We've all been dealing with the stomach flu in the Milkweed house, so to say that we're feeling achy and tired and out of sorts is the understatement of the year. Aside from the first full-house onset of a stomach virus since we became a family of four, this week was big news because I started a new job. It's one I'm truly over the moon about, so it's been jarringly disconcerting to be feeling so physically low in the midst of the excitement. Both exist simultaneously, though-- that's the genuine picture.
As has been noted ten million times in forums both more shallow and erudite than this one, we're entering the season when the wider world waxes euphoric about gift-giving and decorating and all the other consumeristic trappings dumped on the true meaning of Christmas. In the church we call this season Advent, which is taken from the Latin word "adventus," meaning coming. It is a season of anticipation of the birth of the Christ child, and with it the supreme hope of all humanity. Ideally, it is a season of quiet preparation, of making ourselves ready to receive the world's greatest gift. And since we live in the world, where literal gift boxes pile high under a thousand glittering trees, we have to do some pushing over and shoving past in order to make ourselves a path to the authentic. We have to seek out what is true in order to see the genuine picture. That is, after all, exactly the sort of work that Jesus grew into.
Tonight before bed my daughter chose the story of Jesus' temptation in the desert from her little picture Bible, where it is depicted as Jesus standing high on a mountaintop and banishing the Devil out of the visible picture frame. In his rapid departure we can only see one monstrous, gnarled leg, knocking over a glittering treasure chest in his haste to flee.
And I was instantly struck by the fact that in some ways this Advent season will be a desert for me, too-- not so much in terms of temptation, although that treasure chest lines up nicely with what the world would have us want-- but in terms of wilderness, and frightening, scary beasts.
After we take communion, we pray "And now, Father, send us out to do the work you have given us to do." Sometimes that work is the work that we do at our literal jobs, whether we're scrambling to learn the ropes or are seasoned veterans. Sometimes it is the work of parenting, or of caring for a spouse-- of wiping fevered brows and cleaning up vomit and starting yet another load of laundry on hot. And sometimes this work is internal work-- work on things that we would rather not face. Work that involves dragging the scary beast back into the picture and seeking to understand its nature so that it can no longer seek mastery over us.
This is desert work not unlike the work that Jesus did in the wilderness-- terrifying, unpleasant-- and it's embarked upon in the season before the birth of an infant meant to be protected in His innocence and vulnerability. The two must coexist.
This work will be difficult. It will be lonely. It is warrior work. Most of all, as with so much else in our lives, it is work prefigured by Christ himself and work He doesn't leave us to alone.
It is much more comforting to flip past the picture of temptation in the desert in that little picture Bible and seek out the warm glow of the Nativity, with the tiny baby and the adoring parents and the shepherds and animals all bowing low. With the angels singing from above.
It's tempting to just try and stay in this picture all the time, but that's certainly not what happened for Jesus.
May the trials we experience in this season of lights sanctify us for the year to come. Whenever possible, may we find comfort and courage in the desert. May we remember that in the book of Mark, there were angels in the desert, too.
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