FIRST SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, YEAR C

December 29, 2024

Saints Matthew and Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

Isaiah 61:10-62:3

Psalm 147:13-24

John 1:1-18

 

Just over a week ago, on December 21st, we marked the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Between now and the Spring Equinox on March 19th, we can expect the worst of the winter cold even as the days begin to lengthen again. And a theme running through the readings appointed for this first Sunday after Christmas Day is the light and warmth that Christ brings us, illuminating the world with his glory, dispelling the darkness of sin and death.

 

It’s no accident that today’s reading from the Prophet Isaiah employs springtime imagery to portray the Lord’s arrival: “For as the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.” Then the prophet switches to the image of light driving out darkness: “For Zion's sake I will not keep silent, and for Jerusalem's sake I will not rest, until her vindication shines out like the dawn, and her salvation like a burning torch.”

 

The verses of Psalm 147 that we’ve just sung together describe a freezing winter storm: “[God] gives snow like wool; he scatters hoarfrost like ashes. He scatters his hail like breadcrumbs; Who can stand against his cold?” But then, in the immediately following verse, comes the springtime thaw: “He sends forth his word and melts them; he blows with his wind and the waters flow.”

 

The Church’s tradition reads such a psalm as depicting not only outward meteorological conditions but also inward spiritual realities. God’s word is capable of thawing not only a frozen landscape but also our frozen hearts. Moreover, this image of God blowing with his wind so that the waters flow calls to mind the breath of the Holy Spirit and the waters of Baptism.

 

Today’s Gospel sums up all these images in its description of the Incarnation of the Divine Word, the eternal Son of the Father, whose life is the light of all people: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it … The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.”

 

In the children’s story, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—a spiritual classic which I recommend highly to readers of all ages—C. S. Lewis deploys the metaphor of winter to portray a fallen world. The alternate-reality land of Narnia, accessed by a group of school children through a magic wardrobe, lies frozen under a curse, blanketed by snow. As Lewis puts it, it’s always winter, and Christmas never comes.

 

But then the lion Aslan, the story’s Christ-figure, arrives in Narnia. The snowing ceases, the ice begins to melt, shoots of plants and flowers start poking through the ground, the leaves on the trees begin to bud, and, to cap it all off, Santa Claus arrives with his reindeer and sleigh to distribute gifts to one and all. (Of course, as a British writer of a certain generation, Lewis calls him not Santa Claus but Father Christmas.) Aslan’s arrival in Narnia wonderfully symbolizes Christ bringing light, warmth, and life to a world that has lain for centuries under the curse of darkness, sin, and death. Christmas has come.

 

The Collect of the Day often gives us a helpful key to the meaning of the readings and psalms appointed for any given day in the Church calendar. So, let’s listen again to today’s Collect: “Almighty God, you have poured upon us the new light of your incarnate Word: Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives …”

 

Notice how this this Collect describes a three-step process. First, God pours upon us the light of his incarnate Word. Jesus Christ comes into the world; his birth is what we’ve just celebrated on Christmas Day.

 

But second, this light is not meant to remain external, as it were, illuminating us from without. We pray that it may be enkindled in our hearts, enlightening and warming us from within.

 

Then, third, with our hearts thus set on fire, we pray that it may shine forth in our lives, bringing life and warmth to those around us—to our families and friends, our homes and workplaces, and indeed further afield, among people and communities across the nation and throughout the world.

 

So, to recapitulate—Step One, God pours upon us the light of his Incarnate Word; Step Two, that light ignites and enflames our hearts; and Step Three, that same light shines forth through us, brightening the world.

 

A tension sometimes arises in the Church’s life between two tendencies that are sometimes called “personal religion” and “the Social Gospel”—or, in more traditional terms, “the contemplative life” and “the active life.” That is: between those, on one hand, who want to emphasize the Christian’s personal relationship with God in worship, prayer, and meditation; and those, on the other hand, who want to emphasize our Christian calling to go out into the world and participate actively in the Church’s mission and ministry.

 

Today’s Collect suggests, however, that the answer is not “either/or” but “both/and.” The light of Christ cannot truly shine forth in our lives unless it’s first enkindled in our hearts. But conversely, when that light does warm our hearts, we can’t help letting it shine forth by acts of kindness, words of encouragement, works of mercy, and lives of service.

 

Above all, we need to remember that Jesus Christ, the Word Incarnate, is the only source of true light, warmth, and life. As today’s Gospel says of Saint John the Baptist, we are not that light, but are sent to bear witness to that light.

