For the Second Sunday in Advent
December 10, 2023
International Human Rights Day
1.
While Pharaoh and friends enact all-out destruction, Hebrew midwives deliver hope and possibility. While drones scatter families and bombs obliterate neighborhoods, Shiphrah and Puah (whose names we should know)—Shiphrah and Puah defy war’s maddening logic and dance with the Great I Am. And so it goes in Torah, in Exodus—which is God’s good news, a sign of all we can be, an invitation to communion and solidarity. Nothing is impossible with those who love God.
So I want to tell you a little about last Sunday. Last Sunday, after a thrilling day here (remember our nine new members, and the water dancing, and the joy of a church alive), after all of that, I drove down to Roxbury for an interfaith dinner at Masjid Al-Qur’an, one of Boston’s historic mosques and thriving religious communities. It was a rainy, miserable night for a drive (more water dancing!)—but once I found the place, once I slipped inside, once I kicked off my shoes and stepped onto the soft carpet inside the main hall—I knew I had stumbled upon something very, very special. A beloved community.
African American pastors were mingling with young Jewish rabbis. Talking about the bombing of Gaza and gun violence here at home, and how we overcome cycles of violence and despair. Imams from across the city were laughing together and chirping at children navigating the chaos with heaping plates of traditional Senegalese food. Young Christian organizers passed around clipboards with a dozen opportunities for action and protest. If the weather outside was dark and brooding and wet, the vibe in the mosque was sunny and almost sacramental. For all the racism, for all the antisemitism, for all the islamophobia in the world, there was among us a knowingly shared sense of the possible. An unspoken, but unmistakable prayer passed from hand to hand, illuminated in a hundred smiles, and a room full of gratitude.
1.
So I want to tell you a little about last Sunday. Last Sunday, after a thrilling day here (remember our nine new members, and the water dancing, and the joy of a church alive), after all of that, I drove down to Roxbury for an interfaith dinner at Masjid Al-Qur’an, one of Boston’s historic mosques and thriving religious communities. It was a rainy, miserable night for a drive (more water dancing!)—but once I found the place, once I slipped inside, once I kicked off my shoes and stepped onto the soft carpet inside the main hall—I knew I had stumbled upon something very, very special. A beloved community.
African American pastors were mingling with young Jewish rabbis. Talking about the bombing of Gaza and gun violence here at home, and how we overcome cycles of violence and despair. Imams from across the city were laughing together and chirping at children navigating the chaos with heaping plates of traditional Senegalese food. Young Christian organizers passed around clipboards with a dozen opportunities for action and protest. If the weather outside was dark and brooding and wet, the vibe in the mosque was sunny and almost sacramental. For all the racism, for all the antisemitism, for all the islamophobia in the world, there was among us a knowingly shared sense of the possible. An unspoken, but unmistakable prayer passed from hand to hand, illuminated in a hundred smiles, and a room full of gratitude.
When our host, Imam Mohammed, gathered us in prayer, he reminded us of the purpose for our coming together. “The Prophet,” he said, “peace be upon him, declared in the Qur’an that Allah created our many, many differences so that we should explore them in love, so that we should enjoy them with respect, so that we should get to know one another.” I could feel the whole room, the whole crowd leaning in. “That’s the Qur’an,” he smiled. And, at that, the whole place erupted in applause and a bunch of “Amen, brother(s)!”—and some sweet “Hallelujahs” too. I’m pretty sure I saw a priest in the back crossing himself. And a rabbi beside him weeping.
Then that whole crowd, maybe 125 souls, divided into groups of four and broke bread, sitting cross-legged on the soft green carpet; and it was kosher, and it was halal, and it was as grand a feast as I’ve seen or tasted in quite some time. Between bites, we told stories—how we came to care about Israel, Palestine, peace; what our different communities were doing in response to the violence, the war, the occupation; and why we needed relationships like those in the room to do the work. Accountability. Solidarity. Peacemaking. My little group included a Palestinian physicist who identified as an atheist; a Jewish graduate student working with teens at a Jewish community center in the suburbs; and a Muslim man from the mosque, who’s a neighborhood captain with the Boston police. And just to mix things up—me, your run-of-the-mill, Christian from New Hampshire. Just filling out the demographic!
