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Who Is Your Neighbor?

A few weeks ago, at 7:48 in the evening, I received a text that caught me off guard:
“Hi Derek, sorry to bother you, but I鈥檓 not feeling well. I鈥檓 sitting on your neighbor鈥檚 steps to the right. Would you walk me home?”

The message was from our neighbor Sadie, an older woman who lives just around the corner. Over time, we had become casually acquainted鈥� thanks to my wife, who walks her dog and visits with her regularly. Sadie lives alone and is battling cancer, and my wife has made it a point to be present for her in small but meaningful ways.

That evening, though, my wife was out of town鈥擨 had just dropped her off at the airport鈥攁nd I was expecting a quiet, uneventful night. Instead, I rushed outside to find our neighbor sitting on the steps in the dark, exhausted from her trip home from the hospital.

Sadie had just started a new treatment, and the effects were debilitating. Weak and nauseous, she鈥檇 made it only a block from the bus stop to our house before having to stop. I tried to help her to her feet, but she immediately doubled over, clutching the tree in front of my house, vomiting. Every few steps triggered another wave, and she needed to stop again and again to regain her strength.

At one point, I brought out a chair so she could sit on the sidewalk, but she insisted she needed to get home because her dog was waiting for her. I asked her repeatedly if I should call an ambulance for her but she said no. The short walk to her house鈥攗sually just a few minutes鈥攚as beginning to feel like a challenging journey.

As the situation unfolded, I became increasingly aware of the cars passing by. I couldn鈥檛 help but wonder what they thought of this odd scene: a Black man and an older white woman stumbling along the sidewalk. Truthfully, I felt uneasy.

As a Black man in a predominantly white neighborhood, this didn鈥檛 feel safe for me. I was raised to avoid situations like this鈥攐nes that could easily be misinterpreted. A part of me wanted to call an ambulance right then and step back, to let someone else take over. Another part of me felt frustrated鈥攔esentful, even鈥攖hat I was in this position.

But as the minutes stretched into an hour, one question kept repeating in my mind:
“Who is your neighbor?”

And the answer was here in front of me.
Sadie is my neighbor.

It is amazing how much care and love you can gain for someone when you enter into their pain and allow yourself to know their struggle.听

This whole experience with Sadie of getting her back settled in her home was three hours of what normally would have been less than a 5 minute walk, and it profoundly impacted me. I was being invited, in that moment with her, not just to be a neighbor but to become a neighbor.听

The Gospel of Luke tells the story of Jesus sharing the parable of the Good Samaritan. It begins with a lawyer asking Jesus a profound question: 鈥淲hat must I do to inherit eternal life?鈥�

Jesus, not fully trusting his sincerity, turns the question back on him: 鈥淲hat does the law say?鈥�

The lawyer answers confidently: 鈥淵ou shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.鈥�

Jesus responds. 鈥淓xactly. Do that, and you鈥檒l live.鈥�

But the lawyer pressed further, asking a provocative follow-up: 鈥淎nd who is my neighbor?鈥�

When the lawyer asks, 鈥淲ho is my neighbor?鈥� he鈥檚 pressing Jesus to clarify something important: What are the limits of my moral and social obligations? In other words, he鈥檚 asking, Am I only responsible for people like me鈥攖hose within my group, my community, my comfort zone? Or, Does my responsibility extend beyond those boundaries to include people I鈥檇 rather avoid?

It鈥檚 a question that cuts to the heart of how we draw lines around who matters and who doesn鈥檛.听聽

Jesus answers the lawyer with a parable.

A Jewish man is traveling when he鈥檚 attacked by robbers. They leave him beaten and suffering on the side of the road. Two men鈥攁 priest and a Levite鈥攑ass by without helping him. Finally, a Samaritan comes along. He sees the man, has compassion, and cares for him.

This part of the story would have been shocking for Jesus鈥� audience. Jews and Samaritans had a long-standing feud, deeply rooted in political and religious tension. They didn鈥檛 just dislike each other; they were enemies.

