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December 15, 2019 · 12:47 pm

Third Sunday in Advent

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Scripture passage: Matthew 2:1-15

I don’t often jump for joy. I don’t often shout for joy, either.

In fact, years ago, after an important meeting went better than I could have imagined, I called a friend to talk about it as I drove back to the office.

“Are you excited?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, in about the same tone as if she had asked if I ate breakfast that morning.

“Where??? In your TOE?!!!”

We laughed about my lack of verbal enthusiasm then, but I have returned to that moment many times as I have found that I don’t quite know what to do with joy.

It’s not a new thing to me. Consider two of my favorite lines in two of my favorite books:

“…Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather knew that she was happy, than felt herself to be so…” (from Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen).

“’Anne Shirley!’” exclaimed Marilla. For once in her life she was surprised out of her reserve; she caught her girl in her arms and crushed her and her flowers against her heart, kissing the bright hair and sweet face warmly (from Anne of the Island, by L.M. Montgomery).

When I first read that line about Elizabeth knowing she was happy more than feeling it, it felt as though someone had been following my heart around, taking notes. And, though I grew up wanting to be Anne, it has been some time since I realized that there is plenty of Marilla in me – feeling deeply, but not quite letting it show, especially if it’s good. During a counseling session not long ago, I hesitantly said, “I think…I’m happy.” Indeed. I might think it, and feel it, but it doesn’t often show up on my face or outwardly in my body.

And that brings me to the Wise Men, or Magi, who visited Jesus and His family. Last week, I asked you to move the wise men in your nativity scenes across the room, if you could. That’s because the wise men weren’t there on the night Jesus was born! Matthew tells us that this group of scholars, or priests, or astrologers, arrived in Jerusalem sometime after Jesus was born. As the story unfolds, we learn that they first saw a star about two years before, and they took it to mean that a great king had been born in the nation of Israel. At some point, they decided to come and see this king, to worship Him and bring Him gifts. They stopped in Jerusalem to find out from King Herod where this new king had been born. King Herod and his own scholars and priests sent them on to Bethlehem, which had been identified as the Messiah’s birthplace by one of the prophets centuries earlier.

As they approached Bethlehem, they saw the star again, right over the place where Jesus was. Matthew 2:10 says that, “When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy” (NASB). This is one of those places where English does a poor job of conveying what actually happened. I consulted my own (language) scholars about this verse, and they told me that an adverb follows the Greek for “rejoice,” telling the extent of the action of rejoicing. My scholar reports: “The effect in the Greek is to communicate that their rejoicing was very visually physical and loud.”

Very visually physical and loud. What springs to mind when you consider that description? My guess is that it doesn’t look like the figurines in your nativity set.

Let’s look at the whole scene. A group of men from a foreign country, presumably speaking another language, showed up at the house. When they realized they were in the right place, and had found the right child, they rejoiced in a way that was probably more like My Big Fat Greek Wedding than the average American nativity scene. Eugene Peterson paraphrases it this way, “They could hardly contain themselves: They were in the right place! They had arrived at the right time!”

Also in the scene were Mary and Joseph, parents of a toddler, and Jesus, the toddler. Obviously, there were cultural and technological differences from our own time, but to a great extent, parents are parents and toddlers are toddlers. What do you suppose that scene was like? Can you hear the shouts and see the gestures, and maybe the jumping, from the visiting magi? Can you imagine the looks on Mary and Joseph’s faces? Do you think Jesus hid behind His parents’ legs or went about His toddler business, ignoring the guests? How about when the guests fell to the ground and worshiped that toddler? Can you imagine Jesus tugging on one of their hats in curiosity?

How did Joseph and Mary receive the gold, frankincense, and myrrh from these men? They were a carpenter’s family who had had to move to Bethlehem just before Jesus’ birth. They almost certainly didn’t have gold, frankincense, and myrrh lying around in abundance. And, they couldn’t know it then, but those gifts would soon finance their escape to Egypt, as refugees fleeing violence. Can you imagine their eyes meeting as they packed up those gifts before they fled?

Taking the time to imagine that scene, according to what’s written in Scripture, stirs my wonder and awe at the story of Jesus. This week, it also causes me to stop and think about joy, and rejoicing. The magi’s joy showed up in their bodies. If we saw a photo of them, there would be no doubt in our minds that they were thrilled. If we had video and audio footage of them, it would be loud and exuberant. It would be different from how joy most often shows up in me.

