The Devil in Our Desert

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days He was tempted by the devil. (Luke 4.1-2)

No Arguments, No Equivocation

I’d always been “the skinny kid” until middle age kicked me in the gut. And it was some kick. The men on both sides of my family bear their excess weight around the middle. So that’s where mine collected. Gradually, my 30-inch waist rounded up to 36. A six-inch expansion over two decades may not seem like much to a lot of folks. But it was shameful to me, as it signified lack of discipline. I wasn’t fighting temptation’s power over me. Worse yet, when I considered the only alternative—diet and exercise—I consciously surrendered to temptation. Even though I knew my behavior wasn’t healthy, I had all kinds of rationale for attitudes and behaviors that masked unwillingness to resist temptation as defiance.

First, there was the notion that monitoring my diet and working out wasn’t “me.” I’d never had to do either one. How dare changes in body chemistry force me to change! Second, I abhorred the gay stereotype of the calorie-counting gym rat. I’ve always viewed that as an indicator of vanity in some, insecurity in others. Yet it grew increasingly obvious that “defiance” of the aging process and cultural stereotypes was harming me. My corkscrew logic didn’t work. I knew that. And I had to stop pretending I didn’t.

In January, Walt announced, “We’re getting you back in shape.” Because I know he loves me—will always love me—regardless of my physique, I knew his motives were pure. What’s more, he sealed the deal by saying, “We’re going to do this together.” Now Walt has never battled his weight. So volunteering to take this journey with me moved me to act. He threw out all the junk food and assumed the onerous task of ensuring we get to the gym every day. Then we had a long talk about my behavior when he’s not around—when I’m traveling, for instance, and he’s not there to monitor what I do. “You have to commit to making right choices on your own,” he said. “When that little voice tells you it’s okay because I’m not there, you have to shut it down. No arguments. No equivocation. Just, ‘No!’” So far, things are going well. It’s not always easy or pleasant. But now that I’ve fixed my attitude, I’ve discovered overcoming temptation is its own act of defiance—the kind of defiance that chooses health over harm, strength of mind over weakness of body. If all goes well, in a few months’ time, I should be back to my old self again. Except for one big difference: getting the “real me” back will require the “current me” to change. That’s what I’m learning with each new day.

Right Choices

When we open Sunday’s Gospel (Luke 4.1-13) to read of Jesus’s wilderness temptation, we take stock of what’s actually happening. He’s just left the Jordan, where God has audibly claimed Him as God’s chosen Son. He’s never been more sure of Who He is. The stories of His miraculous conception and birth, His adolescent curiosity about godly things—all of it suddenly makes sense. And when the Spirit steers Him into the desert, He brings more than certainty of Self with Him. Based on His future encounters with the Pharisees, we know Jesus is deeply suspicious of religious stereotypes. Before He begins His ministry, He will need to reconcile the singularity of His calling with the context of His culture. It is essential that He present the “real” Jesus to the world, rather than merely defy the appearance and trappings of religious norms.

Jesus knows that God loves Him without measure. He knows God will stay with Him during this struggle. (If He doubts any of this, why go into the desert at all?) Yet, as the story advances, it’s obvious that Jesus is led into the wilderness to test His ability to make the right choices on His own. In the temptations put before Him one hears the tempter say, “You’re out here by Yourself. No one need ever know You’ve had a few momentary lapses. Why put Yourself through this?” The devil is very crafty in designing specific challenges for Jesus—three in all, each targeting a potential weakness: confidence of Self that suggests He can eat anything He pleases; the promise of commanding worldly respect by defying stereotype; and the opportunity to prove His faith in God by forcing God to rescue Him. The nature of these temptations may not reflect those we normally face. But they’re transparent in their attempts to destroy Jesus. He sees through the scam. He knows what’s promised can never be delivered. Once the devil is convinced Jesus’s faith is secure, he leaves—although Luke ends story on an ominous note, saying the struggle will resume at a more “opportune time.”

