Advent exclaims that Time
is an ever-expanding universe of arrival.
Christ has come,
Christ is coming,
Christ will come again.
Above and among,
Beyond and beside,
God stuns with sacred presence.
Abstract and adnate,
Boundless and bodied,
God surprises with sudden reverence.
In this universe of Advent,
Time accelerates with increasing, expansive speed, and
Time slows with easing, pensive stillness.
Advent jumbles all eras of time together,
Collapsing them into one another —
colliding galaxies,
continually merging.
Sacred past and sacred future converge,
revealing a sacred present,
A Holy, Sacred Now
for
The One
Who Was,
Who Is,
and
Who Is to Come.
[2]
Mary was a universe of possibilities,
God’s Mother, a cosmos of potentiality, “For in this rose contained was heaven and earth in little space, Res miranda. . .” [3]
Res miranda! — A Wondrous Occurrence. . .
The Holy Spirit appears
to reveal the sacred prospect,
And Mary adds her YES,
ushering in Emmanuel,
God With Us.
Mary,
Theotokos, bears God into the world. Res Miranda.
Mary,
Theotokos, bears God’s child, Res Miranda!
a galaxy of unending grace.
[4]
And. . . if Advent is a swirling collision of Holy Time,
making all things present,
making all things new. . .
Perhaps the Holy, Sacred Now
is upon us,
Perhaps the Holy Spirit
is appearing among us,
Right now,
Right here,
This very hour,
summoning us to add our YES,
so that we too
might bear God into the world.
[1] This is an image of Spiral Galaxy ESO-137-001 as captured by the Hubble Space Telescope.
[2] This image was created by Deborah Koff Chapin and is part of her Soul Cards collection.
[3] This text is a portion of “There Is No Rose of Such Virtue,” a 15th century English Carol. Feel free to listen to the version that the King’s Singers perform:
[4] This is a NASA image of colliding galaxies.
[5] This image comes from wallpaper created by Fanpop.com. You can access the image here.
Candles and a plate on the table at Canterbury House. Photo, Renee Roederer.
Last night via Zoom, I attended Compline, a beautiful service to mark the transition into evening. This service is held by Canterbury House community on Wednesday nights. Over the last few years, I’ve spent many Wednesdays actually in the house for this weekly time together.
Last evening, I was present on Zoom for the first time this entire semester. So I heard an Episcopalian prayer that I typically voice weekly for the first time in many months. Given the collective grief in the United States, this really hit me:
Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all your love’s sake.
Such a tender prayer, always relevant, and yet now, deeply resonant. I’ve heard these words many times, but they took on form in a new way. Yesterday, for the first time, our country lost more than 3,000 people from the coronavirus in one day — a new, terrible marker of grief.
Even if we knew none of these people personally, it makes sense to pause to feel our feelings around losses like these, recognizing that more people are dying daily.
I saw an image this week that brought home the sobering size of these losses. It said,
Deadliest Days in American History:
1) Galveston Hurricane — 8,000 2) Antietam — 3,600 3) September 11, 2001 — 2,977 4) Last Thursday — 2,861 5) Last Wednesday — 2,762 6) Last Tuesday — 2,461 7) Last Friday — 2,439 8) Pearl Harbor — 2,403
When I heard yesterday’s numbers, I knew we had lost more people from this virus on a single day than 9/11.
Today, I’d like share an article so we can hear from some ICU Nurses about the virus. Their perspectives are so important. Health care workers need our support.
There’s so much need and so much grief, and they are present to experience it all.
I was on a Zoom call (becausepandemic) and I said,
“I think one of the most difficult things about this pandemic is that it’s stretched on without us really knowing when it might end. If we knew when that might be, even relatively, we could gauge it more easily. Now, with the vaccine on the horizon, there’s no more… what should we call it? FOMOP? You know, FOMO? Fear of Missing Out? We’ve had FOMOP — Fear of Missing Out Perpetually.”
