Christmas in Afghanistan

Though Christmas Day has come and gone, some of its remnants still linger in our midst, as we pass around specially sewn stockings filled with lotion, shaving cream, and laundry detergent and continue to munch on the hundreds of cookies that were mailed to us for our holiday party. The Army may not recognize the “Twelve days of Christmas,” but Task Force Viper is enjoying a little extra cheer this week. Whether it is a stocking filled with goodies, a Christmas pillow case, or a needed sugar rush which helps stave off drowsiness, we have all been reminded through the generosity we have experienced throughout the holidays that we are loved and supported by many, family and strangers alike.

In some ways, though, Christmas in Afghanistan has seemed a little counterintuitive. We are in a combat zone, after all. While we may not live with an imminent threat of violence in our camp, the reality of war is all around us. We watch as air support races through the skies, responding to those injured on the battlefield, and we know that many US service members and allied personnel are always in danger. Even we hear the warning sirens sound. It doesn’t help morale to have the threat of a rocket attack constantly interrupting business and, in many cases, sleep.

We also read the news. Reports of a suicide bomber at a funeral not too far away from us in the Kabul area and multiple churches being targets of terrorism on Christmas Eve throughout the region have demanded that we pause both our work and our celebrating to recognize that all is not calm nor bright, not here, not really anywhere.

But, maybe that’s the point. Maybe those of us who are deployed this Christmas, away from our families and loved ones and instead clinging to strangers we hardly know, have the opportunity to experience an aspect of Christmas which is very important, yet hardly noticed when we are surrounded by the comforts of home. These days, we have faced the tension of hope and promise in a dark world, the same tension that was present on that holy night when Jesus was born into a lowly stable. For those whose job is guarding detainees or doing analysis of intelligence reports about potential threats, having the audacity to celebrate the coming of Christ this year is a bold proclamation. Despite the darkness which threatens to overcome Good News, we gather to pray and praise God nonetheless. We hold on to words which remind us that this light of God cannot be overcome, even by the darkest night.

At the end of our Christmas Eve service, like many in churches around the world, we lit the Christ candle in our Advent Wreath and then passed its light around to each worshipper. The lights dimmed, and we sang Silent Night, watching as bouncing candle light spread throughout the room. Once the light was fully shared, still singing, we filed out of the church into the Afghan night, bringing the light of Christ into the world. There were no bells, no organ recessional or verses of Joy to the World to usher in Christmas Day. Instead, in our circle of light, juxtaposed starkly with this dark place, we proclaimed the best news of all-- Emanuel. God is with us.

Christmas Eve Sermon

CH (CPT) Mary Baars
Nine Lessons and Carols
Camp Sabalu-Harrison

Christmas Eve

We have just heard a remarkable story, a story of unlikely friendship between God and us. It is first a story of our turning away from God, but, more importantly, it is a story of God coming to us and embracing us, nonetheless. This story begins with death, “For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.” Yet, it ends with life in Christ, “A life that is the light of all people.”

Our service this evening is not completely unique to Camp Sabalu-Harrison. It is a service that has been celebrated by Christians around the globe for almost a hundred and fifty years. When I decided to plan a service of Lessons and Carols, the first thing I did was look up the traditional scripture readings to see what was in store. When I read over our first lesson, it didn’t really feel like Christmas to me. Were they kidding? The fall of humanity, the origin of sin, and all of this ending with those words which we hear primarily at funerals, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” I seriously considered making a game time substitution.

But tonight, hearing all of our scripture read, it is obvious that each verse is an important piece of our whole story. As difficult as it is to be reminded about our turning away from God, it helps us to put in perspective just how astonishing God’s gift of love really is. For God became flesh and lived with us. We turned away, but God loved us and dwelt among us anyway.

This is what tonight is all about, celebrating the fullness of God’s love. On a night, not too different from this one, in a lowly stable, not too far even from where we gather here, the world was forever changed. We heard the state of things in the world after the fall. Pain, terror, unnecessary death and suffering, yet into this darkness, Jesus Christ was born. It is an amazing thing when you consider it. God could have done anything, using immeasurable power and indefatigable resources, but what God chose was to simply be with us-- Emmanuel. God’s answer to a fallen and broken world was to become fully present with us.

So honoring God’s gift of presence, we, in turn, offer this gift of presence to one another. Christmas is a time for being in the presence of those we love because this is what God has done. For those of us who are deployed this year, these may not be the Christmas circumstances that we would hope for. There may be others with whom we would rather share this day. Yet, I can’t help but see the parallels between our Christmas setting and that very first Christmas. Mary and Joseph, far from home and family, shared this most important day, the birth of their son, not with loved ones but with a random assortment of strangers, some high in rank, others dusty from their work in the fields. But on that night, on that most holy night, what mattered most was that they were there together, ready to worship God with us.

In just a few minutes, we will finish lighting the Advent Wreath, proclaiming that Christ has come by singing Silent Night and passing the light around the Chapel. But the Good News we celebrate tonight, the Good News of God’s presence among us, is that this light is not contained in this church or among this people. It is a light given for the whole world. On our final verse of Silent Night, we will take this light of Christ out of this place, sharing this Good News with the whole world. The light, this true light, shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. May it be so. Amen.

