Tag: Advent

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Welcoming Emmanuel

God is with us. God is greater.

With these two simple statements, I invite each of us to be open and receptive to the good news of salvation that Jesus brings, and will keep bringing in ever greater measure. It’s a simple invitation, yet not an easy one!

That is because there is tension in those statements – a tension familiar to Joseph and Mary, and to true believers in every age. God was with them. He showed up in their lives, multiple times – usually in unexpected ways, even though they were looking for him. To announce the coming of Emmanuel, God sends his angel. Each of them welcomes the good news with trust and joyful obedience. But God leaves far more questions unanswered! Mary ponders all these things in her heart. She seeks to understand, without (like Zechariah) insisting on grasping it all. Joseph promptly obeys the message of each dream. He believes God is with him, and recognizes that God is infinitely greater. He obeys with trust, not having any sense of the how or the when of the fulfillment of those good promises. God was with them. God was greater. They allowed that tension to linger and play itself out. They received and kept receiving, in a way that kept expanding with each new unveiling of the mystery.

God has shown up many times in my own life – often in surprising and unexpected ways. Again and again, he reminds me that he is truly with me. When I welcome his presence, I am aware – sometimes painfully – that he is so much greater. I am consumed with a longing that is both joyful and sad – joyful because I am truly drinking in his comforting presence, sad because I sense his grandeur and my own limited capacity to receive. The gap feels insurmountable, even when he reassures me of his goodness.


I can see, over the years, how much he has stretched me, increasing my desire and so increasing my capacity to receive and give. Sometimes I joyfully cooperate and welcome the expansion and growth.  Other times, I resist.

I notice two frequent temptations. One is to “arrive” – to have it all together and all figured out. In response to this temptation, there is the cliché telling us that it’s more about the journey than the destination. That’s not entirely true. The destination matters. It’s just that the journey is so darn long – and has to be – because God is infinitely greater! In his longing to share his fullness with each and all of us, he will offer every opportunity to stretch our hearts and increase our capacity for union with him. My ache to arrive is not bad in and of itself. The Magi felt it in their search for Emmanuel. Joseph and Mary felt it in their search for shelter.

There are moments that indeed feel like “arrival” – Emmanuel moments in which God definitively shows up with a further unveiling. These moments bring immense and intense joy – as we see in the story of the Magi and the renewed movement of the star (Matthew 2:10).  Many of us are then tempted, like Peter, to build our tents and stay there at the moment, as though we’ve now arrived. If we are wise like the Magi or Joseph or Mary, we will humbly recognize that there is still far more to be unveiled, all in due time.

My second temptation is to sabotage the expansive growth God is offering. I sometimes (even often) prefer to stay small and return to my familiar little cell – even when I see signs that those surroundings are increasingly rotting and toxic. Jesus has broken open the bars of that cell and shattered my chains. I am free to step out into expansive Hope. Yet, like so many survivors of a prison camp, the bigness and freedom now available feels unfamiliar and scary. Following the star to an unknown destination includes leaving familiar contexts behind – and I resist. In those moments, I am not so much avoiding pain as avoiding the immensity of the desire and of the increasing goodness that I am entering.

Thanks be to God, my fumbling and stumbling has not for a moment stopped Jesus from remaining Emmanuel – fully present and active. He keeps surprising me and keeps alluring me to grow into the fullness of his Kingdom.

There is a third way, one that invites a holy remembrance of past blessings and an eager anticipation of unknown blessings yet to come. This is the way exemplified by Mary and Joseph. It is the way ultimately embraced every true mystic or saint. It is also what we enter into communally in liturgical seasons and observances, indeed in every Mass. We connect with each other and with God. We confess our unfaithfulness and seek reconciliation. We remember the ways God has been with us. We profess our Hope and pray eagerly for his coming. Healed and nourished, we are sent out eagerly on mission into the world with renewed Faith, Hope, and Love.

I have also learned the importance of having my own personal ways of remembering and anticipating. In my meeting spaces, my workplaces, or my places of prayer, I allow myself to have outward reminders of the ways God has truly showed up on my journey. My friends at the John Paul II Healing Center would call these the “Emmanuel Moments” in my life. My friends at the Allender Center would call my outward reminders “Ebenezers.” Emmanuel is Hebrew for “God is with us.” Ebenezer is Hebrew for “a stone of help” – as in the memorial stones sometimes erected in Old Testament stories to remind people of the ways God has showed up. I can return to these moments – not to cling to them or to stay there, but to be reminded of the twofold truth: God is with us, and God is greater.

