the First Thursday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
Presence in Absence
by Dawn Chow
The Census at Bethlehem - Pieter Bruegel the Elder
When I first saw this painting, I was struck by the contrast between the image’s cold setting and its warm colour tones. I could feel heat radiating from the crowd on the left and the chilled air being breathed in by the workers in the field and by children at play. I wondered about the lives of the people in the painting - how many of them were lonely or grieving, were at their wit’s end, or were simply living day-to-day because they didn’t know how else to live? I wondered how many of them lived well. Would the presence of God among them mean anything? Could it mean anything…?
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Today’s liturgical passages bring us through a rollercoaster ride of emotions: in Malachi, a spiritual low filled with anger, disappointment, and bitterness; in Luke, celebration, freedom, and anticipation; and in Philippians, a mix of the two, as shackles of imprisonment ring out with faith, hope, and joy in a muted kind of celebration. However, it is interesting to note that our lectionary places Philippians 1, the passage of tension, before the joyous eruption in Luke. Read in this order, YHWH’s invitation to the Israelites (to return to living in right relationship with him and others) is in a sense accepted through Paul’s declaration of faithfulness towards Jesus despite his chains, which then results in Zechariah’s proclamation that God will redeem Israel (and for us today, all things).
Some context for today’s readings might be helpful. For the Israelites of the prophet Malachi’s time, God felt absent and aloof. Surrounded by persistent geo-political conflict and poverty, the people of Israel began to look out for themselves, sliding from their covenant faithfulness to God to live their own ways (Mal 1:6-3:5). They were understandably skeptical - the promises and words of earlier prophets (i.e., Haggai and Zechariah) now seemed irrelevant to them; keeping the Lord’s commands did not bring the Israelites the blessings they felt were promised (Mal 3:14-15), and the wicked continued to go unpunished while the righteous suffered. By contrast, the apostle Paul in Philippians 1 responded to his suffering by doubling-down on his faith in the enduring work of the Spirit. Although the contexts of the two passages differ greatly, it is worth mentioning that in the face of his own suffering and inability to act, Paul continued to trust in the active presence of God in the world. Thus, Paul was able to rejoice because hope was always within reach.
Frankly, when I first read through today’s passages, an old, persistent wound began to throb. This wound is rooted in a tension between who I am and the kind of person I “should” be according to the churches in which I grew up.
I was brought up in a Christian household where scripture and the promises of God were used either to brush away the complexities of pain, suffering, and misfortune, or else as a moral ruler that, if followed, would lead to material prosperity and stability. Bible verses were also used to justify the suffering of those outside of the faith (e.g., Prov 3:5-6; Matt 6:33, Eph 2:12, etc.). As a result, part of me immediately recoils from words that assert how (all) suffering has meaning or purpose (i.e., “everything happens for a reason”). Upon reading Philippians 1, I was reminded of the verse in Rom 8:28 and my knee-jerk reaction was to put as much distance as possible between me and the Philippians speaker. I don’t believe that a non-Christian’s suffering is worse because they are not Christian, while a Christian’s suffering is “blessed.” Being a Christian must not mean playing an “us vs them” game.
Yet, this tension in me tempts me to play this game, only with different goalposts – rather than “the Christian vs the world,” it has become “me vs the Christian.” And much of my life seems to fit this revised game, particularly since I prefer to spend my time in non-Christian spaces.
I recognize that my comfort in non-Christian spaces partially stems from an aversion to the kind of Christianity and Christians that have hurt me. I tend to assume that the Christians I meet will be the same, so I distance myself as a way of self-protection. The description in Malachi--the discouragement, presumptuousness, and bitterness of the Israelites at their situation and at their God--feels unquestionably relevant for me, paralleling not only my own sentiments towards Christians but also some of my friends’ sentiments towards God. For me, the tension lies between cynicism and sorrow towards my own faith and faith communities, and the forgiveness and redemptive work of our Triune God in and through all things. For my friends, the tension lies in the impossible juxtaposition between very real suffering on one hand, and a God who claims to be faithful and loving towards his creation on the other.
As I continued reading through today’s lectionary passages, Zechariah’s words in Luke 1 seemed lonely to me, as though his hopeful and joyous anticipation of redemption was severed from my messy reality. But in noticing and reflecting on this, I realized that Zechariah’s prophecy embodies the tension between the “here” and the “not yet” found in his proclamation of restoration and freedom to come. Like Paul’s joy (but unlike Malachi’s Israelites), Zechariah’s joy is rooted in that which is still absent.
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Advent is a time in our calendars where the oscillation between despair and hope, or the “here” and the “not yet,” becomes inescapable: as we begin to look for presents to gift, others know there will be nothing to receive; as we begin to plan what family gatherings and dinners might look like, others dread the silence to come or mourn the empty chair at the table; as we gripe about the cooling weather, others worry about where they might find shelter for the night. No amount of laughter, gift-giving, or acts of goodwill can make up for the suffering, loneliness, and grief of others. Though we might try, ultimately we are unable to speak for or do enough to fill God’s absence on his behalf. How then might we respond?
I think the answer lies neither in withholding our celebration, nor in sinking deep into cynicism. One response is to simply lean into the tensions we find ourselves holding, trusting that the Spirit is already at work in the reality that currently is and that might come forth. One might say that to be human is to experience tension--the tension between good and evil, between what we desire and what others desire, the tension between our false self and our true selves, the list goes on. But to be human also means we can be indwelt by God. After all, he created humans and declared us “very good.” He himself became human and, in living through the tensions, chose rightly and thus redeemed humanity.
As the Spirit works within and through us, the place of tension can become a place of creative dissatisfaction where new discoveries and growth might be found. Here, we might discover the invitation of the Spirit into something small and wonderful, a mustard seed of life. And this is why despite my lingering feelings of invalidation and triteness towards verses such as, “God works all things for the good of those who love him,” I know deeply that there is truth to Paul’s perspective because the kingdom of God is one of mustard-seed faith.
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The painting that opened this piece is by Peter Brueghel (c1611), titled, “The Census at Bethlehem.” It reminds me that God-with-us is a quiet, unassuming happening. In the middle of the image, near the bottom, Mary and Joseph quietly co-labour alongside the Divine. Their mustard seed is their offering of obedience and faithfulness not only to God but to each other.
As a spiritual director intern, I am coming to realize that presence may be one of the most blessed gifts we can offer each other. Our mustard seed efforts to connect with others do not go wasted or unnoticed by God, who takes the little we give and uses it beyond what we can know or see.Under the love of our Triune God, the effect of one event ripples outwards into a redemptive eternity. In this season of Advent, where tensions feel most palpable and darkness feels ever-present, perhaps I will allow myself (and others) to sit in these spaces of grief, knowing that God sits with us in these cold places too. Amidst the cries of our groaning, the noise of our busyness, the silence of grief, the presence of God comes alongside us. He is our misty breath in the cold. The silent snowfall in the dark. In the absence, a presence.
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