Second Sunday in Advent

Part 1.

I am not sure whether our visitor was on drugs, or if he was mentally ill, but something wasn't quite right with the young man who found his way to our Lectio Divina group this morning. He looked a lot like my friends from high school did. He was dressed in a kind of artsy way, with black leather pants, a pair of combat boots held together with duct tape, a purple plaid skirt and a green baseball shirt. And black knit hat with the top cut off. It wasn't the clothes that led me to believe that something was off with him. It was that he would laugh at totally inappropriate moments, almost continuously, like it was a tick, or like something was going on inside his head that the rest of us weren't privy to.

We were reading about John the Baptist, preparing the way for the Lord. (A passage I can never read without hearing the score to the Messiah in my head.) Our guest laughed while we read, one after another, and while we shared our feelings about the passage and what we thought God was telling us through it. He laughed when he read, when he shared, and when he listened. His prayer for his neighbor was so disjointed I found myself praying silently for her, because I know she needs it.

Later, in the nave, he was asleep in the last pew during the service.

He is in my prayers this week.


Part 2.

Behind the altar, on the East wall, there is a huge stained glass window of the crucifixion. It is divided into many panels, some with angels, some with onlookers gazing up at Christ on the cross. Above the scene, God hovers above, looking down at all that is happening.

This morning was a spectacularly clear day. In the winter light the sun is at a different angle than it is at any other time of the year, so the window was in deep shadow, save for a brilliant ray of light illuminating the panel of God. Christ was in darkness, along with all mourners and soldiers and townspeople and angels.

But as the service wore on, the sun was rising, and little by little, the images on the window came to life. First Christ. Then the Angels. And finally, the people below.

In that order.

The Holy Spirit has entered the building

For the second time in a week, an atheist loved one of mine has mentioned the possibility of God's existence.

This time it was my husband, who late last night followed me upstairs and sat outside the bathroom as I was doing my, uh, business.

"You know" he said, "I don't believe in the Holy Trinity or anything, but maybe there IS something bigger than us out there..."

I asked if we could discuss this after I got out of the bathroom.

Now, I must admit that one of the most painful things about being a Christian is the fact that people you love in the world sometimes aren't. It is very very difficult to see the people you love suffering. And life without God, in my mind, is the worst kind of suffering. So even at midnight last night, as my husband spoke these words, my reaction was to want to gush all over him and jump up and down and shout 'alleluia' and 'amen' loud enough for my neighbors to hear.

But I am learning to keep my mouth shut and just ask a couple of questions to allow for further discussion. Tell me more... I said. What does God mean to you? If you think you might be ready to turn stuff over to God, what does that look like? Etc. etc.

He certainly wasn't ready to fall to his knees and recite the sinner's prayer. But he acknowledged, again, his realization that the people in the world he most admires have all been people of great faith.

Beloved,

I pray for all those who have not yet come to know you. I pray that they learn to trust you. I pray that they open their hearts so that you may fill them with love. I pray that they will find the joy that is only truly possible through you.