Our Children and Their Children

Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them. (Deuteronomy 4.9)

The Photo That Brought AIDS Home

About a year ago, I crossed paths with Therese Frare, a staggeringly gifted photographer in the Pacific Northwest. I was part of a team working on a new HIV product launch to occur less than a month before the 30th anniversary of the first AIDS diagnoses. The serendipitous timing opened the door to include a retrospective of the extraordinary leaps in HIV/AIDS treatment and reaffirm our client's contributions as a major leader in the field. We wanted Therese to photograph the event for a number of reasons. Her talent spoke for itself, and when we approached her about taking the job, the conversations revealed her to be an ebullient, sharp-minded person—someone we’d enjoy working with. Her role on this particular job would be particularly significant, though, as she holds a unique position in HIV/AIDS history.

In 1990, during graduate studies in photography at Ohio University, Therese volunteered at Pater Noster House, an AIDS hospice in nearby Columbus. An assignment for a visual storytelling class led her to ask one of the patients, David Kirby, and his caregiver, Peta—an AIDS patient himself—if she could document their experiences with the affliction. After some justifiable resistance from the hospice (due to patient privacy concerns), Therese was cleared to shoot David and Peta’s interactions. David was in end-stage, meaning Peta’s main concern was making his final days as comfortable as possible. On one occasion, Therese was at the hospice when Peta was called to the young man’s bedside. Seeing his parents there, she discretely waited in the hall. His mother asked Therese to come in, telling her, “We’d like you to photograph the family saying their final goodbyes to David.” As the heart-wrenching scene played out, Therese stood in a corner, capturing it moment-by-moment. While proximity to the event muted her appreciation of her photographs’ power, David’s expressed desire that his story be told inspired Therese to mail copies of one shot to the World Press and Life magazine. Life immediately picked it up and published the picture in its November 1990 issue. It’s now known the world over as “the face of AIDS” and “the photo that brought AIDS home.”

Dark Shadows

When Therese’s photograph appeared, we were ending the AIDS crisis’s first decade. We’d seen a multitude of images of the virus’s emaciated victims—from iconic celebrities like Rock Hudson to nameless African children—and heard hundreds of agonizing stories. Those of us cursed to witness AIDS’ ravages up-close and personal were emotionally depleted, but for seething anger at how little concern was shown for the lives devastated by the disease. Like every other catastrophic illness, an AIDS diagnosis triggered a ripple effect that emanated from the patient to loved ones nearest him/her, then on to more casual friends and acquaintances, and finally into her/his various professional and social circles. Because its first US targets were gay men—many with long histories of casual promiscuity—it was all too easy to minimize AIDS suffering as a minority issue. The public at large felt safely insulated from its threat and, therefore, not responsible for its treatment, containment, or cure. This false sense of security was further enhanced when the virus began surfacing in other specific populations: blood-transfusion patients, IV drug abusers, sex workers, and so on. AIDS was a “not-us” sickness, and hence “not our problem.” Therese’s photograph changed that.

For the first time, people removed from AIDS’ realities stepped into its dark shadows. Fathers felt Mr. Kirby’s anguish, as he cradled his son's gaunt face and clung to his rail-thin arm. Mothers perceived the stormy emotions raging behind Mrs. Kirby’s stoic expression, while she pulled David’s kid sister—confused, frightened, a child too young to know such sorrow—to her bosom. The emptiness in David’s eyes led one to imagine, for all practical purposes, he was already gone before this final farewell. It pierced the heart of every mother’s child. The anonymous hand reaching into the scene softly spoke of someone outside the family with compassion and courage to touch the dying man—of someone who chose to be there. Above them, the outstretched, nail-scarred hands of Jesus beckoned David into His eternal care, promising to hold the wounded hearts he left behind. This was too real—too personal—to ignore. Therese’s photograph allowed millions around the world to see what we who’d had sat at far too many bedsides had seen. Never again would they look on AIDS in any other way.

Sacred Duty to Remember

Twenty years later, our hearts overflow with gratitude for God’s mercy and provision. Medical breakthroughs have diminished AIDS’ savagery. How thankful we are that horrific scenes like David Kirby’s are rare exceptions and no longer the rule. We no longer speak of an “AIDS holocaust” and rarely do we see images of AIDS-related suffering. Yet in our rejoicing, we must not confuse AIDS’ disarmament with decisive defeat. Its status as a treatable condition on par with hypertension, diabetes, and other chronic illnesses introduces the peril of assuming AIDS is no longer a grave disease to be avoided at all costs—that it can be “lived with” and its threat has decreased. Worst of all, we can never conclude that its relative invisibility in the media and our daily environment means AIDS has “gone away.” It is present to the point of prevalence. It is very real and, until it’s completely destroyed, it’s not going away.

