This year, for me and most people I know, has been unexpected. Personally and collectively, there are changes we thought were coming that didn’t materialize, changes on their way we never saw coming, and meanwhile it feels like the world is burning. In the midst of the swirling, I have been quiet, still. Even before the chaos mounted, I felt mostly like I didn’t have anything to say. Maybe because there is so much to say, so many people talking, and so few apparently listening.
This year I’ve listened. I’ve waited. I’ve wondered. I’ve questioned. I’ve prayed. And, honestly, I’ve reeled, raged, lamented and mourned. The injustices at home and abroad, the deep divisions within our country, the fear and hatred of the other, the direction I worry our country is taking, the terror attacks, the utterly evil treatment of civilians in Syria, the baffling behavior of some of my fellow believers—they have left me speechless.
In all of it, I have felt confounded and at times wayward, but not alone. I have found camaraderie and friendship. This year, as always, there has been too much good to list and certainly far more than I deserve. I keep reminding myself that, because the twists and turns this year has taken have caught me off guard, that doesn’t mean my God is surprised.
Last year I sang at my neighbor’s funeral, as I have done at probably a dozen funerals and weddings previously, not to mention hundreds of church services and performances over the last thirty years. But when another neighbor saw me stand, she grabbed my arm; “Christina, what are you doing?” she asked, looking shocked. I just smiled at her and kept walking to the stage. That she didn’t know this about me did not make it a surprise: I knew who I was and was operating within that knowledge. And so it is with God. I didn’t know what this year would hold for our family. I didn’t know what it would hold for our country. But that doesn’t mean anything has actually changed, doesn’t mean God is asleep or caught off guard. Yes, maybe the world is burning. But yes, God is still on the throne.
This year I’ve listened. I’ve waited. I’ve wondered. I’ve questioned. I’ve prayed. And, honestly, I’ve reeled, raged, lamented and mourned. The injustices at home and abroad, the deep divisions within our country, the fear and hatred of the other, the direction I worry our country is taking, the terror attacks, the utterly evil treatment of civilians in Syria, the baffling behavior of some of my fellow believers—they have left me speechless.
In all of it, I have felt confounded and at times wayward, but not alone. I have found camaraderie and friendship. This year, as always, there has been too much good to list and certainly far more than I deserve. I keep reminding myself that, because the twists and turns this year has taken have caught me off guard, that doesn’t mean my God is surprised.
Last year I sang at my neighbor’s funeral, as I have done at probably a dozen funerals and weddings previously, not to mention hundreds of church services and performances over the last thirty years. But when another neighbor saw me stand, she grabbed my arm; “Christina, what are you doing?” she asked, looking shocked. I just smiled at her and kept walking to the stage. That she didn’t know this about me did not make it a surprise: I knew who I was and was operating within that knowledge. And so it is with God. I didn’t know what this year would hold for our family. I didn’t know what it would hold for our country. But that doesn’t mean anything has actually changed, doesn’t mean God is asleep or caught off guard. Yes, maybe the world is burning. But yes, God is still on the throne.
As I’ve studied and pondered and listened this year, feeling like I’ve lost my voice, I have also found myself lost in the words of others, and music especially. In October, faced with a day that would decide a lot about the fate of our family and aware that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, I took myself to the beach and listened to music as I gazed over the waves. My toes in the cool water, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I ignored the staring onlookers and soaked in The Whistles and the Bells’ “Canary Cage:”
“So long I’ve locked the lion up in my canary cage
Scared of any thought that could not navigate my maze
But cancer feeds and war it bleeds
And sometimes I can barely breathe for the toxicity of my doubt”
Yes. I’m not negative or crazy for recognizing the insanity around me. The pain, the fear, the anger, the utter lack of order that appears to have dominated this year—they are all really there. I am not imagining them. You are not imagining them. And yet, if we call ourselves believers, we are to believe anyway. We are to speak truth to power anyway. We are to defend the oppressed anyway. We are to love our neighbors—all of them—anyway. We are—and this one may be the hardest for me to come by this year—to hope anyway.
The song goes on:
“But I’ll be damned if I’m a prisoner to my circumstance;
A spineless faithless clown
For you will not let me down
No, you will not let me down”
Have you felt let down this year? You’re in good company. Maybe you have been let down. Maybe I have been. But not by my God, and that’s the part I need to reconcile.
