Category: Advent

Advent

12/2/2019

Advent is here! We are waiting for God to come down and bear witness to the world. We are waiting for God to heal a broken world with his love and grace. We are waiting for God to pick up the pieces of our lives and and make something beautiful out of it all.

Advent really is a curious season. Originally, it was intended to slow us down. It was supposed to parallel Lent with its build up to Easter. In Lent, we become more somber, reflecting on how we are not worthy of the gift, and yet, he comes! Advent is like that. We are supposed to slow down, reflect, and enjoy each other’s company. Yes, we are supposed to slow down.

How can we do it? How should we slow down? I have three children, a full-time teaching job, and blog on here at least once a week. I also have a number of invitations that will keep me more than busy this Advent season. But I will slow down.

First, I will light a candle. Don’t you love the light that the candle gives? It’s just enough in a dark room. It glows, giving off a warm, inviting light. It’s my invitation to slow down.

Second, I will read. I will read scripture to my boys. We will read it together as a family and I will tell them what it means. This is our family bonding time in the early evenings, and it forces us to slow down. We take in the words, and they learn new vocabulary. It will give them a vocabulary of faith. We are mysteriously joined with other people of faith and with the many people who came before us. Shared faith. It slows us down.

Third, we will hang an ornament on the tree each evening. The ornaments represent different Bible stories. This week we did the creation of the world, mankind’s sin, the Tower of Babel, and other Old Testament stories. These stories are the stories that will being healing. Eventually, we will get to the reading about Christ’s birth and all that it means. This slows us down. All those pictures will be a mosaic on our tree that points up to the star on top. The star that represents God telling us about the birth of his son. A complete picture. A slowing halt to the true story.

Fourth, we will read again. Not scripture, but Christmas stories. We have many and the boys will pick one every evening that is carefully wrapped up. I want them to know it’s a treasure they will unfold. A slowing down to notice the beauty in a story. Thee boys will listen to the words which all highlight some part of the Christmas story. The Christmas Miracle of Jonathon Toomey and Song of the Stars both show aspects of slowing down and noticing. I look forward to the stories. I look forward to slowing down.

Fifth, we will say a little prayer. God loves to hear from us. And I love to hear from him. Listening to God is what we all want in this season. I want to feel wrapped in his love. I want to feel and know He is God. I want to know He holds everything in the palm of his hand.

Advent is about Christ. It’s about Christ’s coming. It’s about slowing down, waiting for the baby, and understanding those same stars that we all sleep under are the same stars He made. It’s waiting and knowing that He comes as a baby to feel and understand everything we go through. It’s about God’s love for us.

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An Eventful Advent and a very Merry Christmas!

12/20/2017

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Happy Advent and Merry Christmas!

I came across this quote by G.K. Chesterton in blog post I was reading earlier this week.

A mass of legend and literature, which increase and will never end, has repeated and rung the changes on that single paradox:

that the hands that had made the sun and stars were too small to reach the huge heads of the cattle.

Upon this paradox, we might almost say upon this jest, all the literature of our faith is founded...

I mean that all the eyes of wonder and worship which had been turned outwards to the largest thing were no turned inward to the smallest...

It is true that the spiritual spiral henceforward works inwards instead of outwards, and in that sense is centripetal and not centrifugal.

The faith becomes, in more ways than one, a religion of little things.

- G.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man

We are about half through Advent and it really is a religion of small or little things. I think Chesterton should have added that it is about difficult things. It's about celebrating the difficult choices. God came down. Mary said yes. Joseph said yes. The shepherds went to find Him. The Wise Men went to find him. It is beauty in the midst of chaos. It's subversive.

There are Christmas lights shaped like a tree around Jochiwon train station. The squalor and dirt are there but so is this tree shape. This defiant shape stands in contrast to its surroundings. It's beautiful in the midst of Jochiwon traffic and the swarms of moving people.

I want to be like that tree. I want to be a light in a dark place. I want to be like Mary and Joseph who said yes to the difficult and miraculous thing put before them.

In a world where people choose self-centered lives, where ugly things happen, where sin seems to spread unchecked, where daily assaults take their toll, we need to be able to point to the defiant beauty of a selfless life. We need seek the kingdom of God first. We need to put others first. In this way, we can proclaim the transcendent truth of something great than ourselves.

We need to do more than just say Merry Christmas...

We need to say Merry Christmas and remember what the words actually mean. We’ve forgotten the weight that those words carry. We are saying we also unite with him in his death, his resurrection, and his call to make disciples.

If we really mean “Merry Christmas,” it will cost us something. It may cost us everything.

