Still, still, still, Weil’s Kindlein schlafen will. Die Englein tun schön jubilieren, Bei dem Kripplein musizieren. Still, still, still, Weil’s Kindlein schlafen will.
*****
Still, still, still, my heart with joy is filled. I’ll sing you a song and watch by your manger, guard you from harm and keep you from danger. Still, still, still, my hear with joy is filled.
Sleep, sleep, sleep, mid the oxen and the sheep. The shepherds have come who heard the story, angels bend low in all their glory. Sleep, sleep, sleep, mid the oxen and the sheep.
Still, still, still, o sleep my holy child, and while you sleep my voice I will raise, to God your father sing your praise. Sleep, sleep,sleep, o sleep my holy child.
On this final week of advent, we arrive at the theme of love. Perhaps the most important of ideals – hope, peace and joy all emerging from love, encouraged by love, the results of active love. When I thought about which carol I might like to consider this week, I had difficulty choosing. But I thought maybe one that told the story would be appropriate. Because whether we believe it to be true or just a lovely tale, the Christmas story is one of love. The love of a gentle mother, willing to take on what would have been a difficult burden. The love of a husband in circumstances that at best would have been confusing, at worst, devastating. The love of the Divine gift given as an example of our human potential and our immense value.
So we find ourselves visiting this little town of Bethlehem – along with many before us, some travelling afar and some through the magic of music. These words were written in 1868 by Phillips Brooks after his visit to Bethlehem in 1866. I chose the old English folk tune used by Ralph Vaughan Williams in 1906, not the one I’m most familiar with, but I found it to be quite lovely.
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.
For Christ is born of Mary and, gathered all above, while mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wond’ring love. O morning stars, together proclaim the holy birth, and praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is giv’n! So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heav’n. No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive Him still the dear Christ enters in.
What struck me most about these words was the atmosphere of silence that this story of love is set within. Silence. What, for some, is considered to be the greatest gift of love ever exhibited is done in silence. The peaceful night being watched by angels, dreamless sleep, no ear hearing the arrival of this wondrous gift.
We do not live in a world of silence. We live in a noisy world. We are loud. And, it often seems, the loudest among us are the most praised, the most valued, the most noticed. Yet in silent acts of love there is so much power. There are those in our midst that work tirelessly in silence. They simply live and give what is needed with no fanfare, asking no fee, receiving little thanks and requiring no instructions. They see needs and fill them. They see unrest and provide peaceful solutions. They live their lives expressing love – through all manner of acts, with all kinds of voices, in all sorts of places. They are grandparents who help raise their grandchildren. They are volunteers who give their time. They are teachers who provide school supplies for their students. They are children who make new friends. They are parents who buy food. They are protesters who walk for peace. They are artists who record our shared experiences. They are scientists who look for cures. They are sisters who knit warm scarves. They are brothers who fix cars. They are everywhere.
Whether we know it or not, we are all part of this little town of Bethlehem. Our lights can shine in the dark streets, silently giving our wondrous gifts. As we celebrate this season, may we love fully. May we love without need of repayment and without need of noise; calming fears and sharing hope.
How silently, how silently this wondrous gift is given.
We have looked for hope, considered peace and are now set to experience joy. Or, rather, we are told that we are in a joyous season. We are inundated with joyful music, images and endless explanations on how to make our holidays cheery – from how we decorate to how we wrap our gifts, dress ourselves and plan our various parties and gatherings. We are meant to be fully engaged in the happiest time of the year. Easier said than done.
The impending birth of this baby is meant to bring great joy. The significance, for those of the Christian faith, is immense – obviously something to celebrate. The ideals represented by this child’s life, even for those who may not hold these specific religious beliefs, can be powerful – selfless and unconditional love, kindness and justice for all, treating the least of us as the most valued of treasures. These are indeed ideals for which we should rejoice.
The words of this very old carol, originally from a 14thcentury chant, speak to our seasonal joy.
