The Nerdiest Christmas Album Ever

Gather ‘round, ye children come
Listen to the old, old story
Of the pow’r of death undone
By an infant born of glory.
Son of God, Son of Man.

By far the nerdiest Christmas album I own—and hands down one of my favorites—is Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God. It’s usually the first CD I listen to each Christmas season (yes, I still use CDs) because it does such a good job of setting the scene and putting Christmas in context. Now, I like Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree just as much as the next person, but ultimately Christmas is about a God who craved relationship with and wholeness for God’s people—so much so, that this God did the most radical thing I can think of, and became human, stepping into our shoes, into our swaddling clothes, into our mess. And Behold the Lamb of God does an excellent job of telling the story of this God, this people, and this baby. It begins with a teaser of the story to come. A movie trailer, if you will, highlighting the hero of the story.

Instead of going straight to Bethlehem, we instead begin in Egypt, where we meet Moses, Pharaoh, the enslaved people of Israel, and a Passover lamb. We hear the cries of a people who long not only for deliverance but also for God’s mercy and closeness even as they find deliverance.

Lord, let your judgment passover us
Lord, let your love hover near.
Don’t let your sweet mercy passover us
Let this blood cover over us here.

This longing continues as these people enter the Promised Land and seek strong leaders: Moses is dead, Joshua isn’t kingly enough, and what they need is a king. Saul is a disappointment, though David is pretty awesome. But eventually exile happens and “the people of God are scattered abroad.” They ask the prophets if they’ll ever have another king like David—one who’s wise, loved by the people, and powerful “with a sword in his fist.” And Isaiah responds that yes, a King is coming, but he’ll be different than expected. As the years stretch on, Israel’s longing for Messiah—for ruler and deliverer—intensifies:

Our enemy, our captor, is no Pharaoh on the Nile,
Our toil is neither mud nor brick nor sand.
Our ankles bear no calluses from chains yet, Lord, we’re bound.
Imprisoned here we dwell in our own land.

Deliver us, deliver us, O Yahweh, hear our cry
And gather us beneath your wings tonight.

Our sins they are more numerous than all the lambs we slay.
Our shackles, they were made with our own hands.
Our toil is our atonement and our freedom yours to give.
So, Yahweh, break this silence if you can.

And at the end of this song, we catch a glimpse of Yahweh’s longing that mirrors Israel’s:

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often I have longed
To gather you beneath my gentle wings.

I think that what I like so much about this first portion of the album is the desperation and the honest treatment of pain in the lives of God’s people. Most Christmas music is festive, happy, celebratory. These songs revel in the pleasures of sleigh rides and jingle bells, marvel over a child in a manger, and paint pictures of angelic choirs filling the sky with their brilliance and good news. And this is good! God becoming human is remarkable and worthy of every praise we can muster!

Also, sometimes life is hard. And it’s comforting to find a collection of songs that doesn’t gloss over that. It’s been a rough year for me and some of my close friends. As a community we’ve dealt with loneliness, burnout, many miscarriages, work and financial uncertainties, death. And it’s been a rough year for our country and our world. It’s nearly impossible to log onto Facebook without seeing some fight break out over whether we’re destroying our planet, or whether refugees and immigrants are coming here as terrorists and/or freeloaders, or whether members of the LGBT community are abominations, or whether racism is still a thing, or whether this religion or people group or political party or fill-in-the-blank is offending me or challenging my rights, or . . .

Deliver us, deliver us, O Yahweh, hear our cry
And gather us beneath your wings tonight.

I love that in this album, there is longing and deliverance, sorrow and praise. Because the centuries of slavery, imperfect leaders, exile, and growing distance from God made the arrival of the Messiah that much more powerful and miraculous.

As the story continues to unfold, we get a review of Christ’s lineage through a playful little song called Matthew’s Begats. You know, Abraham begat Isaac who begat Jacob and so on? Kind of a brilliant song, if you ask me, and unlike any other Christmas song I’ve heard! We then meet Joseph and Mary and follow them to Bethlehem. We hear Mary’s pained cries and see her and Joseph in a non-glamorous and far more realistic birth scene: in a cold, unclean stable, with “blood on the ground,” “tears upon her face,” and “no mother’s hand to hold.” We join the shepherds in marveling at the angels’ proclamation that the Savior—this king from David’s line, this long-awaited Messiah—has arrived! We join in the angels’ unfettered hallelujahs, then slip quietly back to the stable for the ballad that serves as the climax for this story that has taken centuries to unfold.

Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away our sin.
Behold the Lamb of God, the life and light of men.
Behold the Lamb of God, who died and rose again.
Behold the Lamb of God, who comes to take away our sin.

There’s a celebratory reprise of the album’s opening song, calling us to “sing out with joy for the brave little boy, who was God but made himself nothing,” followed by a no-frills recording of the simple chorus of O Come All Ye Faithful. And then tucked away at the very end of the CD is a recording of Andrew Peterson’s little boys singing a song that many of us learned as kids: “Our God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing my God cannot do.”

I always assumed Peterson threw that in there because he wanted to show off his sons’ cuteness. And maybe that was part of his motivation. But if you think about it, the song actually fits pretty well. Because our God is so big! Our God is mighty enough to do crazy things like delivering an entire nation out of slavery, bringing them priests and prophets to facilitate relationship, sharing their griefs, fiercely pursuing a fickle bride, and dwelling among us as a baby, then a kid, then a man who overturned social and religious norms and demonstrated his power by choosing humble sacrifice over political and military prowess.

Indeed, there is nothing our God cannot do.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus!

All quotations taken from various songs on Behold the Lamb of God by Andrew Peterson, originally released in 2004.

Beautiful Things

Lately I've been reflecting a lot on the past year.

This time last year was the beginning of the end for my friend and boss. After a triumphant month of May when Charles stuck it to his cancer and made it back into the classroom after almost dying a few months earlier, he almost immediately began declining again. Drastically. He spent the month of June in and out of the hospital, went into hospice care in early July, and died a week later.

At the time, it felt like my world was crashing down. And in some ways, it was. This was the first time I'd lost a close friend, so there was all this grief to deal with, with little to no experience with or knowledge of how to grieve. On top of the grief was a whole lot of uncertainty about my job—who would my new boss(es) be? how well would we get along? would I even still have a job?

Some friends at house church introduced me to Gungor’s song Beautiful Things, and it's kind of been my anthem these last 18 months.

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all

All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found?
Could a garden come up from this ground at all?

(chorus)
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

Chorus

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new

Chorus

For months I sang this song, resonating so much with the pain and uncertainty of the first part of the song, and clinging desperately to the hope of the later two-thirds of it—the promise that God does make beautiful things out of the dust—that hope does spring up from dry, cracked ground.

And you know what? Beautiful things have come out of all this pain. Hope has sprung, and life has grown out of the chaos.

The last year has been filled with sweet, refreshing newness. With hope budding up out of desolate ground. Countless friends have surrounded me with tender support and encouragement. My new boss is pretty great, and I’ve found dear friends in him and his family. I got promoted into a position that didn’t exist before now. And in a couple weeks I’ll be moving into a new house.

At times like this, when I’m surrounded by beauty and feel like I’m getting a fresh start, I sing this song in praise of the beauty God has made from this mess. I sing it to remember the pain and the desperation, and I sing it to rejoice in the beautiful things that have come from it.

And during seasons like mid-June to mid-July, when I miss Charles like crazy and can’t help but think of all how awful this time was last year, I sing this song to remind myself afresh that God already has brought beautiful things from this hurt, and to cling to the hope that there is more beauty yet to come.

Women of Valor

Recently I've been moved by ways that some women who are very dear to me have been invited to use their voices to enrich the church and to honor God.

One of my friends led singing for the first time in her life a couple weeks ago. God has given her a beautiful voice and a heart for the church, and in this act of leading the gathered congregation in worship, these two gifts got to work together. Not segregated to using her voice outside the church in musical theatre and using her ministry heart behind the scenes in a church . . . but to share her voice with us--the church--in leading hymns and songs of worship.

Another friend was asked to read a Scripture and lead a prayer in front of a different church-like gathering. Only within the last month or two have women been permitted to serve in these ways in that particular context! Many of us are guilty of treating public prayer almost flippantly, wandering up to a podium to spit out a laundry list of requests for health and safety and the like, with little to no forethought about what we'll say to God on behalf of the congregation. This friend spent days thinking about what to pray in that moment, feeling the weight of the responsibility to approach God on behalf of a crowd of people, and considering the impact her words might have on people--both because it was a prayer and because it was a prayer being spoken by a woman. It was a joy to witness the intentionality with which she approached this opportunity.