Ignatius of Loyola (1491-1556) led thousands of believers through his Spiritual Exercises – indeed, many millions if you count five centuries of retreatants. One of his greatest points of emphasis is “repetition” – returning to experiences of divine consolation in order to soak in more of the blessing and grow into fruitfulness. Here we see a strong conviction in the truth of both statements: God is with us; God is always greater.

“Consolation” is ultimately from the Greek New Testament word that means “paracleting” – that is to say, the undeniable presence and activity of the Holy Spirit. When we know that the Spirit of God has shown up and begun working in us, there is an invitation to keep returning, keep discerning, and keep receiving. In times of desolation, remembering God’s goodness offers us endurance and Hope – resisting the temptation to become discouraged and get small. In times of consolation, returning to those moments allows us to receive even more, resisting the temptation to settle or “arrive” without further growth.

These days, this invitation is especially crucial. So many are feeling afraid or discouraged by the seeming strength of evil. And the toxic currents of our smart phone / social media culture are tirelessly stealing away our rest and sweeping us along, enticing us to keep moving and keep distracting ourselves. Now, more than ever, there is the invitation to allow God to be with us. We can remember the ways he has already shown up, be open to the surprising ways that he is showing up even now, and expect him to increase and expand his blessings upon us in the days ahead. May we all be open to the good news and the salvation that Jesus brings, and will keep bringing, until he becomes all in all.

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Watching for Dawn

[Revised and re-posted from Advent 2020]

We begin another Advent. We open our minds and hearts to the coming of Christ.

Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153) speaks of three comings of Christ: (1) his first coming, in the manger at Bethlehem; (2) his coming again in glory to judge the living and the dead; and (3) the invisible way in which he comes to all true believers who desire him.  In the words of Jesus, “If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him” (John 14:23). Jesus desires to be present to those who desire his presence.

Advent is a season of presence. “Advent” comes from the Latin adventus (“arrival” or “coming”). But adventus is a translation of the Greek word parousia – often used to describe Jesus’ coming again in glory, but literally meaning “presence.”  It is easy for some Christians to slip into gloom and doom fantasies about a future apocalypse (or an apocalypse that is allegedly happening right now). It is challenging to abide in the present moment, to watch and wait with sober Hope.

That is the invitation of Jesus: “What I say to you, I say to all: ‘Watch!’” (Mark 13:37). In Greek, this command to “watch” is gregoreĩte. The Christian name Gregory is derived from this invitation to sober watchfulness, so frequent in the admonitions of Jesus as well as in other New Testament writings (e.g., 1 Peter 5:8).

Gregory the Great (ca. 540-604) is one of my favorite popes and saints. He was born into a prominent Roman family – during a time in which the already faded glory of Rome was quickly passing away. Much that was good and beautiful had collapsed or was about to, and Gregory had no illusions that the clock could be turned back to “the good old days.” He answered God’s call to become a Benedictine monk, and his heart desired the peaceful prayer of the monastery. However, God and others kept tapping his talents for administration during a time of great crisis. He humbly describes his struggles to remain a man of prayer amidst the administration of stressful crises that were impossible to ignore. I can relate!

Gregory was profoundly aware that his name meant “Watchman” and that the words of Isaiah applied to him: Son of man, I have made you a watchman for the house of Israel. A watchman is called to stand upon the heights, to keep his mind and heart in a place of calm, peace, loving awareness, discernment, wisdom, and creativity – so as to be a blessing to others. Such was Gregory’s deep desire, even though he felt and expressed his struggles: “Who am I to be a watchman, for I do not stand on the mountain of action but lie down in the valley of weakness?”

Whatever his particular pain and struggles may have been, Gregory’s holy desire to be a watchman prevailed. Constantly renewed and enlightened by Jesus, Gregory’s foresight led to the establishment of hundreds of monasteries, which preserved so much of the beauty, goodness, and truth of Athens and Rome, and which became vibrant hubs of evangelization in the centuries ahead. Gregory’s sober watchfulness allowed him to continue doing works of mercy in the present moment, but without being consumed in a false fantasy to prop up structures whose time had passed. His sober watchfulness was both deeply pessimistic and optimistic at the same time – accepting the grief of definitive loss and change, while simultaneously seeing with optimistic Faith new rays of hopeful light where other more frantic people were blinded by their busyness, fear, or denial. Survival mode does not tend to bring the best out of human beings. Our field of vision narrows (both literally and figuratively), and we tend to keep going back to repetitive and predictable “solutions” – as though doing it for the forty-second time will somehow yield different results. True to his name, Gregory knew how to keep getting back into his watchtower.