Red Cross Message

There are times when the “right” thing to say evades me. This used to bother me a lot when I was a new pastor. Even before I was ordained and spent a summer doing a chaplaincy internship at a VA hospital, I used to dread the “on call” pager. I probably prayed more for myself that summer and how I would respond when that pager went off than I ever prayed for my patients. But, I had enough wherewithal to realize that no matter how hard I prayed for the right words, there would be times when no words would suffice.

A few days ago, I got one of those phone calls. When deployed, the official way to notify a service member of either a death or serious injury in the family is through the Red Cross. The message filters through a couple of channels and along the way, the chaplain is typically called to be a part of the notification process. Having to deliver a Red Cross message is never an easy thing. It is an occasion where there really is no “right” thing to say.

Because the information is guarded and private, details rarely come through over the phone. Once I get the call that there is a Red Cross message, I have to wait at least as long as it takes me to walk to the company area, before I know who I will be seeing and what exactly has happened. Those are excruciating minutes. Perhaps my coping is extreme, but I tend to picture the worst possible case scenario, and then start imagining myself as a part of a support team for a soldier who has just received this devastating news. I inevitably have a moment when I wish I could just disappear, but then something draws me back into the present moment. I realize that this, more than anything else I may do, is what being a pastor is all about.

Back when I was a hospital chaplain and concerned that I would fail as a spiritual presence for a person or a family, a wise friend reminded me that I wasn’t bringing God into the room with me. God was already there. I was just illuminating where God had been all along. I think of this often, especially when I am not sure what it means to offer spiritual support when I am unsure of what kind of faith or spirituality I am dealing with. Do I offer to pray when I don’t know whether or not the person is interested in prayer or even God, for that matter? I continue to struggle with this question in the pluralistic environment in which I find myself. Prayer is not something to force upon another person. But, there are times when a person wants prayer, but doesn’t know how to ask for it. There is no formula. Often it is awkward and less than seamless. Always, I realize how small I am, and more, what a privilege is it to be with any person in the midst of a valley of darkness. I wait for the Holy Spirit to guide me. At least, every once in a while, I am still enough to hear.

As I journeyed with my soldier in the aftermath of his bad news, hanging out with him as he packed, helping to carry his bags to the air terminal, and then waiting with him as he prepared leave, I realized the significance of presence. After a while, it was time for him to board his plane. We gathered around him, creating a circle of support, offering hugs and handshakes. I will be the first to admit, I had nothing “right” to say. But, he left us to face whatever grief or difficulty that waited for him, knowing that he was not alone. I can’t think of what I would want said if I faced a similar tragedy, but I do know that a memory of friends standing with me, helping me to face my darkness, might go a long way.

Sunday Sermon December 18, 2011

CH Mel Baars
Luke 1:26-38
Camp Sabalul-Harrison

“Let it be with me according to your will”

Most of us know the Christmas story by heart. Even if we haven’t grown up in the church or listened to the first few chapters of Luke every year about this time, this story has been told in so many ways and in so many places that it’s hard to avoid it. Just about every nativity play begins with these verses found in Luke, the angel Gabriel’s visit to the unsuspecting Mary. If you simply grew up with a tv in your house, you can imagine this scene.

Out of the blue, the angel Gabriel shows up in Nazareth. The text doesn’t tell us what time of day he shows up or where exactly in Nazareth he finds Mary. Nazareth was a decent sized town, for antiquity, and Mary could have been up to a host of things. Most likely, she was in the middle of working, accomplishing her “to do” list of daily chores which helped to keep her and her family alive, day to day. Drawing water from a well, milking a goat, preparing food, washing clothes, cleaning home, never quite getting ahead enough to take a break. From waking to falling back asleep at the end of the day, her work would not have ceased. As I say this out loud, I realize it sounds a little bit like life here on Camp Sabalu-Harrison.

Into this fray of banal domesticity, Gabriel appears and delivers this earth shattering news. “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called Son of the Most High. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” This is certainly surprising, maybe even a little unbelievable. But it wasn’t only the content of the message that was earth shattering. The juxtaposition of divine encounter with ordinary life, this was enough to make Mary dazed and confused. One minute she is milking her goat, feeding chickens, washing a pile of filthy clothes from a host of relatives, all things which she has done again and again, day after day, and then suddenly, an in-breaking of divine flavor. You can imagine why her first response would have been “How can this be...” Quite frankly, I could have come up with some other choice words if, in the midst of my chores, an angel visited me. Scripture doesn’t capture what Mary may have been thinking in her head during the annunciation or even the look that may have come across her face.

I can only imagine how she may have felt about this announcement because I know myself just how I have felt when God has come to me, has placed a certain call on my life whether it has to do with reaching out to someone who isn’t very easy to love or making a major life decision which will change the course of everything. It may not have been the angel Gabriel who delivered God’s message per se, but as most of us can attest to, there are times when God’s voice seems to come to us so loudly that no matter what we do to ignore it or push it away, there is no escaping.

But what was so special about Mary? Is it her purity which makes her an obvious choice to be Theotokos, which is a fancy Greek word for “bearer of God.” Growing up with the name “Mary,” I have heard my fair share of jokes about Mary’s supposed perpetual virginity. One of my favorite, slightly sarcastic, religious movies, has its very own nativity scene where, the main character, whose name is Mary and also happens to be 16 and unfortunately, pregnant, bemoans the fact that the “virgin birth” excuse had already been used. She doubts that her parents will fall for it a second time.