Though Scripture does not direct us to imitate the wise men, it does command us to rejoice (Philippians 4). If we would be more like Jesus, that toddler who was also the Savior, we must learn to rejoice, even in the face of suffering (Hebrews 12). What do you suppose that might look like, for you, this week? Will you join me in considering joy in these next days?

What if we think about these questions?

  • When have I visibly and audibly been unable to contain my joy? What was it, in those moments, that was different from other moments? (I’m making a timeline of moments.)
  • What would it be like if I didn’t try to contain my joy? What would it look like, sound like, and feel like?
  • What about people who don’t struggle to express their joy? What could I learn from them this week? What could they learn from me?
  • How could this kind of joy move me on to worship?

 

No matter how the week turns out, may we know we’re in the right place, may we know we’re here at precisely the right time, and may we be unable to contain the joy that wells up in us.

Amen.

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December 1, 2019 · 7:35 am

First Sunday in Advent

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There is a scene in the larger Christmas story that is implied, but not described. That’s a good thing, because it was private, but it’s a moment that reminds me of the flesh and blood reality of Advent and Christmas. An old Jewish priest named Zechariah was chosen by lot to serve in the Temple by burning incense. While he was in there, alone, he encountered the angel Gabriel. Gabriel announced that Zechariah and his wife, Elizabeth, would have a son, and that son would be John, who would prepare the way for the Messiah. Zechariah asked for evidence, given that he and his wife were well past the years when they expected babies. It may be that he demanded evidence, rather than asked, because Gabriel’s response is stern, and rebukes Zechariah for his unbelief. The consequence was that Zechariah’s voice was put in time out until the baby was born. Everything was going to come to pass as Gabriel had said, but Zechariah would not be able to verbally tell anyone what had happened in the Temple. He emerged in silence, clearly having had some sort of vision, but only able to gesture to the gathered worshipers to try and communicate.

What happened next is what captures my imagination. Zechariah finished his time of service at the Temple and went home to Elizabeth. The New International Version of the Bible says, “After this his wife became pregnant…” (Luke 1:24). Though she would soon be visited by a pregnant virgin, Elizabeth became pregnant in the typical way. So, sometime after her now-silent husband returned, the ordinary sex life of a faithful, elderly couple intersected with the prophecy of an angel and the creation of John the Baptist, who would prepare the way for Jesus. I’m struck by the mixture of everyday life and the work of God. Elizabeth and Zechariah were old, but had no children. They had probably been married for decades. Months and years of hoping for a baby in a culture that paired a woman’s worth with her fertility had so far brought nothing – no pregnancy that we know of, no baby. What had they endured in those years? How many times had their hopes been raised, only to be dashed again? What had people whispered about them? What well-meaning but ridiculous advice had their family and friends given? How did Elizabeth and Zechariah work out sex between them in the midst of all that? However they had worked it out, over all those years, into that came this angelic pronouncement: Elizabeth was going to have a son.

Do you imagine that Zechariah told Elizabeth what Gabriel told him? As he walked home, probably over multiple days, how did he decide whether or not to tell her? The Bible describes the couple as, “righteous,” living out God’s commands “blamelessly.” One of the things I take this to mean is that Zechariah was a loving husband. So, how did that play out as he approached his house, and his wife? They lived in a culture and time of quite distinct roles for men and women. He may have wanted to protect her from another disappointment. He may have been bursting with the news, unable to keep it to himself. And yet, if he was going to tell her, how was he going to tell her, given his silence? If he did tell her, what could that possibly have been like for her, after years of hoping for a baby, and then menopause, very reasonably ending those hopes? What was it like as they reached for one another, in the swirl of all of that?

No matter what all the answers to those questions are, at some time “after this,” Zechariah and Elizabeth both had before them the evidence of the truth of Gabriel’s message. Elizabeth was pregnant. Perhaps in fear that it was too good to be true, perhaps in awe at this wondrous gift from God, Elizabeth kept to herself and their house for five months. I’d like to return to her response a bit later this week. What I am especially mindful of as I consider their story now is that their part was to do the next, normal, human thing. God’s part was to provide the unseen, and in their case, truly the miraculous. Again, I shake my head at the mixture of everyday life and the work of God.

