Difficult, Life-Giving Choices

The scriptures for the Fourth Sunday of Advent are filled with great promise but also with risk beyond imagining. They tell stories of crisis and challenge, of calls to conversion and questions that insist on answers. They demand a life lived on the cutting edge of awareness, a life that risks and responds without counting the cost. Life lived to the full, life in God, is filled with promise, with signs and wonders.

This is the way of God’s life within us. When difficult questions have to be answered, when tough choices have to be made, only love can move us in the direction of life-giving choices. At times like these we need people to walk with us, to reassure us, sometimes just to celebrate with us. How differently the stories of Advent would be if Elizabeth, Mary, and Joseph had let fear and anxiety triumph over love and trust and faith. Would we tell the stories at all? Advent promises the triumph of love over fear, of light over darkness. This love is difficult but so essential; we need to know that God is with us.

Joseph tossed and turned in the night and the questions crowded out all other concerns during the day. What would he do? How would he arrange this? What were his responsibilities? He tries to find as comfortable a solution as possible for everyone concerned. But the word of God breaks through this chaos and darkness and Joseph sees with startling clarity that the answer lies not along the path of least resistance but in the one solution he never considered. When the spirit breaks into human life we are confronted with an insistent challenge. We are called to choose life or death. Joseph follows the spirit, chooses life and receives the assurance of Emmanuel. We, too, are called to let the word of God break through the confusion in our lives. If we accept its illumination in spite of our fear, our uncertainty, our human weakness, we will know God with us. This is the way the birth of Jesus comes about.

Out of the silence of Advent comes the promise of the incarnation. The word breaks into our lives with the startling and dazzling revelation that through Jesus of Nazareth, God loved us in the visible, tangible ways the angels could never understand. Because we believe this, we’re called to love one another with the same incarnate love. Such love is a challenge to be gentle, to give of one’s self, to enter deeply into reconciliation, to grow and to change, above all to trust. It is a commitment of trust and faith, of promises made, kept, broken, reconciled. No real love can be born without risks, without vulnerability. Perhaps this is at the heart of our reluctance to believe the good news. We know that if it’s genuine, it will always have a price. As Christians we’ve staked our lives on the belief that only through death is there life. Our love is born of a passionate belief in promise, in commitment, in covenant.

To this love we commit all that we are and all that we can become. When despair overwhelms us, when promises suddenly seem empty, when it seems that we’re surrounded by dashed dreams and disappointment, by love betrayed and friendships faltering, prophets break into our lives with the word that God still cares, that love is still possible. To believe this promise demands that we risk once again, that we reach out in love, that we trust the hand reaching out to us.

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When Waiting Is Difficult

A farmer plants seeds deep in the earth. He knows from experience that they will produce plants. Does he ever doubt in the cold winter, looking at the barren fields? Even in the spring, waiting for the first green shoots to poke through the ground? We can’t see the growth taking place beneath the surface of our lives. Patience and trust are so desperately needed.

We wait for so many things. Waiting itself creates tension. Sometimes we think we can’t wait a moment longer, especially when that waiting is so heavy with uncertainty. We like to be active. We like to prepare. But sometimes we need to let ourselves be prepared, as soil is prepared for the seeds as seeds are prepared for the planting. Advent is a time of waiting. A time of preparation, yes, but while we must prepare, we must also be prepared to wait.

The letter from James counsels patience: “See how the farmer awaits the precious yield of the soil.” In this time of activity, of a too often commercialized rush, it is good to remember the natural cycle of the earth, the growth that takes place only in its own time. We can help it along, we can plant and nurture the seed, but in the end we can only be patient while the growth happens. We must take time to reflect, to believe in the promise of new life taking place. We must prepare, but we must also be prepared to wait, to hope, to trust.

We begin Advent with a rush of visions and good intentions. We hear the call to conversion and growth. We begin our preparations for the coming of Christ into our lives. But the reality is that we’re also caught up in preparations for holiday celebrations. We’re beginning to wear a bit thin. Our bodies are tired, our nerves frayed, our emotions stretched beyond their everyday endurance. We’re excited yet apprehensive. We anticipate but we also doubt. Suddenly we wonder if we’ve done everything we should.

The Scriptures for this third Sunday of Advent speak to this feeling of exhaustion and doubt. We hear of John the Baptist, imprisoned for his efforts at preaching conversion and the kingdom. In his disillusionment he begins to doubt whether Jesus was the Messiah at all. Jesus responds by assuring him that the signs of compassion and healing indeed herald the kingdom of the prophets. And he praises John for his role as forerunner. Like the desert of Isaiah’s vision, John’s desolation now blooms with hope. A word from the Lord can refresh tired bodies and weary spirits.

We are each called to do a specific task fully and justly. We are not all called to be saviors. We might follow John’s example: “I am baptizing you in water but there is one to come who is mightier than I. I am not fit to loosen his sandal strap.” John’s role is that of prophet and forerunner. He accepts his role and makes no grandiose claims of messiahship. Had he set himself up in rivalry with the one messiah, he would have been blown away as so much chaff. Instead he was a grain of wheat contributing his part to the Bread of Life.

