Reflections on the Second Sunday of Advent

I am sitting at the kitchen table in the evening of the second Sunday of Advent. I have been reading Advent meditations this week, which in itself is actually quite astonishing, because I usually start seasons like Advent and Lent with high hopes and a goal of doing some deep reflecting and pondering each day, and then inevitably miss a day or two after which point I get discouraged and then give up on the thing all together.

So far, I have not given up.

I am especially enjoying Walter Brueggemann’s Celebrating Abundance: Devotions for Advent. In one of this week’s passages, Brueggemann tells us of John the Baptist, (Jesus’ cousin? or some kind of relative), who prepares the way for him and who “quickly, abruptly, and without reservation” steps back when Jesus appears. John said, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

Brueggemann challenges us to examine our own lives and to “decrease/increase” ourselves. He writes, “Decrease what is old and habitual and destructive in your life so that the new life-giving power of Jesus may grow large with you: Decrease what is greedy, what is frantic consumerism, for the increase of simple, life-giving sharing. Decrease what is fearful and defensive, for the increase of life-giving compassion and generosity… Decrease what is hateful and alienating, for the increase of healing and forgiveness, which finally are the only source of life.”

Advent is “not a time of casual waiting,” he concludes. “It is a demanding piece of work. It requires both the outrageousness of God and the daily work of decreasing so that Jesus and God’s vision of peace may increase.”

What is the “demanding work” of Advent that I could do this week? What does that look like for me? (What does it look like for you, for any of us?)

Maybe it could mean “decreasing” and surrendering some of my fears that have been looming large lately. I recently applied for a substitute teaching credential (since my work as a massage therapist has been affected by COVID), and just got a call  from the local school district asking if I could sub tomorrow for a third and fourth grade class. I said yes. But I am a little unsure of how this will go. It’s been more than 20 years since I had a classroom of my own. Fear sits on my shoulder. All those “what if’s.” What if the principal doesn’t like me? What if the kids don’t listen? What if I am exposing myself to COVID? I could let this fear be part of my day today, let it burden my sleep tonight. Or I could gently, continually “decrease” it when it shows up (which it certainly will, again and again), and trust that there is a plan, that I will be guided, and that it is a good thing, not a prelude to disaster, that I can be there for the students and the staff and for the regular teacher, who needs to be away.  I can be a servant.

Other current fears that could use a little “decreasing”: the fact that apparently it is not going to rain anymore, at least not for the next week or so, and that California is heading back into drought. Also, the whole COVID thing. Also, that there is not enough toilet paper at Costco for everyone who needs it.

Decrease the worry. Increase the trust.

Maybe my “demanding” Advent work could also be that I stop buying Christmas gifts for my family. It’s enough already.  I have always admired folks who can abide by this wise saying that limits Christmas gifts to four per person:

“Something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read.”

That would be perfect! I’ve never been able to do it, though. I easily slide into that “frantic consumerism.” Our Christmas purchases tend to be “quite a few things to wear” (for my teenage daughter, because Kohl’s and Old Navy are having great sales) and “a lot of things you want” (Lego sets and video games for my teenage son). The worst thing is that I usually forget what we’ve purchased and panic buy as Christmas day draws near. When I finally sit down to wrap, I realize that I’ve overdone it, and I end up feeling sick and sad.

It’s not too late to change that this year.

Really, I am afraid that there are a million “old, habitual, and destructive” things in my life. But I think I am so close to most of them that I can’t even see them anymore. My prayer, then, would echo Brueggemann’s words, that the “new life-giving power of Jesus would grow large in me.” And that I would have clearer eyes to see what these destructive habits are and then open up to that life-giving power that would give me the grace to change them or let them go.  I pray that I could be patient in this season of waiting, and that Jesus’ life-giving power would meet me where I am, right now, this day, at the kitchen table, on the second Sunday of Advent. That is the work of Advent that I want to do.

Into this house, into my heart, always forever: come, Lord Jesus.