Looking for God (Luke 2:21-38)

Reading Slowly

This Christmas, I had the opportunity to read a book with my nephews, If You Take a Mouse to the Movies by Laura Numeroff. It is a spinoff on her classic If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. We would occasionally stop at the end of a page and ask, “Okay, what do you think the mouse will want next?”

This experience transported me momentarily to my childhood. I remembered how my teachers would occasionally pause and ask the class, “What do you think is going to happen on the next page?”

Of course, as I grew up, I stopped reading this way. I learned to read quickly. To read for content. To consume as much as I could in the time I had. I had professors who taught me how to speedread, to scan for items of interest or significance. To stop at the end of a sentence or at the end of a page and ask, “What’s going to happen next?” would be a waste of time. It would be inefficient. It would be slow.

Yet as I read slowly with my nephews, I felt closer to God. To ask the question, “What will this silly mouse want next?” was not just idle speculation. It was an act of paying attention. The focus was not just “What happens to the mouse in this story?” but “What’s the heart of the mouse in this story?” What is it that is moving this story along?

Simeon and Anna See More

Christmas was several days ago, but we are still firmly in Christmastide, the season of Christmas. Which is to say, we are still celebrating the arrival of God in our world in the most surprising of ways.

Today’s scripture tells of the first two individuals who recognize Jesus as the messiah without being told who he is. Mary and Joseph have been told by the angel. The shepherds have been told by a host of angels. But Simeon and Anna have not been told. Yet when they see this dirt poor couple enter the temple with an infant boy, somehow they see the messiah. The rest of the world sees an anonymous couple—so poor that they cannot afford a sheep for the customary sacrifice and must settle for a turtledove and pigeon (Luke 2: 24; cf. Lev 11). The rest of the world see a helpless infant, a baby boy incapable of anything more than inarticulate squeaks and groans and crying. But Simeon and Anna see something more. Why? 

Slowing Down

Luke likes to tell stories in pairs, two at a time. For example, Jesus’ birth story is actually paired with another birth story: John the Baptizer. In today’s scripture, Jesus is recognized by not one stranger, but two. What’s the link between them? The common thread? To my eyes, it’s simple. They’re both old. Simeon’s words indicate that he’s in the twilight of his life. “Now you are dismissing your servant in peace,” he says to God (Luke 2:29), suggesting that he is finally ready to die. And Anna is “of great age,” Luke tells us, an eighty-four-year-old widow who spends all her time in the temple (Luke 2:36-37).

Now, I know no one likes to think of themselves as old or elderly. Certainly no one here is old right? But we’re all familiar with the process of aging, and I think we can all agree that to get older usually means “slowing down.”

For some people, “slowing down” is a bad thing. They fight it. They want to maintain the illusion of control that is so easy to maintain when you’re younger, when you’re in good health and advancing in your career and building your little kingdom. To “slow down” would be to admit defeat.

But I think Simeon and Anna have embraced the reality of “slowing down.” When we slow down, we can pay more attention. Just like pausing at the end of a sentence or the end of a page and asking what’s really going on, slowing down invites us to pay attention. And paying attention is, in essence, an act of prayer. It is looking for the heart of God in the world around us. It draws us beneath the surface of what’s happening and nearer to the heart of God.

The Surprise of God

French philosopher Paul Virilio once wrote, “Speed is violence.” This is literally true and manifested in the danger of fast-moving objects like bullets and cars. But it is equally true in a more figurative sense. Living at a fast pace does violence to our attention. Speed kills attention. Just think about the last time you tried to do three things at once, like cook and talk on the telephone and entertain a grandchild or a pet. Chances are you overlook a key ingredient or you measure out one cup instead of one tablespoon and your dinner is…disappointing—if not a complete disaster. Similarly when I speed-read, I miss important details. I miss implied connections. I may well miss out on the underlying meaning of the text.

Sometimes people talk about old age as a second childhood. I think we see that in Simeon and Anna in the best of ways. They have both embraced slowing down. They have relinquished the illusion of control. They pause at the end of each sentence, each page, and ask, “I wonder what’s really going on?” Which is to say, they’re paying attention. They’re drawing nearer to the heart of God. And so they’re able to recognize when God arrives in the most surprising of ways.

