Readings: Psalm 126; Habakkuk 2:1-5; Philippians 3:7-11

{If anyone else has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. }Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ.  More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but one that comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God based on faith.  I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death,  if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead.               [Philippians 3:4b-11, NRSV]

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Do remember how you answered that question when you were a child? Most people don’t know this about me, but for the longest time when I was asked that question, I didn’t hesitate: I want to be a race car driver. That dream lasted well into my teen years. I remember with great fondness Mario Andretti’s win at Indy in 1969; he became my favorite driver after that. I was totally smitten by the old Steve McQueen movie Le Mans when it came out a couple of years later. I had a classic racing jacket that I barely took off. My best friend and I knew that we would have to learn how to work on and build engines if we wanted to get into the motor sports game, so we started tinkering with the Briggs and Stratton on my dad’s lawnmower. It turns out that he wasn’t too happy about that. I had large Richard Petty and STP stickers all over the wall of my room, much to my mother’s chagrin, but I was in it for the long haul. Like many young boys, I guess I loved the glamour and the fast cars. Truth be told, I still love fast cars, though I have never owned one. Last year I went to see Ford vs. Ferrari (and loved it by the way) as a way of playing with my old dreams.

The older I get the more I realize that it is a real blessing that we love what we do, but in the end, it is all quite temporary and fleeting. The Apostle Paul had it made by any standard of measurement one might want to apply. He was well educated, powerful, respected, well-known and connected; yet, in the end, none of that defined who he was. Yet, whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ, he wrote. I wonder how long it took him to figure that out. I think there comes a time for all of us when we realize that our lives are short and nothing we do or touch has the innate ability to last forever.

“More than that,” Paul continued, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him…

As I reflect on my life during this Advent season, I realize that we all inevitably hitch our wagons to something.  What lurks beneath that choice is the deep desire that, whatever it is we decide, we want it to mean something, we want it to last. Paul made his choice. He hitched his wagon to his deep-seated trust that Jesus alone can bring meaning and an eternal perspective. We most certainly don’t cherish such a thing when we are ten years old, and neither did Paul, but I pray that I might spend some time this Advent figuring out just what I have hitched my wagon to and where it is leading me. Perhaps you would like to join me. Amen.

Offered by Dave Fredrickson, spiritual director on the road to Bethlehem.

Readings: Psalm 27; Malachi 2:10-3:1; Luke 1:5-17

Then there appeared to Zechariah an angel of the Lord, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. When Zechariah saw him, he was terrified; and fear overwhelmed him. But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord…Zechariah said to the angel, “How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years.” The angel replied, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.” [ Luke 1:11-14, 18-20, NRSV]

I’ve lived long enough to know that it takes courage to tell anyone when I get a glimpse of God’s love, and how that love can change everything. There just aren’t words to do such things justice, and there aren’t many who would believe them if there were. How much harder would it be to speak of an angel’s visit? Of a child who would be born well past childbearing years? Of a son who would be keenly aware of God’s love and holiness, and equally aware of the waywardness of the human soul? Of the one who would recognize and baptize God-With-Us?

Perhaps the angel didn’t remove Zechariah’s speech as a punishment, but as a kindness. Until his son arrived, until he saw it come true in the flesh, until he could say these words with conviction, he wouldn’t have to say them at all:

I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.  [Psalm 27:13, NRSV]

Readings: Psalm 27; Isaiah 4:2-6; Acts 11:1-18

“At that very moment three men, sent to me from Caesarea, arrived at the house where we were. The Spirit told me to go with them and not to make a distinction between them and us. These six brothers also accompanied me, and we entered the man’s house. He told us how he had seen the angel standing in his house and saying, ‘Send to Joppa and bring Simon, who is called Peter; he will give you a message by which you and your entire household will be saved.’ And as I began to speak, the Holy Spirit fell upon them just as it had upon us at the beginning…If then God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?” [Acts 11:11-17, NRSV]

Every year, my father’s mother gave him the same Christmas gift: underwear. When I asked her why, she just said that it saved him the trouble of buying something that was important but not particularly fun. Other every-single-year gifts she gave: a AAA membership renewal, the latest Hallmark ornament in the series, and maple sugar candy. Everyone knew these were somewhere under the tree, or in an envelope among the tree’s branches. There were always other gifts for my father and the other recipients of these perennial presents, but I can’t recall them. It’s only the repeated gifts I remember.

