The Purpose and Meaning of Advent Liturgy

The Purpose and Meaning of Advent Liturgy  

Annually observing the waiting and anticipation of Advent prior to celebrating Christmas is the burden of doing ministry in a liturgically minded church. The big mega-church down the street doesn’t give a fig about the season of Advent, the twelve days of Christmas – eleven of which follow Christmas day – or any of those things that one is taught and perhaps even believes for oneself are important for the celebration of the incarnation. No purple for them, no hesitation and discernment over whether to sing Christmas songs or to wait, no attempt to find our place alongside of the people of ancient Israel as they live under the spell and promise of the coming one. For the church down the street, it’s all red and green, lights upon lights, jolly now, merry now, Jesus now, Christmas now, with the décor coming down by New Years Day. They don’t need the liturgical calendar because they are following the most obvious calendar of them all – the countdown to Christmas while celebrating Christmas. 

 

This is not going to be a whinefest or a superiority declaration that we have it right and they have it wrong. I think they do have it wrong, but not for reasons that one might expect. Liturgically-minded churches often criticize others for having no respect for church tradition. So, they violate the church calendar or ignore the liturgical seasons. But, that criticism is a bit thin, if we remember how critical the Apostle Paul was about such observances. In truth, we observe seasons, times, and years, not because they have the authority of Scripture, but because we need seasons, times, and years. Paul could have thrown away his calendar because he anticipated the Second Coming to happen immediately. For those of us who exist many generations later – because it was not as immediate as Paul thought – seasons, times, and years resonate with the rhythm of life. At best, at least from a Pauline perspective, our observance of seasons is a concession to human weakness and need, not something inherent to the Christian message itself. (As long as we’re being honest, that seems to be Paul’s perspective toward marriage also.) 

 

In other words, people of faith are free to accept or reject the liturgical calendar as a human creation, in part to meet our rhythmic needs. And that is quite liberating, even for those of us who choose to follow the liturgical calendar. It is no great expose to argue that December 25^th is based less on the actual historical birth of Jesus than on its proximity to the Winter solstice. Nor is it particularly bothersome to argue that celebrations of the Winter solstice are rooted in long pagan traditions. One can grant all that, and grant it happily, because that is simply a way of saying that ancient pagans were as rhythmically human as modern Christians. There is nothing sacred about December 25^th and it is wasted effort to argue that Jesus was born on that exact date. What is sacred is that God was in Christ, really and historically immersing Godself into our story with radical vulnerability and solidarity. And, as people who need seasons, times, and years; as people who live among the rhythmic patterns of the universe; as people who do best with times of intense remembering as well as times of rest; observing the incarnation once a year can be a way of living faithfully. But, again, one can observe the incarnation faithfully apart from the liturgical calendar itself. 

 

My argument with the mega-church down the street that hosts Christmas all December long is not that they need to follow the fullness of the liturgical calendar. It is that the gospel stories themselves – Matthew and Luke, anyway – do not simply jump into the Christmas story with the journey to Bethlehem. They begin with longing, repeatedly citing the prophets from ages past. In doing so, they remember not only the promises under which God’s people live, but also the long periods of non-fulfillment, the in-between ages, when faith is hard to maintain. Those times of waiting are not ancillary, but germane to the story of the birth. Luke describes Zechariah and Elizabeth, an aging, repeatedly disappointed couple, whose frustrations over childbearing seem metaphorically representative of the people of Israel’s frustrations over the years. “We’re doing our part. Why isn’t God doing God’s part?” Likewise, Luke shows how young Mary’s hesitation and disbelief – similar in form but different in kind from Zechariah’s hesitation and disbelief – is transformed into a powerful, defiant song of conviction, even before the child is born. Surely Luke’s comment about how Mary “treasured these things in her heart” after the birth is part of the same thread of experience with Mary’s initial question “How can these things be?” and her defiant song of hope prior to the birth. The question and the Magnificat go together, as unfulfilled anticipation and joyful celebration go together. 

 

Matthew also gives attention to the long history of anticipation, constantly citing Old Testament texts in a way that most New Testament professors would describe as “proof-texting” if he were a first-year seminarian. Those texts are important for Matthew’s story, not because they prove anything but because they situate the reader into this tradition of longing, waiting, questioning, and wondering. And silent Joseph’s dilemma, then consent and obedience throughout Matthew’s story is probably more like the average person of faith than all of the heroic canticles combined. This coming of this Messiah is a happening thing, which fulfills all the longings of the past while it breaks all of the rules of our present order. What else is there to do but to go along and wonder at it all? 