When Jesus finishes the story, he asks the lawyer, 鈥淲hich of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who was attacked?鈥�

The lawyer answers, 鈥淭he one who showed him mercy.鈥�

And Jesus closes: 鈥淕o and do likewise.鈥�

These days I find myself asking the question: how do I love someone who doesn鈥檛 really care for me or even wants my destruction? What limits can I have to protect myself?

Jesus鈥� response doesn鈥檛 just redefine who is my neighbor鈥攈e redefines what it means to belong to one another. He shifts the conversation from determining the limits of my obligation to embodying the agency of love, one that acts in the world to dismantle barriers and insists that we all are interconnected.

This response, for me, is a hard saying: 鈥�go and do it.鈥� It鈥檚 not abstract. It鈥檚 not distancing. It鈥檚 not an idea. He鈥檚 saying do it.听

I have decided the only way to hold on to this is an embodied conviction that love is the decisive force that transforms the story of humanity鈥攆rom one of enslavement to one of redemption. This is a fierce loving, one that takes on fears with an unrelenting determination. A love that endures all, bears all, hopes all, and perseveres through the crushing weight of fear, self-loathing, and the fragmentation of shame. To hold an embodied conviction means this is not just mental assent, but something that shapes your choices, relationships, and presence. We must know this love ourselves to believe it is possible, that it has touched us in the midst of our fragmentation and shame鈥攖hat it can give us a future and a hope. Without this embodied experience it is hard to believe or trust.

That night with my neighbor Sadie, I realized being a neighbor isn鈥檛 always convenient. And in these times it asks us to face fears we鈥檇 rather avoid, to press through discomforts, and to step into situations that hold risk. At times, it will even ask us to love those who were formerly our enemies, because in becoming a real neighbor, one doesn鈥檛 turn away 鈥� it asks us to love ferocity.听

This fierce love brings us full circle to Jesus鈥檚 story of the Samaritan: to move toward our neighbor with compassion, even when it costs us, even when our fears threaten to hold us back. It is the love that sees the wounds of another and refuses to walk away, a love that understands our shared humanity and calls us to belong to one another. But it is more than just individual action鈥攊t is a communal response, a commitment to the restoration of all things. This love binds us together, heals what is fractured, and invites us into God鈥檚 grand story of redemption鈥攁 story where our neighbor or our enemy, their well-being is inseparable from our own, and where love transforms not just relationships, but our world itself. This is the love that restores, renews, and fiercely insists that we all belong. It is a love bigger than ourselves.听

This love reminds us that God鈥檚 work is always about restoration through the sacrificial love-work of Christ. It鈥檚 not just about being helpful in a singular moment; it鈥檚 about participating in something bigger鈥攖he healing of relationships, communities, and even creation itself.

So, I鈥檒l leave you with this question:
“Who is your neighbor?”

And when you find your answer, step toward them with courage, compassion, and a love that refuses to give up. Because that鈥檚 how we participate in God鈥檚 story of healing and renewal.

So, as Jesus says, 鈥淕o and do likewise.鈥� Embrace the story that God intends.

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This, of course, is not the first time I have been overwhelmed with grief as I mourn the senseless deaths of black men and women. One moment comes to my mind quite poignantly, as it links the past and the present. In 2015, I traveled with my wife to Montgomery, Alabama to be in conversations with a mixed-race group about racial trauma and incarceration. One afternoon we were asked to travel to the site of a lynching in Elmore County in the town of Wetumpka that occurred on June 17th, 1898. I found myself overcome with grief, on my knees in the dirt filling two-gallon jars with the brown and grey clay of Alabama soil. We filled four jars, each stenciled with a name, a city, and a date. The names belonged to the four black men lynched together that day.听

A hundred and seventeen years later, we had traveled to Wetumpka, Alabama to remember and honor these men whose lives were taken for unknown reasons. The remembering of these men was both an act of defiance and reverence, linking them to us, as we sang, prayed, and cried for Ham Thompson, Reese Thompson, Louis Spier, and Solomon Jackson.听

Those four names are joined by more each day, and were preceded by millions before them. The names stretch out and feel endless as we attempt to remember them, know their lives, and honor their stories…Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, Tony McDade, and George Floyd.

