Merry Christmas!

 

Merry Christmas!

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;
it is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine! O night when Christ was born!
O night divine! O night, O night divine! 

~ O Holy Night ~ 

 

Thank you for joining me in Advent reflections again this year! 

Blue Christmas: a Curse and Two Promises

Today is Blue Christmas. According to the calendar, it is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, and the longest night. 

For many years, I didn’t count the winter solstice as a part of my Advent tradition, but about a decade ago I was introduced to its place in the church calendar with Blue Christmas. 

In the midst of preparing our hearts for Christ’s birth, Blue Christmas is a time to reflect and lament the hurt and brokenness that exists in the world, and acknowledge that our God hears and sees us calling out to Him from our deepest needs. On this side of the Nativity story we know God’s answer comes (past, present, and future) in the form of His Son, prophesied to be the great Light in the Darkness. But tonight we sit in solemn communion with the suffering, the outcast, those in bondage, those in pain.

Maybe that’s you. I know it’s me. We aren’t the ones in charge of measuring hurt and darkness. Each of us comes limping into Advent, desperate for the Light (paraphrasing Annie Downs’ words).

Today is also the fourth Sunday of Advent. Today we light the candle of Love. Love: because the reason that we have Christmas at all is because of God’s deep and redemptive love towards us.

But love and Blue Christmas. What a combination! There are a lot of directions this could go. But I want to reflect on what my pastor taught this morning (to the children sitting on the stage, and the grown-up children sitting in the seats). 

Two stories: one make believe, and one very true.
The message was entitled, “Always Christmas and Never Winter.”

You probably know where this is going.
    
Retold, from C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe:
Four children named Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy found themselves in a mysterious snowy land called Narnia. 

Found wandering (looking for Lucy’s new friend, Mr. Tumnus the faun), Mr. and Mrs. Beaver guide the children safely to their warm dam and begin to tell them about Narnia.

They were in danger, for Narnia was under a curse, put there by the White Witch. It was winter now, and it would be for a very long time. Mr. Tumnus had told Lucy, in Narnia “it is always winter, but never Christmas.”

For us, not only does this conjure up the theological reality of perpetual Advent, a long season of continuous waiting. But as we acknowledge the shift of the seasons, we know the last days of Advent and Christmas itself herald in brighter days, more day-light, and shorter nights. The darkness will literally be cast away by the “dawn of redeeming grace.”

But despite this curse, Mr. and Mrs. Beaver (and all the other animals living in Narnia), did not live without hope. For they carried in their hearts a prophecy about Aslan, their King.

“Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.”

Even in a land of talking animals, the children were expecting a very different kind of king.

“Aslan is a lion- the Lion, the great Lion” said Mr. Beaver.
"Ooh!" said Susan, "I'd thought he was a man. Is he—quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion." . . .

"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.

"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you." 

That story is make-believe. But C.S. Lewis fashioned Narnia’s curse after one that is very, very real. The very curse, that God sent His son to break.

The scene is set: The whole world is living under the curse of sin, sadness, and death.
But the people of God do not live without hope. For they also carried in their hearts a promise:

1 The desert and the parched land will be glad;
    the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like the crocus, 2 it will burst into bloom;
    it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.
The glory of Lebanon will be given to it,
    the splendor of Carmel and Sharon;
they will see the glory of the Lord,
    the splendor of our God.

3 Strengthen the feeble hands,
    steady the knees that give way;
4 say to those with fearful hearts,
    “Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
    he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
    he will come to save you.”

5 Then will the eyes of the blind be opened
    and the ears of the deaf unstopped.
6 Then will the lame leap like a deer,
    and the mute tongue shout for joy.
Water will gush forth in the wilderness
    and streams in the desert.
7 The burning sand will become a pool,
    the thirsty ground bubbling springs.
In the haunts where jackals once lay,
    grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.

