Expectant Waiting

Many of the reflections I have read this month speak of the First Advent in relation to the Second Advent. We cannot fully grasp the first coming of Christ without knowing of the second that is to come. He came to earth to become like us so that we can go to heaven and (finally) become like Him.

Because really, the humble birth, the quiet growing up, the mighty but brief ministry among a small group of people—even the sacrificial death and miraculous resurrection and ascension—none of it would mean much if that were the end.

And all that has happened since then—the message of love that has spread across the lands and centuries, defying persecution and time and sinful misuse and abuse—it has all been in anticipation of What Is to Come. If this were it, if we lived our short matchstick lives here and then burned out—no matter how spectacularly—what would it matter? Why would we brave disease and danger to take the gospel to an unreached people? Why would we give up wealth and luxury to live among the poor? Why worry about the hungry and hopeless? Why sully our reputations with words hateful to some ears? Why make ourselves uncomfortable?

But of course we know this is not the end. He came that first time, He lived among us and died hanging there between time and eternity, His blood dripping down to drench the world in Hope. He went back to heaven but left that Hope with us. He came the first time so He could come back again.

And we take Hope to a suffering world, hold it out in hands that are inadequate, speak it with words that all too often fall short. But like the wind bearing seeds, this Hope needs only our efforts. We only hold it out, speak it aloud, offer it up. Hope does the rest.

We are not taken out of our suffering, but He comes to walk with us in it, and “we behold His glory…full of grace and truth.” And maybe those who suffer most are those who Hope most.

To live in Hope implies that we are waiting expectantly. Like those who lived in darkness and saw a great light, we live in an electric anticipation. He is coming!

Mother of God

What must it be like to hold God in your arms?

I wonder that every year during Advent, especially now that I am a mother myself. I have always admired Mary, wondered what she must have been like to receive such favor from God. To bear His Son. To take that flesh-clad holiness into her own home, to let Him live among her messes and failures and weariness and dirt, to feed Him and change Him and to know He often saw her at her worst.

Yet she accepted the angel's pronouncement with quiet faith. She endured the months of gossip and slander and questioning, mocking looks. There is no evidence of her complaining at giving birth in a stable far from home. Her only recorded words are words of trust and ardent praise. When those around her chattered giddy with wonder and joy, she quietly tucked the moments away in her heart, treasures to ponder in her own quiet way.

Would I want to be Mary, if I could? Would I want to look at the baby in my arms and know He was God? Would I be able to live with those eyes on me, those little hands reaching out, the same hands that made the world? How would it feel to explode in a sudden burst of anger and then remember that God was in the room? What would it be like to impatiently snap at Him with harsh words, only to be reminded of His divinity?

I heave a sigh of relief to know that my own children are only ordinary sinners like myself. And yet. Sinners they may be, but they were created in His image. They bear His stamp, just as Jesus did. And when I hold them in my arms, I may not be holding God Himself, but I am holding holiness. His breath breathed into them. His fingerprints covering every inch. His song of delight hovering over them, just as it did over His Firstborn.

When I speak to them in anger, when I treat them harshly, when I withhold my time or attention or love, I hurt God as much as I hurt them. Why would I not be as careful and gentle with their hearts as I would with the very heart of Christ?

I am convinced only Mary's humility allowed her to live day after day with God under her roof. She surely knew the meaning of grace more than anyone and was able to accept it fully, aware of her inadequacy. But the knowledge of who Jesus was must have made her more thoughtful, more careful, more purposeful.

I have neither the humility nor the thoughtfulness. But maybe, by His grace, I can begin to see my children as God sees them. And maybe, by the same grace, they will see me the same way.

The Holy Among Us

Wrapped in swaddling cloths, my squirming, kicking five-month old makes a ridiculous Baby Jesus. Adorable, yes, but she is all girl with those rosy cheeks and delicate eyelashes. And newborn she is definitely not, as evidenced by her ever-moving, chubby appendages and bright, curious eyes. And who am I to think I could pretend to be the Mother Mary?

Yet here we stand before a plywood stable in a warm indoor garden, "Silent Night" playing in the background as we wait for the hundreds of onlookers to travel through a theatrical Bethlehem in search of the Baby Jesus. I feel anything but holy as Ben and I joke with the teenaged Roman guard. Sylvia, perhaps sensing the seriousness of the moment more than her mother does, promptly falls asleep in the manger, naked arms spread in peace.

