advent Archives - Page 3 of 3 Held By His Pierced Hands

O Flower of Jesse’s Stem–Advent and Aslan

O Flower of Jesse’s stem, you have been raised up as a sign for all peoples; kings stand silent in your presence; the nations bow down in worship before you. Come, let nothing keep you from coming to our aid.

In this prayer, we begin with the right words, the words of adoration that seem to fit the occasion. We speak lovely, fitting, shallow, empty words when we approach the Lord. “Heavenly Father,” we say to a God who is our dictator or our servant, but never our Father. “Thank you, Lord,” we say, however bitter we may be at what the Lord has withheld. We’ve become so accustomed to lying to God–“Thy will be done”? Who really means that?

But then we stumble. It’s as though we are praying as we “ought” when our desperation breaks through with something real. We catch our breaths and repeat in earnest, “let nothing keep you from coming to our aid.”

There’s a longing in that stutter that expresses so perfectly what Advent is intended to be. We are overwhelmed by God’s majesty and goodness at condescending to be with us. We know all the right words about his glory and all that–but, oh! We just want him–we need him!

As Christmas draws near, the Church invites us to ache for Christ. She reminds us of the darkness of life before the Savior came near and asks us to allow all our brokenness and emptiness and need to well up in our hearts and to cry out, “Come, Lord. Oh, please, please come!”

I’m not sure I can make sense of the longing and tenderness and desperation and awe and sorrow that I feel except to say that it’s quite the same way I feel about Aslan. When I read the Chronicles of Narnia,¹ I need him. And when he comes I’m thrilled and I want to run to him and bury my hands in his mane but I know I have to hold back, because while he is entrancing, he’s also terrifying. And his voice thrills and comforts and challenges. I’m afraid to look into his eyes because I know I’ll see myself as I truly am, not as I pretend to be; but I know that while I’ll see myself I’ll also see how deeply he loves me and I’ll be able to bear it. Truly, I love Jesus so much the more because I loved Aslan first.

When I think of the coming Christ this way, I begin to believe that, like Hwin, I’d suffer anything for him.² Like Eustace, I’d submit to any pain at his hands. Like Reepicheep, I’d go to the ends of the earth for the glory of his name. It’s just that–when I’m in Narnia–oh, I ache for him!

This is what Advent is supposed to do–just exactly what Lewis does when he tells us “Aslan’s on the move.” When you read that line–if you love these books as I do–you almost feel for your sword before you remember that you haven’t got one and you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you did. You’re thrilled and terrified and ready and the only thing that matters is his coming.

I suppose it comes down to this–I would give everything to be breathed on by Aslan, to have him whisper in my ear and call me “Dear heart” as he does Lucy. Do I give everything to come near to Christ? When I let myself long for Aslan and then direct that longing to Christ, suddenly it’s all so real. Suddenly I’m past the nonsense of fancy ideas and just filled with a longing to be his. Suddenly I cry out, “Come–let nothing keep you from coming to my aid!”

You know what? Never mind. Just go read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and try to feel about Jesus the way you feel about Aslan. That’s the idea, after all.

Oh, come O Rod of Jesse’s stem,
From ev’ry foe deliver them
That trust your mighty pow’r to save;
And give them vict’ry o’er the grave.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

(This verse seems particularly irrelevant to my ode to Aslan, but I’ve got a pattern going, so we’ll all just have to deal with it. Now go read some Lewis!)

I gave away my copies–the ones I’d marked up. Writing this post as it deserved to be written without them (and on a time crunch) was impossible. So you get no quotations, just feelings. Add the quotations in the comments if you’re so inclined. [↩]
“Please,” she said, “you’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I’d sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else.” [↩]

O Sacred Lord of Ancient Israel

O sacred Lord of ancient Israel, who showed yourself to Moses in the burning bush, who gave him the holy law on Sinai mountain: come, stretch out your mighty hand to set us free.

