Knowing that God not only knows but experienced what it was to be a human being, composed of blood and flesh and bone, limited by all the things that limit us, should give us patience with our weakness and joy in our strength. In our prayers for help, we can say, “You know what it’s like,” and be confident that he does. But we can also look to the end of the story and know that by being one of us, he was able to raise us up to overcome those limits—and the final limit of death itself. As St. Irenaeus put it so well, “He became human so that we might become divine.”
The gifts we give are ultimately about the receiver, not about the giver. How often when we’re giving gifts do we think about how the gift will reflect on us, our great taste, our generosity, our discretionary income? Much of this stems from insecurity, a fear that we’re somehow not enough in ourselves, that what we do and how much we make and the gifts we give bolster our sense of self. But the peril of this approach is that we’re bound to be disappointed by the receiver’s reaction, no matter how much they thank us. The Christmas holidays often surface doubts and insecurities that we ignore the rest of the year. It might be the stress of extra activities, more spending than we’re accustomed to, less sleep than we need, more food and drink than we should have. We see people we haven’t seen in several months, perhaps not since last Christmas, and we wonder what they think of us. Family gatherings can raise tensions as well. The wonder of the birth of Jesus is balanced by a darker reality: We are all broken and marginalized in some way. We are called to see the mercy and forgiveness that are such an essential part of the incarnation. The peace we can’t find in our daily life is waiting for us in the love of God, a love so clearly shown in the gift of Jesus.
Treat yourself to a little soul-searching. We usually know what fault we most need to work on in ourselves. Minor issues can often be dealt with through some reflection and journaling, being honest with ourselves, and making a commitment to work on our bad habits. More serious issues might need some counseling or therapy. That could be the best Christmas gift you could give yourself. Many churches have special reconciliation services during the Advent season; if you’re so inclined, you might want to attend one, with or without individual confession. A peaceful heart is one of the greatest gifts of Christmas.
The gifts we give are ultimately about the receiver, not about the giver. How often when we’re giving gifts do we think about how the gift will reflect on us, our great taste, our generosity, our discretionary income? Much of this stems from insecurity, a fear that we’re somehow not enough in ourselves, that what we do and how much we make and the gifts we give bolster our sense of self. But the peril of this approach is that we’re bound to be disappointed by the receiver’s reaction, no matter how much they thank us. The Christmas holidays often surface doubts and insecurities that we ignore the rest of the year. It might be the stress of extra activities, more spending than we’re accustomed to, less sleep than we need, more food and drink than we should have. We see people we haven’t seen in several months, perhaps not since last Christmas, and we wonder what they think of us. Family gatherings can raise tensions as well. The wonder of the birth of Jesus is balanced by a darker reality: We are all broken and marginalized in some way. We are called to see the mercy and forgiveness that are such an essential part of the incarnation. The peace we can’t find in our daily life is waiting for us in the love of God, a love so clearly shown in the gift of Jesus.
Treat yourself to a little soul-searching. We usually know what fault we most need to work on in ourselves. Minor issues can often be dealt with through some reflection and journaling, being honest with ourselves, and making a commitment to work on our bad habits. More serious issues might need some counseling or therapy. That could be the best Christmas gift you could give yourself. Many churches have special reconciliation services during the Advent season; if you’re so inclined, you might want to attend one, with or without individual confession. A peaceful heart is one of the greatest gifts of Christmas.
We may read volumes and volumes on the art of swimming, yet we’ll never understand what swimming is like unless we get wet. So we may read all the books ever written on the love of God and never understand loving unless we love. Where love is genuine, belonging is always mutual. It is like submerging ourselves into an ocean of sublime grace.
The Advent name for God is Emmanuel. We sing it over and over in the familiar hymn, “O come, O come, Emmanuel.” The name means “God is with us” and comes to us from the prophet Isaiah. Matthew’s Gospel reminds us that Jesus was a fulfillment of this prophecy, God with us in the flesh, born a human baby, like us in all things. It’s an echo of the more exalted language of the prologue of John’s Gospel, which tells us that the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. Scripture scholars tell us that the second half of John’s Greek phrase translates literally as “pitched his tent among us.” This was an image that a first-century, semi-nomadic people would understand. In the Old Testament, God’s presence among the people was often described as a messenger or angel of the Lord. But the revelation of the incarnation is that now it is God himself in our midst and one of us. It’s difficult for us to grasp this concept. Perhaps this is why Matthew and Luke make such a point of describing the baby in the manger visited by shepherds, the child receiving gifts from the magi.