While most Judeans are expecting a conquering messiah who will restore Israel to national greatness, Simeon has discerned in his slowing down that God’s salvation is for everyone, that the messiah is not only, as he puts it, for the “glory [of] Israel” but also also “a light for revelation to the Gentiles” (Luke 2:32). While most Judeans are expecting a messiah whose greatness will be seen in his power and his prestige, Simeon and Anna seem to have discerned in their slowing down that true greatness comes in the little and lowly things, in a humble faith in God; they recognize the messiah in the baby boy of this dirt poor couple.

The Gift of Growing Older

I’ll confess, I’ve projected into the story a little bit of my own experience. We cannot know for certain why Simeon and Anna recognize the Christ child, other than that they were both looking for God. Luke tells simply us that Simeon was “looking forward to the consolation of Israel” and that Anna fasted and prayed in the temple “night and day” (Luke 1:25, 37).

But my experience has been that, generally, when I live at a fast speed, frantic, hurried, I pay less attention to what matters. I try to stay in control of things. I feel more distant from God. Conversely, when I live slowly, I relinquish control and pay more attention to the world around me, and I feel closer to God.

The new year is fast approaching, a reminder that time marches on and we’re not getting any younger. Perhaps it feels sometimes like things are passing us by and we can’t keep up. Or simply like we’re slowing down. 

But Simeon and Anna remind us that growing older and slowing down is not a sad thing to resist. On the contrary, it is a gift. Slowing down invites us into the reality that we are not in control and that God is near, perhaps in surprising ways. Slowing down is an invitation to pay attention. And to pay attention is to draw near to the heart of God…which we might discover to be bigger than we thought and dwelling in the littlest, lowest of things.

Prayer

Surprising God,

Who shows up, day after day,

But so often disguised in the ordinary—

Open our hearts to receive your gift

Of aging and slowing down.

…

May we learn to look for you

Not in success and spectacle,

But by prayer and paying attention.

In Christ Jesus, child of poverty, child of God: Amen.

"Nothing Will Be Impossible" (Luke 1:26-38)

 Optimistic Prognostications

“Nothing will be impossible.” Does that sound familiar? I feel like I’ve heard it before somewhere. Was it an advertisement for some new piece of cooking ware? The Instant Pot, maybe? Cheesecake, yoghurt, rice, roasted chicken, barbecue, baked potato…what can’t it make? Nothing will be impossible in your kitchen with an Instant Pot.

More likely I heard the phrase “Nothing will be impossible,” or something similar, in the advertisement for some new piece of technology. At the launch of one of the Samsung Galaxy smartphones, the Samsung CEO referred proudly to the company’s innovation and explained, “This is how…the impossible becomes possible.” 

“Nothing will be impossible” might well be the implicit motto of our optimistic tech industry. Sam Altman, the CEO of Open AI, talks about artificial intelligence as though it will be the salvation of humanity. “I believe the future is going to be so bright that no one can do it justice by trying to write about it now; a defining characteristic of the Intelligence Age will be massive prosperity. … [A]stounding triumphs—fixing the climate, establishing a space colony, and the discovery of all of physics—will eventually become commonplace.” “Eventually we can each have a personal AI team, full of virtual experts in different areas, working together to create almost anything we can imagine.”

Whether it’s on behalf of cooking ware that promises to simplify and speed up your cooking or on behalf of artificial intelligence that promises to fix every problem, the proclamation “Nothing will be impossible” ultimately trains our eyes—and our hearts—on an object of power. When that object, that power, finally intervenes, the battle will be won. Our problems will be over. Life will be good.

The God of Power and Intervention

When religious folks hear these overzealous promises from the tech industry, we usually take them with a grain of salt. As much as we might enjoy the comforts and conveniences made possible by new technologies, not to mention the health benefits of correlated advances in medicine, we know that technology cannot save our souls. No number of years added to our lifespan, no amount of luxury and ease would satisfy our spiritual yearning for transcendence.

Yet it strikes me that our religious fixation on God’s salvation is often structurally the same as tech enthusiasts’ fixation on technology’s salvation. In other words, religious folks also are waiting for an intervention. We too are hoping for the eventual arrival of a power that will overcome all our problems: war, sickness, sin, death. In one sense, we may be worshiping the same god as the tech enthusiasts. A god of power and intervention.