Our Responsibility

What does this story say about our lives, the tests we undergo, and the Lenten journey we undertake? First, there will be times when the Spirit leads into wildernesses where we’re tempted, intentionally to teach us the importance of making right choices. God goes with us, but leaves the decisions solely to us. Simply knowing we’re God’s beloved children doesn’t exempt us from tests. And when we’re tested, we’re wise not to dismiss it lightly. Because we’ve been immune to temptation’s harms in the past doesn’t guarantee immunity. Because we’ve never had problems with certain attitudes and behaviors doesn’t mean they will never be problematic. And we must be very conscious that we’re every bit as vulnerable as anyone else to vanities and insecurities we want to defy. We have to make right choices. It doesn’t matter who is or isn’t watching. Every decision carries real consequences that can reshape us into people we were never meant to be.

The devil in our desert knows us all too well. It knows the games we play to justify unhealthy thoughts and actions. It knows that God’s protection stops short of preventing us from harming ourselves. That’s our responsibility. Yet while decisions we make are ours alone, we are not alone. We combat the diabolical voice that says, “It’s okay—nobody’s looking,” with our Maker’s voice. Not only during Lent, but always, we hear God say, “Let’s get you into shape.” When we’re tested, we follow Jesus’s example. No arguments. No equivocation. Just, ‘No!’” Too often yielding to temptation masks itself as a better choice than doing the hard of work of self-denial and spiritual exercise. But in the end, it’s a lousy decision and we eventually discover that getting back to the “real us” will require the “current us” to change. We choose health over harm, strength of mind over weakness of body. It’s a lesson we learn and relearn with each new day.

The devil in our desert knows us all too well and targets our potential weaknesses. What we do in response to temptation is a choice we must make on our own.

Resonance and Power

He must increase, but I must decrease. (John 3.30)

Our pastor opened her Ash Wednesday reflection this year with the story of a priest who asked his congregation, “What’s the difference between a stick in the mud and a flute?” After they pondered the riddle for a moment, he told them. “A stick in the mud is full of itself. But a flute has been emptied out to make music.” The metaphor was obvious. Lent is the time when we consciously empty ourselves out so that God’s Spirit can blow through us and transform our lives into song. Yet it occurred to me that I knew very little about how a flute works. So I looked it up and learned something very interesting.

The flute’s hollowed-out chamber is called a “resonator.” As air travels through the passageway, it’s directed across a series of holes that causes the air inside it to vibrate. The player changes the pitch by blocking the holes to alter the resonator's length and its corresponding frequency. This is why piccolos—basically, half-sized flutes—emit higher, somewhat shriller tones, while longer flutes have a lower, mellower register. So it turns out the keys have little to do with the depth and volume of a flute’s melody. It's not about what comes out of the flute, but what happens inside it. The more room a flute provides for its player’s breath, the more power it possesses and the more resonant its music becomes.

Of course, we know sticks in the mud make no music. Being full of themselves, they have no resonance. Worse still, they’re already dead and don’t know it. They’ve fallen from the tree that gave them life. They stand, not in their own strength, but in the muck and mire collected around them. If they make any sound at all, it’s the crack of being snapped in two to or the crackle of being tossed onto a fire.

Some time after he baptizes Jesus, John the Baptist’s disciples inform him that Jesus has started baptizing people on His own. He’s having great success, which alarms the Baptist’s followers. But John immediately discerns the situation. To challenge Jesus would indicate he’s full of himself. He will become useless to Jesus—a stick in the mud who’s lost touch with God’s purpose. “He must increase,” John says. “But I must decrease.” John empties himself out so the resonance of the Gospel can flow through him.

The less of us—our will, pride, and self—there is, the more melodious our lives become. In this season of emptying out, we examine ourselves thoroughly, searching for blockages that impede the flow of God’s Spirit in our lives. We get out of our own way to allow God to have God’s way. The less of us there is, the more resonant and powerful our music will be.