And, of course, our conversation was serious, sadness mixing with anger, defiance tempered by confession. How is it, one wondered, that our country continues to bless destruction and despair as a solution to occupation and distrust? Is that the best American diplomacy can offer? And how is it, another asked, that our only response to the horrific violence of October 7 is more horrific violence, more grieving families, more shattered dreams? What kind of future can possibly be built on such madness, such destruction? It was pretty intense. The Palestinian physicist mentioned that dozens of family members in Gaza are still unaccounted for. I mean, what do you say? Dozens unaccounted for in a 21st century warzone.
And yet, and yet, over dinner, warm African food prepared by doting Muslim caterers, new friendships were born in the midst of all that. New alliances. New partnerships. To care together is so much more powerful than to despair alone. To care together is so much more powerful than to despair alone. And it’s simply amazing, is it not, how the most ordinary human experiences—sadness, anger, grief—are somehow transfigured by bread broken in human circles. So the young Jewish grad student reached out gently and took the trembling hand of the Palestinian physicist. Didn’t say a thing. But just took his hand.
In our tradition, we might call what I experienced Sunday night in Roxbury a stirring of the Holy Spirit—the one Great Spirit who draws diverse communities into communion, the one Great Spirit who weaves our many stories into a common prayer for peace, the one Great Spirit who overcomes despair with love and respect. We are reminded in such moments—as I was last week—that God’s passion is human kindness, human friendship, human community. And even in the midst of war, even in the midst of our grief, maybe especially so, God is revealed to us in patterns of love and forgiveness, in organized movements for peace and justice, in simple acts of companionship and courage. In one hand reaching out for another.
2.
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And when all those kids had cleared all our plates, and we’d settled in for a program, we heard from a spirited group of local leaders. Several of whom had been arrested in the past couple of weeks, calling for a ceasefire in Gaza and begging American leaders for mercy. A young Jewish activist chanted a sweet and haunting version of the 130th Psalm. In Hebrew. “Out of the depths, I cry to you, O God!” And then a UCC pastor—who is also a Native American tribal leader—sang a traditional indigenous prayer, calling on spirits and energies unseen to bless the peacemakers and protect the vulnerable. It was so, so stunning. And then a young Muslim girl recited several verses from the Qur’an.
Each of these souls—in their own way—insisting that what will turn the tide, what will turn the tide on war and violence, what will turn the tide on antisemitism and islamophobia, what will turn the tide on militarism and gun violence and despair itself—is relational power. Not coercive power. Not angry, righteous power. Not shock and awe power. But relational power. What will turn the tide on war and violence is the power of diverse peoples connecting around shared commitments. The power of diverse faith leaders committing to one another, showing up for one another, breaking bread together and listening carefully to one another. The unyielding power of friendship. The persevering energy of accountability.
Near the end of Sunday’s supper, a young Jewish rabbi leaned into the microphone, got up on the very tip, tip, tips of her toes, and she said: “The only thing that can save the Holy Land now is the only thing that can save our country right here.” And then she paused, for effect, and looked around at all the eyes, all the bright faces, Jewish and Muslim faces, Christian and atheist faces, Palestinian and Israeli faces, all the faces lit up that evening by loving defiance. And she said: “The only thing that can save us is the power of love.” And then she paused again. Looked around again. And then she said: “And not just any love: but love-in-action, love-with-a-purpose, organized love.”
And this too, it seems to me, is a Holy Spirit thing. Just as it’s a Torah thing. And my Muslim friends would say, it’s a jihad thing. Love-in-action. Love-with-a-purpose. Organized love. Not just any love: but the Love that moves in our hearts, and in our communities, and wherever she pleases, to build relational power. Not just any love: but the Love that insists we meet one another and listen and collaborate in peace and care for our communities and cities. Not just any love: but the Love that imagines a world in which leaders prioritize wholeness, and commit to justice, and negotiate around shared goals and visions. Not just any love: but the Love that teaches us all to lay down our swords, shields, drones and AI-directed bombs and study war no more. And study war no more. And that means Love-in-action. That means Love-with-a-purpose. That means Organized love.
I drove home Sunday night with all of that bouncing around in my heart. With the rabbi’s refrain fanning the flames of my own faith. Relational power—not military power—will heal the planet. Relational power—not vengeance—will bring peace to Israel and Palestine. Relational power—not MAGA madness—will bring democracy to fruition in our own land. And that’s a faith thing. That’s a Holy Spirit thing. That’s an “I’m all in and let’s get to work” kind of thing.
