The Lord is Risen Indeed, Alleluia

After quite a few long weeks of chocolate deprivation, the seasons have shifted. With three egg hunts in the span of a week, it’s hard to miss Easter’s coming, even if you are not a part of a faith community. Easter sunday gets the most attention of all the services of Holy Week. However, many who participate in the fullness of the days which take us from the foot of the cross all the way to the empty tomb, prefer the quiet reflection of the somber services on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. 

This past Thursday, as members of my own church community sat around tables, sharing a simple meal of almonds, dates, grapes, and pita bread, we were each asked to reflect on a time when we witnessed the love of Christ. Not everyone had a chance to share, but even a small sampling of our different experiences of God’s radical love, was a reminder that the only was to really understand the resurrection is to engage with the crucifixion. I say this because most of the people who had the courage to talk about their experience of the love of Christ didn’t describe easy, uncomplicated moments of joy. From affirming the love of a husband who has nursed his spouse through countless reoccurrences of cancer to mentions of jail ministries or dealing with a family member suffering with drug addiction, all of the examples shared were an intermingling pain and sadness which, despite suffering, held glimmers of hope, just enough to keep everyone going. 

Over the weekend, I have reflected on my own answer to this question. An image of my father, sitting at a table across from me at our local Baskin Robbins, kept coming to mind. He had a cut on his forehead, and I remember thinking that he looked smaller than I remembered when I left for college at the beginning of the semester. A few days earlier, in a fit of rage, my brother had struck my father on the head. The police were called in and eventually took my brother to jail for assault. Baskin Robbins was my version of neutral ground since I refused to go home. With my brother removed from the scene, there was no reason for me to be afraid. Nonetheless, I didn’t want to face the rock bottom that my father was living. It was easier to stay away. 

I don’t think I was very good at being a sibling, even before my brother’s struggles with mental illness and drug addiction. Family members don’t really know what to do when things fall apart, particularly when they are no longer living at home and participating in day to day activities. From a few states away, it was easy for me to have an opinion about how my parents should react to my brother when he started going down a precarious path toward alcohol and drugs. Having just experienced high school drama, I warned my parents that things could get really bad, but as most parents of teenaged children do, they didn’t really know how to decelerate the train once it started rolling. We watched, paralyzed, as my brother’s life devolved. 

It is what followed in the next five or so years which has given me perhaps the greatest personal example of God’s radical love shared from a father to a son. Since that day in Baskin Robbins, the image of my battered father, his own moment of crucifixion, has been backdrop of their relationship in my eyes. From a safe distance, I have watched my father search the earth for treatment facilities and programs which might afford my brother a real chance at recovery. My father was willing to risk both financial and personal distress, much to my dismay, even at the slightest glimmer of hope. I couldn’t understand his dogged persistence, but on the other hand, I am only a sister and not a father. 

For many years, I believed that lasting recovery was not possible. Mostly I was too afraid to open my heart to the disappointment I feared would be inevitable. I had already decided that my brother would never get better. Yet, after quite a few failed attempts and even more moments of backsliding, my brother celebrated his first year of being substance free. It’s been almost five years. A few Easters ago, a pastor friend asked me what resurrection looked like in my life. I didn’t need time to think. My brother’s life immediately came to mind.  What was all but dead, now had new life; what was once lost, had been found. 

We have seen the radical love of God through the gracious care of fathers to son, daughters to ailing mothers, between neighbors, strangers, and friends and in so many other places. This past week, we encountered it at the cross. We journey through Holy Week to be reminded that life is often marked with pain and grief, no matter the darkness, resurrection always promises to follow. 

Alleluia, the Lord has risen. The Lord has risen indeed, Alleluia. 