Suddenly it has begun. The first onlookers arrive and I hear Ben reciting his lines of welcome and see the look that comes over their faces as they view the child. I open my mouth to say my only line, "He is our precious gift from God," and my voice catches in a sob.

Our precious gift from God.

The holy bursts in upon me with a force that brings the tears to my eyes. I--who so long have loved Mary's heart and story, who so often yearn to have her gentle and quiet spirit--I should have been ready for Christ to come. But I was not looking for Him, and now here He is, quietly closing around me and taking my breath away with His love.

The people coming through our little stable do not see my bouncing baby Sylvia. Looking upon my sleeping child, they see Jesus. Because they are looking for Him. They have come this night to escape the bustle and glitter and clamor and noise, to be reminded of What It's All About. And there in the manger sleeps a perfect little baby, and they don't see my baby but another Baby who was also God.

The wonder and ridiculousness of it makes me laugh even as I am crying. That God would use a harried, exhausted couple and their too-big baby and a fake manger scene in a modern church garden...It's almost as ridiculous as God using a real teenage girl and her fiance and a real manger scene on a real night in Bethlehem.

He is our precious gift from God. The holy has come among us.

I must admit that I love the traditions of Christmas. I love the decorations, the gifts, the cookies, the carols, the family gatherings--all of it. And though I piously agree with all who say that the true meaning of Christmas is Christ among us, I secretly think it just wouldn't be the same without all those other things. I know this is because my heart does not long for Him fully enough, does not look for Him intently enough. Though I long for Him to be my All in All, I must shamefully admit that He is not.

What would happen, I wonder, if I put all the Christmas things away, forsook the gift giving, forgot the food, and truly focused on Him? Would it be Christmas?

I want to want only Him. I had a glimpse of Him that night as I held my baby in my arms and imagined holding God. A God who would give Himself to us in such a way is surely worthy of my all.

(From the archives)

A light has come

Today is the second day of Advent, Day Two of our Jesse Tree journey. I have never done a Jesse tree before, but this year I want to make Christ the center of the season, for myself and for the family. So each evening we read our Jesse Tree devotional to see how Christmas started all the way in the beginning. Day one tells of God's creation, the act of great love that breathed us into the world. Day two is (already) our rejection of Him. We turned our backs to Him, inviting in the destruction, desolation and despair our pride would bring. Yet He pursued us with His love, driving us into a world that would drive us back to Him, clothing our nakedness and protecting us from the Garden which would now destroy us, and most of all promising us a Savior.

God, let me believe. This world is so weary of waiting. It is bitter and cynical and alone and afraid. It lashes out at You while claiming not to believe in You, because believing hurts too much and raises too many questions. Where were You when…? Where are You now? Why don’t You come? Why don’t You come?

And yet You did come long ago to a tiny manger in a tiny town. You made Yourself tiny among us and clothed Your God-glory in flesh that we might bear it. It was enough then, and it is still enough. We long for vengeance; You showed us forgiveness. We long for justice; You showed us mercy. We long to see our enemies punished; You showed us love. We long for all of this pain and suffering and loss and rejection and hopelessness to disappear; You took it all to the cross and transformed it into hope. You did not pull us out of the pit but plunged into it with us, and if we will but learn from You, we will find You in the midst of the mess.

This I want to believe. To know that those who have suffered most will drink most deeply from Your well. To understand that the ruined and broken people of the world can find peace and joy and rest in this place, right now, in Your love. To see the light that entered the world so long ago burning warm and fierce, healing our hopeless, battered hearts.

You used a manger to cradle Your glory. A band of fishermen to spread Your story. A teenage girl to hold all our hopes inside her pregnant belly. A rough wooden cross to bear the weight of Your sacrifice. We keep looking for fireworks from heaven while you keep making miracles of everyday things, quietly filling us—US—with the hope the world hungers for. Or we would be filled if we would let You open us raw and wide and hurting and afraid; if we would give You that and let You use it. But in our fear and pride and loneliness we shrink down into smallness, hovering over our hurts instead of letting them be bread broken for You. We don’t listen. We don’t come. Because we don’t believe.

If we did, we would be crying it out to all the world that our hope is here, among us, as the shepherds did on Your birthday, as the angels did on Your resurrection day, as the true few have done every day since.

Help me believe. Enough to give myself to You. Enough to give up everything else. Enough to proclaim You with all my might.