Pieces of Us

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me. (Psalm 51.10)

With a free afternoon on our hands, Walt and I recently took a guided tour of the Art Institute of Chicago’s Modern Wing. We turned into one of the galleries and the docent pointed to a pile of colorfully wrapped candies spilling out of a corner. She told us the work, by conceptual artist Felix Gonzalez-Torres (1957-96), was called Portrait of Ross. We had no idea what to make of the sculpture until we heard the story behind it.

Ross was Gonzalez-Torres’ life partner. In peak health, he weighed 167 pounds, the same weight of the sculpture when it’s in peak condition. With just this much information, the docent asked us to call out qualities that the artwork conveyed. “Sweet-natured. Colorful. Sparkly. Inviting,” we said. Then she went on with the story. After Ross was afflicted with AIDS, his body grew depleted, as the virus took more and more of him away. The docent invited us to take “pieces of Ross” with us, as a loving testament to his life. Someone asked what happens to the sculpture over time. Does it gradually fade into the corner until the last piece is gone? “Oh no,” she answered. “This isn’t about Ross’s death. It’s a portrait of Gonzalez-Torres’ love for him. We continually restore the candy to its original weight so everyone who visits the museum can draw from Ross’s joyful spirit. It’s a remarkably hopeful work.”

We moved on to other works. But my mind couldn’t release itself from Portrait of Ross. I kept wondering, “If it were a portrait of me, what would it be made of?” I trust there would be a lot candy, a lot of sparkle, a lot of color. But visitors would also need to be told I’m not all sweetness and light. There are hard rocks buried in my pile, along with shards of glass, dead seeds, some needles, and more than a few brightly wrapped bits that carry a tart aftertaste. If my sculpture were to portray any hope at all, it would be that my Maker would sift out the unsavory pieces and substitute them with more delectable morsels—that with each replenishing, the increased portrayal of God’s love would result in more of me becoming a thing worth reaching for.

Lent is our sifting time. In partnership with God, we rummage through our lives and discard pieces of us that don’t reflect the love of our Maker. And as we go through this process, we will feel depleted. But we will not be sifted away. How God sees us is far different than we see ourselves. God sees us as God wants us to be: sweet-natured, colorful, sparkly, inviting. With each sifting, what is taken away is substituted with more delectable morsels. With each replenishing, more of us becomes worth reaching for. Lent’s depletion isn’t about death. It’s a portrait of God’s love for us. It’s remarkably hopeful work.

Still Waiting

It is for you, O LORD, that I wait; it is you, O Lord my God, Who will answer. (Psalm 38.15)

With so few days to go—and so much to get done in those few days—Advent’s charm wears thin. The waiting metaphor is likely to be greeted with a curt “I get it.” The poetry of deep nights and lowering cold and the bright star hung high in the sky grows redundant. The hymns of hope and expectation start feeling a little desperate: how many Sundays can we sing invitations to a Newborn? The carols—early arrivers, one and all—have already got tinny and hollow sounding.

Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.

What little time we have for pondering gets bargained away. A winter storm screws up travel. A sold-out gadget sparks hours of searching to find it elsewhere. Late-breaking additions to the guest list unleash a flurry of adjustments, reworking everything from sleeping arrangements to cookie quantities.

Rum-pum-pum-pum.

We think we have no more time left to wait, even though we really have no choice. And somewhere in our final bursts of energy and to-do-list panic we have to reckon with that. We’re still waiting. We will be kept waiting until the Child arrives. Nothing we can do about it. We can play with the schedule every which way till Tuesday, but it won’t be Christmas until Christ gets here. We wait, not on a date—but for a Savior, Who will come to us at the appointed time and not one moment sooner. In Advent, there is no “almost there.” It’s about getting to where “there” is—to the place where Christ is born in us anew and afresh. Everything up to that point is, well, waiting.

Rum-pum-pum-pum.

In The Westminster Collection of Christian Prayers, John Bell prays:

You keep us waiting. You, the God of all time, want us to wait. For the right time in which to discover who we are, where we are to go, Who will be with us, and what we must do. So thank you… for the waiting time.

