Church Anew’s Advent Devotional is brought to you by the generous support of our Jubilee Congregational Sponsors: Gustavus Adolphus Lutheran Church in St. Paul, MN; Zumbro Lutheran Church in Rochester, MN; and Christ the King Lutheran Church in Bloomington, MN.
Thursday, December 24
Rev. David Lillejord
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.”
—Lamentations 3:22-24
“Always and Forever”
I always have empathy for the opening act in a concert (remember the days when we were able to go to a live concert?). Then again, chances are, the artist or the band members who have to wait to be at the end of the show, there was likely a day when they were the first act.
Here I am. Writing on the very last day of Advent. And, perhaps contrary to Taylor Swift, Beyonce, or Post Malone, it’s not the most advantageous at the very end of Advent which is also on the very cusp of Christmas. After all, isn’t Advent nothing more than the opening act for what everyone is waiting for and for what everyone really needs?
Anyway, what’s with the text selected for this devotion? An Advent devotion centered around a passage from the book of Lamentations. Yes, many people selected texts before me. Nevertheless, it is also true to say, that regardless of whether I was the opening, middle, or the caboose, I selected this particular text because: “Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.”
My goodness, do we need that promise and reality in our lives today. With Covid, illness, death, racism, political and overall societal discord, is it not wonderful to hear about God’s great love and the glorious truth that God is always full of compassion?
Because the love, the grace, and the mercy of God are new every morning. As soon as our eyes are opening, God gives us whatever we need for the day ahead.
But wait, there’s more: “Great is your faithfulness.” Again I say, “Great is your faithfulness.” “All right,” says God to each of us every, single morning: “Here’s a fresh new batch of all that I am and all that I have to offer. Now, first, enjoy it. Savor it. And then, go, and give it away.”
You see, no matter what time of the year it is, whether it’s Advent, Christmas Day, or the 22nd Sunday in Pentecost, this glorious truth is always, always, always true: “The Lord is my portion, therefore I will wait for him.”
Wait. Savor. Share.
Wednesday, December 23
Natalia Terfa
When the angels returned to heaven, the shepherds said to each other, "Let's go right now to Bethlehem and see what's happened. Let's confirm what the Lord has revealed to us."
—Luke 2:15
I have never related more to the shepherds than this year.
They've just heard the best news possible (for unto YOU a savior is born) and the angels burst into song and the sky is bright and loud and then the angels leave and the shepherds just look at each other like ... did that just happen?
And instead of talking about it, or processing it, or anything else, they do what I think most of us would do, and they say "hey, let's go right now and see if this is true."
Aaaaah skeptics. My people.
They don't take the angels — ANGELS — at their word. At their loud, glory-filled words. Nope. Not these guys. They immediately look at each other and say "I need more." And heck if I don't relate.
Sometimes, I also need more. And I need it to be more than secondhand. So here's my little soapbox moment. If you too need more, that's ok. There are still ways to hear the good news this year, and experience it firsthand. Be creative. Seek out new traditions. Find a way to hear the good news that works for you. Listen to the words preached. Sing along with the hymns, even if you're home by yourself.
Light candles and watch a dark room fill up with light, one candle at a time. There is something special about this particular night. And sometimes we just need to see it for ourselves.
Lord, be with us in our skepticism. Be with us when we doubt and when we need more. Be with us in every moment of grace and love breaking into the world yet again. And help us to see you in all of it.
Tuesday, December 22
Meta Herrick Carlson
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”
—Matthew 2:1-2
The magi make asking for directions sound very cool, but I am even more taken by the imagery of seeing someone's star rising at a distance. They recognize the significance of his light and move toward it. What does that look like these days?
This summer, some of the small business owners asked neighbors to help protect their businesses from fire. Neighbors showed up in shifts all night. When a friend's mother and daughter tested positive for Covid, a Meal Train formed and filled by noon. Maybe you have lined your car up in a birthday parade, waved hello to a Covid newborn through a window, or gathered truckloads of supplies for a mutual aid site. We all have stories from this year about stars rising and coming near to pay homage.
