A Rocha USA Blog

By Dave Timmer, Stewardship Director, NW Washington A Rocha

We’re bombarded with tradition at this time of the year.  As I get older, I think back on the advent traditions of my church.  There was a time that I didn’t think my church really dealt with advent.  That mostly came out of familiarity - traditions often become so second nature that we don’t realize they are traditions.  It also came out of spiritual immaturity.  Christmas was about presents under the tree and the church rituals were just a sideshow.  Furthermore, and this still happens, my postmodern mind tends to get frustrated by the tradition battles that take place every year.  The fights over which decorations are appropriate in the sanctuary, or the ridiculous “War on Christmas” that a certain cable news station likes to invent.  Now, I see greed creep into my five year-old’s mind as he looks through a Christmas Lego magazine.  This is frustrating.  So, rather than enjoy this time of year, my jaded mind would rather just skip it. 

Because of this, I need to remind myself that there are some advent traditions that are good to remember.

Every year, four Sundays before Christmas, the music changed in church.   The kids jockeyed for position to be Mary or Joseph in the upcoming play, not just a stoic shepherd or, even worse, a sheep.  And each week, a church family was responsible for lighting one more candle in the Advent wreath.  Of course, adding a candle each week dramatically increased the odds of lighter malfunctions. 

This is probably my biggest advent memory – big brother (who is just old enough to be responsible with fire) is desperately clicking the unresponsive lighter and with an increasing amount of panic, he gives it a bit of a shake before finally making eye contact with dad.  Dad is nervously watching, mulling over his options of how to help.  Then just as dad is about to move, the lighter miraculously ignites and a soft chuckle rises from the congregation.  Big brother redeems himself by getting all the candles lit without also igniting his sleeve.  Dad smiles…disaster averted. 

This year, though, I’ve been more aware of an advent emphasis on “waiting”.  It is an attempt to empathize with the young couple at the center of the Christmas story.  This couple wonders what awaits them in Bethlehem – with a new baby set to arrive soon, very soon.  No hospital arrangements are ready for them.  They don’t even have an open couch arranged.  Furthermore, this baby isn’t even Joseph’s.   

Today, I’m wondering if this emphasis on waiting is appropriate.  There was a time for waiting, yes.  The Biblical story, brilliantly, plays this out.  As far back as the Genesis story, a promise is given.   A promise of redemption, a promise to make things right again.  The curse will be knocked back.  That is the central theme – and the story is amazing.  No matter how bad things get, God is not about to abandon this promise.  Noah builds a big boat.  Abraham has a son.  David becomes king.  It’s going to happen. 

But God’s people rebel and Babylon creeps nearer.  The situation is as bad as it can get.  The prophets describe the scene.  Their sieged capitol city is in ruins.  People are so hungry.  There are stories circulating of mothers eating their own starved children.  The king, cowardly, fled the city.  But he was quickly captured, his sons were murdered, his eyes were cut out, his hands were bound and he was dragged into exile.  The temple is a smoldering pile of rocks.  God is gone and his people are scattered.  They are forced to leave their homes and their farms.  The symbol of God’s promise - the “promised” land - is no longer theirs; the prophets long for restoration. 

Throughout this longing, though, there weaves a beautiful thread of hope.  There are promises of peace and justice (often quite violent justice…but justice).  There are promises of deliverance and re-membering the scattered people.  There is the promise of a Messiah and rest.  There is hope, even, for the land.  The “promised” land experiences a Sabbath.

After these promises, however, there is silence…for a few centuries.  This is the time to wait. 

Finally, the silence breaks.  Remember those promises.  There is now a new conqueror with a Roman name.  Remember that royal line.  The people have come back to that same land.  Remember that the land rested.  There is a new temple and new traditions.  Remember the pictures of justice that those prophets painted.  The new conqueror wants to keep track of all those people with all those traditions.  Remember how God uses nations to write his story.  And a poor, pregnant, unmarried couple travels across the country to have a baby in a barn.  Remember the Messiah that they wrote about. 

The waiting is over.  This is what they’ve been waiting for.  The rest is history, right?  We’ve even made this moment our fulcrum of time.  Everything has changed.

Jesus’ kingdom has been established.  In it, the hard work of redemption is occurring.  This isn’t happening in some far-off place or some future kingdom.   God’s redemptive work is happening today.  His story continues. 

So what are we waiting for? 

The Christmas story has happened – remember it, yes.  Empathize with that young desperate couple – definitely.  But the time for waiting is over.  

