The Mysterious and Imaginative Truths of Advent

What do these all have in common? 
Madeleine L’Engle 
Stranger Things
Theology
Mystery
Luci Shaw
Unlikely heroes
Imagination

Read ahead and you will see.

In the introduction to her book, Journey to the Manger, theologian Paula Gooder lays out an argument for the interweaving of truth, wonder, and mystery in the Advent narrative. She says,

“Christmas presents to us, mostly in narrative form, some of the most wonderful truths about our faith—truths about a God who loves us, who was prepared to risk everything to live among us in human form, who drew the most unlikely people to him by doing this and who continues today to seek to draw people to him from all walks of life. . . Christmas is a feast that encouraged our imaginative engagement with the mysterious truths it seeks to portray.” (p. ix)

“This God chose a ludicrously risky means of redeeming the world he loves so much.” (p. xiii)

“The birth narrative of Jesus lays out in story, in poetry and in song, something of what we believe about this Jesus, Immanuel, God with us. It helps us to think imaginatively and creatively about the one we worship, he who came to us in the most precarious manner possible—born as a baby into poverty.” (p. xviii).

If you’ve ever been caught up in a story full of unlikely heroes, harrowing adventure, and miraculous victories, then you know this feeling. The mystery, and wonder, and truth available to us through story.

Scripture utilizes a variety of literary forms, but the Holy Spirit inspired the Gospel writers to record Jesus’ birth, life, and death as narrative stories. When I first sought to begin an Advent blog, I wanted a space to record and share Advent/Christmas poems I found. I had long loved the writings of Madeleine L’Engle, and was likewise drawn to her mystery-embracing poems about the Incarnation and Immanuel, God with us. Her words demonstrated the way that the Advent story can reach across time and space to meet our hearts exactly where we are.

Many writers, L’Engle included, use the most unlikely of characters to tell their story. This is true in her classic, A Wrinkle in Time. And it is true for the hit Netflix show, Stranger Things. I don’t want to give any of the final season away, so I will only say that the imagined world in A Wrinkle in Time becomes an interwoven theme as the show’s unlikely heroes continue to seek truth and imagine victory. I think this shows us something important about the way we tell stories.

Most literature can stand alone, but it is a beautiful thing when a story is strengthened by our understanding of a parallel narrative. Tales like C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia can make reading about God’s redeeming power in Scripture all the more meaningful and miraculous. Writers like Wendel Berry and Luci Shaw can give words to the way we feel about God’s creation.

In the 1970s, two writers met at a literary conference at Wheaton College. Their names were Madeleine L’Engle and Luci Shaw. The two became quick friends and eventually collaborated professionally, with Shaw’s publishing company releasing many of L’Engle’s poetry collections. L’Engle passed away in 2007, and just a few days ago on December 1st, Shaw entered eternity.

Both writers have influenced the way I read and reread the Advent narrative each year. Because as Paula Gooder argues, we each bring our own imaginations to the manger. The way we picture the nativity scene is far from what it really looked like, but that’s ok. During Advent we cannot be gatekeepers for historical accuracy, because that is not the point.

The point is: We were a world without hope, and God sent his Son to become like us (though completely unexpected in appearance, motivation, word, and deed), ushering in a kingdom of eternal hope and salvation.

I will end with a poem by Luci Shaw.

It is as if Infancy were the Whole of Incarnation

One time of the year
the new-born child
is everywhere,
planted in madonnas’ arms
hay mows, stables,
in palaces or farms,
or quaintly, under snowed gables,
gothic angular or baroque plump,
naked or elaborately swathed,
encircled by Della Robbia wreaths,
garnished with whimsical
partridges and pears,
drummers and drums,
lit by oversize stars,
partnered with lambs,
peace doves, sugar plums,
bells, plastic camels in sets of three
as if these were what we needed
for eternity.

But Jesus the Man is not to be seen.
There are some who are wary, these days,
of beards and sandalled feet.

Yet if we celebrate, let it be
that He
has invaded our lives with purpose,
striding over our picturesque traditions,
our shallow sentiment,
overturning our cash registers,
wielding His peace like a sword,
rescuing us into reality,
demanding much more
than the milk and the softness
and the mother warmth
of the baby in the storefront crèche,
(only the Man would ask
all, of each of us)
reaching out
always, urgently, with strong
effective love
(only the Man would give
His life and live
again for love of us).

Oh come, let us adore Him—
Christ—the Lord.