If your community chooses "star words" on Epiphany, consider incorporating the telling of these experiences alongside that ritual. Recalling together the most powerful and connected moments from 2020 can help you prepare to notice the light of Christ and your word in the year ahead.
Revealing God, thank you for glimpses of heaven, signs we cannot explain, and mystery beyond our understanding. May we watch with awe, give thanks with wonder, and move toward your rising and one another through Jesus who is our guide and path. Amen.
Monday, December 21
Jim Keat
“My soul magnifies the Lord.”
—Luke 1:46
I was in elementary school when I discovered the unique power of a magnifying glass. If I held it in place long enough, it could focus the sun to ignite a pile of dried grass. Who knew that such a simple object could become so dangerous in the hands of a second grader? I never had the patience to do much more than see a small line of smoke rising up, but the lesson was clear: this small object could focus the sun into something incredibly powerful.
In the same way, the season of Advent and Mary’s words in Luke 1 remind us that we are living magnifying glasses: “My soul magnifies the Lord.” We are not the source of love but simply magnify the love of God into the world around us. The Christmas story is an invitation for us all to play the part of Mary, giving birth to “God with us” in the world, magnifying God’s love and justice in a broken and fractured world.
God, give us the focus, patience, and dedication to hold our magnifying glasses firmly in place so that your love might be magnified through us into all the world. Amen.
Sunday, December 20
Natalia Terfa
A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,
and a branch shall grow out of his roots.
—Isaiah 11:1
One of the verses the church uses a lot during Advent is this one from Isaiah about a shoot coming out of the stump of Jesse. It's... odd.
But also, it's an image you can easily picture. A stump, with a tiny bit of green just poking up through what looks to be a lost cause of a tree. To me, it's the most stunning picture of hope, maybe in all of scripture.
I mean, what feels more hopeless than a stump? It's a cut down tree. There is nothing left. No branches. No leaves. No life. Have you ever felt this way? Like a stump?
Anyone who has ever lived in the woods or spent time in nature knows that there isn't really any coming back for a tree when it's down to the stump. And for the people listening to Isaiah, that was their reality. Just in the chapter before this, God has said that the tallest tree will be cut down and the lofty will be brought low. There has been a reckoning. And there they are. Feeling quite helpless. Quite hopeless.
Like a stump.
And then this: A shoot shall come out of the stump of Jesse.
This is a promise. It's hope. Yes, things seem bad. Yes, they FEEL bad. You know what? Yes, they ARE bad. But out of what looks hopeless, something will grow. Out of the place where nothing grows, where it looks like life is over, something will come. There is life on the way. New life. And it won't look like you think it will, and it won't be a regrowing of the same thing that was lost, But something will grow. And everything will change.
Things will get better. There will be peace and hope and love and light. It's coming. So no matter if you're in full Christmas cheer or feeling a bit more gloomy, there is hope. It's coming. Light in the darkness and joy where there was sorrow, life where there was death.
Loving God, there are a lot of things making us feel like a stump, cut off from you and from each other. Help us trust in the promise that there is new growth, even in the places that feel the most unable to sprout. Give us eyes to see the shoots growing all around us.
Saturday, December 19
Deanna Thompson
We often think of words of the Psalms as focused on praise and thanksgiving, words that offer comfort to those who sorrow. But 40 percent of the 150 psalms in the Bible — that’s 60 psalms — are dedicated to lament. They are full of cries of anguish, of brokenness, of the absence of God. We don’t talk about this enough — that cries of lament are cries from within experiences of faith. The psalms are prayers and hymns that meet us in every season of life, including those heavy with lament.
Lament psalms often begin in sadness and grief and move toward hope. Take Psalm 22, the psalm Jesus quotes from the cross. It begins with intense sorrow and anguish and ends in hope. In the final verses, the psalmist declares that one day, the poor will eat and be satisfied and that the Lord will listen to our cries for help.
