There'll Be Peace in the Valley
Joel 2:12-13, 28-29
12 Yet even now, says the Lord,
return to me with all your heart,
with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;
13 rend your hearts and not your clothing.
Return to the Lord, your God,
for he is gracious and merciful,
slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love,
and relents from punishing.28 [a] Then afterward
I will pour out my spirit on all flesh;
your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
your elders shall dream dreams,
and your young people shall see visions.
29 Even on the male and female slaves,
in those days, I will pour out my spirit.
Nothing bolsters my faith like peace. Not just because peace is this transformative power that draws me deeper into the holy, but because if I, as an anxious, distractible, and cynical person am able to recognize peace…it surely did not come from my own production or effort, but only through the grace of God. That’s not to say I can’t contribute to ways that either support or restrict peace, but ultimately it isn’t something to be conjured up.
I’m so tired of what seems to be a fruitless pursuit of peace. I’m tired of hearing and saying things that seem to put lipstick on a pandemic. I’m tired of trying to convince myself that the morsels of goodness we scrounge for in these days count as a full meal. I wonder…what is it that you are weary of?
Perhaps these too are appropriate sentiments for Advent.
On this Sunday where we consider the promise of peace in the anticipation of Christ, the Prince of Peace…
we are met with a text of mourning. The prophet Joel speaks to a people who look around them and see nothing but destruction. Everything is in ruins. It’s not only in the form of human harm, but creation itself suffers. Land plundered and burned, animals crying out to God for water … all of earth seems to lament. With resources devoured, Judah will not have anything material to offer in worship of the Lord, nothing visible or tangible to demonstrate their devotion. How then will they offer a sacrifice and repair the relationship with their God? How can they be connected to God and goodness?
Yet even now, God speaks to the possibility of holy communion – not just bread and cup, but what they ultimately point to - to God drawing near, in, and with the people.
These first verses are ones traditionally read on Ash Wednesday, ushering us into a Lenten season of lament and repentance. Perhaps Advent calls us into its own form of these things. Fasting, weeping, mourning, and rending apart.
Whereas Lent prepares us for death and new life, Advent approaches a time of new birth. It seems similar enough, but the subtle differences cast a distinct tone on how we might experience and engage these things. I am tired of both hearing and saying that this time of tribulation has something to teach us, that we are being invited to consider what is central when the trappings of the season are lost. And yet, this reflection unveils fresh new layers with the passage of time. The questions holds but my experience changes as do the landmarks of meaning. What does “alleluia” mean when there will be no trumpets or confetti on Easter? How can our spirits be lifted when the songs don’t reverberate off arched beams? How can reheated Chinese takeout eaten out of a coffee mug because it’s the last clean dish that resembles a bowl…become a sacred meal when there is so much distance from those across the table from us? How can we possibly speak of mercy, vision, gratitude, hope, and peace…in these days of turmoil?
I am cautioned by the prophets like Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Micah who warn against crying “peace, peace, when there is no peace” - warning that it is not only misguided but even dangerous to announce peace when there is none because The Word of God should not be reduced to superficial soothing.
And yet even now…God whispers, come and see. Return. Release. Rend open your hearts.
Over the past week, in our household, we have been putting out the seasonal decorations. And so the time for endlessly sweeping glitter and plastic pine needles from the floor has arrived. Hanging garland and arranging the mantle were boring enough tasks to everyone else in my house that I got to do it by myself. Which really shouldn’t be as satisfying as it was, but oh, it was. The tree, however, was a different story. My preferred approach of gently controlling the final product (with what I’m sure is convincing subtlety to the rest of my family) was quickly established as folly. I wish I could tell you I embraced the moment of messy togetherness with grace and wisdom. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve been here. But I will confess that first I’d have to travel through the seven levels of candy cane forest hell, through the sea of swirly-twirly feelings of frustration.
And then, day after day, our cats also wanted to contribute by repeatedly rending apart my casually draped (but carefully pinned) tree skirt. So yesterday…to try and create a fortified barrier that will keep our cats from ripping apart the tree skirt again and again…I also decided to start wrapping presents to weight the thing down. Again, I made beautifully organized piles of paper, ribbons, bows, and baubles…not to control, of course…but to…support? our construction of insta-worthy packages tied up with string. Which…as it turns out, is just not how my independent and helpful 9-year-old likes to roll. And listen, I get that it’s all going to be destroyed in a matter of minutes on Christmas morning…but that just doesn’t change my guttural response to the situation.
So as I sit there, trying to not snap…Elvis Presley’s Christmas album is spinning in the background singing “There’ll be peace in the valley someday.” While Elvis may croon, these words of the prophet Isaiah were set to verse by black minister Thomas Dorsey and intended for the illustrious gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson. Before arriving at this promise of peace the first lines pour out the soul: “I’m tried and weary, but I must go along.” Only afterward does the chorus arrive declaring “there’ll be peace in the valley someday, for me. There’ll be peace in the valley for me.”
I wonder about the call to repentance, the call to return to God through lament, as a call to release, to let loose our grip. I wonder if, rather than by quiet forest streams, peace is not more profoundly present precisely in the time of giving voice to what is missing or altogether lost in ways already known to our hearts. I wonder if peace doesn’t always sound like soft rain or chirping birds, but can also be known in a good cry or a primal scream as we release all of it.
When lighting the candles doesn’t spark joy or we don’t even feel up to trimming a tree, perhaps we are opened to notice that those were always the tools to help point us toward meaning, but not the place it truly resides. It doesn’t mean that we won’t grieve in the process of releasing our grip on what has held our hope in the past. And by release, I don’t mean “giving up”, nor even “giving it to God”, but to fall into and maybe even lean into the possibility that goodness still remains beyond our grasp of it.
In the way that the tomb of resurrection moves from full to emptied, perhaps the womb of advent moves from empty to full - the strange kind of fullness that lives both within and beyond you and kicks you in the ribs sometimes. And in this womb’s rending open…it is as if we, alongside Christ, take our first full breath.
In the garden, when all is cleared away, the place where stem and root meet is revealed and both can breathe again. Peace is that thing that soothes the spiritual swelling so that there is room enough for deep, full, life-giving breath - room enough for visions and dreaming - not only in the places and people where we have known them before but in every corner of being. It points us to and brings forth a horizon of holy imagination. The same act of pouring out bares our heart and fills with Spirit. The high places are made low and the lowly lifted up.
Now the bear will be gentle
The wolf will be tame
And the lion shall lay down with the lamb, oh yes
And the beast from the wild
Will be led by a child
I'll be changed from this creature that I am.
Oh, there’ll be peace in the valley for me, some day
There’ll be peace in the valley for me, I pray.
Amen.