Pay attention. The stories always have more for us than at we first thought.

and a Little Child Shall Lead Them

We end the first week of Advent by looking to the faith and wonder of a child.

There is a fictionalized account of Mary and Joseph’s flight to Egypt with toddler Jesus that my family often reads at Christmas. It is a short story entitled, Dance in the Desert, by Madeleine L’Engle. In it, L’Engle describes a scene where wild desert animals approach the caravan’s circle. The adults in the camp stand ready to defend, but Mary gently says, “wait.” As the title of the book indicates, the wild animals of the desert and toddler Jesus dance.

I believe L’Engle was thinking of Isaiah’s prophecy in chapter 11 when she wrote this story:

There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse,
    and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.
2 And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him,
    the Spirit of wisdom and understanding,
    the Spirit of counsel and might,
    the Spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.
3 And his delight shall be in the fear of the Lord.
He shall not judge by what his eyes see,
    or decide disputes by what his ears hear,
4 but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,
    and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;
and he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,
    and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.
5 Righteousness shall be the belt of his waist,
    and faithfulness the belt of his loins.

6 The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,
    and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat,
and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together;
    and a little child shall lead them.
7 The cow and the bear shall graze;
    their young shall lie down together;
    and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
8 The nursing child shall play over the hole of the cobra,
    and the weaned child shall put his hand on the adder's den.
9 They shall not hurt or destroy
    in all my holy mountain;
for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord
    as the waters cover the sea.
(Isaiah 11:1-9)

After the familiar Messianic verses about a branch shooting out from Jesse’s line, there is a passage that describes previously savage and gentle animals resting together in peace. It is a symbol of the enormity of the Messiah’s impact, not only on the peace of humans, but of the natural world. In the middle it says, “and a little child shall lead them.”

This is no Pied Piper situation, no animal circus on parade. This is a symbol of innocence and trust. A foreshadowing of restoration. Had Adam and Eve’s children been born in the Garden of Eden, they too would have been able to explore and play among the animals without any fear or concern.

Any young child today is full of wonder and trust not because there aren’t scary things in the world, but because they don’t know about sin and evil, danger and difficulty. And more to the point—they rely on their grownups to provide all they need. But there is a time coming, Jesus promises, when we will all be like children again: without fear, and fully surrounded by God’s loving and providing presence.

When adult Jesus taught about the Kingdom of Heaven in parables and stories, he wasn’t doing it to be obtuse or confuse. He was actually fulfilling the prophecy of Psalm 78:1-2 (as Matthew reminds us in 13:25):

“I will open my mouth in parables;
    I will utter what has been hidden since the foundation of the world.”

Jesus spoke in parables because wanted His listeners to respond more like children. John Pavlovitz writes about this in Week 2 of his Advent devotional, Low:

“The older we get, the more wonder-deprived we tend to become. I think the Jesus who comes low understood this, which is why his parables inserted miracles into the mundane. The kingdom of God was treasure hidden in a field; it was a seed falling into good soil; it was yeast working quietly through the dough; it was sparrows and wildflowers and pearls. It would have been impossible for his listeners to experience their ordinary days the same way after hearing him. I imagine that’s a bit of what he meant when he talked about embracing the greater life by becoming a child.”

I have the luxury of working with young children and babies in an environment that enriches this type of wonder. Have you ever gotten down on the ground next to a toddler, to be able to see things as they do? This altered vantage point helps us see ordinary things differently.

Pavlovitz invites us to enter this stance and seek God there—especially in this season of waiting we call Advent.

He goes on to say in Week 3:

“. . . I was talking to my son about the approaching Christmas season, and he said, ‘I really like the waiting. It’s fun.’ He described the time leading up to the holidays as his favorite part: the anticipation and the excitement, the electricity of looking forward to something and of counting down the days. For him, it’s far more enjoyable than the relative letdown of the day itself.”

I think I resonate a lot with that little kid. From a young age (even before I could articulate it) the mystery and wonder of Advent has delighted me. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to see how much I need the heart of Advent for the rest of my life. For life is full of waiting, and those in-between times can often be more challenging than the challenges themselves.

But Advent gives us an amazing hindsight that spans the centuries. We will never have to wait 400 years like the people of Israel did. But we can look at the silent gap between Malachi’s end Matthew’s beginning and reorient our hearts as we wait.