When reflecting on the great mystery that is the Church, Gregory offers one of the most profound descriptions I ever came across during my doctoral research. He compares the Church to the dawn:

The holy Church, seeking the rewards of heavenly life, is called the dawn, for as she leaves behind the darkness of sin, she shines forth with the light of righteousness. But while we live, it is dawn, not perfect Day … For dawn or daybreak indeed announces that the night has passed, but does not manifest the full splendor of the Day. Rather, as it dispels the night and takes on the Day, the dawn holds a light that is mixed with darkness.

The Church, on her present sojourn through history, is indeed a mixture of weeds and wheat, darkness and light, sinners and saints. The same is true of our own hearts.  Gregory proceeds:

As long as the law of the flesh clashes with the law of the spirit, and the law of the spirit with the law of the flesh, light and darkness will blend together. Thus, when Paul says, “The night is far gone” (Romans 13:12), he does not add, “the Day has arrived,” but rather, “the Day is near” … The Day shall arrive when no darkness of sin triumphs. Then the Church of the elect will be fully day, when no shadow of sin is mixed with her.

What wise and Hope-filled words! He can look truthfully at his own heart and at the Church and see truthfully both darkness and light. But there is Hope. The thing about dawn is that it does NOT turn back into night. So also with the Church. The gates of hell will not prevail against her. He will be with her always. No matter how deep the darkness may seem at certain moments, we can look for the streaks of light and be assured that the dawn will break into full Day.

Our present age is eerily parallel to that of Gregory. So much that we once took for granted in church life or society has collapsed, and there is no turning back the clock. As with ancient Rome, some of what collapsed was beautiful, and some of it was already evil – using piety or patriotism to cover over greed, exploitation, or abuse. I may return to this discussion of nostalgia for the “good old days” another day. For today, the main point is that when you are standing amidst the wreckage, the only way forward is the way through, and we can easily get discouraged or cling to fantasies about how fighting “those people” will fix everything.

This Advent, we can join Gregory, not to mention the original twelve Apostles who first heard Jesus’ admonition to “watch.” Heeding the invitation of the Beatitudes, we can embrace our poverty and grieve our losses – getting past our denial and blame. We can abide in the present moment, even when it feels disorienting and scary. We can stay sober and vigilant. Jesus will open the eyes of our heart, and help us to see the new light that he always brings. As promised, his Spirit is always at work, shining in unexpected places.

Being watchful disciples means attuning to those first streaks of dawn, and allowing them to surprise us with joy. We tend to have tunnel vision about how Jesus is going to answer our prayers. Jesus frequently surprises his disciples with joy in ways they least expect. If we are sober and watchful in the present moment, our vision can be broadened again and again. Noticing with true vision the streaks of dawn, we can become eager heralds of the full light of Day that is breaking into this world.

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Joyful Repentance

Gaudete! Rejoice!

The 3rd Sunday of Advent is that day when priests around the world boldly don pink vestments and try to convince people they’re actually wearing “rose.” Let the pink jokes commence.

More importantly, let the joyful repentance commence. This Sunday is a reminder to us that repentance and joy are meant to go together!

Advent is a penitential season, meaning it is a time for repentance and eager preparation. We are preparing for Christmas, yes, but above all else we long intensely for the coming of Jesus in glory.

When Jesus comes again in full justice, all that is hidden will be made manifest. Each individual and every collective group will have their stories told in full truth, with all the nations assembled to hear it. No longer will the wicked succeed in deluding themselves and others, shading the truth and cloaking their misdeeds in shadow. Jesus will reveal and unveil; Jesus will judge; Jesus will vindicate.

Hence the penitential nature of Advent. Apart from repentance and mercy, who can possibly stand in the face of his full truth-telling? We began Advent crying out in our longing amidst the darkness, humbly recognizing that we cannot escape the fallenness of this world without a Savior.

But we so easily forget that Jesus’ main motive in coming again is to invite us into the eternal wedding feast! He desires to share his JOY with us. Just read the Gospels. Notice how many stories take place within the context of a meal, or how many of the parables describe feasting at table. One of the chief accusations against Jesus is that he welcomes sinners and dines with them (Luke 15:2).