We who survived AIDS’ initial onslaught have a sacred duty to remember, honoring the thousands of precious souls prematurely torn from our midst. Yet our sacred duty to remember extends to never forgetting our children—and, now, their children—have not seen, felt, or known what we experienced. We’re fools to expect they'll independently ascertain the gravity of what they’re playing with when they put themselves at risk of contracting the virus. As Therese did, we must reveal to them AIDS in all of its heartbreaking ugliness. We must tell them stories of its unbearable suffering and sorrow. We must keep it before them, even though they look away. In Deuteronomy 4.9, God commands, “Be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.” May hearts of compassion and desire to please our Creator compel us to obey.

Amen.

The More They Stay the Same

In the last days scoffers will come, scoffing and indulging their own lusts and saying, “Where is the promise of His coming? For ever since our ancestors died, all thing things continue as they were from the beginning of creation!” (2 Peter 3.4-5)

Futility

At last night’s Bible study, we were handed four questions to help center our thoughts in these early days of Advent. More or less, they asked us to identify what comes easiest to us while contemplating Christ’s imminent birth and what we find most difficult about it. After pondering the questions silently, we paired up to exchange responses. I didn’t have much. I mentioned the Black Friday shopper who pepper-sprayed 20 people in a crazed lunge to get her mitts on a videogame, and wondered how the proverbial “we” failed her, so that she’d ever think such behavior was justifiable. I couldn’t get my arms around what it had to do with Advent, other than its challenge to maintain one’s sense of proportion. The distance between the Nativity’s irrevocably world-changing magnitude and its intimate humanity boggles the mind. Year after year I stare across that expanse with no idea how to bridge it.

Walking home, I realized my high-minded thesis wedged itself between the real answer and me. I’m most exasperated by Advent’s sense of futility. The season’s grandiose rhetoric about hope and salvation doesn’t square with stumbling through darkness, brushing against any number of monsters—within and without—that fit Yeats’s ominous portrait in “The Second Coming” (1919):

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

There is (for me, at least) an inarticulate dread lurking beneath Advent’s longing for light and deliverance. Each year brings us no nearer to awakening the dormant possibilities wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. We could spend from now to Christmas rehearsing woes we visit on the weak, defenseless, and, ultimately, ourselves. The more things change, the more they stay the same—only there’s more of it because less changes. While we’re stranded in our quagmire, Advent rolls around, urging us to hold out for light. “Salvation is coming!” it cries. One hand clutches the promise. The other unfurls an open palm to signal, “Enough."

God Isn’t Slow

Doubts and cynicism that pock our Advent road have tripped many before us, going back to first-century believers beleaguered by the same sense of futility we often feel. Fully persuaded he’s writing in “the last days,” Peter addresses increasingly prevalent fatigue and resignation in the Early Church—and he’s not very kind to those affected by it. “In the last days scoffers will come,” he writes in 2 Peter 3.4-5, “scoffing and indulging their own lusts and saying, ‘Where is the promise of His coming? For ever since our ancestors died, all thing things continue as they were from the beginning of creation!’” He blasts those who confess pangs of futility for using them to excuse not doing the hard work of God’s kingdom. Clearly many have quit their faith and reverted to carnal living. But one suspects more than a few are just plain weary. The bloom is off the rose; the promise has lost its luster. They’re wondering, “What’s the use?”

Peter’s frustration with disillusioned believers comes from being on the Movement’s front line, where he witnesses progress daily. He mingles with higher-ups and preaches to huge crowds, whose lives are radically changed by the Gospel. From where he sits, everything’s happening too fast; for those far removed from Christianity’s epicenter, it appears that nothing’s happening. Thus, Peter stresses we’re not equipped to gauge what’s going on, as we have no measure for God’s timing. “With the Lord one day is like a millennium, and vice-versa,” he says. (v8) “The Lord is not slow about His promise, as some think of slowness,” he explains, “but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish, but all to come to repentance.” What feels like futility is, in fact, impatience. Human timing shoves us way out in front of God. Hearing God say, “I’m coming,” we yell back, “What’s taking so long?” But God isn’t slow. We simply think so, based how little we know. Our mistake.