Being a life-long Protestant, the truth is, I haven’t thought a whole lot about Mary, her virginity or anything else about her. In fact, as speaking parts have gone, she doesn’t really say a whole lot in scripture. Often, at least in Nativity plays and even in artistic depictions of Mary, she seems placid, quiet, and serene. It’s hard to really know who she is. Obviously, she plays a very important role in God’s coming into the world. Yet what seems so remarkable about her to me is that she is just a regular person, who, when approached by God and asked to be a part of the coming of God’s kingdom, simply said “Yes.” She responded with a faithful heart, and remained faithful to God throughout her life no matter the ups and downs and the difficulty which she encountered.

There are considerable differences between how the Catholic and the Reform traditions understand Mary which may be important to name. Roman Catholic theology focuses on Mary’s extraordinary nature, that she is different and set apart from all others, while in Protestant traditions, it is because she is so ordinary, just like any one of us, that she is so special. God calls upon a regular person to be an integral part of the most important event of all human history, Emmanuel, God with us. John Calvin, both a reformer and theologian, goes so far to argue that the word used to describe Mary, often translated as “favored” or “worthy of praise,” should actually be translated as “happy one” because “Mary has received ‘the undeserved love of God,’ who alone is to be adored.”[1] In even mentioning this, I am not trying to stir up Catholic/Protestant conflict, but honestly, I had never really thought about just how ordinary Mary was. If we think of Mary as just a person who God called upon in order to form an important partnership, it is easy to see how we, like Mary, are also called. Those of us, like Mary, are called from our work places, from the cubical that we occupy twelve hours a day doing intel analysis, from the guard post that we work at making sure that order and discipline is kept, or wherever we find ourselves doing the daily chores of our lives, to be a part of God’s work, here and now.

Saying “yes” and attempting faithfulness does not require perfection. Faithfulness is certainly not without stumbling and falling, moving toward God and God’s purposes for us in one moment and then finding ourselves lost and perplexed in the next. Doubt and fear, disappointment and other road blocks are a part of following Christ. If we look at Mary in the Bible, we see examples of this. We are reminded how very human she was and how, at times, she doesn’t really grasp the enormity of what her son is doing. Jesus scolds her time and again. It should be no surprise that as a child, my favorite Mary scolding was when Jesus was young and wandered off to teach the religious leaders at the Temple. I found this whole story quite empowering. But Mary responded to the situation like every panicked mother would, attempting to discipline Jesus for his disappearing act. She did not understand what he was doing.

Which is interesting in light of our passage today. One would think, having been told she would be giving birth to the Son of the Most High, successor of King David’s throne with a never ending kingdom, that Mary would pretty much allow Jesus to have free reign and do whatever he felt like. He was God, after all, so a little leeway might be expected. But that is not what happened. Mary treated Jesus as her son, just like she would have any other child. She watched out for him and took care of him. No matter how divine he may have been, losing a child in a crowd is enough to cause worry.

Mary wasn’t asked to be perfect, she was asked to be a mother, to nurture, and guide and love. She was asked for willingness to follow God, no matter where that road might take her. When Mary agreed to do as God willed, she really had no idea what was coming, how this would change the course of her life. She just said yes. But the journey which unfolded after she said yes was not without struggle. Like any good mother, she wanted Jesus to be healthy and happy, to be free of pain and suffering. Like any good mother, she wanted to be near her son and protect him from the harshness of the world. But even when she didn’t fully understand what was happening, she was steadfast and she kept her promise to God. “Let it be with me according to your will.”

I will never forget walking the Stations of the Cross in Old City Jerusalem and pausing at the station where Mary weeps over Jesus. I had walked stations of the cross in my church since I was a child, but it really hit me there, with those old stones beneath my feet, how utterly devastating it would have been in those moments, to be his mother. She would have experienced his pain, step by step, every torturous breath, a twist of the knife in her heart. I am sure her mothering instincts would have pushed her to try to do something. All we know, though, is that she remained with him through this journey of suffering to the cross. She was there, watching his agony. She was there, never wavering in her love.

“Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your will.” Mary is at the beginning of a journey of faith. She cannot know what saying Yes to God will require of her, all she really knows is that God is good. I am sure, in the highs and lows of this journey, she may have questioned, she may have cried out, she may have lamented her loss, but no matter the suffering, she was there with her son all the way to the foot of the cross.

May we remember Mary and know such faithfulness in our own lives. For we know not what the road may yield, but we know that our God is good and will be with us every step of the way. Amen
[1] John Calvin, Commentary on a Harmony of Evangelists (Grand Rapids: Baker Books. 1999), 33

My Stint as Director!

Choir people are a "special" breed. I know this, because I have been a choir person for most of my life. Music and singing have played an important role in every season of my life, and, for the most part, my closest friends have been made through choir. But "choir," whether a semi-professional group of over a hundred singing in a cathedral or a ragtag group of military officers, can also be a source of drama. I guess this is what happens when you bring together a group of people who not only love to sing, but also think that they are good at singing.

Last night's first rehearsal of the Bagram Christmas Eve singers did not disappoint on any front. From the divas, most of whom were tenors, to the very opinionated soloists from days gone by, there was a lot of energy in the room. The problem with the Bagram Christmas Eve singers is that I am not a choir director. I may have picked up on some choral conducting basics over the years, but hatching a choir, not on my list of accomplishments. Yet, a room full of divas and former soloists at their respective Christmas Eve services, myself included in this list, need someone to follow!

