Advent: Moving

I moved out of the house when I was 16.

As I recall, the process started sometime before then. I expressed an interest to my parents in becoming an exchange student, and once the idea had won their acceptance, we began exploring the process together.

No one really knew what the process involved, except that it started with an application. There were questions I had to answer, essays I had to write, endorsements from adults I had to procure. There were interviews I had to go through, in person and on the phone. More questions, more essays. and finally resolution: I was going to Rotorua, New Zealand, where I'd been matched with a family called the Hannahs.

At the end of the process was another process. I'd already got a passport. Now I had mere weeks to learn about New Zealand, get any necessary vaccinations for travel, buy tickets and supplies, and do whatever else I had to do to prepare my life and the people whose lives intersected it for the massive disruption that was about to ensue.

I've moved a number of times since then. Back to Pittsburgh. To college. To Haiti. To an apartment in Easton, Pa. To New Jersey. It's never as simple as going from A to B; there's always a process, there's always planning, and there's always a change in store: for me, for those who give with me, for those I move among, and for those I leave behind.

And isn't that what this season is? Advent is a moving notice. God is moving into the empty apartment next door. He hopes his parties don't get too loud, but if they do, please come knock on his door and let him know.

God's from a far-off country, but he's been dreaming for years of coming to town and being neighbors with us. Which pubs serve the best beer for thirsty people, cook the best food for hungry people, and provide the best place for strangers to meet?

When you're new in town, what's a good place to go for a walk? Where can you go to unwind?

The first advent ended, we're told, when God got a lease with some working-class newlyweds who taught him the local language, set him up with a trade, and helped him for a while to keep a low profile and blend in. That move-in, we are told, turned the world on its ear.

And now in the season in which we celebrate that first Advent, we wait for the second one, harder to see because it's by faith, when the move will be permanent, and the glory will be unhidden.

Advent: Joy

Joy is intimate.

Joy is the family who gather around the table with you for a meal, for game night, or for storytime. It's the friends who grow old with you, but it's especially the one who keeps you young.

Joy is timeless.

Look back at your wedding, at the birth of your children, at moments you joined your friends to do something incredibly irresponsible if not actually illegal, and you'll see joy there. She catches your eyes, and waves hello from the past, and you can't help but laugh with her. But when turn your eyes to the future, you'll find that she's there too, still waving but waiting for you. You can see her in the fields of tomorrow, as your children find their footing and make their own way; as dreams come true and even when they make way for other dreams. "There's no hurry," she whispers, and you realize she's here with you too.

Joy is one of life's constants.

We think of joy in terms of big events: a birth at St. Peter's, a wedding in Atlanta, a reunion of friends in Tuscon. But joy is woven like a golden thread through the small things: the touch of fingers as a glass of lemonade passes from one hand to another, in the morning ritual of spotting and counting tropical birds, in the small talk between father and daughter on the front stoop in the summer evening. It is in these moments, sewn together, that life's value is found.

Joy is like a river.

The salmon live in the river, but the river isn't always gentle. It has bends, it has twists and turns, and it has rapids and falls that compel the salmon to make astonishing leaps. The divine joy can be like that as it sweeps us along. It may buffet us and toss us about, but there is no other place to be, because it is where we come alive.

Joy is permanent.

One day fire will grow cold. One day the stars will close their eyes. One day the music will cease and the dancers will quit the floor. One day the audience will leave, the house lights will dim, and we'll find ourselves alone, except for joy.

Advent: Remember

There’s an old and familiar practice of remembering the past.

Our calendars are rounded out with reminders: holidays like Thanksgiving, the Foirth of July, and 9-11; wedding anniversaries, birthdays and adoption days; tokens from special trips, first dates.

Looking back is a guide to the future. The friend who listened as you broke down one September evening is a friend who will stand by you always. The friend who always stood you up on lunch plans is as trustworthy as a wet turd.

Advent is about remembering ahead. It’s about counting down to a promise not yet delivered, based on memories of what was promised before, and whether those promises were kept.

Advent: Perceive

There are a lot of categories to things we know. There’s what we assume, what we’re told, and what we believe, for instance. There’s also what we read, what we experienced, and what we figured out the hard way, which is probably the stuff we value most and have the hardest time unlearning.

