Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmanuel!

On Sunday we lit the third candle on the Advent wreath: the Gaudete (“rejoice!”) candle, the candle of joy.

My church has large pillar candles on a table, standing like sentinels, keeping watch over the season. But the traditional formation is a circle, a wreath. It is a reminder that Advent actually marks the beginning of the church year calendar—a cyclical marking of time between holy-days and ordinary time.

For centuries the early church emphasized the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection as the most significant time of worship. It wasn’t until the 4th century that celebrations of Jesus’ birth were added as a regular church practice, and a tradition of Lent-like weeks of meditation and reflection were formed. Around the turn of the first millennium, the four Sundays leading up to December 25 were standardized, and Advent took its place as the beginning of the church year calendar.

But how does this help us see Advent joy?
With week three, we have a spiritual shift from the more somber weeks of Hope and Peace to the rejoicing that the birth of Jesus draws near. 

Indeed, in Luke 2:10-11, it is recorded:

“And the angel said to them, ‘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.’”

So too, each year, as the circular year goes round again, we are drawn to remember that Advent is not only a celebration of Jesus’ birth, but the day when He will come again.

In his article, The Neglected Meaning of Advent, Ryan Griffith writes and quotes:

“We may neglect Advent’s future-orientation in our contemporary celebration, but, intriguingly, the theme of Jesus’s second coming runs deep in our favorite Christmas carols. Isaac Watts’s (1674–1748) “Joy to the World” celebrates Jesus’s glorious return and his future kingdom where sin and sorrow are no more (Revelation 21:4):

    Joy to the world! the Savior reigns;
    Let men their songs employ;
    While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains
    Repeat the sounding joy,
    Repeat the sounding joy,
    Repeat, repeat the sounding joy.

    No more let sins and sorrows grow,
    Nor thorns infest the ground;
    He comes to make his blessings flow
    Far as the curse is found,
    Far as the curse is found,
    Far as, far as the curse is found.

Finally, consider John Mason Neale and Henry Coffin’s “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” a translation of the ancient Great Antiphons:

    O come, Thou Key of David, come
    And open wide our heavenly home;
    Make safe the way that leads on high,
    And close the path to misery.
    Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
    Shall come to thee, O Israel.

    O come, Desire of nations, bind
    All peoples in one heart and mind;
    Bid envy, strife, and quarrels cease;
    Fill the whole world with heaven’s peace.
    Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
    Shall come to thee, O Israel.

History illuminates the richness of Advent’s celebration and anticipation. And one practical way of recovering the deep joy of this future-oriented season might just be to believe what we sing.”

This is challenging and convicting. For me, this is a season where it’s hard to see big Joys. I try to notice tiny joys each day: like the sun shining through my plants, the taste of a delicious meal, the smile of a child as they notice you (children’s librarian here!). I truly believe God is in all those moments. But then I open a social media app or look at a webpage full of news headlines and all I see is how fractured and devoid of joy this world really is. Where is God or joy in hate, murder, racism, and war?

As a part of their yearly Advent devotional announcement, Desiring God posted these lines on their social media:

“Advent is a season of groaning and gladness.
We are glad that Christ has come.
We groan for Christ to come again.
Advent is the time in between.”

This hit hard. Advent, the time in between, reminds us that though we live in a world broken by sin, we have a Savior whose life and return will bookend eternity. And until we see that day, we can truthfully fill our days with equal parts longing and rejoicing. We can hold space to mourn, and also rejoice that we serve a God who gave of Himself fully, so that we could experience His unfathomable mercy and grace.

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel! God is with us. 

Anchor of Hope

I want to explore something I haven’t had time to research or think about; a topic I may blunder a bit. I also want to be cognizant of the women (and men) who reading these thoughts may be triggered by current or former pain. You are seen and loved.

