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First Saturday of Advent

Scripture Reading for Today:

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In Greener Pastures

by Robin Ingham


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I don’t want to dwell in the mystery of Advent. I don’t want to dwell in the mystery of anything. I am tired of the uncertainty. I am very aware of my likeness to withering grass and fading flowers (Isa. 40:6-7), and I am very, very tired. What I want is assurance. I just want those green pastures and still waters of Psalm 23.

Five years ago my pastor and ministry supervisor encouraged me to attend seminary. He said that I would make a terrific lead pastor and that I would give any seminary a run for their money, whatever that meant. I think it meant that I was intelligent and challenged the status quo. I balked; there was no way I would ever go back to school and become saddled with debt. However, the provincial government at the time introduced an attractive grant program. I interpreted that, plus a strong sense of call and a commitment to my church, as a sign that I should enroll in seminary. The only problem was that, once I enrolled full-time, the new provincial government reverted back to a largely loan-centred student assistance program, and trouble began brewing for me at the church in which I ministered. Today I am churchless and jobless with a large student loan to repay. I feel rejected, lost, and slightly panicky.

“‘Comfort, comfort my people,’ says your God. ‘Speak tenderly to [literally “to the heart of”] Jerusalem’” (Isa. 40:1 ESV).

I just came across wording like this in my Hebrew exegesis class. In Ruth 2:13 (ESV), in response to Boaz’ kindness, Ruth says, “I have found favour in your eyes, my lord, for you have comforted me and have spoken kindly [literally “to the heart of”] your servant, though I am not one of your servants.” It is a language of intimacy. In the pain of crossed wires and rejection, I wonder if God is telling us something about how we are to treat each other in times of uncertainty, when the Other seems very mysterious and so very unlike us. As Christians, we may be tempted to speak polite, and even what we may consider to be kind, words even as we alienate those who don’t think like us or challenge our certainty in our ministry agendas. But I think there is something to this “speaking to the heart.” I come from a culture where respect and reciprocity are valued. Reciprocity requires remaining open to the Other, even at the risk of being hurt. This is not a matter of asceticism but an acknowledgment of our connectedness, whether we like it or not. What hurts one member of the community hurts all. What heals one heals all.

Maybe our goal as Christians is not to move from plateau to plateau in increased followers, popular programming, and revenue, but to hear someone tell us how we have spoken to their heart and how they feel seen, heard, and comforted. Boaz had no obligation to Ruth, a foreigner, and, by Isaiah’s time, Israel had run up her iniquity tab to its limit. Yet God, in his mercy, declared that the day would come when “her warfare is ended … her iniquity is pardoned, [and] she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins” (Isa. 40:2 ESV). Being redeemed by the One on whom “God has laid the iniquity of us all” (Isa. 53:6), shouldn’t we be focusing our energies on speaking to each other’s hearts as Jesus did to the thief on the cross (Luke 23:42-43), that same cross from which Jesus cried out to the Father in hurt and confusion, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” (Matt. 27:46)? For Christ on the cross, to embrace the mystery was to embrace the Other, even at the greatest cost to himself. Do we have what it takes as his followers to follow suit?

The going is rough for those of us in a wilderness, whether we are there because of our own sin or someone else’s. Yet mountains and valleys are levelled so that the way is made smooth for our God, not in some fancy palace somewhere but right here in the wilderness where we have been wandering (Isa. 40:3-5), and we will all see his glory. He is strong (Isa. 40:10), but the same arm that rules the nations gathers the lambs and holds them close to his heart (Isa. 40:11).

The closing clause in Isaiah 40:11 brings me to tears when I read it in Hebrew: “עָלוֹת יְנַהֵֽל (‘ā·lō·wṯ yə·na·hêl).” עָלוֹת are literally nursing mothers. [1] In the Piel stem,נָהַל  (na.hal) can mean: “to lead to a watering-place or station and cause to rest there; to lead or bring to a station or goal; to lead, guide; to give rest to; or to refresh (with food).”[2] In this verse we are presented with the image of a powerful yet gentle shepherd gathering up the lambs in his arms and leading the exhausted nursing ewes along the newly smoothed path in the wilderness to a place of rest and refreshing. Not any old temporary resting place, mind you, but that final place of shalom we all crave. I have been a nursing mother three times, and I can tell you that the current exhaustion of trying to be faithful in this uncertainty is not far off from those early days of sleep deprivation when a strong and gentle shepherd would have been a welcome sight. How beautiful it would have been to know that my babies were safe in his arms while I ate the food he prepared for me and rested comfortably under his watchful eye.

It is true that I am in a wilderness as we approach Advent this year. I am hurt, confused, and worried about making ends meet. I feel guilty for racking up student loans while my husband has worked hard to put food on our table. I miss the fellowship of the congregation, which I still love dearly, and I feel the call to ministry stronger than ever as I learn that I can access and share the gospel directly as a Métis Christian with other Indigenous people without it being so darned tangled in western culture. It is a mystery where to go from here. But I trust our God. I trust our Saviour, who has indeed made straight the way in the wilderness. In the midst of the unknowns, let us cling to the image of the Good Shepherd. And if we lie down, we will not be afraid; when we lie down our sleep will be sweet (Prov. 3:24). Shalom.


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