The Dawn of a New Day

In the dark of night, the sky gives no hints that the sun will rise again. And yet we look with expectancy for another day to come. We remember the reliable regularity of a sun that rises in the sky every day of our lives.

In the earliest moments of dawn, the darkness must give way to the unstoppable light that fills the heavens. Advent comes to the weary pilgrims, crossing the crushing expanse of night. Like the promise of a coming dawn, it reminds those with crushed dreams and broken hearts that the Son has come, is coming and will come again.

I have known darkness that clouds and fills the lungs with smothering despair. And by God’s unspeakable grace, I have seen the light of a day that I thought might never come again. This advent I remember, and I rest in the utter faithfulness of my Creator.

The Dawn of a New Day

In the dark of night, the sky gives no hints that the sun will rise again. And yet we look with expectancy for another day to come. We remember the reliable regularity of a sun that rises in the sky every day of our lives.

In the earliest moments of dawn, the darkness must give way to the unstoppable light that fills the heavens. Advent comes to the weary pilgrims, crossing the crushing expanse of night. Like the promise of a coming dawn, it reminds those with crushed dreams and broken hearts that the Son has come, is coming and will come again.

I have known darkness that clouds and fills the lungs with smothering despair. And by God’s unspeakable grace, I have seen the light of a day that I thought might never come again. This advent I remember, and I rest in the utter faithfulness of my Creator.

Meeting Jesus on the Road to Die

Paul met Jesus. Crossing a plain in the fiery sun, he fell under the piercing reality of heavenly light. He encountered Jesus in ways that time and space cannot contain, and Paul’s word could never fully explain.

Paul met Jesus.

He communed with Lord of all creation in the crushing blows of affliction. Beaten, stoned, left for dead, this broken man despaired of life, assuming his body had been given over to death.

Paul met Jesus in the cruel betrayal of trusted friends. The loved ones that he had invested his life into abandoned, rejected and turned their backs on this weak fool. As a humiliated captive paraded before a jeering world, Paul lived the words, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me.”

Paul met Jesus—not simply in third heaven visions of rapturous glory but in the embodied communion of suffering. As he fell forward into a lived death, Paul discovered another, deeper, richer communion. Beneath the pain of the cross, Paul met Jesus in the living comfort of God’s ever-consoling Spirit.

There is a life discovered only in death.

In the midst of affliction and comfort, Paul met Jesus in the prayers of God’s people. Even as Paul entered into a communion of love with the Savior, he discovered another communion as well: the sweet and mysterious communion with the frailty of God’s people. For the Spirit of Communion bound Paul with God and with God’s people.

In his journey to far country, Paul discovered a mystery the Savior prayed for his disciples before leaving. were called out of darkness and into light. They were called to be the friends of God.

The friending of God and God’s people is revealed in the weakness of suffering, of betrayal, of loneliness, of the cross. For we truly must love one another as Christ loved us. In his gracious love, the Spirit of God leads us to the place of the skull.

This is not a cruel joke, but a mystery of love that frees us from an exclusive self love that can never know the sweet bonds of communion. In weakness and death, we can finally embody the reality of a love that cannot die, that cannot be quenched, that cannot fail. We discover a love the Savior calls “everlasting life.”

In both agony and ecstasy, we are bound to the Lord by the Spirit, and yet not to the Lord alone but to the Lord’s people.

Each of us are graced to know Judas and Peter. The fellowship of God, the Holy Spirit, ministers to us the wounds of the cross through Judas and Peter. And yet one, in the mystery of love, will become the friend who sticks closer than a brother. The betrayer will become the lover.

The mystery of this gospel is that it is not carved in stone. It is not forged in immoveable forms that cannot change. Rather, it is stamped on the weakness of the human heart. The same heart that is fickle, untrustworthy, deceitful, and selfish. And onto this weak form is stamped the beauty of a love that will survive death and burn eternal.

As we stumble toward Golgotha, let us embrace those who have forsaken us. Some like Judas will run away. But others like Peter will become the rock upon which a communion that cannot be shaken will be formed.

Let us know the bonds of communion in suffering and comfort, in joy and sorrow, in betrayal and love. May the Spirit of Communion fulfill the great and wondrous prayer that we all might be one even as the Father, the Son and the Spirit are one.

The Spirit of Christmas

Each year, I hear at least one person say, “Are you in the Christmas spirit?” Or another might say, “I just don’t feel like Christmas this year.” Year after year the refrain rolls on. I’m not always sure what the “Christmas spirit” is or feels like. But I think it has something to do with the anticipation and wonder experienced by many children.

Of course, most children live in a state of wonder from moment to moment. They might spend hours playing with their Christmas toys or they might spend hours playing with the boxes that held the Christmas toys.

Unfortunately most adults live in a world divorced from wonder, so naturally the Christmas spirit might seem elusive. Just as the anticipation of the tooth fairy, the hopes of finding a leprechaun, or the delight of a refrigerator box might also seem elusive.

Advent provides us a season for turning our hearts toward that yearning for the coming of the Lord. In some sense, this yearning may actually hold the key to rediscovering that wonder. That yearning is like the yearning for Narnia after having tasted of that world. When the children return home, Narnia seems so close:

And the memory of that moment stayed with them always, so that as long as they both lived, if ever they were sad or afraid or angry, the thought of all that golden goodness, and the feeling that it was still there, quite close, just round some corner or just behind some door, would come back and make them sure, deep down inside, that all was well. (The Magician's Nephew)

This yearning may help us to realize that heaven is closer than we think. But to fully grasp the yearning as well as the “Christmas spirit,” we first may have to face the bittersweet depth the Christmas tale, and not simply a flattened two-dimensional image.