3.
So when we take up this morning’s tale from the Book of Exodus; when we follow this stunning story of oppression and intimidation, of defiance and resistance…we have to notice, right, that it’s a celebration of relational power. Right? How relational power flips the script on tired versions of patriarchy, and tired versions of militarism, and ruthless versions of domination and greed and xenophobia. And how relational power makes a way out of no way—for the Spirit to do her thing.
When Shiphrah and Puah—these two Hebrew midwives—when they’re ordered by Pharaoh to toe the line, to follow orders, to play their bit roles in empire’s deadly project, what do they do? You read the story with Melissa and Brian. What do they do? They draw on the deep resources of their faith. They look to one another for friendship and support. They choose compassion and love and nonviolence. And they let all those tiny babies in their care live. They let them live.
How very appropriate to read this story, to celebrate their story, to remember Shiphrah and Puah on December 10—which is International Human Rights Day. Did you know that? That today’s the 75th Anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights? Shiphrah and Puah remind us that God’s promise to us is relational power, and that, in committed and accountable relationships, we can defy the maddening drumbeat of violence and vengeance; that God’s promise to us is relational power, and that in churches like ours and partnerships like theirs we can give birth to new visions of wholeness and communion. Love-in-action. Love-with-a-purpose. Organized love. Shiphrah and Puah are Alicia Garza and Patrice Cullors imagining a new movement they call Black Lives Matter. Shiphrah and Puah are Martin King and Rosa Parks refusing to ride in Montgomery. Shiphrah and Puah are midwives not only to mothers and children, but to brave nonviolent movements for generations to come.
And, of course, their courage makes Miriam’s possible, and Miriam’s mother’s too. Because we see, in the story, that her mother hides baby Moses for three months; and when she can hide him no longer, she gets a basket for him, and she plasters it with bitumen and pitch, and she places baby Moses in that carefully prepared basket and sets it among the reeds by the bank of the river. The story goes on, right. The story goes on. And now other women are involved, even empowered to do their own thing.
Because that mother sends Moses’ big sister, Miriam, to keep watch by the riverside, to see if that old basket’s seal will hold, and to report back on what happens as it floats along. Already, you see, in this old story, there are conspiracies of hope, conspiracies of resistance built into its every dimension, stitched into the story of God’s people and their journey to blessing and wholeness and liberation. Relational power. Shiphrah and Puah. Miriam and her mother.
And, of course, even that’s not all. There’s even more to it. Because Pharaoh’s daughter, an Egyptian girl, comes down to the river, to bathe or swim or maybe simply play with her friends; and she finds the basket among the reeds—and it’s floating well, sealed as it is; and when she opens it she finds the baby. She finds the baby Moses resting in the basket. Three months old, four maybe. Floating upon the river. And he’s crying. As babies do. Floating in baskets. On strange rivers. Far from home.
Then that whole crowd, maybe 125 souls, divided into groups of four and broke bread, sitting cross-legged on the soft green carpet; and it was kosher, and it was halal, and it was as grand a feast as I’ve seen or tasted in quite some time. Between bites, we told stories—how we came to care about Israel, Palestine, peace; what our different communities were doing in response to the violence, the war, the occupation; and why we needed relationships like those in the room to do the work. Accountability. Solidarity. Peacemaking. My little group included a Palestinian physicist who identified as an atheist; a Jewish graduate student working with teens at a Jewish community center in the suburbs; and a Muslim man from the mosque, who’s a neighborhood captain with the Boston police. And just to mix things up—me, your run-of-the-mill, Christian from New Hampshire. Just filling out the demographic!
And, of course, our conversation was serious, sadness mixing with anger, defiance tempered by confession. How is it, one wondered, that our country continues to bless destruction and despair as a solution to occupation and distrust? Is that the best American diplomacy can offer? And how is it, another asked, that our only response to the horrific violence of October 7 is more horrific violence, more grieving families, more shattered dreams? What kind of future can possibly be built on such madness, such destruction? It was pretty intense. The Palestinian physicist mentioned that dozens of family members in Gaza are still unaccounted for. I mean, what do you say? Dozens unaccounted for in a 21st century warzone.