8 And a highway will be there;
    it will be called the Way of Holiness;
    it will be for those who walk on that Way.
The unclean will not journey on it;
    wicked fools will not go about on it.
9 No lion will be there,
    nor any ravenous beast;
    they will not be found there.
But only the redeemed will walk there,
10     and those the Lord has rescued will return.
They will enter Zion with singing;
    everlasting joy will crown their heads.
Gladness and joy will overtake them,
    and sorrow and sighing will flee away.

(Isaiah 35)

Into this dark world, a baby was born. Fully human and fully God, with a name meaning, the Lord saves.

A curse. Hope at the arrival of promised King. A perfect Savior experiencing brutal, sacrificial death. A demonstration of complete and lasting Love. 

For Jesus Himself said, “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13).

In Narnia, Christmas finally did come. Father Christmas reminded the children it was because Aslan was on the move. But the battle was not over yet. Armed with their gifts (tools, not toys), they said goodbye to Father Christmas as he called, “Long live the true King!”

We are so armed for this world’s battle against evil, surrounded by a cloud of witnesses who have seen war and rumors of wars since the beginning of time. And as we wait (often fearful, mourning, and angry at all the brokenness we see), we are guided by a second promise:

One day soon, the King will come again.
And we will eternally experience the joyfulness of Christmas and never the bitterness of winter.
Sin and death, the frozen wasteland of evil and hatred will be no more.

A Joy That Cannot Be Rushed

This morning I glanced over an article in the Atlantic entitled, “What if Our Ancestors Didn’t Feel Anything Like We Do?” It was about a team of historians who are researching how our ancestors might have experienced love, anger, fear, and sorrow. Not necessarily that they weren’t psychologically equal to us, but asking whether they had the words to label emotions and sensations like we do today.

For example, at the doctor, you might describe something as a “shooting pain.” Would a society before (or distant from) arrows and firearms understand this description?

This got me thinking about the plethora of emotions we find in the Advent narrative, and there indeed are many. From Zechariah and Elizabeth to Mary, Joseph, and everyone they knew, emotions ran the gamut from doubt and fear to joy and thanksgiving, and everything in between.

In her book, The Art of Living in Advent: 28 Days of Joyful Waiting, Sylvie Vanhoozer reflects on her childhood growing up in Provence, France, the deep Advent traditions tied to the pastoral landscape and slow rhythm of life. I think she gets close to how those in Ancient Israel may have experienced the first Advent; the first Christmas.

For she writes,

“The art of living in Advent is all about cultivating this sense of confident expectancy: Christ is coming, but he cannot be rushed.” (p.29)

It’s not uncommon this time of year, to hear the admonition, “slow down and savor the season.” But we don’t often think about Jesus’ speed, or lack thereof. God could have sent His son fully formed, beamed down from heaven. But instead, He chose to give Jesus the same journey as every earthly baby. What was nine more months, or thirty three years of waiting after 400 years of silence? 

God had something huge and miraculous in store for His people, much bigger than anyone could have hoped for or imagined. Yet the promise was fulfilled in the most unexpected way ever. 

I like the way Vanhoozer puts it: 

“The nativity scene takes place mid-story, but it recounts the birth of the one who is in truth the beginning and end of all stories.”

She goes on to say, “Advent, we have seen, is an integral part of a greater story when things happen at just the right time: ‘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’ (Galatians 4:4-5) . . . But be assured: God’s gift is worth waiting for.” (p. 29-30)

“Remember that your story is woven onto the larger tapestry of what God is doing in our world. Remember that being adventish means joyfully watching and waiting for Jesus’ advent to make sense of your life too.” (p. 40)

I often struggle with what it means to joyfully wait. But joy isn’t always displayed in bouncing happiness or jubilant expressions. Joy can be as simple as “a source or cause of delight.” And I have to believe the ancient world found delight much easier than we do today, with colored pixels floating before our eyes almost 24/7.

And so I adjust the phrase: to wait with delight. 
Mary and Elizabeth both felt it, at the leaping of the babies in their wombs. But before that, I trust they lived their lives delighting in the work and success of a harvest, the routine of a day well done, the rest of Sabbath after a long week of toil, the comfort of their communities and faith.

