Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Isaiah 40:1-5
If you were among the several hundred to pass through the parsonage last weekend, you know that my wife does not lack for things with which to decorate a house at Christmas. And among the Christmassy things scattered here, there and about, were a large number of pictures featuring Santa Claus and my now-grown children. Many of those pictures were unearthed and framed just for the occasion. If memory serves me correct, a few of those pictures were obtained because we, as parents, either pleaded ("just one more year and you'll never have to do it again"), threatened ("you will comb your hair; you will not make faces at the camera"), or bribed ("once the picture is taken, we will all go to lunch anyplace you like").
When Karen Plants saw some of the pictures of young Bill, she hatched a plan to borrow them for future display at the Contemporary Singles Class, whose members know my son only as a 26 year old attorney in a suit. But the best Santa picture was not available to be seen, that's because the best Santa picture was never even taken. That was the year that Julie (as a Harrison High School sophomore) was encouraged to sit on Santa's lap by her friends, and was (in turn) pinched gently on the thigh by the Harrison High School senior (who was sitting in for the real Mr. Claus at one of our area malls, and who secretly desired.... and ultimately obtained.... a date with my daughter).
All of those pictures, and all of those stories, are now part of the Ritter family Christmas lore. And, none of us would have it any other way. Both kids agreed to having the pictures displayed, even the "weird" ones.... especially the "weird" ones. Which surprised me. But which also pleased me, given that both of them are now old enough (and secure enough in their present lives) to feel good about the more unusual elements of their past.
For if the truth be known, there is no season of the year which finds us dragging more of our past behind us, than does the Christmas season. Hopefully, much that we drag is pleasant. We drag decorations and pictures. We drag menus and culinary traditions. We drag family rituals and patterned ways of doing things. And the trail of things dragged becomes longer and weightier with each passing year. Just try dropping a Christmas tradition and see what happens: ("No cookies this year? But Mom, you always bake cookies for Christmas"). Quickly one tradition becomes two.... and two become ten.... to the point that "twelve days of Christmas" is not so much a song as a necessity (and, even at that, may not be enough time in which to get everything in).
But if the sum total of things remembered is what makes the season of Christmas, it is also the sheer weight of things remembered which thwarts the season of Advent. In the very first line of my "Steeple Notes" notes, I dared to suggest that Advent is probably the most unsuccessful liturgical fragment of the Church year.... a suggestion which may have surprised the majority of you, even as it shocked the liturgical purists among you. But look at it this way.
Advent is, in the liturgy of the church, a time of watchful waiting.... of heightened anticipation.... of cultivated expectancy.... of preparing for something that, should it come, would make everything that has come before, pale in comparison.
But in reality, Advent is not nearly so much a time of looking forward, as it is a season of looking back.... having far less to do with anticipation than it does with nostalgia. We begin the Advent season with Charles Wesley's lovely carol, "Come, thou long expected Jesus," even though we know that the real sentiment of the season is better captured by the one who croons that "there's no place like home for the holidays."
What more fitting Advent scripture could there be than the one just read, namely Isaiah's promise that "a highway shall be made straight in the desert for our God." But even were that highway built and subsequently traveled by the motorcade of the Almighty, few of us would be out in the desert to see it, having chosen (instead) to celebrate the end of December by wending our way down Memory Lane, or seeking out that never-to-be-forgotten trail that meanders over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house. Unless, of course, grandmother has long since moved to a condo in south Florida.... in which case Memory Lane and southbound 1-75 become (temporarily) one and the same road.
With the best of intentions, we try to work up a mood of breathless expectation each December, only to find our minds drifting to the question of whether it really did snow every Christmas Eve when we were young. The net result of such nostalgia is that Advent is not so much something we celebrate, as it becomes something we rehearse. Will we remember it right? Will we remember it all? And will we be able to enact everything exactly as we remember it? The effort can become, in the extreme, more than a little confining.
Some twenty or more years ago (at a Christmas dinner prepared by my mother), both drumsticks were removed from the turkey platter, by others dining at the table, before the platter had quite come around to me. Without thinking, my mother said: "Oh! One of those drumsticks is for Bill (meaning me). Bill always eats the drumstick of the turkey at Christmas." Which may or may not have been true. And I hasten to add that it hasn't been true for years (meaning that should you invite me for dinner and plan to serve turkey, you need not fear that I will occupy myself through the meal by gnawing on the turkey leg). Even back then, there was absolutely nothing of consequence riding on whether I did (or did not) eat the drumstick. But my mother feared there might be (although whether that fear was for me or for her, I really don't know). All told, it was a minor blip on the radar screen of Christmas. It quickly passed, and nothing more was said. But, in some families, it might have caused the screen (and the season) to short circuit altogether.
I have found it to be true that when a young couple gets married, the odds are high that their first major argument will take place at Christmas time. For when Johnny marries Mary, Johnny brings an entire set of Christmas rituals from his family (his culture and his church), even as Mary brings an equally powerful set of her own. Even in the first year, such things become hard to mix and match. The problem is more often skirted than solved. Johnny and Mary end up keeping everything of both sides, accommodating everybody from both sides. Which works.... sort of.... until they have a child. Or two. Or three. How interesting it is that we celebrate a season where Christ's appearance in the human family changes absolutely everything, by expecting that those who marry into the nuclear family will change absolutely nothing.