Awestruck

I am fearfully and wonderfully made. (Psalm 139.14)

The psalmist ponders the care and thought God invested in creating him and he’s awestruck. “I am fearfully made!” he sings. The utter genius of his physiology and all of its functions flabbergast him. But it’s more than that. It’s how his body has been shaped to house the mind and spirit God placed in him. We are God’s finest creation—God’s ultimate masterpiece. And each of us is all of a piece. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God, and that you are not your own?” Paul asks in 1 Corinthians 6.19. We must know that. And we must respect the truth of our making, accepting who we are and what we’ve been given. We are fearfully—perfectly—made so that we can witness our awesome God’s perfection in the world. We are made to love, to bless, to honor, to serve God and our neighbors. We are not broken, incomplete, or misshapen in any way. We are mirrors of our Maker: awesome, perfect, miraculous, and complete. Everything about us is fearfully made.

Where Does This Come From?

Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be born from above.” The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit. (John 3.7-8)

An Eternal, God-Like Life

Indulge me as I delight in a bit of pride. The older of my two nephews, Zach, graduated high school this weekend—in typical Zach style, I might add, not making a big deal of his achievements (which are many), but with eyes focused straight ahead. Next autumn Zach will enter college to prepare for a life of ministry. This will be the fourth generation of Wolfes who, in some shape or form, have dedicated their lives to the Gospel. Our family’s joy knows no bounds.

My sister-in-law, Renée (herself a minister’s daughter), and I were talking about Zach and she told me, “When he announced he felt called to ministry, of course we were pleased. But we were also surprised. We’ve never pushed our boys in that direction. They’ve always been free to find their own way. And so, when Zach told us how he was being led, we knew it was real.” (Alex, my younger nephew, will graduate middle school later this month and has already expressed a desire to enter medicine—another ministry, to be sure, and the continuance of another family tradition.) As we discussed the boys’ aspirations, Renée and I wondered where does this compulsion to serve God and others come from. “I honestly don’t know,” she said. Neither do I.

By no means is the question unique to our family. Indeed, each of us witnesses the same desire to honor God’s purpose in ways that benefit those around us. Something inside you and me compels us to follow Jesus—to study His teachings, to emulate His example, to live in ways that fulfill His promises. It’s an inchoate longing whose origins run deeper than upbringing or need for a governing set of life principles. It is something altogether amazing that God imbeds our beings long before they take shape. It springs from precognitive awareness of a new life—a transcendent life—that Christ makes possible in each of us, a seeking life, a richer life, a better life beyond mundane existence. It’s an eternal, God-like life that, as Jesus explains in Sunday’s Gospel (John 3.1-17), is born of God’s Spirit.

A Bold, Completely New Idea

Nicodemus—whose nighttime visit occasions Jesus’s comments—is a seeker. And John wants us to know that he comes to Jesus from a rare place. Nicodemus is a Pharisee, “a leader of the Jews” (v1), meaning that he’s mastered a theological construct that prides itself on having figured everything out. Yet the Pharisaical tradition also puts great value in asking questions, and something down deep in Nicodemus alerts him that he hasn’t found all the answers. Everything he’s seen and heard from Jesus tells him there’s more to know. So Nicodemus calls on this Rabbi Whose preaching radically diverges from the Pharisee tradition in hopes of launching a new period of discovery in his life. At great personal risk (which explains his decision to meet Jesus under cover of night), Nicodemus is compelled to find out where Jesus is coming from. If he can pin Jesus down, perhaps he can identify the origins of his own hunger for something greater than a religiously and morally doctrinaire life.

