Advent

I don't know if it's because I'm getting older and less able (or willing) to tolerate the madness that seems to overtake us in December, if it is because I have just come through a stressful and demanding season at work, and so am simply more tired than usual, or if it is because recent stories in the news, whether printed in papers or in my newsfeed, have left me feeling sad and discouraged, but I don't feel much like I'm in the "Christmas spirit". Jingle bells and fa-la-la get on my nerves.  Even "Silent Night" and "Joy to the World" feel like too much to handle.  Truth be told, I don't feel much joy, just a deep-seated weariness, and a thinly-masked resentment against the expectation of Christmas cheer.

It feels like everyone is putting on a big fake peace-love-and-goodwill mask, while underneath, this world is crying out in agony.  All the families who have recently lost a loved one ... friends of mine who are separated from their most loved ones at this most wonderful time of the year ... and I'm so tired I can barely get out of bed, let alone think about baking desserts to add to the weight of food on the tables, which will only add to the weight on our backsides.  But, oh, we must have Christmas cheer!  Bah, humbug.

What I feel mostly is sadness that the world DIDN'T end on December 21.  Not that I was under any illusions that it would, but still.  Oh, Jesus, why?  Why couldn't you have come back yesterday?  When, Jesus, when?  When are you going to come back?  Oh, Jesus, can't you hear us crying?  Do you hear the cries of a friend who just lost a brother?  Do you hear the cries of friends separated from family at Christmas, missing their sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, grandkids?  Do you hear the wailing of the families in Newtown, Connecticut?  Jesus, do you hear the sobs of the Syrians, the people in Palestine, in Israel, in Egypt, Iraq, and all the other countless places where war is waging and lives are being torn apart?  Do you hear my sighs, sighs wrung from a heart that is weary beyond words?  Jesus, if you came, all would be made right.  If you came, all tears would be wiped away.  Jesus, why didn't you come?  If you don't come soon, I'm not sure how much longer we can hang on.  When will you come?  Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel!

. . . oh . . .
     . . . come
           . . . oh, come . . .
                      . . . Emmanuel.

But isn't that a Christmas carol?  But if that's a Christmas carol, I wonder . . . I wonder if we haven't got this all wrong.

We sort of know that Advent isn't about the excitement of waking up to a white Christmas with presents under the tree.  But perhaps it's not even about the anticipation of a new birth, the way I was recently anticipating the birth of my new niece.  Perhaps Advent is much more about feeling the awful weight of a broken world until I am groaning for relief from the agony of it.  Perhaps it isn't so much about welcoming the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay, no crying he makes, but about feeling again my desperate, desperate need for a Saviour.  Perhaps it's about knowing that I just can't go on unless he breaks in and intervenes.  Perhaps it's recognising that my heart is broken, and I am powerless to fix it unless the Healer enters in.  I wonder if perhaps the true Christmas spirit is found not in smiles and laughter, but in tears and a deep longing for Emmanuel to come and right this world.  Emmanuel.  God with Us.  He, only he can make what is wrong right again.  Perhaps looking forward to Christmas is not so much about joyful anticipation, but one of longing for relief.

Which makes Christmas all the more surprising.  Because that's an awful lot of expectation to put on a baby who is suckling at his mother's breast, still red and wrinked from his passage into this world, utterly helpless, utterly dependent on his inexperienced, teenaged mother. We need a rescuer and we find a baby.  We're looking for a Saviour, and we find a squalling infant.  I wonder if, in our disappointment that he is not what we expect, we settle for what he think he is, and forget what he will become.  A baby can't save us, so we try to put our longing aside for a while, to focus on the joy of a new baby -- after all, who doesn't love a new baby. We pretend we're ok, and we can hang on for a while longer, at least until, say, Easter.

Well, I can't.  I can't hang on. And I don't have to.  Because Emmanuel came at Christmas, not Easter.  He came.  Just when I was slipping and falling to my death, he came.  He came, as a baby, yes, but God-With-Us.  I am not going to put the grieving aside to find some false Christmas cheer.  I am not going to pretend that all is right when all is wrong.  I will feel the depth of sadness of a world that is groaning in agony.  I will feel the weariness of my own heart and soul.  And I will cry, "Oh, come, oh, come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here."  And then, I will marvel at the thought that Emmanuel HAS come.  And he is coming again.

And that, I believe, is the true Christmas spirit.

Formula God

What do I do with a God who utterly defies formulas?

Every time I try to neatly contain him in a box, he insists on exploding out of it.  Every time I attempt to predict how he is going to work, he does something different.  Every time I try to order my theology into five neat little points, he shows me a text that refuses to fit.

What do I do with a God who so steadfastly refuses to be pigeonholed that he will work outside the formulas he himself created?

I try to expand my theology to make everything fit, until I am left with something so cumbersome it becomes useless and comical.  I twist myself into contortions attempting to do just the right thing, act just the right way, and somehow force God to act in the way I think he ought to.  I lock myself into my watertight, safe little life and hope he doesn't mess things up.

