“Before Advent is a word, it is a sigh,” wrote Richard Lischer, “and never more deeply felt than in these troubled months.” Advent is a yearning, a longing, a preparing and a making room. It is the expectant opening of our exhausted hearts to the coming of God.
“We are waiting—dreading—“ as Lischer wrote, “what one health expert promised would be ‘our darkest winter,’ as COVID-19 spikes and spreads in regions that thought themselves isolated from the worst of it. We are … waiting for Christmas, of course, but this year with no grandparents, siblings, cousins, or other relatives gathered around the tree, with no safe way to sing … carols in the nursing home (or to be sung to by fresh young voices).”[1] We are waiting with our souls stretched thin, craving a true word amid the lies, a reliable word amid the constant noise of careless speech, a word worthy of becoming a song. And during these days of Advent, like the gentlest rain of grace, the words of Isaiah fall on our parched hearts:
The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and release to the prisoners;
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.
We hear the ancient words and the oppressed raise their heads, the brokenhearted find the courage to hope, and the captives imagine the doors of their prisons flung wide open. Joy blossoms, because we remember how again and again the Lord anointed messengers to bring good news to those walking down life’s weary road. “They shall build up the ancient ruins,” the prophet declares. “They shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations.”
“About whom does the prophet say this?” we ask, hoping that the promise was not just for the exiled families of Jerusalem and Judah returning to the promised land a long time ago, but that this promise, this commissioning is also for us amid the devastations we are facing. Joy blossoms tenderly because we are not alone in facing these devastations: God is the architect and builder of the city of peace, where righteousness is at home. Joy blossoms because Jesus, at the beginning of his ministry, went to his hometown synagogue, and when he stood up to read, the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled it and read,
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.
And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down to teach. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. And he said to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”[2]
The words of the prophet are for us, for all of us — and not because we have claimed and appropriated them for ourselves, but because Jesus has made us his own. Because of Jesus we have come to see ourselves and each other no longer as strangers and aliens, but rather as citizens of the city of God.
Our own cities have had a hard year. We have continued to struggle to really face the devastations of many generations caused by the sin of slavery. We have struggled to respond in solidarity to a deadly pandemic. We have learned on the edge of the abyss — and are still learning — how vulnerable our institutions of government are to wreckless destruction. We have watched somewhat helplessly how our trust in each other and in our words and motives has thinned and frayed. And all of us have some ideas how it has come to this, but we no longer seem to know how to convey them to each other.
Pope Francis said, “We have so much to do, and we must do it together. But how can we do that with all the evil we breathe every day?” And then he added, “Thank God, no system can nullify our desire to open up to the good, to compassion and to our capacity to react against evil, all of which stem from deep within our heart.” Thank God, no system can nullify our desire to open up to the good. Thank God, no exile can nullify our desire to open up to the promise of God. Thank God, no injustice can nullify our desire to open up to the Lord who loves justice. With all the evil we breathe every day, what can we do to nurture this righteous desire in us? Pope Francis said,
To Christians, the future does have a name, and its name is Hope. Feeling hopeful does not mean to be optimistically naïve and ignore the tragedy humanity is facing. Hope is the virtue of a heart that doesn’t lock itself into darkness, that doesn’t dwell on the past, does not simply get by in the present, but is able to see a tomorrow. Hope is the door that opens onto the future. Hope is a humble, hidden seed of life that, with time, will develop into a large tree. … [And] a tiny flicker of light that feeds on hope is enough to shatter the shield of darkness.[3]
God made heaven and earth. God brought Israel out of Egypt. God raised Jesus from the dead. God poured out the Spirit on all flesh, thus anointing all flesh to proclaim the good news of God’s faithfulness.
As the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.
Righteousness and praise – against the evil we breathe every day, against the fears that threaten to paralyze us and the idols that hold us in thrall, we entrust ourselves to God and to the promise that oaks of righteousness will spring up and thrive on earth. And so in hope and humility we give ourselves to the work of proclaiming good news to the poor, the work of raising up the former devastations and of seeking to heal our deep divisions in the Spirit of Christ.
“Rejoice always,” Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, “pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances.” Paul had found something to sing about and even the darkest prison cell couldn’t silence him. He was beaten for the gospel he proclaimed, he was imprisoned, he was shipwrecked three times, in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, cold and naked — but he had found something to sing about.[4] He was happy when things were going well in the fledgling communities of believers that sprang up in response to his proclamation, but his joy wasn’t determined by circumstances. His joy was a happiness that didn’t depend on what happened. His joy was rooted in the faithfulness of God. And with his words to the Thessalonians he urges us, his listeners and readers, to let the deep joy over God’s unshakable faithfulness fill and transform our whole being.
Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances. In all circumstances. We know that Paul wasn’t coming up with bite-sized servings of self-help advice by the pool of his posh Malibu mansion.
How might one cultivate such gratefulness? John Kralik wrote a book about writing a thank-you note every day for an entire year. He called it 365 Thank Yous. He didn’t resolve to write all of those thank-you notes at a time when he was feeling particularly grateful. In fact, it was at a particularly low time in his life. His small law firm was losing money and losing its lease. He was going through a difficult divorce. He lived in a small, stuffy apartment where he often slept on the floor under an ancient air conditioner. He was middle-aged, overweight, and at the end of his rope. Then, one day, he got lost on a mountain hike and didn’t know how to get home. And by the time he found his way down the mountain he had a plan. He would write a thank-you note each day for a year.
He writes, “My only problem: Did I have anything to be grateful for? The way my life was going, I hardly thought so.” But he got started, by writing notes to the people close to him, his family and friends. Then it got harder. “One day,” he writes, “I just couldn’t think of anybody to thank.” He stopped at his regular Starbucks, where the barista greeted him with a big smile — “John, your usual venti?”
That’s when it clicked. “I thought, this is really kind of a great gift in this day and age of impersonal relationships,” Kralik writes, “that someone had cared enough to learn my name and what I drank in the morning.” So he wrote the barista a thank-you note. And so it went through an entire year.[5]
It was a simple practice, but it was a discipline that opened him to notice the gifts of others. It was a discipline that made him more attentive to all the ways in which his life was woven into a fabric of mutuality. He became aware that life is altogether gift. And he found joy there.
[1] Richard Lischer https://www.christiancentury.org/article/reflection/advent-season-sighs-especially-year
[2] see Luke 4:16-21
[3] https://www.ted.com/talks/pope_francis_why_the_only_future_worth_building_includes_everyone/transcript
[4] 2 Corinthians 11:24-27
[5] Martin Copenhaver https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2015-10/learning-give-thanks