From the first, Jesus’s message has been this: “The kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” (Mark 1.15) How near? In Luke 17.20-21, Jesus explains: “The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There it is!’ For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among [or within] you.” Jesus senses the stirrings of God’s kingdom within Nicodemus and wastes no time telling the Pharisee what he needs to know. In John 3.3, He says, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” This revelation throws Nicodemus. First, it tells him that their conversation is not going to go per expectation. Jesus isn’t going to parse Old Testament texts in the grand rabbinical tradition. Here is a bold, completely new idea—something Nicodemus has never encountered before—and the adept theologian can’t quite wrap his head around it. Born from above (or “anew,” or “again”)? What does that mean?


The Very Breath of God

Jesus enlightens Nicodemus. “What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit,” He says. (v6) Mortal birth brings us into the world. But there’s more, much more, to life than biological existence. The Spirit of God gives birth to our spirits—the very breath of God that inspires our beings—and that new life comes out of us, enabling us to gain entrance to God’s kingdom. Jesus tells Nicodemus it’s entirely possible to live in a world that transcends the physical; once we acknowledge the Spirit’s presence within us, we’re transformed. We obtain eternal life—life as lived by God, as God desires, life devoted to building God’s kingdom on earth, a kingdom of love, peace, justice, and harmony. 


Thus, this spiritual birth brings with it a compulsion to live in ways that supersede natural living. Indeed, it’s a peculiarly unnatural way of life that places love for God above all else and love for others on par with love of self. So, while we recognize the deeper, richer, and truer life that results from this compulsion, its beginnings will always remain a mystery. And Jesus appears perfectly comfortable with that. “Don’t be astonished that I said, ‘You must be born from above,’” he stresses to Nicodemus. “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (v7-8)

Something Within

We don’t need to fully understand where this comes from. We will never be able to identify what compels us to love God and others, what drives us to seek justice and peace not only for ourselves, but also for anyone who’s denied them. The passage ends with Nicodemus not really getting the answers he came looking for. Instead, Jesus gives him something far more glorious and essential. He assures the Pharisee that what drives his desire for more than mundane existence is a godly gift. His search brings him to the door of God’s kingdom and belief in a Spirit-born life is all that’s required to enter. “For God so loved the world that God gave God’s only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him may not perish, but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through Him,” Jesus says. (v16-17) This mysterious compulsion that inspires young people to pursue lives of faithful ministry and all believers to live out Christ’s teachings and example does not—and cannot—end in condemnation. It leads to eternal life.

Understanding new life in Christ has no bearing on our ability to experience it. In fact, we should celebrate the mystery of our faith-ignited compulsion as the first sign of life it creates—a life that defies logical explanation and makes real God’s kingdom in us. And as I ponder the singular beauty of this irrevocably transformed, unnatural lifestyle, I’m reminded of a hymn that Zach’s great-grandfather often sang to his father and me. With my brother, Steve, perched on one side and me on the other, Papa Wolfe would rock us gently in the backyard swing as he sang:

Something within me that holdeth the rein

Something within me that banishes pain

Something within me I cannot explain

All that I know, there is something within

Have you that something, that burning desire?

Have you that something that never doth tire?

If you have it, that heavenly fire

Let the world know there is something within

There is something within. That’s all that we know. And just knowing that is enough.

Something within us—something we can’t fully understand or source—compels us to lead Spirit-born lives.

Postscript: "Something Within Me"

Here’s Take 6’s jubilant rendition of Papa Wolfe’s hymn, “Something Within Me,” admittedly performed with a bit more (though not much) doo-wop swagger than what my brother and I heard as kids.

Note: S-F will return to its “Sitting with Scripture” series on Monday, and continue on weekdays throughout the month of June.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/06/02/where-does-this-come-from/. 