These last days before Christmas, I’m just ready to hold sweet baby Jesus in my arms. I’ve longed and ached for him all of Advent and I want to hold his tiny baby body and kiss his soft baby head. And just as the baby-lover in me threatens to take over, leaving me with images of snuggling a baby that have little to do with the majesty of the Incarnation, this antiphon drops by to remind me that he is so much more than just a sweet baby, that this is so much more than just a birth.

There is in Christmas the somber promise of Good Friday. There is in the joy of the Nativity the suffering foretold by the myrrh of the Magi, the anguish of the Innocents slaughtered as the Christ child is spirited away. The wood of the manger is the wood of the Cross, and this child raised by a carpenter will hear daily the echo of the nails that will bind him to his death. The freedom we are promised by the Lord of Israel is given us by the blood of the Lamb.

There’s a reason Christ was born in the dead of night, a reason we celebrate his birth in a time of barren coldness.¹ Certainly, we see that his coming brings us into greater light. But I think we also need his coming to be surrounded by quiet and darkness and just a little bit of fear. It would feel wrong to celebrate in July, remembering with cookouts and fireworks our king born to die. In winter, our joy is tempered by the chill. We sing “Joy to the World,” indeed, but also weep for the day, coming too soon, when the world will mourn. The best Christmas carols remind us of the purpose of the Christ child:

Why lies He in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear: for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce him through,
The Cross be borne for me, for you;
Hail, hail the Word Made Flesh,
The babe, the son of Mary!

Today’s appeal to the God of Exodus carries the weight of wonder, the awe and fear that surrounded any encounter with this Lord of plagues and sacrifices and walls of water. It is this Christ whom we worship, sweet and silent in his mother’s arms. The God made man to save us is the God before whom Moses cowered in fear. The freedom he wins for us is bought at a terrible price.

Do we greet this child with smiles and stockings and move on, pleased to have celebrated family and love? Or do we fall on our knees before the God born to die? Advent calls us not only to prepare for the joy of the incarnation but to repent, to recognize the gravity, the horror of a God who offers himself as a sacrifice in our stead.

In his infancy, he was given myrrh to anoint his beaten body when at last his life came to fruition. Offer him, friends, the myrrh of repentance. Anoint his tiny body, formed so perfectly to suffer so terribly, with the balm of your prayers, your acts of charity, but most especially your sins offered at the foot of his cradle, the foot of his cross. If you haven’t yet been to confession this Advent, humble yourself before the God of Israel who merits all honor yet stoops to kiss your feet. Give him the gift of your wretched, sinful heart and let him return it to you whole and new.

Oh, come, oh, come, great Lord of might,
Who to your tribes on Sinai’s height
In ancient times once gave the law,
In cloud and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Unless you’re south of the Equator, in which case, hello!! [↩]

O Wisdom

I have all kinds of big ideas when it comes to this blog: posts half-written in adoration that never see the light of the internet, mp3s recorded on my phone of ideas that come to me on the road, series that I know will never come to fruition. I generally hold these things in my heart so that if they don’t come to pass, nobody knows but me. This time, I’m cluing y’all in first so that when I miss a post, you can all smirk knowingly.

Also, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to start posting on the O antiphons every day without telling you what I’m doing. So here’s the skinny:

From December 17-23, Christians are in a time of eager anticipation. The intentional expectancy becomes intense as we enter the octave before the birth of our Lord. We throw aside the normal prayers for particular prayers that show our hope, our trust, our longing for the Christ child. Each evening, the antiphon preceding the Magnificat in Evening Prayer proclaims one of the ancient titles of the Messiah, giving us the text of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and excellent fodder for meditation.

So my hope this week is to share with you my daily meditations on these antiphons. With all the hours I’m putting in with the babies, I can’t promise polished prose or pictures, but I’ll give you what’s in my heart and hope that’s enough.

O Wisdom, O holy Word of God, you govern all creation with your strong yet tender care. Come and show your people the way to salvation.

The God who is coming into our midst is the God of all creation, the wisdom of the Father by whom and through whom and for whom all things were made. And yet, with all his power, he chooses weakness for love of us. The God who could announce his presence with thunder and trumpets and booming words from heaven speaks instead in shepherds’ voices. This God who could force us to love him invites instead. He speaks tenderly to our hearts, beckoning, begging, but never compelling.