So to honor Him

Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum

When we come

Enjoy God

The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them. (Luke 2.20)

Advent’s power derives from entering its long night with complete confidence that dawn will break, restoring our faith in Christ’s ability to bring hope, peace, joy, and love to a cold, dark, and perilously conflicted world. Looking ahead—whether through the prophets’ foresight or the gospels’ accounts—assures us this story will end triumphantly. So, for example, we recall the shepherds’ experience as more than a narrative outcome. It is a promise we reach for that guides and sustains our journey through darkness.

Like the shepherds, we too are summoned out of our night to find the Christ Child. And as happened to them, what we see and hear in Bethlehem will utterly change us. We will return to our lives and labors, “glorifying and praising God,” having encountered anew in the eyes of a newborn Savior the fulfillment of God’s covenant to love and welcome us.

C.S. Lewis once said, “In commanding us to glorify [God], God is inviting us to enjoy [God].” Our journey leads to a place where comfort and confidence in our Maker enables us to revel in God’s infinite wisdom and care. As we travel the road to Bethlehem, rehearsing the prophets’ words and the intricate details that come together to bring light to darkness, we should make time to enjoy what God is doing. Every piece of the puzzle is falling in place. Every moment draws us closer to the realization of what God desires for us.

Christmas wonders that captivate our imagination are given to release our faith in a God Who works wonders in us. The Christ comes to us as a poor, homeless, illegitimate Babe to prove that God longs to dwell in each of us, no matter what our immediate situation or station in life may be. One look at the manger is all we need to see ourselves in a new light—God’s pure and perfect light. Hope will destroy our despair; joy will overcome our sorrow; peace will reign over our turmoil; and love will conquer hatred that rises against us. We will see and hear everything God’s Word has told us. We will return, glorifying and praising God. In the meantime, while we await God’s promises, it’s not too soon—it’s never too soon—to enjoy God’s astounding ability to bring wondrous things to life in us.

Quiet Time

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 1.20)

The Silent One

So much conversation happens in the Christmas narrative! Angels talk Mary and Joseph through the monumental task that befalls them. Mary makes a special trip to discuss the situation with her cousin, Elizabeth. The aged Elizabeth is also pregnant with a son who will grow up to be John the Baptist—a first-rate talker in his own right and the last in a long line of prophets who talk at length of a coming Savior. The Magi deliberate the meaning of the Star and stop by Herod’s palace on their way to Bethlehem for a quick chat with him. After they leave, the king calls a meeting with his top advisors to tell them what he’s heard. In the countryside, a celestial concert ends with an angel informing a few shepherds of Jesus’s birth, which sparks a conversation about leaving the sheep and going into town to check things out. Everybody in this story talks a lot, except for one man—Zechariah, John the Baptist’s father. He’s the silent one.

It’s not that Zechariah has nothing to talk about—or he’s unsure what to say. Strangely, he’s the first to hear that Israel’s long-awaited Redeemer is soon to come when an angel reveals that he, his wife, Elizabeth, and their late-in-life son will play essential roles in this divinely ordained drama. Zechariah’s problem is that he can’t believe what he hears. He and Elizabeth have tried to get pregnant for years and they’ve pretty much accepted theirs will be a childless marriage. In many ways, their resignation reflects how the Jews feel. They’ve done everything in their power to bring forth a Messiah. Yet their union with God has remained barren for centuries. For many, the love between Israel and God is its own reward, just as it is between Zechariah and Elizabeth. The idea that God might bend time and revive their moribund dreams—enabling their participation in God’s redemptive plan—is beyond belief for them. Zechariah responds to the angel’s declaration much like the vast majority of his neighbors do when Jesus declares the Good News of God’s kingdom. “How will I know that this is so?” he asks. (Luke 1.18) Before Zechariah can talk himself out of the amazing task God has given him, the angel shuts his mouth. “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.” (v20)

The irony here is rich and rather cruel. Zechariah probably has the best handle on what’s taking place in his extended family; he alone knows how Elizabeth and Mary’s stories are intertwined and the import of the babes growing in their wombs. He can explain everything in detail. But God fixes it so that he can’t breathe a word until his son is born because Zechariah’s faith hasn’t reached a level that will allow him to express it. And his frustration teaches us a powerful lesson: when we sense God at work in our lives, it’s best to keep silent. There will be plenty to say when the work is done. Meanwhile, we should regard seasons of change and growth as quiet times.