Gratitude: My Lenten Failure

       Lenten disciplines are similar to dieting. It’s easy to start off strong, invigorated by the prospect of making a real change. Yet, when the impact of the sacrifice isn’t as fast or obvious as we might hope, keeping up with the discipline becomes more of a challenge. A little cheat here and another there and the slippery slope takes over. Some Lents I have done better than others, particularly when giving up something manageable. But, in the years that I have vowed to take on something more than just deprive myself of m&ms or diet coke, I inevitably have a point of total failure. This was my week to fail.

Early in the year before Lent was underway, I realized that I was in need of an attitude adjustment. The glass was half empty a lot more than in was half full, a perspective I have rarely succumbed to. Nonetheless, I wasn’t feeling very grateful. I was focused on all that was wrong instead of what was good, all the blessings that sustained me in the midst of a challenging adjustment after my deployment. Lent could not have come at a better time. This Lent was going to be all about remembering gratitude.

It’s easy to want to live more gratefully, but the practice of gratitude has to translate to something tangible otherwise it’s too theoretical of a discipline to actually do. Years ago I prayed for a different person each day and wrote them a letter. It worked, at least most of Lent. So, a letter of gratitude each day seemed like plausible. My forty days of wilderness started off well. I didn’t miss any days, and wrote even when I was falling asleep and my penmanship was abysmal. Many of the people early on my list were easy to write to so most of the time I wanted to write. It wasn’t a chore. 

A week or so into it, I would miss a day here and there, but make up for it by writing two letters in a day. The recipients would never know the difference, so what would it really hurt. Sometimes I would miss two days, but always by the end of the week, I would be totally caught up and ready for the next round. I should have realized that my slips would eventually get the best of me. This week was a complete fail. I wrote no letters. I didn’t practice gratitude at all.

I have been disappointed with myself throughout the day, particularly because I have no real excuse for my failure. I had plenty of time, in fact more time than in other weeks. Yet, I experienced what happens to many of us when our disciplines don’t take priority. After a while, it becomes easier and easier to forget them, often not even intentionally. They fade so far into the backdrop of our lives that they are hardly left on the radar. We find ourselves back where we started in the first place, in need once more of some real perspective.

I have always loved Lent because it is a season which helps us get back on the wagon. Because it’s got a beginning and an ending it is also easier to make a commitment. The hope is that the practice over forty days and night might become a real fixture in our daily living. I am sure for some this works. As a Lenten failure, I know that my struggle for gratitude will only intensify once Easter has come and gone. And, at this rate, I will likely have multiple letters left to write, too. 

Throughout this week, the National Public Radio station have been highlighting stories from service members who served in Iraq. When one female Soldier was asked what she missed most about her combat tour, she said, “Being grateful, every day, for my life.” It shouldn’t take a deployment to make space for that kind of perspective, but I know that I rarely give thanks for that profound yet simple gift. Despite my Lenten failing, I still want to live more gratefully. In the end, I know it is a practice that leads to faithfulness, and I have a long way to go. 

“Lost and Found”

Chaplain Mel Baars

Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

March 10, 2013

Have you ever heard of the get to know you, ice breaker “Desert Island?” There are many versions of this game, but all of them boil down to answering this question. If you were stranded on a desert island, and you could bring ONE thing, what would it be? What each person picks is supposed to shed light onto who exactly they are. When I was in college, getting to know my dorm mates, answers would range from “make up,” or “my hair dryer,” to “my 3 inch black patten-leather stilettos.” None were very practical for deserted island living.

When I got to seminary, there was ONE item that everybody said they would choose. I am sure you could all guess the one thing a pastor would at least say he or she would bring... This is your hint: it starts with In the beginning.... Over the course of school, whenever we had to play this game, answering, “The Bible,” became forbidden. It was too obvious and easy and boring an answer since everyone felt obligated to say it, so they wouldn’t look less devoted than the other aspiring pastors sitting next to them. But one time, when we were in a small group, using this exercise to get to know one another, the group leader asked the question differently. She said, “If you could only bring one part of scripture, one story from the Bible, which would it be?” Essentially, what is your favorite Bible passage? A lot of people struggled to pick just one. I had no issue whatsoever, then or now. I would always pick “The Prodigal Son.”