Because I think her prayer was so beautiful and wonderful, I'd like to share it with you, along with the Scripture she read before the prayer:

From Psalm 36:
But your loyal love, LORD, extends to the skies;
your faithfulness reaches the clouds.
Your righteousness is like the strongest mountains;
your justice is like the deepest sea.
LORD, you save both humans and animals.
Your faithful love is priceless, God!
Humanity finds refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the bounty of your house;
you let them drink from your river of pure joy.
Within you is the spring of life.
In your light, we see light. 

God our father, God our mother, today we drink from your river of pure joy.
You, who saves us.
You, the loyal, the faithful, the righteous, the just.
Fill us with the joy and peace of your refuge.
Pour into us the spring of life so that, just as people look at my daughter and see my face, people will look at us and see your face.
Thank you, God, for your mercy. Thank you, God, for your sacrifice. Thank you, God, for Jesus.
Amen.

Several hours before actually leading this prayer, she circulated what she'd written to a handful of friends and colleagues, asking for our feedback. Two of the women (myself included) suggested she take out the "God our mother" phrase, for fear that it would be too shocking to some and would distract them from the rest of the prayer. (Though both of us are big believers that God is both Mother and Father.) Two of the men, though, encouraged her to keep that phrase in the prayer and leave it up to the congregation to decide for themselves how to react to it. I'm so used to language and efforts like this being suppressed, that it was so unbelievably refreshing to see these two people defend this depiction of God so adamantly.

Somewhere in the midst of my friends leading in these amazing ways, I came across this article on When We Need Women behind the Pulpits on my Facebook mini-feed. I appreciated and identified with many things in the post, and here are some favorite tidbits:

• Put a woman behind the pulpit so I can hear the words of God in a new voice.
• Put a woman behind the pulpit so I can hear what it’s like for Mama Mary to watch her Son bleed.
• Put a woman behind the pulpit so I can hear He is risen! in the tone it was first shouted.
• Put a woman behind the pulpit so I can see that the kingdom of God is bigger than my expectations.
• Put a woman behind the pulpit so I can know that this long line of Faith handed-down came from Mothers and Fathers.

While reading these exhortations, I couldn't help but think about these two friends of mine--and the many female friends I have who are exceptionally gifted in public ministry. I couldn't help but think of the ways they intone God differently than my male friends (not necessarily better, just different; I'm not hatin' on the guys here!). I couldn't help but think about the ways that they, as mothers who cherish their children, provide glimpses of the way God mothers me.

I'm glad to see them at the front of a church, leading the congregation in song and prayer. I appreciate getting to hear a voice like mine from the pulpit. I'm grateful for the opportunity to glimpse in each them another little piece of God. 

Cancer and Community

I’ve been thinking a lot about community lately, largely because I’m in a rough patch right now and have experienced incredible support from the community around me. Let me share with you a few glimpses of that community:

A few Sundays ago the communion thoughts really hit home—the young woman leading us talked about her struggle with her mom’s cancer, tying that in to the passage about Jesus grieving with Lazarus’ family before bringing him back to life. Her prayer started with, “God, I’m sick of cancer. And I’m sick of death.” That did me in. I wept for basically the entire rest of the service. At the end of the service, a woman I barely even know stopped me and said, “I saw you crying. Are you okay, and can I give you a hug?”

From there, I went straight to small group. For our devotional time, we each shared something we hope to accomplish in the coming year. We had such a mixed bag of emotions in the room: excitement and anxiety about moving, worry about raising support for fulltime mission work, stress of finishing college and applying for grad school, happiness about reaching a significant milestone in thesis-writing, uncertainty about jobs and income, joy and fear about having a baby, stability of no major life transitions coming up, grief over loved ones losing their battles with cancer . . . That night, we all came from vastly different places emotionally, and despite our own individual emotions, we were able to be fully present with each other in all of the wonderful, terrible, happy, unsure feelings swirling in the room. Even now, I’m sitting here trying to put into words the amazingness of the genuine community that took place that night. We didn’t try to make the tone of the group homogenous. Someone who was happy didn’t ignore or minimize the obvious grief of others; and vice versa. We were transparent and raw. The masks were off, and we were able to throw wide the doors of our hearts and invite the group to enter into the good, the bad, and the ugly inside.