Then there’s what we perceive. It’s got a stronger basis than guesswork, and it’s not as blunt as what we figure out the hard way way. Perception goes beyond mere appearances and reaches the heart of the matter. It’s sound judgment with a sharp tip, and it goes far.

Perceived. You can almost see the analysis bowing back, hear the soft release of the bowstring and listen to the perceived truth slicing the air as it races forward.

I perceive you are a woman of integrity. I perceive I have done better than I hoped.

Advent is many things. Chief among these is the end to a period of profound and prolonged waiting, divinely ordained, that reveals the truth of our perceptions of what we have been waiting for.

May all your perceptions be accurate, and may they guide all your arrows home.

Advent: Awesome

For as long as Icarus could remember, his father had loved watching birds.

The hobby had begun soon after they had arrived in Knossos. The king there had hired Daedalus to design a prison that could contain one of the more monstrous of the kingdom's secrets, and from the day Icarus' father had begun work on the Labyrinth, he had taken the boy with him every morning, every evening and every free moment they had together to watch the birds.

"Observe how they fly," the older man had said. "They can teach us about the currents of the air, and how to ride them."

Or: "Look at this bird, and how long its wings are, compared to its body."

Or: "See these feathers, and how different they are from these others. Why do you think they are different?"

Or: "See the sharp beak of the bananaquit, how like a knife it is! We must always avoid these birds when they swarm."

Spring gave way to summer, and when summer's leaves fell from the trees, winter arrived; and though the years passed and the construction of the Labyrinth was complete, they remained in Knossos. The king paid Daedalus generously to improve the royal bath, which he did by designing a shower with water both hot and cold, and still the promised day of departure never arrived.

Icarus would broach the subject with his father, but Daedalus would laugh and rough the young man's hair as though he were still a boy, and tell him to gather more feathers for their studies.

And then one day Daedalus took his son to the highest tower of the palace, and Icarus realized that his father had seen from the beginning the trap Minos had set, and had for years been planning their escape. The outfits he had made for them looked ridiculous, but Icarus knew they would work. He had joined his father in studying the birds of the Aegean and Adriatic seas for over 20 years, and he knew they would fly.

But before they did, Daedalus had two words of advice for his son. “One, don't fly too close to the sea. The feathers will become waterlogged, and you will fall into the sea, and drown. And two, don't fly too high. The sun is the chariot of Helios; and it moves in spheres too glorious, too awesome for mortals. If you go too close, you will be consumed in its fire.”

And with that, the older man led the way to freedom. With a mighty shout he threw himself from the top of the palace, and began flying to his home on the distant mainland shore. WIth a whoop and a holler, Icarus followed, taking time to circle the town below and share his opinion of the king, before flying out of the reach of the archers and joining his father over the sea.

Their flight took them along the path of the wind, well above the waves below and the ships that passed through them. They overtook and startled a flock of surprised gulls, and flew on as the day grew brighter and the sun rose steadily higher.

The sun.

Icarus contemplated it as it rose in the sky. It was an inspiring thing on the ground, but here in the air it was more than merely inspiring. Its light was brighter, so that he could see every detail on his arm more clearly. He could feel its heat more keenly, so that it warmed him more deeply. It was foreboding and dangerous, but welcoming at the same time.

He flew higher.

"Icarus," his father called from below. "Not so high!"

For a moment, he hesitated and nearly descended to his father's level, but then he stayed himself. He could hear the music of the sun where he was flying, and it was an invigorating thing, a vibrant tenor voice accompanied by pipes and a steady beat like horse hooves. His arms had been growing tired from flying, yet now they felt not rested but renewed. He was not stronger than before, but the sun gave him more endurance than he had known.

He imagined the world from the vantage of the sun, and saw at once how imaginary the boundaries were among the different city-states of Greece. What was Crete? What Sparta, or Athens or Thebes? All were Greece, and all the people in them were Greeks, born ultimately from the same rocks that Deucalion and Pyrrha had thrown over their shoulders.

"Icarus!" a voice called.