Thankfully, after a few minutes of "discussion," one of the most obvious contenders for choir master stepped up to the plate and helped us begin. That was really all we needed. Singers are hard to stop once the play button has been pushed. Much to all of our surprise, we actually sounded pretty good. Even the more professional member of the group suggested that we might consider recording our music at the service. While I think I have picked our musical pieces, mostly based on the available accompaniment that I have been able to download via the Church of Latter Day Saints, thank goodness the Mormons believe in sharing their resources for free, unlike many of our mainline denominations, we have yet to choose our soloists for the evening.

What has surprised me though is how I have reacted to this scene. Up until now, in some capacity, even when I have been working in a church, I have been tasked to sing a solo. I may have even been a little miffed if I had not been asked. But, now that I am in charge, I find that I have absolutely no desire to add a solo to the balls that I will be juggling this Christmas. Between leading and organizing the Christmas Eve service, leading and organizing caroling on three different occasions, and organizing my unit's Christmas day party, I can't wait for Christmas to be over. I have even found that canceling Christmas might not be the worst thing, though of course, I don't REALLY want that to happen. Now I understand all of the articles I have read about the Christmas season in magazines geared toward pastors. When you are in charge, it is truly stressful.

But, as stressed out as I feel in moments, I also keep reminding myself to remember the things that matter. For those of us who are deployed and away from family and spouses and children on this holy day, there is bound to be a lot of sadness. Just meditating for a few minutes about the hard things that many are facing in these days, and not just those of us who are in Afghanistan, I find I am able to regain my perspective. So what if tons of people don't want to join in on the caroling or if our choir isn't totally perfect and seamless, and trust me, it won't be, the important thing is that we are together, helping each other remember that even when it is not what we wish for, Christmas can still surprise us. There are blessings to hold on to even when they are not what we think we want or need. There are people who care about one another who come together and eat cookies or play along with a silly game of Secret Santa. There are skype conversations to be had and imaginative ways to stay connected with each other across the miles. Most importantly, there is God's presence come into the world, felt through an unexpected gift from a stranger or found, sitting side by side a friend, without much to say, but knowing that no matter where we find ourselves, we are never alone.

I am still not singing a solo this year. There are plenty of other people who want to do this more than me. And, maybe, just maybe, I have realized that being a pastor puts me in a very different place. I am no longer a soloist or a musical director, this I know. I am still a director of sorts, though, empowering people to bless others through their offering of song, connecting those who are willing to share their God given talent, and trying to orchestrate it all while keeping us mindful of why we are gathering in the first place.

Sunday Sermon

Chaplain (CPT) Mel Baars
John 1:6-8, 18-28
December 11, 2011
Preparing the Way

I come from a proper family where etiquette played a principle role in my rearing. No elbows on the table, napkin in one’s lap, “Yes sir” and “No Ma’am,” were a given, not a choice. I remember my grandmother teaching me the right way to eat soup. I must have been about four. I practiced over and over, first touching the spoon on the opposite side of the bowl, and then to one side, making sure that any run away broth was dispensed back into the bowl, and not down my chin. I can’t eat soup without thinking of her. My shoes stayed white and clean and there was always a matching bow in my hair to complete any outfit. I steered very clear of long haired, “Hippy” types who wore Birkenstocks.

It shouldn’t surprise you that John the Baptizer has never been one of my Biblical role models. He wore a camel hide, ate locusts and wild honey and seemed a little crazed to say the least. One Sunday evening, after learning about John the Baptizer, there was a special on the news about the Unibomber. I will never forget thinking that he looked a little like John, at least in my childish imagination. Not the kind of people that I should be associating with. If John the Baptist would have showed up in my town, I seriously doubt we would have gone to hear his message.

It always struck me as peculiar that John, with his alternative lifestyle, would become an example of a witness, preparing the way of the Lord. He is the one who quotes Isaiah saying, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, make straight the way of the Lord.” Even still, John is not who I would have expected, and maybe this is the point. Being a witness doesn’t necessarily look like one thing, one kind of person, but God calls all manner of people, often using those whom we least expect, to include, on many accounts, ourselves. What makes John any more qualified to prepare the way of the Lord than any other person? What makes him such a good witness? It would seem to me that John makes this good example because, throughout his life and service, he remembers his place in relationship with God. He was a witness to the light, not actually the light. There is a big difference.

The idea of “witnessing” has many connotations, some positive and some quite harmful. When the great commission was spoken, Jesus’ followers were tasked with going to the ends of the earth to share the good news of the gospel with all people. In effect, these people, eventually called Christians, picked up where John and others like him had left off, preparing the way of the Lord. Some of these witnesses brought light into dark places, often sharing the gospel through their actions of love and care and sacrifice more than through their words. Over these two thousand years, many have left home and family witnessing in the name of Christ, offering skills in medicine, fighting for justice, teaching in places where there were no schools, and practicing ministry of presence wherever suffering exists. Yet, there is also a dark history to witnessing. As we also know and would like to forget, some of our witnessing has brought more pain and devastation instead of healing and peace. There are many who would rather run the other direction than be witnessed to, because their experience with “Witnesses” has caused more harm than good.