This is wisdom: the God of power and might becomes an infant. Because he couldn’t forbid suffering without impairing our freedom, he chose to suffer with us. St. Augustine reminds us, “God had one son on earth without sin but never one without suffering.” Too strong to be defeated by death, he was yet tender enough to die. Too strong to abandon us in our sin, he was yet tender enough to allow us to reject him. God in his wisdom is everything we need–just enough and never too much. He woos us as far as we will come and then mourns as we choose ourselves over him. In his wisdom he leaves us free, though we might prefer to be enslaved but happy rather than free in the misery of sin.

And when he shows us the way to salvation, he doesn’t call from afar or point the way through peril and misery. He walks with us, shoring us up by his strength and tenderly wiping away our weary tears. He asks of us nothing that he hasn’t himself done or suffered or been subjected to. When we are hurt, we find his pierced hands lifting us up. When we are rejected, his pierced brow speaks of his betrayal. When we are lonely, we hear the echo of “My God, my God.”

This is the wisdom of the incarnation: the foolishness of the Cross. This is what we long for in Advent: not merely the coming of the Christ child in the liturgy but the coming into our hearts of him who breaks down the walls we’ve built and gently smooths our rough edges.

What tender strength. What wisdom. Come, Lord Jesus.

O, come, O Wisdom from on high,
Who orders all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
and teach us in her ways to go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

And Still We Rejoice

For those shaken by yesterday’s shooting–another in a long line of acts of senseless violence against children–tomorrow’s celebration might seem callous. Gaudete Sunday? Rejoice? When children are killed in their desks, ripped apart in their mothers’ wombs, beaten by their parents, forced to slaughter each other as child soldiers, sold into slavery, how can we rejoice? When Friday, as horrifying as it was, is not out of the ordinary in a world where children are killed by the thousands in “ethnic cleansing” crusades? When children themselves become murderers on the streets or in their nice suburban homes? When thousands of children die of hunger each day while you and I shell out 20 bucks for dinner without batting an eye? Now, you tell me, rejoice?

When Israel had been destroyed and Babylon was knocking down the door of Judah, how could they then rejoice? When even priests and Levites worshiped idols? When the best you could hope for was to live in peace and die in peace and then…who knew? When all the world was trapped in the darkness of sin with only the barest hint of a promise of the Light to come, how could they then rejoice? But Zephaniah calls from the darkness:

Shout for joy, O daughter Zion!
Sing joyfully, O Israel!
Be glad and exult with all your heart,
O daughter Jerusalem!
The LORD has removed the judgment against you
he has turned away your enemies;
the King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst,
you have no further misfortune to fear.
On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem:
Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged!
The LORD, your God, is in your midst,
a mighty savior;
he will rejoice over you with gladness,
and renew you in his love,
he will sing joyfully because of you,
as one sings at festivals.

Zephaniah has no reason to hope, in a world of sin and slavery and suffering. But he knows the One who is hope, the One who turns mourning to gladness, the One whose mercies are renewed each morning. And despite the wisdom of the world, he looked to God and found joy in the midst of sorrow.

When Christ had died and his disciples were following him in ignominy and death by the hundreds and the thousands, how could they then rejoice? When Paul had been beaten and shipwrecked and imprisoned, how could he rejoice from the darkness of his prison cell? When Jesus had promised to return again and yet…nothing–how could they rejoice? But Paul writes from his cell:

Brothers and sisters:
Rejoice in the Lord always.
I shall say it again: rejoice!
Your kindness should be known to all.
The Lord is near.
Have no anxiety at all, but in everything,
by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving,
make your requests known to God.
Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding
will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

Rejoice, he says. Have no anxiety, he says. Seek the Lord and you will find peace, he says.

But still hunger and violence and torture and rape and how oh HOW can we rejoice?