Born into Diversity

All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability… And at this sound the crowd was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. (Acts 2.4,6)

D&I

Not long ago I joined a group of HIV specialists for a diversity and inclusion (D&I) workshop. A group of actors played out a typical meeting scenario, where colleagues felt at ease with one another while discussing business. We were asked to listen closely for “unconscious” signals of inequities and assumptions based on gender, orientation, ethnicity, etc. Some were glaringly inappropriate. But most were extremely subtle and many seemed unintentional. “What we say matters,” the session facilitator told us. “And if we truly want to foster a diverse, inclusive environment, we need to use language that respects differences.” We all nodded in agreement—that’s the perennial moral in D&I training. Yet this session’s emphasis on unconscious breeches left us uneasy. Is never offending possible if one doesn’t always realize his/her language gives offense? As we wrestled with this idea, the gentleman next to me sighed, “Sometimes I think this stuff asks too much. As hard as you try, you can’t get it 100% right.”

Which brings us to Pentecost and why commemorating this major event—often called the “birth of the Church”—is so essential. While the gift of the Holy Spirit is, without question, the greatest miracle ever bestowed on the Body of Christ, it comes in such a way as to remove all doubt that God intends the Church to be a radically diverse and inclusive community. That is the second Pentecostal miracle, and it’s one we should celebrate to the full. When we revisit the extraordinary goings-on in Acts 2.1-21, we see more than fulfillment of Jesus’s promise to provide a Comforter to care for His followers. We witness a definitive declaration that forever throws open the doors of the Church to all people. In a gust of violent wind and fiery flashes, the Holy Spirit blows away every thought of exclusion and burns up any presumption that this great gift belongs to a select few. And how does the Spirit manifest this miracle? It uses language—unconscious language that speaks to everyone, believer and non-believer alike.

Above Their Limitations

Before we get to how this happens, suppose we glance around the Upper Room to see who’s there. We find a group of regular folks with no social or political agenda. We’d be hard-pressed to label them “progressives,” as they have no voice in their culture and what we’ve observed of them in the Gospels reveals decidedly shallow understanding of the world’s ways. What’s more, they’re surrounded by uncertainty. Their Leader has vanished into thin air. His recent execution puts them on the wrong side of history, leaving them vulnerable to persecution and potential death. Once again, they’re behind closed doors, just as they were after the crucifixion, waiting for something—who knows what, exactly—to offer them guidance. They’re afraid. And since fear is the root of bigotry and suspicion, we can safely say the 120 who faithfully anticipate the Holy Spirit’s descent are a diversity train wreck waiting to happen. The barriers discouraging acceptance of outsiders are seemingly insurmountable and if they’re to realize Jesus’s command to reach the entire world, they’ll have to rise above their limitations. So the first thing the Spirit changes is their language.

“All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability,” Acts 2.4 reports. This phenomenon—glossolalia, or “speaking in tongues”—becomes the Church’s calling card. Verses 6-8 tell us, “At this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?’” Verse 11 lists 15 different nationalities that are present and hear the Upper Room believers “speaking about God’s deeds of power.” And we should be very clear here. This is not ecstatic gibberish or personal “prayer languages” that the crowd hears. It’s a linguistic miracle that simultaneously confesses and verifies the Holy Spirit’s presence in the disciples’ faith community. It employs transformed speech to tear down cultural walls and overcome every fear that prohibits inclusion. Now the apostolic commission is achievable just as Christ said it would be: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be My witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1.8) Not only does the Spirit equip Christ’s followers to walk the walk; it empowers them to talk the talk.

Welcoming Witness

In no uncertain terms, Pentecost confirms that the Church is born into diversity. The Holy Spirit’s manifest presence in the Body of Christ erases all borders and rejects any possible excuse for religious rejection. It enjoins us to abandon all conscious reasoning for exclusion so we may speak God’s power to “the ends of the earth.” It makes a welcoming witness available to every believer—a spiritual language that resonates with people of every creed and kind. It is our Mother Tongue and when we revert to insular, exclusionary dialects, we make a mockery of this amazing communication skill that God has entrusted to us.

