The Journey of Advent

Christmas comes and goes with a predictable regularity. 
Decorations go up; decorations come down. 
Trees are strapped to the tops of cars; trees are dumped on the curb, awaiting the garbage truck, or recycled. 
Presents are bought and wrapped; presents are exchanged and opened. 
We know the routine.
 And the danger is that Christmas itself becomes merely routine.

That’s why we have Advent—a time to wait, to anticipate, and ponder.

“The season of Advent reminds us that there is something on the horizon, something holy, the likes of which we have not seen before.
It’s possible to miss it, and then to realize what it was you missed, like Moses in the cleft of the rock, watching God’s back fade in the distance.
So in the Advent season we need to stay put, to linger in the darkness, to ponder, to watch, to wonder, to wait for the light.”  [Jan L Richardson, Night Visions: Searching the Shadows of Advent and Christmas]

It’s a time to wonder how it all began:

In the beginning was … God.
I don’t know where…I don’t know how…
But there was God.
And God had a Son…somehow; one only Son.

One day God made the heavens and the earth.
Wow!  I don’t know how…I don’t know why.

And then he made life…and he made us...
In his likeness…incomprehensibly.

Everything he made was good.
Even the will to choose was good.

But what we chose was not.

We don’t know why we chose the bad, then…and ever since.
God had made the sun shine on the earth.
But there was darkness in the human hearts,
and every inclination was stained with sin.
Till God’s heart was “grieved” and “filled with pain.”

But in God’s anger, he loved his children still.
He knew they needed him, even when they denied it to themselves.

Then he or the Council in heaven decided something I cannot get my mind around:
To have a virgin conceive a child…I don’t know how…

A Presbyterian pastor once tried to catch something of that mystery in a parable.
It goes like this:                                                        

Once upon a time, when the pain of mankind had become unbearable and the human cry could be heard all the way to the throne of God, before the presence of God a congregation of the heavenly host gathered to plead with God on behalf of the pilgrims still on earth.

They met to elect representatives on earth who had suffered most, who out of the pain they had endured could most eloquently communicate to God the terrible human dilemma and need on earth.

“We want someone,” they said, “who can explain to God what it is to be despised and hated. 

We want someone who can describe for God what it is to be starved, beaten, tortured, robbed, maligned and killed. 

We want someone who can explain to God the loneliness of a person when he is rejected by his fellow humans.”

And so they chose a Jew….

But they decided that they also needed someone to explain to God how hard it is for human beings to do the right thing, and how easily they slip into sin.  So they chose, to accompany the Jew, a convict, a prostitute, a liar, and an unfaithful husband.

As the committee moved off toward the throne of God, a little child spoke up.

“I am too young to argue with God,” the child said, “but I have a question for him.  Ask God if He’s ever been a child himself.”

So they took the child along too.

When they arrived at the throne, God listened to them patiently, and asked a question of his own:

“What would you have me do?”

They held council together and agreed that God should become a man if only for a season.  And the little child said,

“Then first he must be a child.  Let him know our dependence on others.  Let him know how it feels not to belong.”

Another member of the committee spoke up and insisted that God must be “a real man” and not just a divine being in human disguise.

“He’s not to put on his heavenly robe when he gets tired or sick, or hurt…let him be thrown in with shady people and seedy publicans and super patriots.  Let him know human injustice.”

Then someone else shouted for attention.  It was not enough, he said, for God to live as others lived.  If he was truly to partake of the human condition, God must learn what it is like to die.

After the committee had departed, God weighed the demands carefully.

And then one day, he appeared on earth, under exactly the conditions that had been prescribed for him.  [Rev. Herbert Meza, First Presb. Church, Texas City, TX]            

 “He came down from heaven,” the creeds and hymns tell us.

C.S. Lewis says this can almost be transposed into
“Heaven drew earth up into it:
and locality, limitation, sleep, sweat, footsore weariness,
frustration, pain, doubt, and death are, from before all worlds,
known by God from within.
The pure light walks the earth; the darkness -
received into the heart of Deity - is there swallowed up.
Where, except in uncreated light, can the darkness be drowned?  [Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer]

Advent begins in the dark, says Fleming Rutledge.

