Al Barry died three days later. But he was also one of the most fully awake people I’ve ever known.
In a beautiful tribute to his son, Adam, Richard Lischer writes:
There are only a few plots in the world, but every one of them hinges on death. Death is the ultimate sanction. It lends its edge to every tale, whether an action-adventure film or Romeo and Juliet. Everything in the story either anticipates death or responds to it. Pay attention, the author or screenwriter warns, somebody might die. The only mystery is: by what contrivance of plot will it happen or be avoided?2
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I suppose it might be tempting for a preacher to use this Bible story in a manipulative, fearful sort of way. Karl Malden plays a preacher in the old Hayley Mills movie, Pollyanna, who delivers a chandelier-rattling sermon one hot summer Sunday titled “Death Comes Unexpectedly!” with parishioners sweating and squirming in their pews.
With few exceptions, finger-pointing sermons (complete with threats) don’t really help people change all that much. I was in downtown Chicago several years ago, came upon a street preacher with a microphone on Michigan Avenue, had a bit of time, and decided I’d give the guy a listen. I stayed about thirty minutes and was surprised that we actually agreed on many of his concerns. But I also noticed that most people ignored the poor guy—probably because he was yelling at them.
People really do want to change. I recently discovered an Internet website titled ivescrewedup.com, an online confessional where people need only list their age and city of residence. Here are a few confessions: “I confess that I’ve stolen about $15,000 while working for a family member.” Said another, “I am struggling with self-harming, bulimia, and anorexia, but no one has noticed.” And yet another: “I confess that I have had premarital sex repeatedly with multiple partners.”
There’s a lot of darkness in our lives—a huge need for confession, repentance, and forgiveness. It’s easy to conclude that Jesus is yelling at us in this old passage from Matthew. “Shape up while you’ve got time, or else!” But I think that’s missing the point. For Jesus is not an in-your-face sort of Lord here. In fact, he likens himself to a thief who comes in the night. In other words, Jesus refuses to be obvious about his return. He will not appear on Hollywood Squares as a game-show contestant: I’m back. His return will not be announced on the six o’clock news so that we can squeeze him into our busy calendars. Jesus’ return is unscheduled, unexpected, unscripted. He will come like a thief. And why will Jesus come this way? Well, you know why. “You said Tuesday, Jesus? I don’t know. How does Thursday look for you? Can we meet then?” Jesus knows that our meetings with him tend to get postponed for a variety of “compelling” reasons.
As much as anything, this old story is concerned about the dailyness of the Christian life. Jesus wants us to live each day as if it’s truly our last. Not out of fear. But to invite us to true and full “wakefulness” to what this life is for. Jesus does not return to “get” us. He’s already gotten us, as I understand the promise. He got us real good in our baptisms.
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I’ll admit it. Sometimes I do wonder about how I will die and when. But the far more interesting question is how Jesus (alive inside us, his church) invites us now to live. Advent is hands down the season of the church year when the church is most out of step with the surrounding culture. Here’s a little experiment you might try. In the next few days, try taking this Bible story from Matthew to any shopping mall in your town. Find a little bench. Read this story again to yourself. Not out loud, just to yourself. And then look around. Advent is a jarring alternative to the American holidays.
So keep awake. Not because Jesus is out to get you, but because in baptism he’s already gotten you.
For further reflection:
1. Ponder the connection between the words Advent and adventure.
2. Look up the word apocalyptic in a Bible dictionary and discuss how this ancient biblical genre might be rescued from Christian fearmongers.
2. Lischer, Stations of the Heart, 169.
2. Ready and Waiting
“Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near” (Luke 21:28).
Right after Jesus shares these dire warnings about the end of the world, Luke’s gospel reports what seems to be a rather innocuous detail: “Every day he was teaching in the temple, and at night he would go out and spend the night on the Mount of Olives” (21:37).
I’m drawn to this little detail. Just before and after Jesus spoke about signs in the stars and the sashay of planets and the churning seas, he went camping. Just before they came to get him for the trial and just days before he died, Jesus slept out for several nights in a row. We’re told earlier in Luke that “the Son of Man has no place to lay his head” (9:58), but this sleep-out (presumably alone) seems to be a conscious choice by Jesus.
Did he build a small fire and watch it get dark? Did he lean back and lace his fingers behind his head, staring at the evening sky? Was the moon waxing or waning that week? Or was it so ink-black dark and still that his entire body blended into the night? I suspect that Jesus thought about quite a bit on the mountain each night, camping out alone. If you’ve ever camped solo, you’ll recall how much more there is to see and hear.
When our children were very small I used to love to walk outside late at night and look back at our house, entirely dark except for a small light that would help guide me back in. I’d stand in the darkness and think of the three kids and a great wife, all sleeping inside. And I would often lie down right in the middle of the driveway and look up and think about the contrast between the dim light in the house yonder and the celestial lights so far away—the nearness of Christ at Christmas and the amazing grandeur of God that fills the cosmos; just looking and looking at layer upon layer of time and space. Upon returning inside, it was an overpowering thing to stand over their beds and pray, and just watch them sleeping; welling up with gratitude. Watching a child sleep is a good time to pray and wonder about life and our place in the whole scheme of things.
The reason I like to think about Jesus camping out every night for a period of time is that it’s important for me to have images of the man simply thinking, off alone somewhere—considering his life, this life, the life to come. Perhaps you’ve noticed an almost-breathlessness to the Gospels. He heals, he teaches, he preaches, travels this way and that. One story quickly blends into another. The image of Jesus camping under a night sky slows down all the gospel action. Even Jesus needed time to think and reflect quietly. The message here is pretty clear: so do we.
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You may already know the origin of the Advent wreath in Christian tradition. About this time of year in Scandinavia, farmers would put away their tools in the waning light of the year, and clean and service their carts and farming implements for the coming spring. Families would take a wheel from the cart and bring it inside, decorating the wheel with greenery and candles. It was a way of marking time, but also an invitation to slow down and think—because you can’t go anywhere on three wheels. If you doubt this, remove one of your Michelins and try driving to the mall.
The cartwheel in the middle of our worship spaces each December is an invitation to slow down and think about this life and the life to come, even while the culture we live in rockets through the month at a frantic pace. Someone has beautifully described Advent as “leisure to incubate.”
Jesus