And yet, and yet, over dinner, warm African food prepared by doting Muslim caterers, new friendships were born in the midst of all that. New alliances. New partnerships. To care together is so much more powerful than to despair alone. To care together is so much more powerful than to despair alone. And it’s simply amazing, is it not, how the most ordinary human experiences—sadness, anger, grief—are somehow transfigured by bread broken in human circles. So the young Jewish grad student reached out gently and took the trembling hand of the Palestinian physicist. Didn’t say a thing. But just took his hand.
In our tradition, we might call what I experienced Sunday night in Roxbury a stirring of the Holy Spirit—the one Great Spirit who draws diverse communities into communion, the one Great Spirit who weaves our many stories into a common prayer for peace, the one Great Spirit who overcomes despair with love and respect. We are reminded in such moments—as I was last week—that God’s passion is human kindness, human friendship, human community. And even in the midst of war, even in the midst of our grief, maybe especially so, God is revealed to us in patterns of love and forgiveness, in organized movements for peace and justice, in simple acts of companionship and courage. In one hand reaching out for another.
2.
.jpeg)
Each of these souls—in their own way—insisting that what will turn the tide, what will turn the tide on war and violence, what will turn the tide on antisemitism and islamophobia, what will turn the tide on militarism and gun violence and despair itself—is relational power. Not coercive power. Not angry, righteous power. Not shock and awe power. But relational power. What will turn the tide on war and violence is the power of diverse peoples connecting around shared commitments. The power of diverse faith leaders committing to one another, showing up for one another, breaking bread together and listening carefully to one another. The unyielding power of friendship. The persevering energy of accountability.
Near the end of Sunday’s supper, a young Jewish rabbi leaned into the microphone, got up on the very tip, tip, tips of her toes, and she said: “The only thing that can save the Holy Land now is the only thing that can save our country right here.” And then she paused, for effect, and looked around at all the eyes, all the bright faces, Jewish and Muslim faces, Christian and atheist faces, Palestinian and Israeli faces, all the faces lit up that evening by loving defiance. And she said: “The only thing that can save us is the power of love.” And then she paused again. Looked around again. And then she said: “And not just any love: but love-in-action, love-with-a-purpose, organized love.”
And this too, it seems to me, is a Holy Spirit thing. Just as it’s a Torah thing. And my Muslim friends would say, it’s a jihad thing. Love-in-action. Love-with-a-purpose. Organized love. Not just any love: but the Love that moves in our hearts, and in our communities, and wherever she pleases, to build relational power. Not just any love: but the Love that insists we meet one another and listen and collaborate in peace and care for our communities and cities. Not just any love: but the Love that imagines a world in which leaders prioritize wholeness, and commit to justice, and negotiate around shared goals and visions. Not just any love: but the Love that teaches us all to lay down our swords, shields, drones and AI-directed bombs and study war no more. And study war no more. And that means Love-in-action. That means Love-with-a-purpose. That means Organized love.
I drove home Sunday night with all of that bouncing around in my heart. With the rabbi’s refrain fanning the flames of my own faith. Relational power—not military power—will heal the planet. Relational power—not vengeance—will bring peace to Israel and Palestine. Relational power—not MAGA madness—will bring democracy to fruition in our own land. And that’s a faith thing. That’s a Holy Spirit thing. That’s an “I’m all in and let’s get to work” kind of thing.
3.
So when we take up this morning’s tale from the Book of Exodus; when we follow this stunning story of oppression and intimidation, of defiance and resistance…we have to notice, right, that it’s a celebration of relational power. Right? How relational power flips the script on tired versions of patriarchy, and tired versions of militarism, and ruthless versions of domination and greed and xenophobia. And how relational power makes a way out of no way—for the Spirit to do her thing.
When Shiphrah and Puah—these two Hebrew midwives—when they’re ordered by Pharaoh to toe the line, to follow orders, to play their bit roles in empire’s deadly project, what do they do? You read the story with Melissa and Brian. What do they do? They draw on the deep resources of their faith. They look to one another for friendship and support. They choose compassion and love and nonviolence. And they let all those tiny babies in their care live. They let them live.
