They Mattered

One of two main women in the Christmas story, Mary lived at a time when women were not given much consideration. If not for God’s choice to include her in Jesus’ birth, I doubt she would have made it into Scripture. But, like I mentioned in the last post, nothing is happenstance for God. His choices are deliberate. And they are full of grace. The five women mentioned in Jesus’ genealogy showcase this. Their inclusion was an incredibly rare occurrence. But before their names were ever written down, their lives were chosen to be a part of Jesus’ rich lineage. These women were not the ones we would have chosen as Christ’s descendants. They were scarred. They had criminal and embarrassing pasts. But God gave them the opportunity to reflect His mercy. He lifted them higher. He showed that they matter. He flipped the world’s expectations upside-down.

And so, when Mary encounters the angel Gabriel and he says, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you” (Luke 1:28), I bet you could have knocked her down with a feather. She, probably illiterate, living in the tiny rural town of Nazareth—to be called highly favored! It was not expected. Indeed, “Mary was greatly troubled at his words.”

But Gabriel, knowing the human tendency to fear, gently says, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God” (v. 30). I bet a lot of things rushed through Mary’s mind at this proclamation. As women, we are inclined to take a phrase and spin it in a thousand different directions before the sentence is even finished. Maybe Mary was thinking about a task she had left undone, or a dark path she didn’t like to walk alone. Maybe she was thinking about her family, and the weight of the taxes they had to pay to Rome each year. Maybe she was worried about her betrothal to Joseph.

When the angel said, “Do not be afraid,” did all those fears wash away? It certainty prepared her heart for what was coming next:

“You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.” (v.30-33)

Now, just like Zechariah, Mary asks, “How can this be?” But instead of being banished into silence, Gabriel goes on to explain: “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.” (v.35-37)

The Lord knew Mary’s heart. He knew she had faith in the Rock beneath her feet. And He also knew her uncertainty. Not because she doubted, but because, as a woman she had probably never been taught the same things about God’s character that Zechariah the priest had. What she said next came not from experience or foresight, but from deep faith:

“I am the Lord’s servant, may your word to me be fulfilled.” (v.38)

Do not be afraid.
No word from God will ever fail.
I have to believe that the presence of an angel, plus these words sent from God Himself had the power to produce a deep peace in Mary.

We don’t often encounter angels, but we can hear from God. Do we allow His words to affect us like they did Mary?

Madeleine L’Engle talks about this when she describes her experience with story.

When we try to define and over-define and narrow down, we lose the story the Maker of the Universe is telling us . . .

And that is how I want to read and write story. This does not mean that story deals only with cheeriness, but that beneath the reality of life is the rock of faith. I ask God to set me upon a rock that is higher than I so that I may be able to see more clearly, see the tragedy and the joy and sometimes the dull slogging along of life with an assurance that not only is there rock under my feet, but that God made the rock and you and me, and is concerned with Creation, every galaxy, every atom, and subatomic particle. Matter matters.

This is the promise of the Incarnation. Christ put on human matter, and what happens to us is of eternal cosmic importance. That is what true story affirms.

(Miracle on 10th Street, p. 77-78)

I don’t believe Mary was naively agreeing to God’s plan. When the angel spoke, I think he gifted her with the ability to see God holding all of Creation with this one decision to send His son. The tragedies, the joys, even the dull sloggings of life all matter. They mattered for those living the Lineage of Expectation, and they matter for us, awaiting Jesus’ second Advent. God does not waste what He has created.

To Not Remain the Same

When Zechariah was chosen to enter the temple and light the incense, it was most likely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There was weight to his task. It was not a daily routine for him. That day, he was the ambassador for the people, selected to lift up the nation’s prayers before the Almighty.

Nothing is happenstance for God. That day, that task, that man, were all appointed with a purpose and a plan.

Zechariah begins to light the incense, a prayer might have already been on his lips, when an angel appears out of nowhere. He is terrified. He was probably already quivering with nervousness as he sought to do the task correctly and reverently. But now an angel! Like angels are wont to do, he says, “Do not be afraid.” (Luke 1:13) Did it help?

And then the angel goes on: “Your prayer has been heard.” Which prayer? The prayer that was on the tip of Zechariah’s tongue? His petition for all the people of Israel? Or the prayer he and his wife had been praying for years and years without answer. The prayer for a child.

Both.

The angel says, “Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to call him John. He will be a joy and delight to you, and many will rejoice because of his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He is never to take wine or other fermented drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born. He will bring back many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” (v.13-17)

In that moment, God swung open the doors for his eternal plan. Israel had been waiting. Zechariah and Elizabeth had been waiting. Now a baby was going to be born. Not the messiah—but His precursor. The one who would prepare the way. For nothing is happenstance with God.

The scene is perfect. Zechariah seems to be having the most amazing day. But then his sinful humanity encounters the awesomeness of God and he skids to a halt. “Are you sure?” he asks. To wait so long for something so big. This angel must be kidding.

This was Zechariah’s fatal mistake. Now we learn the name of the angel Zechariah has questioned: “I am Gabriel,” he says, “I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news. And now you will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their appointed time.” (v.19-20)

As soon as I reread this portion of the story, a comparison between Zechariah’s silence and this year’s pandemic sprung to mind. Being without speech must have been incredibly isolating for Zechariah. He couldn’t perform his job as a priest. He had to write down anything he wanted to say. He couldn’t even praise God when he first saw it was all true. Elizabeth is the one who speaks praise instead: “The Lord has done this for me. In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.” (v.25).