Resonet in laudibus cum iucundis plausibus
Sion cum fidelibus, Apparuit quem genuit Maria.
Let praises resound with joyful applause, Zion with the faithful: He has appeared who was borne of Mary.
There are many poetic translations of these words, and many variants used with this tune. I found this English version, by an unknown author, in the United Church of Canada’s hymnal.
Joy is now in every place, Christmas lightens every face; now be with us, in your grace, O hear us, bless us, holy Jesus.
May the star that shone that night, making your poor stable bright, fill our hearts with love and light, O hear us, bless us, holy Jesus.
Through the New Year let it stay, leading us upon your way, making Christmas every day, O hear us, bless us, holy Jesus.
Now and ever may we find your good news to fill our minds: peace and love to humankind, O hear us, bless us, holy Jesus.
What I appreciate about this particular interpretation, is its directive to fill our hearts with love and light throughout the year. The ideals of Christmas are meaningless if they only appear for this short season. They are meaningless if they are not lived every day. I know this has been said many times, in many ways, in many songs, in many cards. But it remains elusive. I sometimes marvel at the extent of the advertising at this time of year encouraging us to donate to our favourite charity. I assume it is because people are in a generous mood, and organizations need to benefit from this reality. But why is that? Do we not care for those less fortunate, those in need the rest of the year? Would the elderly not enjoy visits or concerts in July? Do children stop eating in February?
Advent is a season of anticipation. The celebration of the concept of joy is about what this anticipation promises. We are joyful because there is hope. We are joyful because we can make peace happen. Joy is not merely a superficial feeling of excitement or happiness in the short-term, it is a deep recognition of who we are and, consequently, what we have to give and what we are able to receive. If I am able to give something that brings another soul some peace, surely that is worthy of intense joy. If I am able to receive the hope that someone else offers, my joy – be it obvious or hidden beneath the weight of life – will begin to simmer. Its tiny light brightening whatever stable I find myself in. This kind of joy isn’t about sparkles and glitter. It is about understanding that we are one. We are stumbling through this world together, bumping into each other and all the circumstances that we encounter. But each little flame of joy we contain, lights the way for those around us, and for ourselves.
So applaud joyfully. Enjoy this season throughout the year. Sing loudly and give generously – of your time, your love and your joy. And if you are unable, for whatever reason, to find your joy, listen to those beside you. Feel their light warming your stable until you can find your own.
Hope. Peace. Joy. Love. The themes of Advent are filled with beauty. Or, rather, they promise beautiful things. In this season of anticipation, do we simply wait for these promises, or do we create them? As I think about Peace, I wonder how much we are really doing to ensure its arrival. Peace on earth, goodwill to all. We say it, we sing it. And yet, it eludes us.
This carol was written in 1872 by John B. Calkin, using the words of poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Written on Christmas Day in 1863, Longfellow was living in the midst of the American Civil War. His wife had died in a fire three years earlier, and his eldest son had signed up as a soldier without his father’s blessing, and was subsequently severely injured. It was a bleak time and these words reflect that.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, and wild and sweet the words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along the unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, a chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound the carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn the households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; “There is no peace on earth,” I said; “For hate is strong, and mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
The carol as we know it, leaves out some of these verses, but I actually think they are important. It may be that we are no longer hearing the thundering canons of the South drowning out our voices, but there is much noise that does so equally well. The words of the second last stanza were powerful in Longfellow’s time, as they are now. “For hate is strong, and mocks the song of peace on earth, good-will to men.” It is difficult to argue with this. We live in a hate-filled time. We live in a time of hostility and polarization. We could embrace diversity and dialogue, but instead we fight to be right with little regard for the impact on our neighbours, our communities, our world. Hate doesn’t promote peace. It requires us to lose together; it requires us to both be and create casualties.