When the Savior of the world was born amid noise and filth, how could Mary rejoice? When armed men were sent to slaughter him, when he was saved at the cost of dozens of other young lives, how? How could she flee into Egypt and lose her son for three days and remain a woman of joy? How could she watch him rejected and ridiculed and beaten and tortured and killed and stabbed and laid in a tomb and still trust in God?

And yet she did. In all things, her spirit rejoiced in God her savior. Facing life as an unwed mother, she trusted. At the foot of the Cross, she trusted. When he left her again to continue in a world that had slaughtered her only son, she trusted.

Scripture is so clear on this, my friends. Joy is not contingent on the circumstances of this world but on God who is so much bigger than our circumstances.

Sing out, oh heavens, and rejoice oh earth. Break forth into song, you mountains, for the Lord comforts his people and has mercy on his afflicted. But Zion says, “The Lord has forsaken me. My Lord has forgotten me.” Can a mother forsake her infant? Be without tenderness for the child of her womb? Even should she forget, I will never forsake you. See, upon the palms of my hands I have written your name. Your walls are ever before me.-Isaiah 49:13-16

Though he slay me, still will I trust in him. -Job 13:15

God is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in distress. Therefore we fear not though the earth be shaken and mountains plunge into the depths of the sea, though its waters rage and foam and the mountains quake at its surging the Lord of hosts is with us, our stronghold is the God of Jacob. -Psalm 46:2-4

We hold these treasures in earthen vessels that the surpassing power may be of God and not from us. We are afflicted in every way but not constrained, perplexed but not driven to despair, persecuted but not abandoned, struck down but not destroyed, always carrying about int he body the dying of Jesus so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our body. For we who live are constantly being given up to death for the sake of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may be manifested in our mortal flesh. -2 Corinthians 4:7-11

Though the fig tree blossom not nor fruit be on the vine, though the yield of the olive fail and the terraces produce no nourishment, though the flock disappear form the fold and there be no herd in the stalls, yet will I rejoice in the Lord and exult in my saving God. God my Lord is my strength, he makes my feet swift as those of hinds, and enables me to go upon the heights. -Habakkuk 3:17-19

But I will call this to mind as my reason to have hope: the favors of the Lord are not exhausted. His mercies are not spent. They are renewed each morning, so great is his faithfulness. My portion is the Lord, says my soul; therefore will I hope in God. -Lamentations 3:21-24

When cares abound within me, your comfort gladdens my heart. -Psalm 94:19

At times like this, it’s easy to respond with discouragement and despair.¹ Without Christ, I can’t see how I would respond any other way. But my God saw how miserable this world was and couldn’t stay away. He sent his only Son to enter into our mess, to suffer with us and for us. My God ached for love of us and so he changed everything. And he longs to do it still. He longs to turn our mourning into dancing. He longs to bring peace to our troubled hearts.

This is terrible. There is so much evil and so much suffering and misery and desperation in this world. But we were not made for this world. If you are suffering today–and I think we all are–I’m so sorry. But I know a God who is bigger than your pain. Let us turn to him and–in everything, despite everything, because of everything–let us rejoice. At the end of the day, God is still so, so good.

And of course, and always, we pray. We pray for the deceased and their loved ones. We pray especially for the young souls who witnessed such violence and will spend the rest of their lives trying to recover. God help them.

Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer. -Romans 12:12

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In case the assurance of God’s sovereignty isn’t enough for you, here are some reminders of the goodness he’s put in men’s hearts.

WARNING: REALLY REALLY bad language. [↩]

Advent: You’re Doing It Right

I was chatting with a dear friend at a St. Nick’s party last night (sporting purple in honor of Advent because I’m cool like that) when my friend stopped mid sentence, said, “Wait a second. I have to change the song,” and disappeared into the crowd.

At this point, the conversation was louder than the music, so I couldn’t hear the song. Was it inappropriate? I didn’t think Christina had Ludacris on her ipod. A Christmas song that she had to change because it was Advent, though? Much more likely. I asked her when she came back.

“No, it was just too slow.” Then she looked a little sheepish. “I listen to Christmas music in Advent–I’m not good about that.”