But am I really willing to make myself uncomfortable for the sake of the gospel?

I say “Merry Christmas,” yet I turn against Jesus again and again, forgetful and unrepentant, and twisted in my thinking. I lose my focus at Christmas. I spend more time with books than with Scripture. Don’t forgive like I should. Demand my own way. Stomp my feet. Get really bossy with God. Doubt.

Man, have I doubted Him.

Christmas is not a greeting at the store.

Christmas is not a political platform.

Christmas — real Christmas — is not a political party, a certain set of traditions, a tree, a pile of gifts.

It is not a happy little feeling for an hour at the church.

Christmas is all about Jesus. And it’s positively dangerous. in that we are owning the name associated with a holy God and His only Son. This alone should cause me to kneel — or fall flat on my face.

Here’s what Christmas really is:

Christmas is pick up your cross and follow,
and spend yourself on behalf of the hungry,
and act justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your God.
It is The Way of the contrite and broken.
It is not my will, but Thine be done.
It is “blessed are the poor in spirit,”
and a rejoicing in our suffering.

It is salt and light and fruit of the Spirit.

It is "prepare him room!"

It’s a cup and broken bread.

It is the belief that Christ is our only hope, that heaven is our future home, and that we get to do His work right here, today, before we go there, someday.

Christmas is not a word for your greeting card, but a way to wrap your whole life around a cup and a cross.

It’s not an empty promise for prosperity, but investing our very lives in each other because of an empty tomb.

Merry Christmas is happily agreeing to “love your neighbor as yourself” — even when your neighbor looks an awful lot like your enemy, or someone who doesn’t believe the same things you do. Christmas also commands this: “Go and make disciples.”

It is a walk on water, hyssop on the lips, and a belief that Christ is the central figure of the most radical story to hit planet Earth.

Christmas believes that an enemy prowls, but that a King wins – that the battle isn’t over, but the war is already won.

I won’t deny it: Christmas People believe in crazy things. We believe that God’s Son descended from Heaven to Earth, not so we can have a party on December 25. But so He could die a horrific death and carry people’s sins away.

It’s scandalous, isn’t it?

Scripture whispers that scandalous truth that Jesus wants our ragged, rule-breaking hearts, these hearts that have spurned Him. There’s a word for it: grace. These are the foolish ways of the Christmas People. And so, then, I shall be a fool among them.

Today, I say to you with all the boldness I can muster: “Merry Christmas.”

And when those words cross my lips, I don’t even know the half of it.

I don’t really know how much it cost my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Someday, I will.

Until then, I’ll say it to you, and I’ll say it out loud for the sake of the gospel:
Merry Christmas.

The Light of the World stepped down into our darkness.

And that changed everything.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

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Do You Hear What I Hear? Zechariah's Silence

12/7/2015

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Did you sing a little when you read the title to this blog post? It's one of my favorites because it speaks so clearly to the season of Advent. The song is filled with the joyful anticipation, the wonderous waiting of the coming Savior Jesus Christ.

The song “Do You Hear What I Hear?” was written by Noel Regney and Gloria Shayne Baker in 1962, at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis. They were well known and had been asked to produce a Christmas album, but hesitated because they did not feel comfortable with the consumerism of Christmas. However, when the nation found itself on the brink of a nuclear holocaust--people fearful of enemies among them, digging backyard bomb shelters and praying to avert another world war--Regney was inspired by babies being pushed in strollers along the streets of New York City. He returned home and penned the words to this song of peace, since sung by countless high school choirs, recorded by hundreds of artists, and played endlessly on Christmas radio.

The imagery captures something of our longing as we prepare for Christmas in another era hovering on the brink of war, with fear of our neighbors and worry for our children. The night wind speaking to a little lamb, the shepherd boy and the king singing about a star, a song and a child, such humble, earth-bound creatures, somehow give us a sense of hope amid the fear and violence of the world—a promise that peace is out there, asleep in the ordinary, whispering and waiting for us, if we only awaken our senses to hear it, see it, feel it. Though I took some liberties with the words for our season, the original words evoke the Advent spirit on their own. Do you hear what I hear? Do you see what I see? Do you feel what I feel? Do you know what I know?

That’s what Advent is all about. These weeks before Christmas are supposed to awaken our senses to the presence of God in quiet, ordinary places, because when God-With-Us arrives on Christmas Eve, it is in the humblest of stables. So we prepare by remembering that God is seen in the glow of a midnight angel, felt in the leap of a child in the womb, known in the song of a mother-to-be, and today’s story—heard in the silence of the priest.

Yep, you heard that right—heard in the silence of the priest.