I wonder what resides in the, “after this,” moments of our ordinary lives in this season. After what do we find ourselves? After getting married, after losing a parent, after moving, after the first child ventures out in the world. I wonder if there are places in our lives where we have given up hope, in which God would have us hope again. I wonder if there are places in our lives where it is time to give up hoping in ourselves or other human beings, and place our hope in God. Whatever those places are, there are normal, everyday life things ahead of us to do. They all matter. Elizabeth and Zechariah’s sex life. The way we eat today. The 12-year-old’s birthday celebration. The eye contact with the person we’ve hurt, or who has hurt us. The next diaper change. The car line at school. The next time we pick up our phones. The way we handle being single, or widowed, or married, or divorced.

Most of us have not been given a promise as specific as Zechariah and Elizabeth. We do not know the outcome of either God’s silent, invisible work, or our next human thing to do. Sometimes that not knowing grows the frustration and longing through which we wait in Advent. Perhaps the hope of Advent is that the way we live next will be woven together with all the unseen movements of a God who loves us.

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November 24, 2019 · 4:02 pm

Waiting in Advent

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Several years ago, I discovered I loved Advent. I was teaching a women’s Bible study in a church that doesn’t recognize Advent – just Christmas. Having grown up with an Advent wreath in church, and having observed Advent in my own spiritual life as an adult, it made sense to me to teach from that season in the weeks before Christmas. What I didn’t anticipate was how much it would resonate with the women in that class, and in my own heart.

Advent, as practiced by Christians through several centuries, looks little like it does in American culture today. The main focus of Advent, historically, is looking forward to the Advent of Jesus Christ that is still in the future. It is a time to recognize that this world is not as it should be, as well as the sure hope that someday it will be put right. It is to state the ache of living in bodies and families and countries that fall so far short of what we long for and need. It is to own up to the fact that, sometimes, as we feel those longings, God seems silent and far away. Finally, it is to surrender those longings in hope that someday we will see the face of Jesus, and all of those aches will be wiped away in an instant, for we will see God.

Advent is located before Christmas on the calendar because Christmas tells the story of Jesus’ first Advent, when He came as a baby after God’s people had heard nothing from Him for about 400 years. Generations of people had been born, lived, and died, without the promise of a Messiah being fulfilled, without any updates from God via prophets, with nothing but silence. Those 400 years of silent anticipation mirror our own gap and silence. Jesus said He would come back. That was over 2000 years ago. What the heck?

But you won’t find “What the heck,” or anything stronger than that, on so-called Advent calendars or Christmas cards in America in 2019. Advent calendars count down to presents, or maybe to family, both of which can be dicey, and neither of which have guarantees. Maybe, “what the heck?” would be more honest. It would be for me. As I’m writing this, my next-door neighbors are 3 days into life after the loss of their 28-year-old daughter. She had children who are 10, 8, and 6 years old. Her funeral is the day before Thanksgiving. What kind of Christmas are those children going to have this year? What kind of Advent calendar isn’t repulsive and insipid in the light of that kind of loss. What the heck?

Advent comes into that kind of sorrow and longing. Jesus comes into that kind of sorrow and longing. Just as His birth shattered the silence of God and ushered in hope the first time, His presence now, and His future coming, call us to drop our, “What the heck?” laments at His feet, to weep the tears we have locked away, and to stubbornly hope in the One who promises peace, joy, and love to people who desperately need Him.

When I taught that Bible study years ago, this tension of ache and hope brought tears and laughter to that little group of women. We found solace in the outward traditions of Advent – the wreaths, the Nativity scenes, the hymns. The tangible things helped us truly witness the joy of Christmas in our terribly imperfect world. I have seldom experienced the presence of Christ as I did in those weeks with those women.

This year, I have had a growing sense of longing to return to that joy and peace via writing about it. I’m setting about to write from the perspective of someone waiting through the ache to the hope. I don’t know which one will surface on any given day. What I know is that I want to live and write truly of both. I want to have a heart with room for joy, peace, and love this Christmas. I want to wait for Jesus to break the silence of my longing with Himself.

Would you like to join me?

I’ll be sending out something that I write, plus a suggested spiritual practice for that week, on each of the four Sundays of Advent: December 1, 8, 15, and 22, as well as Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. In between those times, I’ll be posting occasional short pieces to this blog.

If you’d like to receive those emails, you can sign up here.

 

 

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