Now I’ve taken many a stand against Christmas music during Advent, but it hit me in that moment that there isn’t anything “good” about abstaining from Christmas until Christmas. I don’t hold off on “O Holy Night” as a sacrifice, I do it because I want to live in the longing. I love the ache and hope and anticipation of Advent and if I start celebrating Christmas early I lose that. I’m a melancholic and I don’t want to skip to the joy because for me joy is nothing without the pain that precedes it.

But Christina’s a sanguine. She needs that Christmas joy in early Advent because starting to celebrate Christmas is what prepares her to celebrate Christmas. For her, baking Christmas cookies, hanging lights, and listening to “Silent Night” is a way of preparing herself for the day that she knows hasn’t yet come.

It’s the difference between fasting before a feast and getting a foretaste by sampling the dishes. They’re both about building the excitement and anticipation. Neither one is wrong.

Advent Christmas tree — An Advent wreath and a Christmas tree at the same time? Why not?

So in the midst of all these posts about what to do during Advent (and in lieu of the one I’ve been planning all week), I just want to tell you that you’re doing it right. If you’re spending a little extra time in prayer, finding a little extra silence, and living Advent in the way that brings you closest to Christ, you’ve got it. Rock out to Christmas music 24-7 or turn your radio off for the next 24 days–I won’t judge. Go to every Christmas party in town or claim a religious obligation to stay home–whatever floats your boat. Replace all your children’s books with nativity stories and their toys with nativity toys or cut the board books in half so they’ve only got Mary’s journey and not the nativity itself. Do Santa or St. Nick or Epiphany or no gifts at all. As long as it’s about Jesus, ain’t nothing wrong with a little bit of the secular.

Just don’t stress. Don’t feel like you have to sing the Advent songs and do the Advent crafts and bake the Advent bread.¹ Don’t feel like you have to shop till you drop or wear a Santa hat all month. The point here is to find some stillness in the cold dim of winter and to wait for the Lord.

Quit worrying about what you ought to be doing for Christmas or Advent or the end of the semester or whatever has you running around a chicken with your head cut off in this season of “silence.” Instead, take 5 minutes in prayer to ask the Lord what will be best for you and your family. Ask what prayer and reading and songs and traditions and festivities will prepare you to welcome him in time and in eternity. Cut whatever you have to cut to make room for Christ.

But don’t do it for the sake of “doing it right.” If meditating on “mild he lays his glory by, born that man no more may die” makes you fall more in love with Christ, please sing Christmas carols! Don’t deny yourself what brings you to Christ for the sake of being liturgically appropriate. If singing Christmas carols now will make you sick of them when the time comes, shut your mouth! Don’t deny yourself what brings you to Christ for the sake of being culturally appropriate.

If stringing thousands of Christmas lights all over your everything helps you to prepare for Christ, start on Labor Day for all I care.

It’s easy, when you’re trying to be a saint, to think that the harder something is, the better it is for you. Advent’s not like that. It’s not about superhuman fasting or adoration marathons. Save your windsprints up Calvary for Lent–Advent is about the slow walk to Bethlehem with Mary. And if you want to walk joyfully, singing about the king to be born, go for it. If you want to walk in wonder and awe, more power to you. If you want to cheer or be silent or shop for meaningful gifts or bake or read or whatever opens your heart to the Christ child, it’s all fine.

Because Advent isn’t about penance–not the way Lent is, anyway. Advent is about preparation. It’s about making room in our hearts for our infant King. It’s about clearing out the noise and the mess and becoming like little children again.

Maybe for you, that’s an Advent wreath and a daily holy hour and all “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” all the time. Maybe it’s baking Christmas cookies, decorating the house, and wishing everyone a merry Christmas. In the grand scheme of salvation, it doesn’t matter that your candles are the right color or your novena starts on the right day or even that your favorite Christmas song is secretly “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”² Quit worrying about what you’re supposed to be doing on this one and just be still and know that he is God. That’s really all there is to it.

Top image courtesy of flickr, flickr, and flickr.

Is that a thing? [↩]
I do love that one, but I totally sing it to baby Jesus. In the chapel. Hoping that nobody else will come in. [↩]