The Curiousity of Jesus

This final week of Advent is a short one, so we will get one reflection on the theme I selected: “Curious expectations (seek, and you will find).”

Author John Pavlovitz writes of a time when he was asked by a friend,, “Do you know why a bluebird finds worms?” The friend responded: “Because that’s what it looks for.”
“Much of what we discover in this life is about the questions we ask, the things we give attention to, and the way we invest our time.”

I am in a profession where questions fuel my daily work. At home, if I wonder about the way a plant is growing, or curious if I can substitute this ingredient for that, I ask. Often Google, but still, I ask.

After the prophet Malachi spoke to Israel one final time about a Promised ruler, the people of God were left wondering for 400 years.

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
    though you are small among the clans of Judah,
out of you will come for me
    one who will be ruler over Israel,
whose origins are from of old,
    from ancient times.”
(Malachi 5:2)

They could ask questions of their religious leaders, and ask God in prayer, “how long, O, Lord?” But for those who really, really wanted to know what the Messiah would look like, or where He would come from, were left in the dark.

Due to the oppressive circumstances of foreign rule during the Exile, and then under the Roman Empire, people began putting their hopes in a mighty warrior who would lead them against their giant foes. But the Savior of the World did not arrive like a King, nor did He rally troops for an earthly battle.

Pavlovitz calls the birth of Jesus “one of the greatest surprises on the planet.” Everything about Jesus was unexpected. He goes on to say, “He was conceived in mystery, born in anonymity, and surrounded by people of little renown. That was unexpected. But these would not be the only surprises associated with Jesus’ presence. He would grow to teach of the wisdom of childlikeness, the elevated status of humility, the counterintuitive love of one’s enemies. Who Jesus would become, and the kind of life he would call his followers to lead, was the ultimate script-flip.”

Jesus understood the questions that surrounded Him, and chose to teach His disciples and everyone around Him to live with curiosity. To seek God’s will, to question injustice, to ask, “can I be healed?”. We see this most clearly in Jesus’ interactions with children. He cautioned his disciples to not turn away the children, because from them we can learn child-like faith.

If you’ve spent any time with a child, you know they are full of questions. Wonder and curiosity spill out of their mouths like waves. Sometimes it seems like you can see the wheels spinning as they prepare another inquiry.

Jesus taught in parables. Not to confuse, but to show that blessings, wisdom and beauty can come from unexpected places and people, as God shows up in the most unlikely ways.

I wonder how often young Jesus asked Mary and Joseph to recount His birth story. Scripture doesn’t allow us to see adult Jesus interacting with His earthly origin, but I imagine it was one of His favorite stories, and later fueled aspects of His parables. God didn’t need to have His son experience life from embryo to man, but He did. And in that way, we have a Savior who understands the everyday cycle of life and love, of loss and pain, of mystery and yes, even death.

This is a gift we are given each Advent. To journey along with our Savior as He welcomed His first, brand new day, heralding the beginning of a Life that would be sacrificed in order to make all things new.

I like the way Pavlovitz puts it:

“Every day we open our eyes and greet the sun, we are gifted a Christmas miracle. You wake in and walk into this glorious new day—into the delivery room of the present. You have this entirely new, never to be repeated opportunity to bring peace and compassion into a space that so needs it. Hope is being born again with the light arriving. Today is a birth day. This is the greatest of good news.”

Half way through December I began reading the book, Advent for Exiles, by singer Caroline Cobb. It’s an Advent devotional focused on the prophecies and stories of the Old Testament. And while I didn’t have the time or space to include her words this year, I want to end with one of her important points from Day 9. In lyrical terms, she calls us exodus people, observing that Jesus’ first coming brought about a new exodus, at His second Advent, Jesus will bring about a perfect and lasting exodus. She says,

“This is why we rehearse our redemption week after week at church: listening to the gospel story, singing songs of our deliverance, and taking part in the new Passover meal in the bread and wine of communion. When we do this, we are looking back on the new exodus Jesus initiated in his first advent. But we are also looking forward, staking our hope in his promise to bring us all the way home, until at last we are safe on Zion’s golden shore.”