One of the gifts we can give each other during this season of light illuminating darkness is to acknowledge and make space for the occasions for lament not only in our own lives but in the lives of others. When we acknowledge Advent is also a season of lament, we can more fully enter into the joyous occasions, the time of celebrating the promise of Emmanuel, God with us.
God of all seasons, be with all in this world who lament the losses of this year and years past. May we trust in the promise of Christmas: that you chose to be with us, through the manger, the cross, and the resurrection. Amen.
Friday, December 18
Jessica Gulseth
But when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children. And because you are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” So you are no longer a slave but a child, and if a child then also an heir, through God.
—Galatians 4:4-7
In the movie, Christmas with the Kranks, Luther and Nora Krank decide to skip Christmas. They lament the excessive spending, the outlandish decorations, and stress that comes with Christmas. They wanted a stress-free Christmas. Well, their daughter decides to come home for Christmas and Christmas is "back on." But the desire remains.
We want to make the feast, send the Christmas cards, and see the cousins. We want to light the Christ candle and hear Silent Night echo in the sanctuary. For more reasons than one, that may not happen this year, and it doesn't feel right. How can we really celebrate and worship without these things?
Paul was talking about laws and traditions and, while not as pleasant as singing, these words remain true” “So you are no longer a slave, but God's child; and since you are his child, God has made you also an heir.” The coming of Christ foreshadows a fulfilled promise of liberation. Freedom that is not found in worldly expectations and traditions, but in our relationship with Christ. With this freedom we can trust that, no matter the traditions we pause this year, our celebrations and our worship will be faithful.
Lord, help us to trust the freedom you promise and boldly walk in that freedom this season.
Thursday, December 17
Natalia Terfa
Did you know there are Advent hymns? Sure, maybe you know the very familiar, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," but there are many other hymns that are designated for Advent.
My favorite is "Hark the Glad Sound." It's the kind of hymn that reminds you just what and who we are waiting for, and what that means for those who wait. So while singing in church isn't really a thing we're doing right now, I want you to notice the lyrics for this hymn today (they're below). Read them out loud. Hear them for what they are — a prayer, and a promise, of what is coming, and who it is for. We all need a reminder that this waiting we are doing has an end, and what it means for all of us when the Savior of the world finally comes.
Hark, the glad sound! The Savior comes,
the Savior promised long!
Let ev'ry heart prepare a throne,
and ev'ry voice a song.
He comes the pris'ners to release,
in Satan's bondage held;
the gates of brass before Him burst,
the iron fetters yield.
He comes the broken heart to bind,
the bleeding soul to cure,
and with the treasures of His grace
t'enrich the humbled poor.
Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace,
Thy welcome shall proclaim;
and heav'n's eternal arches ring
with Thy beloved Name.
Gracious God, during this Advent season, help us remember that the waiting and preparing are not in vain. Help us see that your coming changes everything and that this is good news indeed.
Wednesday, December 16
Jim Keat
There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light.
-John 1:6-8
The Winter Solstice marks the shortest day of the year in the northern hemisphere. While we know this day is inevitably coming, it approaches so slowly as we lose only a few minutes of sunlight each day. But then on December 22, the pendulum swings back, and we begin to reclaim a few minutes of sunlight with the days growing longer and longer for the six months ahead.
It’s fitting that this shift occurs in the final days of Advent, a season of waiting, watching, and anticipating. Advent is the darkness of the womb, a baby about to be born, light beginning to break in. And while we are not the light, we can help deliver it. Just as John was sent from God as a witness to testify to the light, we also are called to be the doulas of this birth, celebrating the light as it comes into the world.
God, open our eyes that we can see your light creeping in. Enliven our limbs to point to the light all around us. Send us forth as your witnesses to testify to the light that is born again and again and again. Amen.
Tuesday, December 15
Deanna Thompson
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven ... a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance.