Jesus proceeds to tell three stories: about the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost sons. The final story (which we tend to call “the prodigal son”) is addressed directly to the Pharisees and scribes, who are much more like the joyless older son! Both sons have become miserable in their sins. The father’s only interest is to invite them into a feast! He will gladly relinquish any claim of condemnation against them – if that is their desire. The story ends unconcluded. We don’t get to hear whether or not the older son repents and decides to enter the feast. The bigger question is what each of us will decide.

The 3rd Sunday of Advent is called Gaudete Sunday – Gaudete being Latin for “Rejoice!” In places where the Mass is said in Latin, the opening antiphon begins with the chanting of that word Gaudete, quoting the words of Paul in Philippians 4:4-5:

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. Indeed, the Lord is near.

Rejoice always – even when the powers of darkness seem to be prevailing. Rejoice always, even when you feel HopeSick. Rejoice always, even when you find yourself mired in sin and powerless to change.

The Lord is near. He is eager to be present to us. Jesus speaks his “I do” to his bride, the Church, at the altar of the Cross. He promises to be faithful in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. Our infidelity doesn’t alter his unconditional commitment to be good to us.

Not only does he still love us, but he still invites us to feast with him in joy! We have a hard time wrapping our minds around that invitation.

Repentance is NOT a matter of feeling bad about ourselves.  That is shame. Feeling shame following sin goes back to our first parents in Eden. It is perhaps normal to feel shame in our shattered state, but more often than not our shame hinders true repentance. Adam hid from God as from a tyrant. Even in that moment, God promised salvation through “the woman” and her offspring, who will crush the head of the serpent (Genesis 3:15).

We cannot crush the head of the serpent ourselves; we don’t have to. Jesus has already won that victory. He is the lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. He gladly washes us of our sins in the blood he poured out for us. More importantly, he invites us into the wedding feast of the lamb! He desires a one-flesh union with us in the eternal marriage feast!

We feel badly, of course, about what we have done – especially when we see and name the ways in which our sins have harmed others and harmed us. Like the prophets, we weep over the ruins of Jerusalem – caused in part by the harm others have done to us, caused in part by the harm in which we have willingly colluded.

Jesus, in the line of the prophets, also wept over Jerusalem. He weeps over their sins, yes. Even more, he weeps over the harm their sins have done. But if we read the text, his greatest grief (like the father in Luke 15) is that they do not desire to receive the love and delight that is freely being offered!

Tearful repentance and joy are meant to go together. Just as the Paschal Triduum is one integral celebration, so also our weeping over the ruin caused by sin is meant to be, simultaneously, a joyful entry into the Kingdom as beloved sons and daughters who truly belong there.

In Catholic and Anglican Tradition, there are Seven Penitential Psalms. Depending on your Bible’s Psalm numbering, those are 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130, and 141. They express anguished sorrow over the harm of sin, but they are ultimately songs of joyful repentance.  Psalm 6 begins with tear-filled lament but boldly proclaims that God has heard the cry of my weeping (verse 9). There will be swift vindication against my foes. Psalm 51 begins with David’s tearful repentance from his grave sins. It concludes with tender confidence that David will joyfully sing of God’s justice (verse 16) and proclaim his praises (verse 17), and that God will rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. Psalm 130 cries out from the depths, but proclaims the abundant redemption freely offered by God.

This is the Christian paradox. Sorrow and joy are not opposites. In fact, the path of Beatitude invites us to discover joy amidst our grieving.

Repentance is not a matter of beating ourselves up until God and others feel sorry for us. Rather, repentance invites us to open ourselves to both experiences: intense sorrow and intense joy. Truthfully facing what we have done and truthfully acknowledging our ruined human condition – that takes courage and many tears. Most of us spend most of our life (like the Pharisees and scribes) hardening our hearts against the full human experience, preferring the shallowness of legal observance and give-so-I-can-get transactions. When we open ourselves up to true repentance, and to the full depths of grief, we discover the great surprise of joy.

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HopeSick

Advent is a season of Hope. We allow our hearts to long for the coming of Jesus. We dare to desire more.

The Church’s liturgy invites us to listen attentively to the prophets, who burned with an eagerness for the coming of the Messiah. Isaiah imagines what things will be like: swords turned into plowshares, a definitive end to war; the desert blooming with flowers; the blind restored to sight, the deaf restored to hearing, the lame leaping with joy; the lion and the lamb living in harmony; the stump of Jesse blossoming and bearing fruit.