I know it’s not just me. This story is a favorite of many. Just the other night I was discussing this passage with a colleague, and she told me about a man who didn’t know the Bible. When he heard the story of the Prodigal Son for the first time he said, “Wait, how did they do it? This is exactly what has happened in my family. This is my story.” Most of us see ourselves somewhere in this tale, somewhere on the spectrum between the waywardness of the younger son and the self-righteousness of the older one. This is why the story is so powerful. It is our story, the human story—perhaps this is why, for some of us, it is also difficult to read. In this parable parable Jesus illuminates some of the worst characteristics of human thought, word, and deed-- from greed and licentiousness and selfishness to jealousy and entitlement and hardheartedness. When we hear the ugly details, we see glimpses of ourselves.

The Prodigal son is just one story in a series of parables that Jesus tells about about lost things which include the parable of the Lost Sheep and of the Lost Coin. In all three, we encounter a principle character who represents God, the father, the shepherd or the woman, who is willing to go any distance to find what has been lost, even at the expense of other valuable possessions. Perhaps the Lost Sheep articulates this most vividly. The shepherd who goes out to find one lost sheep, leaving the other 99 behind. It has always been hard for me to wrap my brain around this. Those poor other sheep. Weren’t they vulnerable too? Didn’t they need their shepherd? Wasn’t it irresponsible to leave them all behind, susceptible to a plethora of threats, just for the one? I guess it’s a good thing that Jesus is our shepherd and not me.

In our story, the father seems borderline irresponsible. When his son asks for his half of the inheritance, the father grants his wish. He didn’t have to. It was within his rights as patriarch to say no, only over my cold, dead body. But, that is not how the father works. The son asks, and he gives. It’s a little like the concept of free will. The father realizes that this may not end well for his younger son, but he gives anyway. Yet, nothing is compared to what the father does when his younger son returns. He hands over his finest robe and butchers the fatted calf and throws one heck of a party.

Not only had the property been diminished by half but also, with this generous gesture, some of the remaining “best” assets are given to this younger son. These things, whatever was left over, were all supposed to go to the older son who at this point has gotten nothing. No wonder he is mad. It’s not fair. It doesn’t make any sense. I personally have a lot of sympathy for the older son because I get his frustration. I think he gets painted pretty harshly as if he has only been a dutiful son all his life just to get the family money.

But, I am willing to bet this older son was a decent guy. Always faithful to his father, not just because there was going to be a reward one day, but because good sons honor their fathers. They fall in step. They do their part. He had stood by his dad, even when he made the not so prudent choice to give away half his land, but this homecoming celebration was over the top. It was the last straw. The older son can’t even bring himself to say “my brother” and instead says, spitefully, “that son of yours.” No longer claiming kinship, the older son succumbs to hate and jealousy. This is his real sin, severing his relationship with his brother. I have heard it said before that to cut oneself off from another person is to kill them metaphorically. When someone says, “He is dead to me,” isn’t this what they have done?

One son makes poor choices and when he hits rock bottom, realizes the gravity of his mistakes. He turns back. The other son does it all “right” but not totally for the right reasons. Neither are all bad or all good. Both are very human. We should expect nothing less from them. But, it’s what comes at the end of the story that really matters. The party is going on inside the house and the older son is standing outside, unwilling to join in. From inside the party, the father realizes that his older son is missing, so he goes out to find him, again seeking what has been lost. The father pleads that he come inside. The father and the older son are on two different wave lengths. The older son makes some very relevant points about how impractical this party is after all the younger son has put them through. The father doesn’t disagree with him. He just says, “Your brother was lost but now he has been found. For this, we had no choice but to rejoice.” The father isn’t keeping score. He isn’t concerned about what kind of treatment the younger son may deserve. Something that was lost has been found. No matter the history, this is always worth a celebration.