—Ecclesiastes 3:1,4
We stand today on the cusp of Christmas, a time (we hear from the endless advertising) to laugh, to sing, to entertain, to dance, to revel in the wonderfulness of it all. It’s the hap-happiest time of the year. It’s a season that’s supposed to overflow with one side of the Ecclesiastes equation — to be a time when all the good things are rolled into one.
But the author of Ecclesiastes offers a different vision: that the seasons of our lives are most often a mixture of both. That it’s not always possible to have the joyous neatly separated from the sorrowful, that in this life, the beautiful and the painful often go hand-in-hand.
There’s wisdom in Ecclesiastes for us no matter what time of year it is. But especially this year, as we experience Advent during a pandemic, the message from Ecclesiastes offers deep resonance to this time of waiting for the hope that Emmanuel, ‘God with us’ brings into the world.
God of all seasons, we await a time there’s only laugher, joy, and dancing. In these Advent days where Light can be hard to see, may you be with us in our mournings and sorrows as well as our joys. Amen.
Monday, December 14
Natalia Terfa
In the wilderness prepare the way for the Lord;
make straight in the desert a highway for our God
—Isaiah 40:3
Advent is for waiting. It's for preparing.
And if you are anything like me,
you do NOT like waiting, or preparing, for that matter.
But there is something holy about this waiting, isn't there?
And, added to that holiness, there is something important about waiting that we don't often think about: who benefits from this coming King.
It's not the powerful.
It's not the wealthy or the well-off.
It's not the happy, #blessed, or those living their best life now.
It's not even for those who are doing OK.
It's for those who struggle.
Those who are sitting in the dark, who are starting to lose hope that the light may ever come at all.
Those who wonder if things will get better.
Those who don't want to get out of bed.
Those who know what it means to long for the light.
That is who Jesus is coming on behalf of.
And this verse from Isaiah about making a "straight way in the desert" and a "highway for God" is really good news for those who are waiting. Not only is the king coming to the desert, also translated as "wilderness" in the original Hebrew, but that the path will be made into a highway. So God can not just come, but come quickly to those who are waiting in the wilderness, in the darkness, in the loneliness. And that's good news for a lot of us this year. We are preparing the way for God to come, and come quickly.
Lord, help us wait with peace and patience. And while we wait, help us prepare. Not just prepare for ourselves, but prepare the way for those who most need to hear the good news of your coming.
Sunday, December 13
Meta Herrick Carlson
Now the time came for Elizabeth to give birth, and she bore a son. Her neighbors and relatives heard that the Lord had shown his great mercy to her, and they rejoiced with her.
On the eighth day they came to circumcise the child, and they were going to name him Zechariah after his father. But his mother said, "No; he is to be called John." They said to her, "None of your relatives has this name." Then they began motioning to his father to find out what name he wanted to give him. He asked for a writing tablet and wrote, "His name is John." And all of them were amazed. Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue freed, and he began to speak, praising God. Fear came over all their neighbors, and all these things were talked about throughout the entire hill country of Judea. All who heard them pondered them and said, "What then will this child become?" For, indeed, the hand of the Lord was with him.
—Luke 1:57-66
My spouse and I didn't share the names we had in mind for our children until they were born. We stayed quiet and waited until they were in the arms of their grandparents to tell them who they were holding. Why? Because it's a lot harder to drag a baby name to the baby's face!
There is great power in making an announcement, and there is also strategy in silence. I wish we had more scripture verses about these months Zechariah was silent. It's a reversal of gender norms - for them and their community!
How did the patriarch's season of silence impact...
his marriage?
the visit from Mary?
Elizabeth's voice?
John's ministry?
God of wisdom, root our relationships in your brave announcements and deep listening. Call us by name and gather us into a holy conversation, where we dare to ask, "What then, will we become?" Amen.
Saturday, December 12
Susan Weaver
How Can This Be?
Luke’s beloved version of the Christmas story is the one we know and tell the most. It’s been performed by generations of children, sung in our carols, and represented in nativity sets of all sorts. Shepherds, angels, Mary and Joseph, baby in the manger – what’s not to love?