Vanhoozer is thinking along these lines when she writes,

“We live in cultures that have forgotten how to wait for things—life itself!—to grow. Instead of being a time of preparation or joyful anticipation, waiting is often something we unhappily endure. The art of living in Advent has therefore become a lost art . . . But there is always something to be done to tend what God is growing as we wait for Christ to come again. He will come at the right time. In the meantime, he has given us the gift of time—a time to grow in the grace and knowledge of Him, and a time to serve others.” (p.43)

I don’t know about you, but I find great delight in watching seedlings grow each Spring. It is miraculous, every time. Indeed, buying fully bloomed plants from the store are just as delightful, but there is something important that happens as one joyfully waits and participates in the growing process.

It was no accident that Jesus spent his first nine months as a human wrapped in embryonic fluid, sustained by nutrients Mary’s body provided. The fullness of time was not to be rushed. The fullness of Mary’s joy would not be rushed either.

Advent helps us become better watchers and waiters. We finish each season, better prepared to notice God’s presence and movement in our lives. And the waiting helps us remember that we are waiting for a greater Joy still to come. 

Vanhoozer says, “In Advent, we enter into the beginning of the fullness of time” (p.27). And some day soon, this weary world will rejoice because Christ has come again.

Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmanuel!

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

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

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

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

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

“And the angel said to them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great JOY that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel! God is with us. 

Peaceful Night, Holy Night

One of the songs we like to sing at Christmas time, especially at Christmas eve candle-light services, is Silent Night.

The three verses traditionally sung in English go

Silent night! Holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin, mother and Child.
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent Night! Holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight,
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia;
Christ, the Savior, is born!
Christ, the Savior, is born!

Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face,
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!

At first listen/read, the song appears to be about the peaceful quietness of the holy night when Jesus was born. Yet, if you know anything about a child being born, the appointed time was most likely neither quiet nor peaceful.

You might already know the story of Silent Night’s origin (a poem written by Josef Mohr and put to music by Franz Xaver Gruber in Salzburg, Austria, 1818). You can read a simple account here, but the main point is that its debut did not go as planned. Music for that evening’s Christmas Eve service was meant to be accompanied by the church’s majestic organ, but then the organ stopped working. Working quickly, the duo fashioned a piece that could be performed with a simple guitar and their two voices. And the rest is history.

I find deep Advent meaning in these high intentions brought low. The same way Jesus’ first night as a human was neither silent nor peaceful, Silent Night’s first night was neither majestic nor “successful.” Expectations dashed, but made all the more potent in their apparent weakness.

With the end of verse three, we see a transition. The night is almost over. And now the Day dawns with redeeming grace.

The night Jesus was born was not silent, but I believe it was holy. It was a night set apart for God’s amazing purpose. Indeed, I often wonder if the “silent night” speaks more of Christ’s quiet incarnation into the womb of a virgin. We know that Scripture that Mary was a good one for silent reflection. Luke says, “she treasured all these things in her heart.” How many quiet nights did it take to form her great song of holy revolution and worship she sang when greeting her cousin, Elizabeth?

And Mary said,
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
    and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant.
    For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
    and holy is his name.
And his mercy is for those who fear him
    from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
    he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
he has brought down the mighty from their thrones
    and exalted those of humble estate;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
    and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
    in remembrance of his mercy,
as he spoke to our fathers,
    to Abraham and to his offspring forever.”
(Luke 1:46-55)

We can only imagine the isolation, fear, and doubt Mary must have experienced after hearing the Angel’ Gabriel’s astonishing promise. And yet, she chose peace, saying, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” (Luke 1:38). 

Author Hannah Brencher writes,

“Silent nights don't happen by accident. We have to forge them. We have to create them in the depths of our souls. Even if the silent nights only last five minutes before the noise appears again, I know they have the power to change absolutely everything about our inner lives.”