In her chapter on Mary, Kelly Nikondeha makes a brief comment about the gospel writer’s contrast between Mary’s virginity with Elizabeth’s barrenness (p.46). I don’t know if I have ever picked up on that comparison before. Both circumstances bring to mind a sense of longing, and buried pain. We may immediately feel more empathy for Elizabeth who had dealt with unexplainable infertility for her whole married life. Possibly Mary’s longing was rooted in her desire for the protection of a husband in the tough and wild landscape of Roman-run Galilee. Only, before her marriage could be finalized, she was “found to be with child”—a scandalous offense, and the very opposite of security in the home of a husband. Scripture doesn’t tell us much about how Mary was treated when her family and community found out she was expecting a baby outside of marriage (I wonder if they would have even wrapped their minds around the idea at her still being a virgin—that wasn’t how biology worked), but we don’t have to look far to understand the cultural expectations of the time.

For both women, virginity (though pregnant) and barrenness were huge burdens to bear.

We aren’t given a glimpse at Elizabeth’s mind and heart prior to hearing Zechariah’s message from the Angel Gabriel, but during her confinement she remarks, “The Lord has done this for me. In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.” (Luke 1:25). Being the wife of a priest, she held some regard in her own rite. But in a culture so centered on the blessing of children, surely her childlessness was a topic of shameful gossip among her neighbors.

Even after receiving news of such a miraculous promise and beginning to feel the quivering of a baby in her womb, a lesser woman would have held doubt and pessimism. Thoughts like, “this is too good to be true,” or “I don’t deserve this” could have swum through her mind.

Yet, when Mary comes to visit Elizabeth, we are told in Luke’s gospel that Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaims: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear! But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!” (Luke 1:41-45)

Her joy is doubled. And it is infectious. (The Holy Spirit was definitely helping a lot.) Mary’s next words (according to the writing of Luke’s gospel) are what we call the Magnificat—from the Latin, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” Instead of laying out a litany of her woes: scary visit from an angel, pregnant before being with Joseph, Joseph wanting to divorce her (though graciously quietly), any and all scorn from her community, Mary only has praise for her Lord.

In her Advent devotional, The Season of Waiting (and waiting, and waiting . . .) writer, professor, and speaker Kate Bowler explains longing as “the experience of feeling the lack, the recognition, that things are not as they should be” (p. 18). She describes this as the quintessential feeling of Advent. “Advent recognizes the absence of peace, yet the exquisite certainty of its coming” (p. 19).

On this eve before the third week of Advent, I wonder at the ways God prepared Mary and Elizabeth for their separate “comings.” We aren’t privy to their inner thoughts, their hopes and dreams; only the way they choose to respond.

In this case, their actions speak louder than their words (and their words are glorious!)

The virginity of Mary and the barrenness of Elizabeth aren’t perfect opposites, but their contrast can help us see God’s response to all of our waitings, especially those rooted in “groanings too deep for words” (Romans 8:26).

I’ll end with this from Kate Bowler’s devotional:

“Sometimes in the darkness, we dare not hope because it feels too expensive.
There is no energy available for that, humanly speaking.
But hope isn’t wishful thinking.
It’s an anchor into the future.
Because of this, we can bless even our darkening days,
knowing that the earth will once again tilt toward the light.
And it will be a glory that blazes everywhere,
though now we catch only glimpses.
In the meantime, and that’s what we have—the meantime—
let’s come into the light and bless the waiting, because it will not be in vain” (p.22).

Mary and Elizabeth’s pain was redeemed in miraculous ways. We can’t expect anything less for women in Jesus’ family tree (look at Ruth and Rahab!). Yet on this side of eternity, many of us won’t see the newness God promises as an Earthly blessing. His blessings are both miraculous and mysterious. And because of that, we can both rejoice with these Advent women, and be Advent women ourselves, longing in hope.

Born, Your People to Deliver

 The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners
    (Isaiah 61:1)

Around 700 years after Isaiah penned theses words, Jesus stood up in the synagogue, read this passage and then announced, “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (Luke 4:21).

When the angel of the Lord first visited Joseph, seeking to calm his fears about taking an already-pregnant wife, he also issued a huge surprise: “. . . You shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” (Matthew 1:21) This was not an ordinary baby. He would not receive an ordinary name.