The women in that small group had a lunch date a couple weeks ago. That morning I sent an email to let them know that I’d be coming from a prayer vigil for my boss/friend Charles and therefore might be late or emotionally unfit to come at all. But I ended up going, and one of the girls commented, “I read your email and thought, ‘Then it’s even more important that you come be with us.’” Yes! In true community we don’t have to hide our emotions—or avoid said community if we’re going through unpleasant emotions—but instead can bring our puffy eyes and rubbed-raw noses and experience love and support.

Yesterday I attended a memorial service for a seven-year-old boy, Liam, who died of leukemia. Liam’s death and Charles’s worsening cancer have messed with my faith. Charles is such a faithful servant, doing incredibly good things for the kingdom; Liam, in the face of his illness, rallied an army of people to participate in his well project and give life to communities of people who don’t have access to clean water. Literally thousands of people have been praying for Liam’s healing for over a year, and for Charles’s healing for over two years. Why wouldn’t our all-powerful God step in and heal them?

Randy, who did Liam’s eulogy yesterday, said many pertinent things, but I’ll just share this one that especially hit home for me. Randy asked Liam’s parents if they felt like God had sat this one out. But, to his surprise, they answered, “No.” God hadn’t shown up to heal Liam, but God had shown up in countless other ways—through hugs and encouraging calls from friends; through kids who sent care packages and their own artwork to Liam, who also loved to draw; through compassionate, competent doctors and nurses who cared not only for Liam but for their whole family; through thousands of dollars donated toward Liam’s wells; through the countless ways their community of family, friends, and friends of friends who have showered them with love and support. Randy went on to assert that God doesn’t just work cancer magic, and God isn’t a god who is at our beck and call to do whatever we want, exactly when we want it. But God is so very present—and God’s power is so very prevalent—in the ways we rally around each other.

That reality has been so true for me in this season of grief. Liam died, and Charles doesn’t have much time left. God didn’t wave a magic cancer wand for either of them. That reality is awful, and I’m pretty upset with God for not providing healing in the way that I thought God should. But in the midst of all this pain and anger, God is providing me with healing through the supportive calls, emails, hugs, “I’m thinking about you”s, and offers of help from this incredible community of people around me.

Mother God

This morning I had a new, very exciting, experience. For the first time I can remember, I had the joy of participating in corporate worship specifically directed to God as our heavenly Mother as well as our heavenly Father. I have often privately prayed or sung to God as a mother, but this morning was my first time to sing to Mother God along with other people. It was exciting, touching, moving, and weird, all at the same time.

In our various types of Christian gatherings, we do an excellent job of celebrating and honoring God as our heavenly Father, and most of us could probably rattle off at least a dozen passages (even if we can't quote them exactly) that depict God as a Father. But we're not as good at celebrating the less common and less accepted metaphor of God as Mother. Yet there are a handful of biblical passages that do depict God that way. For example:

"For a long time I have kept silent,
   I have been quiet and held myself back.
But now, like a woman in childbirth,
   I cry out, I gasp and pant."
--Yahweh speaking in Isaiah 42:14

"As a mother comforts her child,
   so will I comfort you;
   and you will be comforted over Jerusalem."
--Yahweh speaking in Isaiah 66:13

"Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing."
--Jesus speaking in Matthew 23:37

I appreciate the metaphor of God as our Mother, and I hope we will become more comfortable with using maternal language to describe God. There's certainly nothing wrong with the Father metaphor, but, as with all metaphors we use to try to understand and talk about God, it's incomplete and should not be used as the exclusive metaphor to describe God. Because when we limit God to just one image, we miss out on the vast array of other qualities that don't fit that particular image. For two excellent discussions on the language we use to describe God, check out this Metaphor, Idolatry, and Theology blog post by Jamey Walters and this Why Language for God Matters article by Naomi Walters.

Also, as a woman, it's sometimes easier to relate to a female image rather than a masculine image like King or Father, or an inanimate one like Rock or Shield. I will never be a dad, and I can't necessarily identify with how Fathers (or men) think and act. But I might someday be a mom, and I do know what it's like to think and feel and act as a woman. And speaking to and about God with female language helps me feel just a bit more like I actually am fully created in God's image.

So, this morning's experience was an exciting one, to first sing to God as Father, and to then sing to God as Mother. Hopefully my first time to do that corporately will not also be my last.