Pentecost unites us in a language of love that transforms how we view others and what we say to them. It’s the antidote to “unconscious” signals that defeat diversity and inclusion, as it, too, should be unconscious. It should come so naturally to us that we embrace everyone we meet without reservation. “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal,” Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 13.1. And in Luke 6.45 Jesus says, “The good person out of the good treasure of the heart produces good, and the evil person out of evil treasure produces evil; for it is out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaks.” The inexplicable clamor that ushers in the Holy Spirit isn’t what Pentecost is about. Pentecost is proof of what happens when we yield ourselves to the Holy Spirit’s enabling power to express God’s all-inclusive, unconditional love to everyone who will listen.

When the astounded foreigners ask, “What does this mean?” (v12) Peter explains that it’s the fulfillment of God’s promise to “pour out My Spirit upon all flesh.” (v17; emphasis added) And he wraps up his explanation by telling those who’ve gathered to find out what’s going on: “The promise is for you, your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls.” (v39) All flesh… you, your children… all who are far away… everyone. Sure sounds like radical D&I to me.

The second miracle of Pentecost is manifest when the Holy Spirit transforms the disciples’ speech so that diversity and inclusion barriers fall at the moment of the Church’s birth.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/05/26/born-into-diversity/

Repost: Comfort

Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and proclaim to her that her hard service has been completed, that her sin has been paid for, that she has received from the LORD’s hand double for all her sins. (Isaiah 40.1-2)

A Deep Breath

The 40-day period between the Resurrection and Ascension intrigues me. The Gospels and Acts report several interactions between Jesus and His disciples, but we don’t observe Him doing much beyond issuing last-minute instructions. While Paul asserts one of these encounters involves 500 people (1 Corinthians 15.6), neither the Gospels nor Acts chronicle it. He spends His final days on Earth behind the scenes, preparing His closest followers to continue His ministry after He leaves. And there’s no record anywhere of a major public appearance where He announces He’s risen to life to the masses. This strikes us as a bit surprising, since Christianity hinges on faith in Jesus’s resurrection. We might think He’d seize every chance to be seen by as many as possible—until it occurs to us if His resurrection were a verifiable fact, faith would be irrelevant. Jesus stays out of the public eye because His mission centers on ending our reliance on what we know by requiring us to trust what God says. “Whoever believes shall have eternal life,” He says in John 3.16.

Instead of an historically definitive event, the pivotal moment comes in John 20.21-22: “Again Jesus said, ‘Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.’ And with that he breathed on them and said, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” He uses a fairly innocuous gesture to transfer power to the disciples. He inspires them exactly as God first inspired humanity. With one breath, He fills them with His presence, His gifts, nature, and authority. Jesus explains they’re receiving the Holy Spirit—the Comforter Who, as He promised, “will guide you into all truth.” (John 16.13) Yet note why He breathes the Holy Spirit into them: “I am sending you.” The Spirit’s comfort and counsel aren’t only for the disciples’ edification. Henceforth, they carry It with them wherever they go and express It in calm assurance conveyed in their demeanor and words. They’re now able to bring Christ’s presence to any situation and change the atmosphere around it with no more than a deep breath.

A Most Unusual Message

When God directs Isaiah to “comfort My people… Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,” He’s invoking the prophet’s capacity to bring solace and clarity to Israel’s turmoil. Repeatedly God has pressed God's people to obey and repeatedly they’ve failed. By the time Isaiah comes on the scene, their stubbornness has pummeled them with sorrow. Recovering from 70 years of exile and hardship, they’re punch-drunk, exhausted, and despondent as they see their hope, like Jerusalem itself, lay in ruins. In times past, prophets predicted doom and destruction if Israel didn’t mend its ways. But God calls Isaiah to restore the nation’s faith and ease its worries. God commands the prophet to proclaim their troubles are ending, their sins are forgiven, and God's repaying their repentance twice over with God's love and mercy. This is a most unusual message delivered by a most unusual prophet who views his responsibilities in a most unusual manner.