The Real Story

Insane though it sounds, the good news of Advent is there’s no news. Things will always change and always stay the same. Our inability to fix us defines the human condition. It confirms why we need a Savior—why Advent’s renewed hope in Christ is our surest means of never losing hope. If we could cure hatred, violence, greed, and every other self-destructive urge splashed across our front pages, of course we’d have done it. Meanwhile, what’s not reported is the real story. Right now, tens of millions of believers travel this Advent road with us, reaching for the same promise, stubbornly living it day and night, refuting every base instinct that captures the media’s morbid fascination.

We’ll never measure the light Christ brings to the world. We’ll never tally the lives Christ enables us to rescue, hearts we mend, nor the violence, poverty, and tragedies we prevent. But this we know: our hope and faith in Christ empowers us to do what we’d never even attempt without it. We resolve Advent’s tension between futility and hope by removing our shortsighted blinders and changing our tune from “Give Up” to “Hold On!” Our sense of timing, not purpose, is what’s off. Could it be what we’re waiting for is already happening, has always been and always will be happening? As long as God’s with us, whether or not things change, that will stay the same.

God Whose promises are true and Whose timing eludes us, disabuse us of impatience masked as futility. Expand our vision to discern Your will and presence alive and active wherever faith abides. Restore the drive and assurance we’ve lost to world-weariness. Lead us home. Amen.

Our hope for the world is secure because we’re in the world, and our hope in Christ refutes every base instinct seeking to destroy hope. That story will never make the front pages. Nonetheless, it’s real, and it will never change.

Postscript: “Only Hope”

Always the last to show up for the parade, I only recently found this powerful Mandy Moore recording (from the film, “A Walk to Remember”). When I feel myself sinking into futility and impatience, I pull it out: “So I lay my head back down/And I lift my hands and pray…”

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.

Martha Syndrome

Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her. (Luke 10.41-42)

Addled

Sherry Peyton’s comment on the previous post (see below) opened a wealth of insight regarding a concern that troubles many of us at this time of year. Remarking how easily we’re sucked into the holiday frenzy, she cited the famous episode in Luke 10.38-42, where Jesus visits His disciple, Martha. Luke all but says He arrives without warning. Martha welcomes Him to her house. But once she’s got Him situated, she gets preoccupied with proving she’s a worthy host. (Her theme song could be “If I Knew You Were Coming I’d’ve Baked a Cake”.) While she’s making dinner, pulling out china, changing linens, and—if she’s like a lot of us—hiding clutter she’d rather Jesus not see, her sister, Mary, shows up.

Finding Martha’s left Jesus alone, Mary takes a seat beside Him on the floor, never offering to help her sister. The longer she and Jesus talk the more agitated Martha gets. It takes little imagination to read the thoughts stewing in Martha’s brain while she stirs her pots. Mary knows I’m devoted to Jesus and how humiliated I’ll be if everything’s not perfect… She wouldn’t even be here if He weren’t here—and He’s here because I’m here… If she were any kind of sister, she’d take over so I could visit with Him… Listen to her! Finally, she snaps. She storms out of the kitchen and does that nasty thing we’ve all done—or, at least, thought of doing—when family or friends get under our skin: she tries to shame Mary in front of her Guest. But Martha’s so addled she overshoots and embarrasses Jesus. “Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me,” she wails. (v40)

Seeking Attention

Let’s leave Martha’s head and slip into Jesus’s shoes. What would we say to a host so wound up about impressing us that she completely loses it and blurts out, “Can’t you see the pressure I’m under because you dropped in out of the blue?” Surely Martha doesn’t mean that. Still, it’s what we’d hear. We’d reach for a tactful exit speech: “We’re so sorry. Why don’t we do this another time, when you’ve had a chance to prepare and we can all enjoy ourselves?” Jesus isn’t so quick to let Martha off the hook, however. He came to her house, she welcomed Him, and He wants to stay. He’s seeking attention, not looking to be impressed. We watch Jesus sympathetically shake His head as He says, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” (v41-42)

Before Sherry mentioned it, I never perceived this story as an incisive Advent allegory. Yet now that I think about it, I’m not sure the Gospels provide a better example of how readily we get caught up with the details of Christmas—spending all of our time in the kitchen, if you will, making sure everything’s perfect, and smoothing over our preoccupations by insisting the Christ Child deserves our very best. While we rush though more errands than one day can comfortably contain, juggle more to-do lists than we can manage, thumb through recipes, write menus, hang lights and tinsel, move furniture to make room for the tree and all that goes with it, our Guest sits in a corner, waiting for us to give Him what He values most and most deserves—our attention.