Mary Has a Choice

Let us turn now to the scripture where we actually hear the promise, “Nothing will be impossible” (Luke 1:37). What captivates many readers in today’s passage is the extraordinary depth given to Mary’s character. She is perplexed. She ponders. She doubts and questions: “How can this be?” (Luke 1:34). And ultimately, she consents, with the famous words, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Luke 1:38).

In poems and paintings of this scene, Mary is almost always depicted with a lily and a book nearby, as though to indicate that she is scenting and reading this strange guest, this incredible message. She is interpreting what this means. She is deciding how she will respond. Which is all to say, she has a choice. God gives her a choice. This is not an imperial God imposing his way upon her, decreeing a Word that will happen regardless of her response. This is a God of relationship, a God who gives space for feelings, for doubts, for a response. This is a God who desires consent.

The fifteenth-century painter, Sandro Botticelli, gives exquisite expression to this dynamic of relationship in his painting Cestello Annunciation, where we can see Mary in the throes of her decision. Her body is simultaneously pulled away in fear and doubt and drawn forward in wonder and love. The painting foregrounds the real drama of this scene. The real drama is not about God doing whatever God wills. It’s about God begging, hoping, waiting—and Mary deciding.

Tzimtzum

The god of Greek philosophy, the god that most of our world thinks about when it thinks about god, is the god of omniscience and omnipotence. God all-knowing and all-powerful. But for Jews and Christians alike, the God of the Bible has long challenged and complicated the image of this all-powerful, all-knowing God. Rabbi Isaac Luria, a Jewish mystic of the sixteenth century, interprets the mystery of the biblical God with a Hebrew word, tzimtzum, which means something like “diminishment” or “withdrawal.” He explains that the process of creation requires tzimtzum. Creation requires God to restrain Godself, to reduce Godself, to withdraw and make space. God makes space for the world and humanity. “Human freedom … exists because of divine self-limitation.” Thus Adam and Eve have the freedom to eat from the fruit of the tree. Cain can kill Abel. Great harm can be done. But in the same way, in the same space, Joseph can show to his brothers the same grace God has shown to him. Ruth can stay with and support her mother-in-law, Naomi, and embody the steadfast love of Naomi’s God. Great good can be done too.

What we see in today’s scripture—and what is captured in Botticelli’s painting—is God’s tzimtzum. God does not impose God’s will on the world. God waits for a response. God makes space for the pondering, the questioning, the deciding. God is reduced to the powerlessness of asking, begging, hoping, waiting.

A Love Story

When my dad proposed to my mom, she was not expecting it. So she responded, in all honesty, “Let me get back to you.” She needed space to be perplexed. She needed space to ponder. In the meanwhile, my dad was left with the painful consequences of his vulnerability. To ask, to propose, to make space for a response is to make oneself vulnerable to indecision, to rejection. My dad waited on pins and needles. Even so, he suffered just a fraction of what God must suffer as God makes space for us.

When she eventually responded, her heart assured and mind made up, “Yes,” they shared their joy. Perhaps there was even a hint of the feeling that, together, nothing would be impossible. 

When I read today’s scripture, more and more, I see a love story. Not just between God and Mary, but between God and all of us. I see a story of God’s desire and how God’s desire comes to fruition. Not with a sword, not a wave of the wand, but in the vulnerable space of relationship. The traditional god of our world, a god of omnipotence, could just snap his fingers and get what he wants. But there would be no space for us in such a world. It would be like a computer program. It would be devoid of love and life.

Much of our world worships a god of power and intervention, whether that takes the shape of technology or the shape of a Greek god of omnipotence. Our world believes that “nothing will be impossible” when power comes, when some object—some great tool or weapon or god—arrives and erases all our problems. It thinks that there’s nothing we can really do until this power intervenes. But Advent reminds us that the truth is nearly the opposite: there is nothing God can do until we consent. Because our God is the vulnerable God of tzimtzum. Our God is a God of love, who makes space for us.