I think this is why Advent is so important. We repeat the story to ourselves each year not just for nostalgia or Christmas tradition, but because we need to hear it. We need to be reminded of the God who came low and unexpected, full of hope for the weary, peace for those in pain, joy for the down-trodden, and love for the lost.

Then the angel said to them,
“Do not be afraid, for behold,
I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.
For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior,
who is Christ the Lord.
(Luke 2:10-11).

 

"The Truth Sent from Above"

I am going to end Advent with a quote I read, by author Sarah Clarkson, at the very beginning of Advent, when I was seeking places to glean inspiration and shareable truths. This quote is kind of long, part of an essay, really, and its purpose is an introduction to the season. But, as we draw this season of Advent to a close, I think its use as a reminder is just as important.

To set the stage, listen to this English Carol, The Truth Sent from Above. The author is unknown, but this arrangement is by Ralph Vaughn Williams. Note in particular the third verse they sing:

I was listening. And when they came to that verse –

Thus we were heirs to endless woes,
Till God the Lord did interpose
For so a promise soon did run
That he would redeem us with a Son.

Oh. In an instant my heart stirred into yearning. We, oh Lord, me, here in the shadowlands bearing the endless woes and toil of our good, hard, fallen, grieved days. Me, striving, working, yearning, forgetting, losing my patience in the meantime… we here with all those small woes (and great ones too), we are the ones to whom this truth from above is sent: that He’d redeem us with a Son. I felt the yearning to be more than I am, to love more deeply, to know more fully, to return to worship rise up in me as my great sorrow and my real, returning health.

And this, I think, is a small image of what Advent does for all of us. From the clamour and work and grief and distraction of life in a fallen, modern, belligerent world, we are drawn aside into the chapel of Advent devotion. We are invited into a space where we can step away from the pained, frantic life that has become untethered from Love and come face to face with quiet. We’re invited into a moment of hush where we can learn to hear the music of God’s presence again. We often don’t know we even need it until we sojourn there a bit and find ourselves unravelled, and so achingly happy to be so.
 

Thank you for joining me again on this Advent journey.
Blessings to you, as the old year passes into the new.

"Forever's Start"

On this Christmas Eve Eve, I want to share one final Madeleine L’Engle Advent poem. It’s never made its way onto my blog. I’m not sure why. It’s glorious, and full of the type of mystery that so grabs at my heart during this season. The poem was first published, without a title, in L’Engle’s The Irrational Season. This version, I copied from Miracle on 10th Street. It includes this prelude:

Forever’s Start

The days are growing noticeably shorter; the nights are longer, deeper, colder. Today the sun did not rise as high in the sky as it did yesterday. Tomorrow it will be still lower. At winter solstice the sun will go below the horizon, below the dark. The sun does dies. And then, to our amazement, the Son will rise again.

Come, Lord Jesus, quickly come
In Your fearful innocence.
We fumble in the far-spent night
Far from lovers, friends, and home:
Come in Your naked, newborn might.
Come, Lord Jesus, quickly come;
My heart withers in Your absence.

Come, Lord Jesus, small, enfleshed
Like any human, helpless child.
Come once, come once again, come soon:
The stars in heaven fall, unmeshed;
The sun is dark, blood’s on the moon.
Come, Word who came to us enfleshed,
Come speak in joy untamed and wild.

Come, Thou wholly other, come,
Spoken before words began,
Come and judge Your uttered world
Where You made our flesh your home.
Come, with bolts of lightning hurled,
Come, Thou wholly other, come,
Who came to man by being man.

Come, Lord Jesus, at the end,
Time’s end, my end, forever’s start.
Come in Your flaming, burning power.
Time, like the temple veil, now rend;
Come, shatter every human hour.
Come, Lord Jesus, at the end.
Break, then mend the waiting heart.