The Lord is near to us, he is Emmanuel, “God with us,” and this gives us the integrity we need to live the promise according to our means. The spirit of the Lord will lead us in the ways of the kingdom in good time, in God’s time.

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Just as the rain and snow come down

When Isaiah compared the word of God to the rain and snow coming down to water the earth (Isaiah 55:10-11), I’m guessing he didn’t have Cincinnati’s weather in mind. We had snow so thick and heavy this morning that you could hear soft little whooshes as the flakes hit the ground. Perfect for the middle of December. But by noon the snow had changed over to rain and it’s supposed to alternate back and forth, with some sleet and ice in between. A good day to stay inside and have what a friend used to refer to as a reflective, introspective sort of day.

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Christmas Nostalgia

I helped my nephew and his wife set up their Christmas tree yesterday. We’ve done real trees for several years, even cutting our own a few times, but this year they have a new baby and no time for elaborate decorations. I’ve decided to simplify my own decorations as well. But there’s always a tug of decades of memories and traditions. Will it be Christmas without all these things?

It reminds me of a job interview many years ago far from home and the realization that I could be away from family and friends at Christmas for the first time. And suddenly it came to me that God would be with me no matter where I was. That’s always stayed with me as the heart of the Advent message, and it’s encouraged me to settled into my own adult traditions.

One of my co-workers, Father Greg Friedman, offers a nice reflection here on the nostalgia that’s so much a part of this Advent/Christmas season. It’s good to have reminders of the real focus of the season.

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Roots Aren’t Enough

Prophets are gifted with an intense personal awareness of God’s love for his people. Their call both inspires and compels them to preach this word to those who will listen — and to those who close their ears. From the time a prophet hears the word of God, the burning desire is to find the words that will express this eternal message to the people of one time and place.

The Word of God was spoken to John, son of Zechariah, in the desert, and John knew that the old order would have to pass away. Having prepared himself not through temple observances but through desert fasts and prayers, he comes out of the deserts preaching reform and conversion. The kingdom of God was at hand. The great prophets of the Hebrew scriptures may struggle with their call to be prophet, but they never deny the word of the Lord.

John the Baptist, the man Jesus spoke of as the greatest of the prophets, knew the desire of the prophet to tell people of the love of God. But the call to be prophet is makes demands, asking one to risk everything for the word. John became a voice in the wilderness, a man totally focused on his call and God’s message. In his desert fasts and struggles he must have known the experience of being alone with only the whisper of God’s word in his heart. Yet this whisper clamors to be proclaimed and we must come forth from our desert silence. John found his message” “Prepare the way of the Lord. The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Repent and believe the good news.”

John was rooted in the message of the Hebrew prophets, but he was being called to proclaim something completely new. Roots aren’t enough. We need to grow and bear fruit. Winter can lull us into a state of resting, of waiting for spring to energize us.

A group of Pharisees and Sadducees come to John the Baptist relying on their status as sons of Abraham. But John tells them that the ax is at the root of trees that aren’t producing fruit. The Gospel gives us a vivid image of dead wood and chaff being burned while the fruit and grain are gathered into barns to nourish and sustain life.

Roots provide valuable nourishment. They make life possible. But if they’re too constrained, they can inhibit the very growth they’re designed to nourish. Isaiah’s well-known vision of nature in harmony calls us to imagine sworn enemies sharing food and shelter, frolicking as companions. And the prophet neither minimizes the distinctions nor emphasizes the nearly unreachable idealism of the vision. Jesus said, “Love your enemies.” He didn’t say, “Your enemies will become your friends and then you will find it easy to love them.” Often our rootedness in one way of life or one set of attitudes keeps us from reaching out to those who are different, those we have avoided out of fear and hatred. To be fruitful, we must be open to this sort of newness.

Paul tells us Jesus fulfilled the covenant of the Jews and brought a vision of God’s mercy to the Gentiles. Paul’s gifts unite the dreams of these two groups into one vision of Christianity. He doesn’t destroy healthy differences, he doesn’t deny individual roots. He sees the possibility for communion. Advent is a time of vision, the vision of a shared future among all people as we grow beyond our rootedness.

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Can’t I just stay sleeping?

The irony of all the wake-up language in the early Advent readings and my mid-winter tendency toward hibernation is not lost on me. When my body is tired, it’s difficult to keep my soul engaged. But my own words call me to stay on track. Here’s a bit from last mSunday’s reflection on the readings for the First Sunday of Advent:

Once when I was a child, the northern lights were making a particularly dazzling display in the skies over our house. My parents tried to wake me for it, but said I “lijust wouldn’t wake up enough to go outside. I’ve always regretted missing that experience.

Paul tells the Romans, “You know the time; it is the hour for you to awake from sleep. For our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed.” And Jesus tells his disciples, “Stay awake! For you do not know on which day your Lord will come.” They’re not saying this to frighten us, but to make sure we don’t miss the wonder that is Emmanuel.