Isaiah describes his mission this way: “The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.” (61.1) His compassion is so remarkable Jesus quotes him verbatim to define His ministry in Luke 4.18. And He essentially condenses it when He breathes on the disciples. He endows them with the Holy Spirit and sends them into the world to preach, to heal, to liberate people in distress. “Comfort my people; speak tenderly to them,” God tells Isaiah. Jesus vests the disciples with the Comforter so they can do the same.

Tenderly

We too have drawn the breath of Christ into our beings. We’ve also received the Holy Spirit and been sent into the world. We too can provide solace and clarity to troubled lives. Because the Comforter dwells in us, we have the capacity to make Its presence felt in every situation we enter. The confidence expressed in our behavior and the words we speak—words carried on inspired breath—have the ability to change the atmosphere around us. Yet if we limit our perceptions of what the Spirit within us can do and how we manifest Its power to our problems alone, we negate Jesus’s purpose for giving It to us.

We’ve received a most unusual message that must be delivered in a most unusual way. Our faith in Christ’s resurrection convinces us of His power to restore life. We’ve experienced it in our own lives. Thus, there are no lost causes and no one is beyond redemption. It’s our privilege to comfort God’s people—to assure them God has their problems in hand, God's forgiven them and will repay the costs of their mistakes twice over. Though much of their anxiety results from stubborn disregard for God, others, and themselves, we honor our calling to comfort them by resisting urges to confront or condemn them. “Brutal honesty” is an oxymoron; since it justifies wounding someone’s spirit as a method of healing, it’s patently dishonest. It’s best we leave that sort of “comfort” to self-deluded haters and old-school prophets. We provide comfort in a manner that pleases our Maker and reflects the Comforter’s presence in us—in a word, tenderly.

God of tender, loving kindness, make the Comforter's presence in us vividly known to us. May words of compassion, mercy, and healing come as naturally to us as our breath. Impress on us Your will that we comfort Your people. Amen.

Originally posted 12/12/09.

We speak tender words that neither confront nor condemn. We comfort.

Postscript: "Comfort Ye My People"

Possibly my favorite piece from the Messiah. Other than that "Hallelujah" tune, of course, and "Lift Up Your Heads," and "Surely He Hath Borne Our Grief," and... Oh, never mind.

Nurseries

I pray that, according to the riches of God’s glory, God may grant that you be strengthened in your inner being with power through God’s Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love. (Ephesians 3.16-17)

A Very Real Nerve

It would verge on dishonesty to say Walt and I have ever seriously considered having children. Our temperaments and professions predispose us to a rather freewheeling manner of life incompatible with sound parenting. For the sake of all concerned, we leave the most important task any human can undertake to those better equipped to succeed. Still, the question pops up now and then, posed by friends who insist we’d be great parents. We ceased trying to debunk that myth long ago. Now we deflect the suggestion by admitting this much: the nursery would be spectacular. We’re both remarkably adept at short-sprint projects, and we can envision throwing our entire energy (and a hefty chunk of our resources) into creating a lavishly outfitted home for a newborn. But a child isn’t a design accessory; it’s a lifetime commitment, which neither of us is convinced we have stamina or tenacity to fulfill.

Lack of parental experience—and, I suppose, instinct—narrows my access to the Nativity. While those who’ve brought life into the world intuitively project their experiences onto the story, we who’ve not known what that’s like can only objectify its joys and uncertainties. We see them, but we don’t quite feel them. On the other hand, Advent’s anticipation and preparation for a forthcoming event touches a very real nerve in all of us. Each of us has looked down a long road, pinpointed a destination, and met with pleasure and frustration in getting there. For me, Advent invariably brings to mind nursery building—not from having done it, but from knowing what it entails. Most of all, I find it to be a powerful metaphor. For what is Advent if not the time to contemplate and construct a home in which the newborn Christ can dwell?

