We lit the Peace candle yesterday, watched yellow flames dance near the fingers of fifth grade girls who struggled to listen to directions. Sat with a heart that wanted to whisper to me of anything but peace.
Four white emergency candles in an empty cake pan. A borrowed lighter. Fumbled explanations.
Peace.
When I don't have my stuff together. When I'm tired and my heart hurts for my kids. When my head is foggy with the disconnect of too much information all at once. It is still December, and the Christ is still coming, and I still remind myself in the simple act of lighting these flames of Hope and Peace. Because. He. Is. Still. Coming.
Because, He came.
And, He promised to leave us with a peace that passes understanding, a wholeness to stand in contrast to the brokenness of the world around us. To stand in contrast to our own brokenness.
Eiréné.
Wholeness. Peace. Quiet. Rest.
All of the things that we feel the absence of so acutely in this second week of Advent, as if life itself is a reminder of the things that are to come, a shaking until we settle into this rhythm of prayer like breathing.
And, maybe that is what we are doing. Maybe we are smoothing out the wrinkles that a year of life has put into us. Straightening out the four corners of Shalom. Peace with God. Peace with self. Peace with others. Peace with Creation. I think of a talk from the Justice Conference in 2012, and I see the hints in the ways that we do this jumbled up day.
Like the slow process of untangling the Christmas lights and deciding which bulbs are broken or burned out, we do the slow work of sorting through our own brokenness as we prepare for the creation of something beautiful.
For the coming of Light.
And, He promised to leave us with a peace that passes understanding, a wholeness to stand in contrast to the brokenness of the world around us. To stand in contrast to our own brokenness.
Eiréné.
Wholeness. Peace. Quiet. Rest.
All of the things that we feel the absence of so acutely in this second week of Advent, as if life itself is a reminder of the things that are to come, a shaking until we settle into this rhythm of prayer like breathing.
And, maybe that is what we are doing. Maybe we are smoothing out the wrinkles that a year of life has put into us. Straightening out the four corners of Shalom. Peace with God. Peace with self. Peace with others. Peace with Creation. I think of a talk from the Justice Conference in 2012, and I see the hints in the ways that we do this jumbled up day.
Like the slow process of untangling the Christmas lights and deciding which bulbs are broken or burned out, we do the slow work of sorting through our own brokenness as we prepare for the creation of something beautiful.
For the coming of Light.
"Prepare the way of the LORD; make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain. The glory of the LORD will be revealed, and all the people will see it together, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken."
Isaiah 40:3-6
These may not be mountains or valleys that we are struggling with today. There are brothers and sisters around the world - and around the country - who are receiving that distinction. But, this rough ground shall become level too.
I think of summer camp three years ago, stepping out of the hubbub of a game to stand by one of my sixth graders. Stand by a puddle. In silence. Dropping in rocks, bits of gravel, one by one. Slowly finding the words that needed to be said. Until the hole was filled.
And, one by one, all too often in silence, we are dropping pebbles into these low places. Stepping out of the hubbub of the "game" to stand together and fill in the gaps that need to be filled.
Pray through with the one who isn't there but wishes he was.
Drop.
Settle on the floor with three from very different groups, who are all here to be honest. To be raw one moment and laughing the next. To be wide eyed exhilarated and drooping framed exhausted. To maybe not be doing this thing right, but to be intentionally doing it.
Drip.
Listen as one, who was long convinced that no other leader cared to learn his name, sings the praises of the man who invited them over for pizza and Fellowship of the Ring, swords and shields and helmets. Watch as, for one of the first times in three years, he sits away from me for music and lesson - with that very same leader and group of boys.
Drop. Drip. Ping!
Do youth group, once again, without a youth pastor, without a dozen of the kids who are out of town for a gig. Come. Hearts raw. Ready to sing when we don't know the words. Talk when we don't know the answers. Be silent when there is nothing to say. Wonder at this church in the second chapter of Acts. Listen to the uniqueness in each of them that connects with different aspects of the early Way. Pray like breathing.
Splish. Drip. Drop.
Because, this peace candle has a second name. Some traditions call it the candle of preparation. Prepare the way of the LORD.
So, we'll align ourselves with creation, with the heat and smoke that comes from these simple flames. With the Divine, through these unspeakable reachings of our hearts. With ourselves, as we take the time to admit that today is a struggle. And, with each other.
Fill in the gaps. Raise the empty places.
Shalom.
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