That’s true of the gifts my sister and I got for Christmas, too. The years that we got the same thing (1976: gauchos and matching sweaters; 2010: crock pot; 2019: battery operated flickering candles, complete with a remote control) I recall, the others I do not. There’s something about seeing someone else gifted with the same thing that insures that it sticks in my memory.

Perhaps that’s why it was so important for Peter to see the Caesareans receiving the same thing he and his friends got from God: he’d remember it. The vision of a banquet coming down from heaven may not have stuck if it hadn’t been followed by Peter seeing someone else get the same gift he got. If God gave the same Spirit to strangers with foreign ways, then God must love them as much as friends who share the same customs and beliefs. Same gift=same regard.

Maybe seeing someone with the same gift makes it not just possible but likely that I will not hinder God’s plans. Perhaps I’ll even dare to help.

Readings: Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13; Isaiah 40:1-11; 2 Peter 3:8-15a; Mark 1:1-8

Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.

A voice cries out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain.

Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.” [Isaiah 40:1-5, NRSV]

The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news. [Mark: 1:15, NRSV]

Readings: Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13; Ezekiel 36:24-28; Mark 11:27-33

Again they came to Jerusalem. As he was walking in the temple, the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders came to him and said, “By what authority are you doing these things? Who gave you this authority to do them?” Jesus said to them, “I will ask you one question; answer me, and I will tell you by what authority I do these things. Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin? Answer me.” 

They argued with one another, “if we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say, ‘Why then did you not believe him:’ But shall we say, ‘Of human origin’?” – they were afraid of the crowd, for all regarded John as a true prophet. So they answered Jesus, “We do not know.” And Jesus said to them, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things.” [Mark 11:27-33, NRSV]

Their Response: We do not know. 

Their Honest Thoughts: We know, but we are afraid to say so.

The True Answer: We do not know.

The elders, scribes, and priests weren’t seeking God when they asked their questions: they were doing their best to keep God’s grace confined to the accepted venues and authorized dealers. A controlled God, a predictable God, a God that colored within the lines. John was the human embodiment of scribbling outside the lines, regardless of his baptism coming from heaven. That’s not how truth is supposed to look; he’s not the one God is supposed to choose.

The problem isn’t in the answer, it’s in the asking. If I ask bigger-than-life-and-death questions for reasons other than wanting bigger-than-life-and-death answers, I won’t recognize the truth even when it comes from my own lips.

How often do I ask profound questions, not wanting the answers? How much of God’s grace and presence am I willing to ignore because it doesn’t dress in the right clothes or conform to my limited expectations?

Maybe this Advent waiting time is necessary – not because I don’t know the right question and answer, but because I’m not really prepared to receive either one quite yet. Maybe this walk through scripture, this road to Bethlehem, is my best shot at wanting the answer God gave to my ultimate question: Do you love me?

Readings: Psalm 85: 1-2, 8-13; Jeremiah 1:4-10; Acts 11:19-26

Now the word of the Lord came to me saying, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.” Then I said, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But the Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, says the Lord.” 

Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth; and the Lord said to me, “Now I have put my words in your mouth. See, today I appoint you over nations and kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” [Jeremiah 1:4-10, NRSV]

The word of the Lord came to Jeremiah in a vision.  The word came in different ways to other Biblical figures. For example:

to Mary and Joseph from an angel,

to the Wisemen from a star,

to Moses in a burning bush,

and to Elijah in the “still small voice”.  