But it is John’s telling of the Christmas story that moves me most deeply, that inspires awe in my heart. Widening the focus from the stable in Bethlehem out into the cosmos, John lifts this story from a sweet children’s play to the mind-bending, reality-shifting event it truly is. The Word – who is with God, who is God – became flesh. The Divine – eternal and almighty - became human - frail, fragile, and finite.
I think of myself as a contemplative Christian. I watch for the presence of God in daily life. I allow time for silence in order to listen for God’s voice. And I try to live in the truth that God is as close to me as my own breath, embodied in me. But this … this “Word became Flesh” … still drowns me in wonder.
As I contemplate Christ’s Incarnation, I echo Mary’s words from Luke’s story, “How can this be? How can this be?”
Friday, December 11
Rev. Shelley Cunningham
Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
—Mark 13:31
“This too shall pass” is a phrase my mom said often when I was growing up. When I’d come home from school frustrated or angry, she’d remind me that nothing I was experiencing was permanent. That was comforting. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more aware of the flip side of that phrase: Nothing is permanent. While it might be a blessed reminder in the midst of a pandemic, it’s also a wistful one. Even the most wonderful moment in time will fade away. Kids grow up. Relationships change. A perfect day still ends with the sunset.
Advent is often seen as a future-oriented season. We’re told to prepare and watch and wait expectantly for Christ to come. But let us not be so future-oriented that we miss the signs of the divine all around us. For even as we remember Jesus’ warning that everything will pass away, we can find hope in the promise that his words and his presence with us, will not.
O God, help me be fully present today, trusting that you are with me here and now. And when I am frustrated, overwhelmed, or afraid, gently soothe my soul with your peace. Amen.
Thursday, December 10
Jim Keat
Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth.
—Psalm 98:4
“Joy to the world; the Lord is come; let earth receive her King.” -Isaac Watts
Wait, the whole world? All the earth? The subtle power of this song is that forces me to confront the reality that I am perfectly content singing joy to my world, or maybe even our world, so long as I like the people around me. But joy to the whole world?
Joy to the world is not a cry to overthrow injustice — that’s the Magnificat — but it is a prayer that everyone everywhere rediscovers their humanity, their joy. Because this is what Advent is all about — anticipating the birth of Jesus, the word made flesh, reminding us that divinity is not a qualitatively different reality but the reverse, divinity is fully realized humanity. Joy to the world. And the goal of life, then, isn’t to become something we’re not, but to become what we are: human. And in Jesus we see what it means to be human, to embrace life to its fullest, to know that it’s more than a rat race to a spaceship we’re told to call heaven because life is for living, not an otherworldly obsession. Joy to the world.
God, may we be people who embody joy to the world, and not just the corners that we resonate with. And may everyone everywhere rediscover joy, now more than ever. Amen.
Wednesday, December 9
Rev. Maria Anderson-Lippert
The year before I was born, my parents built a house on 20 acres of old pasture land. As a kid, my dad would mow a pathway in one of the back pastures where we went on walks as much as we could. I picture this pathway in my mind as I read Isaiah’s invitation to prepare the way of the Lord in the wilderness.
Isaiah speaks these words to the Israelites in exile. They are hurting, they are shocked, they are worn down by the violence and loss they have experienced. And yet, even into that reality, Isaiah reminds them of the promise God made just for them. He invites them to prepare their hearts for God’s coming promise, to mow a pathway through the pastures of their hearts and minds, to make a way.
My family has been pretty careful during this COVID-19 season to stay home and stay safe. We’ve limited the amount of people we see, taken our son out of childcare, and work from home unless we’re needed outside the house. Needless to say, our world has become very small, especially for our one-year-old son, Solomon. Recently, however, we took Solomon up to my parent’s house (they help us with childcare - thank God!) and out to the trail for his first walk. When I was younger, the trail was mostly covered in grass that required mowing, but I realized this fall that the path has worn down quite a bit over the 35 years it’s been mowed - that it’s now mostly dirt and many spots are shaded by trees that have grown tall without the cows to continually chew them down. The pathway, with its twists and turns, hills and valleys, is still familiar to my body and my senses as I walk it.