How very appropriate to read this story, to celebrate their story, to remember Shiphrah and Puah on December 10—which is International Human Rights Day. Did you know that? That today’s the 75th Anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights? Shiphrah and Puah remind us that God’s promise to us is relational power, and that, in committed and accountable relationships, we can defy the maddening drumbeat of violence and vengeance; that God’s promise to us is relational power, and that in churches like ours and partnerships like theirs we can give birth to new visions of wholeness and communion. Love-in-action. Love-with-a-purpose. Organized love. Shiphrah and Puah are Alicia Garza and Patrice Cullors imagining a new movement they call Black Lives Matter. Shiphrah and Puah are Martin King and Rosa Parks refusing to ride in Montgomery. Shiphrah and Puah are midwives not only to mothers and children, but to brave nonviolent movements for generations to come.
And, of course, their courage makes Miriam’s possible, and Miriam’s mother’s too. Because we see, in the story, that her mother hides baby Moses for three months; and when she can hide him no longer, she gets a basket for him, and she plasters it with bitumen and pitch, and she places baby Moses in that carefully prepared basket and sets it among the reeds by the bank of the river. The story goes on, right. The story goes on. And now other women are involved, even empowered to do their own thing.
Because that mother sends Moses’ big sister, Miriam, to keep watch by the riverside, to see if that old basket’s seal will hold, and to report back on what happens as it floats along. Already, you see, in this old story, there are conspiracies of hope, conspiracies of resistance built into its every dimension, stitched into the story of God’s people and their journey to blessing and wholeness and liberation. Relational power. Shiphrah and Puah. Miriam and her mother.
And, of course, even that’s not all. There’s even more to it. Because Pharaoh’s daughter, an Egyptian girl, comes down to the river, to bathe or swim or maybe simply play with her friends; and she finds the basket among the reeds—and it’s floating well, sealed as it is; and when she opens it she finds the baby. She finds the baby Moses resting in the basket. Three months old, four maybe. Floating upon the river. And he’s crying. As babies do. Floating in baskets. On strange rivers. Far from home.
And the Egyptian girl has compassion on the Hebrew baby. And friends, this is like the whole Torah, and the Sermon on the Mount, and all of Judaism and Christianity, too, summed up in a single moment, just one verse. The Egyptian girl has compassion on the Hebrew baby. In the midst of an otherwise vicious narrative, with Pharaoh executing a genocidal project, and waves of fear stirred up between peoples, and so much violence and suffering in the works, the Egyptian girl has compassion on the Hebrew baby. The daughter of Arabs hears the cry of the child of Jews.
And out of her stunning, swelling of the heart, and the ensuing conversation with Miriam, and Miriam’s wily decision to fetch her mother to be her brother’s nurse—a whole story takes shape. A story of resistance. A story of liberation. A story of women working around the murderous intentions of rulers and beyond the violent projects of empires to work out possibilities of a world redeemed, and peoples reconciled, and hope restored. Relational power, right?! Flipping Pharaoh’s ruthlessness on its ear. Drawing on compassion for creativity and courage.
4.
The Holy Spirit, or the Great Spirit, or Yahweh, or the Great I Am—the nameless One is on the move, it seems, wherever human partners are committed to collaborative campaigns of compassion; on the move, it seems, wherever human partners are intentional around breaking bread across differences and divisions; on the move, it seems, wherever sisters in spirit conspire to honor life, to protect life, to celebrate life against the murderous intentions of empires and tyrants.
As we open our hearts to new life this Christmas season, and as we watch for the signs of incarnation among us, I invite us to watch not only for Jesus, not only for the tender child born in our vulnerability and longing; but I invite us to watch as well for Shiphrah and for Puah, and for Miriam and her mother, and for Pharaoh’s daughter too. I invite us to watch for the brave young rabbi who stands on the tip, tip, tip of her toes and says: “The only thing that can save us is the power of love!” And I invite us to watch for opportunities to join hands and hearts with Jewish friends and Muslim friends, with any friends, who choose the ways of lovingkindness and justice and peace.
Because it’s in touching them and being touched by them, that the Holy One is most powerfully praised and most generously loved and most sweetly celebrated. It’s in laying down our swords and shields, and laying down our bigotry and fear, and laying down our religious pride and isolationism that we discover who God is, and all God needs, and the how it is that we shall, we really shall OVERCOME.
Through strategies shaped by friendship and love.
Through coalitions forged in solidarity and grace.
Through partnerships strengthened by curiosity and faith.
Like Shiphrah and Puah, like Miriam and Moses, we shall, we really shall OVERCOME.