God’s words were those of comfort, challenge and direction, and God continues to speak today in ways that are unique to each of us. 

God speaks to me in the still small voice found in morning prayer, in the challenges of sermons and news stories of tragedies and heroics, in the signs of death and resurrection found in nature, and in the love of family and friends, to name a few ways.  But, as Psalm 85:8 says Let me hear what God the Lord will speak.  I must want to hear God’s voice.  How will the word of God come to you today?

Once we hear the word, we must be willing to share that word with others.  Jeremiah felt he was too young.  I often feel that I am too old or not as wise as others or I am afraid to appear foolish.  There should be no excuses.  The word comes to us and then must be passed through us, to encourage and challenge others. Who needs a word from you today?

I end with a blessing by Nan Richardson:

That you will see in the way God longs you to see.

That you will be given vision that speaks precisely

      To and through who you are.

That the holy will reveal itself, divulge itself in you.

Offered by Ann Fowler, spiritual director, bound for Bethlehem.

Readings: Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13; Hosea 6:1-6, 1 Thessalonians 1:2-10

“Come, let us return to the Lord; for it is he who has torn, and he will heal us;

he has struck down, and he will bind us up. After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will raise us up, that we may live before him.

Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord; his appearing is as sure as the dawn; he will come to us like the showers, like the spring rains that water the earth.”

What shall I do with you, O Ephraim? What shall I do with you, O Judah? Your love is like a morning cloud, like the dew that goes away early. Therefore I have hewn them by the prophets, I have killed them by the words of my mouth, and my judgment goes forth as the light.

For I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings. [Hosea 6:1-6, NRSV]

Irrational: Believing that all my problems will simply dissolve into a puddle of happiness and security because I profess faith in God is about as realistic as believing that the world is flat. Sure, it looks flat from where I’m standing – but my lack of a wider perspective doesn’t change the shape of the planet I call home.

Rational: Accepting that wishes and my best efforts to do the right thing won’t change the fundamental truth that suffering and loss will be woven into the fabric of my life makes it difficult to assign to God the pettiness of vindictive action on those who share my faith and those who most certainly do not. How can I square the love of God with the notion that all the good things in life and all the hard things are just so many gold stars and F’s I’ve earned in some cosmic grading system? Sometimes, it’s easier to let go of those thorny scripture passages in favor of trusting my own common sense and and sense of justice. Or at least cherry picking the acceptable and leaving the embarrassing.

non-Rational: Perhaps I’ve missed the point because I’ve mistaken the purpose. Holy writ is holy because its words create a doorway. If the beauty, ugliness, reassurance, and doubt it offers gets me to stand still, even for just a moment, a miracle has surely happened. It only takes that moment for the Spirit to enter, embrace the imperfect child I am, and draw me into a love so deep that I cannot find its limits.

Sometimes, standing before the door scripture builds can feel like death – and death at the hands of God, no less. And maybe it is. It’s the tearing and striking down of a faith too small to hold me or God. But I’ll only know that in retrospect. The question is: am I willing to stand before whatever door I’m offered to get there?

Readings: Psalm 79; Micah 4:1-5; Revelation 15:1-8

Return sevenfold into the bosom or our neighbors the taunts with which they taunted you, O Lord! Then we your people, the flock of your pasture, will give thanks to you forever; from generation to generation we will recount your praise. [Psalm 79:12-13, NRSV]

He shall judge between many peoples, and shall arbitrate between strong nations far away; they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks;

nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more; but they shall all sit under their own vines and fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid; for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken.

For all the peoples walk, each in the name of its god, but we will walk in the name of the Lord our God forever and ever. [Micah 4:3-5, NRSV]

I love the psalms for many reasons. They are beautiful verses, bringing comfort in difficult times and give words for the joy and praise I offer God. But they are honest, giving voice to my worst fears and prejudices. If it’s a feeling I can have, it’s turned into verse somewhere in the psalms. That’s what psalm 79 is – an articulation of primal, authentic feelings. Authentic, not necessarily admirable. Wishing those whose words make me feel small and unworthy a taste of their own medicine isn’t exactly commendable, is it?