The final verse offers some hope. As I read it, we must peal louder. For love to prevail over hate, it must be loud and strong. Love requires us to consider how every daily action is a reflection of its power, or its failure. Love requires us to understand that peace for the few means no real peace at all – and those of us who live in relative comfort, wealth and safety are, indeed, part of the few. Love requires us to look beyond ourselves and into the vastness that is this earth, filled with multitudes all seeking the same thing, and find ways to give the peace that we wish for ourselves. For our acts of peacemaking, be they large or small, collectively become the deeply ringing bells that proclaim again and again:
It seems it is once again time to shift into festive mode – actually, waiting until Advent to do so appears to be a bit slow when I think of the music and decorations that have, in most commercial settings, already plagued us for weeks. I do love the Christmas season, but I don’t love the excess or the elongation of its celebration for purposes of consumption. It is a strange time. It can be magical and warm and all things good. It can be crass and greedy and filled with loneliness.
As I thought about which carols I wanted to explore during this season, I referred to the ideals we usually reflect upon during advent. Hope, Peace, Joy and Love. It is fitting that we start with Hope. This old English carol came to mind. These words are clearly about the anticipation of who Christ will be – a Saviour, wearing a crown of thorns, sacrificing all for sinners’ benefit. Everything Christians generally celebrate during advent; the hope found in the impending birth.
The holly and the ivy when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood the holly bears the crown.
The holly bears a blossom, white as the lily flower, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, to be our sweet Saviour.
The holly bears a berry, as red as any blood, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to do poor sinners good.
The holly bears a prickle, as sharp as any thorn, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas day in the morn.
The holly bears a bark, as bitter as any gall, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ for to redeem us all.
But there is other wisdom to be found in these words. This carol, in this form, is likely from the early 1800s, although there is some claim of its words having been around in 1710. What is interesting is the symbolism of its language. This goes back to a much earlier time – probably before Christianity was widely practiced in England. A time when a deep connection to nature was prevalent. Both the Pagans and the Romans used evergreens to decorate in their winter celebrations (Winter Solstice or Yule and Saturnalia). The reason was simple – to remember that when everything else lies dormant, the green of spring and all its resulting sustenance will return. What a powerful example of celebrating renewal to come; of celebrating hope!
I also read an explanation of the way holly and ivy can grow intertwined in the forest – sometimes the holly prevails, sometimes the ivy. But they survive together. Different, competing, growing. And, ultimately, exuding a beauty that we can experience and consider as we make our way through the darkness of winter. It struck me that we are like the holly and the ivy. In our differences, we can be both competitive and intertwined. We can be prominent or subdued. But let us try to be alive and thriving as we cover this world with our hopeful beauty. Filling spaces that are dreary with life that is evergreen, reminders of the hope to be found in the Spring.
The rising of the sun and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
This week marks the final Sunday of the liturgical calendar. It is the end of the year – before we begin again with Advent. It is sometimes referred to as the Reign of Christ Sunday, or the Feast of Christ the King. It is a day when the anticipated kingship of Christ over all is fulfilled; when this reign is celebrated. Well, I suppose this leaves me feeling a little unsettled. I will admit to being uncomfortable with the language of class utilized in this celebration and in the associated hymns. I’m not entirely convinced that concepts of superiority are ideal when speaking of the Divine. I’m not convinced that Kings and Lords are our best metaphors for God. And I often wonder if imposing one faith practice on the world is more about the imposer’s reign than anything divinely inspired.
In looking at the hymns usually attached to this Sunday, many are full of this language – of the King, the Lord, crowns, sovereignty and a few hails. Not surprising. We live, and perhaps always have lived, in a society dominated by hierarchy. Those at the top are considered most valuable – and we seem to look to them as such. So it makes sense that we perceive the ultimate goal as achieving a reign over all. Our words of faith reflect that. Being uncomfortable with this language led me to this old hymn written in 1742, translated into English by Esther Bergen in 1959. What really struck me, however, was the tune. This tune was part of the oral tradition of Russian Mennonites and it is quite gentle and doesn’t really have that character of pomp usually associated with regal proclamations.