Pavlovitz finishes his reflection on the 400 years between the Old Testament and New Testament saying,

“. . . What is simply the turn of a page to us represents several generations of painful waiting, of awkward silence, of unresolved questions—which is why the birth story of Jesus is the perfect one to bridge those two parts of the story. It is a wonderful end to a time of anxious waiting. If we cultivate a bit of faith, that in-between time, even in difficult days, can be a hopeful space for us, a place where we can welcome transformation even with all the present unknowns.

Rather than wanting the time to pass quickly, we can actually enjoy it because we know we are being renovated.

This season may find you in painful waiting—in that sometimes frustrating before. One of the truths you can rest in is that, as with the child in Mary’s womb and the groaning world enduring those long months, there is always change taking place, always new life about to spring forth.”

The perfect trust and wonder of a young child. How ironic and wonderful that the millennia of waiting for a Messiah was fulfilled by the birth of such a child. 

 The Prince of Peace who made Himself low, for us. To bring new life. And to show us the way to everlasting peace.

When Waiting is Not About Us

5 In the days of Herod, king of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, of the division of Abijah. And he had a wife from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. 6 And they were both righteous before God, walking blamelessly in all the commandments and statutes of the Lord. 7 But they had no child, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were advanced in years.
(Luke 1:5-7)

… 13 But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard, and your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall call his name John. 14 And you will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, 15 for he will be great before the Lord. And he must not drink wine or strong drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit, even from his mother's womb. 16 And he will turn many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God, 17 and he will go before him in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to make ready for the Lord a people prepared.” (Luke 1:13-17)

I’ve been reading a lot of Hannah Brencher’s daily Advent devotionals this year. Some years I gravitate towards one thing to reflect on. This year I have a feeling I’ll be bouncing around.

She says of Elizabeth’s story in Luke:

"It is far too easy to package up the story of Elizabeth and say, "See!? Elizabeth was waiting for something, and then God showed up!" Yes, this is all true. But anyone who has felt the waiting period- the loss of years and time and dreams deferred- knows the feelings, longings, and pain of another day unfulfilled leaves scars. It isn't something you get over instantly (or sometimes ever). It stays with you. It changes you.

The waiting changes us.

It turns us into different versions of ourselves."

The Bible has many stories of barren women seeking the Lord for a child. The first that comes to mind is Hannah. Like Elizabeth, Hannah did receive a child, but their years together were short. From the beginning, the child had a calling that was greater than that of being a son and heir to their birth family.

It’s easy to think of any waiting as a punishment. And in hindsight one often reduces the experience as a time when a lesson was learned. But Brencher argues that both ideas “dismiss the beauty and benevolence of God's character."

This is a bold sentence, but the waiting is not always about us.
If we look closely at the story of Elizabeth and Zechariah (from the perfect view of 2000 years later), we see that their waiting was more about God’s timing.

The baby that would grow up to be John the Baptist needed to be a contemporary of Jesus. Did he need to be the son of Zechariah and Elizabeth? I don't know. Did he need to be related to Jesus by blood? Maybe not.

There are a lot of things I am waiting on and have waited on in my life. And there have been times where I've been gifted with the ability to see why the waiting was important. Yet on this side of heaven, that is not something we are promised.

There’s a passage in Galatians 4, where Paul thinks back to the birth of Jesus and says,
"But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, 5 to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons." (Galatians 4:4-5)

I love that phrase. The fullness of time. It is beyond our understanding. And it holds so much promise.

In whatever we are waiting for, we do know this: God is with us in the waiting. Even the waiting that is only heard in groans from our hearts. When we grow weary from hoping, He does not.

There is a quote I love from author Victor Hugo. And I think it speaks to this:
“Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.”

Elizabeth's waiting had a finish line. A baby takes nine months to grow. I do not begrudge her for getting what she had hoped for for so long. I'm thankful for her story because it helps me have the courage to wait well. Israel's waiting for the Messiah can sometimes seem so distant and huge. But Elizabeth and Zechariah were people who lived and breathed and waited, just like you and me.



 

A Birth Announcement for a Shepherd and King

For all the mysteries surrounding the Messiah’s arrival, those paying attention in Israel (and beyond) had many prophetic words to carry them through the quiet centuries following Malachi’s final message from God.

Two passages in Isaiah and Micah act as 700-years-early birth announcements for the awaited Savior. Both are very familiar to us. You might even be able to quote large chunks of the prophecies. Yet it you’re like me, the rhythmic cadence of God’s promises spoken to the prophets has become so recognizable that I tend to gloss over their meaning. That is why reading from different Bible translations can help to refocus our understanding.