Be Not Afraid

There were many times Mary and Joseph could have turned around and given up. Not because the journey was so hard, or the task of birthing the Messiah was too lofty, but because so many times along the way they were met with events that required much courage.

• Mary tells Joseph about the special baby growing inside her womb. Should he go back on his betrothal?
  
  
• Caesar announces a census in everyone’s hometown. Should they travel to Bethlehem, with Mary so pregnant?
  
  
• They arrive in Bethlehem tired and dusty. It might be Joseph’s hometown, but they have nowhere to stay, no friends to help the delivery. How can they go on?
  

But then, the baby is born. And the angels cry out,

Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.
(Luke 2:10-11)

Amid the unpleasantness of a strange room, a manger for a bed, and swaddling clothes for newborn garments, a band of shepherds come to worship the newborn King, and all seems to be at peace.

This image is stamped across greeting cards and Christmas carols more than any other. But real-life uncertainties continued for the holy family. In fact, they were just kicking into high gear.

The Wise Men unknowingly informed King Herod about young Jesus when they asked,

“Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him; and assembling all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. (Matthew 2:2-4)

Instantly, Jesus became a rival, and Herod retaliated by issuing a death sentence for all young boys under two.

Another time where Mary and Joseph could have been paralyzed with fear. But an angel appears to Joseph in a dream and says, “Rise, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” (Matthew 2:13)

The road to Egypt was long and dangerous. The land, filled with foreign gods and unknown ways. Fear.

Jesus’ whole earthy life was met with contention and antagonism. Opportunities for fear. But Jesus’ time in human form is book-ended with the angels declaring: “Fear Not! Do not be afraid.” I think there’s a message in there for us.

A couple years ago I wrote about A Charlie Brown Christmas, specifically the scene where Linus is reciting from Luke 2. As he gets to the part about the angels, a strange thing happens. You have to really be watching to notice. Linus drops his blanket. The item he kept close for security and possibly even courage—he lets it go.

“Fear not!” said the angels. “Do not be afraid.”

I am really good at living in anxiety and fear. In fact, it’s the part of my character emphasized in the Enneagram.

If Jesus wasn’t God, I imagine he could have met his roadblocks with a similar mind. But instead, Jesus passed through His earthly reign as the Prince of Peace, heralded at the beginning and the end with the words, “be not afraid.”

Sometimes we need narratives like the accounts in Luke and Matthew to show us the truths we’ve been seeking all along. Authors like C.S. Lewis, Madeleine L’Engle, and J.R.R. Tolkien knew this. God, the author of life, knows this. We need to hear the angels say to the shepherds, “do not be afraid.” To hear Aslan whisper to Lucy, “courage, dear heart.” Or watch Vicky’s fear wash away as she swims with the dolphins in Grandfather’s cove. And observe Gandalf declare to Theoden, “Not all is dark. Take courage, Lord of the Mark; for better help you will not find. No counsel have I to give to those that despair.”

Fear is a common part of human existence. Jesus knows this because he humbled Himself and become a man. He empathizes with us, helps us, comforts us, loves us. But fear is not the end of the story. The final chapter is yet to come, and it is then that darkness will meet its end.

Blue Christmas: Darkness and the “Christmas Star”

We did not see the star. Or rather, we didn’t see the conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter known as the “Christmas Star.” A group of friends and I converged, masked, bundled up, and distanced, in the middle of a large field in the suburbs. That was where we thought the view would be best. And it probably would have been. If it hadn’t been so cloudy.

Long before I bundled up and drove 45 minutes in the sprinkling rain, I knew what I was going to write about tonight. Today was the shortest day of the year. Tonight is the longest night. In the church year calendar, some refer to tonight at Blue Christmas. It is a time to reflect and lament the hurt and brokenness that exists in our world and acknowledge that our God is a God who hears and sees us in our deepest need. In a way, tonight is the epitome of Advent.

As I was looking online for photos from those who did see the “star,” I ran across many Twitter posts with blurry, yet amazing snapshots of a bright spot in the sky. (Check out #StarofBethlehem or #ChristmasStar for yourself!) We stargazers were all looking for a glimpse of light, but the thing is, the best pictures were those taken from a position of deep darkness.