Though there is sometimes confusion about the translation of Yeshua, the Hebrew name for Jesus, it is clearly implied by the angel’s message that the name means Yahweh saves.

Earlier this week I read a Desiring God article, “The Name God Gave His Son”, in which David Mathis speaks about this very topic. He writes,
“That this unique child’s name would be Yahweh saves was understandable for Joseph. Of course, God’s people needed saving — from the Gentiles. From the Romans who ruled over them; from local puppets of Caesar, like Herod and Pilate.”

Indeed, Isaiah proclaims in chapter 9, verse 6,
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given,
    and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
    Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

However, Jesus’ name and purpose was never about military might or royal rule. Long before He was given the name Yeshua, Isaiah recorded God’s intent:
"Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel." (Isaiah 7:14)

Immanuel, God with us. In the wake of the Babylonians, the Persians, Medes, Greeks, and now Romans, how easily the Israelites had forgotten the sustaining power of God’s presence. He didn’t want them to think of salvation from a conquering hero, like their ancestor, David. He wanted them to remember was His presence with them in Egypt that fateful night when the lamb, the door frame, and the blood was all it took for captivity and death and darkness to pass over.

"For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one's life" (Leviticus 17:11).

Mathis concludes,
“And so, the Messiah came not simply to provide a different rescue than the nation expected, but to provide a far more important salvation. . . He [Jesus] is the one, singular figure long anticipated by king David and the prophets. And yet he is even more — exceedingly more — than they anticipated, more than they could ask or think.”

Circle back to Joseph, hearing the angel’s words for the first time; to Mary already knowing what the angel proclaimed: His name will be Jesus. God saves. He will be called Immanuel. God with us.

When Isaiah penned those words, he could not have known. When Mary and Joseph heard His name, when they laid Him in the manger, when the wisemen presented Him with incense, they could not have dreamed—that their son would give up His life, as like a lamb, to overcome darkness, sin, and death once and for all. A new salvation had come.

Something Greater to Come

The celebration of Advent is possible only to those who are troubled in soul, who know themselves to be poor and imperfect, who look forward to something greater to come. For these, it is enough to wait in humble fear until the Holy One himself comes down to us, God in the child in the manger. God comes. The Lord Jesus comes. Christmas comes. Christians rejoice!

- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, sermon given on December 2, 1928

This year I see people drawn to Advent more than ever before. We are troubled souls seeking solace, a place to lay our grief, our anxiety, our worry, our longing. Scripture is filled with stories of calamity and chaos, waiting and fear. While this year may seem to us unparalleled, it has not been a surprise to God. Just as He knows every wayward heart that led to the Flood, every brick the Israelite slaves laid in Egypt, every pluck of the harp as David cried out the Psalms, He knows and sees us taking one step at a time in humble fear. Through all the pain, perhaps this year has provided some necessary perspective. For as Bonhoeffer advises, Advent blossoms more fully in our hearts when we are yearning for “something greater to come.”

In 2016, I wrote these words, which appear on Day 1 of my collection of Advent reflections. As my family gathered on Zoom to chat, play some games, and mark the first night of Advent, my mom read this selection. It resonated loudly. Perhaps we need to hear it again:

Advent is a time when we can climb into the pain with those who are hurting; kneel beside those who are weeping; scream at the injustice of it all; question God’s timing . . . and then stand up, re-read the message of the prophets, and look upward with expectation. We can trace Christ’s lineage from its humble, broken, weary beginnings, and see the residue of God’s faithful plan in each life He touched. The best part, is that He holds our lives as dearly as He held Jacob’s, and Ruth’s, and David’s, and Hezekiah’s. Their story is our story this Advent. We have all walked in deep darkness, but on us, a great Light shines.

As we celebrate Advent this year, may we embrace our roles as weary, weak, and flawed and inhabit the story of Christ’s incarnation in such a way that we become signposts for the Light. Signposts for God’s work, here on Earth. And signposts for the greatest Advent, the Advent still to come.