What must He think, as we subject ourselves to unbearable stress, ostensibly to prove our worthiness and devotion? What does He hear, when we say our excessive doing and giving and getting is “what Christmas is all about”? How does He respond, after feeling pushed beyond the breaking point turns our carols into complaints? We know what we’d do. We’d politely take our leave and postpone future visits to a vague “later,” which we may hope will never come. Not Jesus. He came to us, we invited Him in, and He wants to stay.

The Better Part

Listen to what He says: “There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” The commercialization of Jesus’s birth—feeding off the unfortunate marriage of Christ’s Mass to winter solstice rituals and symbols—preys on our desire to exalt this holy day above all others. We talk endlessly about “the meaning of Christmas” and “Christmas memories.” We break our backs to serve the most fabulous feast ever. Then we clear it away, wash the dishes, and give thanks we’ve got a year before having to do it all over again. We photograph our festivities, hanging on to every moment. Then we store our videos and pictures with past Christmases and, but for rare occasions when we pull them out, forget they’re there. Meanwhile, the better part of Christmas—the truly meaningful, memorable part—is lost because we’ve not given it attention it deserves. Yet when we pry our focus from the feast and its trimmings and attend to our Guest, what we receive stays with us for life.

If deciding how best to celebrate Christmas were as simple as either/or, we’d be immune to Martha Syndrome. We’d turn off the oven, put the credit cards away, and ignore the clock in order to spend more time with Jesus. Realistically, though, Christmas is a yes-and proposition. Yes, first and foremost, we must see that Jesus is given the attention He seeks. And we must take care to show Him the honor He rightfully deserves. We go wrong where Martha goes wrong. The unexpected privilege of welcoming Christ into our homes and lives throws us off kilter. The occasion stops being about Him to become all about us. Sure, we’re aware He’s there—and surely He’s aware that we’ll get to Him as soon as we’re finished with fine things we want to do because He’s there. Nonetheless, we should be clear-headed about our choices during this, the most sacred of all seasons. Displaying devotion to Christ is secondary to what Christ seeks. “I need only one thing,” He says, “and that’s the better part.” Not the whole part, the better part. Ever the gracious Guest, Jesus realizes how thrilled we are to have Him with us. He understands our compulsion to go beyond the ordinary because of how much He means to us. No matter how crazy we get, He wants to stay. But He also wants us to learn the “us” part isn’t the better part of Christmas. The “Him” part is.

Cherished Guest, forgive our vulnerability to frivolous worries and distractions. Cure us of Martha Syndrome. Help us to see the better part of Christmas is the only thing You need; the rest can wait while we honor You with our attention. We welcome You and pray You find us worthy of Your presence. Amen.

It’s the classic Christmas dilemma: we mean well, but the season’s high spirits carry us away. While we’re stressing over every little detail, our Guest is left waiting for us to provide the only thing He needs.

Postscript: The Antidote for Martha Syndrome

We don’t need to make everything pretty and perfect for Jesus. All we have to do is throw open the door and say, “What a marvelous surprise! The place is a mess, but let’s not worry about that. Make Yourself at home. Tell me what You need and I’ll be a most attentive host.” Few songs capture that Christmas spirit better than Bob Bennett’s “You’re Welcome Here”.

The Tender Time

From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that He is near, at the very gates. (Mark 13.28-29)

The Most Impossible Ways

The other night Walt and I fell asleep to a local channel that airs “The 700 Club” each morning. When we awoke to the pseudo-news program hosted by far-right zealot and doomsayer, Pat Robertson, my first impulse was to grab the remote and punch in random numbers; anything would be less toxic. But his opening froze me solid. “It looks like Israel’s set to launch air strikes against Iran’s nuclear facilities,” he said—or something to that effect. I stared at video cobbled from file footage and nebulous sound bites (with nary a word from high-ranking Israeli, Iranian, US, or European officials), while an ominous voiceover indicated Israeli bombers were queued up, ready to go at any moment. Visions of World War III erupted in my head as I raced for the American networks, BBC, and France’s Canal 5: not a whisper about imminent Israeli air strikes anywhere, not even in the news crawls. “What a boogey man!” I sighed, feeling like a dunce. But was I?