(The irony of writing a blogpost/sermon about the silence of a preacher is not lost on me, I assure you.)

Zechariah’s story is the tale of a man of words, the man to whom the community had assigned the task of speaking about God, even speaking FOR God, being struck mute when God actually spoke to him.

It was Zechariah’s big day. There were thousands among the priestly clans, each rotating through the temple, taking their turn to care for the Holy of Holies. When his family, the sons of Abijah, came to take their turn, they lit the fires, tended the sacrifices, oversaw the prayers for the whole temple, the whole people of Israel. But only one man could step inside the Holy of Holies to perform the ritual there. Only one man each time, and no man could enter twice—it was a once-in-a-lifetime honor, and most, even among the priestly families, were never chosen.

This was no popularity contest or piety award—Zechariah and the members of his family stood around and drew lots, and Zechariah’s hand happened upon the lucky straw. He would step into the holiest sanctuary, the sacred room in the Temple inhabited by God’s own presence, representing the whole of his people before the Holy. When he emerged, the people would gather around and await a blessing, a word from God himself, delivered by Zechariah.

The Gospel writer goes out of his way to tell us that even though he got this honor by sheer luck, Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth were people of exemplary faith. They prayed, they followed the law, they were righteous and blameless, good and faithful in every way. Zechariah must have trembled in holy awe that he was chosen.

And yet, even though Zechariah and Elizabeth had been faithful all their lives, but God had not rewarded them. They were barren, childless. They had prayed, they had obeyed, but God had been silent. Month after month, cycle after cycle, nothing but silence. Silence in Elizabeth’s womb, silence in their home, silence from God. By the time Zechariah was chosen to enter the Holy of Holies, it was too late. Too many moons had come and gone, and they grew old. God had remained silent for years.

When Zechariah entered the Holy of Holies that day, I imagine he believed that God still had a word for the people he represented. Certainly God had a blessing for everyone else, a message of hope and encouragement for the masses—even if God had only silence for he and Elizabeth.

But the angel had not come with vague promises or generic words of comfort. This was no anonymous platitude or nameless blessing. It wasn't for everyone else. The angel of God came with a very specific word to them, Zechariah and Elizabeth, a silence-shattering, new-world-opening, mind-blowing, unthinkable, impossible word. “Your prayers have been heard,” the angel said. “Elizabeth will give birth to a son, and you must name him John. This child of yours will not only bring you joy and delight, he will be the one who brings many people back to God. He will make ready a people prepared for the Lord.”

Zechariah, terrified and stunned, responds to this breath-taking announcement in the most awkward, graceless, bumbling way possible. “How can I be sure? We’re old,” he says. If there were a soundtrack, you'd hear one of those record-screeching-to-a-halt sounds right here.

I can almost hear the angel Gabriel sigh. “Because I am the angel Gabriel, and you’re standing in the Holy of Holies, and I’m telling you so.” Shaking his head, Gabriel continues, “Because you didn’t believe, you will remain silent, unable to speak until the day when these things happen.”

Some would like to see this silence as punishment for Zechariah’s sin of disbelief, but I don’t think it’s quite that simple. I’m with Barbara Brown Taylor, who calls it “a failure of imagination, a fear of disappointment, a habit of hopelessness.” (Bread with Angels, 93)

Zechariah had grown so accustomed to God’s silence that he was unable to receive the word of God when it came. While he never stopped praying, never stopped obeying, he had long ago abandoned any sense that God was listening. Zechariah, whose very name means “God remembers” had become convinced God had forgotten.

Who could blame him? How many of us, likewise, have prayed and obeyed, but long ago given up hope for an answer? How many of us have ceased to imagine God hears our prayers? We pray that our family could grow, our illness be healed, our relationships mended, our job meaningful, our finances successful—but how strong is our hope in God’s response? We pray for peace and justice and love to win, but it is murmuring into a void. The news of more shootings, more hatred, more violence, more abuse have given us likewise “a failure of imagination, a fear of disappointment, a habit if hopelessness.” Imagining the promises of Isaiah about a light in the darkness, a Prince of Peace, reigning with justice and righteousness forevermore are impossible dreams. The best we have come to hope for is some nameless blessing, generic word of comfort, or vague platitude.

Instead, what Zechariah discovers is that God has a hope just for them. He and Elizabeth, their deepest and most intimate prayers, have been heard, and God is about to fulfill their hopes and dreams, even when they themselves have given up on them. Zechariah’s name and his story instead proclaim that God remembers. God’s silence will not be forever, and when it arrives, God’s voice will not come to us as a vague, generic, nameless message. When God speaks, it will be so stunning, so personal and convicting and convincing and life-changing and mind-blowing and new-world-opening that it will render us speechless.

