I couldn’t help but stare at the holiday cards taped above the pew bench today: each face smiling and happy, a few purposefully striking a dramatic pose intended to make the rest of us laugh. The cards were arranged geometrically, with a dash of gold and cream washi tape over the top just to add to the merriment of the season. If dining room walls could scream, mine would have been shouting the merriest of obscenities.
But after browsing through Mary Graham’s recent Instagram posts yesterday, I thought about the real stories behind the perfectly posed pictures.
The holiday season oftentimes seems to make bold the emotions we’ve stuffed deep down inside. It’s like the still-raw stories of our past somehow magically intermingle with the sparkle and shine of holiday lights. But we don’t always want to feel the things that hurt, so we numb the pain more and we put on our faces of perfection more and we hope to God no one sees that we actually feel like we’re suffocating from the inside out.
Some of us address and seal and stamp a stack of holiday cards, choosing to tell the stories we think the rest of the world wants to hear. Some of us drown our sorrows in a bottle, the evening glass of wine becoming the afternoon glass of wine; others of us white-knuckle our hurts into the work we do and the things we can produce, letting the fruits of our labors define our very identities.
But most of us don’t display these truths on the front of our holiday cards, nor do we broadcast our pain to the rest of the world around us. (And, might I add: we shouldn’t. In today’s technology-driven world, you are entitled to privacy – not every bit of laundry should be aired on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, repeat).
So, we put on the face. We don our green and red and gold. We spend more than we should and we eat more than we should and we pretend like everything’s okay more than we should as well, sometimes forgetting that there’s a bit of perfection in the imperfections of life.
I don’t know about you, but I’m done with putting on the face. I’m done with projecting images of happiness when not all is happy in my life; I’m done staking claim to the former God of my youth, the one I thought would bless me with blessings upon blessings if I just believed enough, just prayed enough, just preached well enough too.
Instead, I’m ready to pray rebel prayers like Mary – prayers that lift up the humble and bring down rulers from their thrones, prayers that fill the hungry with good things but send the rich away empty, prayers that beg remembrance for mercy (Luke 2:52-54).
I’m ready to pray prayers that teach me to color outside the lines, prayers that cause me to recognize and lay down my privilege so others might be lifted up. And I’m ready to skin my knees in prayers for justice, cries that cause leaky tears to fall from my eyes because every one of these children is my children – and every one of these humans is my brother and my sister, the ubuntu of our humanity the thread that binds us together.
I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.
But first, I need to steady my rebel heart to hear. So, is it the same for you?
Amen.
—
Your thoughts? I’ve been leaning into Mary’s rebel prayers lately and loved hearing the same from Broderick Greer and reading the same from D.L. Mayfield. Who else would you recommend?