This year, for maybe the first time, I can't separate the political from the personal. It’s no secret; I’m not a believer in the new administration. Maybe you are, and if so, I sincerely appreciate you reading anyway. You’ll never hear me say I believe God appointed Trump, just as I wouldn’t have said that about any president, ever. I am skeptical at best. I’m not saying I’m hoping for the best from him; I’m actually not. I am expecting he will continue to be who he has always shown us he is.
But as I would have been no matter who won, I am hopeful good can come anyway.
I’ve never hoped in the president—or any man—so this isn’t a shift for me. It isn’t radical or disrespectful of the office or any such thing. I am placing my faith where it belongs: high above the office of the presidency.
But I don’t feel this hope relieves me of any obligation to be involved in the process of improving our circumstances. This coming year we will continue to prayerfully give to a variety of organizations that we believe advance causes that are near to the heart of God; we are loving and serving the people around us; we pray continually to learn how we can do more with what we have and do it better.
Sometimes silence is appropriate, necessary. In the last month, I’ve changed the way and frequency with which I use social media. For me, this has been a very positive thing. I have been more present with the people around me, more introspective, less angry over things that just don’t matter, more invested in things that do.
As we approach Christmas, I find myself absorbing the wonder of it, the sheer, desperate, illogical hope of it. I'm seeing it anew through my tired eyes. And in the new year, I’m hoping I will regain my voice. I feel I have been faithful to the silence, to the waiting. But I feel ready to move through it, and I’m hopeful I’ll get the chance.
And you? If you’re calling good riddance to this year over your shoulder, hopeful but bruised, allow me to toss your name in with mine:
“Oh, Father I believe,
Oh, help my unbelief.”
When that weary, stripped-bare hope is all we can muster, I have to believe it’s hope enough.
I wish you and yours rest, peace and hope this Christmas.
{Listen to the Whistles and the Bells excellent “Canary Cage,” here.}
“So long I’ve locked the lion up in my canary cage
Scared of any thought that could not navigate my maze
But cancer feeds and war it bleeds
And sometimes I can barely breathe for the toxicity of my doubt”
Yes. I’m not negative or crazy for recognizing the insanity around me. The pain, the fear, the anger, the utter lack of order that appears to have dominated this year—they are all really there. I am not imagining them. You are not imagining them. And yet, if we call ourselves believers, we are to believe anyway. We are to speak truth to power anyway. We are to defend the oppressed anyway. We are to love our neighbors—all of them—anyway. We are—and this one may be the hardest for me to come by this year—to hope anyway.
The song goes on:
“But I’ll be damned if I’m a prisoner to my circumstance;
A spineless faithless clown
For you will not let me down
No, you will not let me down”
Have you felt let down this year? You’re in good company. Maybe you have been let down. Maybe I have been. But not by my God, and that’s the part I need to reconcile.
This year, for maybe the first time, I can't separate the political from the personal. It’s no secret; I’m not a believer in the new administration. Maybe you are, and if so, I sincerely appreciate you reading anyway. You’ll never hear me say I believe God appointed Trump, just as I wouldn’t have said that about any president, ever. I am skeptical at best. I’m not saying I’m hoping for the best from him; I’m actually not. I am expecting he will continue to be who he has always shown us he is.
But as I would have been no matter who won, I am hopeful good can come anyway.
I’ve never hoped in the president—or any man—so this isn’t a shift for me. It isn’t radical or disrespectful of the office or any such thing. I am placing my faith where it belongs: high above the office of the presidency.
But I don’t feel this hope relieves me of any obligation to be involved in the process of improving our circumstances. This coming year we will continue to prayerfully give to a variety of organizations that we believe advance causes that are near to the heart of God; we are loving and serving the people around us; we pray continually to learn how we can do more with what we have and do it better.
Sometimes silence is appropriate, necessary. In the last month, I’ve changed the way and frequency with which I use social media. For me, this has been a very positive thing. I have been more present with the people around me, more introspective, less angry over things that just don’t matter, more invested in things that do.
As we approach Christmas, I find myself absorbing the wonder of it, the sheer, desperate, illogical hope of it. I'm seeing it anew through my tired eyes. And in the new year, I’m hoping I will regain my voice. I feel I have been faithful to the silence, to the waiting. But I feel ready to move through it, and I’m hopeful I’ll get the chance.
And you? If you’re calling good riddance to this year over your shoulder, hopeful but bruised, allow me to toss your name in with mine:
“Oh, Father I believe,
Oh, help my unbelief.”
When that weary, stripped-bare hope is all we can muster, I have to believe it’s hope enough.
I wish you and yours rest, peace and hope this Christmas.
{Listen to the Whistles and the Bells excellent “Canary Cage,” here.}
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