This season I soaked myself in the stories and in the songs. Many of older carols are sung in minor keys and ring out less “holly jolly” and more “ransom captive Israel.” In other words, the songs and stories both carry a deep undercurrent of anguish.

While we paint a “happy go lucky” glaze across the top of our Christmas celebrations that is not anything like the spirit of Christmas. It is more like an eruption of holy laughter ringing out in the midst of a darkening night of grief.

The older carols capture this ominous sense. Listen to the hard rhythms and images of this old song:

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Bleak, moan, hard as iron, stone. All these images suggest a world gripped by the cold darkness of a winter that goes deeper than mere seasons. It is the winter of the soul that freezes our spirits, kills our wonder, eliminates our faith, drains our hope, and leaves us faltering in despair. This is the setting for the Christmas tale.

The Nativity story crashes contrasting images and emotions. Earthy vulgar shepherds behold heavenly glorious angels. Light blazes in the midst of a dark night. Simeon warns Mary that a sword will pierce her heart as well. The cry of baby Jesus is eventually drowned out by the cry of the weeping mothers of Ramah who cannot be comforted because Herod slaughtered their children. Joseph and Mary escape to Egypt, sparing the baby God.

Though the angels proclaim, “Fear not!” There seems much to fear. The world Jesus is born into instantly reveals its hatred for God and its desire to kill and destroy anything that would challenge its flight into darkness.

In light of the tale, how do we respond to the angels’ wondrous proclamation, “Peace on earth, goodwill to man!” The Christmas tale never takes the suffering of this world lightly. It does not brush over the pain and anguish caused by evil. This evil manifests in criminals, in war, in governments and rulers like Herod, but it also manifests in each human heart: in my human heart.

Evil strikes out within every human heart. Each of us suffers, yet each of us causes suffering. It is to this dark night of human existence that a child comes. It is in this bleak mid-winter that a stable will suffice.

The joy that rings out at Christmas is the joy of the ransomed heart. It is the joy of the soul who is not forsaken, not left out in the cold, not abandoned by the Savior. This joy is not tempered by pain and suffering around us; instead this joy blazes ever brighter as the dark seems to grow even darker.

Thus Chesterton really is right when he says that “Man chooses when he wishes to be most joyful the very moment when the whole material universe is most sad.” So the Christmas spirit is not something that gently comes upon us like a warm hug. Rather it is a defiant spirit that chooses to rejoice when the world say no.

Yes the world is suffering. Yes there is pain and hatred and cruelty and selfishness all around. Yes even our very Christmas celebration is turned into a parody with layers and layers of absurd marketing ploys. And yet even these cannot stop us from singing. We raise the banner of Christmas like warriors fighting off the coldness of unbelief and cynicism. And like Habakkuk of old, we proclaim,

Though the fig tree may not blossom,
Nor fruit be on the vines;
Though the labor of the olive may fail,
And the fields yield no food;
Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,
And there be no herd in the stalls—
Yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
I will joy in the God of my salvation.
The LORD God is my strength;
He will make my feet like deer’s feet,
And He will make me walk on my high hills.
(Hab 3:17)

Christmas is a feast. Not because we feel good or warm or happy. It is a feast because we choose to rejoice when our world has lost its way. We choose to dance, to play, to laugh and to celebrate the infant whose cross-shaped love will triumph over all. And as we do, we might discover a world of wonder “just around the corner.” We might just be converted into little children: for only then can we enter the kingdom of heaven.

Advent Peace

The songs we sing to celebrate this season carry profound messages of hope and possibility in the midst of dark nights and sometimes even darker days. One song that captured my heart last week is the familiar “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”

For many of us, the words of the first verse echo easily through our minds after years and years of singing:
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious night of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heavens’ all gracious King;”
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

This verse brings to mind the stories of childhood: shepherds in the field; Mary and Joseph in the stable; a glorious display of heavenly light as angels proclaim the good tidings of heaven. These images make me feel warm and safe—like the world is all right.

But the world is not all right.

It is easy to sentimentalize the sweetness of the angelic images and forget the arresting power of the song. Verse three paints a picture much closer to home:

Yet with woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife
And hear the angels sing.

We may sing of Christmas cheer, but our world aches of war and rumors of war.

War infects this world. Each moment on earth reveals more cruelty, more hatred, more human aggression. Nation attacks nation. One race fights another race. Fathers turn against sons and sons turn against fathers. Brothers kill brothers; lovers deceive lovers. And even the human heart divides against itself. We are at war: inside and out.

Beneath our bullets, our fists, our angry hearts, a soft refrain persists:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heavens’ all gracious King;”

During Advent, we pause to hear the steady plainchant that reminds generation after generation after generation: peace is coming. Unmoved by our constant striving, the promise of peace continues to echo and ripple into the fabric of all creation.

Advent reminds us to stop, to wait, to watch, to listen. For the Prince of Peace has come, is coming and comes even now. As we behold him, we are changed. Like the lonely shepherds, we rise up and follow. We follow the infant king to the place of peace: the cross.

Yes, even as we rejoice in the birth of a baby, we cannot ignore the death of a Savior. The path to Bethlehem ends at Calvary. The Advent wind whispers, calling us to follow the true Peacemaker into the ways of peace, into the place of cross.

Peace begins not with a treaty, not with a protest, not with gunshot, but with a cross. We embrace the place of death, laying down our rights, our needs, our glory, our importance, our name, our reputation. We lay down our lives. And in the wonder of Advent, we discover His life and His peace flowing out through us in love.

Come O Advent King. We are weary and worried. The war inside us breaks out all around us. We hurt the ones we love. We betray our friends. Our world reflects our hearts. We suffer and we cause those around us to suffer. Have mercy upon us. Lead us in the way of peace. May we sing, may we live, may we embody the angel song:

For lo! The days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years,
Shall come the time foretold
When the whole heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace their king
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.