“Nothing will be impossible” is not the proclamation of a force that will one day arrive and fix all our material problems. It is the ecstatic proclamation of love. It declares that the power of the heart is greater than the power of the hand. It glorifies not the mindless obedience of a soldier but the loving consent that makes possible the abundant life of relationship. It holds within it the space of pondering and questioning…and ultimately responding, “Yes!”

Prayer

Tender God,

Who desires not empty obedience

But a heart that reciprocates,

That says “Yes!”—

This Advent, we have tried to make space for your arrival.

Now we find that you are making space for our response.

Grant us the honesty to share our heart with you

…

And to trust in the power of your love,

With which you say nothing is impossible.

In Christ Jesus, who was conceived by God's love and Mary’s consent: Amen.

"Good News" (Isaiah 61:1-11)

The Greatest Gift

When I think back to the first Christmases I can remember, I can remember only one gift. A stuffed seal that would issue a loud bark if you hugged it hard enough. I hugged it hard enough so many times that, today, it no longer barks.

I cannot remember any other gifts. But that is not to say that I do not remember anything else. I remember plenty. I remember arriving at Granddad’s house after the long car drive to Kentucky, how he would greet me by saying in the deepest voice he could manage, “Big John!” and how he would hug me so hard I would almost bark and how his beard would prickle roughly against my cheek. I remember how my grandmother would prepare hot chocolate as an excuse for us all to gather at the table. I remember how at Grandpa and Grandma’s house (my other grandparents), there would be berries in the cereal each morning because they knew my brother and I loved berries. Grandpa and Grandma weren’t quite as huggy as Granddad, but they hugged us in other ways. Berries were one of them.

What these memories tell me is that, as a young child, the greatest gift I received was not a gift tied with a ribbon or a bow. It was not a gift I unwrapped. It was a gift that wrapped around me, embraced me, hugged me. It was the gift of another person who delighted in me. What I remember best from these first Christmases is being delighted in.

Not Correction, But Healing

Father Greg Boyle, a Jesuit priest in Los Angeles and the founder of Homeboy Industries, the largest gang intervention program in the world, preaches a simple gospel. God delights in you. 

In his experience, gang members are not evil people who need to be fixed. They are diamonds covered in dirt, children of God who do not know it yet. The problem is not them, but the tragic wounds of their upbringing that keep them from the truth that God delights in them. Boyle writes that, “during Advent, we are called to prepare the way…to ‘make straight the path’ and make smooth what is rocky. … Our hardwiring is such that we hear these invitations as a demand to ‘straighten up’ or ‘get our act together’. But it’s not we who need changing—it’s our crooked path that needs to be smoothed…so we can be reached by God’s tenderness.” 

Greg Boyle explains that a common question asked at Homeboy Industries is, “What’s the thorn underneath?” In other words, these former gang members are not viewed as bad people who need to be reformed, but as God’s children who have great wounds and need to be healed. In this light, the gospel is not that we are crooked people who need to be corrected, but wounded people who need to be healed. 

And if that strikes you as being too warm and soft and fuzzy, as letting these hardened gangsters off the hook too lightly, it may help to remember that Jesus himself speaks in these very terms. When he’s eating with Levi the tax collector and others are grumbling that he hangs out with sinners—that is, bad people—he explains: “Those who are well have no need of a physician but those who are sick” (Luke 5:31). Jesus does not look around and see evil people. He sees wounded people who need to rediscover the truth that God loves them.

“She Has Become a Filthy Thing”

When the empire of Babylon conquered Israel and destroyed the temple and forcibly expelled the survivors from their homeland, many Israelites understood what happened in terms of God’s judgment. And, to be clear, they were not entirely wrong. It’s just that, as my grandfather would put it, they were putting the em-pha-sis on the wrong syl-la-ble. The biblical story is clear that the Israelites had strayed from God’s way of caring for each other. What happened was the natural consequence—which is another way to say “judgment”—as greed and pride grew into competition and oppression, and ultimately resulted in social disintegration and collapse.

But many Israelites interpret God’s judgment as a matter not just of what Israel had done, but who Israel was. Listen to this song of lament from Lamentations: “Jerusalem sinned grievously, so she has become a filthy thing; all who honored her despise her, for they have seen her nakedness; she herself groans and turns her face away” (Lam 1:8). Through the lens of shame, these Israelites see God as one who has rejected them because they are a “filthy thing.” While they hope for restoration, there lingers the fear that, as the same song puts it, “you [God] have utterly rejected us and are angry with us beyond measure” (Lam 5:22). 

