December 11
Third Sunday in Advent
Psalm 146; Isaiah 35:1-10; James 5:1-7; Matthew 11:2-11.
Advent is not just about the birth of a baby, even this special baby. It is about the coming of God, the "good news" of God's incursion into a world that seems closed and well-defined against any such incursion.
These texts focus rightly on discipleship and what to do. But Advent is also a time to draw back a little from doing to ask about what to hope. We may wonder who is coming, and if we would recognize the coming one upon arrival.
The modern American church, an enmeshed church, is infested with idols, that is, false articulations of God. Conservatives tend to think the God question is settled in some sure formula; liberals tend to think it is not terribly important, and so it may be safely entrusted to conservatives.
But our texts insist that faithful people must continually consider who God is. This lively discussion is necessary because our dim discernment of God is mixed with trappings, conventions, vested interests, lesser loyalties. Can we spot the real God amidst the idols at the time of the coming?
The two Old Testament texts articulate a God who is wholly other, that is, not a function of our other commitments. The power agents of this age, the "princes" of Psalm 146:3, are no help. Alliances of that sort will not work. They are of no help, but the real God helps (verse 5).
Real help is precisely for the helpless. This help takes the form of justice, food, freedom, and sight (verses 7-8). The agenda of the real God is sojourners who do not belong, widows without adequate pension, orphans who have no voice, access, or representation. God is celebrated as the help of the helpless.
The same agenda is given in Isaiah 35:3 with reference to the weak and feeble, as well as the blind, deaf, lame, and dumb (verses 3, 5, 6). The real God is the one who can invert life from terror to boldness, from sorrow to joy (verses 4, 10). The transformative power of God jeopardizes all of our gestures of equilibrium and our idolatrous images of God as the great stabilizer of the status quo.
If we think about it, John's question in Matthew 11:3 is a rather dumb question. It is the right question: he wants to know if Jesus is the real messiah. But it's an unnecessary question, because John already has all the data needed to answer it.
Jesus treats it like a dumb question. Jesus won't give an answer because John should already have the answer. Instead he summarizes the data and invites the conclusion, which is what the Bible regularly does for us. The data about Jesus is consistent with the promises of Psalm 146 and Isaiah 35, with two notable extrapolations, notable because they seem to come together: raising of the dead and cancelation of debts for the poor—a mind-boggling juxtaposition! Who could have any doubts?
What should we talk about during Advent? I suggest our proper subject is not Christological questions. The defense of the divinity of Jesus is a nice safe theme. But it's about as silly as John's question, and such a defense will never persuade anyone. Notice that Jesus is not interested in right doctrine—no doubt because he did not want to pre-empt the work of the Council of Chalcedon!
The issue for Advent may be a clarification about the marks of the coming one, the expectations that permit us to rejoice. The poetry of Israel and the memory of Jesus attest to these expectations: God is known by interventions for the weak who have no advocate. We may proclaim that publicly for the disinherited in Palestine, Latin America, Ireland, and South Africa. We may, if we are bold enough, proclaim it for the politically, economically, ritually disinherited in our own land.
We may ponder how tough the news of Advent is, for it means news against our favorite equilibrium. We are driven to ask, we who are unwitting supporters of rapacious policies, who the "lions" and "ravenous beasts" of Isaiah 35:9 might be, against whom this life-giving God comes. And we are left to prepare for the coming. If we begin to sort out and identify the false gods who are no help, we may also begin to spot the false social systems to which they give sanction—and ask about our disengagement.
John's question may indeed be dumb. But a summary of the evidence available to John and to us gives us pause. There may be enough at stake that even we who want the right thing may be offended (Matthew 11:6), when the real God arrives.
December 18
Fourth Sunday in Advent
Psalm 24; Isaiah 7:10-15; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25.
Christmas is, of course, a biological event. It is about a birth, a baby, a word come flesh. That is probably the reason some Christians linger over the virgin birth, because virgin birth is a way of speaking about the dazzling, extraordinary biological happening that has overturned the world. But the biological character of the event does not hinder our seeing Christmas as an evangelical event, an event in which God's good news has its overriding, overwhelming say.
The two central texts, the gospel narrative of Matthew and the Isaiah text to which Matthew alludes, speak about the biology of this evangelical event. The biology does not leave much to argue about. Let us say simply and at the outset, "Yes, born of a virgin." And we say that in the innocence of Christmas without quibbling over translation problems of which something likely could be made. We simply follow the creedal way of the church and leave these niceties undisturbed.
But the biological event does not stand as a bald medical claim. In the context of Isaiah 7:10-15, the birth of the unnamed child points us to two other considerations.
First, the child is given to King Ahaz as a notice that the present world should not be feared, trusted, or credited. The virgin birth is a sign that the known world, the one we treasure, is not permanent. It is in jeopardy, under assault by the power of God, and it will soon be terminated.
The scholarly inclination is that the years before the "knowing good and evil" are to be reckoned at two years. That is how long it takes a child to learn. So this odd birth is a time bomb. In two years, O king, the landscape of the human world will have completely changed. It is not to be treasured or relied upon.
The season of Advent invites us to imagine what in the landscape of this world will change in two years because God is God. What threats will dissipate? What evil will be overcome? What chances for obedience will be taken—or missed? And if we take Isaiah 7:17 seriously, under what threats will we be in two years?
The whole passage reminds us that the present world is not locked into a safe or predictable mode. It is open and on the move, precisely because Yahweh is Lord. We must not be so fascinated with the biological as to miss the news that is here, good and bad.
Second, the name of the child, like so many names, is an anticipation: Immanuel—God with us! That is the evangelical claim of the biological event. Immanuel could be royal propaganda, a throne name. Or it could mean the most important new reality ever made available in creation.
The God who has been far off draws close. The one who is enemy and judge becomes comrade and friend. The calculus of heaven and earth is changed, and earth becomes the place of God's governing presence. This is cause for celebration.
In the epistle lesson, Paul begins with reference to the same gospel (Romans 1:1). It is far from clear that Paul knows anything about virgin birth. If he does, he makes nothing of it. But he does know about and makes a great deal of the odd reality of Jesus. He uses a barrage of titular terms to try to express it. What all the listing of names and the celebration of Jesus yields for Paul is a call to be set apart for the gospel, a call to obedience and apostleship (verses 1, 5).
Advent and the birth are not events that happen and just sit there. They are events with futures. They open new lives and establish fresh vocations. They call baptized folks to live lives as odd, abrasive, and unacceptable to reason as any biological miracles.
It might be too much to connect the birth of Jesus to the reading of Psalm 24. That psalm is a procession of great royal splendor in the highest liturgy of the temple. The king of glory comes.
Jesus seems not so high and mighty except that Herod experienced him so. In desperation, Herod recognized early on that Jesus constituted a threat to the known world of oppression, tyranny, and inequality. There is a way to be safe and at rest. It is to be governed by the regime of Jesus. But not on the terms of Ahaz or Herod or any of the conventional modes of power.
We are left to ponder the oddity. It is a biological surprise. It is a political threat. It is an evangelical invitation. It leaves our world unglued to confess that the Holy One is now with us. And we have yet to learn to take that fully into account.
Walter Brueggemann was professor of Old Testament and academic dean at Eden Theological Seminary in Webster Groves, Missouri when this article appeared. He is a contributing editor of Sojourners.
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