It’s no secret that Israel has plans in place to disable Iran’s nuclear capabilities, nor that its penchant for self-serving acts of aggression has become a constant source of regional grief and worldwide angst. Robertson’s sky-is-falling scenario wasn’t beyond the pale. It just wasn’t true—yet. That it starred two loose cannons (Ahmadinejad and Netanyahu) on opposing sides of humanity’s longest-running race war certainly leant it credibility. Once again, threatening disaster confirmed we live in perilous times, when monomaniacal powers and people exhibit no concern about shipping the rest of us to Hell in a hand basket for the sake of their obsessions.

A nearly identical atmosphere hung thick with jitters and gloomy prospects hovers above Mark 13. It's there that Jesus warns the disciples not to be alarmed by global instability and religious hysteria, but to remain watchful in their work for the Kingdom’s sake. We’ve heard this a lot lately: “I will return. Be ready.” Though theories abound regarding the Second Coming, the essence of His message is lost on no one. We approach each moment as if it’s our last before The Big Moment. And while slating this passage as Sunday's Gospel seems a bizarre choice to kick off Advent's anticipation of Christ's birth, its overtones of wakefulness couldn’t be timelier. In an age when the worst of all possible worlds seems all too possible, Advent reassures us that God reaches us in the most impossible ways.

A Longer View

Scholars call Mark 13 (and its mirror passages in Matthew 24 and Luke 21) “The Little Apocalypse,” citing it as a miniature precursor to The Revelation’s epic nightmare. An innocent—rather sweet—comment prompts its litany of dark predictions. A disciple, perhaps visiting Jerusalem for the first time, looks at its magnificent Temple and architecture and says, “Wow!” To which Jesus replies: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” (v2) After the group leaves the city to relax on Mt. Olivet, Peter, James, John, and Andrew—the first disciples—ask Jesus privately, “When will Jerusalem be destroyed? Will there be signs that it’s soon to happen?” Before we get to His response, we should note their lack of curiosity about why or how the city will fall infers widespread assumption it’s only a matter of time. (As it turns out, the Romans raze the Temple and much of the city in 70 CE.) Thus, Jesus’s answer in verses 3-23 is a short-range forecast not to be misconstrued as end-time prophecy. Regarding Jerusalem's demise, He tells the disciples to expect an upsurge in religious chicanery, warfare, earthquakes, and famines. They will be unjustly tried, persecuted, and hated because of Him. When these events start to materialize, Jesus says, “Head for the hills, because it’s going to get crazier by the minute.” Bogus messiahs will pop up everywhere, performing signs and wonders that might even fool them. “Be alert. You've been warned.” He says. (v23)

Then Jesus offers the disciples a longer view—and the pending chaos He just described sounds like a picnic. “After that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken,” He says. (v24-25) The Son of Man will come in the clouds, dispatching angels “to gather His elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of the heaven.” (v26) Jesus cautions, “When you see these things, know that He is near" (v29), adding in verse 32 that only God knows the day or hour when they’ll transpire. He closes in verse 37: “And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”

Watching, Waiting, and Ready

Realizing Jesus gave them more information than they need—but not much they can actually use—might lead the disciples to think, “Thanks for nothing.” On further reflection, however, they’d find the inconspicuous gem tucked inside His end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it preview. In verse 28, He advises, “From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near.” And that’s where this highly problematic text's Advent message coalesces.

Advent is the tender time, when bleak realities of our wintry world give way to revived hope and first signs of renewal. What we perceive as grim likelihoods and inevitabilities are simply the dying gasps of an overlong season. Whatever happens in the world at large and in our own lives will happen. We accept that by admitting very little of what affects us rests in our control. Yet none of it possesses sufficient power to halt time. Without fail, fragile rigidity brought on by anxieties pass with their passing. Sooner than we imagine, persistent fatalism yields to resurgent faith. As we reacquaint ourselves with the organic flow of God’s calendar, we rediscover how supple and resilient we truly are.

The Christ Child appears at the height of global chaos, when new technologies give rise to corruptive wealth, militaristic overkill, unprecedented oppression, and fabricated myth. The Incarnate God enters the worst of all possible worlds at the least likely moment to reach us in the most impossible ways. Nobody sees it coming, yet there it is, and very soon it's apparent the harshest human condition cannot prevail against the tenderness of divine spring. It occurs so suddenly we’ll miss it if we’re not watching, waiting, and ready to receive it when it comes. That's what Advent wants us to remember most of all.