The authentically hopeful Christmas spirit does not look away from the darkness, but straight into it. The true and victorious Christmas spirit does not look away from death, but directly at it. Otherwise, the message is cheap and false.  [Fleming Rutledge, "Advent Begins in the Dark."]

The message begins with the Annunciation.

“ [For] The moment was on her unaware:  
-the Angel in the room, the impossible demand,
the response without reflection.  Only one
word of curiosity, echoing Zechariah’s How?
yet innocently voiced, without request for proof.
The teen head tilted in light, the hand
trembling a little at the throat, the candid
eyes, wide with acquiescence to shame and glory—
“Be it unto me as you have said.”    [Luci Shaw  “Announcement”]                     

 “Alone again, the chosen one knelt trembling,
shaken to silence, stunned by blazing light,
 . . . mesmerized by that unfolded plan, those words…
…weeks spread into months,           
…questions festered into doubts…
Faces turned away when she stepped into rooms
or slipped into the synagogue alone on her side
across the room from Joseph. …

Her parents too turned away,
not believing the unbelievable.  What could she say?
What should she do?  Where should she escape?  [Marie Post “Mary”] 

Luke writes:                           
 “At that time Mary … hurried to a town in the hill country of Judea, where she entered Zacharia’s home and greeted Elizabeth.” [Luke 1:39-40]

“She shared her feelings with Elizabeth      
who recognized her coming as a sign…
… Excitement filled their talk
As though each babe was calling to the other.
High dreams of Israel’s hope burst into song:
the joy, the mission granted to a mother.
Children to be prepared for great events
that those who bore them might not comprehend.
How much it meant to share the faith, the fear,
the anticipation with a trusted friend.”       [Thomas John Carlisle, [“Beginning with Mary”]

And what about Joseph?  That mystery man of whom the Bible tells us so little.
Matthew’s family tree account does not list him as the father of anybody; he is simply referred to as “the husband of Mary.”
Mary pregnant while betrothed to Joseph, but Joseph was not the father.
It fills us with wonder: Jesus as part of the human history of this world, but he encounters us as One from the great beyond of God.

Mary needed faith and courage, yes; but Joseph needed it no less.

“Once, I was just a young man
who loved a lady.
I cherished a young man’s quiet fantasies
of her unwavering adoration.

Her body, bowed,
clothed in her best blue homespun,
trembles now before me
tears tumble down unto her wringing hands
as she wrenches out the words

‘I am with child.’

My face burns with a fire;
dreams shatter loudly
like brittle crystal
in my mind.

The explanation
  the annunciation—
Oh God, how can I believe?
The cruel realization of the agony of obedience
 crushes my heart.

I will be forever a marked man
both blamed and mocked
for the child I’ve been given to love
is not my son.”       [Joan Rae Mills “Joseph”]  

Matthew says Joseph  “was minded to drop her quietly.” 
But then the angel came and explained what he needed to know.

“And the angel spoke and made an effort
with the man who clenched his fists
and murmured, “What has changed her so?”
But at that the angel cried Carpenter,
dost thou not yet see that the Lord God is acting?
Because thou makest boards, in thy pride,
wouldst thou really call him to account
who modestly out of the same wood
makes leaves burgeon and buds swell?

He understood.  And as he now raised his eyes
very frightened, the angel was gone.
Joseph pushed his heavy cap slowly off. 
Then he sang praise.      [Rainer Maria Rilke, “Joseph’s Suspicion”]

Imagine Mary’s joy with Joseph’s acceptance:

“It was from Joseph first I learned

Of love. Like me he was dismayed.

How easily he could have turned

Me from his house; but, unafraid,

He put me not away from him

[(O God-sent angel, pray for him).]

Thus through his love was Love obeyed.”           [Madeleine L’Engle “O Sapientia”]

She would need that love to keep her steadfast, for there came, when least advisable, the jarring journey to Bethlehem, when birth was imminent.

It took faith and courage to take God seriously.
It did for Abraham.  It did for Moses.  It did for Jonah.  It did for Daniel.  It did for Joseph.
And it did for Mary.
She needed God to hold her hand, and Joseph too.         
Especially when there was no bed for rest, for sleep, for giving birth.