 

And so, during this twelve-day season of Christmas—today is the fifth day, by the way—we might profitably reflect on what steps we might take to invite (or indeed re-invite) Christ into our hearts, so that he may set us on fire, making our lives a beacon of his light and love to this cold and darkened world.

THE NATIVITY

December 24 / 25, 2024, 6 pm / 9 am

Saints Matthew and Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

Saint Luke 2:1-20 (AV)

 

A striking feature of the Nativity story in Saint Luke’s Gospel is that its principal human characters are the shepherds. More than one commentator has remarked that Luke disposes of Our Lord’s actual birth in one sentence: “And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”

 

Then the narrative switches immediately to the shepherds in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. Totally unexpectedly, an angel appears to the shepherds, and the glory of the Lord—the supernatural light that characteristically accompanies God’s presence—shines round about them. As in almost all such biblical accounts of appearances of heavenly messengers, the shepherds’ initial reaction is one of sheer terror. Angels are frightening to behold. For this reason, their first words when they appear are almost invariably, “Fear not,” or “Be not afraid.”

 

The angel then delivers the announcement: “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.” Here, the verb translated as “to bring good tidings” is exactly the same verb that Luke and the other New Testament authors use for “preach the Gospel” when writing of Jesus and the apostles. The angel’s message is thus a proclamation of the good news of God’s salvation.

 

The angel continues: “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.” Here the angelic proclamation takes a form resembling that of a court herald announcing the birth of an heir to the throne in an earthly kingdom. But the three titles—Saviour, Christ, and Lord—signify unmistakably that this birth is no ordinary royal birth, but none other than that of God’s anointed one, the Messiah.

 

Then the angel gives a sign: “Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” In the Bible, the purpose of signs accompanying messages purporting to be from God is to provide a means of verification, so that the recipient may know that the message is true, and not a hallucination or deception.

 

Apart from the angels’ message, the onlookers and passersby in Bethlehem would likely find nothing much in the event itself: an infant born to a traveling couple in makeshift lodgings using a feeding trough as a makeshift cradle. The gift of new life is always joyous and awesome. At the same time, however, it’s a common enough occurrence.

 

At the same time, as soon as they see it, the shepherds will recognize exactly what the angel told them to look for. So, the announcement interprets the birth as that of "a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.” And, reciprocally, the birth’s distinctive circumstances—“the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger”—confirm the truth of the announcement.

 

Once the angel finishes speaking, the shepherds are granted a glimpse into heaven itself, of the angelic host worshiping God and singing: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace ...” The shepherds’ experience that night thus combines the heavenly and the earthly: on one hand, a supernatural vision of celestial glory; on the other hand, a beautiful but plainly natural scene—for what could be more natural than a newborn infant with its parents? But that is the deepest meaning of the Incarnation after all: God comes down to earth from heaven; the Word is made flesh and dwells among us.

 

The angelic chorus proclaims that the birth of Jesus not only glorifies God in heaven, but also brings peace on earth. But what does “peace on earth” mean? Clearly, the world’s history in the two millennia since Christ’s birth has not been marked by what we normally think of as peace. On the contrary, it’s been a sad chronicle of conflict, war, revolution, massacre, and genocide. If God’s reign of justice, love, and peace is meant to be an historical reality, its time is clearly not yet.

 

The New Testament nonetheless uses the word “peace” 92 times: most often to describe a gift of God available to us here and now. In all Bible translations, the English word “peace”—like the Latin pax and the Greek eirēnē—harks back to the Hebrew shalom. And shalom signifies far more than what usually passes for peace in our world—namely, the absence of active hostilities or a state of armed truce. Instead, shalom implies a state of communal wholeness, well-being, reconciliation, forgiveness, unity, and harmony.

 

And I’d like to suggest that the peace that Christ brings has three dimensions: namely peace with God; peace with one another; and peace within ourselves.

 

Peace with God comes first. In the biblical understanding, the basic human predicament is that we’ve rebelled and are at enmity with God. Our first and greatest need is for God’s forgiveness. At Bethlehem Christ comes into the world precisely to reconcile us with God by means of his death, resurrection, and ascension.

 

Then comes peace with one another. Christians are called to be peacemakers. Because Christ has reconciled us with God, we’re obligated to be reconciled with one another. Nothing is more destructive to our souls than harboring resentments or bearing grudges. So, if we have anything against anyone, we need to pray for the grace, which only Christ can bestow, to forgive and be at peace.

 

Last but not least is peace within ourselves: “the peace of God, which passes all understanding.” In what seems at first glance a curious contradiction of the angels’ proclamation, Jesus says in Saint Matthew’s Gospel: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace but a sword.” He then foretells the rejection and sufferings that his disciples must undergo on his account. Still, it’s the peace within, the peace that only Christ can give in our hearts, that equips us to withstand all strife, turmoil, conflict, and persecution without.