As someone who studies change, I know that some change can only come from disruption and disorder. While I do not condone or support violent expressions, I understand the need to re-affirm that the killings must stop. I was struck by the words of Max Bailey, a protester in Denver: 鈥淚f you can tell me something better for me to do鈥攊f you can tell me a way that we could change the world without trying to make noise like that, then I鈥檒l get out of the streets鈥� (CNN, Madeline Holcomb, 2020).

The tragedy is that we have yet to find the ways to make for justice and peace. None of us鈥攃onservative, progressive, or anywhere in between鈥攃an fully answer the question of how to find justice and peace for a nation toiling with its original sin of slavery.听

To call for peace without justice mutes the message of Jesus, decontextualizing the violence his body suffered and abstracting the tree he hung on, cheapens grace. Our hope is not in that Jesus escaped the humiliation, torture, and death, but that his death wasn鈥檛 the end of the story. Death will not be the end of our story.

Now, we have hard work in front of us. As a nation, we are at a crossroads. The status of our mistrust and divisions will tear us apart and we will not recover. This society will not hold together through coercion nor anarchy, but only through the rebuilding of trust. This means enemies must begin to hear truths from each other, and consistent action must be taken to lower the threat of harm to each other. There must be those who hold the center ground, those who can mediate a different relationship, those who can help us see past the splitting, those who offer a different love. We must be those who hear the gospel of Jesus as both a message of justice and grace.

We know that justice is not ultimately found in the streets. This is about being heard and being tired in the worst expressions of our trauma and rage.

The system will only change with the engagement of former combatants, those who believe that their very existence is linked together.听

When I came to this little school, my hope was that we would come to see our mission as more than training people to be therapists, pastors, social entrepreneurs, and artists. My hope was that we might learn to equip people to become agents of change鈥攍eaders in a movement through transforming relationships and mending society. My hope is that we might train people to serve others in healing their trauma鈥攏ot just from their own life and story, but the generational trauma carried in and between their bodies. I believe in this mission and have hope for the mending and re-weaving of the fabric of society.听

This is an extension of our mission into the world: serving God and neighbor through transforming relationships.听

May we be people of faith who do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. May our prayers not only be words鈥攎ay our prayers move into our hands and feet in service to our neighbor. May our cries for justice extend into our relationships and the fabric of our communities.听

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Today鈥檚 cultural moment is saturated with fear and anxiety arising from the invisible threat of coronavirus. The news is filled with stories of its spread. We hang on the words of health officials, hoping that their advice will be enough to protect us, but knowing that even these experts are finding themselves in uncharted waters.

This virus is particularly insidious because it puts our needs for connection at odds with our instinct to withdraw to avoid the contagion. In our desire to maintain purity, to prevent contamination, we draw back into isolation. We now recoil from the person coughing near us, we select our social engagements carefully or shun them altogether, and we no longer shake hands or exchange embraces when our church families gather. In fact, many of us can only attend services online.

It is important to take precautions. Not only do we care about our own health, but we have families鈥攃hildren or grandparents, people with whom we interact who might be more susceptible to sickness. We need to consider how our actions impact them, too. But where is the line between caution and being driven by our fears? Are there precautions that protect the body but harm the soul? How do we reach out to one another when touch is what we fear? How do we maintain our social ties? How might we love our neighbor?

I find myself wrestling with these questions, wondering how we can operate in this tension when connections are both the threat and the cure. I decided that reaching out in small ways was important as we try and understand this new normal. After all, we still need community. We need people to care for us, in health and sickness. And we need to be caregivers, too. Texting ten friends, just to check on them was more rewarding than I imagined. I can鈥檛 say what, if anything, this brief interaction meant for them, but for me, it pushed away my feeling of separateness, even if only for a few minutes. At the heart of who we are is a desire to be heard, felt and known.

Please join me in making small connections, communicating in simple ways, and may we find our way forward, not in fear, but with a moving compassion.