The 19th century mystic Baron Von Hügel said, "Sometimes when we speak before great things we shrink them down to size. When we speak of great things sometimes we swallow them whole, when instead we should be swallowed by them. Before all greatness be silent, in art, in music, and above all in faith."

When Zechariah emerged from the Holy of Holies, the greatness of God had swallowed him whole. The people stood around him awaiting his message, the blessing he would give directly from God. There were no words. Sound caught in his throat, his hands flapped helplessly. This man assigned to speak for God found himself mute when God actually spoke to him. The look of holy awe must have lingered on his face, the reflection of the angel still in his eyes, because the people could tell he had seen a vision, and they fell silent too. Because they know God remembered, God heard, and they had hope.

This opening Sunday of Advent, hear the story of Zechariah and know that God remembers. Even when there is only silence, God is still there—and when God does speak again, it will be a word so surprising and life-changing, so for you, that it will swallow you whole and leave you speechless.

So maybe then Zechariah’s story is also an invitation to fall silent, a reminder to just shut up, because the greatness of God is all around us. Just shut up and listen, in wonder and hope-filled imagination, to the night wind and the little lamb, to the child and the shepherd boy, to the presence in the Holy of Holies.

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given.

Do you hear what I hear?

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Calm and Bright

12/5/2013

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The first week of Advent has been a flurry of activity. Students are handing in assignments, last minute homework checks, christmas ornaments on the tree, stories being shared with the children, and very little reflection on HIM.

Flurries, busyness, activities, meals, and only a little of HIM.

Isn't that how it goes? The season is planned, cookies are baked, prayers are said, meals are shared, and yet we seem to reflect only a little on the baby in the manger.

Advent is this season of waiting. We are always waiting for Christ but the ache is more apparent in this season.

And then I heard "Silent Night". For the first time, I was struck by the lines, "All is calm, All is bright." These words do not seem in sync with one another at all. They contrast, but it isn't jarring. Together they evoke a longing and a curiosity.

Whisper them together now, under your breath. Really. No one is listening. "Calm and bright. Calm and bright." What do you feel?

Calm. I feel peace. Peace in His Presence. Bright. I feel light and lightness. Together. Calm and bright. I feel peace, hope, and welcome. I am expectant. Another moment of immanence and transcendence.

The calming peace of Christ lies in his nearness. He has come. He is here. He is close by.

The brightness of hope is, in baby form, not too much too overwhelm. His transcendence is a flame that could incinerate and stupefy the merest man or woman - but in the Christ child it is a bright gleam of hope that I am not afraid to be near. Because "all is calm, all is bright," I can sleep in the heavenly peace of Christ.

Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful..." John 14:27 NASB

During this season of joyful waiting, longing for the birth of Christ and the world's rebirth, I am struck by the beauty of it all. The waiting and the longing, this spiritual homing device that has been placed in our hearts by God to lead us back to Him.

As Psyche realizes in Till We Have Faces (C.S. Lewis), "It almost hurt me...like a bird in a cage when the other birds of its kind are flying home...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty comes from...The longing for home."

Advent ache is real. All is calm. All is bright. All is beautiful. As. We. Wait. For. Him.

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All Heaven With Its Power

12/16/2012

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This has turned out to be one of the most blessed Advent seasons I can remember. There has been wonderful times in the kitchen baking cookies with friends and families, good food, blessed conversations, snow, snow ball fights, one really good snowman, and general goodness and sweetness in my three boys. All is blessed, all is a gift.

All Heaven with Its Power

Lord Jesus, in this fateful hour
I place all Heaven with its power
And the sun with its brightness
And the snow with its whiteness
And the fire with the strength it hath
And the lightning with its rapid wrath
And the winds with their swiftness along their path

And the sea with its deepness
And the rocks with their steepness
And the child in the manger
Sharing our danger
And the man sandal-shod
Revealing our God

And the hill with its cross
To cry grief, pain, and loss
And the dark empty tomb
Like a heavenly womb
Giving birth to true life
While death howls in strife

and the bread and the wine
Making human divine
And the stars with their singing
And cherubim winging
And Creation's wild glory
Contained in His Story

And the hope of new birth
On this worn stricken earth
And His coming, joy-streaming
Creation redeeming
and the earth with its starkness
All these we place
By God's Almighty Help and grace
Between ourselves and the powers of darkness

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Advent

An Eventful Advent and a very Merry Christmas!

Do You Hear What I Hear? Zechariah's Silence

Calm and Bright

All Heaven With Its Power

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