 

“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace ...”

 

Even while peace remains conspicuously lacking in the world around us, Christ’s birth in Bethlehem brings us peace with God, peace with one another, and peace in ourselves. One of my favorite hymns, “They cast their nets in Galilee”— number 661 in the Hymnal—concludes with this verse:

 

The peace of God, it is no peace,

But strife closed in the sod;

Yet let us pray for but one thing:

The marvelous peace of God.

4 ADVENT, YEAR C

Sunday, December 19, 2024

Saints Matthew and Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

Micah 5:2-5a

Luke 1:39-55

 

One way Church tradition has described the relationship between the Old Testament and the New Testament is in terms of promise and fulfillment. The Old Testament records God’s promises of deliverance and salvation; the New Testament records God’s fulfillment of these promises in the coming of Christ.

 

The service of Advent Lessons and Carols is structured to make this point. We listen to a series of lessons and musical responses recording God’s promises to his people of a future anointed one, the Messiah, who will come as judge, king, and savior.

 

This all-too-brief Season of Advent invites us to put ourselves in the place of Israel waiting for the Messiah. In our Anglican tradition, we stubbornly keep this day as the fourth Sunday of Advent, refusing to decorate the Church or sing Christmas carols before the Feast of the Nativity has actually arrived. The idea is that if during Advent we can experience something of Israel’s longing for the promised Savior, then at Christmas our rejoicing at the birth of Christ will be so much more complete and full.

 

In one of today’s Old Testament readings, the prophet Micah, who lived about seven hundred years before Christ, delivers a promise from God addressed to the town of Bethlehem. You, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel, whose origin is from of old, from ancient days.

 

To catch the full impact of this prophecy, we need to remember that Bethlehem was where King David had grown up as a shepherd tending the flocks of his father Jesse. In times of national crisis, the people of Israel would look for another king like David to unite them and deliver them from their enemies, just as the original David had done so long ago. So, when Micah spoke of a ruler coming from Bethlehem, his original audience would have understood the promise of another David, another great king who would bring the people to safety as a shepherd gathers his flock.

 

In the concluding reading from the Gospel according to Saint Luke, we see the beginning of this promise’s fulfillment. Pregnant with the Christ child, the Blessed Virgin Mary travels to the hill country of Judah to visit her cousin Elizabeth—who’s also pregnant with the child who’ll become known as John the Baptist. And Elizabeth’s pregnancy is itself the fulfillment of God’s promise to her and her husband Zechariah that they would not remain childless in their old age.

 

But when Mary arrives, Elizabeth recognizes the fulfillment of a far greater promise. Filled with the Holy Spirit, she cries out: Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy.”

 

Then Elizabeth concludes: “And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.” These words have at least three layers of meaning. At the first and most obvious level, Elizabeth is honoring Mary for accepting the angel’s message that even as a virgin she would conceive and become the mother of the Messiah.

 

The second layer of meaning has a wider scope. Elizabeth is honoring Mary as the representative of faithful Israel awaiting the fulfillment of God’s promises. Mary understands her pregnancy in precisely these terms, as becomes clear in the song of praise we know as the Magnificat, sung in response to Elizabeth’s words: “He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and his posterity for ever.”

 

The third layer of meaning has the widest scope of all. Mary represents all people everywhere who faithfully believe that God will fulfill his promises to them. So Elizabeth’s words apply to us as well: Blessed are we who believe that there will be a fulfillment of what has been spoken to us by the Lord.

 

Think for a moment about the place of promise and fulfillment in our own lives. When we’re young, we naturally look to the future as a time of promise. One of the joys of being around little children is the opportunity to experience the approach of Christmas through their eyes. For children, this season is a time of enormous excitement and anticipation, which builds and builds until the final moment of fulfillment on Christmas morning.

 

As we grow up, we look forward to the various transitions and rites of passage in our lives as moments of promise, moments that we believe will bring about the fulfillment of all our hopes and dreams: graduating from school; finding the right job; perhaps for some, getting married and having children; perhaps for others, achieving some personal or professional milestone, such as getting published or receiving some honor or recognition in one’s field; and finally, in due course, retiring in the hope of doing all the things we didn’t have time for when we were working.

 

As we reach all these milestones, however, we find that sometimes the promise they held out for us is fulfilled, and sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes we get everything we hoped for; sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we achieve our goals only to find that they don’t bring us the sense of fulfillment we thought they would. Deep in our hearts, there always remains an inexplicable longing for something more—some deeper fulfillment, some greater joy—that we can’t quite put our finger on and that we don’t quite know how to name.