 

Simply put, the Christmas story has a backstory. Without that backstory, it is just an ahistorical myth of God bursting into human life in a weirdly sentimental way. With the backstory, it is the God who – to many folks along the way – shows up quite a bit later than anticipated. With the backstory, the decree that went out from Caesar Augustus is more than just a contextual nuisance that moves the story from wherever to Bethlehem. It is part of the history of imperial aggression to which the people of Israel were subject while striving to believe in the promises. With the backstory, Zechariah’s expression of disbelief is in tension with the larger ongoing act of faith that kept priests like him lighting the candles in the first place. How many wicks must have been burnt in hopes that God would finally redeem God’s people from their captivity! The backstory gives those who “greet the new morn” the salience of having kept watch through the many and long darks nights.  

 

And that is why Advent is important. It is not because the church calendar is sacred, old and wise though it may be. It is not because we Protestants have suffered from liturgy envy and now fully embrace all things Latinate. It is not because we liturgical folk are addicted to suffering so we make sure that Advent is to Christmas what Lent is to Easter. It is because the story of Christmas has context, a backstory of longing, anticipating, being frustrated, and struggling to hold onto a shred of faith. To hear the second chapter of Luke well, one must read the first chapter of Luke and get with the flow. Or, to put it another way, to celebrate the red and green of the season, one must hold the purple for a while. The crèche must have an empty manger for a while. The songs must be anticipatory rather than declaratory for a while. That is how the story is given, so that is how it should be read, told, and lived. Even if the speakers in the malls are singing “Joy to the World” the day after Thanksgiving. 

On Preaching, pt.2

 Last week I said that I think the purpose of preaching is more about being than doing, more about identity than activity, more about “Who we are” than “What do we do now?” I think that’s an important distinction and I want to explain it. I also think it’s a fine distinction, because ‘doing’ and ‘being’ are so closely intertwined at every step. I need to repeat from last week that I’m not advocating quietism, a kind of ‘do nothing’ or ‘it doesn’t matter’ attitude. Part of who we’re called to be are those who do justice, practice compassion, visit the sick, pray for one another, and so forth. Sometimes our ‘doing’ shapes our ‘being,’ and our practices form our identity. It seems to me, however, that when doing flows from being, when identity leads to action, we are on better footing as children of God and disciples of Christ. Otherwise, I think we end up trying to earn our way into God’s favor by proving our worth, which leads to all manner of frustrations and problems. 

 

Let me illustrate with this: I have a friend from the past who recently started posting very strong messages on Facebook, like “What will it take for us to refuse to take it anymore?” and “When they come after our children, that’s when we act!” One might think she’s a mother of a trans child in Florida and think, “You go, sistah!” But she’s not. Her cisgender straight kids are grown. Nobody’s coming after them. Her posts indicate that she’s believes that if her public library has a story about a kid with two moms then it’s out to indoctrinate all the children of the world to be queer. So, she’s resisting it and waging holy war in Christian language. To be fair, I have another friend who takes the same tactics – sometimes almost word for word – to declare his determination to defend his gay son, so this is not something that is only found on one side or the other of our political spectrum.

 

I’ve never been sure how best to respond to holy warriors, especially those whom I have known and loved for many years. My first inclination – not a good one, I don’t think – is to joust word for word, perhaps even with snarky responses, which is the kind of damaging communication that gives social media a bad name. A better response, I think, would be to hug her/him/them and assure them that they are loved by God beyond their wildest imagination. And that this same God loves their children with that same kind of unimaginable love. And that nothing they say, do, or leave unsaid or undone will erase that love. They are beloved children of God, regardless of how they do or do not engage in this cultural conflict. 