Inspired he lifted his head and unwitting flew closer to the awesome chariot of the sun. The light here was brighter still, the warmth was deeper, and his view was grander. There were lands beyond Achaea, beyond Peloponnesia, beyond even Persia. There were peoples who lived there, ignorant of Zeus and Olympus, and yet the sun visited them as well, lighting their days, growing their crops and watching over them from dawn to desk.

There was a voice Icarus heard, from afar off. It was shouting a warning about something, but its words were faint nonsense. The sun was calling him, further up and further in, and so he went.

The light was impossibly bright now. He could see not just the hairs on his skin, but the muscles beneath the skin as well, and the bones that they were stretched over. The music of the sun was now all he could hear, but he was beginning to understand the meaning of its song. Crete was special, it sang; and Athens was special. But all lands were special, and all lands were loved, for the same sun to visit each one in its turn. Icarus could see the whole world turning below him, its kingdoms and empires too numerous for him to count; and in the light of that awesome sun and its all-consuming fire he saw the people as they were, and loved them; and as he flew higher still, a hand reached out and took his, and his mortality burned away.

Advent: Known

There are many creatures in the world that impart wisdom, and chief among these is the oliphaunt. Unique among God's creatures, the oliphaunt is a walking revelation and no one who beholds its glory is left unchanged.

When the oliphaunt came to town, four blind people went to meet it, hoping it would impart understanding and their lives would be changed forever after. But because wisdom is limited to what one knows, and what one knows is often only what one thinks, they decided to meet afterward, share their experiences, and grow.

The first blind man by chance had approached the oliphaunt from the front. He had felt its large ears, like the wings of a bat; run fingers over its leathery face; and mourned the great deformity that had put a tail in its face. But he marveled at how gently the oliphaunt wrapped him in its arm, and at the cool water it could rain on him; and he knew he had met a noble beast.

"I can think of nothing uglier than it, but there is no mistaking its great and gentle heart," he said. "We should always set aside our misfortunes and treat those around us kindly."

The second blind man was surprised, because he had found the oliphaunt by a leg and concluded there had been four of them.

"They were broad, like trees; and they worked together, to hold aloft some burden that would have been too much for any one of them alone," he said. "And so it should be with us, always together."

The third was unimpressed. He had walked up behind the oliphaunt.

"It was like a rope. When I pulled it, it lashed me in the face so i fell to the ground and it dumped a pile 

of excrement on me," he said. "It seems to me the lesson is to teach people a lesson when they bother you so they don't do it again.

And the fourth? She had walked under the oliphaunt, perceiving its presence but nothing of its shape. It seemed to her that there was nothing to the oliphaunt at all, and that was all the wisdom it had to offer as well.

Advent: Kindle

Think of faith for a moment as a flame. What does it look like?

Is it in a cloth, soaked in oil and wrapped around a stick that you're using to keep wild animals at bay? Is it a candle, carried gently in front of you as you walk to your room through dark corridors? Maybe it's a friendly, warming campfire that you and your family encircle in your sleep; or it could be a raging blaze that is clearing out the dead brush so new life can transform the terrain in a few short months.

Or maybe it's the tiny glow at the tip of a match, strong enough to burn your fingers if you're careless, but ready to out --pffft! with one contrary wind or drop of water.

A week ago I was talking with a friend about the ways the church has given faith a sentimental gloss with popular language about friendship with Jesus or having a talk with God.

"When's the last time you had pizza with Jesus? Literally." My friend is a pastor, and I watched as the impulse to give me a church answer rose to his lips, and then I watched as he shoved it to one side because he knew I would never go for it. 

"When's the last time you asked God something in prayer and you  heard him answer, and didn't check yourself into the hospital for a potential schizophrenic episode?" I asked him. "Literally."

Faith in some ways must always be like that tiny match if it's to be honest. Doubt and confidence are strange companions, but the Bible declares them to be the essential components in the alloy it calls faith, which the author of Hebrew, whoever she (or they) may have been, called the "assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (Hebrews 11:1). 

The torch, the candle, the campfire and the runaway inferno all have one thing in common: They began an small as the flame on the match, but someone saw their potential, and added the kindling.

Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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