Consider Isaiah 9:6-7, quoted from the Message:

For a child has been born—for us!
    the gift of a son—for us!
He’ll take over
    the running of the world.
His names will be: Amazing Counselor,
    Strong God,
Eternal Father,
    Prince of Wholeness.
His ruling authority will grow,
    and there’ll be no limits to the wholeness he brings.
He’ll rule from the historic David throne
    over that promised kingdom.
He’ll put that kingdom on a firm footing
    and keep it going
With fair dealing and right living,
    beginning now and lasting always.
The zeal of God-of-the-Angel-Armies
    will do all this.

Usually, birth announcements don’t include the name of the child. Baby boys especially aren’t named until the eighth day when they are circumcised. Often they are named for a wished-for quality or set of circumstances surrounding their arrival. But for this Messiah, He is already named, and seems to be doing the very work His names suggests. What’s more, they are names equated with God’s character. How can this be?

In her annual online Advent devotional, author Hannah Brencher writes of this passage:
“This announcement is more than God sending a son into the world. This is God is putting on skin and coming down to earth for us. This is an ancient, holy announcement that God is stepping into the ring. He is coming to fully participate in what it means to be human. And this announcement… well, it changes everything."

Things will be made new. A new understanding of what it means to serve and be served will be put into practice. Not only is this Messiah new, but so is everything about Him. From His origin and circumstances to His habits and lessons, the God-Man we know as Jesus turned every expected thing on its head.

Turning to the prophet Micah, we see this broken down into three “stunning glories” or revelations in chapter 5:2-5. David Mathis, executive editor at Desiring God leads us through these details in his article, Light and Warmth in Winter: Three Glories of His Advent.

First, “He comes from modest stock.” Not a phrase we often hear these days, but we know what it means. Bethlehem and Nazareth are romanticized in our Nativity stories, but they were small potatoes within all the cities of Israel. Bethlehem had a richer history being Rachel’s burial city and the birth place of David (another unlikely king who would rise to the throne by God’s hand alone).

You, O Bethlehem Ephrathah,
     who are too little to be among the clans of Judah,
from you shall come forth for me
     one who is to be ruler in Israel… (v.2)

“The first glory,” Mathis argues, “of the one coming forth is that he comes from Bethlehem. In Micah’s day, God had already done this once with David — the shepherd rising to the throne. Now, some three centuries later, the prophet tells of another ruler who will arise, and ascend, like David, and from David’s own line and town.”

Next, “He comes from ancient times.” We so poetically gloss over Micah’s prophecy that we often miss the words chosen by God.

. . . from [Bethlehem] shall come forth for me
     one who is to be ruler in Israel,
whose coming forth is from of old,
     from ancient days . . . (Micah 5:2)

Mathis again: “What the prophet says next might lead us to wonder if the little town is not the Messiah’s origin but his portal. He comes from Bethlehem, yes, yet also through Bethlehem. . . He is a human ruler, descended from David, and rising up like David from a modest upbringing, but he is more than a human king. And this is not David reincarnate, or some ancient champion, back from the grave . . . This is somehow the Ancient of Days himself, the only one who truly is ‘of old.’”

Lastly, “He comes to shepherd with strength.” The prophet Micah is not done. The last two verses of this passage show us how the Messiah will rule, his character, his essence.

And he shall stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the Lord,
     in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.
And they shall dwell secure, for now he shall be great
     to the ends of the earth.
And he shall be their peace. (v.4-5)

In the New Testament Jesus uses the image of the shepherd to talk about Himself and to outline lessons in His parables. But here we have a prophetic word associating the Messiah with being a shepherd. We will get to this more later in Advent, but shepherds were not the ultimate career goal. While they stood as a embodiment of care and protection, Judean shepherds themselves were smelly outcasts.

Mathis gives us a little more insight: “’He will ‘shepherd his flock,’ [is] a picture of compassion and concern, loving provision and protection. And he will do so ‘in the strength of the Lord.’ In other words, he will be a strong shepherd, strong enough that his flock might dwell secure under his rule and enjoy real peace in him — and this will mean the opposite for the foes of his flock. That their shepherd is strong is ominous for their enemies. And that their shepherd is strong is a sweet balm for his people: “they shall dwell secure . . . he shall be their peace.”

When the angels appeared to a band of Bethlehem shepherds 700 years later, they sang out “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!" (Luke 2:14) Indeed peace, eternal peace, for His flock is one of the biggest Advent promises.