We’re in such a dichotomous time. We hear hopeful stories about new developments and the game changer of vaccines. But this is also the most perilous timeframe so far. All of those numbers have names attached…
I find myself truly dreaming of what my post-pandemic life might look like. And I sit in concern as this virus comes closer to loved ones and upends so many people. What an odd, in-between time.
In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”
This passage begins with words that don’t seem particularly significant to our 21st century context, so if you’re like me, as you read them, you might tend to tune them out. Luke initiates this section of his Gospel with a list of rulers from the 1st century — despots, kings, foreign occupiers, and the highest religious officials.
It takes a bit of time to move through these names, which adds to the probability that our brains might move elsewhere. But these words are absolutely significant to the message Luke intends for us to hear.
So let’s consider them again.
In the fifteenth year of the Emperor Tiberius. . . Tiberius was the primary ruler and ultimate authority in the expansive Roman Empire.
When Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea. . . Pilate was the Roman prefect who governed a large portion of the occupied land.
And Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis. . . The Herod dynasty included kings who ruled harshly as a client state for Rome.
During the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas. . . Annas and Caiaphas were the highest religious leaders put in place by Rome.
This is Luke’s list at the opening of this passage. But take notice of what happens after he lists all of these powerful leaders with high status. Luke says. . . During the time when all of these powerful people governed, “the Word of God came to John in the wilderness.”
The Word of God came to John and it came to him in the wilderness.
This is significant. At first, it may seem like Luke is simply setting the scene and establishing the time period as he mentions what was happening in the government, but it’s so much more than that.
Luke wants us to know that at the time these leaders ruled — some with corruption and all with wealth and influence– the Word of God came to one of society’s so-called nobodies in the wilderness, a remote spot entirely removed from society’s center.[1]
And this man named John went into many places in this wilderness. Luke says that he went into all the region around the Jordan River, and as he did that, he baptized people into the very waters of that river, proclaiming good news and a message of repentance. The word ‘repentance’ literally means to ‘turn around.’ John invited people to turn around toward a lifetime of good news, living toward God with worship, passion, and justice.
And John did this with power.
John the Baptist did not have the world’s power. He wasn’t wealthy. He wasn’t welcome in high society. He didn’t have a position in the government. He wasn’t the leader of an army.
But John was a prophet of God, a fiery prophet of power who did not mince words. Without question, John would have made us uncomfortable, and he might have made us angry too. Like so many of Luke’s characters, John preaches a radical Gospel: God is turning the world upside down. The powerful are becoming de-centered, and the people on the margins are empowered to lead the way toward new life.
With this message in the wilderness, John cries aloud the very words that the prophet Isaiah proclaimed centuries before him. “Prepare the way of the Lord, make God’s paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight and the rough ways smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”
God is turning the world upside down. The mountains and hills and bastions of power will be made low! And the valleys of those who are humbled, despised, and marginalized shall be filled so that all people will see and know the salvation of God.
As John proclaims this message, he serves as a messenger, preparing the way for Jesus who will indeed turn this world upside down. When John cries words aloud in the wilderness, Jesus is about thirty years old and on the verge of his public ministry. John is the herald, inviting people to prepare their anticipation, because once Jesus comes into the fullness of this ministry,
He will speak truth to power, He will uplift the downtrodden, He will eat in full communion with the ‘outsiders,’ And he will empower these very people to take his message of worship, passion, and justice to the ends of the earth. All people, All people, will see the salvation of God.
This world-turning intention is central to the character of God. It is a vital part of Who God Is. So it makes me wonder. . .
How is God moving now? How is God proclaiming a message of salvation now? How is that happening in our own time and in our own modern forms of wilderness?
After all, isn’t that just the kind of thing this God would do? Arrive in the middle of wilderness places that some label insignificant?
This is one of the primary messages of Advent —
God is always coming, Always arriving in this Jesus, Always initiating movements of power and good news through the Holy Spirit, often in the least likely of places.