If Advent teaches us anything, it is this: we need darkness in order to more brilliantly see the Light.

At the end of this weary year, what a glorious thing for us to seek. A conjunction of planets shoots us right back to that night in Bethlehem. We can imagine we are the shepherds, or Mary, or Joseph, or the Wise Men. Or just an ordinary person in Judea, waiting for the Promised One.

One Twitter-poster said it best:

In the midst of so much pain. Jesus shows up. But He always shows up. We simply need to look. This symbol, which comes near Christmas, is a reminder of the season, His love and so much more.

Even hidden behind clouds and light pollution, we know the “Christmas Star” was there, shining bright. Isn’t that how life often looks?

There’s a verse at the end of the famed 1 Corinthians 13 Love passage that speaks to this:

For now, we see in a mirror dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

The “then” refers to “when the perfect comes” from verse 10. Perfect what? Perfect love. Paul finishes the chapter with this: "So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

Scripture is full of contrasts. God knows how such comparisons help our brain rationalize more clearly and our hearts feel more deeply. Every darkness is intentional. Each brilliant light serves a purpose.

• The land of Israel was in deep darkness. Until “on them a light has shone.”
  
  
• Mary gave birth to Jesus in a strange town, in a leftover, dusty room. Until a brilliant star appeared to light the Bethlehem sky.
  
  
• The shepherds watched their sheep on a dark hill as social outcasts and smelly misfits. Until a host of angels appeared and “glories streamed from heaven a far.”
  
  

The Light in Bethlehem was a symbol of God’s love.

In her essay “On them a light was shone,” Hannah Brencher remarks,

This light was embedded into the story hundreds of years before it even happened, through the prophet Isaiah: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; Those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them a light has shone.”

. . . Of course, this light mentioned here is not the star in the sky but Jesus, himself, coming into the picture. It is through his coming-- him shaking up the story-- that the light pours through and gives us hope that better is on the way.

Tonight, the planets Jupiter and Saturn were the closest they’ve been in hundreds of years. Scientists theorize that such a convergence could have been how the Bethlehem Star shone so brightly 2000 years ago. We may never know.  But this we do know: We live in a broken world. And it often seems like we are staring at hope from behind a blanket of clouds or a dark, lonely place. But wait for the Light. It is there. It will shine. According to His great love.

A Nearer Love

I had originally named my fourth Advent candle Joy, but upon reflection, the third candle became a combination of Proclamation and Joy. This, the final candle before Christmas, will be Love.

This season, my church is going through a sermon series based on Dane Ortlund’s book, Gentle and Lowly. A few weeks ago, this quote was shared from the pulpit:

Jesus is nearer to us now, than he was to the sinners and the saints two thousand years ago.

He is closer to us now than he even was to his mother, who held him softly that first Christmas night. As a baby so small, Mary and Joseph were the ones responsible to reach out, and make sure He was safe, and secure, and ok. The shepherds reached out, wanting to see for themselves the Messiah the angels had spoken about. Simeon and Anna reached out at the temple with prophecy and blessing. The wise men came, later, and reached out with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

But now, Christ is the one who reaches out to us, in love.

Psalm 63:7-8, penned by Jesus’ ancestor David says,

Because you are my help,
    I sing in the shadow of your wings.
 I cling to you;
    your right hand upholds me.

Today’s sermon had an illustration from Ortlund’s book: a small boy holding hands with his father as he walks into the shallow end of a swimming pool. At first, the child is clinging to the father. Maybe he is a bit scared, or at least uncertain of his steps. But as the water gets deeper, the grip changes. Before long, it is the father who is holding tight. Keeping the boy safe, making sure he will not come to harm.

We were reminded that that is God’s love for us. Jesus came down, first as a baby and then as a man, in order to reach out, and take us by the hand.