Perhaps this Advent season you are also hurting, shocked, or worn down by loss due to our global pandemic and its implications in your life or in our common life. Perhaps the invitation to enter into a season of waiting feels tired when we’ve been waiting for months to be able to return to “normal.” Whatever it is you’re experiencing this season, God’s promise is still for you. The pathway has been mowed for you and is likely worn down by the many who walk the way with you.
You are not alone. You know the way. Thanks be to God.
Tuesday, December 8
Meta Herrick Carlson
Thus says the Lord:
A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more.
—Jeremiah 31:15
Thus says the Lord: A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are no more.
God comes to earth with deep vulnerability and into a location and generation of boys slaughtered by the violent fear and jealousy of a small king. Their mothers weep and refuse to be consoled. I think about these women often during the season of Advent. And with them, everyone who has been separated from their child, left to weep in the wake of unchecked violence.
Today we pray for those who cannot keep it together and shouldn't have to. For those who are made to explain and rationalize their pain while the oppressor goes free. May they have all the time and space they need. May we bear witness to what they share without backing away. May we hear Rachel's loud lamentation and let her shake with holy grief and rage. For when she does, she is moving kingdoms inside herself and everywhere.
Where can you weep and shake with grief these days?
What happens when you refuse to be consoled,
when your most inconvenient expressions of self cannot be quieted?
Mothering God, you do not constrain our expressions of self or minimize our emotions. You are not inconvenienced by our lament or eager to bypass our pain. Teach us to honor the unconsoled - to see them, to believe them, and to stand with them in the name of Jesus who wept. Amen.
Monday, December 7
Rev. Amanda Simons
A father’s words of blessing and promise proclaimed at the birth of his child. Zechariah’s prophecy evokes deep images within my heart as I remember the way my husband tenderly cradled our babies. With their delicate heads nestled in the palms of his hands and their bodies resting upon his forearms, he would lean in and whisper words of love, blessing, and promise as he gently kissed their foreheads.
As Zechariah proclaimed this blessing upon his beloved child was he, too, gently cradling him? Was he envisioning the promises of his child’s life unfolding before his eyes?
And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.
This blessing is for you too. You are the child who has been called to prepare the way and share God’s salvation.
Lord God of Israel, thank you for raising up for us our savior Lord Jesus. Thank you for the blessing you have bestowed upon us as your beloved children. May your tender mercy dawn from on high and break upon us, giving light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death. Guide our feet into the way of peace and strengthen us in spirit so that we may reflect the light of your love and grace in all that we do and are. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
—Rev. Amanda Simons, associate pastor of Gustavus Adolphus Lutheran Church, St. Paul, Minnesota
Sunday, December 6
Susan Weaver
Blessing the Dark
Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
—Psalm 139: 7-12
For most of my adult life I have dreaded, in some primordial way, the early coming of darkness in late Fall. I’ve trembled with the Psalmist, “surely the darkness shall cover me” with my head ducked, an arm over my face, holding my breath. Finally, in the seventh decade of life, I have come to know that whether darkness is metaphorical or actual, there are things to be learned there – good things – that cannot be learned in the light. I am coming to trust the natural rhythms of God’s creation: light to dark to light, life to death to life. Discovering grace in unlit spaces.
“Darkness is as light” to God, the Psalmist says. We can’t see in the dark, but God can and does. We fear the light won’t come, but God has promised that it will. We despair of anything good going on in the dark, then we recall the baby in the womb and seeds in dark soil.
Advent isn’t just something to get through on the way to Christmas; it is a holy and fruitful season of its own. It calls us to trust God, to breathe into and be blessed by the dark.