So it makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.
We certainly have many places of wilderness in the landscape of our lives. These places seem rough and are perhaps on the outside of anyone’s knowledge or notice.
Our losses, Our addictions, Our health crises, Our disappointments, Our broken relationships. . . They can feel like places of wilderness.
But we can take heart, And we can remember, God shows up even there and can turn the world upside down.
Your life is not insignificant in God’s vision. It is immensely significant. Even in these places of wilderness, God turns our lives upside down, so we can turn toward the direction of new life.
It makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.
We also know that there are many in our neighborhoods and many around our world who experience burdens that are heavier than we can easily imagine —
People struggle through poverty, Children fall through the cracks of failing schools, Some are despised and disenfranchised through racism, Some are stigmatized and treated as less than because of disability, Men, women, and children are caught in the trauma of wars, Refugees escape those wars but have nowhere to go, And victims die and are wounded by the senseless and seemingly continuous gun violence in our country. These are wilderness places, These are painful wilderness places.
And these lives are not insignificant in God’s vision. They are immensely significant. Even in these places of wilderness, God turns our lives upside down, so we can turn toward the direction of new life.
It makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.
I know this. . . God often shows up in the presence of other people, and God can arrive in these realities of wilderness through our very presence.
In the midst of heartache, God brings comfort and good news through our presence.
In the midst of challenges, God turns the world upside down through our presence.
In the midst of wilderness, God provides a way in the desert and makes all things new through our presence.
How will we add our presence? How will we be a part of the very prayers we make? How will we act on that small thing or that large thing that keeps arriving in our minds and hearts? How will we reach out to that person or community that keeps showing up in our thinking and praying? How will we follow John into the wilderness to proclaim good news? How will we also turn the world upside down?
Sometimes, you’re busy, or you run out of things to say, or both, so you conclude, “You know what? Let’s make this baby animal week on Smuggling Grace.”
And then you remember how wonderful it would be to hug baby goats. Yes, let’s definitely share that. 🙂
Oh, these little pups! Their wiggy-waggly tails of delight get me every time I watch. Enjoy these dachshunds helping each other carry a really big stick.
Image description: There is an orange-brown background, and toward the right side of the image, there is a circle of symbols of people made from paper. They are holding hands in the circle, and a light is shining in the middle of the circle.
Sometimes, we have a zero-sum mindset about rest, care, and personal growth.
We feel anxious or guilty about prioritizing rest, care, and personal growth because somewhere deep down inside us, we believe… if we choose to prioritize these for ourselves… deliberately receiving from others, setting up daily rhythms of personal care practices, or engaging extended periods of intentional, internal work… we believe… we are somehow taking from others.
Some of us have also been socialized to view care in these ways.
I’m not talking about falling off the grid entirely (though by all means, it’s helpful to do this temporarily here and there). I just want to make a claim that rest, care, and personal growth are not necessarily selfish, which is something we can easily fear or feel guilty about. This zero-sum mindset easily creeps in amidst parenting, pastoring, organizing, and caregiving.
We, ourselves, are intrinsically worth rest, care, and personal growth. We matter.
But also, when we keep our connections with others in mind, this is not a zero-sum situation — our rest, care, and personal growth is always embedded in relationships. It is always for the benefit of the community. We are refreshed and energized. We bring our fuller selves to our relationships, roles, and work. And when our rest, care, and personal growth stay in contact and connection with others, we pay attention to the systemic forces which make it much more challenging for some to experience those extended times of rest, care, and personal growth. Our care becomes more intentional here, and respecting people’s agency, we practice care outwardly, prioritizing others also. We take care of each other. We cultivate care spaces in mutuality together.
I wonder why we think these are divided from one another — personal healing and receiving versus community care work. As if we can only do one or the other.
After all, who’s to say they aren’t absolutely connected?
[1]
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