At the heart of this struggle of witnessing seems to be a dilemma which has faced Christendom during all times. We seem to teeter between two extremes and in both, we lose sight of the source of the light. We forget what John the Baptizer taught us, our place in relationship to God. In one extreme, we take on a savior complex. We focus so much on all the work that we need to be doing to prepare the way, to sow the seeds of God’s kingdom, that we forget that God, in Christ, has already saved us. To spread this good news, there is certainly hard work to be done, but it is not ALL up to us. We are not the source of the light. God holds us all in God’s hands, and will ultimately be the one to determine the time and circumstances of the restoration of the world.

But, this doesn’t mean that our witness doesn’t matter, that we should just throw our hands up in the air and neglect the world that we have, not worrying about justice or poverty or suffering. This is the other extreme attitude which some adopt. I have heard the argument, “I am saved and, really, my life begins in heaven. Who cares about this world or the problems that we face.” But, is this really how to prepare the way of the Lord? Is this the way to share good news with the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, or to comfort those who mourn?

A few moments ago, we heard Isaiah proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. These verses must be pretty important to God because they are also the same verses which begin Jesus’ formal ministry. These verses are also about witnessing good news. God is tasking Israel to be the kind of people whose way of living reflects God’s goodness. God is the source of their renewal and restoration, but they play a roll in transforming the world. When they live with justice, mercy, compassion and forgiveness, then ALL people will see this transformation and will know that it is God who has made this possible.

As Israel was called to witness God’s imminent restoration of Israel and the world, as John, too, was called to be a witness, testifying to the light of Christ, so we also are called to be a witness of God’s good news. We witness Christ in all kind of ways, sometimes not even realizing what we are doing. And, if we look carefully, we may see that there is a quiet but sure witness which is happening all around us, even here. Sometimes I will catch a glimpse of it, as I observe guards in the DFIP, walking side by side with Afghan soldiers, making a joke, sharing a moment of friendship. I have seen it at the Egyptian hospital over these last weeks as we have gone to share from the abundance of what we have been given. Witness happens when we meet one another with openness, with a desire to give God’s love, even to a stranger, even to someone who is different than we are or believes in something that we don’t. And this is the thing about witnessing, it can only be done with humility, acknowledging, as John did, that we are not the light, we do not own it or control it, but we simply reflect it as it is, full of infinite grace.

A few years ago I took a trip to the Holy Land and visited the museum in Jerusalem that memorializes the Holocaust. After a few hours of wandering the grounds of the museum, I stepped into an exhibit which honored the children who had died at the hands of Nazi Germany. Though I saw and experienced many holy sites here, there is an image from this museum that I will never forget which illustrates the great potential when Christ’s light is witnessed to the world.

Entering the dark room was like entering a cave. At first, I could see very little because my eyes were adjusting to the sudden absence of daylight. Soon, though, I realized that I was surrounded by hundreds and thousands of little flickering lights, all dancing around me. As I watched them, their brightness grew so much that it seemed that the light, however small individually, had overcome the dark room. I am not sure how long I stood there mesmerized but at some point, the main lights of the room came on. I was shocked to find only one candle burning.

Looking around the room where I had just seen the candlelight flickering, there were mirrors, hundreds of them. There was just one tiny light, yet in the darkness, the mirrors multiplied the candle light thousands of times, so it seemed like the light was everywhere, all around me. I realized that without the mirrors, this one candle, this light, would continue to burn, but it would not have been as apparent or as bright had those mirrors not reflected it again and again and again. The light goes on without us, yes, but when we have caught a glimpse of its warmth, why not share it? Why not hold up our own mirror, and take part in spreading a light which promises hope and newness, to give us life instead of death?

He came as a witness to testify the light, so that all might believe. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.

Make no mistake, God’s light is eternal with or without us. Whether or not we hide it under a bushel or let it shine, whether or not we stand on our tip toes and hold up our mirrors, reflecting light for all the world to see, no matter what, this light continues on. It is alpha and omega, our beginning and our ending, and everything between. And, nothing, real or imagined, past, present or to come can overcome it. This is the Good News, not just for us who gather in pews or in churches this Advent, but this is Good News for the whole world. So, come, let us prepare the way of the Lord. Amen

Book Club

I am treading lightly, leading a book study on heaven and hell, and yet, I feel that in any moment, the wheels are going to go flying off the bus. I realized, as book club gathered, that I was in way over my head. From the newly found Christian to the John Eldridge reading Lutheran, the very confrontational Muslim/Hindu/Catholic to the agnostic soon-to-be social worker, the Catholic turned some version of Pagan that I am still endeavoring to understand to the Emerging Emergent Christian who is planning a revival of sorts for our camp, and a few more personalities sprinkled in there representing the middle, our thursday discussions of Rob Bell’s book Love Wins, could not be more, potentially, disastrous.

Did I mention that more than half of these folks are trained interrogators? They also all carry semi-automatic weapons. What was I thinking? It would almost be easier to facilitate discussion on salvation-- who is in and who is out-- with a room full of pastors... well, almost.

I have no problem talking about heaven and hell with them one on one. In fact, it is one of my greatest pleasures to share meals with soldiers in this highly pluralistic environment. I wear my cross around every day, but I never want my Jesus to get in the way of my reaching out, even when I know nothing at all about “Open circles,” a gathering loosely but not really connected to the Wiccan tradition or the right ways to kneel and pray during Friday prayer, even when it is painful to hear deep seated anger at the church or even at God. Dealing with religious diversity, one person at a time, is doable. Sometimes, even, it is pleasurable. No doubt, I have learned more about God from people who understand differently than me, even when I have not shared or agreed with particular beliefs.