I will admit that hearing this in German did wonders to settle me, as I don’t understand it well enough to get bent out of shape! But since part of this project is to find meaning in places of discomfort, I did turn to the translation.
The Lord is king, O praise his name, O’er all the earth his grace proclaim! From age to age, from day to day, His wonders grow more gloriously.
Oh, see the mighty hand of God, His love and mercy changeth not! His blood and righteousness avail, His grace and pardon never fail!
This shall the song forever be Of saints before the crystal sea: O Christ, that on the cross hath bled, Hath safely through life’s valley led.
O Star that lights the pilgrim’s way! Our Lord of lords, our hope and stay! The head to whom we homage bring, The rock to which our faith may cling!
As I read through these words, I find an exclamation of personal faith. A celebration of that which has carried someone throughout their life. Acknowledgment of glorious wonders, safe leading, love and mercy. Praising the solidity of the rock clung to and the hope received. Yes, there is the language of kings here, but I like the way that it is a king’s grace, not power, that is being proclaimed. It is this that I find most comforting in my unsettled state.
Grace. The bestowing of love and mercy whether deserved or not. Such a challenge. But maybe this is what the end of the year and the beginning of the next is really all about. Looking back and seeing all the times we were able to give this gift, all the times we received it. All the times we missed its presence, by choice or accident, stubbornness or preoccupation. Considering how we may move forward into the realm of grace in the new year – choosing this beautiful act over our desire to reign supreme. Looking for the times others gift us in this way, and responding with gratitude and joy.
Understanding the concept of grace seems so critical to our ability to impact our world. So critical to defining the very best possibilities of who we can be. Perhaps it is this aspect of the sovereign that we should look to for guidance. Not power, ability to rule and maintain a position, acquisition of followers or dominance over all others. But rather, the ability to be gracious. The language of this Sunday implies superiority. The meaning of true grace implies something very different. It is not bothered by rank or power. It is concerned with generosity, kindness and love. May this be a year filled with grace, given and received. A sky full of stars lighting the way.
It is the first snowy day of the winter. And it is quite lovely. I know many dread this day – with its accompanying traffic problems, cold temperatures, snowsuits and boots, short days. But there is also a beauty in these tiny crystals of frozen water than never fails to amaze me. Another piece of our world that brings joy to children and photographers alike; playful exuberance and thoughtful chronicling of this sparkling wonder. And so, I thought of this hymn mostly because of its title. The morning stars were singing today as they looked upon the splendour.
When the morning stars together their creator’s glory sang, And the angel host all shouted till with joy the heavens rang, Then your wisdom and your greatness their exultant music told, All the beauty and the splendor which your mighty works unfold.
When in synagogue and temple voices raised the psalmists’ songs, Offering the adoration which alone to you belongs, When the singers and the cymbals with the trumpet made accord, Glory filled the house of worship, and all knew your presence, Lord.
Voice and instrument, in union through the ages spoke thy praise. Plainsong, tuneful hymns, and anthems told your faithful, gracious ways. Choir and orchestra and organ each a sacred off’ring brought, While, inspired by your own Spirit, poet and composer wrought.
Lord, we bring our gift of music; touch our lips and fire our hearts, Teach our minds and train our senses, fit us for this sacred art. Then with skill and consecration we would serve you, Lord, and give All our pow’rs to glorify you, and in serving fully live.
This is an old tune from around 1741, but the words were written in 1969 by Albert F. Bayly. He was a Congregationalist minister in England from 1928 to 1972. He began to write poetry and hymn texts in 1945 as a response to modern scientific knowledge and contemporary problems – one of a number of post-war hymn writers doing so at the time. He was inspired by nature and science, perhaps among the first to have this focus in their hymns.