The Message translates “peace” as wholeness. And indeed, the Hebrew word Shalom encapsulates so much more than we can put into words. When Jesus comes again, the second Advent, He will bring about wholeness, newness. Completeness with Him. Peace.
 

A New Way

For all my years of Advent reflections, I haven’t thought much about the difference between each Gospel writers’ Nativity account. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were all different people, with their own literary agendas and gifts of observation. But something I recently re-read in Kelley Nikondeha's The First Advent in Palestine drew my attention to one of God’s providential parallels.

Nikondeha argues that Luke’s Gospel account gives us a “window into the Advent economy and environment”—the Galilean world in which Mary, Joseph, the shepherds lived. On the other hand, “Matthew shows us what that economy looked like through an understanding of one person's rule: that of Herod.” (p. 100).

If you know anything about King Herod, he was essentially a puppet king. Probably not even Jewish by birth, he was appointed by Rome to preside over all of Judea. As such, his reign was marked with heavy taxation, for the sake of Rome’s infamous infrastructure and his own private coffers.

This is the economic and political power into which infant Jesus would be born. But before we get to that, Matthew paints a picture of another power structure—the patriarchs and revered forefathers of the faith, the ones whose lives all pointed as archetypes of Christ. Over and over again, God referred to these greats and said: One is coming who is greater than he. Greater than Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; greater than Moses or Joshua; greater than Joseph, Jesse, David and Solomon. And so much greater than Herod.

It had been millennia since God’s people walked solely by faith and trust in an economy of love and goodness. Not since the Garden of Eden had humans been free from transactional grace with God. But Matthew shows us that a Messiah is coming from the very line that began in Eden. Not only that, but He would come to make all things new. God’s people would not need to answer to the Roman/Herodian economy of tyranny and wealth as the highest authority much longer.

Not only was God’s plan to bring a new “ruler” into the mix, but the ways of connecting, encouraging, loving, and following Him were about to change.

Isaiah prophesied about it in chapter 43:

16 Thus says the Lord,
    who makes a way in the sea,
    a path in the mighty waters,
17 who brings forth chariot and horse,
    army and warrior;
they lie down, they cannot rise,
    they are extinguished, quenched like a wick:
18 “Remember not the former things,
    nor consider the things of old.
19 Behold, I am doing a new thing;
    now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
    and rivers in the desert.
20 The wild beasts will honor me,
    the jackals and the ostriches,
for I give water in the wilderness,
    rivers in the desert,
to give drink to my chosen people,
21     the people whom I formed for myself
that they might declare my praise.

We will talk more about the dashed Jewish expectations for the Messiah later, but for now I want to focus on the ways that Jesus courageously humbled Himself for the sake of God’s new economy. Indeed He made a way in the wilderness of death and decay—all for our sake. 

In his book, Low: an Honest Advent Devotional, John Pavlovitz quotes, “Jesus didn’t need to live here. He could have shown up, tossed out another stone slab or a rolled parchment filled with black-and-white religious do’s and don’ts, and then disappeared into the ether—leaving a neat and tidy, easily navigable religion to delineate our every decision. Instead, he chose to live life alongside flawed human beings, in messy and meandering trips into wheatfields and lepers’ homes and leaky boats.” (from Week 1 Tuesday: This is Not a Test)

Jesus, the antithesis of highly seated King Herod, came to the lowest of places, in one of the lowest forms, to show us a new way. A new way of loving God and others. A new way of living out our faith. And best of all, a promise that one heavenly day, all things would be made new.

 

Prepare the Way of the Lord

I don’t feel ready for Advent this year. Just a few short weeks ago I hadn’t even pulled my winter coat out from the back of the closet. I still see colorful leaves hanging onto their trees with determination. Yet however much I don’t feel prepared, here we are: the first Sunday of Advent.

It’s funny, when you long for something, but are still surprised by its appearance. Into the silent waiting, distractions (of every color and sort) have a way of making the expected slide in under the radar.

I wonder if this is how the Israelites felt after their exile in Babylon and then 400 years of prophetic silence. First on the community’s prayer requests was the arrival of a Messiah. Yet when He actually came, no one seemed ready. Much less prepared for a Messiah wrapped in a baby’s clothes and wails.

Only a handful of God’s people were still living in active, curious expectation for a Savior. For them, God’s plans and purposes were a mystery to unravel. For so many others, the oppressive life of being a Hebrew under the thumb of whatever empire was in control was all they would handle. Routines became the norm; waiting the ever-repeating refrain.