Mary and Joseph -  what did their hearts cry when they saw the lowly birth bed?

Our heads spin with incredulous wonder when we read that at the end of that taxing journey from Nazareth, Mary’s son, the Son of God, when the time had come, was born in a barn and laid in a manger.

Imagine that young Mary, facing giving birth to a first child, far from home, without a midwife or a mother hovering nearby, ready to deliver unto an ignorant but needy world the mystery child that had grown within her for nine months!

Thank God, Mary was not all alone:

“The Child's first cry came like a bell: 

God's Word aloud, God's Word in deed. The angel spoke: so it befell,

And Joseph with me in my need.

O Child whose father came from heaven,

To you another gift was given,

Your earthly father chosen well.

With Joseph I was always warmed 

And cherished. Even in the stable

I knew that I would not be harmed.

And though above the angels swarmed,

Man's love it was that made me able

To bear God's Love, wild, formidable,

To bear God's Will, through me performed.      [Madeleine L’Engle:  “O Sapientia”]

And when Mary looks upon this God-child, what is she thinking?

W.H. Auden expresses something of Mary’s possible ponderings in

“At the Manger Mary Sings”:

“Oh shut your bright eyes...
what can you discover
from my tender look but how to be afraid?
...Close your bright eye.
Sleep.  What have you learned from the womb that bore you
But an anxiety your Father cannot feel?
Sleep.  What will the flesh that I gave do for you,
Or my mother’s love, but tempt you from his will?

...Little One, sleep.”                                                  

On this journey of Advent  we’re made to think on these confusing and awe-inspiring events: the annunciation, the public stigma, the exhausting trip to Bethlehem, and all of it finally ending in a smelly stable.
The Bible says simply that Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

That pondering also inspired this next poem:

Mary Midrash II                    

“I’m glad I was young when he was born

and understood so little of what was to come.

The terrifying angel tried to comfort me, and for a while

I believed this child of mine would do great things,

might overthrow the Empire, might be crowned our king.

Though when I held his mottled newborn self

all that seemed preposterous fantasy.  It’s good

that I was young, for even as a child he’d glance

and all my imperfections would come clear to me.

I’m glad that terrible angel didn’t say

how different from my other sons he’d be

how solitary and far away he’d sometimes seem, not lonely

yet alone, though everyone desired his company.

I’m glad I didn’t know how many times I’d ponder,

press my arms across my breast, stilling a fear or ache

for this one, to whom I could offer much less than he could take.

I’m glad I didn’t know how much I’d see his suffering,

how many times my mother’s heart would break

even before that awful day he died.  I’m glad I started young,

had time to catch on slowly, understand, try to accept

that it is I who have bequeathed to him, this son divine yet

also of my kind, not his godliness or holy joy, his peaceable

nature, inner light.  No, from me came vulnerability,

his human body, human heart, the painful human part.”    [Barbara Van Noord]                                     

But back to Joseph… 
this God-chosen man, this man who was faithful
in spite of the gossip in Nazareth,
in spite of the danger from Herod.
This man Joseph, who listened to angels...
What was he thinking as he looked down on this Little One?

“Back in Nazareth I’ll make a proper bed for you
of seasoned wood, smooth, strong, well-pegged.
A bed fit for a carpenter’s son.

Just wait till we get back to Nazareth.
I’ll teach you everything I know.
You’ll learn to choose the cedar wood, eucalyptus, and fir.
You’ll learn to use the drawshave, ax, and saw.    
Your arms will grow strong, your hands rough—like these.
You will bear the pungent smell of new wood
and wear shavings and sawdust in your hair.

You’ll be a man whose whole life centers
on hammer and nails and wood.

But for now,
sleep, little Jesus, sleep.”     [Ron Klug   “Joseph’s Lullaby”]       

Born in the darkness of the night.
Like the world that received him not.
Like Herod’s heart and a thousand Herods after him.
A world where children are murdered still,
where young girls are raped and trafficked,
where starvation and epidemics and terrorism stalk the vulnerable,
where human life is devastated by floods and earthquakes,
where parents divorce, and close friends are dying of cancer.