In one sense, the longed-for Messiah has come. Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Humans and angels alike who participated in the events of that night were bursting with joy and praise.

In another sense, nothing has changed. There seems to be just as much greed, devouring, exploitation, hatred, contempt, abuse, and violence as in Jesus’ day.

In one sense, Jesus has definitively won the victory. When we get to Holy Week, we will remember his words on the Cross: “It is finished.” At Easter we will celebrate him as the lamb once slain who lives, never to die again.

In another painfully real sense, as you and I embrace everyday life in these challenging times, that victory feels anything but assured.

Many aspects of life went “back to normal” nine months ago. But no amount of socializing or traveling, getting or spending has restored joy or peace. Many of us feel depleted, burnt out, or discouraged. We struggle to remember how long ago things happened, and feel a great uncertainty and dis-ease about where things are headed. Even when we keep returning to our holy desires, we can sometimes feel stuck.

I have a word for this dis-ease: being HopeSick. I’m sure I’m not the first one to think it up. I sometimes feel sick amidst my hoping. And yes, like the prophet Jeremiah, sometimes I cry out to the Lord because I am feeling sick of hoping.

I was expressing this felt heartache to a wise mentor, who suggested the metaphor of sickness – not as a moral failing (any more than Covid or the flu is a character flaw) but as a point of powerlessness. We all know those moments of a disease in which we feel utterly overwhelmed. We can’t change anything; we can’t alleviate anything. Even if we know it will eventually pass, we have no way of knowing how long, and we notice no signs of relenting.

There are also aches or illnesses that will never go away in this life. It doesn’t always get better. Many of you live with debilitating pain day after day. You alternate days of surrender, serenity, and joy with days of discouragement. Darkness is only an absence of light, but it can feel very, very real.

Advent is a time of Hope amidst the darkness. As the warmth and light of the sun flee us, we still dare to Hope. In a time of sickness and powerlessness, we endure in Hope.

Advent is a time of “already but not yet.” The Kingdom of God has indeed broken into this world, in the person of Jesus Christ. He promises to come again with the fullness of justice – and he will. Meanwhile, we watch and wait. And wait. And wait.

If our hearts are anything like the hearts of the prophets (or like the souls of the just in the Book of Revelation), we eventually cry out in agony, HOW LONG??

What joy to be like Simeon or Anna in the temple, keeping prayerful watch for decades and finally, at long last, beholding the object of their desire, embracing and delighting in the newborn Jesus. Simeon was totally ready to die amidst his overflowing satisfaction and joy.

Luke narrates that exhilarating moment of fulfillment. He only hints at the many moments of heartache that preceded. I wonder – how often, through all those decades of waiting, did Simeon or Anna feel HopeSick?

We know that Jeremiah and Job felt HopeSick, as did Abraham and Moses. They often cried out to God in exasperation, feeling as though they couldn’t possibly go on. God met them in their longing, and they went on.

Hope can be precarious because it so often includes a felt powerlessness, and even moments of darkness. For many of us, there have been many such moments – even from a young age. The prince of darkness loves to draw near in those moments, whispering his lies about who we are, who others are, and who God is. See, this is what always happens… Nothing will ever change… What’s the point?… You can’t count on others; just take care of yourself…

Those of us who have known intense moments of trauma experienced an intense powerless in those moments. Whether the “moment” was 15 minutes or 15 years, it didn’t matter. We lost our sense of time.

And our bodies remember. Present day moments of timeless trauma, of feeling stuck in HopeSickness, can bring back old feelings and old lies – and with them old behaviors! And then we can really feel stuck. Or we can begin shaming ourselves or feeling shamed by the well-intended advice of others.

Jesus did not shame the blind, the deaf, or the mute. Nor did he shame those who were sick in their sins. He bore our infirmities and connected with us amidst our anguish.

Most of the advice given to the HopeSick, even when it is totally true, is a way of spiritually bypassing the agony of Hope. But to lose our longing is to settle for less than God is promising! The prophets are those who refuse to let go of their longing – even when they feel sick or stuck.

