But before we go… a word of thanks to readers of this blog, and to all who have moved through this season with Our Savior Come. A shout out once more to the writers and artists who gave this book content (their blogs are in the right sidebar–take a look if you haven’t already!). And a hearty cheer for all who read the book on their own, with family, or as part of a small group. Judging by the comments that have filtered back, OSC served as a good companion.

This blog will be going dark soon, but the book is still up on Amazon (btw–if you’d like to leave a review there, especially after having gone through Advent, that would be great!). Come October, we’ll be making some noise about it, too, since OSC is the sort of book that can still fit into next Advent.

Between now and then, may you enjoy the company of the Peace-bringer, and live like there is a tomorrow.

Warmly–
Dan

What a privilege!  Most writers (this is not a scientific fact so much as anecdotally evident) hope for an audience, and so when people take the time to find, buy, and read our stuff, we’re delighted–for a variety of reasons. We like the attention, and the occasional profits that accompany a book that sells, but there’s more to this. Writers also want to create or join a discussion, to spark or be part of change, to nudge or shape celebration, to offer ideas, suggest options, notice angles. Books offer platforms for this, and readers are an essential part of the experience.

So, as an editor, let me say thanks to all who contributed to make Our Savior Come possible–thanks for investing your creativity and energy into this project. And on behalf of those contributors, let me extend thanks to all who read or are reading OSC. Thanks for the gift of your attention, and for the comments you’ve shared, and the encouragement you’ve offered along the way.

Some of this aloneness is self-imposed: it takes me considerable time to grow easy enough with people before I’m ready to talk about more than the weather with them. But some of it stems from how relationships tend to be closely guarded. New people do not easily fit in.

This is what makes hospitality so wondrous. Persons who extend it with sincerity and grace have a way of enfolding strangers and setting loneliness aside by making space for new ones to fill. My travels take me to places where I meet such people; they are rare, but welcome.

Hospitality is another Christmas word. We talk and sing of how Jesus came to an inn where there was no room; under our breath, we snicker, and chide these professional hospitaliters for turning folks away. But look to another offer of hospitality that does shine through. Consider how Jesus extends it.

In the Greek lexicon, hospitality implies a love for strangers. We are inclined to think of Jesus as that stranger at Christmas, as He arrives on foreign soil, deserving the milk of human kindness. But it is also possible to turn this picture on its head and consider Jesus as the source of such a mercy. After all, we to whom He came were the ones estranged from God. That Jesus would think to welcome people like us is a breathtaking example of hospitality. He puts Himself out on behalf of those who commonly treat Him badly; we who are so in need of love and kindness find just that. 

It is a good lesson for Christmas, during a season that often evokes a measure of wistfulness. Counselors tell us it is a sad and lonely time for people bereft of loved ones, but even the most secure and surrounded among us can detect internally a certain melancholy. And we are not only lonely at Christmas. Quiet hearts know this pain far more often; many of us frequently feel alone.

We are built to belong; we long to be included, known, embraced. We stand outside glowing windows and want to go in; we plan for and dream about good meals with close friends. We travel far from home and think of those we’d like to be with; then, ironically, we arrive and even they are somehow sometimes not quite enough. What is the source of this ache?

It goes back to the Garden, when the Lord who made all sought fellowship with the crowning glory of His creation. But they demurred, and as a result, found themselves at odds with Him and even each other. Since then we have been trying to tie off a bleeding artery with little success. In theological terms, this is sin, playing out its life-robbing effects. We talk of sin as missing the mark of God’s standards, but closer to the point, because of sin, we simply miss God.

Jesus comes to give us another try at finding the One who loves us. He does this quietly—at least in His first advent. He calls, invites, beckons, makes room. He is wonderfully tolerant and inclusive in this; He makes room at His table for many. And what He shows during that advent He expands with the promise of a many-roomed house, where all may enter, as friends.

__

photo credit: wadebailey.com

Interpreters have gone to these apocalyptic sections and treated them as allegory: this is that, and so on. But apocalyptic lit is a way of telling a specific story, namely: the world has set up a most impressive way of life which oppresses or woos us—but, the world, for all its sounds and furies, will not prevail, since God—the true God—is on the move and about to emerge triumphant. To boil it down, apocalyptic insists that there is something strong in which the beleaguered may hope, and something better with which the distracted can be satisfied. In using apocalyptic (as well as other forms), the prophets say: look here.

Hope, they tell us, is as real as a doorknob, but more lively. The only problem is that we cannot see this hope; we see instead the way of the world in all its glory or decay (depending on one’s perspective). So the prophets offer us new eyes—eyes of faith.

We have known this, known that the life of faith is one typically bereft of sight. But we rise against this; we want so desperately to see. This is why so many of us settle for the tangible, for a house at the beach now rather than a room in the Christ’s big house later. We have vision problems, and refuse glasses held out by the prophets.