But, a whole room full of diversity, it is enough energy, rawness and demand to hush me into silence. The problem is, whenever the decibel level rises or someone says something controversial, they all turn toward me. As I am looking toward the exits, wondering how I might escape without being noticed, all eyes seem to descend. Where is the adult in the room, the authority figure on this topic? After all this time of being taught, I don’t know if I am ready to be the teacher. As much as I view teaching as a mutual process between the leader and the pupils, I know that I have been called to this place take up my staff and do my best at shepherding.

Of course, I am reminded every day of my age. A few days ago, I started using Estee Lauder’s first line age defense lotion that my mother sent me for Christmas. I have found at least three gray hairs since I have been here, though if I part my hair in one direction, they stay hidden. Working with a young man who graduated from high school in 2010 also forces me to accept that I am officially a “grown up.” It’s not that I haven’t had many other "coming of age" moments, dealing with death and loss or even walking alongside of friends as they have married and now, even had babies of their own. I can no longer pretend to be in that “between space” of adolescence and adulthood. This I know.

It strikes me though, as I do my best to hold my arms wide enough to gather every voice, to make sure that no one, however traditional or obscure, is pushed aside, that this past Thursday was a remarkable moment. That such divergent individuals would agree to come and sit and spend an hour talking about God, and then leave the group, shaking each others hands, still laughing together at the “this world is a big Thunder Dome where we are duking it out, in preparation for the next world” comment, is a testament to God’s grace which resides with us always, no matter where we are or what topic we wrangle over. Who knows who will come next week to book club? The topic is “Hell,” so I imagine that it will be no less heated than in previous weeks. I know I will be there, so I think I will start praying now.

“to give them a garland instead of ashes” Isaiah 61:3

I am not surprised that this Sunday’s lectionary text, Isaiah 61, with its echoes of the jubilee year, coincided with Task Force Viper’s very first community outreach project. Bringing good news to the poor and the oppressed and binding up the brokenhearted, these are God’s promises to a people trying to rebuild after many years of devastation and exile. For many in Afghanistan, promises of restoration and fullness offer hope for the years ahead. Today’s trip to the Egyptian Hospital was an opportunity for us, both the members of Task Force Viper as well as all those who contributed to knitting projects, from Chestertown, MD to Pensacola, FL and even a few bears from San Antonio, to sew seeds of God’s kingdom, here and now. After all, healing, liberty, release, and comfort are God’s desire for every one of us.

The overwhelming poverty of this place was glaring, at least at first, as we gathered the children and their mothers and grandmothers and attempted to control the unruly crowd before it dissolved into riot. The people waiting for knitted sweaters, hats, scarves, and bears, as well as a few pairs of shoes that had been donated, know a desperation that is beyond what many of our soldier volunteers had ever encountered. The need explained the persistence by which these children fought for their place in the line. Even mothers pinched their babies, hoping that their tears would get them in a better position to receive warm winter clothes. It was hard for us to understand this kind of fight for survival and keep in perspective, why children and adults alike would grab and nearly brawl over a kitted cap and booties.

Yet, for as many children we had who scrubbed off their black sharpie “X,” which was our only way to keep track of who had been given a knitted garment and a coloring book or tub of play dough, other children responded in kind to our generosity. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as a little girl, not even ten years old, gingerly hold up a pair of gold studded earrings, offering them to one of our soldiers. On the bus ride home I heard about another little girl who took the ring off her finger and slipped it onto one of our interrogator’s hands, before she could refuse. Throughout the morning, children took at least an extra moment to pause and look intently into my eyes. It was a way of saying thank you, which overcame the barriers of language that we all faced.

Hearing soldiers talk about the experience of giving and how it inspired them to reconsider their own practices of generosity, I realized we had all received a gift of mutual blessing. We had come to give and to share and we had been given to and shared with in return. And, this blessing has only encouraged all of us here to envision new ways to share with our Afghan neighbors. Now, it is the soldiers, many of whom had no previous interaction with these neighbors, who are formulating plans for our next visit to the hospital.

Where there is oppression, violence, and hunger, it is a fair question to ask, “What is God doing today, right here, to make a difference in the lives of these people and offer hope in the darkness?” This Advent and every Advent, we wait together with expectation for our world to be restored. Yet, we also celebrate Christ’s coming. When we practice generosity, when we do our part to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, giving garlands instead of ashes, we witness that no darkness can overcome the light of Christ. And, this is God’s Good News. Not just for us who gather in pews or around lit wreaths and Nativity scenes this December, but also for the whole world. May it be so.

Advent is here!!

There have been a few people who have asked to see the famous, flammable (Bagram's special) Advent Wreath! It stays propped on a music stand... and for the sake of the congregation and chapel building, only stays lit for the Advent Wreath lighting and prayer!!!