We know that when Jesus was grown, he was especially intentional about finding times for solitude and peace. I wonder if he learned that practice from his mother. For I truly believe, after reading Mary’s song, that she trusted the result of all this (the fear, doubt, uncertainty, upheaval, persecution, and death) would be a peace beyond understanding.

One final thought:

Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face,
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!

We sing the third line without blinking an eye, but “radiant beams from thy holy face!”
That’s a lot of holiness. 

In Numbers, priest Aaron blesses the people of God with these words:

"The Lord bless you and keep you;
the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;
the Lord lift up his countenance[c] upon you and give you peace."
(Numbers 6:24-26)

To have God shine His face on you was a gift of His peace.

In her book, Journey to the Manger, author Paula Gooder reflects on God’s timing with the Annunciation:

“[Gabriel’s words] remind us of God’s presence at key points in His people’s history: intervening, shaping, and saving those He loved. Just as He intervened to give Abraham a son and to provide leaders like Samson and Samuel, so again God was intervening in history to remind the people that the Lord was with them. This time, however, the Lord was with them in a way far more profound than ever before.” (p. 61)

And how did God choose to intervene?
He not only sent His Son to show people the way of peace, but to embody the way of Peace. At His very birth, on that “silent and holy night” Jesus held the power of God’s pure light and peace.

With the heavenly hosts, let us sing, “Alleluia!”

Peace along the Paths

On Sunday we lit the second Advent candle: Peace.
 
More than any other theme in Advent, I think I have the hardest time connecting Peace with the Advent narrative.
 
Peace: a state of tranquility, quiet, security, or order.
But there was no peace in Israel, in the small places of Nazareth or Bethlehem. The only order was one enforced by Rome, and it was far from tranquil. Even the quiet hillsides scattered with shepherds and sheep was devoid of safety and security.
 
Yet into this picture, Jesus, the Prince of Peace, was born.
 
I was thinking about different images we equate with peace when I ran across Jan Richardson’s Advent reflection and blessing:

“I always live with the awareness that I am traveling without a map, that I am making the path as I go, with all the wonders and challenges this brings. Yet Advent calls me to remember that even as I move across what seems like uncharted territory, there is a way that lies beneath the way I am going. Others have traveled here ahead of me, providing pieces I can use. The pieces come through words, images, prayers, stories; fragments that help me to find my way and perhaps to smooth the path a bit for someone else. So on this Advent day, I am tucking this blessing into your hand, for wherever you are traveling.
 
BLESSING THE WAY
With every step
you take,
this blessing rises up
to meet you.
It has been waiting
long ages for you.
Look close
and you can see
the layers of it,
how it has been fashioned
by those who walked
this road before you,
how it has been created
of nothing but
their determination
and their dreaming,
how it has taken
its form
from an ancient hope
that drew them forward
and made a way for them
when no way could be
seen.
Look closer
and you will see
this blessing
is not finished,
that you are part
of the path
it is preparing,
that you are how
this blessing means
to be a voice
within the wilderness
and a welcome
for the way.”
 
—Jan Richardson
from Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons

 “…There is a way that lies beneath the way I am going. Others have traveled here ahead of me.” There is a sense of peace in that knowledge, that others have tread this path too.
 
Richardson speaks of a road, but I wonder if we channel our early Sunday School selves and recollect that the song goes: “I’ve got peace like a river.”
 
The course of a river is often calm, evoking peace and pleasantness. But I think the “peace-ness” of a river also has to do with the way it flows. Each drop of water is part of the whole, fully connected and secure in its identity. Though a splash may escape the banks from its impact with a rock or fallen log, it is rare for even an ounce of water to sway from its intended course. The path the water flows is ordered and chosen, it is precise. And it is peaceful.
 
The people of God living their first century days under the thumb of Rome could never be a depiction of peace. Yet, there is a peace and assurance in re-telling the story we know so many saints have traveled before.
 
In our waiting and despair, the peace of Advent rises up to meet us. A “welcome for the way.”
Christ has come. And Christ will come again.