Without vision, people perish, we are told—from a text casually and commonly applied to business (or business-like) applications. This text becomes the linchpin for developing ‘vision statements’ for churches, small groups, families, and individuals, encouraging them all to express what they’d like to occur—what they can envision. But read the statement more literally, as if it were said by a prophet, and refers to what a prophet does (remember, if this helps, that in the old days, prophets were first called ‘seers’). Using this lens, to mix a metaphor, it sounds different. It sounds like we need what prophets see.

Which is hope.

Prophets call us to a life of faith—because (here it gets a little strange once more), the hope which is so sure is still invisible to our human eyes. Thankfully, though, it is not imperceptible to hearts tuned by the Spirit toward the way of Jesus. Such hearts see quite well—and seeing, they welcome hope.

So this is our program, to affirm that the hope promised by the one true God is every bit as real as linoleum, and even more durable. And even when we cannot see it as such, we hold that it good, and worthy of our pursuit and longing. This takes faith, but then what of merit doesn’t? It takes faith to believe my wife loves me, that dawn will happen, that the food I ingest won’t kill me. But I think so little of these things, in large part because so far, they’ve all worked out pretty well. There’s a track record for my spouse, the sun, and the grocery store which establishes confidence and allows me to live without fretting.

And God’s track record? For this, note how many of the prophets are exonerated during Jesus’ first advent. A wide chorus of voices from different epochs and cultures sing in unison and by this build faith in the hope they see. This hope is a stake for us, a firm point around which we can turn with confidence and joy. Not a blue sky possibility, nor a vaporware promise, but real, good, worthy, true hope.

Bryony Taylor is creating an Advent-ure calendar with daily posts.

Maggi Dawn, dean of Yale’s Marquand Chapel, posts about Advent as she prepares services and interacts with her own and other books.

The Slow Church blog has consistently thought-provoking material…   http://www.patheos.com/blogs/slowchurch/

And Nate Shorb’s insights and observations make me smile, and think.

There's terrific, healthy food at this place in Winston-Salem, too...

Combine 7C rolled (not instant) oats, 2T ground flax seeds, 1t cinnamon, 1T powdered baker’s chocolate (unsweetened), and dash of salt in large bowl.

Add (in this order) 1/2C each of oil, honey, and water.

Stir well (1-2 minutes in a large mixer).

Spread on lightly greased cookie sheet(s) and set in cold oven. Bake at 320 for 23 minutes; turn oven off and leave inside to crisp. Remove after an hour or more (can stay in over overnight if you’re lazy, or forgetful).

Yield: about 7C (depends on snitching)

Extras: go crazy by adding 2-3T of sunflower seeds, or any combination of walnuts, pecans, dried cranberries, dates, etc.

***

Thou Who Wast Rich

–a gentle, informative, delightful video (2 minutes long) that introduces Advent

–A Musing Ama’s waitings and longings

–Slow Church is running a series of daily devos

–need images for a variety of applications? Check what the team at Traces of Advent has assembled

–want community? action? involvement? That would be Advent Conspiracy’s bailiwick

–ruminations abound, and so many warrant a look–like this one from Metro Monk

A poem by Sue Schmidt puts us there.

And Mary said: ‘My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me—holy is his name’.

Luke 1:46-49

Preston Yancey uses readings from the Book of Common Prayer to nudge reflection on a wide range of topics in This Fearsome Thing of Grace. Yancey, a ‘Bapto-Anglican’ who studies in Texas, has a love for the Word and words, and weaves enough of his own experience into each short daily piece to hold and encourage a reader. For instance, there’s a brief, potent description of visits with his spiritual director that begin with a ‘holy silence’, which is necessary for the preparation and prayer that accompanies signficant moments. Lots to mull as we consider how Advent, too, is a time of preparation.

Advent offers a ready-made topic for writers, and lots of blogs and collectives are running thoughtful meditations. Sue put me on to David Henson’s series on waiting, and I’m appreciating his call to keep awake in a time when so many pursuits and commitments distract and make us tired.

My friend Nate Shorb consistently uncovers ways that life illuminates texts, and his writing is a pleasure to read. Not only that, but he has a family that is apparently an unending source of amusement and wisdom, and he lives in an environment that requires him to ask penetrating questions. Whenever Nate posts on Advent–like he does here–I read it, and walk away with something more to ponder.

Advent is a time for singing–but if you’re like me, sometimes, the traditional Christmas hymns can be, well, a little too familiar. I like to scout out lesser known songs of the season, and the web makes that task easier. Here’s a site with a sizeable collection that gives a glimpse of what others have seen in Christmas.

What else have you found that is wrapping around and being awestruck by Advent?