But he does.  He always does.  Or, at least, he sometimes does.

We sing the chorus three times, dim the lights, cut the drums, and expect God to move in our worship service, but a crying baby messes things up.

We tithe faithfully and give to the poor when we can, and we expect God to provide for us, except that the rent is due and there's no money in the bank to pay it.

We don't swear, smoke, dance, or chew, and we expect God to bless us with a comfortable life, but  then we get the pink slip, or the positive diagnosis, or a drunk driver hits us on the highway.

I was reminded of it again this weekend, when I heard Psalm 44.  It starts off so great.

We have heard with our ears, O God; 

our fathers have told us what you did in their days, in days long ago. 

With your hand you drove out the nations and planted our fathers; 

you crushed the peoples and made our fathers flourish.

It was not by their sword that they won the land, 

nor did their arm bring them victory;

it was your right hand, your arm, and the light of your face, 

for you loved them.

You are my King and my God, who decrees victories for Jacob.

Through you we push back our enemies; 

through your name we trample our foes.

I do not trust in my bow, my sword does not bring me victory;

but you give us victory over our enemies, 

you put our adversaries to shame.

In God we make our boast all day long

and we will praise your name for ever.

That's so awesome.  We do our part, God does his part.  He brings us victory over our enemies, blesses our endeavours, and we glorify him.  Everyone is happy.  It's tidy and comforting.  It's what we expect.  That's where we finished reading on the weekend.  I wish it ended there.  I really do.

But it doesn't.

The next lines read:

 But now you have rejected and humbled us; you no longer go out with our armies

You made us retreat before the enemy, and our adversaries have plundered us.

You gave us up to be devoured like sheep and have scattered us among the nations

You sold your people for a pittance, gaining nothing from their sale.

You have made us a reproach to our neighbours, the scorn and derision of those around us.

You have made us a byword among the nations; the peoples shake their heads at us.

My disgrace is before me all day long, and my face is covered with shame

at the taunts of those who reproach and revile me, because of the enemy, who is bent on revenge. 

That's bad.  That's really bad.  Life is just not going the way I want it to.  In fact, life is about as bad as it can get.  But that's not the worst of it.  The worst of it is this:

 

All this happened to us, though we had not forgotten you or been false to your covenant.

Our hearts had not turned back; our feet had not strayed from your path.

But you crushed us and made us a haunt for jackals and covered us over with deep darkness.

If we had forgotten the name of our God or spread out our hands to a foreign god,

would not God have discovered it, since he knows the secrets of the heart?

Yet for your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.

God, what??  I'm doing my level best here to serve you, to love you, to follow you.  I'm giving everything I can, or at least everything I think I can to live for you.  I am doing everything I can to be faithful.  And this is it?  Crushing and a haunt for jackals and deep darkness?  It makes no sense!

Because God refuses to be bound by formulas.  He is unpredictable, untameable, uncontrollable.

So what do I do with a God who utterly defies formulas?

I learn to wrestle with him.  He's big enough to take my pain and my questions when things don't make sense.  The Psalmist in Psalm 44 does.  He tells God to wake up and do something now!  The psalms are full of people questioning God and challenging him to act on their behalf.  So I wrestle with my questions.

I learn to trust him.  Even when things don't make sense, I trust that he is still on the throne.  He is still working.  And, most importantly, his heart toward me is still one of love, even when nothing makes sense and I am in the middle of the darkness.  Psalm 44 ends with the words "unfailing love".  It is why I can wrestle.  It is why I can trust.   Because his heart toward me is always, always "unfailing love".

I learn to live in the mystery.  I learn to live in a relationship that is always new, always exciting, always changing, growing, and deepening.  It's terrifying.  It's wonderful.  It's terrifyingly wonderful.  If I am honest with myself, it is the mystery that makes it wonderful.  What kind of a god would he be if I could control him and manipulate him with dimmed lights, hushed drums, planned giving, and the right kind of prayers?  What kind of a god would he be if I could control him at all?  I don't want a god I can control.  I want the Mystery.

What do I do with a God who utterly defies formulas?

I love him.  I worship him.  

And I hold on for dear life.

Straw Man

Ever notice how one little thing can set off an avalanche of chaos and emotion that crushes you?

It's happened so many times before . . .

There was a time a number of years ago where, within the span of about 5 years, I attended the funerals of my father, my grandfather, my grandmother, and then my other grandmother.  I staggered, I reeled, I adjusted, I carried on.  But when I had to put my guinea pig down, I sobbed inconsolably.