It is, however, vitally important to stay connected with Jesus as we abide in Hope. It may be necessary to call on Jesus and tell the evil spirits where they can go. We can renounce their lies and proclaim our trust in the promises of Jesus. AND we can cry out to God, asking him “How Long?”. He always answers, though often not in the ways we imagine or expect. Sometimes silence is the best answer. It doesn’t mean he’s ignoring us. When we are in the throes of an illness, we need presence more than words. We need to not be abandoned.

Advent is a season of presence. Advent is a season of renewed Hope.

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Hoarding vs. Hope

Advent is a season of hope. During these darkest days of year, we watch and wait.

In our human experience of suffering, we abide and keep a sober vigil. In moments of powerlessness, frustration, anguish, agony, or grief, we cry out for a redeemer and savior. We feel the depths of our emptiness and need, and we hope. We feel the ache acutely and cry out with heartfelt longing, Come, Lord Jesus!!

That’s the ideal, anyway. But let’s face it, hoarding can feel safer and easier than hoping.

At the mention of “hoarding,” we immediately visualize particular people, places, or things. I’m not talking about the medically diagnosable condition of hoarding. I am using the word in a broader, all-inclusive sense.

Most of us are hoarders in one way or another. It’s something we do to protect ourselves against feeling powerless, or against feeling grief. It gives us a sense of power. It props up the illusion of being in control.

Sometimes we hoard physical objects. We cling to what we no longer need; we clutter our living space. Throwing things away means feeling grief and loss. It is a death, and we don’t want to die. Keeping an open and inviting living space feels naked and vulnerable. We don’t like feeling powerless.

But we also hoard by cluttering our schedules with unnecessary commitments. We feel less like a failure because of the things we say “yes” to – even though we inwardly resent all the things we “have to” do. We avoid the pain of conflict and live with the clutter and chaos of too many commitments.

We hoard by only tackling the tasks we feel confident about, while repeatedly avoiding the ones that would risk failure or expose our weakness. We may even push those undesirable tasks onto others, shifting the blame onto them, or criticizing the failure of their valiant attempts.

We hoard when we hold onto comfort and ease, resisting needed changes. We want our churches to feel familiar to us, to be our own little nest. First-time visitors may feel uncertain, ashamed, or intimidated. We wouldn’t know, because we talk to the same familiar people, ignoring what others are needing or feeling.

We hoard when we suffer in silence rather than humbly reaching out for help and risking rejection. We cling to others, expecting them to meet our needs without actually asking. We do things for them in “service,” calculating that now they have to give us something in return. If I am entitled, then no one can reject me, right? In all these behaviors, we might even style ourselves a “martyr,” but the real martyrdom is happening in the people around us who have to put up with our behaviors!

We hoard with our addictive behaviors. We soothe ourselves with our screens, with our sugar, or perhaps even with impulsive cleaning and organizing – which may seem the opposite of hoarding. But it depends on why we are doing it. Is it a kindness to self and others, or is it avoiding and numbing what I don’t want to face or feel?

We hoard when we surround ourselves with busyness, noise, or talking. We resist silence and stillness. We cannot stand to slow down and actually feel our loneliness, our grief, or our anger. We would rather pretend they are not there.

But then how can we hope?

Every human heart holds the capacity to hope. As Augustine of Hippo said, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” Within each of us is an insatiable desire, an intense longing for the living God. But will we allow ourselves to feel it?

Hope can really hurt. To hope is to desire and not yet possess. That means that hope will include suffering. Hope will include grief. Hope will include vulnerability, even feeling powerless. We don’t like those experiences. And we hate to wait!

Thankfully, God is a good Father who delights in us as his children. He sees our struggles and loves us as we are. He knows our tendency to hoard; he gazes lovingly at us even as we repeatedly and relentlessly protect ourselves against him. We are so often like the dog hiding his head under the blanket. God smiles, and calls us by name.

Yet God honors our freedom. He desires us to desire him. He will not force or coerce. Like a lover, he pursues and woos us. He gently prods us, inviting us to admit how naked, blind, and miserable we actually are (cf. Revelation 3:14-20). We desperately need Jesus, but we do not like to feel the depths of our need.

Jesus’ coming brings true comfort, lasting peace, and abundant joy. Even in this world, he helps us to taste and see the goodness of the Lord. He blesses us with an abundance of love. Our hoarding hearts keep crying out, “It won’t be enough!!” and Jesus keeps assuring us, “My grace is enough for you; my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

Will we surrender our supposed control? Will we set aside our pseudo-comforts? Will we allow ourselves to grieve and mourn? Will we remember that we have here no lasting city, that we are pilgrims passing through? Will we abide in hope?