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When I was about six years old, I can remember sitting on the front row of Holy Trinity Baptist Church in Philadelphia next to my father. He was a deacon in the Church and it was his usual place to be seated up front. However, for some reason I was seated with him. I normally sat with my sister and mother on the second row, off to the right of the pulpit, underneath the stain glass windows. But on this Sunday, I was on the front row, slightly fidgety and playing with toys and drawing to hold my attention.

At some point during the service I looked up from my play, the way kids do to check on their parents, and I saw his face. My father was crying. Something in the service moved him and he began to weep quietly. I was fixed on his face, I had never seen him cry like this. I could tell these were not just joyful tears, but a sorrow released. I remember wanting him to compose himself, but at the same time I had never seen this deeply into who he was. He seemed so willing to let tears come, to reveal how much he needed G-d in that moment.

I didn鈥檛 ask anything, but I remember moving away from him, the way you move to avoid an awkward situation. I鈥檇 never seen him cry and the vulnerability made me feel a bit unsure. Eventually, he took out his white handkerchief, wiped his eyes and nose and returned to being the man I knew. I don鈥檛 remember the rest of the service, but I will never forget this moment with him. In no other spaces of our life together had I seen him this open. I knew of his sense of duty, but not of his devotion. G-d was important to him and he felt safe enough that he could bring his humanness to G-d and know he would not be shamed.

At times this is the way I hold G-d, much in the way I reacted to my father鈥檚 vulnerability. I desire to experience the love of G-d in the humanity of Jesus, but I still at times resist the accessibility of the incarnation. G-d enters the world through Jesus as a child, vulnerable and quite human. The idea that Jesus was 鈥渂orn of a woman鈥� speaks to His humanity, and in this embodied form, differed from us only in that he knew no sin. It has become easy to dismiss the humanity of Jesus for His divine attributes, but this only serves to put G-d out of reach psychologically and emotionally; to make Him an outsider to our experience. You see, it is in this accessibility of weakness that G-d reveals the invitation to belong, not just to Him, but to each other. G-d discards omnipotence to dwell in human flesh, to be touched and touch, to be held and known. G-d is not here fully human as a threat, not here as the Son to condemn, but to join, and to make us family anew.

Advent is an invitation to move towards G-d and to be moved by a G-d who is with us, who is active in human affairs. I first learned of G-d through the vulnerability and devotion of my father. It was not something I understood at this early age, nor accepted as my own until years later, but I saw in him what it meant to belong to Jesus.

In this season, may we find the safety to accept the proximity of G-d and the courage to embrace the healing intimacy of belonging鈥攖o G-d and to each other.

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To continue the conversation, you can also read Elliot Huemann鈥檚 vital plea that the stories and pain of LGBTQ+ Christians be heard honestly, Jennifer Fernandez鈥檚 thought-provoking reflection on the dangers of conflating the Church and Christianity, and Kate Davis鈥檚 hope-filled reminder that even when the body of Christ is wounded, it is not broken and it is not without hope.

In the wake of the UMC vote on Human Sexuality, I鈥檝e become increasingly concerned that we are losing the capacity to see relationally and to hear each other beyond social categories. I have noticed a familiar tendency, in what started as an international vote concerning a global denomination is turned into a particularly American discussion鈥攗niversalizing themes and inflections that are firmly located in our national political, religious, and social discourse. This shortchanges our understanding of the complexity of our human discourse and limits our ability to listen deeply.

To raise this point is not to intellectually diminish the real rejection and pain felt across the UMC denomination. The voices in this discourse matter, and I pray that we continue listening to the stories and honor the tears of those who have felt harmed and isolated by this vote, who have experienced the last few weeks as the deepening of an old wound. And may we also remember that there are voices鈥攂eyond and within our borders鈥攚ho do not easily fall into the familiar categories and talking points of our national discourse. This, it seems to me, is the complexity of the global conversation; even through our wounds, can we see those who have also been wounded? A relational hermeneutic invites us to cross ethnic, economic, gendered, and political boundaries to consider the contextual concerns of those outside the boundaries of our discourse.