A Darkness to Awaken Us

I took a nap this afternoon, and woke to darkened corners and a pinkish hue in the sky that often accompanies twilight. It was a bit disorienting.

These early dark evenings are hard to adjust to. Not only because the light of day illuminates the landscape/cityscape before us, but also because we so routinely segment our day by what occurs between the time the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. 

As dark descends, I feel an internal angst. I have to remind myself that the day isn’t actually over. Ideally, there are still enough hours to finish all that I set out to do.

I’ve had the author Wendell Berry on my mind. I am leading a discussion on one of his novels in a new book club I attend. And so I decided to look up, once again, what he had to offer for Advent. If you know Berry, you know his writing is very pastoral. There are some beautiful poems that can be called Advent poems because of the way they evoke the scenes around Jesus’ manger. But today I was drawn to something that is attributed to Berry’s spoken words. In her book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, Anne Lamott quotes Berry as saying, 

“It gets darker and darker, and then Jesus is born.”

It sounds so simple.

But there is something deeper here. Maybe I’m reading into it. But I think that’s what we are supposed to do when we are on a road towards Hope. We grab onto every tiny glimmer like it’s a lifeline. A buoy in a storm.

Pastor and poet Evan Welcher wrote a piece for Christianity Today about this. About grief, and darkness, and how it’s often the unexpected that leads us out, if ever so slowly. He says,

“Sometimes all we need to start inching away from the darkness is an acknowledgment of the wreckage . . . I suppose that’s why the prophet Isaiah let us all know that the Christ would be ‘a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief’ (Isaiah 53:3). 

It gets darker, and darker, and then Jesus is born. The same Jesus that Isaiah told us would be a man who knew and understood sorrow and grief.

Did Jesus feel that sorrow, our sorrow, as a part of the Trinity before he plunged into human existence as a tiny baby? Was His grief over all those who had turned and lost their way, like reckless sheep without a shepherd? He can’t have stepped from eternity without a pocketful of heavenly sorrow. Or was his acquaintance with grief a reference to all of this earth creation’s longing to be redeemed?

Jesus was born into the darkness of the world and we called Him the light of life (John 1:4 paraphrase). Indeed, John’s gospel speaks much of this Light. One of the strongest promises we can bring into Advent is this:

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5)

And yet, during Advent we see the same way the prophets did. The now and not yet. My pastor describes it as looking at a large vista with many scenes to catch our eye, both in the foreground and far off in the distance.

Light entered the world when Jesus was born. The very hour of His birth was illuminated by the brilliance of the star and the chorus of the shining angels. But the real work of conquering death and darkness was still to come. God’s people still lived in despair and pain, wondering when relief would ever come. And unlike heroes of other religions, God sent His son into the very muck and mire the people wanted to escape. He came to live and work, to eat and drink, to laugh and cry. And, eventually, when He had grown in “knowledge and stature,” He came to show us the Way.

Hope’s spark had been lit. That is what we hold fast to when we repeat Berry’s words: It gets darker, and darker, and then Jesus is born.

If the weight of darkness feels extra heavy this season, pause to name it, to acknowledge it. And remember that darkness, like pain, “insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” (C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain).

Together, let us look to the Light.

 

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.

Seeds of Hope

 “Somewhere a seed just cracked open underground, completely certain that light exists.” – The Tiny Joy Project

Prophets, poets, and lyricists have written about hope since the day a great hope was first dashed in the Garden of Eden. A piece of fruit that appeared by the very breath of God’s Word snowballed us into a world where we would need hope. 

After the Serpent’s deception, God gave both a curse and a promise:

“And I will put enmity between you and the woman, 
And between your seed and her seed; 
He shall bruise you on the head, 
And you shall bruise him on the heel.” 
(Genesis 3:15 NASB)

That first fruit did not grow from a seed, but in His wisdom, the Creator implanted in every living thing, a seed. A seed that would look for the Light.