A few years ago, when I was a chaplain at a VA hospital, one of my patients, a Korean vet, told me how The Prodigal Son was his story. He had been a rambunctious teenager, bringing both sadness and shame to his parents. He just couldn’t wait to leave home for better places, and so he enlisted in the Army and found himself on a boat out to Korea. For years, he didn’t communicate to his parents. As most know who have gone off to war, while there are moments of chaos, there is also a lot of time to think. As the months went by, he started thinking about how good his home had been and how he had really messed things up with his dad. He realized that if he ever made it out of Korea, he was going to go home and ask forgiveness. When the war ended, he made the long journey back home. When he got to his town, he had to take the bus out to a state road which would take him home. It was about a mile from the bus stop to his driveway. As he got closer, he saw that his father was standing at the end of the driveway waiting for him. You see, every day, about the time his father knew the bus would stop along the highway, he would go out to the end of the driveway to watch for his son, hoping it would be the day when he finally came home. When they saw one another that day, they ran and embraced. What was lost, had been found, and they rejoiced, no strings attached.

As much as this story is about human wrongdoing, it is, most importantly, about God, about God’s generosity despite what we may deserve. This is a parable about God’s love which is deeper and wider than we can ever fathom. God’s dogged persistence which beckons us to come home, no matter how far we have strayed or how long we have been away. God’s boundless love. For “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices.” This is just how God is to each of us, and not just once, but again and again and again and again, until we have all been found, every last one of us.

You know, we don’t really know the rest of the story, how it all ends. Does the older son get over his anger in time to join the party? Some days I think he may have been moved by his father’s plea. Other days I think he remained out there on the fringe, unwilling to let go of his resentment. But isn’t this also how it is for us? Some days we are stuck, unable to get over our hurt. But other days, our better ones, we find ways to let go, to love despite the hurt and join the party. None of us are ever forced to go inside, but the invitation is always on the table. God is hosting the party for all of us for we, too, had been lost and have been found.  Amen

National Prayer Luncheon

(A Prayer for fallen and wounded service members)

God of Creation,
with nimble hands you formed life out of nothing,
And, it was very good.
Yet, O Lord, in the midst of blessings and abundance,
there are many among us who suffer mortal wounds 
as well as wounds of mind, body, and spirit.
Illuminate your presence to them and their loved ones.
Encourage them with your promise that all things--
death, mourning, crying and pain-- will pass away.
Through your grace, all will be made new.
Strengthen those who care for our wounded,
Giving them compassionate hearts and gentle hands.
O God who is ever sustaining, 
remind us that you are with us always,
carrying us through our blackest night into the dawn of morning. 
For your word, which is trustworthy and true, 
we give you our thanks. Amen

Communal Cookies

Since coming home, I have had very few opportunities to lead worship. The last time I presided over Holy Communion was during my final chapel service in Afghanistan. While I have taken communion sporadically over these months, I have missed pronouncing an invitation to God’s table or placing an almost stale wafer into the palm of one who has come to be fed. After celebrating communion for an entire year, without it, I have felt a strange emptiness. I miss preaching, too, though I hate to admit it out loud. But, communion was always more meaningful to me, even than my best sermons. It had a way of dissolving our ranks, pushing aside our job performance reports, and removing all the other ways that the military scrutinizes its personnel for disciplinary purposes. For those moments, around the table, we were just ordinary people. We may claim to be family in Christ, but those were the moments when we realized it, sharing the same bread and wine, grateful to be fed another week.

Now that my worship responsibilities are infrequent and rarely, if ever, include communion, I find myself struggling with the ministry opportunities available during a typical day on the job. There are occasional moments of prayer. I do talk about God and faith. We have plenty of Bibles in our offices. But all of these things, what I imagine most of my colleagues who are pastors or priests in churches engage with throughout their days, are more peripheral foci in my daily work. Mostly, I spend my time listening to people. I hear the latest installments of drama which my soldiers and their spouses and children are living out each day. News about the ultrasound or the childcare near disaster, an update on an ongoing marital tiff, or worry about the next move or the job that still hasn’t materialized-- this is the substance of my ministry. I have a revolving door. While this doesn’t help me think or write or produce anything of great value between the hours of 9-5, I know that it shouldn’t be any other way.

