whether it changes the world in exactly the way we think it should.
Quoted in an article by another environmentalist, Berry noted that protest is vital not because of its effect on the world, but on oneself: [Action] that endures. . . will preserve qualities in one’s own heart and spirit that would be destroyed by acquiescence. We discover the search for joy begins in solitude and self-examination, but doesn’t end there. The article author concludes Men in power did not wake up one morning and decide to give women the vote. White Southerners did not wake up one morning and decide to dismantle Jim Crow. Those things happened, if imperfectly and still incompletely, because hundreds of thousands of people worked together for years to make them happen. [Wendell Berry, What Are Humans For, and Margaret Renkl, The New York Times, How to Keep Your Own Soul Safe in the Dark, December 14, 2024]
Friends, we’ve long understood that joy is different from happiness. It’s not based on outward circumstances as it is inward conviction. Joy is a shared experience beyond expectation or calculation, the sense that what we do matters. . . . and will contribute to the good of the people and planet with whom we share life? The words of the Indian philosopher Tagore have become my personal mantra: I slept and dreamed that life was joy. I woke and saw that life was service. I served, and behold, it was joy.
Dylan is still receiving therapy at Craig, but it’s shifted now to adaptive learning to live with his new reality. An avid skier, he’s been researching “wheelchair skis” and beginning to envision the possibility of recapturing the feeling of freedom he once knew on the open road and a black diamond run. And something more: his mother has organized members of her church and community (including my Boulder friends) who are building a small additional dwelling unit on his parent’s land with all the features that will allow him maximum independence and security.
My friend called from the work site, amazed at how quickly it has come together. People from the church designed the plans, did the permitting process (O bless them!), donated money, organized fundraising, brought home-cooked meals for the volunteers. . . . to be here with all these folks, doing this—it’s . . . magic [from written and spoken details given to me by one of the friends described here, Robert Matthias]
Some might call it “joy.” Not unlike the rejoicing of a young man upon hearing good news of his new home. No, it’s not a Hallmark ending, because it’s not an ending at all, but the beginning of something else, brimming with possibility.
So breathe deeply, my friends. Write your concerns on a green prayer card (or in the “comment” section online). Write words of thanksgiving and even your Christmas wish list. Deliver flowers and cards to a Central member who can’t be with us regularly. Speak a gentle word to a frazzled store clerk. Use turn signals when changing lanes in traffic. Stop gossip before it starts. Seek understanding before indignation. Risk yourself for a righteous and difficult cause. Give some precious time for the good of someone who is not family.
Fear not! Rejoice!…..and the peace of God which surpasses all understanding will be yours. AMEN.