 

Stumps and Stars

There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit. (Isaiah 11:1)

I don’t know if you’ve looked at a tree stump recently. I was about to say, “me neither”, when I remembered the huge storm/tornado Chicago experienced this summer. Hundreds of trees around the city were felled by a single hour of wind, rain, and hail. Left behind were stumps, signs that the trees was no longer living. Their growth had been cut off.

This is what Isaiah is describing. This mighty tree of Jesse’s line . . . it has become a stump. Ancestry was especially important to the people of ancient Israel. But the royal line of David faltered. Time passed. The reign of Jesse’s son became but a glorious memory.

But wait! Isaiah foretells of a time when a shoot will spring forth from the dormant tree stump. A shoot with such strength and might that its new branches will bud, and blossom, and bear fruit! Hope is not lost.

J.R.R. Tolkien called this a eucatastrophe. It is the opposite of a catastrophe. When all hope appears to be lost, a sudden reversal of events changes the story’s trajectory, for good. The lineage of slaves, wanderers, shepherds, kings, and exiles becomes a lineage of expectation, awaiting the final Son.

Fast forward to the book of Revelation. In chapter 22, Jesus says,

“I, Jesus, have sent my angel to testify to you about these things for the churches. I am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star.” (Revelation 22:16).

This is only the second time Jesus is recorded as calling himself by name. He is making His position clear, drawing not only from his time on Earth as a descendant of David’s line, but from Isaiah’s centuries-old prophecy about who the Messiah would be.

But that is not the only thing Jesus proclaims. After affirming His lineage, He says, “I am . . . the bright morning star.”

There is a proverb, first penned by 17th century English theologian Thomas Fuller that goes, “It is always darkest just before the dawn.” While this is not a scientific fact, it is in line with the motif of Jesse’s stump. From death to life; from darkness to light. When Jesus identifies as the Bright Morning Star, He is heralding His return as the dawn of a new day.  2 Peter 1:19b reminds us, "You will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts." When the Bright Morning Star begins His final reign, we will have no more need of prophecies and stars, of wisemen or kings.

I’ll end with a poem. Right around Advent last year, I stumbled upon Amelia’s website, Innocence Abroad, when a poem of hers was shared by The Rabbit Room. I was immediately drawn in and inspired. This is a kindred spirit! I knew I wanted to share some of her Advent poetry on my blog. So with her permission, here is “Await”:

Await
by Amelia Freidline

through ages long we wait the One
whose coming will mean night is done
with the morning’s dawn
sorrow will be gone
and ever on
rise the Son

The Absurd and the Divine

When I began this Advent blog in 2009, one of the greatest motivations was to build a space to reflect and share the plethora of Advent poems and quotes I was finding online.

In general, I’m not a big poetry person, but Madeleine L’Engle’s poetry—especially her Advent poetry—is some of my favorite verse. It is at the same time gritty and ethereal, cosmic and humble, vulnerable and sacred. And her prose is the same.

Poetry helps transport us to a mental and emotional space ready for the mystery of Advent. Honestly, who could have thought up a star, some shepherds, and globe-trotting wisemen to herald the arrival of God’s son? It could be fantasy, science fiction, or at the very least magical realism. But no, it is the intentional, precise story that God chose to tell. Poetry helps us open our hands a little wider, to receive the absurd along with the divine.

Here is one of L’Engle’s poems called "The Glory," which I first posted on the second Advent Tuesday in 2009, and recently read in her Christmas anthology, Miracle on 10th Street.

 

An Equal Measure of Faith

Every year there is a new kind of waiting to experience alongside Advent. It may be a long, unfulfilled yearning marked by deep ache and sadness. It may be the tight anticipation of a goal almost realized. It may be, like this year, the slow tread of seasons distanced from tradition, routine, and loved ones. We only have to wait one year for the next Advent to roll around. But our longings recognize the reality of the first Advent, thousands of years in the making. From Eden to Bethlehem, the Israelites waited.