O God, we come to another Advent, praying You’ll steer our attention from the bleak winter pounding at our doors so we may rediscover the tenderness blossoming within. We watch, wait, and stand ready for You to rid us of fearful rigidity. Make us supple and resilient once again. Amen.

Advent teaches us the bleakest circumstances can’t prevent the resurgent tenderness of divine spring.

Postscript: Advent at S-F

As in previous years, Straight-Friendly will observe Advent by resuming daily posts on Monday—most being reposts of earlier reflections (and labeled as such). Sunday and occasional midweek posts will be new. Whether revisiting a familiar entry or exploring a fresh one, I trust you’ll drop by often and enrich this tender time we share with your personal thoughts and invaluable insights. Praying a blessed, tender Advent for one and all, I can think of no finer jump-start to the season than R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the Word As We Know It”.

That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane - Lenny Bruce is not afraid. Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn - world serves its own needs, regardless of your own needs. Feed it up a knock, speed, grunt no, strength no. Ladder structure clatter with fear of height, down height. Wire in a fire, represent the seven games in a government for hire and a combat site. Left her, wasn't coming in a hurry with the furies breathing down your neck. Team by team reporters baffled, trump, tethered crop. Look at that low plane! Fine then. Uh oh, overflow, population, common group, but it'll do. Save yourself, serve yourself. World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed. Tell me with the rapture and the reverent in the right - right. You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, feeling pretty psyched.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Six o'clock - TV hour. Don't get caught in foreign tower. Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn. Lock him in uniform and book burning, blood letting. Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate. Light a candle, light a motive. Step down, step down. Watch a heel crush, crush. Uh oh, this means no fear - cavalier. Renegade and steer clear! A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies. Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

The other night I tripped a nice continental drift divide. Mount St. Edelite. Leonard Bernstein. Leonid Breshnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs. Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom! You symbiotic, patriotic, slam, but neck, right? Right.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine...fine...

Always, In All Circumstances

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (1 Thessalonians 5.16-18)

Continuing a tradition begun last year, Straight-Friendly celebrates Thanksgiving in song—with an emphasis on giving thanks when we may not feel like it, when true gratitude may set us apart, and when the complexity of life frays our connection to thankfulness as an act of faith.

Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances. This is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

“Take a Little Time,” Andraé Crouch

“Now Thank We All Our God,” Lincoln Minister School Chamber Choir

“Gratitude,” Nichole Nordeman

“In Everything (Give Him Thanks),” The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

“Jubilate Deo,” The University of Utah Singers

(Rather than translate “Jubilate Deo,” I’ll let these charming you fellows do it.)

“Thanksgiving Song,” Mary Chapin Carpenter

“For All You’ve Done,” Hillsong

“Simple Gifts,” Yo-Yo Ma and Alison Krauss

Prayer of Thanks, Rabbi Lazer Brody

“Be Grateful,” John Legend & Roots, featuring Jennifer Hudson

Always, and ever, I thank God for all of you!

Richness as a Reflex

The righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” (Matthew 25.37-39)

For thus says the Lord GOD: I Myself will search for my sheep, and will seek them out… They shall lie down in good grazing land, and they shall feed on rich pasture. (Ezekiel 34.11, 14)

The Issue of Lives

The Occupy Movement has taken a ribbing from TV pundits and late-night comedians. Yet—other than those pathetically enslaved by neoconservative, me-myself-and-I doctrines—no public sector has cried out against its ingenious strategy to change the economic conversation from tax policy to social justice. Pitching their tents on financial centers' doorsteps forced us to face the ugly realities of thousands done in by soulless graft. With dispossessed, unemployed, and other beleaguered citizens tucked away in outlying tent cities, welfare motels, and overcrowded shelters, the nation’s wealthiest percentile felt no shame in whining about potential tax increases. They tried to divert accusations of greed by posing as “job creators”—thus, deserving special protections in order to fix a crisis they contributed to and profited from.

By voluntarily existing as economic refugees, Occupy activists awakened public consciousness to the issue of lives, not dollars; morals, not money; people, not power. A society that coddles the mightiest at the expense of the weakest invites crippling instability and certain decline. A nation that subjects many to hardship while succoring a few denies its greatness. Leaders who tout freedom to justify socioeconomic inequities are neither freedom and justice’s guardians nor equality’s champions. (All they are is living proof there’s more to patriotism than pinning a flag to one’s lapel.)