I experienced it when I spent a year in Indonesia.  The culture shock was profound.  The heat was unbelievable.  The language was confusing.  The constant threat of malaria, snakebite, scorpion bite, and various gut parasites picked up from contaminated food or water weighed on me constantly.  The market . . . oh, the market was an abrupt slap in the face that I was a world away from home.  Oh, and then there was 9/11.  Yes, that 9/11.  From half a world away, I watched what news clips I could in a language I could not understand, although watching the towers collapse really didn't require much interpretation.  I was called into the police station to be assured that the police would do what they could to make sure I was safe.  My family worried about me, living in the largest Muslim country in the world.  I worried about them, just a hop, skip, and jump from NYC.  I staggered, I reeled, I adjusted, I carried on.  But when a cockroach crawled out of the drain while I was showering, I collapsed in a screaming heap of irrationality.

More recently, I have experienced it as I transitioned from one job to another and back again.  I lost a job I loved.  I knew it was coming.  I found a new job, in a new city.  I moved into a new living situation in a new home.  I bought a horse.  How hard could it be?  I staggered, I reeled, I adjusted, I carried on.  But one day, I pulled into the driveway of my new home that did not yet feel like home, and for no reason I could think of, I began to cry.  I got out of my car and walked down to the river and sat in the rain until I couldn't tell if my face was wet from tears or raindrops.

Life is like that.  The change and the hurt pile up, one after another after another.  Or perhaps it drops on us like a dumptruck load in one horrible moment.  We might stagger, reel, adjust, and carry on, but the burden we carry is so precariously balanced that one little addition crushes us.  A car that won't start.  Hair that won't lie flat.  A busted zipper in a favourite pair of jeans.  A burnt supper.  One more small bill to pay.  One more small obligation to meet.  One more little demand on our time.  Down we go, crushed under the weight of it all -- the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

Sure, it says in the Bible that God will never give us more than we can handle.  We hear it all the time.  Well-meaning people throw it in our face, but let's be real, we've all faced occasions where that just doesn't seem true.  We lie under the burden of our troubles with our limbs feebly twitching and our lungs gasping for breath, barely able to groan with the pain of it all.  Really, God?  Really, this isn't more than I can handle?

I used to think that text meant that, somehow, I had done something wrong.  After all, it also says in the Bible, "Cast all your cares upon him, because he cares for you," so perhaps I had just not cast my cares upon him.  Perhaps I was carrying a load he never meant for me to carry.  Perhaps.  Or perhaps that's a load of crock.  Not the text -- the text is true!  We can and we should cast our cares upon him, and he truly does care for us.  But perhaps I have been casting my cares upon him, and I'm still crushed under the load.

Perhaps what this verse means then is that I really CAN handle this load -- perhaps I only imagine I'm crushed under it.  After all, God won't give me more than I can handle, and he's given me this, so I must be able to handle it.  Perhaps.  Or perhaps that's a load of crock too.  I'm pretty sure that my twitching limbs and gasping lungs and pounding heart are, at this moment, very real.  I know I can't muster up one bit of strength to go one step farther, and I sure don't need someone telling me that my pain is only a figment of my imagination.

Or perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . the verse doesn't really exist.

This one does:  "No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it"  (I Corinthians 10:13).  But that's not talking about job loss, death, illness, losing a friend, moving far away, guinea pigs, cockroaches, or bad hair days.  It's talking about sin.  I will never be in a place where I have no choice but to sin.  Sin is always -- ALWAYS -- my fault.  But the burdens that are crushing the life out of me?  This verse from Corinthians has nothing to say about them.  In fact, the Bible never says that God won't give us more than we can handle.  Did you hear that?  The Bible never once says anywhere that God won't give us more than we can handle.  Never.

Because if God never gave us more than we could handle, why would we need him?  I know I wouldn't.  Nope, no, God, no thank you, I've got this under control.  Nah, that's ok, God, I can do it.  God, I've got this one covered, ok?   You can just go back to spinning planets or whatever else you do.  I would.  And you would, too.  Because we are prideful, sinful people with godlike ambition.  Let's be honest -- why would we cast our cares on him if we could handle them quite nicely on our own, thank you very much?

But God is merciful.  He loves us.  He knows how horribly unhappy we would be without him.  He knows that our greatest joy is found when he is glorified.  So he gives us more than we can handle.

He gives me more than I can handle, and I am crushed under the load of grief, of pain, of sorrow, of confusion, of too-much-to-do-and-not-enough-time.  I'm not reeling, or staggering, or adjusting, or carrying on.  I'm sitting under a tree in the rain while the teardrops and raindrops mingle into a single sad wetness on my face.  And it is in that moment of supreme powerlessness that God stoops down and wipes away my tears.  Perhaps I find him in the warmth of a friend's embrace.  Perhaps he's there in an unexpected phone call, or a letter that comes in the mail.  Perhaps I see him in a sunset, or in the nicker of my horse.  But suddenly, I catch a glimpse of him, and I know he is there, with me, in the pain, and he is helping me to carry it.  I am carrying a burden that is more than I can handle.  I need him desperately.  Powerless, I cry out for help.  I find him.  I find him.  And he is enough.

He gives me more than I can handle,
and I discover in the pain
that I am crushed
not by my burdens,
but by the glory
of his grace.