God didn’t leave His people alone in their waiting. After all, they needed someone to steer them back from the precipice of their wanderings, wonderings, and sin. The prophets became God’s mouthpiece. Along the way, the arrival of a Messiah was foretold. Even a pagan prophet spoke of the One who was to come!

In Numbers 22, the Moabite King Balak seeks out the famous prophet Balaam to come and curse Israel. But God has other plans. Sending in a talking donkey, Balaam is warned to not disobey the God of Israel. When the time of cursing comes, a blessing pours forth instead. And then, doing what prophets do, Balaam utters a prophecy--first pertaining to David and finally to his descendant, Christ:

“The prophecy of Balaam son of Beor,
    the prophecy of one whose eye sees clearly,
 the prophecy of one who hears the words of God,
    who has knowledge from the Most High,
who sees a vision from the Almighty,
    who falls prostrate, and whose eyes are opened:

 “I see him, but not now;
    I behold him, but not near.
A star will come out of Jacob;
    a scepter will rise out of Israel.

A ruler will come out of Jacob
    and destroy the survivors of the city.”

-Numbers 24:15-17,19a

Even for the Israelites, chosen by God, the Lord’s promises had a timeline outside of human understanding. The “not now’s” and “not nears” must have made their hearers cringe. Really? Not yet? But a prophecy is still a promise. And so the people waited, trusting in the same God who could make a donkey speak and a wicked man proclaim praise.

The things we are waiting for (at least those rooted in grace)? . . . Perhaps we can learn to hold them before the Lord with an equal measure of faith. 

 

(Inspired by Paul L. Maier’s Faithful Facts for Advent, Thursday, Week 1)

 

Finding our Footing in the Familiar

This year, nothing is familiar. Phrases like “the new normal” have been thrown around since March. It’s probable that things will never go back to the same normal we had before. And I don’t think we want them to, not really. We need to grow, to learn, to redeem, to heal.

But still the familiar draws us in. I’ve been re-watching favorite TV shows, re-reading favorite books, returning to recipes I love. There is comfort in the familiar.

Maybe that’s why the holiday season holds so much nostalgia. But there is another sameness that can have a true impact on us this Advent season.

The themes of Advent and the narrative of the Christmas story are like a comfortable, well-worn sweater. They hold cherished memories, make us feel secure, they feel like an old friend. At the same time, they carry pain and longing, fear and confusion. But Advent is a place where my weary heart can rest without anxiety or doubt. My waitings journey along with Israel’s waiting thousands of years ago. My fears echo Mary’s, and Joseph’s, and Zechariah’s, and the shepherds’. I can reflect and worship the God-who-became-man in a composition where I already know the tune. There are no surprises. And this familiarity is an excuse to step outside my self-sufficiency and self-absorption. It is a call to rest. The work has already been done.

I read a book this past Fall in which the protagonist had such a deep relationship with God—He knew her, and she knew Him so well—that she was totally in tune with His method of speaking to her. The simplest of sights or sounds would be to her a burst of inspiration and grace.

I am nowhere near that. So many things distract and discourage. But during the season of Advent, I can feel pretty close. I have friends who call this a “thin place.” A place where the barriers are less. Where glimpses of eternity weave their way through the chaos. May we settle into this narrative, the story we know so well, and allow the Spirit’s revelations to hit less like a catapult breaking through an iron-clad wall and more like a gentle wave washing over this familiar shore.

In Galatians 4:4-5, Paul writes, “But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.”

When the New Testament opens, the people of Israel are groaning under the power of a foreign king. God’s people are a waiting people, but having returned from Exile in Babylonian and then waited 400 years in silence (with no prophets to point the way), things seem even more dire.

Rome had no love for God’s people. It was a miserable time to live in Israel. But through it all, God was sovereign. Indeed, it was some of Rome’s very triumphs—universal language, widespread travel—that paved the way for Jesus’ arrival. The known world was finally ready to spread the Good News of God’s son. The fullness of time had come.

It is not hard to see that these are miserable times as well. Daily, we encounter the effects of a global pandemic, political egotism, widespread systemic racism, individual battles with mental illness, poverty, and illiteracy. And though it doesn’t always help to compare these times with other eras of global panic, disease, and fear, it should help to acknowledge that we carry a very limited understanding of God’s sovereign time.