Saturday, December 5
Jessica Gulseth
In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said,
“The voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
‘Prepare the way of the Lord,
make his paths straight.’”
Now John wore clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey. Then the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all the region along the Jordan, and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.
—Matthew 3:1-6
John the Baptist was a rather peculiar man. Where does he preach? The wilderness. That’s unusual. What did he wear? Camel’s clothes. John didn’t have preacher swag by today’s standards nor his own. The writer takes the time to tell us John ate locusts. It’s clear that John was making a radical claim, from the place he stood to the words he spoke: ”Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” Preparing for Christmas feels a little peculiar and unusual this year. COVID-19 makes me feel like John, shouting in the wilderness hoping someone is listening. But I find encouragement in John’s commitment. He was inspired by the promise delivered in the birth of Christ. He knew that sometimes we must go against the grain to prepare people for an encounter with Christ. He had trust in a faithful God; one who promised to dwell among us and ultimately save us. That’s the truth that sustained John’s ministry and the truth that will sustain ours.
Lord, we give thanks for your faithfulness. May we find encouragement in John’s peculiar ministry. May we be inspired by the promise and hope we rediscover in this Advent season.
Friday, December 4
Meta Herrick Carlson
I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord, forever;
with my mouth I will proclaim your faithfulness to all generations.
I declare that your steadfast love is established forever;
your faithfulness is as firm as the heavens.
You said, "I have made a covenant with my chosen one,
I have sworn to my servant David:
I will establish your descendants forever,
and build your throne for all generations.’”
Every late November, I wander into the sanctuary for worship and realize (due to white paraments) it's one of those Junior Varsity festival days on our church calendar. Reign of Christ Sunday is our liturgical New Year's Eve, a vital last word each year: Christ's reign is supreme ... and everything else is not.
This festival is relatively young, created by the Pope in 1925 because he was concerned about the rise of secularism and nationalism in Italy. We know that the church has a long history of propping up kings and funding wars, so I appreciate that this day's reminder is both public and personal. Christ's throne cannot be owned by a political party, contained by borders, conquered with armies, or thwarted by Herod. It is a throne established for all generations and inspires love that sings forever.
Holy God, you make and keep promises. You establish covenants that last forever. Come near and remind us that your reign bears and covers all things, through Jesus who is steadfast love made flesh. Amen.
Thursday, December 3
Jim Keat
And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.
—Mark 13:37
Stop pressing snooze. Pour an extra cup of coffee. Take a cold shower if you have to. Because the invitation for the season of Advent is clear: keep awake. We must keep awake to the work of God in us and in spite of us. We must keep awake to the realities of injustice raging all around us.
Perhaps rather than a season of us waiting for the birth of Christ, Advent is the season in which God waits for Christ to be born in us, our own awakening to the hope, peace, joy, and love we are called to embody in the world around us. Because our hope must be as tangible as the despair all around us.
God, energize us with your spirit so that we might keep awake, discovering Christ born in us and in spite of us, for the sake of the world around us. Amen.
Wednesday, December 2
Susan Weaver
Divine Longing
Read Hosea 11: 1-9 as the parent of a beloved but disobedient child. Listen to God’s back-and-forth inner dialog between tenderness and fury. Hear the delight of teaching a child to walk, of holding them in one’s arms. “Lifting infants to the cheek”, “bending down to feed them.”
Hear the heartbreak of a child’s rejection, “the more I called, the more they went from me”. Hear the hurt of watching them suffer the consequences of their turning away, the “fierce anger” and the thought of vengeance.
There is nothing that makes one’s heart more vulnerable than this kind of love. That God endures this vulnerability on our behalf breaks my own heart.
Listen to the longing, “How can I give you up?” God says. “My heart recoils … my compassion grows warm and tender.” This longing is what draws me back to this passage as Advent comes again. God’s fierce and tender love for us. God’s steadfast refusal to give up on us.
Sit with this in your prayer time. Feel the desire for God rise up within you, embrace that longing, and know that it is birthed and fed by God’s loving desire for you.
