This morning, I’d like to share the Sunday Story from NPR’s Up First podcast. It aired yesterday morning, and this episode does a tremendous job lifting up the severe conditions that undocumented immigrants are facing in the United States, while also bringing home their humanity and casting a vision for a better future for them and our country. “This can bring us closer together if we let it,” one of the helpers says.
That being said, these needs are truly dire, and as immigrants and their children hide behind locked doors, this is a public health crisis with panic attacks, chest pain, isolation, and limited ability to access basic supplies.
We need to pay attention. If we dare to learn their languages, we need to love the people behind those languages. If we dare to enjoy their cuisines, we need to love the people behind those cultures. But of course, above all, if we ourselves want to step into our best humanity — simply because that is who we should be — we should love these people because they matter intrinsically and are our neighbors.
It’s a word from a chorus many know well, especially at this time of year. I’m grateful that I’ll have the privilege to sing Hallelujah a multitude of times over the weekend. I sing with a choir that has the longest annual tradition of singing Handel’s Messiah in the entire world. We’ve done this every year consistently since 1879.
While I haven’t sung this 146 times in a row, I’ve sung the Hallelujah Chorus innumerable times. Yet I’ve learned something new in the opportunity to sing The Messiah in its entirety. Based on where it’s placed in the greater work, the Hallelujah Chorus isn’t a chorus joy-filled triumphalism. It’s about liberation.
It’s about human liberation from oppression — deliverance from oppression caused by other humans. This becomes clear when we hear what precedes the famous chorus:
The bass soloist sings,
Why do the nation so furiously rage together? And why do the people imagine a vainthing?
Then the chorus sings,
Let us break their bonds asunder, and cast away their yokes from us.
Then the tenor soloist sings,
He that dwelleth in heaven shall laugh them to scorn, The Lord shall have them in derision. Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron, Thou shalt dash them like a potter’s vessel.
That’s when the chorus responds with “Hallelujah!”
It might seem like an odd time to jump in and rejoice. But if we view this less as the powerful (including God) doing destruction for the sake of destruction, and instead, view this as liberation for the oppressed (God standing with them in power) the Hallelujah Chorus has a completely different purpose and tone.
Hallelujah!
For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. . .
Not standing above and dominating as an oppressor, but standing among the people as a powerful Liberator — a Liberator who invites the participation of the people in their own liberation. (“Let us break their bonds asunder”)
King of Kings and Lord of Lords. . .
Not a tyrant kind of King or Lord, but King and Lord that is revealed as fully human — a vulnerable child, a poor carpenter, a revolutionary, a healer.
Throughout our performances, I invite myself to think about these things when I sing that Hallelujah. And I think about liberation in our world and desire that certain bonds will be broken.
The audience stands and adds their voices, too. Resurrection, Liberation.
Is there a larger narrative that you want your life to mean?
a vision more expansive than your fears, than your pain, than your abandonment, than your guilt, than your anger, than your regret, than your grief, than your addictions, than your cynicism, than your anxiety, than your unease.
These feelings and experiences are valid and can be felt and processed, rather than pushed to the side.
But what larger narrative and vision energizes you and lights you up with sacred possibility?
Could we perhaps spend time intentionally cultivating that. Dreaming that. Practicing that. Acting on that.
A prickly pear cactus in Austin, Texas. Photo: Renee Roederer
Dr. Cynthia Rigby was one of my theology professors at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, and she was one of my most significant influences from those years. On more than one occasion, I remember her saying something wise about play, rest, and renewal — something I still think about often. I’m paraphrasing here, so this isn’t an exact quote, but it’s close to her point. She said:
“So often we imagine play, rest, renewal, and Sabbath as recreation — time away from the rat race, a chance to step out of it for a while so we can rest up and then jump back in a little more rejuvenated. But… what if play, rest, renewal, and Sabbath are actually re-creation? What if we engage them in such a way that they actually change us and the rat race itself?”
That’s really wise. I want that re-creation. I imagine we all do.
There are times when we step away from our typical rhythms and something in us is re-created — with new hopes, new commitments to healthier patterns, and new priorities (or the ones we’ve always had but left untended).
When the ball began to drop in New York City during the final seconds of December 31, 1986, crossing us over into a new year called 1987, I was too young to stay up and watch. But I do have a very vivid memory from the next morning.
I was coloring, and since I had just learned to read, I was enjoying learning the names of my Crayola crayons. These included more than the classic rainbow shades. I also had peach, periwinkle, and not to be undone in creativity, orange-red and red-orange.
While coloring, I asked my Mom a strange question:
“Mom, when will it be 1987 again?”
She looked confused, and I don’t blame her.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s 1987 this year. How many years will it take to be 1987 again?”
We went round and round — perhaps ironically — before she understood what I was getting at. I had assumed that our keeping of time was somehow cyclical. It might take a very long while, but someday, I figured, it would be 1987 all over again.
She finally said, “Oh, it’s only going to be 1987 once. Just one time. Next year it will be 1988, and the years will keep getting bigger. We will have 1987 all of this year, but then it will never be 1987 again.”
This made me a little sad.
I was thinking about that again this morning. I’m not saying that December 1, 2025 is going to be the most significant day of our lives, but it is only going to be December 1, 2025 once. Move over, YOLO. IOTO — It’s Only Today Once.
Sure, maybe it’s not the most meaningful day ever. I confirm this as I look out the window at the gray sky. But if we only get this day one time, we might as well not waste it on things that don’t matter or that pull us away from the things that matter most.
Earlier this week, I was reading a New York Times newsletter that mentioned a sideways forest in Poland. “What’s that?” I thought. I found out more on YouTube. These trees are weird! And a mystery.
And I found this video about them from 12-Years-Younger Hank Green.
Smuggling Grace 