The theme this Lent at the local Presbyterian church where I am involved is centered on God’s table. This week in my small group we discussed the topic of “Eating together.” We were asked to tell a story of a meal which was meaningful to us. There was no right way to answer the question. Because I have an “in” with the pastor and helped write the discussion questions, I knew that eventually we would be looking at the connection between the sacrament of Holy Communion and all the other times that we break bread together. Most of my group regaled stories of family meals, Thanksgivings dinners of years gone by. I had a few similar stories myself, but I wanted to think more broadly. As I pondered a special meal, what came to mind were the hundreds of boxes of Girl Scout Cookies that I have given out over the past 18 months, more than most Girl Scouts have ever attempted to sell over an entire scouting career. Often cookies have gotten my foot in the door. Remembering whether a soldier’s favorite cookie was the Thin Mint or the Samoa was an easy but still noticeable way to show interest and care. We all know the way to the heart is through the stomach. Maybe this is what Jesus considered when he took bread and broke it and gave it to his disciples saying, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

As a minister who has the privilege of giving the sacraments, I have deep reverence for Holy Communion. Yet, I am reminded in this particular season that it is possible to experience God’s presence every time we break bread with another person, each time a crumb or a morsel crosses our lips. Sharing a Girl Scout cookie can be a profoundly sacred act when we remember all that God has done and is still doing in our midst. As we chew and swallow, as we commune together around the table, we realize that God is giving us all that we really need to continue on our journeys of faith. With hearts open and hands turned out, we reach for the true gift of life, nourishment which sustains us far further than calories can count. 

Seasons

When I mention to people that I feel that I have been in mourning over leaving Afghanistan, mostly I get raised eye brows and looks of confusion. Missing friends and comrades is expected, but grief seems a little extreme. Yet, grief is what I have felt over these months as I have begun the process of ordering my life back in the United States. I haven’t been able to write, though this is as much a lack of discipline as it is any kind of writers block. Mostly, I haven’t wanted to face my struggle. Viewing it on the page in front of me, making space to think and write about it, would ensure that I would do just that. 

The other morning in the gym, as I was changing into my uniform, I noticed that I had grabbed a t-shirt that once belonged to one of the girls I had been friends with in the beginning of my deployment. Seeing her name etched in the tag almost brought tears to my eyes. Not because I will never see her again. I know I will. But, just because I know that we will never share community in the way we did during the Afghan season of our lives. As bad as things may have been on some days, misery made great company. Friendships were so much easier to nurture without outside distractions. Visiting was a walk down the hall, not a plane ride away. 

Very few of my soldiers have been willing to admit that they feel this loss. Yet, their actions speak much louder than words. In the last few weeks I have gotten more phone calls and facebook chats after hours. Some are worried about battle buddies drinking too much or acting depressed. Some are trying to figure out, even months later, how to reconnect with wives or boyfriends. Some are dealing with strange medical issues which have been exacerbated by stress. Some who are getting out of the Army are looking for ways to go back to Afghanistan as contractors. It is a high paying job which is more than they have been able to find here. 

Now that the novelty of home has worn off, partying and eating whatever food we want doesn’t have the same allure. Driving our own cars is great, except when we are stuck in the evening rush hour. Having personal space seems like heaven except when it’s too quiet or lonely. After a year of living on top of one another, of constant contact with a concentrated number of people day after day, being alone is unfamiliar. Though some have had to adapt quickly, mostly those who have rejoined families and the routine that children require, many are still trying to figure out how to be satisfied with less-- less stimulation, less fear and worry, less drama, less extremes, less personality highs and low. In this case, less is not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s still a bit deflating. 