Perhaps this is why we have such a resonance with Christmas. We understand the great gift of life in a newborn child. There’s a purity in a newborn, a sense of both innocence and ancient wisdom, that gives us a glimpse of God. Knowing that God not only knows but experienced what it was to be a human being, composed of blood and flesh and bone, limited by all the things that limit us, should give us patience with our weakness and joy in our strength. In our prayers for help, we can say, “You know what it’s like,” and be confident that he does. But we can also look to the end of the story and know that by being one of us, he was able to raise us up to overcome those limits—and the final limit of death itself. As St. Irenaeus put it so well, “He became human so that we might become divine.”
The holiday season with its hustle and bustle and seemingly endless activities places demands on our bodies as well as our spirits. We can, if we like, imagine Jesus in the busy days of his preaching and teaching and healing ministry. If we do, we may also hear him calling to us and saying, “Come aside and rest for a while.” Because we know that he knows what it is to feel tired and need to be rested and refreshed.
Knowing that God not only knows but experienced what it was to be a human being, composed of blood and flesh and bone, limited by all the things that limit us, should give us patience with our weakness and joy in our strength. In our prayers for help, we can say, “You know what it’s like,” and be confident that he does. But we can also look to the end of the story and know that by being one of us, he was able to raise us up to overcome those limits—and the final limit of death itself. As St. Irenaeus put it so well, “He became human so that we might become divine.”
Nature takes us directly to Life, her world and the inner world of love being in deep communion. She brought me there after the fire of loss when all I wanted was to die. In those days, I didn’t believe I could survive. She showed me how the sea holds light and shadow, and how sunlight rides on the rising waves, everything gleaming. I saw the ocean glisten in full sunlight, balancing sparkling vessels of light—small shimmering stars—on the ocean swells. The ripples of light reached past my weariness and confusion until I could see what I needed to learn. Everywhere, light is pouring through the deepest places.
The “small piece”—the blow and suffering of unwanted loss and change—was a darkness to which I brought many emotional habits and patterns: anger, a feeling of being jinxed or doomed, and a longing to escape this path on which I found myself. I know today that grief did not create these patterns; it only illuminated them. They were already there. Still, it felt as if grief were the only cause of my confusion and unhappiness. It was difficult to accept that if the soul is to mature, it must go through the darkness and beyond it. But it must. The “large picture” is only revealed by the dark’s hidden and sustaining light. Recognizing which habits and patterns kept me lost in a loop of reactivity was crucial. The old patterns were lifeless and offered only suffering. But the darkness was alive, and offered a reappraisal of everything I had formerly concluded about life and its meaning.
Like most people, I would prefer to escape deep loss and to avoid hard and challenging times. Yet the dark has given me gifts that are immeasurably deep. It was because I wrestled with the dark that I learned to see beyond what was happening on the surface of my life, and grew to understand that everything is more than it appears to be. In time I knew that the dark is not absent of light. Light moves within the dark at a great depth. With this realization came a glimpse of the inordinate beauty and power just beyond our sight.
Advent is a good time to reflect on the many gifts we already have, and even on the many material things that make our lives more pleasant and less difficult. But we don’t have to be very far along in the spiritual life to understand that having more isn’t going to fill an emptiness in our souls. Contentment is a great gift that we don’t always appreciate. It’s not as rare as we might think. Instead of asking whether we’re happy, perhaps we can get into the habit of asking how content we are. Contentment has in it an element of peace that’s greatly needed in our lives and in our world today. And the more content we are with what we possess, the more likely we are to hold those things lightly and to give to those whose needs are greater and more genuine than our passing desires. The prophet Isaiah speaks of prosperity and success being like a river or the waves of the sea: infinite but constantly in motion. We are to hold our treasures lightly, knowing that they come from God.