“I Delight in You”

It is into this doubt and despair that Isaiah proclaims, “The spirit of the Lord is upon me…” Now, before we listen to a word that Isaiah says, it’s worth remembering that when the spirit of God descends upon Jesus at the beginning of his ministry, a voice from heaven declares, “You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:22). In other words: “You are my child, and I delight in you.” With that good news echoing in his heart, Jesus proceeds to share the same message with others, and especially the wounded who have no inkling that God delights in them. 

Returning to our scripture today, we can begin to trace the outlines of the same message in Isaiah’s prophecy. With the spirit of God upon him, Isaiah begins to proclaim in all sorts of ways God’s good news: “You are my child, and I delight in you.” Isaiah does not condemn and call for correction. Isaiah proclaims unconditional restoration: healing for the brokenhearted, freedom for the enslaved, comfort for the grieving. The language here echoes the laws in Leviticus about the jubilee year, which was a special occasion prescribed for every 50 years when all Israelite debts were cancelled and land was restored to its original owners. What is so radical about the jubilee year is that it obliterates the accumulations of savvy business people and restores a baseline equality in Israel. It prevents a meritocracy where the rich get richer and poor get poorer. It guards the dignity of every Israelite.

Cherished People Cherish People

Perhaps you’ve heard the adage, “Hurt people hurt people”? It echoes the wisdom that Father Greg Boyle expresses when he points to the underlying wounds (“the thorn underneath”) of the ex-gang members in his community. If we invert this adage, if we turn it inside out, I think we end up with the gospel on display in today’s scripture: “Cherished people cherish people.”

There is a subtle inside-out movement in Isaiah’s prophecy. Yes, God delights in Israel and will restore the Israelites, but the process doesn’t stop there. The people of Israel will become “priests of the Lord” and “ministers of … God” (Isa 61:6), which is to say, they will do unto others as God has done unto them. Isaiah imagines being clothed with “the garments of salvation” and “covered … with the robe of righteousness” (Isa 61:10). It is as though Isaiah is saying, the people of Israel will wear God’s delight in them “on their sleeves”; they will be unable to hide it. They will radiate God’s joy and will delight in others. Cherished people cherish people.

Greg Boyle tells the story of one of his ex-gang members, who came into work at Homeboy Industries on his day off. Thinking that maybe he’d gotten his days mixed up, Greg asked him, “What are you doing here?” “I just came by to get my fix,” he replies. “Of what?” Greg asked. “Love.” Again and again, Greg sees the same transformation. An ex-gang member hears the good news that God delights in them. They get off the streets. They begin to care for themselves and their family. They begin to delight in the community around them.

God’s delight is like a seed. It does not stop with the person who receives it. It grows into all kinds of restoration (cf. Isa 61:11). It grows into delighting in others, actually wanting to be in their company. It transforms life from a battle or an obligation or a test into a gift.

When we try to be good, to measure up, or when we try to save other people, we ultimately burn out because we’re not in control, and it’s exhausting when you try to do what cannot be done. But, as Greg puts it, when we let go of saving others and can simply savor them, that’s when the real saving happens. When we know God’s delight in us and we delight in others, that’s when the saving really happens.

My first Christmas memories are, I think, the truest. It’s not things that save me. Nor is it anything I can do or achieve. It’s the good news that I am delighted in. Or as Jesus heard on the banks of the Jordan, “You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased.”

Prayer

Holy God,
Whose good news seems too good to be true—
We instinctively divide our world up
Into good and evil, winners and losers, saved and not,
And in the process miss out on your delight
In all your children.
Restore us to your embrace, your cherishment,
Where we can take it easy
And savor others around us,
Trusting that we are all being saved in your love.
In Christ, whose good news we believe: Amen.