But that’s the psalms’ secret: offering up my worst, most fearful feelings to God rather than throwing it at my neighbor gives me a way to let them go before I return damage for damage. It gives me a choice of not making enemies of my neighbors.

Walking in faith isn’t running over the faiths of others, punishing them for their misunderstandings about God and life (as if I don’t misunderstand all the time); walking in faith is meaning good things for my neighbors, alleviating fear rather than adding to it.

Please God, give me the strength and wisdom to walk in faith and love. Amen.

Readings: Isaiah 64:1-9; Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19; I Corinthians 1:3-9; Mark 13:24-37

“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven. [Mark 13:24-27, NRSV]

I am drawn to Advent like a moth to the flame.

As the endless, tedious Sundays after Pentecost grind to an end I cannot wait to turn purple. But why? Why do I long for gospels of darkened suns and blotted moons? Why pine for prophecies of doom-cum-dawn? Why raise my hand for a helping of judgment?

My family says it’s my Nordic noir, the shadowed world of Ingmar Bergman, August Strindberg, even Henry Mankell. Maybe, but there are legions of non-Scandinavians who love this season’s art of darkness. It’s because we need to know that the whole of our lives, the whole of the world, is good—and not just the best, well-lit bits.

In the first creation story of Genesis, God separates the Light and the Darkness, naming them Day and Night (1:4-5). This is the eternal cycle of light and dark that is the backdrop of all creation. Every day passes into night. Every year is equally split between the two. And every human heart holds both its light and (how could it be otherwise?) its shadow—if we dare to meet it. Unless we can understand the Night, even befriend it, we are missing exactly half the action—and, as it turns out, the most powerful half! For, like Jacob at the river Jabbok, it is what we meet and wrestle in the darkness that holds the power to bless us.

That or something like it, bigger even than I know, is why I am so attracted to the days and nights of Advent. As the earth makes its final December descent, Advent pulls us into the great big shadow, the planet’s and our own. There we meet an apocalyptic Jesus—as in the gospel for today—warning of a time when the sun will be darkened and the moon will not give its light. I’ve studied those words, preached on those words, and I still have no earthly idea what they mean. Doesn’t matter. Advent bypasses the brain and simply wallops the heart. I know what that kind of black-out feels like, and the eschatological preacher is painting this chiaroscuro canvas, calling me to repentance. You must change your life. Now, while you yet have time.

I don’t believe in some Hieronymus Bosch vision of judgment, but this stabs my heart. I know about regret, remorse, lost time. Whatever I “believe” or don’t, I feel the urgency of this moment, and the hope hidden in all true judgment, the promise that change is still possible and love has not given up on me yet.

When he first came to live with us, an exile from Manhattan at the beginning of the plague, my five year-old grandson was afraid to go down into the basement at night. His room, his parents’ room was down there so it was often necessary, but he wouldn’t go without a hand to hold. If someone had turned on the light at the bottom of the stairs it was all right, and the hall just beyond was well lit. It was just that fearful descent and the well of darkness at the bottom. It gave me such deep joy to take Dashiell’s hand and accompany him on such an important journey. Now that he is no longer afraid I am a little wistful.

Advent is the hand I hold to make that same descent. It is primitive exposure therapy, like the bronze serpent raised on a pole. When I fear darkness, I am to turn into it, flee into the stories of apocalypse and warning and judgment, because, paradoxically, they are the only source of actual hope.

If you take those awesome downward steps, one day you will come to know the sweetness of the light because you are, in Robert Frost’s words, “one acquainted with the night.”

Offered by David R. Anderson, priest, preacher, grandfather bound for Bethlehem. [www.findingyoursoul.com]