Participation in a just society begins by denouncing the right to choose who is and isn’t worth attention, or when it’s right and wrong to come to another’s aid. Such choices are pre-decided for the community’s welfare and stability. Attention must be paid to everyone who needs it. The time to help the less fortunate is all the time. The Occupy Movement confronts Americans with their civic duty to oppose favoritism that undermines national stability and the common good. In the final public discourse before His arrest (Matthew 25.31-46; Sunday’s Gospel), Jesus charges us with the same responsibilities, for the same reasons. But He raises the stakes by stressing that failure to honor His principles exposes us to grave personal risk from which we can never recover. His gist boils down to this: the issue is lives. Morals. People.

Rich Enough to Care

Since arriving in Jerusalem for Passover, Jesus hasn’t stopped talking about His imminent departure and telling stories about people entrusted with great wealth and responsibility. Most of His followers get it by now. More perceptive disciples may even gather the theological implications, understanding Jesus’s Messianic role centers on establishing God’s kingdom and entrusting it to us. In case they missed this in His parables, however, Jesus uses His last preaching opportunity to paint a dramatic vision of how it will work.

When the Son of Man comes as Earth’s Supreme King, Jesus says He’ll gather the nations and, like a shepherd does with sheep and goats, divide the people into two groups. He’ll commend the sheep, saying they fed Him, gave Him drink, welcomed Him, clothed Him, cared for Him when He was sick, and visited Him in prison. Those He praises are befuddled. “When did we do that?” they ask. The King replies, “Just as you did it to the least member of My family, you did it to Me.” (v39) He turns to the goats and says they failed on all counts. “What do you mean?” they protest. “We saw You never wanted for a thing!” The King answers, “But you ignored the least. So you ignored Me.” The story ends with both groups in shock. One can’t believe it’s rewarded with eternal life; the other can’t believe it’s sentenced to eternal punishment.

I always get a kick out of the sheep’s consternation. Their response explains why the King honors them so highly. It’s as if they ask, “What’s the big deal? We had it, they needed it, and so we gave it away, knowing there’s more where that came from.” What made them rich enough to care was not caring about riches. By calling them “sheep,” Jesus evokes Judaic respect for their virtues: faith in the shepherd, obedience, humility, and so on. Most of all, sheep exemplify community. The tiniest threat to the littlest lamb endangers the entire flock. When pasture is plentiful, all are fed. Otherwise, all suffer, because the flock’s stability relies on its ability to share. In contrast, goats are fiercely territorial, acquisitive creatures that lock horns the instant they sense one of their own encroaching on their space. (That’s why we associate gentleness with lambs and brutishness with goats.)

Stability and Growth

In Sunday’s reading from Ezekiel 34, we’re once again reminded God is our Shepherd. “I Myself will search for My sheep, and will seek them out,” God says in verse 11, vowing we will “lie down in good grazing land” and “feed on rich pasture.” (v14) God goes on to say in verse 16, “I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice.” The prophecy gets us to the essence of what Jesus wants us to see. It’s not ours to decide who merits our attention and when we should reach out to the least. Instead, we’re asked to choose how we regard the riches of God’s provision. We can either turn God’s goodness into a crippling burden or use its richness as a reflex. Either we obsess about hanging on to what we’ve got or we intuitively give it away, knowing there’s more where that came from.

Offering compassion, hospitality, and concern to those in need demands tremendous discipline and, often, staggering emotional sacrifice. But it costs us nothing. And in the end, it prospers communities we serve and us with enduring stability and growth. It should come so naturally we do it without thinking or talking about it. That’s difference between the sheep's “What did we do?” and the goats' “Look what we did!” Jesus teaches that true goodness isn’t defined by its doers’ abilities, but by its recipients’ inabilities. The least capable among us gain our highest attention because their needs are greatest. It’s that simple. And if that upsets and surprises us, Jesus tells us we’re in for a really upsetting surprise.

Free us, O Shepherd, from selfishness and insecurities and competitive streaks that endanger our communities and ignore Your commands. You’ve provided more than we need, enabling us to give it away without hesitation, knowing Your goodness is inexhaustible. Instill that truth so deep inside our being that it becomes instinctive. May we be counted worthy in Your sight. Amen.

The richness of God’s goodness to us enables us to give it away without hesitation or thought, knowing there’s always more where that came from.