Sunday Sermon

Reverend Mel Baars
December 4, 2011
Isaiah 40:1-11

“Speaking to the Heart”

Isaiah chapter 40 is one of my all time favorite passages in the Bible. When I discovered, earlier this week, that this was the text for this Sunday, I was excited, I mean really excited. Which, I admit, is little, or even, a lot, nerdy. But, it’s not often that I know a passage by heart like I know this one. You may have noticed though, that I didn’t recite it from memory and this is because I actually know these verses as a song. I would have sung it to you, but it’s supposed to be sung by a man. That clearly won’t work for me. It is the opening song in Handel’s Messiah. This three hour oratorio begins with these very words, “Comfort ye, Comfort ye my people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem. And cry unto her, that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned.” The King James version is a little different than what we read today, but the sentiment rings through as clear as a bell.

A pastor friend of mine, who also loves Handel, pointed out the importance of his choice for the beginning lines of Messiah. Most of us would probably begin the story of the Messiah as the gospel’s do, with John the Baptist in the wilderness, shouting “Prepare the way of the Lord,” or with the angel Gabriel’s visit to Elizabeth or Mary with news of God’s imminent coming, or perhaps even the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem. But that is not where the story begins. Instead it begins with these words, “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid.”

For Israel, this was good news. In fact, it was great news. For about 150 years this people had been in exile, separated from their homes, oppressed in Babylon. In many ways, they felt that God’s judgment had gotten the best of them and that their offenses were too great to be pardoned. In fact, the first 39 chapters of Isaiah highlight the reasons for God’s judgment. We cannot hear these words today, of comfort and pardon, without remembering what comes before them. And yet it is here, after a series of iniquities, that a new chapter begins in the story of God and the world. Into this dark, depraved situation, where violence and oppression reign, where it seems that God has abandoned God’s people and there is no chance of hope, it is here that a prophecy of grace and restoration is heard. “Comfort, O Comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem.”

I found the Hebrew words here especially poignant. What is translated in the King James Version “Speak comfortably” or in newer versions of the Bible “Speak tenderly” literally means, “Speak to the heart.” In these verses, it is as if God is trying to come off of the page, into the pain of Israel, the brokenness of the world, and somehow make it better.

Perhaps, this year it might be easier for us to hear the power of God’s message of comfort which Isaiah proclaims. Normally, at home, with the tree alit and, if there is money, the presents bought and the Christmas dinner planned out, comfort is all around us. The need for God’s comfort is not always obvious, that is unless we happen to be without a job this year or in the process of loosing a home or facing a serious, potentially terminal illness or mourning the loss of a spouse or a parent or a child. Those who bear this crushing load may know better the power of God’s comfort when the world has gone black.

For us gathered here perhaps this promise of comfort is a relief from what we see and hear each day. Though mostly we are focused on the mission at hand, at least every once in a while, the harshness of this place seeps through our protective layer and we are faced with a pretty hopeless scenario. We live and work in a place and amongst a people who have only really known war and poverty, year after year. I hear stories of ANA soldiers who scrounge for our thrown away blankets to stay warm in the wintertime or of US service members struggling to find boots for the ANA to wear because they have none. And, these Afghan soldiers actually have employment. We know outside of these walls is one of the poorest countries on earth, with perhaps the lowest literacy rates in the world.

This past Thursday I went with a group of service members to the Egyptian Hospital over on main BAF as a part of Operation Pencil. Walking down a line of children, greeting each child who had come for new backpack full of school supplies, I was blown away that every single child who shook my hand, every one, pointed down to a broken shoe, looking at me with such hope and anticipation. Winter is coming and a flip-flop with holes and torn edges will be hardly any protection against the snow and cold. But, on thursday, I had no shoes to give. All I could do is shake a hand and greet them in peace. I couldn’t help but wonder. What would it be like for these children to hear God’s promise of comfort or for this country to hear these words? What would it be like for our world to hear? A promise of comfort, of an end to all of the suffering and pain, this would be good news, very good news. Some days, though, facing the darkness, even a promise is hard to hold on to.

No matter what our role is here, whether we command a task force and see the big picture or are called into the prison cells to work with detainees, day by day, we are all human. In this place, sooner or later, we will be confronted with hopelessness. We struggle when we have no shoes to give and not enough blankets to share. When we face whatever darkness that confronts us here, we realize just how much we need God’s comfort, too.

For those who live in exile, who carry sorrow from loss or grief, who stumble around in the darkness, there is no true hope but God’s hope. Even hope in a community which is loving or a country which strives for freedom and equality, all these are like grass which in time wither and fade, but the word of God, this stands forever.

And so we come to another Sunday of Advent, waiting and watching for the presence of God to dwell among us. We have heard the promise. We want to believe that this light which we celebrate, the light of Christ, will actually make a difference in the darkness. But, the wait has been long, and for some, full of sadness and pain. Even “Comfort, O Comfort my people says your God” just isn’t enough. We need something that moves us beyond words. We need someone to really speak to our hearts because in this world laced with uncertainty and doubt, words mean very little and are easily forgotten.

When I was at the Egyptian hospital, unsuccessfully attempting to communicate with the children in bits of Dari and spotty English, I experienced something very curious. I wanted so badly to express love to these kids, hoping to lift their spirits and maybe even make up for the fact that I didn’t have any shoes to give them. But, no matter what I tried to say, I was continually at a loss. My pantomime skills are good, but not that good. At some point in the morning, a grandfather introduced me to his nine year old granddaughter who had come to the hospital hoping to have her hearing restored. She was not able to communicate with words at all. Instead, we sat together on the sidewalk. She would look at me for a while smiling, and then she would take my hand into hers. After a while I would pat her on the head and then hug her. We repeated this routine quite a few times as we waited for the school supplies. She never made a sound and after a while I stopped trying to talk to her with my mouth. In our mutual exchange, I realized that speaking to the heart has little to do with words. It is all about presence, being with one another, side by side, even in silence.