Two thousand plus years later, we are no longer surprised by the Christmas story. But as the story unfolded in real time, no one could have believed this was the setting for the promised Messiah. Though the prophets hinted at a lack of splendor, those in Israel still sought a conquering king. What they forgot, was the planting of seeds, as far back as Eden. It should have been familiar, this motif, this long-woven plan for a Servant King.

Welcome to Advent

Dear friends (and those who may have stumbled upon this blog), 

If you've joined me for any of the past eleven years, then you are probably familiar with Advent. If you are a new reader, this will serve as an introduction:

In latin the word "adventus" means "coming." Within the context of western Christianity, Advent is the season of four weeks leading up to Christmas—the celebration of Christ's birth. It is a time of joyful expectation and preparation. The four weeks are marked by the four Sundays, on which the candles of the Advent wreath are lit.

The first candle is traditionally the candle of Hope, followed by Peace, Love, and Joy. However, with so many church traditions comes a variety of names for each candle. Usually they are organized around characters or themes as a way to unfold the story and direct attention to the celebrations and worship in the season. So, the sequence might be Prophets, Bethlehem, Shepherds, Angels; Expectation, Annunciation, Proclamation, Fulfillment; or Prophets, John the Baptist, Mary, the Magi.

Last year I used children’s picture books to help introduce the characters and themes of the Nativity. This year, I’m going back to my original format and have chosen to reflect on the themes of Longing, Preparation, Proclamation, and Joy.

For four short weeks every year, we stop and see—with amazing clarity—God’s miraculous hand shaping the trajectory of human history. I have a hard time seeing this kind of perspective in daily life. Even with God’s sustaining grace, I am so often numb to the repercussions of Christ’s advent in my own life. This blog is an attempt to peel back the layers of those truths and meditate on the everlasting love God showed humanity when he sent forth His son. And as we do that together, may our hearts be directed towards the greater Advent still to come.

Let us enter this season with expectation, ever blessed by those who have paved the way. I’m glad you have chosen to join me on the journey!

 

"Our Very Own Christmas" and the Road to Bethlehem

I’d never heard of today’s picture book before this year. But when I was browsing through my library’s Christmas books a couple weeks ago, I happened upon it. Our Very Own Christmas by Annette Langen and Marije Tolman surprised me with its whimsical mixture of secular and sacred. When I brought it home, I didn’t know how I wanted to use the book, and then I read an article suggested by The Story Warren (an amazing little website, if you’re at all inclined towards the melding of faith and the literacy life), and I immediately knew what I wanted to say. That happens a lot. I am always thankful for modern-day saints whose words act as springboards (often alongside Scripture) to put my thoughts into words.

Our Very Own Christmas is the story of two young children, Kelly and Franklin. The narrative begins,

Yes, indeed. Kelly knows all the things that happened on Christmas. For when it gets dark outside, she likes to be Mary. And her little brother, Franklin, always gets to be Joseph. And when they are Mary and Joseph, they always set out on the long journey to Bethlehem.

In the Gospels, there is a pulsing thread woven through the text. Everything is leading to Jerusalem. “The road to Jerusalem” becomes a symbol of preparation. Preparation for worship, for holy-day, for sacrifice, for the greatest Sacrifice. Likewise, when we hear, “the road to Bethlehem,” our minds know we are taking about expectation. Expectation and preparation. Indeed, they are quite a pair.

Kelly and Franklin don’t follow a particular timetable as they travel to “Bethlehem”, they aren’t in any rush. As they amble along, they recite the milestones of the story out loud, until Franklin whispers, “What’s next, Kelly?” They know the story, but still, there is a need to make sure that they are telling it right.

At the end, Kelly tells young Franklin,

“So there you see, all the things that happened on Christmas.”
“Hmmm . . .” Franklin says happily. “. . . and tomorrow we will go to Bethlehem again.”