What did Zechariah’s silence do? What purpose did it serve? What have these months of isolation done for us? I don’t quite know. But I wonder if we will we emerge from a year of loneliness, fear, anxiety, and loss with praise on our lips like Zechariah did.

The events of the Christmas story were not happenstance. Why would the events of our lives, today, be any different?

I can’t speak for Zechariah, but I’m sure he learned to cherish his days and trust God’s providence more wholly after this. In his isolation, I imagine he spent quite a lot of time in silent lament before his Creator. At his own stupidity, at the nation’s hopes and needs. Those prayers in the temple he could not pray out loud, perhaps they ran through his mind in quiet meditation.  

Whether we believe it or not, we have been given a gift. Time has slowed. Seemingly important tasks, occasions, and ventures have paled. Priorities have shifted. Our perspective has been altered. Time will tell how much these events have changed us.

It’s been said that God loves us too much to let us remain the same. I doubt Zechariah felt loved by God when the angel proclaimed silence upon him. But when he finally had the chance to speak again, his heart knew. Uttering joy at the birth of his son, he burst into prophecy:

“Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel,
    because he has come to his people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a horn of salvation for us
    in the house of his servant David
(as he said through his holy prophets of long ago),
salvation from our enemies
    and from the hand of all who hate us—
to show mercy to our ancestors
    and to remember his holy covenant,
    the oath he swore to our father Abraham:
to rescue us from the hand of our enemies,
    and to enable us to serve him without fear
    in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.
 
And you, my child, will be called a prophet of the Most High;
    for you will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him,
to give his people the knowledge of salvation
    through the forgiveness of their sins,
because of the tender mercy of our God,
    by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven
to shine on those living in darkness
    and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the path of peace.”
(Luke 1:67-79)

Because of the tender mercy of our God.

(Inspired by Hannah Brencher's Advent essay, "No Random Days").

Preparing the Way

This second week of Advent is about preparation. After waiting hundreds of years for the Messiah, the stage has been set. But one more thing remains: Someone to prepare the way.

Throughout the history of God’s people there had always been a prophet, a representative between God and man. Now, after 400 years of silence, a new kind of messenger emerges. In the last prophecy of the Old Testament, the prophet Malachi declares, “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the LORD comes.” (Malachi 4:5).

Because of this, many were on the lookout for a returning Elijah. Even today, in Jewish homes during Passover, it is customary to leave a space for the great prophet and open the front door in hopeful expectation. But the messenger Malachi calls “Elijah” has already come. His name was John.

Much later in the story, John will become John the Baptizer. This is where the author of Mark brings John into the story. He is an adult, living in the wilderness like Elijah his predecessor, preparing the way for Jesus. Mark opens with a combined prophecy from both Malachi and Isaiah:

“I will send my messenger ahead of you,
    who will prepare your way” (Mal. 3:1)—
 “a voice of one calling in the wilderness,
‘Prepare the way for the Lord,
    make straight paths for him.’” (Is. 40:3)

But before John was a “voice calling in the wilderness,” he was a hoped-for babe. Luke is the only Gospel author to record John’s entry into the world. Indeed, Zechariah and Elizabeth’s story of expectation and faith feels so needed, so necessary for the story of Jesus’ birth. Even before John is born, he plays a necessary part. From within his mother’s womb, he prepares the way as one of the first witnesses to the coming Christ.

John and Jesus. Cousins. Similar yet unique. Deeply connected, their stories intertwined in magnificent ways. And it all begins with their births. One longed for, One an utter surprise. Both foretold. Both real humans who walked the same ground many still tread today. Born at a time when baby’s lives were fragile and their futures unsure.

We are thinking about the fragility of life a lot right now. A pandemic will do that. Nothing seems certain.

Throughout this long season of stay-home orders and social distancing, I’ve been re-watching a lot of my favorite TV shows. One of them is Call the Midwife. If you’ve never watched it, I highly recommend you do. It is at the same time gentle and raw, heart-breaking and inspiring. In every episode, babies are brought into the world with the aid of midwives from the order of St. Raymond Nonnatus. Some are longed for, others fall into line behind multiple siblings already scrambling for food, love, and care. The stories are narrated at the beginning and end by the main character, all grown up, reflecting on her (and the other midwive’s) experiences. In season eight, Jenny’s words during the Christmas special suddenly struck me as perfect for Advent. So I re-wound and re-wound until I copied them just right:

None of us have ever truly walked this way before.
But if there is no map, no route,
no arrowhead to follow there is sometimes a star.
And we do not make our way without companions.
As the road unfolds, we travel side by side
and share the shift from darkness into light.

We often think of Jesus as a lone individual on Earth. He walked around with the Trinity (invisible to human eyes) always by His side. Jesus didn’t need John as a companion for his journey from birth to death. But we do. We need someone to travel by our side, to prepare the way. Before the curtain lifts and we see the Christ child in the manger. Before the star shines brightly above Bethlehem. Before the angels sing their Hallelujahs, we need to know that baby John leaped for joy at the mere presence of his King.

The Christmas story is so familiar to us. May we not forget that every detail of the narrative was planned by the same God who hung the stars in the sky. There are no mistakes, no details too small, no concepts too big. If there is a character tasked with preparing the way, then we better we ready for something “great and awesome” to come.

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!