Come, Lord Jesus!!

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Watching and Waiting

Revised from the original posting on Dec 1, 2018

Advent is a season of watching and waiting, a time of abiding in expectant hope, confident in the coming of the King.

Advent is so much more than preparing for Christmas. The early days of Advent focus especially on the second coming of Jesus. Our watching and waiting for his coming is not static or sterile, sitting here idly until some future day when he eventually comes. Rather, theologians speak of an “already but not yet.” Christ has not yet come in glory, but he is already growing and bearing fruit in the lives of his holy ones.

There is a famous Advent homily in which Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153) describes a third coming of Jesus, in between his birth at Bethlehem and his coming in glory. No, he is not talking about “the rapture,” but rather the coming of Jesus into the heart of every true believer. As Jesus promised at the Last Supper, “If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him and we will come to him” (John 14:23).

This coming into our heart is a dynamic process of nurture and growth. As we abide in expectant hope, our desire for the Lord increases. That desire itself springs from a seed planted by the Lord.  The more we desire his coming, the more our capacity to receive him grows. The greater our capacity, the more we receive. The more we receive, the more deeply we desire. And the cycle of “already but not yet” continues until he comes again.

Think upon the parable of the sower (Matthew 13:1-23). Christ sows his Word. Some seeds fall on the path, others on rocky ground, others among thorns, and others into good soil. Advent is a time to become good soil, totally receptive, growing in faith and hope.

That is the sad irony of December in the modern world. In the midst of Advent, we are constantly exposed to commercialism and consumerism and unneeded busyness. The self-indulgence of “the season” stands in stark contrast with the penitent cry of John the Baptist to “prepare the way of the Lord!” We can easily heap excessive expectations upon ourselves, thinking of all the things that we “have to get done.” Then we find ourselves too busy or stressed out to do any watching or waiting (except perhaps binge watching Netflix).

With God’s help, we can recognize some of the weeds and thorns in our heart, obstacles that need to be uprooted with firm resolve. We also have hard and dry places in our hearts, tough soil that needs the gentle dew of the Holy Spirit to soften and moisten, freeing us to become receptive, like Mary and Joseph.

Our free cooperation matters much. But in the end, God is the one who provides the growth and the fruit. We are called to abide in love. The watching and waiting is the most challenging part! We are so conditioned to expect instant gratification and easy results.  The parable of the sower reminds us to be patient and receptive.

Henri Nouwen wrote often about our powerlessness, and how challenging it is for us to be humble and patient. We depend totally upon God for the growth – much like the farmer in the field. Nouwen offers the image of an impatient gardener periodically digging up the plant to check on its growth. That tactic definitely doesn’t work! We hate to wait. Our restless hearts resist and sabotage the Father’s rest. All the while he gazes upon us with delight, inviting us to trust that we are his beloved children.

The growth will happen on his timeline, as we learn to abide in him. The fruitfulness will come in due time, so long as there is steady growth. By contrast, we will wither and die if we cut ourselves off from the source of all growth.

Healthy Christian community helps so much. True Christian friends will notice what God is doing in us and encourage us. It is good to notice the growth and to praise him for it. That thankfulness and praise stirs up the desire of our heart all the more. There is no risk of pride when our heart is Christ-centered and full of praise.

Psalm 1 offers an image of the tree that is planted beside the flowing waters, putting out its roots to the stream, staying green amidst the drought, whose leaves never fade, prospering and bearing fruit. Contrast that with the ways of the wicked, who cling to fruitless desires. They are like the chaff that gets blown away.

It is easy – especially at this time of the year – to become anxious or overwhelmed and then flee into one of our “panic rooms” – reaching for our phone, grabbing extra food or drink, plunging into pleasures that don’t actually bring peace.

Instead, we can choose to be patient and gentle with ourselves. It is normal to feel unsettled during changes of seasons and when reconnecting with family. Instead of isolating ourselves, we can choose to stay present to our minds and bodies, present to Christ, and present to those around us. We can receive grace and grow in patience. The fruit will come in due time.

Advent has always been a favorite season of mine. It touches the deepest desires of the human heart. May God give each of us the courage to root out the weeds from our hearts. May he cultivate and soften the hard and unreceptive places. And may he help us to abide in expectant hope, watching and waiting patiently as Christ comes to us, gives us growth, and bears much fruit.

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