And here’s a bit more of the reflection that I began here:

Advent calls us into the winter of the year
to see the beauty of waiting:
darkness waiting for light,
silence waiting for a song,
hearts waiting for love.

Advent calls us to a deep inner conversion.
Along the way, the light fades.
We feel our determination wearing thin.
We want to rest, to quit.
We don’t want to hurt anymore.
We wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.

We hope and despair in turn.
We cling to whatever comfort and assurance we can find.

But through it all we grow.
And we catch glimpses of a promise of new life
like sparks darting through the stubble,
like stars glittering in a black night sky.

Growth is never easy,
even when a deep love encourages that growth.
No matter how often we move forward,
no matter how often we grow into new ways of being,
it still hurts to leave the familiar behind,
to face the unknown,
to try something new.

Without growth,
all we have is the paralysis of fear and anxiety,
the despair that overwhelms us,
the stagnant ruts of a road that’s going nowhere.

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A Season of Light and of Hope

We have bright sunshine today, which makes it easy to see the hope inherent in this season of Advent. When the clouds are thick and a mix of rain and snow is falling, it’s easy to think that it never really gets light at all between the late sunrise and the early sunset. But even on a dark day, this story from Deacon Greg’s blog would have lightened my heart. And it doesn’t hurt that it’s from my home state (though not home diocese). I particularly liked this translation of the opening blessing:

“Praised are you, Adonai our God, who rules the universe, your word bringing the evening dusk,” the congregation said as Listecki, sitting in the fourth pew, prayed along. “You create day and night, rolling light away from darkness and darkness away from light.”

I light a menorah in the center of my Advent wreath during the nights of Hanukkah. I started it when I was first taking Hebrew. And usually I light the Advent candle(s) from the menorah, a reminder of our strong roots in Judaism.

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An Advent Wake Up Call

“The night is advanced; the day is at hand”—a paradoxical thought at the beginning of Advent, coming as it does in the winter of the year when the days are ever shorter, the nights longer, darker, colder. This very discrepancy jolts us into awareness. It is easy to be wrapped up in our own comfort at this time of year. In our attempts to escape the grey skies that threaten snow, the starkness of black branches of winter trees against cold skies, we build fires in the fireplace or turn up the furnace. We have festive meals. We shop and decorate and bake for Christmas celebrations.

But Advent calls us to an awareness of something beyond the comfort and cheer of Christmas traditions, calls us into the winter of the year to see the beauty of waiting—darkness waiting for light, emptiness waiting for fullness, cold waiting for warmth, hearts waiting for love.

The Gospel for the First Sunday of Advent warns us not to be lulled to sleep by daily routines and the holiday flurry of activity. Jesus condemns the people of Noah’s time not for their activities, but for their indifference to the realities of life in their midst. Too often we like to pretend there’s nothing beyond the next festivity. Advent is a time to prepare ourselves not for a whirl of Christmas parties but for the Lord who is continually breaking into our lives.

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Waking Up

“Light that never fades, dispel the mists about us, awaken our faith from sleep.”

This line from the Morning Prayer intercessions hit home. It’s a grey, windy day. We had rain all day yesterday. I’ve been fighting a cold since before Thanksgiving and my energy is sapped. It’s been good to light the candle on the Advent wreath and immerse myself in the psalms and prayers of the Liturgy of the Hours. I said it regularly for many years and then let it slip from my life entirely. Returning to it has that wonderful feeling of coming home.

The readings yesterday, especially from Paul’s letter to the Romans,  were all about waking up, and instead, I dozed in front of the tv most of the afternoon, warm and cozy, but groggy. Today feels more promising. High winds overnight are drying the wet ground and I’m getting back to normal routines. The rituals of Advent are good for that. The Advent wreath, Advent calendars, the return to a daily prayer structure, all help me to focus and to stay grounded in the work of the season.

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The Silence of Advent

Advent calls us to seek the grace of winter
in silence and in hope.
Early evening journeys into night.
Branches etched against a garnet and sapphire sunset
reveal a structure strong yet delicate.
The symmetry suggests reflection . . . contemplation . . . inner peace.

Advent reveals our own inner strength,
and the fragility of our hearts,
as we learn to put our faith in what really matters.

As darkness deepens, the branches fade to black.
Stars glitter hard and white against the sky.
Advent comes into the darkness of our lives
with the promise of light
as we reflect on who we are and who we follow.

Welcome to a new liturgical season at “Bringing Home the Word.” It happens to be my favorite. It’s the only season in which the lectionary readings for the weekdays are chosen based on the first reading rather than the gospel. The oracles of the great prophet Isaiah set the tone for the season. For my birthday this year I treated myself to the first five volumes of the St. John’s Bible. I’m looking forward to opening the “Prophets” volume to the Book of Isaiah each day. More than any other Bible I’ve owned, this one makes it inescapably apparent that it celebrates the word of God in all its glory. More in the days to come.

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