No Talking Please

Time and again in Scripture God reveals divine knowledge to individuals and immediately demands their silence until the thing God is doing comes about. Such behavior is completely contrary to human impulse. At the earliest sign our prayers will be answered—at our faintest sense that God is intervening on our behalf—our first inclination is to tell people all about it. Some of us, ascribing to a “name it and claim it” theology, even believe that if we talk about what we want God to do, God will do it (as if God were a super-genie compelled to grant our every wish). Yet, as we see in Zechariah, times when God’s presence is manifested in our lives are when we should remain still. Transformation is taking place. The full extent of what God is saying and doing is far from clear. What’s required is total trust. And trusting time is quiet time.

As the Christmas story so brilliantly proves, never in a million years can we predict or understand God’s ways. Once we start talking, we start wrestling with impossibilities and mysteries we’re not equipped to explain. We start to sound foolish; that makes us afraid and, without realizing it, fear overtakes our faith. We’re no longer fit vessels for God’s purpose. When God’s presence and movement is made known in our lives, we are wise to heed the prophet’s call for quiet: “The LORD is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him!” (Habakkuk 2.20) In Psalm 46, we’re invited to “behold the works of the LORD” (v8) and then told in verse 10: “Be still and know that I am God!” No talking please—God is at work!

Plenty of Time

It takes tremendous faith and self-control to wait on God in silence. We forget that God always finishes what God starts, provided we remain attentive to God’s purpose and calling. Once God’s work is complete, there will be plenty of time to talk. In fact, when God’s will is fully revealed, we won’t stop talking. This is how it goes for Zechariah. The birth of his son frees his tongue. Praise and prophecy flow out of him with ravishing conviction. What he’s experienced in silence has thoroughly transformed him. Not only is he able to witness God’s goodness in his life. What he’s learned opens his eyes to God’s vision for humanity. His soliloquy, recorded in Luke 1.68-79 ends with a promise we all must claim: “By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (v78-79)

If we can only learn to be still, to wait on God in silence, the dawn will break. Light will overpower our darkness. Fear and death will be overcome. We will walk in peace. That’s the story we’ll be able to tell.

Transformation requires trust, and trusting times are by necessity quiet times.

For Now

We wait in hope for the LORD; God is our help and our shield. In God our hearts rejoice, for we trust in God’s holy name. (Psalm 33.20-21)

Too often we confuse waiting with idleness. We’re made to believe that things get worse the longer we delay. And often they do. But this is never true in matters of spirit, where God’s timing—not our time—is the governing factor. Our Maker is very comfortable with waiting. Human traditions and to-do lists have never been of any great consequence to God. If the Christmas narrative teaches us anything, it’s that Creator’s vision for us is consistently displayed on a stately scale that cannot be rushed. While we wait, we should rejoice that God is our Help, our Protector, our trustworthy Promise.

In Night Visions: Searching the Shadows of Advent and Christmas, Jan Richardson offers some down-to-earth advice about Advent’s waiting dilemma:

The season of Advent means there is something on the horizon the likes of which we have never seen before… What is possible is to not see it, to miss it, to turn just as it brushes past you… So stay. Sit. Linger. Tarry. Ponder. Wait. Behold. Wonder. There will be time enough for running. For rushing. For worrying. For pushing. For now, stay. Wait. Something is on the horizon.

Christmas will get here soon enough—sooner than we’d like, given how much busyness we impose on it. We are waiting on God. How can that not be worth the wait? 

For now, stay. Wait.