In times of hardship, we don’t immediately think of God’s love. We go into survival mode. Our prayers turn to guttural cries for aid, release, and peace. But His love is there. And it is what sustains us, whether we realize it or not.

God’s love sent Jesus to earth. To a world full of sickness, and pain, fear, and regret. He did it on purpose. To provide a way for eternal nearness, salvation, hope, and grace.

Voices from Bethlehem: Two Stories from Along the Way

He was no ordinary child. Yet we mold and we carve, shaping His likeness as a baby small enough to fit into a Nativity-set manger. That is where many young children encounter Him for the first time. Some even lift Him from the manger bed and cherish Him as his own.

In her article, Baby Jesus, Rachel Joy Welcher reflections, “through the incarnation, a baby can feel kinship with Christ. . . Real children looked Jesus in the face when he was also a child. Babies sitting together on the ground. God among us.” (from ) 

So much more so for the adults who encountered Christ along the way to Bethlehem. Whether they knew it or not, there lives were to be forever changed. How could they not shout out, in the face of such glory—baby-sized though He may be.

There are two pictures books I read this week that take on this approach. Each page records the perspective of a different character in the Christmas story. Each character performs a soliloquy in response to God’s incarnation.

The first book is Nikki Grimes’ Voices of Christmas, illustrated by Eric Velazquez. At the top of each page curves a line of Scripture introducing each character. We meet Gabriel, Mary, Joseph, Elizabeth, Zechariah, a neighbor, the Innkeeper, a shepherd, Gaspar, Herod, Melchior, Simeon, Anna, Balthasar, and you… the reader, the modern-day responder to God’s miraculous grace. Below each name, Grimes works her poetic genius, imagining what is flowing through their minds as they work out what God set into motion. It is beautiful and personal; a meditation that helps us join the journey towards Bethlehem.

 

The second book is How Many Miles to Bethlehem? by Kevin Crossley-Holland, illustrated by Peter Malone. Much like the first, it carries us through the nativity narrative by introducing us to all the players and their perceptions of how they are participating in this great Story.

The last two pages end with the angels and the Christ-child himself:

We are angels. We are your secret voices. Listen!

“This baby!”

“Rejoice!”

“This hope!”

“This peace”

Wandering shepherds, wise men, we will enfold you.

We will lead Mary and Joseph with our light.

I am the Light of Light.

The baby who will cradle the world.

In your heart, hold me.

I will never leave you.

If we listen well, we will be forever changed. Hear the hearts of those who led the way. The ones who help us say: There is pain, there is fear, there is wonder, there is sorrow. But along the way, we also see love, we see peace, we see hope, and we see joy.

Behold, all can be made new. The Light has come.

God So Loved the World

You could more easily catch a hurricane in a shrimp net that you can understand the wild, relentless, passionate, uncompromising, pursuing the love of God made present in the manger.

- Brennan Manning

We talk a lot about the omnipotence of the nativity; God’s amazing plan coming together under the bright twinkling light of that Bethlehem star. But do we recognize the love God poured out to make all these things take place?

Some of the most-memorized verses in the Bible, John 3:16-17, say,

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

He gave up Himself. For us. For you. For me.

And in order for us to be saved through Him, God chose that Jesus would died a human death. But first, He needed to have a human life. Jesus needed to be one of us, in order to show us the way. Like the allegory of the birds stuck out in the snow (see post from December 22, 2011), God loved us so much that he could not leave us alone in our own flailing. This is the Gospel 101, yet during Advent, it is easy to focus on the details of the Christmas story rather than the reason that it happened at all.

We will never understand the mystery of the Incarnation; nor will we ever understand the mind of God. But what we can grasp is the narrative. God shaped the Wisdom of cosmos into a tiny babe. It is His story we can know. It is His story we should know.

If, like me, God’s love sometimes feels distant, take this Advent season to recount the way God showed His love and faithfulness to His people recorded in Scripture. Before too long, you will see yourself in the faces of God’s beloved.

The manger didn’t have to happen. But that’s what the Lord of all Creation chose. And that was love.