I find these words quite interesting in that they comment on the beauty and wonder of creation, or nature if you prefer to think of it that way. Not unusual for a hymn, but he takes it a bit further by speaking of our ability to join the voices of the past as we sing. I love that. A large part of what these hymns mean to me, lies in that idea. Thousands of voices singing together over time about things that are so basic to our human experience. Beauty. The wonders of nature. Wisdom.
And then we arrive at the final verse and are reminded that music is a gift we bring. A gift. Something that we must be inspired to learn and master so that this sacred art is skillfully presented. What a challenge. Perhaps it is meant specifically for those of us that engage in music making, but I think it is more than that. We live in a spectacular world. When we hone our skills, whatever they may be, we reflect our surroundings. When we take the time to be our full selves, despite the struggles we all face, we begin to practice our sacred art. When we share our sacred art with the world, whatever it may be, whomever we cross paths with, we are giving this gift. We are serving and we are contributing.
So those tiny snowflakes in all their beauty and all the ways they make our days more difficult, can also remind us of our beautiful uniqueness and our need to work towards skillful ease. To fully live as we experience and serve those around us, our environment and our world. We give our gifts and are rewarded with morning stars singing together above our efforts; reflecting the beauty of our songs, our skills and our blessings.
Remembrance Day is complicated for those of us with a Mennonite heritage. Our belief system is firmly grounded in pacifism. Many of our ancestors were conscientious objectors and whole communities migrated numerous times in order to maintain this commitment. So each year when this day arrives, I have mixed feelings. I do not believe war is the answer, nor should it be glorified. But, there are those who have sacrificed much, including their lives and those of their family members, in wars that have resulted in freedoms from which I benefit. I do not wish to disrespect the different experiences and histories we all have with war. And, I suspect, very few wish this horrific human act upon anyone. Ever.
As I was looking for a hymn that addressed both my personal peace perspective and the reality of others’ service and sacrifice, I came upon this one. I don’t think I’d ever heard it, but the words speak to the possibility of peaceful interactions – whether we are serpent or dove.
And is the gospel peace and love? Such let our conversation be; The serpent blended with the dove, Wisdom and meek simplicity.
Whene’er the angry passions rise, And tempt our thoughts or tongues to strife On Jesus let us fix our eyes, Bright pattern of the Christian life.
O how benevolent and kind! How mild! how ready to forgive! Be this the temper of our mind, And these the rules by which we live.
The words are by English poet, Anne Steele, written around 1760. One account indicates that she was an invalid most of her life, and spent her time writing poetry and engaging in dialogue with “Dissenting” ministers. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I like the idea that this woman was challenging the status quo over 250 years ago.
Remembrance Day is a moment that allows us to consider tremendous loss. It is a time to honour those who gave of themselves – some willingly, others reluctantly. I believe we need to respect these lives. But as we do, we need to consider that all of them, and their families, would have preferred to live out their lives in peace. It is this fact that reinforces the idea that the act of remembering is an important reminder of what we still need to accomplish. As the oft used phrase states, to remember is to work for peace.
When I think of the idea of working together for peace, it seems so fundamental to what I’ve been taught all my life. But how do we do this when we have such varying perspectives? I don’t know. What I do know is that kindness, forgiveness and wisdom are far more effective weapons than hatred. I had a conversation this week with someone who spoke with such a hate filled perspective that I was stunned into silence and felt almost sick after the conversation was over. My immediate thought was to rid my life of this person (not easy in this situation). My second thought was that I had missed an opportunity to flatten the speaker with my own retorts. I’m not sure either response exhibits kindness, forgiveness and wisdom, and therefore provides no opportunity to encourage peaceful change. As I think about the next time I must deal with this person, I am acutely aware that I have a responsibility, as a pacifist and one who aspires to be decent, to engage with them in a way that reflects my values. I can neither be silent in my discomfort nor destructive in my response.