 

I know, I know, we might be thinking, “Aw, that’s sweet. Why don’t you just sing Kum by yah” and see if the world sprouts flowers?” But let’s give it a second. What if my friend were convinced that she’s accepted and loved as she is – along with her cisgender straight kids, and the trans kid in Florida, and the kid with two moms, and the two moms and the gay kid whose dad wants to take her on? And what if she were convinced that she is loved because that’s simply how God is with us? What if she doesn’t have to prove her commitment by becoming God’s warrior, but gets to live her life and behold other people’s lives with the assurance that when we say “God is love,” we are also saying, “We are loved” and we are saying “They are loved”?  In some ways, this is the issue behind the old Reformation argument that we are “saved by grace through faith” rather than by “works righteousness.” Sure, we are called to “do” things. But we are called to “do” by the God who always already loves us for no good reason at all. And if that’s who God is, then God loves even those with whom we differ strongly with that same kind of inexplicable love. Our identity is important because it is grounded in who God is. We are loved because God is love.  

 

I suppose I’m going on and on about this because I cannot help but believe that a proper sense of who we are, grounded in a proper sense of who God is, changes everything. Our opposition does not have to be scorched earth, holy war on those who differ from us. And I’m trying to learn this lesson as much as anyone, believe me. The powerful part of leaning into our identity as beloved children of God is that it is animated by the hope that good overcomes evil and love overcomes hate. 

 

Mark of St. Mark

On Preaching

 For this week and next, I want to reflect a bit on the purpose and intent of preaching. I realize this is not something normal people think about often. Preaching is more or less part of what we have grown accustomed to expecting when we participate in worship. Even us preachers don’t give the purpose and intent of preaching that much thought, because we’re typically focused on weekly productivity. That said, here are some of my thoughts on it and I hope they make some sense. My thoughts are not terribly systematic, because I, too, spend less time engaging in homiletical naval-gazing and more time preparing for preaching most weeks. 

 

First, preaching is not a matter of going on and on about pet peeves. The process of preaching is a disciplinedone, trying to hear the Word of the Lord as it is presented in the ancient Scriptures in order to proclaim the Word of the Lord in our present world. 

 

Second, the key connection between the ancient Scriptures and the current world is not the preacher’s cleverness or great books, but the salvific presence of God that permeates all time. What God was doing to conquer sin and save human life back then is important because God is present in our own world of sin, injustice, hatred. It’s the saving God that we’re endeavoring to hear in the ancient texts, because it’s the saving God we’re endeavoring to serve today. 

 

At the same time, we all have pet peeves. We all have deep convictions. Both the peeves and convictions come into play in how we hear the text, how we see them applying to the world, and how we feel called to proclaim them today. Most of the tools of discipline that preachers follow – translation, interpretation, commentaries, and like – are intended to help us distinguish between the peeves that come and go and those convictions that sustain us as God’s people. 

 

One place where I often differ with my preaching colleagues is in the relationship between the preacher and the congregation. Simply put, I always contend that we’re on the same team. Sometimes when preachers gather, we get our one and only chance to name some of the frustrations that come with preaching out loud. Often it comes out as “us against them” where the preacher is the one who is not mired in the past or hostile to the sharp edges of the gospel, trying valiantly to drag along the recalcitrant congregation. That’s especially how preaching is described when someone uses the adjective prophetic preaching. I heard someone say recently, “If they ain’t mad, you ain’t preaching.” That’s where I step off. 

 

The frustration of preaching is real, but it’s not the frustration of the preacher being ‘all in’ while the congregation is dragging its feet. None of us lives into the sharper edges of justice, compassion, loving enemies, giving away our possessions, befriending the prisoner, or proclaiming jubilee as we ought. Preacher, listener, faithful, unfaithful – it doesn’t matter, the call of the gospel is a call to take up our cross and none of us finds that degree of self-denying commitment to be easy. In fact, I know that every week I face people who are more ‘all in’ than I am, people who have climbed mountains I can only imagine, people whose act of getting out of bed in the morning takes more courage than I have ever had to exercise. The gospel is easy for none of us, but embraces all of us. That’s the frustration and joy of it. But it’s always “us.” 

 

Finally, let me say something, about which I may completely wrong. I don’t think the primary purpose of preaching is to fire up people to go out and do something. I think proclaiming the gospel is more about beingthan doing, identity than activity. I think the question is less, “What do we do now?” than “Who are we?” I’m not saying I believe we do nothing. Part, but only part,  of the answer to the question “Who are we?” is that we are those who are called to do justice. Doing is a responsive act, an ‘in the moment’ act, the specifics of which change over time and context. Identity, however, is something that stays with us, even as the context around us changes. That’s what I want to reflect on with you next week. 

 

In the meantime, I am honored to be,

Mark of St. Mark