My husband breathed heavily as he lifted me and our toddler onto the donkey. My husband’s brown skin, already white with dust, now reflected the moonlight. Our boy started to stir, and I glanced both ways, hoping the boy wouldn’t cry out and waken our curious neighbors. No one could know where we headed, which way we went. I didn’t understand the reasons for our furtive journey, but my husband said that our once safe situation had suddenly become dangerous. There was nothing to be done but flee over the border.

Once we reached the more uninhabited areas of desert, I felt a sense of relief. My husband looked back at me. Normally so handsome, the sand and the breeze had already matted his dark wavy hair. In the shadowy moonlit sand and rock, he looked tired, but resolute as he plodded ahead. I didn’t dare tell him how exhausted I felt and how sore my arms already were from holding our sleeping boy.

In our community people had looked up to my husband. They had valued his work and trusted him. But now we were nobody. Refugees. Homeless. Bandits or wild animals might stalk us.

I hoped we would find another place, another home where people accepted us—where the weary man that led our donkey could work with his hands again. I hoped not just that we could make a living, but that we would find a new community: that someday men would again ask the dusty man in front of me for advice, that women would knead bread with me once more. But for now, I held my sleeping boy with leaden arms and prayed for strength.

That first night, after travelling for several hours, we camped in the open, though I’m not sure how much my husband slept. When we woke up with the sun, we saw a few travelers in the distance, but nothing to cause alarm. After a quick breakfast, we continued.

Our little son looked around silently with his brown eyes. Sometimes he would ride on his daddy’s shoulders, but usually in my lap. Days and nights began to run together. We became even darker in the sun. Weary from traveling, the dust and wind made us look disreputable. 

I don’t know how long we travelled. I saw many sunsets. Sometimes we stayed in an inn, but more often we slept under the moon, and many nights with no light but the stars. Once we crossed over a river and I was fearful. Joseph put Jesus on his back and just for a moment I had a horrible mental picture of them both drowned on a river bank, but I pushed it out of my mind. Joseph told me God let him know that it was time to flee, so we would continue. Finally we reached Egypt. Joseph turned to me and said, “Mary, we’re safe.”

We’re beginning to look for a new place to settle—a place that could use a carpenter. Will you pray for us that we find a place that will welcome three refugees?

For the second Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2019, the Revised Common Lectionary readings included Matthew 3:1–12. The focus of the passage was on John the Baptizer serving in his God-ordained role as the forerunner of the Messiah.
 
While I listened to the speaker that Sunday, I became increasingly pensive. This is because the homiletician talked at length about the necessity of parishioners “decluttering” their lives in preparation for the advent of the Savior.
 

"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." 

So begins Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, written in the time of the revolutions. But he could have just as easily been talking about Advent. Christ has already come in the flesh; but he has not yet made all things new. So while it is the best of times—Christ is Lord—it is the worst of times, because He has not yet returned.

Many of our great Christmas carols acknowledge this already-but-not-yet state. Isaac Watts wrote, “He comes to make his blessings known far as the curse is found.”

(Para español, lea abajo.)

A wailing scream pierces the air. The new mother cries tears of sheer exhaustion and joy. The father stands speechless, astounded, holding a wriggly bundle in his arms. Mom and dad lock eyes and they silently ask each other, “What should we name him?”

He could have kept a distance, giving an air of indifference. But, there he was: hovering over the waters, making man from dust and woman from a rib. God himself had come.

He could have sealed the covenant with Abraham from afar. But, there he was: appearing that evening as a smoking fire pot and flaming torch that moved through the animal carcasses. God himself had come.

I heard a sermon on the sin of alcohol consumption, where the pastor claimed that whenever the Bible mentions wine, it’s referencing grape juice. He went on to say that alcohol is dangerous (possibly), addictive (agreed), and a narcotic (wait, what?)

The DEA classifies narcotics (also known as opioids) as controlled substances. They reduce pain, induce sleep and euphoria, and do not sit on grocery store shelves. Even at a drug store, we cannot purchase narcotics unless a pharmacist has dispensed them via a doctor’s prescription.

Anticipating Advent in the midst of the clutter, noise and anxiety of the current cultural pulls is an invitation to shift and prepare our souls for celebrating the coming of Christ—Emmanuel—God with us.

The word "advent," from the Latin adventus (Greek parousia), means "coming" or "arrival." The Advent Season is focused on the "coming" of Jesus as Messiah (Christ or King). Christian worship, Bible readings, and prayers not only prepare us spiritually for Christmas (His first coming), but also for His eventual second coming.

Every year around this time, I head to the garage and pull out the red Rubbermaid container packed with our Christmas ornament collection. I crack open the box with the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning. I breathe in the scent of the Maine balsam fir pillow tucked at the bottom and smile. I know precious memories await me, as I weed through the packing peanuts safely protecting my nostalgia. 

On our way to church I asked my children, “What is Advent?” One child said “I don’t know,” and the other, “When we get ready for Christmas.”

Part of me felt like a failure as a “Christian mom.” But then I realized, I’ve been searching for Advent since their birth.

What is this season for?

Genesis 17:15-17; 18:9-15; 21:1-7

Time: 2067–2066 b.c.

Place: Canaan

Lesson Aim: To learn that God can do what we consider impossible.

Introduction