Advent 3

December 17, 2006

Philippians 4:4-7

Songs from Prison

by Leslie Kennard

The church at Philippi was the first church that Paul established. This church was as near and dear to his heart as a first-born child... The Letter of Paul to the Philippians is one of the most beautiful love letters any of us is likely to read. As he writes, Paul is emotional and his letter is highly personal. He writes, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you…”(1:3) He calls the people “my beloved” (1:12 and 2:12). And listen to the beginning of chapter 4: “Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and my crown…my beloved” (4:1). Can you feel his attachment, the depth of his love? Doesn’t it feel like the love (these) parents have for their (beautiful babies, Ava Lillian and Owen Scott) children? Just as newborn children bring us great joy, the church at Philippi gives Paul great joy even from great distance.

I’d like to turn to the distance between Paul and his church. Paul is in prison. Not one of out 21^st century prisons with television and books and beds and soap and water and weight rooms and jobs for non-violent trustees. Paul is in a stone cold dungeon, with foul water on the floor of his cell, no heat, no bed, no windows and with disease-ridden rats for company. He’s been imprisoned before, but this time is the last time, and Paul knows he is at the end of his life. The Romans will soon behead him. And his crime is spreading the good news of Jesus, the Risen Christ.

I’ve never been in jail, so I can only imagine my own reaction to being where Paul is. And I can tell you, I would not be rejoicing and writing love letters. I’d more likely be curled up in a ball on the floor in a corner, panicky and in despair.

But then again, while I haven’t been behind bars, even as I wrote this sermon on Friday, I was imprisoned by intractable pain, which really ticked me off, because I hurt so much I couldn’t think. As I wrestled with my pain, I remembered that Paul had mentioned a physical affliction that had him in its grasp, and it occurs to me that jails with bars are not the only prisons that confine us.

In the past few weeks, a number of people in our church family have learned they have cancer, and isn’t that a diagnosis that can imprison a whole family, forcing everyone to focus on medical appointments and test results, and having the joy of the season eclipsed by the urgency of treatment and the shadows in the future. And I think of all the people whose lives are constrained by life-long illnesses such as diabetes and MS and Lou Gehrig’s disease and polymyalgia rheumatica, not to mention plain old generic arthritis.

Some of us are confined in the prison of resentment. Every time we see the person who has wronged us, or hear the person’s name, we remember the wrong, and that’s all we remember, and we carry our prison around with us.

On a lighter note, these beautiful babies we have here this morning for their baptisms, Owen Scott and Ava Lillian. Little kids let us know pretty early on that they feel imprisoned by their lack of control over the simple things in life. Already they have opinions about who they want to hold them and when they want to eat, but wait until they are two, and they bang their tin cups against their cell walls and holler, “No! No! No!” And before you know it they will be 15 and everyone ELSE can just GO where they want to go when they want to GO there, and Ava Lillian and Owen Scott will be limited by the convenience of their parents’ schedules and their parents’ ideas about where and with whom the children should be spending their time. Almost every teen, sooner or later, says of his or her home, “This place is a jail!” There will be days, too, when their parents feel as if they are being held hostage by their beloved children.

And speaking of home feeling like jail, there are the homebound. What a soft comfortable term for home, always a sanctuary, but now turned to an inescapable prison, the inmates abandoned by good health and then over time by friends who move on in life.

Some of us are entangled in difficult family dynamics. How about folks with unbearable in-laws? Some of us are grieving the death of a loved one, some in the grip of depression or addiction. Some of us are worried about looming problems on the global scene—the wars that rage across the globe leaving (in addition to the dead) hundreds of thousands of people homeless and hungry, smoking hostilities about to burst open into active warfare, the macroeconomic imbalance that could throw the United States into chaos, the climate crisis.

There’s a lot that gets us down these days. Scripture tells us, “Rejoice in the Lord always.” I don’t imagine very many of us have mastered the art of rejoicing in our own personal prisons.

I want to be clear, as we embrace Paul’s words on rejoicing, that Paul has not lost touch with reality. He’s not prancing around in prison laughing and partying and having a good old time. He knows where he is, and he knows he is about to be executed. . He has some very dark moments—indeed, some dark hours and days of deep despair. He has moments of stark terror when he thinks ahead. But the Good News of Jesus’ coming means the most to Paul when he’s at his lowest.

From within his own prison cell, Paul reaches out and speaks to us as we wrestle with the constraints in our own lives. “Rejoice in the Lord always” (4:4) not just when the living is fine, but always. Not just when the future is rosy, but always. “The Lord is near.” In the context of the Advent season, this is our celebration: joy that the Lord has come, joyous expectation that the Lord will come. Don’t we need to hear that, now especially, with all that’s going on in our world? “The Lord is near.” The Risen Christ is close by. He’s right here in the sanctuary. He’s in every home. He’s in every heart. “The Lord is near.” We are waiting for him, holding our breath, straining to hear his coming in the stillness, straining to see the star in the sky. Straining to feel that gentleness that washes over us when we behold a newborn baby. “The Lord is near.”

“Rejoice!… The Lord is near!“ In one breath, Paul exclaims, “Rejoice!” and in another he affirms, “The Lord is near.”

Paul’s joy is that quiet fullness we feel when we know we are deeply loved.

I’d like to close with a true story about a woman who, I think, understands better than most of us what Paul is writing. The story is told by a pastor, Dawn Weeks, of an experience she had when she was visiting someone in a VA hospital. She says:

I was waiting with him in a patient holding area, where many others were waiting for various tests and procedures. Our visit was interrupted by the sound of a man groaning loudly and the softer sound of a woman humming. As the noise continued, I excused myself from our visit and followed the sound of the groaning and the singing. I turned the corner to see a badly scarred man lying on a gurney, groaning. Beside him sat a woman, stroking his brow and humming gently to him. I introduced myself and asked if I could sit with them for a few moments. The woman seemed glad for the company. She told me their story. He had been wounded in Viet Nam, resulting in severe mental and physical handicaps. “He’s been like this ever since,” she ended. My mind raced to do the math--for thirty years they had suffered like this. I was speechless. Finally, I asked, “How have you endured?” She smiled and said, “I know that one day God’s going come and heal him. And I intend to be here when he does.” And she began humming again.

I’m not sure but I think that in the sound of her humming song, I heard the sound of God singing, too. She was humming …the hint of a loud love song to come. It was the first bars of a boisterous victory over sin and disease and oppression and all that keeps us from joy. It was the lullaby of a mother comforting her child; it was the raucous tune of a warrior when he has won the battle. I’m not sure, but I think that in the sound of her humming song, I heard the sound of God singing, too.

Perhaps, then, “Joy to the World” is not the best song for those of us who (are having trouble finding joy in the season.) Perhaps “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” is a more genuine expression of our faith. This Advent, those of us who are “beneath life’s crushing load.” “rest beside the weary road, and hear”--not just the angels singing--but our great God Almighty singing over us.

It is God singing over us that enables us to rejoice.

Rejoice in the Lord always. Again, I say, Rejoice!

AMEN