WRITINGS & RAMBLINGS
WRITINGS & RAMBLINGS
It’s been many years now, but my wife and I used to participate in a fictitious holiday we called Turksoween. This was back when we were living in Kansas City, during my seminary years. We had a community of friends who would often leave to visit their families for Thanksgiving, and we wanted to celebrate and overeat with them, too. The problem was, many of us weren’t in the same town at the same time.
We came up with a solution: Turksoween! We created a holiday nestled between Halloween and Thanksgiving, where we would don Halloween costumes and share a Thanksgiving meal. To spice it up even more, we would go around the table and say one thing we were thankful for—as is tradition—but also one thing we were unthankful for.
Most of the time, people would just say trivial things for their “unthankful”. I remember one year I said, “I am thankful for those fancy metal snap buttons on Western shirts (I was really into those back then), and what I’m not thankful for is when those shirts come out of the dryer and I burn myself on said metal buttons.” Stupid.
But sometimes it got real; we were an honest community. For some, the thing they were unthankful for was a heavy loss: the loss of a job, a relationship, or a loved one to disease.
This third week of Advent, we light the pink candle, focusing on the theme of Joy. Joy is commonly, textbook associated with happiness or contentment, but for many this time of year, those feelings of happiness are a challenge—nearly impossible to muster. I have lost count of the tragedies surfacing on my social media feeds lately—sudden deaths, cancer diagnoses, and heartbreak.
Yet, simultaneously, I’ve also been witness to new life. The balance of joy and sorrow is a strange, paradoxical one. It should not be lost on us that the Longest Night (sometimes called Blue Christmas) is so close to the celebration of the Christ-child. While new life is being brought into the world—a life that will change everything—there is also great pain in a fallen world.
In John 15, Jesus offers these words to his disciples:
"I have loved you even as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love. When you obey my commandments, you remain in my love, just as I obey my Father’s commandments and remain in his love. I have told you these things so that you will be filled with my joy. Yes, your joy will overflow!"
Let’s not forget the context: soon after Jesus says this, he will face the cross. All will seem lost. Joy won’t make sense in the moment. For those of us who know how the story ends, it’s easy to say "all will be well," but we shouldn't rush too quickly through the tragedy.
Returning to Jesus’ words, there seems to be a remedy to our sorrow. There is something mysterious and wonderful that brings us back to true, everlasting joy—and that is Love. A Love that proceeds from God and is ultimately obedient and faithful. This Love is not a quick fix. Rather, this Love is a slow, steady balm that takes time to heal the wounds of sorrow and grief; scars may remain.
Allow me to offer a poem I wrote last Lent. Even though it is a Lenten poem, I think there is a deep connection here to Advent.
In Time
The Lord knows all, sees all, and is all.
Each future event, good or ill, rests in
God’s hands—controlled, watched over, carefully cosmic.
But does the Creator see my mundane moments?
In preparing family meals on a tight budget?
In tucking my children in after an exhausting day?
In the unwelcome interruption of past pain?
In the sudden anxiety, thought to be regulated?
In the deflating loneliness, though well surrounded?
Evermore, the present moment is redeemable—
universally sacred and everyday ordinary.
Each Instance is an Incarnational prayer.
—
I recently watched a video in which a Bible scholar walked through the ever-so-popular Christmas song, "Mary, Did You Know," line by line. To settle the argument once and for all, this scholar directly answered the question posed by the song's title.
Would one day walk on water?
No.
Save our sons and daughters?
Yes.
Give sight to the blind man?
No.
Is the Lord of all creation?
Yes.
And so on...
During this season of Advent, I've taken the opportunity to re-read, ponder, and meditate on the Annunciation passage found in Luke's account (Luke 1:26-38). The longer I sit with this passage, the more I am in awe of Mary’s faithful obedience—her ultimate willingness to say YES.
Returning to that familiar Lucan passage, I'd like to share two insights.
34 Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” 35 The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. 36 And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son, and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. 37 For nothing will be impossible with God.”
After receiving Gabriel's initial news that she would bear a son, Mary understandably has a follow-up question: “How can this be?” This is a deeply relatable question for people of faith. I've asked God this question over the years. Importantly, this is not a question of doubt, but a request for clarity. Mary’s response stands in contrast to Sarah’s, who laughed when she overheard the announcement that she would have a son past childbearing age (see Gen 18). Instead of laughing it off, Mary offers a sincere question: How can this be?
Let’s be clear: God’s wonders usually do not make sense to us. In other words, the Infinite is incomprehensible to the finite. We need clarity. We sometimes need evidence. If we choose to take our question—How can this be?—to the Source, to God, we ought to trust that God is faithful in offering us what we need to move forward in faithful obedience.
Gabriel answers Mary’s question, not with contempt or criticism, but by giving Mary the clarity she deserves. And Gabriel could have stopped there, but he didn’t.
And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son...
I am not convinced there is such a thing as “blind faith.” That doesn’t mean we don’t ever have to make a “leap of faith,” but more often than not, if we are able to see it, the faithful ask of obedience is often built upon a previously constructed foundation of trust. Gabriel could have simply told Mary that what would happen would happen because of the work of the Holy Spirit and been done with it. However, Gabriel tells Mary about Elizabeth. Elizabeth serves as Mary’s faithful foundation, a gentle reminder that Mary is not alone in her wondrous journey. For nothing will be impossible with God.
I’m learning that one of the spiritual by-products, if you will, of this season of Advent are the gifts of clarity and discernment. As we wait, we will have questions. The discipline that arises out of this waiting period is to take those questions of how can this be directly to God, rather than leaning on our own understanding. God will be faithful when we don't know (as Mary didn't often know). Perhaps God will call to our minds the Elizabeths in our lives. And in all this, God will offer us what we need for us to offer up a radical, obedient YES.
Inspired by Mary’s radical act of surrender—her YES—allow me to share with you a poem I crafted as a prayerful meditation.
Yes, Yes, and Amen
Resting in open hands are every shred,
every morsel of every sincere YES:
thrown with care into the heavens.
Each act of surrender, no matter
how insignificant, showers down
on me with wonder. I consent not
to grasp each fragment, foolishly
believing this time, this time,
I have control of scattered graces.
Little did I know, this confetti crafted
with submission was heralding in
an invitation to a party of a lifetime.