But this little Christmas baby came to be the light of this world.

That means he came to change the world, and that is dangerous work.

His life would lead him not only among the hungry and the heavyhearted,

not only among the prostitutes and the prisoners,

not only among the sick and the suffering,

but also among the powerful and the proud,

among the victimizers and the crucifiers.                                       

Jesus came to change this world, through three years of ministry,

and through you and me

who embrace not only the Christ-Child of Christmas

but who follow him as Savior in all the dark places

that are desperate for light.

That is the challenge of our Christmas faith.

And in this Advent Season,                      
we ponder the mystery, and the Glory!                                                    

We listen to the words of the apostle John:
“This is how God showed his love among us:
He sent his one and only Son into the world
that we might live through him. …  

Dear friends, since God so loved us,
we also ought to love one another. …
If we love one another, God lives in us
and his love is made complete in us.”      [John 4]

Advent is a time to listen to that Son who came among us,
listen to the Christ who said, “Follow me.”
And, of course, we’d rather not.
We’d rather pretend that doesn’t include me.
But hunger is real
and misery, and hate-filled faces.
So is confrontation.
So is injustice.

But once you know who God calls you to be,
you’re not content with sitting in corners.
There’s got to be some alleluia shouting,
some speaking out, some standing up
some caring, some sharing
some community, some risk.

Discipleship means living what you know.    [Ann Weems  “Christmas Trees and Strawberry Summers”]

And if we remember that, Christmas is going to be much more than a jolly gathering around the manger, singing “Sweet Baby Jesus,” for the truth is that there’s a cross in the manger.

Loren Wilkinson makes a similar point, I think, in the following poem.
(Whidbey Island  is one of nine islands north of Seattle on Puget Sound.  Note the imagery of beach and rocky shore and woodlands.)                     

“Christmas:  Whidbey Island 1975”

Not in the waves, nor in the wave-torn kelp;
Not in the heron by the lake at dawn,
Nor in the owl’s haunting of the woods,
Nor in the rabbits’ browsing frightened on the lawn;

Neither in the widening whirl
Of sea-shell, galaxy or cedar burl
Nor in the mushroom’s bursting of the humid ground,
In nothing of his bright, sky world
May God the Fathering be found,
If not found first in Bethlehem
In prickly hay, on hoof-packed earth,
Where a girl, cruciform with pain
Grips manger-boards in child-birth.

There, in the harsh particular,
In drafts, and stench of cow-manure,
The squawls of Christ, Creator, sound:
Where God let go of God-head in a child,
There only will the God of life be found.

Now: If we upon this wave-shaped bluff
Stand in the straw at Bethlehem,
Then God shines out from everything:
The agate in the surf, the withered flower stem;
The fish that gives its body for the seal;
The flash, the fruits that form each common meal;
The dance of pain and love in which our lives are bound;
If God was flesh in Bethlehem,
In all the world’s flesh will Christ be found.
                                    ***

Soon we’ll be singing “Joy to the World.”

And what about joy?

Did joy come to the world long ago,

even when the Christmas cradle gave way to Calvary’s cross?

Yes, because after that Black Friday, a quiet change began:

Life erupted out of death.

Lives were changed.

And out of the life and love of Jesus,

hope was born. 

Hope which tenaciously clings to the hearts of the faithful 

and announces in the face
of any Herod the world can produce
and all the inn doors slammed in our faces
and all the dark nights of our souls
that with God all things still are possible,
that even now unto us
a Child is born!                                           [Anne Weems, Kneeling in Bethlehem]

Into the impenetrable darkness of our night,                                

the Child is born.

The Morning Star appears.

The people who walked in darkness                       

have seen a great light.

Joy to the world!

For Jesus has invaded our lives,

wielding his peace like a sword,

giving his life and living again

for love of us.

For, as we read in Isaiah:
“he was sent to preach good news to the poor,
to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives,
and release from darkness for the prisoners,
… to comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve…
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.     [fr. Isaiah 61]

At the end of our Advent Journey, we approach Christmas:

God came to live among us -
Oh come, let us adore Him!”