鈥淓ven through our wounds, can we see those who have also been wounded?鈥�

The vote in late February was relatively close鈥�. Forty-three percent of those voting were international delegates, primarily from African nations, a majority of whom joined a coalition of conservative American delegates in voting for the Traditional Plan. This was very much a vote of global representatives, and the conversation around it is, in some ways, a microcosm of America鈥檚 present and historic relationship with the other countries represented.

To be clear鈥攖here are no easy, tidy takeaways from this vote, from the centuries-old dynamics that led up to it, or from the reactions and conversations in the wake of it. But perhaps that is, in itself, a meaningful reminder: in our discussions, responses, sermons, and even in our grief, may we allow room for the complexity and nuance that is asked of us to live as the global body of Christ.

My hope for 天美视频, and for the Church in America, is that we follow Jesus by continuing to wade into that complexity without resorting to caricatures or escaping to easy, familiar answers. May we be a place that struggles, a place that is willing to speak truth to systems of power that have caused harm鈥攍istening to and amplifying the voices of those who have been harmed, while also asking hard questions of ourselves and each other about the structures that undergird those systems.

As we continue unraveling this thread, it becomes clear to me that our engagement of the discourse following this vote cannot be separated from our ongoing engagement of cultural supremacy, and the intersections of whiteness, patriarchy, and colonialism. Because sometimes white supremacy is expressed through the violent racism of pointed robes and burning crosses, and sometimes it looks more like the implicit assumption that 鈥減rogressives鈥� in America are more advanced and are waiting for the rest of the world to catch up鈥攐r the more traditionalist assumption that the only civil or functional civilizations are of European descent. No matter how it is expressed, an assumption of supremacy disrupts our capacity to see relationally.

No matter how it is expressed, an assumption of supremacy disrupts our capacity to see relationally.

This means we must resist a posture that suggests the international Church鈥攑articularly churches in Africa鈥攊s too 鈥減rimitive鈥� in its social evolution, still behind the progress of the Church in the United States. And we must question the narrative that says delegates from African nations only voted a certain way because they ascribe to the theology exported to them by colonialist missionary practices. While it is true that the conflation of colonialism and mission is a crucial part of our shared history, that argument all too easily denies agency to other nations, denies that their own contexts, traditions, social mores, and histories also inform how they speak in these global conversations.

If you haven鈥檛 noticed yet, there are more questions implied in this essay than there are answers. That might not be a satisfying conclusion, but I do not believe we can arrive at meaningful answers without first sitting in the painful tension of these questions, in all of their history and nuance and complexity. And I don鈥檛 know how we do that as a global Church without falling into old patterns or reenacting old wounds鈥攐r if we can do that, in our present context. But I do know that a relational hermeneutic means there are certain things we cannot work on from a distance, and I know that we can turn toward each other now at a local, relational level. That is my prayer: that we would turn toward relationship in times of unrest and division, when it can be tempting to veer toward isolation over connection, or toward resistance without community.

And so I say again: May we be a place that struggles. May we listen to the cries of our LGBTQ siblings whose pain feels raw and urgent after this vote and the conversations in its wake. May we listen to the Church beyond our borders when they say that the Jesus they believe in looks different than what we鈥檙e asking of them. May we listen to each other, to the questions and stories that are too often silenced. And may we listen, all of us, to the voice of the Spirit that continues to call us together as the local, global body of Christ.

In the hope of fostering faithful dialogue that understands narrative, wrestles with intersections, resists reactivity, and fosters radical hospitality, we seek to feature work from a wide range of backgrounds and perspectives. Therefore the opinions expressed on the Intersections blog are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect an official statement regarding the views or opinions of 天美视频. You can read more on the Intersections landing page.

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Dr. J. Derek McNeil, President and Provost of 天美视频, reminds us that the challenges of the wilderness are part of the quest toward transformation. Looking to the story of Jesus, we can learn something of what it means to submit ourselves to the unfolding narrative of God, yielding ourselves to the movement of transformation and the call to collective healing.

