Muddling Through Somehow

As I was listening to my Christmas playlist in the car for maybe the sixth or seventh time this season, it struck me that I have the “wrong” version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I have the movie version, which is slightly different than the one overheard in shopping centers this time of year. 

The song comes from the 1944 Meet Me in St. Louis, which follows a family moving from St. Louis to New York around the time of the 1904 World’s Fair. It covers Christmas time, and has the song, but I would hardly call it a Christmas movie. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” sung by Judy Garland’s character to her little sister played by Margaret O’Brien, is an attempt to comfort the sisters through the difficult transition with a promise that things will eventually get better.

The tune caught on as a Christmas song, but apparently it seemed too morose, so a slight change was made. The line “until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow” became “hang a shining star upon the highest bough.” And (surprise) I like the original better, and I’m glad it’s the version playing in my car for the next few weeks. The original line acknowledges that the present isn’t great, that suffering exists, but that you make the best of what you have and hope for a better future. Isn’t that Advent, doing our best until Christ comes?

In the West, the penitential aspect of Advent is greatly reduced compared to Lent. I’m never sure how to balance the penitential preparation with the joyous expectation. I just muddle through until Christmas. Looking at the larger picture—the violence, abuse, and degradation of people for money and power throughout the world—finding a way to muddle through isn’t always easy. But when the only other option is despair, muddling through is an act of hope, an act that says this situation is temporary, and tomorrow will be clearer and brighter and worth waiting for. It’s possibly the most Christmasy message in that Christmas song.

 

Motivation Monday: John Glenn

John Glenn died on Thursday at the age of 95. If anyone in my mind deserves the title “American hero,” it is him. One of NASA’s original seven Mercury astronauts, Glenn became the first American to orbit the earth on Feb. 20, 1962 aboard Friendship 7.

Before he was an astronaut, he was a Marine fighter pilot in WWII and the Korean War. Afterward, he served four terms as a senator for Ohio. I remember learning about him when he travelled on the shuttle orbiter Discovery in 1998, making him the oldest person to travel in space (at 77). To top it all, he dearly loved his high school sweetheart and wife of 73 years, Annie.

He seemed to encapsulate all that was noble and optimistic about twentieth-century America, all that we want America to be. As the New York Times put it:

“In just five hours on Feb. 20, 1962, Mr. Glenn joined a select roster of Americans whose feats have seized the country’s imagination and come to embody a moment in its history, figures like Lewis and Clark, the Wright brothers and Charles Lindbergh.

"To the America of the 1960s, Mr. Glenn was a clean-cut, good-natured, well-grounded Midwesterner, raised in Presbyterian rectitude, nurtured in patriotism and tested in war, who stepped forward to risk the unknown and succeeded spectacularly, lifting his country’s morale and restoring its self-confidence.”

Godspeed, John Glenn.

Ashes and Hope

On Monday night, strong winds whipped up the wildfires that had been burning in the area for the past month. Within minutes, the fires raging toward Gatlinburg, leading to a quick evacuation. Hundreds of homes and businesses were destroyed, and at last count, seven people lost their lives. Two more died the following day as tornadoes touched down nearby. Rain and the tireless efforts of dozens of fire crews from all over finally quelled the fire, and the region is now starting to assess the damage and begin the task of rebuilding. It was a devastating series of disasters.

Yet after a night of watching the horror unfold, the next day brought moments of real hope. Immediately, local groups began collecting supplies for firefighters and the National Guard; by noon, truckloads of water, food, balm, gloves, and other things had made their way to those still battling the fires. They were quickly followed by drives for those in the evacuation centers and those who had lost their homes: temporary housing, clothes, food, money, even an early visit from Santa. By yesterday, the Red Cross and other organizations were asking people to stop sending supplies; there was too much to handle. The Volunteer State really lived up to its name.

And the people who had suffered the most really demonstrated the best of mountain religion. A man who lost his business said, “It wasn’t mine to begin with. Everything belongs to God.” And while devastated at the losses, there was a prevailing attitude that prayers work and that God will take care of it all in the end.

One man in particular moved me. He said of being able to help other evacuees, “The Lord prepares you before he uses you.” When asked how to prepare oneself to go back and deal with the damage, he said, “As long as we have hope, these clothes, that house—that’s material things…We’re going to dwell on the positives, we’re going to look to a brighter future. We can’t look back; the things I’ve known probably don’t exist anymore.”

What hope in the face of disaster. And how fitting for the first week of Advent. Bad things happen, but keep going, for tomorrow is coming. Keep preparing the way.

Nearer Now

This past Sunday was the beginning of Advent, one of my favorite seasons. I double-churched (Catholic and Presbyterian), and the readings at both included Romans 13:11-12:

Brothers and sisters: You know the time; it is the hour now for you to awake from sleep. For our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed; the night is advanced, the day is at hand. Let us then throw off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light.

Advent means coming. And we are waiting for two comings. The first is Christmas, the Incarnation. We are waiting for our God to become man in order to bring man back to God. Jesus’ birth is a fixed point in time, but each year we enter back into that period of anticipation and nesting, eagerly and joyfully waiting. 

The second coming is, well, the Second Coming, Christ’s return. We are waiting for the end of the world, when we can be reconciled with our Creator. But isn’t that dark, to look forward to the end times? It’s not dark at all; we are people of the light. The end of this fallen world is the beginning of a reconciled one, when all shall well. We should be just as eager and joyful for this arrival as we are for the birth of Christ.

The day is at hand. Each moment we are closer to the arrival. We should be standing eagerly at the window, nose pressed to the cold glass, scanning the darkness for approaching headlights. We must be ready. We must prepare. We must stay awake. We must keep the light on throughout the night.

Closing the Door on Mercy

Back during primary season, I noted the irony of the Year of Mercy overlapping with an election year. People aren’t merciful during election years.The Year of Mercy ended this past Sunday, and it certainly feels like mercy has ended. The past few months have been like watching mercy slowly disappear rather than celebrating it. People are upset and angry and quick to label. We assume the worst of those different from us, those outside our specially-crafted bubbles and feeds and circles. We care about being right more than looking for the truth. We care about proving someone wrong more than helping them see the truth. We want the high ground, even when it means stepping on the backs of others. 

I see the anger continue to fester. I see the water protectors get sprayed with hoses in freezing temperatures. I see corporations buying up legislation that benefits their pockets at the expense of public health. I see crowded private prisons and broken families and addictions. I see nationalism rising as if no one read their high school history books. What a shitty year for mercy.

But mercy is needed more than ever. Even small acts—a blanket, a bottle of water, a hug—keep the light flickering when the world tries to blow it out. Pope Francis said, “How much I desire that the years to come will be full of mercy, so that every person can experience the goodness and tenderness of God!” It is my responsibility to share corporal and spiritual works of mercy, regardless of year or jubilee or circumstance. And it is when people are angry or scared or depressed that mercy is most needed and makes its greatest impact. If we were already good at being merciful, we wouldn’t have needed a jubilee at all. So maybe it was the right year for mercy after all.