Fourth Sunday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
Making Ourselves At Home In Christ
When I hear the word home, I find myself flooded with memory and meaning. I see the familiarity of shoes scattered over mats in the garage of my childhood, smell buns baking on busy Saturday mornings, feel the pulls and aches of being misunderstood and simultaneously cherished. I remember the people who brought life between the walls and the first time I lived too far away to return home for a hug when I needed one. I am grateful to have a home to return to in the midst of a pandemic, and the abundance of time in it with four children is also pressing on most of our nerve endings.
God’s coming presses into this too quiet Advent, in a season of too much home for some of us and not enough for others. In the midst of this, a conversation between God and David is pressing on my heart.
Sitting in the comfort of his home, David is troubled by the tent that houses his beloved God. And God, speaking through Nathan, is talking about a home, and a throne and a kingdom that is so much bigger than a structure could contain: “The Lord himself will establish a house for you: When your days are over and you rest with your ancestors, I will raise up your offspring to succeed you, your own flesh and blood, and I will establish his kingdom…Your house and your kingdom will endure forever before me; your throne will be established forever” (2 Samuel 7:11-12,16). David hears this, and then feels compelled to build a physical home worthy of the King of Kings, a plan that God discourages and eventually forbids in Chronicles, but that David prepares for Solomon to build a temple anyway.
I feel strangely comforted by this miscommunication between God and David, knowing just how often the members of my household misunderstand one another. Seasons of uncertainty and change have magnified the different ways we see and make meaning in our family, the pandemic following three years of grieving in our family including job loss, miscarriage, and murder. Whatever shreds of certainty we were clinging to after our many family losses have been blown out by the chaos of a global crisis. Every bit of our daily, material life is a gift without a guarantee.
Here, just days before Christmas, almost every tradition we have has been modified or cancelled. We are carrying the impending absences of our loved ones and radically different worship than we have known and long for. Our grief fills the shadows of our preparations. I need the lament cried out in Exile after the fall of David’s physical kingdom:
“How long, O Lord? Will you hide yourself forever?
Lord, where is your steadfast love of old,
which by your faithfulness you swore to David?” (Psalm 89:46, 49)
David saw the blessings that had been poured out on him. And he felt uncomfortable with the difference between his house and God’s tent. He wanted to resolve the discomfort, the discrepancy of inequity, and give God a home. And the vision for the temple and the perception that it was the only way for the kingdom to come was David’s obsession, not God’s. In the Psalm, we get the rest of the story. The eventual temple could not solidify the kingdom. God’s home could not be so easily destroyed. But still, the loss hurts – and shakes our faith.
Like David, I am tempted to mistake the signs of God’s presence for God. And then I get attached to the stuff instead of the Saviour. Jesus will not withhold himself if I do not get to hug my siblings or sing hymns at midnight, no matter how much this breaks my heart. I find it hard to hear the Spirit without the voices of friends around my table. I strain to feel God’s presence without arms wrapped around me. My eyelids are heavy with exhaustion and longing to see people and places close and far away.
I have been preparing a place for Jesus as though the place was Jesus, and the changes remind me that Jesus makes his home in me – no matter what state I am in. He wants to live with my disappointment and tears as much as he welcomes my delight and celebration. Jesus will join us in our longing for the people and traditions that make meaning and connection and communion even while he brings us grace in what is. This is the deep and abiding joy of Christmas: He comes to where we are.
God was a tenting enthusiast from the beginning, a drifter who found a home in a people instead of a dwelling. Jesus was birthed into a human bloodline by marriage, a foster son to a descendent of David, an infant refugee with no place to rest his head except the hearts of the people who loved him. God is the kind of guest who makes a bed on the floor when that is required. Who am I to think that my mess or this disease could displace the Creator from my corner of creation?
And how beautiful, how welcome, how reassuring it is to me to know that I get to oscillate between disappointment and hope, despair and gratitude while I stumble around in God’s home. My “one wild and precious life” (Mary Oliver) are the walls Jesus has chosen to grace with his presence. While everything is wild, it is still the precious and perfect home of our God. I will make myself at home in his abiding Love.
Thank you for reading the New Leaf Advent Reader, a collection of reflections from writers across Canada. If you are enjoying the reader, sign up to receive the readings in your inbox each day here: SIGN UP
And please share this reflection with your friends and family who might also enjoy it.
One of the ways we have been connecting online since the pandemic pushed us online is through our Learning Centre, a weekly interactive Zoom call on a topic with a Canadian voice of wisdom. For the season of Advent, we will be featuring a few of our writers and making space to reflect together on the Advent Reader articles. Join us for the interactive sessions on Thursdays at 1:30 pm (Eastern time) or sign up and view the recordings of the sessions afterwards. SIGN UP for the Learning Centre Advent sessions.