And so, we all work for peace in our small ways. It is not easy. It can cost us. But as we consider those who gave their lives, we must work towards an ideal where no more need be lost. It starts with our small interactions. It starts with living our values so they grow – treating people with respect, kindness and love. In wisdom and meek simplicity.
Anger. It is a complicated thing. It is often a manifestation of profound pain, frustration and sadness. It can be the thing that spurs us to action, that requires us to remedy a wrong. But it can also be a force of evil. Evil against others; evil against ourselves. We all feel it, and we all must come to terms with how it will inform our behaviour.
This past week we heard about another tragedy. Another group of innocents slaughtered for being who they were. Slaughtered in a place that should have been free from this kind of hatred. They join many who have found themselves the targets of hatred and have paid much too high a price. Children in their schools, young women studying at university, worshippers of all faiths, groups that are defined as different – and somehow wrong – from the majority, people simply walking down a street, crowds enjoying a concert or having a night out for some dancing. All these lives taken because we live in a time where ideology trumps safety. Our perceived rights are more valued than our necessary responsibilities – even if it means fostering a culture of hatred and destruction.
It makes me angry.
As I listened to the news this week, I was reminded of this hymn. When I was in high school, a girl a few years younger than I was abducted and murdered. At her funeral, our school choir sang this hymn. We were teenagers; children. We felt confusion, sadness, fear and anger. It was a powerful experience that I have never forgotten. I know it is often sung at funerals, especially those of children. It is not difficult to understand why. The words speak to a God that holds these lost ones with mighty arms; a refuge; protection that cannot be severed, in life or death. For those who adhere to a belief in God this is an enormous comfort.
Children of the heav’nly Father, safely in His bosom gather; nestling bird nor star in heaven such a refuge e’er was given.
God His own doth tend and nourish; in His holy courts they flourish. From all evil things He spares them; in His mighty arms He bears them.
Neither life nor death shall ever from the Lord His children sever; unto them His grace He showeth, and their sorrows all He knoweth.
Though He giveth or He taketh, God His children ne’er forsaketh; His the loving purpose solely to preserve them pure and holy.
As I read these words, they stir up many emotions. Because we are not always safe. And some of us are privileged to be much safer than others. And this disparity feeds my anger. I sometimes wonder at those who are so convinced of their religious superiority that they are unable to see that we have created a God that serves us and our needs, with little concern for those outside our doors. Who are God’s own? Who are her children? When we see our neighbours, near and far, slaughtered, do we ask ourselves what we have done to be God’s mighty arms on this earth? Do we fight to ensure every nestling bird is given refuge? Are we willing to make our purpose solely that of preserving all children, old and young, in the safety of our bosom?
Clearly, the answer is no. We might fight for those like us. We might get angry when we hear of horrific acts of hatred, but we have forsaken many. And their bodies are piling up – here, across borders, across the seas. Our anger is apathetic. Our anger seems to be less about protecting others than it is about justifying our own safety and quality of living. I know there are things in my own life that contribute to the problems of this world. I know I am rarely angry in a way that spurs me to action or makes a real contribution to change. When I am honest about this, my anger feels empty and pointless.
I reread these words and find hope in the possibility of who we can become. A culture focused on sparing all from evil things could be immensely powerful. I relinquish my weapon, just in case it causes you pain. I relinquish my privilege, just in case it steals from yours. I relinquish my religious superiority, just in case it diminishes all you hold dear. It is not that large a price to pay for the safety of all. For the ability of every star in heaven to shine with the splendour it was meant to have. For millions of stars shining together creates a sight of astounding beauty. One that benefits us all. One that lights all of our paths. Shine, children, with an anger that propels us forward into a world of safety and care. Gathered together. Pure and holy.