And every generation from Adam onwards sought to understand—who would this Savior be? Who would come to crush evil on its head? Where would he come from? How would we know?

Luke was well aware of this when he sat down to pen his Gospel account. I think we skim over the first few verses of his introduction, but today I was struck by them:

“Since many have undertaken to compile an account of the things accomplished among us, just as they were handed down to us by those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses and servants of the word, it seemed fitting to me as well, having investigated everything carefully from the beginning, to write it out for you in an orderly sequence, most excellent Theophilus; so that you may know the exact truth about the things you have been taught.”
(Luke 1:1-4 NASB)

In other words, “I have done the work for you, it’s all here for you to read. Pay attention!”

It’s no mistake that seeds are an image of hope; that we measure hope from conception to birth; that the Savior’s origin story begins as a seed, breathed into life by God Himself.

 

Waiting Together, in Hope

When have I ever felt “ready” (as in “prepared”) for Advent? Answer: probably never. A not-so-secret secret is that I don’t do much to make ready for this season of writing and reflection. The beauty, for me, is in the moment; the act of noticing and sharing what I’ve observed.

Author and podcaster Kate Bowler has a new social media series called “A Blessing and a Curse.” This morning, for the beginning of Advent, she wrote:

Not because the world is tidy or ready. (It isn’t.) But because this is how hope works:
One candle lit in the ruins.
One breath held in holy defiance.

This season is familiar ground for those who keep showing up.
Who wait for healing.
Who long for justice.
Who believe that even now, God is drawing near.

Welcome to Advent, friends.
The world is a mess, but God is coming, anyway.

Almost a decade ago, I read a Lenten blog by Addie Zierman about times when our whole lives, when the whole world, feels like Lent. Somber, weighed-down, incomplete. I don’t know about you, but that feels like 2025 to me. When we feel like the embodiment of Lent, we need to remember and proclaim the importance of Advent. The world is full of darkness. Current events are scary and confusing. Stories coming from news headlines can seem infuriating and debilitating. But this is when we need Advent the most. Light in the darkness. It is built into the very fabric of our winter holiday celebration to push back the darkness with light. 

The Advent season teaches us a lot about waiting. Advent waiting is full of expectation [see name of this blog!] and in many ways is an exercise in looking for the Light. This is not a passive waiting, but one full of curiosity, wonder, and hope. Waiting for understanding to bridge the gap between not-yet and “the fullness of time.” It is hard. But Advent teaches us it is not meant to be a frantic search. The Nativity story (as old as time itself) is stretched across four Sundays, causing us to pause and observe each theme and each character’s steady path towards the Christ-child’s feeding-trough throne. To pay attention. Here there is beauty and mystery, wisdom and comfort, if we only pay attention to the story before us.

I will end with a poem by Written to Speak author, Tanner Olson. He writes about this idea so wonderfully:

Advent begins quietly—
the way the fun slops into the sky
before we have the chance 
to say goodbye to the stars.
It starts small, soft, almost forgettable,
and yet something in us knows
this season is asking us to slow down
and pay attention.

We light one candle
to push back the dark,
to remind ourselves that hope
burns bright—
a spark that is just enough 
to keep us moving forward.
It comes in flickers,
in whispers,
in the gentle glow
of a God who has not forgotten us.

And maybe this is the hardest part—
the waiting.
The in-between.
The not-yet.
Trusting that God is working 
in the places we cannot see,
stitching together the things
we thought were falling apart,
breathing life where we assumed
there was only silence. 

But Advent tells us
a different story.
That even in the long nights,
God is doing more
than we can imagine.
That His timing is not absence,
and His quiet is not distance.

So we wait—
not with empty hands,
but with hands holding the truth
that light is on its way.

And we remember:
We are not forgotten.
We are not alone. 
God is filling our lives
with hope, peace, joy, and love—
often more than we know
what to do with—
as He invites us 
to slow down
and pay attention.

In this season,
we wait.
We hope.
We trust that God is doing 
Something more
than we can see.

Let us wait together, with hope.