How wonderful that we serve a God who does not leave us alone to our own devices. The whole of human history is marked by sign-posts pointing the way to the Messiah.

The gospel of Luke could have begun a lot of different ways. Matthew chose to jog his reader’s memories by recounting thousands of years of family genealogy. But Luke likes the reader to do some of the connection work, and opens with a story of a man named Zechariah.

Luke 1: 5-25
5 In the days of Herod, king of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah,[a] of the division of Abijah. And he had a wife from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. 6 And they were both righteous before God, walking blamelessly in all the commandments and statutes of the Lord. 7 But they had no child, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were advanced in years.

8 Now while he was serving as priest before God when his division was on duty, 9 according to the custom of the priesthood, he was chosen by lot to enter the temple of the Lord and burn incense. 10 And the whole multitude of the people were praying outside at the hour of incense. 11 And there appeared to him an angel of the Lord standing on the right side of the altar of incense. 12 And Zechariah was troubled when he saw him, and fear fell upon him. 13 But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard, and your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall call his name John. 14 And you will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, 15 for he will be great before the Lord. And he must not drink wine or strong drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit, even from his mother's womb. 16 And he will turn many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God, 17 and he will go before him in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to make ready for the Lord a people prepared.”

18 And Zechariah said to the angel, “How shall I know this? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.” 19 And the angel answered him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I was sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. 20 And behold, you will be silent and unable to speak until the day that these things take place, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time.” 21 And the people were waiting for Zechariah, and they were wondering at his delay in the temple. 22 And when he came out, he was unable to speak to them, and they realized that he had seen a vision in the temple. And he kept making signs to them and remained mute. 23 And when his time of service was ended, he went to his home.

24 After these days his wife Elizabeth conceived, and for five months she kept herself hidden, saying, 25 “Thus the Lord has done for me in the days when he looked on me, to take away my reproach among people.”

After 400 years of prophetic silence, God chose to sneak up on a priest and strike him voiceless when he didn’t make the immediate connections.

I do not want to be like Zechariah. I may not feel ready for Advent, but I want my heart and mind to remain curiously open to God’s mysteries. The miracle of the Incarnation is just as relevant for us to today as it was for a family living in the Judean countryside roughly two thousand years ago. May we have the eyes to see it.

Isaiah 30:3-5
3 A voice cries:
“In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord;
    make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
4 Every valley shall be lifted up,
    and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
    and the rough places a plain.
5 And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
    and all flesh shall see it together,
    for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

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.

Rejoice and Wonder: Quotes from Madeleine L'Engle

There are ten more days of Advent, so today, I want to share three quotes from Madeleine L'Engle's third Crosswicks Journal, The Irrational Season. L'Engle's Advent poetry was one of the main reasons I began this blog ten years ago. She has a way of taking the twists and turns of human thought and unraveling them to resemble the mysteries of God. I am thankful for the way her mind and heart knew the best words to say.

". . .Christmas evoked in me that response which makes me continue to struggle to understand, with the mind in the heart, the love of God for his creation, a love which expressed itself in the Incarnation.  That tiny, helpless baby whose birth we honor contained the Power behind the universe, helpless, at the mercy of its own creation.”

"When I am able to pray with the mind in the heart, I am joyfully able to affirm the irrationality of Christmas.

As I grow older
I get surer
Man’s heart is colder,
His life no purer.
As I grow steadily
More austere
I come less readily
To Christmas each year.
I can’t keep taking
Without a thought
Forced merrymaking
And presents bought
In crowds jostling.
Alas, there’s naught
In empty wassailing
Where oblivion’s sought.
Oh, I’d be waiting
With quiet fasting
Anticipating
A joy more lasting.
And so I rhyme
With no apology
During this time
of eschatology:
Judgment and warning
Come like thunder.
But now is the hour
When I remember
An infant’s power
On a cold December.
Midnight is dawning
And the birth of wonder."

"Cribb’d, cabined, and confined within the contours of a human infant. The infinite defined by the finite? The Creator of all life thirsty and abandoned? Why would he do such a thing? Aren’t there easier and better ways for God to redeem his fallen creatures?

. . .And yet Christmas is still for me a time of hope, of hope for the courage to love and accept love, a time when I can forget that my Christology is extremely shaky and can rejoice in God’s love. . ."

 

Advent is a thin place. A place where our faith is magnified. A place where we can feel, all the more deeply, 
that love
indeed 
came down.