Some things never change. I know, I know, this is probably the worst sentence to start a sermon with. But isn’t it true? Some things just don’t give in to our prayers and appeals. Among the things that never seem to turn around is this: Conflict in the Middle East; animosity between the Jewish state and their neighbors; military alliances fighting somewhere in the cities of that region. The players have changed a few times; various strategies have been tried; but the same basic problem has remained stubbornly attached to the same small geography with that tiny strip of land in its epicenter: unrest. In some respect, we could call this place the “Unholy Land.”
It’s almost Christmas and we are preparing our hearts and homes for the festival of the Incarnation, the birth of Christ. And while we write our cards and make our lists, while we decorate our living rooms and check our electrical lights for proper functioning, while we bake cookies and buy gifts, a terrible war is raging in Syria, to the north and east of the so-called Holy Land. The city of Aleppo is located just 326 miles from Jerusalem, about the distance between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. In the newest version of Middle Eastern war, it’s government forces in alliance with Russian airpower against rebels on the ground. It’s taking a horrible toll on the population of that city. Children are killed, houses are blown up, food and medical supplies are drying up. People are trapped. It’s awful!
Some things never change. I hate to be the bearer of bad news this time of year, on this Sunday when we light the candle of peace, obviously in an act of hope rather than celebration. But I was practically forced to bring this up and bring it to you so that all of us together could hold up this mess to God, even as we feel powerless and outraged. Sometimes we need to acknowledge the bad news before we can take the liberty to share good news. Aleppo is bad news. Is there hope for the city and its people? What does one do when one is trapped – and people get trapped for all sorts of reasons, not just in that dreadful war in Syria…
I looked at the reading from the prophet Isaiah for this Sunday. I read it in the context of the whole chapter and I thought, “This sounds familiar! Haven’t we watched this tape before?” In Isaiah’s time, the King of Aram, a region roughly located in the central part of modern Syria, conspired with the king of northern Israel to march against Jerusalem in the south. Different players, same game! Isaiah describes the situation in detail in the seventh chapter of his book. He writes, “When the house of David heard that Aram had allied himself with Ephraim, the heart of (king) Ahaz and the heart of his people shook as the trees of the forest shake before the wind.” I love his vivid, poetic descriptions! Then, as the story goes, God spoke to his prophet Isaiah and said to him, “Isaiah, please take your son. Go and meet king Ahaz at the end of the conduit of the upper pool on the main road to the Fuller’s field and say to him, ‘Take heed, be quiet, do not fear and do not let your heart be faint because of these two smoldering stumps of firebrands…’”
I am quoting Isaiah extensively here, because the details of his storytelling are intriguing to me. I mean, it sounds like a mystery novel. Why is Isaiah to take his son along to the meeting with the king? Why are they not meeting in his palace but somewhere out in a secret place, a forgotten corner of the city, near the water pipes? Are they afraid that the king’s inner circle has been compromised, that there are Syrian spies among them? (Have they been hacked?) It is all awfully intriguing, but it leads us to the text that you heard this morning and that sounds so familiar to our Christian ears, about a young woman bearing a child, a child that is supposed to be called “Immanuel,” God with us.” We’re back in familiar territory!
I think it’s important that we try to understand this story not just as a precursor to Christmas and Mary bearing God’s son, but as the message it was in those days of deep darkness, of people feeling trapped. The child is a sign from God, a sign of hope, a symbol of God’s alliance with his people, all this in the middle of terrible news about a military strike against the city.
Now, we have to be careful here. Christians have been accused of being a little bit naïve sometimes. Can you end war with the birth of a child? If that were the case, the motto of the 1960’s hippie movement would be spot on, “Make love not war!”
But things are a bit more complicated. Yet, it is interesting, isn’t it? I mean, children are the ones that get our attention first in those types of situations. We think especially about the young lives that haven’t had a chance to develop and are already caught in the crosshairs of gunfire and explosions. We think about children becoming orphans, suffering malnutrition, dangerous injuries, infections. And we say: “They shouldn’t be exposed to all these horrible things. Get them out of there!” And yet, in this prophetic text that we Christians read as a prelude to the Christmas gospel, counter-intuitively, the birth of a child is the sign of hope that the prophet points out. Or rather, a pregnant mother bearing a child, the same population we would want to get out of danger first. What is God’s message here? What is the deeper spiritual truth in this?
In almost every war and conflict, the number one solution that people jump to is violence: destroying one’s opponent, killing a dictator, smoking out terrorists. The number one instinct that people who are trapped follow, is this: lash out; hit back; show that you have fight in you! And I don’t want to dismiss the need to be tough in tough times. But in this case God points not to counter-violence but to life, saying emphatically that there will be a future for his people; no matter how grim things look now, life will endure. Is that too good to be true? (And you know, the God of the Old Testament was not really a pacifist; but maybe this was the moment when God became a pacifist…)
Well, the deeper spiritual message here is that life and hope hold more power than violence and fight. I recently listened to a report about Colombia, the South-American country that for so long has suffered under drug wars. Apparently, things have started to turn around. Twenty years ago, Medellin was the Aleppo of South America, the capital of a brutal drug war, residents in fear of the endless skirmishes between guerilla fighters and government forces. Now the city is experiencing a renaissance. And one of the most successful strategies – not the only one – was an advertising campaign that appealed to the rebel groups hiding in the mountains. And it really sounds too good to be true when you listen to it. The government hired an advertisement firm and they did their research. What are these rebels holed up in the jungle looking for? What could entice them to give up arms? Surprisingly, the answers were not that difficult. They started asking them to come home for Christmas, to reunite with their families, to experience life again, to watch soccer. Feliz Navidad, futbol and all that… In some cases, they set up posters of these rebels when they were children, pictures that only the individuals themselves could recognize, with a message from their mothers, “Get your butt home, pal! It’s time to see your momma – before she dies!” – together with promises for amnesty. And it worked in many cases and has helped to turn the situation around. I first thought story was too good to be true, but why not? Immanuel means: “God is with us – with all of us!” Even at times when darkness seems to reign. But darkness, according to our faith, never has the last word, never is final.
Christ is. Hope stays. Even hope for peace. Or for getting out of a dreadful place in your life.
Amen.