I think Franklin is on to something. On this side of Heaven, rehearsing the road to Bethlehem on a regular basis will never be enough. Each Advent, we get but a glimpse of the fulfillment we will one day experience with the victorious King. In the meantime, we fall into a trap that Emily Jensen writes about in her article, “Our Longing for God Himself.” She says,

We're not looking forward to the advent of Christ himself, but to the gifts he brings in the sack over his shoulder. In our eagerness to gain from his gifts, we might forget to stop and inhale the aroma of his love. . . Someday, when God makes all things new, all of our “never enough” longings will be met in him. We will enjoy the good gifts he gives.

And more than any other good gift, God wants to give you the better gift of himself. Just look at his track record—in the garden of Eden, in the manger at Bethlehem, on the cross at Calvary, in the indwelling person of the Holy Spirit. He won’t stop until Christ returns and he can give you himself forever. Whatever you’re longing for today, the weight of God’s glory, character, and goodness can bear it. Whatever “never enough” you’re experiencing today is fulfilled by “the always and forever enough” of God.

Advent is about waiting and longing. But we easily get distracted and lose track of what we are supposed to be yearning for. Kelly and Franklin’s actions can best be described as play (following the five components of early literacy I mentioned at the beginning of the season), however, the acting out of the Christmas story also brings Philippians 2:12-13 to mind:

Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.

As we rehearse God’s narrative of redemption, Advent helps us work out our salvation. With great humility, we acknowledge that Jesus lowered Himself in order to save us from our sins. With great rejoicing, we praise Him for the gift of becoming a human in order to show us the Way. What better way to “play,” than to picture ourselves on the road to Bethlehem, ready to experience both expectation and joy.

The Door Called Bethlehem

Waiting. Holy discontent. Longing. These are gifts from God. They draw us away from ourselves, towards the open hands of a good and patient God. Like Narnia’s Aslan, our God is not “tame,” to be controlled at our will. But he is good. A goodness that seeps deeper into human hearts and minds than we will ever know.

Writer and theologian Frederick Buechner writes,

“For outlandish creatures like us, on our way to a heart, a brain, and courage, Bethlehem is not the end of our journey but only the beginning—not home but the place through which we must pass if ever we are to reach home at last.”
(from The Magnificent Defeat)

Everything about the Christmas story has been leading up to Bethlehem:

Prophets foretold.

Zechariah silenced.

Joseph proposed.

Mary agreed.

Angels announced.

Mary traveled.

Baby leaped.

Elizabeth exclaimed.

Mary sang.

John arrived.

Zechariah prophesized.

Caesar decreed.

Donkey trotted.

Star shone.

Wise men saw.

King angered.

Mary delivered.

Jesus swaddled.

Angels sang.

Shepherds heard.

Wise Men gave.

Shepherds told.

And that’s pretty much what happened in and around Bethlehem when Christ was born. How many centuries had Israel been waiting for such a thing to come true? What did the nativity scene look like the next morning? And the morning after that?

What happens when what we’ve been waiting for finally arrives?

I’m grateful for Buechner’s thoughts because I find myself wondering these very things. Everything changed. But was anything really different?

As we receive God’s promises, both large and small, Bethlehem is the door through which we walk. It appears like the end goal, but it is just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter with our God at the helm.

For the people of Israel, it was an open door to what would become the New Covenant. And those who faithfully walked through it had a front-row seat to the greatest story ever told. Like all of us sinners, many in Jesus’ inner circle  had times of doubt; times of fear. Many wondered if they had chosen the right door.

Without letting this metaphor run too long, the story of Christ’s birth cannot and should never be the end of Christ’s impact on our lives. With all its depth and joy, it will never be enough to satisfy eternal yearning God has placed in our hearts. It can only whet our desire for more. It re-ignites in us a longing for the completion of God’s story. 

So this Christmas, let the manger scene in Bethlehem be our door, leading to a path filled with holy longing for our eternal home. For, as C.S. Lewis once said,

"If I find in myself desires which nothing in this word can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world."
(from Mere Christianity).