I鈥檝e always been drawn, with deep curiosity, to the stories of heroic figures who pursue the quest to find their purpose and place in this life. They face a challenge, endure, and then overcome it during a journey to know what it is that they must offer as a gift to humanity. Of course, the heroes in these great stories tend to save the world, but I was equally drawn to their own transformation and the wisdom they gained about living. I must confess: the little boy inside of this man remains curious even to this day. How do some people go through challenges and gain a deeper understanding, while others seem to cycle in and out, never fully aware of what makes for peace?

The narrative of Jesus being led by the Spirit into the wilderness, as told in Luke 4:1-13, is a transforming story, and the parallel for the season of Lent. It signaled a shift from Jesus鈥檚 identity as a young and gifted teacher to that of the prophet-priest-sovereign who, under divine authorization, would usher in an age of restoration and peace. The 40 days and nights in the wilderness were a threshold space, a place of trial and testing. Referenced over a hundred times in the Bible, the number 40 is often used as symbolic language for liminal or threshold space, the time of transition between 鈥渨hat was鈥� and 鈥渨hat is to come.鈥� At these thresholds, where the transformative authority of G-d is found in new ways, Evil often steps in to subvert, distort, or stall what G-d intends to reveal.

For Jesus, alone and physically depleted in the wilderness (Matthew 4:11), Evil comes not as an accuser of sin, but as an enticer attempting to alter the salvation narrative that G-d has purposed for G-d鈥檚 Son. In the Luke passage, Jesus is led into the wilderness by the Spirit of G-d, to a place uninhabited and uncultivated鈥攖he place where Jesus must face isolation and physical distress.

The devil tempts Jesus in three ways that often parallel our own struggles: excessive self-reliance and self-sufficiency, worshiping the wrong things (idolatry), and striving to be significant and seen as powerful. Jesus is invited, prodded, and urged to sate his hunger by turning stones to bread, to assume power by aligning with the devil, and to prove that he is the Son of G-d by forcing G-d鈥檚 hand. In response, Jesus does not deny the presence of hunger and yearning, but he recognizes a deeper truth: aching hunger cannot be satisfied by simply consuming, aspirations cannot be met in counterfeit ways, and heroic purpose cannot be found in grandiosity. So Jesus resists the invitation to feed himself, restrains his aspirations to remain aligned with G-d, and submits his will to a larger, eternal purpose.

鈥淗eroic purpose cannot be found in grandiosity.鈥�

That quest of resistance, restraint, and surrender is not merely about piety or avoiding sin. This is the moment when heaven and earth come near as Jesus assumes the mantle of the Son of G-d, and it is a moment that foreshadows and speaks to our own wilderness seasons鈥攊ncluding the present desert-wandering we face collectively.

I have felt much grief in this current desert season. We continue to face acute, chronic, and enduring threats that make this Lenten season feel like a true wilderness for many. COVID has caused us to live in isolation from one another. The chronic struggles of political strife have driven a wedge through the middle of our nation, and created communities of contentiousness. The enduring pain of colorism has made itself undeniably present, expressed in the fears of white bodies and the continued threat against yellow, brown, black, and Native bodies. The wilderness we have entered is fragmented, devoid of trust, and drained of spiritual vitality. It is a place of scarcity, not one of abundance鈥攁 place where it is all too easy to hear those familiar temptations: You鈥檙e hungry? Consume without thought, without rest. You feel out of control? Grasp for power now鈥攆ight for your place at the top. You claim to belong to God? Make Him act on your behalf.

In response to that voice of quick fixes and momentary satisfaction, may we look again to the example of Jesus, who guides our way in the wilderness. Turning from the allure of self-aggrandizement and shallow satisfaction, Jesus re-committed himself to his calling and the quest ahead. In doing so, he was endowed with a new authority and a deeper power that was to be poured out on behalf of others. For Jesus, self-actualization was never the goal of the quest; the true end of Jesus鈥� wilderness transformation was only realized in the new life he brought to others, the life he continues to spark in us.