In Us

The Christ Child enters the human narrative from multiple angles. By divine right, He assumes His role in history as its most dominant figure. He also takes His place in His immediate world, where His birth summons the attention of shepherds and kings. In terms of Israel’s Messianic scheme, the nature of His nativity secures His prophetic bona fides—ultimately qualifying Him to redefine the Messiah not as a Deliverer Who founds an earthly kingdom, but as the Door through which we usher God’s kingdom on Earth. Regarding our relationship with God, He is the Word made flesh, the mortal manifestation of the forever Divine, Who stands where our consistent failure intersects with God’s constant grace.

On these levels, Jesus’s birth is a singular achievement; it happens through none of our doing. Our participation emerges in faith that Jesus comes to make His home in us. And it’s impossible to overstate how crucial this aspect of God’s great plan is. Without our involvement as vessels that house Christ’s presence, the Nativity’s historic, prophetic, and theological import retains little significance—and no relevance whatsoever. Without us, it’s another myth construed to explain human behavior in a cosmic context. Without us, the Christmas miracle we marvel at is neither miraculous nor marvelous. Jesus comes to make His home in us. That’s what takes our breath away.

A Useful Prototype

Thus, Advent presses us to soberly consider the home we’ll provide the nascent Christ born to live in us. What will our nurseries be like? What must we clear to ensure the Infant’s safekeeping and wellness? What must we add to nurture His growth and development? What will we need to heighten our attentiveness to His demands and cement our bond with Him? These aren’t easy questions with obvious answers. They can only be resolved by prayerful self-honesty (and the pain that often accompanies it), as well as sincere application of Scripture’s counsel as to what housing Christ’s presence requires.

Paul submits an extremely useful prototype in Ephesians 3.16-17: “I pray that, according to the riches of God’s glory, God may grant that you be strengthened in your inner being with power through God’s Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love.” We replace the clutter of human logic and personal doubts by drawing on God’s infinite wealth of inexplicable grace, goodness, and steadfast favor. We partner with the Holy Spirit, Whose comfort and guidance provide inner strength with power to forego codependency on nagging fears and weaknesses. We furnish the Infant’s nursery with faith in Christ as the transformative Agent Who endows our capacity to be His home.

Lastly, Paul informs us while we plan and construct our nurseries—and every day thereafter—we’re being rooted and grounded in love. This dynamic process becomes the defining attribute that identifies us as Christ’s dwelling. First Corinthians 13.4-7 exquisitely portrays love’s behavior, saying it’s patient, kind, not envious, boastful, arrogant, or rude. It doesn’t insist on its own way. It’s not irritable or resentful. It doesn’t praise wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. Being rooted and grounded in these traits guarantees the Christ Child will abide in an authentically loving, trusting, disciplined environment.

Advent’s Mystery

And therein lies Advent’s mystery. It primes us for innumerable contradictions the Christ Child brings to us by seeding contradiction in our preparation to welcome Him. We make a home for Him so He can make His home in us. Inviting Him to dwell in us is how we dwell in Him. We welcome, nurture, and sustain His presence by drawing from it. We defeat dark fears and doubts with transparent trust. We obtain power to believe in Christ through faith in Christ’s power. We open our hearts to ready love by confessing how unready we are to love with open hearts. Nothing about our nurseries makes sense—yet all of it makes sense, starting with the imponderable reality that the unsurpassed possibilities born in Bethlehem remain impossible until they're alive in us. May your nurseries be as glorious as the Child Who dwells in them.

Eternal, Incarnate God, we’d be fools to say we understand any of this. Yet somehow we get it. May Advent fire our passion to make ready a home for You so You may make Your home in us. Inspire us to enlarge on what we’ve already done. Endow us with new courage and creativity to exceed our earlier efforts. Amen.

Advent prepares us to make a home for Christ so that Christ might make a home in us.

Postscript: "Into My Heart"

This sumptuous rendition of the classic children’s hymn says it all.