I wonder if this is a little like God’s experience with us. After saying and trying to say everything under the sun, through prophet after prophet, from a burning bush, through stone tablets and dove and rainbow, through dreams and other encounters, finally God just came down to us to be present with us. Where words are lost in translation and interpretation, where leaders, even those with the right intentions fall short, God just comes to us, right next to us, wherever we are, in the midst of our sin and our shame, no matter how deep we have sunk, and taking our hand into his own, simply speaks his love into our hearts.

And this is the greatest news of all. Emmanuel, God with us. God’s promise of comfort and restoration fulfilled in Jesus. This is what we witness, God’s presence among us even now. We carry this light into the world, into the places where suffering and war and pain and sadness reign. We go there and we sit, side by side, maybe taking a hand into our own, perhaps not even saying a word, but sharing God’s love, speaking to the heart. Amen

As much as it doesn't seem like Advent in the traditional sense, all around me I am reminded that we are waiting and watching for God's coming into the world. I have been in mourning because I will not have a live nativity to be a part of this Christmas Eve. I even threatened my commanders that we really have the perfect situation. There are shepherds right outside of our walls, tending sheep and goats and plenty of "local actors" who already have beards. Who needs the fake stuff, when we have the real thing. And then yesterday, visiting the Egyptian hospital which facilitates medical care for Afghan civilians from across the region, there were quite a few candidates for the Baby Jesus. Of course, I realize that staging a nativity play in Afghanistan has its challenges, but talk about an opportunity for interfaith dialogue.

As I contemplate the lectionary text for this 2nd Sunday of advent, Isaiah 40:1-11, my mind continues to drift to yesterday's hospital visit. When I hear the words, "Comfort, Comfort you my people," I can't help but hear Handel's Messiah. After all, I think I have sung it around thirty times. But now, when I hear those first lilting notes in my head, I can't help but see this group of children who gathered at the hospital. Some had come to have operations, fairly major operations on eyes and ears, and others were there because they had to accompany their mother or grandparent on the journey. It seemed that these words were voiced for their hearing, and I couldn't help but wonder how we might be a part of an expression of holy comfort.

A group of service members (Army, Navy, and Air Force plus some civilians, too) came together to give out new school supplies for the upcoming school year. Knowing the state of the school system in Afghanistan, I hope these children will actually have the opportunity to go to school when they open in April. As most events of this nature happen, things didn't go as planned. We had quite a few minutes of hanging out in the courtyard as we waited to present our gifts of pencils, paper, markers, crayons and more. I went down the line, shaking every hand, and saying the standard greeting, "A Salem Alakum" or "Peace be with you." Whenever a Muslim greets another, they also place a hand over their heart. Therefore, I proceeded down the line of children, greeting and placing a hand over my heart to show my affection.

Kids are fast. I have known this since my babysitting days in middle school, but its easy to be lulled into their grasp and not expect what is coming next. Not able to really exchange words, we were all doing a lot of pantomiming. I would get invited to sit with a group, they, knowing more English than I knew Dari, would tell me who was in what family. They would then start rummaging through my pockets, this action a result of many encounters with soldiers who typically have candy in their pockets. Before I had time to react, one child had my front pocket open, and was ready to head off with my ID. Thankfully, I grabbed it back in time.

As I spoke to each child, they would greet me and then show me their shoes. With exception, every one of them was wearing a shoe that was broken or whose souls had literally rubbed away to nothing. That they were hoping for shoes was immediately apparent, but their desire for shoes did not detract from their enthusiasm over school supplies. We lined them up eventually and as they entered into the door, they were given a mark on their hand which indicated that they had been given their back pack of suupplies. These kids are smart. Within minutes they were around back, washing off the mark. I even have a picture of a three year old fervently licking his hand, in hopes of removing the black sharpie X in order to go back through the line.

Despite the fact that this event had all the makings of a mob scene, things remained relatively calm. There was no fighting, and when we had given everything away, the news was received peacefully.

In many ways though, kids are kids whether in Afghanistan or Africa or America. There are some common threads which transcend our geography and levels of poverty. A smile can go a long way and when a child feels your affection genuinely, it is only a matter of time before he or she returns it with a simple hand held or snuggle. Pictures can be a wonderful way to reach out, though it is important to be sensitive to the fact that some do not want their picture taken. Mostly, they want to see themselves on the little screen and are even happier to have a picture with a new friend. The pictures that I have included here were my favorite.

The first is of a girl who was deaf and mute. She had come to the hospital with great hope that she might be able to have her hearing restored. Her father works on base and this was his day off. I was struck by her patience as she watched the world silently whirling around her. She embodied a deep peace as she sat next to me and held my hand, comparing my fingers with her own. I was not sure how to express my love, but as I sat with her and we looked at each other's hands, I realized that part of comforting each other is through simply sitting next to one another, not talking or saying anything, but just being there. It seems fitting, in this season of Advent, as we all go about our waiting and watching and wondering just how to express the hope and reason for this season, that the experience of mutual comfort might be known through the presence of a child. This is indeed what we seek to celebrate in these weeks.