"Rend Your Heart" (Joel 2:12-13, 28-29)

The Zen of Nativity Sets

Have you ever seen one of those miniature Zen gardens? Less than a square foot, they usually contain a little bit of sand, a miniature rake, a few stones, and maybe a small patch of moss.  I’ve never used one myself, but I think the idea is that by restricting your focus to a few simple things and taking special care of them, you find peace. For a moment in time, you live inside that garden, and you have peace.

I wonder if that’s not the same experience that some of us have with miniature nativity sets. I know many people who delight in setting up nativity sets, so much so that they have four or five that they set up around the house. I myself have found serenity setting up a nativity scene. There’s something soothing about putting everything in its proper place. Mary and Joseph hovering over the manger. The curious animals looking from behind them. The shepherds arriving outside with wonder. And of course the magi traveling from afar, bearing gifts. As I assemble the scene with special care, the world around me fades and I find peace in the familiarity of the scene and its story, always the same.

A Chaotic Nativity

Of course, if your nativity set lives in close proximity to children and other toys, you may occasionally stumble upon an anachronistic hodgepodge of figurines: shepherds and army men, barn animals and dinosaurs. Your zen may suddenly become a scene of chaos. One of my favorite clips from Mr. Bean, a character played by British comedian Rowan Atkinson, finds him recreating the nativity scene with all sorts of anachronistic intrusions. A parade of British soldiers wanders onto the scene, and a furious Mary shushes them and gives them their marching orders. Next a T-Rex enters the stable, causing quite a stir and requiring more drastic measures. A helicopter with a magnet swoops in to airlift the baby Jesus and his parents into a nearby Barbie-doll house. 

Now, as “incorrect” as this nativity retelling is, I wonder if it doesn’t also capture a truth that is often lost in our serene nativity sets. Neither Matthew nor Luke shy away from the fact that the birth of Jesus happens under a deep, dark shadow. Mary and Joseph and company do not live in a peaceful time or place. On the contrary, they live at the beck and call of their Roman overlords, whether it is the Emperor Augustus who calls for a census, or the Roman client ruler of Judea, King Herod, whose paranoia results in a massacre of infants. These two events paint a chaotic backdrop. We may feel that “all is calm, all is bright” when we serenely assemble our Nativity scenes, but the truth is that the Jewish world is roiling at the time of Jesus’ birth. 

All Hell…

Our scripture today gestures toward this chaotic background. Biblical readers have observed that the prophet Joel is unlike other prophets. His words do not seem to correspond to any one historical event. Rather his prophecy reads more like a tribute act to the greatest Hebrew prophets, a collection of the prophets’ greatest hits. Which is to say, Joel lives later than most of the prophets. The Jewish people have returned to their own land after the Babylonian exile. They have rebuilt their temple. But all is not well. They live now under the rule of foreign empires: first Persia, then Greece, and then eventually Rome (which is around the time Jesus is born).

Joel’s prophecy outlines a vague threat. The “day of the Lord is near,” he says (Joel 1:15). Soon, a plague of locusts or an invading army—it’s hard to tell which, because Joel mixes his metaphors—will devour and devastate the land. Rather than try to match this threat with a concrete historical event, we might simply observe that it likely would have matched the mood of many Judeans. Even if life was for a moment stable, it felt like all hell could break loose in an instant. And in fact it did on numerous occasions in the five-hundred-year period between the Judeans’ return to their land and Jesus’ birth. Foreign rulers routinely imposed harsh taxes on the Jewish people and even desecrated the Jewish temple on occasion. As a result, the Jewish people simmered in a state of unrest and occasional protest. We know that around the time of Jesus’ birth, just four miles away from Nazareth, in Sepphoris, a Jewish uprising was brutally crushed by the Romans, with the city razed to the ground and the survivors sold into slavery. There may even have been some crucifixions, as we know there were elsewhere when Rome put down rebellion. Mary and Joseph may well have had family or friends killed or enslaved in Sepphoris. Like many Judeans, they would likely have carried the emotional scars and trauma of Roman violence wherever they went. 

[All of this to say, their lives around the time of Jesus’ birth were nothing like the zen of our nativity scenes.]