When the devil narrowly defined the problem in immediate and physical terms, Jesus pointed toward deeper yearnings and the true source of life. When the devil urged him to co-opt the larger narrative, Jesus answered not by demeaning or belittling himself, but by remembering there is a larger story and a truer calling ahead for him. When the devil questioned God鈥檚 love and willingness to act on his behalf, Jesus replied from a place of patient strength.

And may it be so for us. The lessons of the wilderness cannot be boiled down to easy advice or three steps to successful living; they are a challenge of transformation and purpose. The 40 days and nights of Lent is a time of physical, emotional, and spiritual preparation for transformation, and a reminder that change is not without struggles. We, too, have faced challenges and trials in desert seasons. We, too, will be urged to grasp for vision before its maturity, or to make our own transformation an ultimate end rather than an empowerment for collective healing. In those times in the wilderness, now and still to come, may we find the strength to trust G-d to supply our daily bread, may G-d give us a future and our hopes, and may G-d give us a new name.

Featured art: by Ilya Repin

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You see, Advent now is not an invitation to those who are searching for a new faith, but a challenge to the people of God who have become parched and disheartened. For many, this year鈥檚 Advent invitation comes as an appeal to practice sacred community and to resist the fragmentation of a distracted life. For others, it鈥檚 an appeal to hold on to the hope that the anguish of life today will not overcome the possibilities of a redemptive tomorrow. To those who experience exile in body, mind, or spirit, Advent reminds us that God is still active in human affairs, and that our todays will not be our tomorrows.

In the Old Testament narrative, the coming of the Moshiach (Messiah) held a different resonance for those who lived through periods of exile. They may have dreamed of the return of the Kingdom of Israel, but the displacement of their identity, and the wounds to body and soul would force hope to whither. They had to face the reality that the structural and spiritual constraints of their exile would not easily be overcome. Their stories and songs of resilience and endurance were embodied in ritual practices and drew on Jewish cultural and spiritual resources. Rehearsing the stories and songs of the Exodus transformed their present hardships into the collective ongoing history of a suffering people. For within this tradition is the promise of God that a Messiah would come and end the displacement of homelessness and the era of strife and struggle. Those who could wait and engage life faithfully will be comforted, for what was possible can be possible again, what was promised will come to pass. They were compelled to live as though the future exists in the present.

The Christian tradition also asks us to live as if we are not at home, to anticipate the coming of the Christ and to faithfully engage the present. Today this will not be an easy task because we are experiencing dramatic cultural displacement both globally and nationally. The politics of self-interest have dominated our national conversations, fractured old wounds and strained social relations. The Christian Church has not only failed to avoid the political strife, but appears in moments to be embroiled at the center of it. I cannot recall a time in the recent history of the United States when I felt that the Protestant Church was in more conflict with itself and the society. I know this is hard-wearing and for many a painful acknowledgement, but unfortunately it is not an overstatement. We are in a time of deep transition and social change, and the fragmentation of the society is no less evident within the Christian Church. We have become despairing and detached, connected around our fears and alienations, but not the songs of God鈥檚 presence. More importantly, we seem less able to hold an imagination for the mystery and majesty of God in a world of diminishing belief and trust.

The Advent season invites us to remember, reimagine and then embody the future hope in the present. It is an invitation to pursue the presence of Christ and to live the sacred in this moment. Like those in the Old Testament who found themselves in exile, I would suggest it begins with remembering our stories and songs, those that identify all humanity as the beloved of God. Our songs do not alienate Jew nor Gentile, male nor female, slave nor free, but raise one humanity adopted into union with God. This means we, too, must rehearse the stories of a people who were deeply troubled and distressed and then redeemed and restored. Without these memories stirred, we have fewer means to turn our tears into joy and to integrate the bitter with the sweet. We must also learn to dream again and risk disillusionment. We must learn to imagine beyond the boundaries of mundane life and to take up the quest for shalom. We must learn to take in this Jesus who calls us to inhabit and practice an uncommon community and a generous hospitality. We must learn to sing songs of our lament in the midst of celebration; songs of both dissonance and resonance. If we let them, these songs and stories can stir our memories, soothe our bodies and release our spirits. For they hold anticipation in Christ that a new era will emerge, and this hope is without shame.

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