In the midst of this holding pattern that I find myself in, one foot in Texas and another wondering what exactly is coming next, I continue to remind myself that grief takes time and is never predictable. This loss is more intense than any I have ever felt, but there is a part of me that knows that I mourn for more than Afghanistan. All of the goodbyes over the last few years, from leaving school to leaving South Africa and then leaving church family in Maryland, all of these losses have been compounded. There are moments when we realize that things will never be the same as they were. It’s okay to miss people and places. They are worth it. But, I also know that I don’t want to miss what is beginning now.  What has already begun. 

As I encourage my soldiers, I hear myself consoling myself. “For every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven... A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4).” The signs may be barely discernible, but new season is coming.

Sermon from the Presbyterian Church of Chestertown

Reverend Mel Baars

Isaiah 9:2-7

December 2, 2012

 

“Prince of Peace”

It is hard for me to believe that it has been two years since I was first assigned by our newly crowned Moderator of Presbytery, Pastor Sara, with preaching on the first Sunday of Advent. Back in 2010, when I had three or four less gray hairs, and still no clue from the Army on where in the world I would be going or with whom I would be going with, hope was my assigned word. When Sara asked me to preach this Advent, again on the first Sunday of the season, I had a fleeting thought that I would use that old sermon once more, and “hope” that no one had been paying close attention two years ago. After all, Sara has really put me to work this weekend. I had to preach yesterday at the Presbytery meeting and between the Chester River Chorale holiday concert on Friday night, which was a wonderful way to begin this holy season and other, various homecoming meals shared with dear friends, my social calendar has been full since I arrived in Chestertown. There was hardly any time for preparing a sermon. But, wouldn’t you know it, Pastor Sara, gave me a different group of words this year. There would be no sermon reruns.

As Pastor Sara mentioned earlier, for Advent this year we are singing a new hymn, adding a new verse each week. Today we sang, “Come Now O Prince of Peace, make us one body. Come O Lord Jesus, reconcile your people.” I will admit, I was a little miffed that I couldn’t reuse my hope sermon. Hearing the words of this first verse though, I know how appropriate it is for me to meditate on Jesus as the Prince of Peace. After my last year, I know, more than ever before, that Jesus is the only real hope for any true peace. Whatever your thoughts are on what is happening in Afghanistan or what has happened there over the past eleven years, most of us acknowledge that establishing a lasting peace there or anywhere for that matter, won’t come through military strategy. Every time I heard a disparaging story about some needless violence happening throughout the country, often involving harm of a young girl or boy, I would wonder to myself how anyone could survive their Afghan tenure maintaining any hope at all without holding on to Jesus and his promise of true peace.

As a chaplain, I don’t always get to talk about Jesus, at least explicitly. Now please don’t get me wrong. Of course, I am a Christian minister, and couldn’t never pretend to be anything else. But, like many who work for either the government or for the county as an educator, I, too, must to wear different hats. I am allowed to talk about Jesus during worship services and when I lead Bible Studies or have people drop by my office to discuss questions of faith. But, when I am in battalion staff meetings or asked to give an invocation at a military ceremony, in those moments, I am supposed to speak of God more broadly. This way persons from different faith backgrounds or who don’t have any faith at all will not feel excluded or that their right to exercise their own free religion is being infringed upon. There are some who worry that not talking about Jesus effectively takes Jesus out of the equation, that Jesus becomes invisible. Yet after a year in Afghanistan, I beg to differ. In fact, I think not being able to talk about Jesus all the time instead gives us more reason to work on acting like him.

Sometimes I think that I learned this, at least in part, from you and the ways that you ministered to deployed troops over this past year. I think of the blue Christmas cards which were mailed to each of my soldiers bearing four simple words, “And on earth, Peace.” Those letters written by so many of you, including members of our youth group and some even younger than that, found their way into the mailboxes of an extremely diverse group of people-- some Christian, some Jewish, some atheist, some Muslim. And, I did not hear one complaint because members of a Christian church had written a Christmas card to an individual from a different faith. And, trust me, as the chaplain, I hear all the complaints.