Two Promises

But against the backdrop of the disaster that Joel foretells, he also reminds his audience of two basic promises. The first promise is one we’ve heard over and over again the last few months. We might call it the heartbeat of the Old Testament, the central truth that emerges in its diverse stories and memories. God “is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing” (Joel 2:13). We heard this first from God Godself, when God promises Moses not to destroy the disobedient people of Israel in the wilderness. We heard it again in Jonah and Jeremiah, two very different prophets who nonetheless both recognized this one bedrock truth: God’s unconditional love.

Joel’s second promise comes from God and anticipates a day when God’s spirit will be poured out on all people, women and men, young and old. It is, again, a promise that is repeated throughout the Old Testament, and one that we’ve already heard—if you remember Jeremiah’s prophecy of a covenant written on everybody’s heart, from the least to the greatest (Jer 31:31-34).

To summarize, then, Joel reminds the people of two promises: God loves you unconditionally, and God desires to dwell within your heart. 

Conditions of Chaos, Characters at Peace

Let’s return to our nativity scene one more time. I’ve made the argument that the serenity they often convey to us is a bit of an illusion. In other words, we may feel peace as we put all the pieces in their proper place, but the historical truth is one of social upheaval and chaos. The truth is that Mary and Joseph and the others were living in a pressure cooker threatening to explode.

And yet…when I read the story of Jesus’ birth, I cannot escape the impression that the main characters do have a resilient peace guarding their minds and hearts. From the elderly Elizabeth to the young Mary, from the ancient Zechariah and Simeon to the embryonic John the Baptist, everyone seems to have an inexplicable peace. When Mary and Elizabeth meet, they do not exchange worries such as, “How dark the days we live in,” but rather excitement, “Blessed are you among women” and “My soul magnifies the Lord!” (Luke 1:42, 46). John the Baptist is leaping for joy in his mother’s womb, and Zechariah sings a song of gratitude filled with words like “mercy” and “salvation” and “peace” (Luke 1:41, 44, 68-79). What is going on here?

If you read Luke, you’ll notice that all of these characters I’ve mentioned are literally filled with the Holy Spirit. Women and men, young and old. It’s just like Joel said: God longs to dwell in everyone, women and men, young and old. And you’ll notice that the speech of these characters is filled with God’s love. They cannot help but talk about God’s love at work around them—in forgiveness, in redemption, in salvation, in the promise of peace. These characters feel within them that heartbeat of the Old Testament, that most ancient of promises: God’s unconditional love.

While the conditions around them are chaos, these characters are at peace. 

Hearts That Welcome God

The reason why? When Joel reminds the troubled Judeans of God’s unconditional love and God’s intention to dwell in every heart, he issues an invitation: “Return to [God] with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your heart and not your clothing. Return to the Lord, your God…” (Joel 2:12-13). “Rend your heart and not your clothing” is another way of saying, When the world around you is broken, let your heart inside you be broken too. Don’t just tear your clothing, which is the requisite thing to do when mourning. Rend your heart. This is such a radical thing to do because most of us, when things around us get dark or difficult, look for escapes. A distraction on our phone. The cheap thrill of a new toy or convenience. Sweet or savory treats. The drama of other people’s lives, played out on television. So much of the fanfare of this holiday season can be a distraction. Whatever that distraction is, it keeps us from looking within and allowing our hearts to be broken.

But the paradoxical gospel truth is that, only when we allow our hearts to be broken, can God arrive with healing. Only when we open ourselves up, can God’s unconditional love dwell within. The characters in the Christmas story all receive the peace of the Holy Spirit because they all ultimately express the broken-hearted honesty and needfulness that welcomes God to live within them. As Mary puts it, “Let it be with me according to your word.” Or as Jesus would put it later, “Not my will, but thine.”

This Advent, as we assemble our nativity scenes or gaze silently upon their peace, we might be encouraged to remember that in fact the world around the stable was a ticking bomb, ready to explode. Not unlike the way our world feels sometimes. But the characters at that stable were extraordinary exceptions. They were indeed at peace, and not because they had everything in control, but because they let their hearts be broken. And so their hearts were open, and the Spirit of God dwelt within them.

Prayer

God of tender mercy—

We long for your peace but are afraid of letting go

And acknowledging the chaos without and especially within.

…

Help us to be honest about our need

That we might become humble hosts to your Spirit

And bear your good news and peace to a world in despair.

In Christ, who is your Word in the flesh: Amen.