A few weeks ago, my church choir sang a choral arrangement of this hymn. A number of people commented to me afterwards on how beautiful it was, and how meaningful it had been to their worship that Sunday. So it stuck in my head and I thought I would have a think about it this week. The tune is an old American folksong from around 1828 and the words are, of course, Isaac Watts’ 1719 paraphrase of the 23rd Psalm. I suppose it is no surprise that these words are meaningful to many – they are so familiar and offer so much comfort.
My Shepherd will supply my need; Jehovah is his name. In pastures fresh you make me feed, beside the living stream. He brings my wand’ring spirit back, when I forsake his ways, and leads me, for his mercy’s sake, in paths of truth and grace.
When I walk through the shades of death thy presence is my stay. One word of thy supporting breath drives all my fears away. Thy hand in sight of all my foes, does still my table spread. My cup with Blessings overflows, thine oil anoints my head.
The sure provisions of my God attend me all my days. Oh, may thy house be mine abode, and all my work be praise. There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come, no more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home.
This is a hymn that speaks of great faith. Faith in something that will provide what we need – when we are in good places, bad places, self-inflicted negativity or situations beyond our control… always. But, as much as I suspect many want this kind of faith and the comfort it brings, it is often an enormous task to get to a place where we are wholly confident that all our needs will be met. Because sometimes they are not. Sometimes the pastures are filled with dead, brown grass and the stream is dry. Sometimes we can hardly breathe in the midst of our fear, our tables are bare and our homes cease to exist.
So, once again, I read these words as instructive. We all have different perceptions and understandings of the concept of God; adherence to one of many religious traditions or a preference to none. But I find that so often the ideals we have established about what God is, or what God does, seem to be descriptions of how we should behave. In some ways, it ceases to matter what the specifics of our religious leanings are as we take in the words of thinkers from our collective past. These words guide us if we are willing to consider what they can imply about how we live.
Do we provide food and water for those that cannot find them? Do we carefully lead people back from wrong decisions so they can live out their lives in truth and grace? Do we breathe safety into the spaces where some are facing illness or death? Do our hands hold those in deep fear and share blessings with all who are in need? Are our homes a home for whomever needs one, allowing them to be like a welcome child rather than a stranger or a guest?
These can be simple personal choices that we make, or they can be the greater acts of our communities, our cities, our countries. But we are failing. When I hear that we are more concerned about business success than paying fair wages, I cringe. When I hear that we are more concerned about saving money than ensuring safe drinking water for our Indigenous communities, I cringe. When I hear that we need more jails and crime control rather than programs and education that encourage the prevention of desperation, I cringe. When I hear that we must cut hospital’s nursing budgets rather than supporting this caring work, I cringe. When I hear that refugees are not welcome because they cost too much, I cringe. When I hear that people are not welcome because they are different and therefore perceived as a threat, I cringe. It is a selfish time. A time where good stewardship is limited to spending less in the moment. Period. With little or no consideration to long term costs, to the human or environmental impact. We have no idea what it is to be a shepherd.
As I’ve been thinking about these words, I keep asking myself if I am a shepherd. A shepherd tends to the sheep, guiding and directing their well-being and safety – the safety of the entire flock being the goal. It is a big job. It takes constant vigilance. We live in a time where most of us can barely look after ourselves. But this world needs us to be shepherds – for those that are falling off cliffs now, for those that need catching later. For ourselves, for our neighbours, for our families, for the strangers we have yet to meet – or will never meet. Our value, as part of the flock and as individuals, is both intrinsic and unknowable, as future contributions cannot be predicted. And, I suspect, when we are all safe, the settled rest we find becomes much, much more secure. For if one of us is in danger, all of us share the risks.
These words are personal and speak to what we will receive if we have this kind of faith, and some need it to be so. But if we choose to turn it around and consider what the world receives when we become shepherds, imagine the impact. Not strangers, but carers of this beautiful earth we call home and all its beautiful inhabitants. Each deserving of the love and care a shepherd provides. Each receiving that which makes their lives safe. Each learning to tend a flock that is filled with every possible kind of beauty, emotion and potential. What a joy.
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