Tuesday, December 1
Jessica Gulseth
I can’t help but think about what might have been going on Joseph’s mind when the angel came to him. Joseph and his family had already been through it, and now he’s being told to flee his home. They’ve been asked to temporarily give up their comfort for their safety. This wasn’t a moment of defeat, but a moment of retreat. This year we’ve had to make difficult decisions too. We’ve been asked to give up a lot, and we’ve been through it. But, just like Mary and Joseph, sometimes we have to make difficult decisions for the greater good, for a story greater than this moment. Beyond this moment is a promise that our discomfort is only temporary. One day we will return home. We give thanks for the coming of Christ so that promise may be fulfilled. We can find hope in that promise. The kind of hope that gives us strength to make it through this season.
God, we give you thanks for a bigger story. God, give us the strength, wisdom and courage that Mary and Joseph display. Remind us of the sustaining hope we have in the promise of Jesus.
Monday, November 30
Peter Wallace
Humble Things
Micah 5:2-5a, Luke 1:39-55
One of my favorite Christmas ornaments is quite simple. My son, now 38, made it as a toddler. It’s a disc of plaster painted gold with an imprint of his palm. I love it, because in its humility, it reflects the glory of God.
In these readings, we see this same phenomenon of humility revealing glory. Micah shares God’s word to Bethlehem, “one of the little clans of Judah” — simple, humble. Even so, “from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel … he shall be great to the ends of the earth…”
From a “little clan” comes a mighty ruler. Humility reveals glory!
In Luke, God visits a woman who could serve as the definition of humble. Something astonishing happens to her. Can you imagine what Mary must have thought? Yet when God called her, her immediate response was one of humble acceptance and determined obedience. And she bursts into praise to God.
Lowliness magnifies the Lord. Humility reveals glory!
We too may see our gifts as little, our lives as humble, our calling as lowly. But in God’s eyes, nothing could be further from the truth.
Consider what “little things,” what simple gifts, what humble service, you might offer to God. And thereby magnify the Lord.
Humility reveals glory. Glory to God in the highest!
Lord of glory, open my eyes and my heart to your gifts and calling, that I might share them eagerly, lovingly, and humbly with others — for your glory. Amen.
—Rev. Peter M. Wallace is producer and host of the Day1 radio program/podcast (Day1.org) and the author or editor of 14 books, including The Passionate Jesus and Bread Enough for All: A Day1 Guide to Life.
Sunday, November 29
Rev. Matthew Ian Fleming
But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.
—Luke 2:19
One of my mentors told me she always reads the end of a book before she begins. It struck me as odd. Why wouldn’t you want the payoff and the surprise at the end of the story? Why wouldn’t you want the tension and release of a good story told bit by bit? But this season, I think I understand her perspective a lot better. I wish I could see how this story unfolds — the story of pandemic, the story of electoral vitriol and political polarization, the story of confronting generations of racism in our communities. I wish I could peer around the corner to make sense of the present disorientation and overwhelm.
Mary ponders twice in the Christmas narrative, once at the beginning of the story, when the angel, Gabriel, visits her and then again at the end of the birth narrative — after the silent night, after the cattle lowing, after the harking angels — Mary pauses, treasures, and ponders. After all of the hubbub of the Christmas story, Mary makes sense of it by treasuring the gift of each moment. It’s her story after all as much as it is God’s story.
So this Advent, I’m going to be working to imitate Mary, perhaps a more protestant impulse than we’d first imagine. I’m going to treasure the moments that unfold in the in-between — those liminal spaces when we can’t see how the story will unfold. I’m going to ponder the ways that I can pay closer attention to my neighbors in need. I’m going to pause in gratitude for the breath in my lungs and the life that is emerging before me.
God-with-us, call our attention to your birth in our neighborhoods. Breathe in us the confidence to pause and ponder how you are turning this world toward justice and shalom. Help us to treasure the moments that we are given and to share each moment with the ones in our care. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.