Instead what I heard were things like this said by one of my Jewish soldiers. “Chaplain, I got a letter from someone in your church. I just couldn’t figure it out. At first I thought it was from a family member because the woman wrote the letter to me-- personally. I even called my mom to find out which of our family lived in Maryland. Then I figured out it was one of your friends.” Or, the letter that found its way to one of my Afghan linguists who originally fled Afghanistan during the Russian invasion when he was a young boy. “Can you believe it,” he said. “I got a letter from your friends in Maryland. Come and see it on my desk. This is the first time that I have been included with the soldiers at Christmas. Please tell them I am also praying for peace.” And, then there was perhaps my favorite comment from an old sailor who was working as a civilian contractor with our unit. “Chaplain,” she said. “Your people are very sneaky. I don’t like Christmas and I don’t like church, but their card was the kindest thing I have received during this deployment.” I could go on and on, but perhaps the most telling thing I noticed was, ten months later, those blue cards, with their white doves and message of peace, still posted on computers and on walls and on desks. You could hardly walk around our unit without being reminded of Jesus and his promise of peace.

Of course, the Christmas cards were just one of the many acts of God’s love which this church extended across oceans and continents, all the way to Afghanistan. Whether it was the over 6,000 Christmas cookies that you baked which fed not only my unit but many others on our camp or the stockings or pillowcases that you sewed, whether it was the fleece blankets you cut or the knitted sweaters that you so lovingly made for the children we met at the Egyptian hospital, whether it was the backpacks that you helped create, the last of which I heard, just two weeks ago, were going to be given away when schools open again in the spring as a part of a new initiative by Operation Pencil to partner with the Afghan National Army and their version of a chaplain who has set a goal to make a positive impact on each one of the almost 30,000 children who are in the Bagram district. Whether it was the school supplies or chap-stick that you brought to Vacation Bible School, whether it was hours you donated to packing boxes or sewing or knitting or praying, especially praying, in all of these actions you practiced being Jesus rather than just talking about him.

Throughout the season of Advent, we prepare for the coming of Christ into the world. Yes, we are always supposed to be ready for Jesus’, but in these weeks, we do things to make even more room. As we light the candles of the Advent wreath or open our homes for traveling Jesus to come over and spend time with our children, we acknowledge that it is Jesus, Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace, whose presence among us makes all the difference in a world which, at times, appears to only grow darker.

At the very end of our deployment, I had one-on-one counseling sessions with every member of Task Force Viper. None of them had to use their entire thirty minute time block, though many of them ended up going into overtime, but they all had to meet with me. My hope was that brief reflection on their deployment as well as conversation about the months of reintegration that were just over the horizon, would help them to be ready for the emotional highs and lows of returning home. One of the questions that I would ask during this session was for them to name their best deployment memory. When I posed this question to one of my soldiers, a Special Forces Ranger with quite a few other deployments under his belt, he first answered me, saying there wasn’t one good moment over the year, not in a place like Afghanistan. Before I could even respond, he held up his hand and said, “Wait... I take that back. There was one good memory. Christmas Eve, when we lit our candles and took the light out into the dark Afghan night. I will never forget how I felt then, that just for a moment, peace was really possible.”

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness— on them light has shined (Isaiah 9:2).” Advent is here and with it a heightened awareness of the one promise which makes all the difference-- the Prince of Peace is coming. He will accomplish fully what none of us can do on our own. He will make us into one body and reconcile all his people, every last one of us. This promise of true peace is what we witness to our world when we act like Jesus, when we become his hands and feet wherever we are, here, on the other side of the world, and everywhere between.

“Come Now O Prince of Peace, make us one body. Come O Lord Jesus, reconcile your people.” Amen