But, then, the family of the church is not really all that different. Upon being appointed to any new church, I have always inquired as to which local Christmas customs matter most to the greatest number of people, and then vowed never to mess with them. Upon arriving at Nardin Park in 1980, I learned that there were more people worried that I would do something to "ruin" the 8:00 Christmas Eve service, than were concerned over anything else I might do. And when I finally found out what there was about the 8:00 service that I could possibly "ruin," it boiled down to the simple issue of maintaining as close to a condition of total darkness in the sanctuary as was practically and electrically possible. It took me three years before I truly enjoyed Christmas Eve in that church, not because I disagreed with the premise about darkness, but because I feared that somebody (well removed from my control) would do something to make it appear to those who were watching me so closely, that "since Ritter came, Christmas Eve at Nardin Park has never been the same." The ironic thing was that (during that period of finding my way), I couldn't get any two people to agree on how much dark was just the right amount of dark, and how the switches on the light board ought to be orchestrated so as to make certain that things would be as they had always been. As the scriptures record: "The true light that enlightens every man was (on that night) coming into the world." But woe be unto any preacher who beat the light of Christ to the punch by turning on too many lights of his own. Still, traditions have a way of capturing those they would initially trip.... to the degree that I find myself wanting to darken this place down.... at least a little.... come the evening of December 24.
Underneath all of this, however, is a problem that is every bit as theological as it is personal. Namely, is the coming of Christ a once-upon-a-time event, or is there the possibility of fresh-and-repeated-comings to hearts and homes that may need His appearing, look for His appearing, long for His appearing, but which (heretofore) may have done little to receive His appearing (by making measurable effort to "prepare Him room")?
I think that most of us instinctively lean toward the idea of "repeated comings." I think that the real reason for our endless rehearsing is not that (apart from such rehearsals) we will forget the lines of the story, but that (apart from such rehearsals) we will forget the central character of the story. For underneath the innumerable rituals that go into "keeping Christmas," is the fear that, were we to let go of too many too quickly, we might lose Jesus too.... along with the hope of ever finding Him again. I believe that every time we light another Advent candle against the encroaching darkness of December, we are like a family turning on a porch light.... because someone who belongs in that house has not yet come to that house.... and because we cannot sleep the sleep of the blessed until we hear Mary's donkey pull up (however late) in the carport, and hear Mary's Boy Child (at long last) turning His key in our locks. I keep thinking that we ought to fly in Tom Bodette to light the Advent Candle some year, just so we could hear him say: "Hey Jesus, we'll leave the light on for you."
But more than that, I believe that some of us are not only lighting the light over the door, but actually going through the door in search of whatever light there may be outside.... complete with the willingness to follow it (like the Kings of old) wherever it may lead. Is it not possible that it was not idle curiosity, but spiritual desperation, that drove those ancient men of the Orient to follow that star in the first place? And how precise could that journey really have been? How many wrong turns did they take? How many arguments did they have? How many times did they come to a crossroads and find themselves flipping a coin in order to decide upon a direction? How many maps did they consult (and then have trouble refolding)? How many times did they pull into a gas station for directions.... or were they too manly to ever pull into a gas station for directions? And how many more than three may have started out with them, but gave up and went home because of weariness, indecisiveness or lack of progress. And if they really got there twelve nights late, so what? Some of us are already twelve weeks late.... twelve months late…. twelve years late.... or so incredibly late that we stopped counting, and almost stopped believing.
I haven't been here all that long (five months only seems like forever), but I've been here long enough to know that some of you are living in the midst of some pretty abnormal darkness. And I know that your personal Advent prayer could very well echo the one I saw (from my car window, some thirty years ago) spray painted in graffiti-like fashion on the wall of an abandoned warehouse in the south Bronx: "PRONTO VIENE, JESU CHRISTO".... (loose translation: "Come quickly, Lord Jesus").
Some of you probably take that to infer a dramatic "second coming," when Christ shall come again to bring an end to the kingdoms of this world. As for me, I look for less climactic and more repetitive re-appearings, when Christ shall come (over and over again) to heal and transform the kingdoms of this world.
What do I expect? Let me be biblical. I expect nothing less than that the lame shall walk, the blind shall see, those in bondage shall be released, and that the poor shall have the good news preached to them.
I expect that the hungry shall be fed, the thirsty quenched, the naked clothed, and the prisoner visited in his or her place of captivity.
I expect that swords shall be beaten into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks, and that the nations shall study war no more.... or at least a whole lot less.
I expect that the lion shall lay down with the lamb, the ox with the ass, the calf and the fatling together…. with people of color and caste taking note and following suit.
I expect that the tongue of the dumb shall sing, even as the foulest are being made clean. I expect that when the Lord says to us moral and spiritual cripples, "do you want to be healed?", some of us will finally say "Yes," and accept His invitation to rise from our beds of self pity and walk.
I expect that the pure in heart (and, hopefully even some of the impure) shall see God.... and that the peacemakers of the world shall one day get more accolades than the warmongers.
I expect that (on some climactic day) we shall see beyond the mystery, live beyond the grave, and that no one (thanks to the amazing nature of grace) shall eternally sleep the sleep of the dead or the sleep of the damned.
But even more radical than that, I dare to expect (as age slowly overtakes me), that I shall yet see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
So haul out the holly, bake the cookies, and have yourselves a good "old fashioned" Christmas. But in the midst thereof, don't forget to keep your eye alerted to demolition work in the valley, and your ear attuned to the distant sounds of road graders in the desert. For the glory of the Lord has been.... is now.... and is still being revealed. Which will be visible... in the flesh.
"PRONTO VIENE, JESU CHRISTO"
Even so Lord, quickly come.