It’s time to join in.

 

 

 

By Ginny Vroblesky, founding Director of A Rocha USA

 I had often seen the tree on my morning walks.  It was striking in its own way.  I had glanced at it with pity, seeing it as an example of the abuse of man – specifically the gas and electric company.  It bore the scars of missing branches.  Its trunk had been repeatedly cut to below the level of the power lines. Here was the tallest tree of the eastern forest, a tulip tree, stunted, gnarled and misshapen.

 This week I stopped to truly consider the tree for the first time. I was surprised to turn around and discover a German shepherd dog laying a stick at my feet.  “Does he want me to pick it up,” I asked his master who was coming up close behind him.  “He wouldn’t let you,” he replied.  “He is just taking a rest. Are you looking at the damaged house”, he asked.”

“No”, “I have been wondering what that tree across the street would say to us.” 

“Look at me.  I live in spite of the gas and electric company,” the man proclaimed.  “What about the one over here that fell on the house,” I asked.  “He grew too big for his own good,” he quipped.

 I laughed as the man and his dog walked on and then it seemed as though the tree began to speak to my spirit.  “How old are you,” I asked.  “Our heart wood flows at a different rhythm than yours,” he responded (at least it seemed to be a he). “We tulip trees can live long – you would say 600 years, but we think in terms of maturity and fruitfulness rather than age. We know that our lives will continue to be fruitful long after we, ourselves are gone.”  I had been wondering how young the tree had been when it had first encountered the power lines, but the tree’s response turned my thoughts to myself, my own struggle with growing older and questions of my life’s value. “What do you mean,” I asked.  

 “Have you never seen a tree that has fallen in the forest? When we leave our place we create a gap in the woods, letting in light to a previously dark spot.  New, young trees have the opportunity to grow.  All parts of our bodies are valuable.  When we fall, tiny organisms come and release the energy that has been trapped in our cells.  It goes back into the soil to nourish a new life. Remember, too, that we have been on earth much longer than man. We see things differently.”

 “That’s true”, I said.  I had read the story of Genesis and also knew the fossil record.  This reminded me of other verses in the Bible. “I have heard it said,” I began, that “all the trees of the field clap their hands.” “Ah, yes,” he replied.  We trees set our faces towards our Creator.  We rejoice when we see his work, whether it is in the provision of the sun or rain or when he keeps his word.  We share the earth with you.  We face challenges all the time, many that we cannot control, such as leaf borers, disease, just as you do.  But we deal with the challenges as they come- we do not add to them by concern for our future or fretting over the past.  We know we have value.  Of course right now that pesky English Ivy growing up my trunk annoys me.  There is nothing I can do about it and if it grows too dense it will smother my light, Oh well.”

 “What about the horrible things the gas and electric company did to you,” I demanded.  “Look at me,” the tree whispered.  “Look at my branches.”  And I did.  They looked like huge muscular arms.  They sprang horizontally from the trunk below the power lines, bent at the elbow and then sent leaders soaring to the sky.  The tips of the braches reached as high as any neighboring tree.  Their leaves waved in the sun up with those of the Willow Oak across the street.  No near by tulip tree was taller than this one.

 “I have noticed that the furrows in your bark seem deeper that the other tulip trees your same size.” I observed. “That’s true”, he replied.  My life has been challenged in ways theirs has not. “My brothers have had a more delightful place to grow. I might not be as handsome as my peers, but I have fulfilled my task on earth just as well.”

 “What task,” I questioned.  “Why to reach for the sun and to give life.  Don’t you know that I eat light?  I gather light particles and from them make food for everyone else. Why, my branches and leaves feed insects, aphids and caterpillars.  Some make honeydew from the life I give them.  They in turn provide food for other creatures.  Without my brethren, and me there would be no life on earth.  This is a task worth striving for, wouldn’t you agree?”

 I certainly would, I thought, to give life must be a wonderful thing.  But he went on.

“I have been challenged repeatedly, but – look – my flowers are just as lovely and smell as sweet as anyone else’s.

 I wondered at him.  I had expected bitterness and regret.  But he actually seemed to be grateful for the difficulties in his life, for here he stood while some of his peers were gone, toppled by strong winds.  His branches had had to spread wide and low.  He encircled the power lines.  His neighbors had fallen on them. He was confident of his future.  He knew that even though he died his value would go on. “What about you?” he asked. “Thank you,” I murmured as I turned thoughtfully away.  But there was lightness in my heart that lasted almost the whole day.