 

As St. Augustine puts it, God has created us for himself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in him. All our hopes and desires will never be completely satisfied until we see God face to face and abide for eternity in his presence. But that’s God’s promise to us as well: that the longing for eternal life and perfect joy that he’s implanted in our hearts won’t be in vain.

 

The birth of the Christ child in Bethlehem is God’s pledge to us that he can and will fulfill even this promise. Jesus comes to save us, to take away our sins, and to raise us to new life. As we prepare to greet him this Christmas, we place our hope in him as the one in whom all God’s promises find their true and final fulfillment.

 

THIRD SUNDAY OF ADVENT, YEAR C

December 15, 2024

Saints Matthew and Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

Zephaniah 3:14-20

Canticle 9

Philippians 4:4-7

Luke 3:7-18

 

From Paul’s Letter to the Philippians: Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. On account of these words, traditionally sung in Latin in the Introit (or Entrance Song) of today’s liturgy, the Third Sunday of Advent is known as Gaudete Sunday, or “Rejoice Sunday.”

 

We encounter this theme of rejoicing in the Old Testament reading, from the prophet Zephaniah: Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem!

Then Canticle 9, from the twelfth chapter of Isaiah—which we sang in paraphrased version—takes up the theme: “Therefore you shall draw water with rejoicing, from the springs of salvation … Cry aloud, inhabitants of Zion, ring out your joy …” And the Gospel reading concludes joyfully: “So, with many other exhortations, [John the Baptist] proclaimed good news to the people.”

 

In keeping with this theme of rejoicing, today we light a rose-colored candle on the Advent wreath; we have pink roses at the Altar; and if we had them, we’d wear rose vestments, and adorn the altar with a rose frontal.

 

These biblical exhortations to rejoicing are not, however, without an element of paradox. When he bids the Philippians rejoice always, Paul is himself a prisoner in chains: not a situation we normally associate with rejoicing. The reading from Zephaniah, calling on Jerusalem to sing, exult, shout, and rejoice, is set in the context of a book full of prophetic warnings of impending judgment and doom. And John the Baptist’s preaching of good news paradoxically begins with the greeting, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?”—followed by a series of solemn warnings to bear fruit befitting repentance.

 

The phenomenon of Christian joy amidst suffering sometimes proves puzzling to outside observers. The fifth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles recounts an incident in which the apostles are arrested, questioned, beaten, and then released. There follows the curious comment: “Then they left the presence of the council, rejoicing that they were found worthy to suffer dishonor for the name” (5:41).

 

Early Christian martyrs are reported to have gone to their deaths full of joy, singing hymns to Christ while the lions roared in the nearby cages. Saint Francis of Assisi is well known for finding “perfect joy” in a life of itinerant poverty. Such rejoicing in the midst of hardship, rejection, persecution, suffering, and death has struck more than a few critics of Christianity as fundamentally perverse.

 

We need to recognize, however, that the word “joy” has a special meaning in classical Christian usage. A great twentieth-century writer on Christian joy was C.S. Lewis. In his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, Lewis described joy as a feeling of intense longing he first experienced as a child, and which recurred periodically throughout his life.

 

Lewis insisted that this experience was completely distinct from either happiness or pleasure. He described it with the memorable phrase: “an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction.” (Repeat.) In this sense, joy means something different from the present fulfillment of natural human needs. It’s more what we might call “anticipatory joy”—that is, the excitement of looking forward to something that hasn’t happened yet but remains hoped for in the future.

 

We all know what it feels like. Imagine, a student who’s been away from home for the first time in her life at a far-away university. As much as she loves her new life, she nonetheless misses her family and her hometown friends intensely. At last, final exams are over and she’s on her way to the airport to catch her flight home for the Christmas break. For days, perhaps weeks, her excitement has been mounting at the prospect of celebrating Christmas with family and friends once again.

 

Again, think of some of the most joyous milestones in people’s lives. When a couple announces their engagement, a large part of our reaction to the news is the joy of anticipation. (Assuming, that is, that we approve of the match.) We rejoice not only at what their engagement means for them now, but also at the future prospect of their wedding and subsequent life together. The announcement is an occasion of joy because it gives us something to look forward to.

 

When my daughter-in-law announced one evening at a gathering of the extended family that she was pregnant, the rejoicing was boisterous and raucous. Again, when a child is born, we rejoice not only on account of who this little baby is now, but also on account of the person we hope he or she will become in the coming years. Our joy is both in the present gift and the future promise.

 

When C. S. Lewis finally converted to Christianity after years of spiritual struggle, he realized that the final fulfillment of his longing—that unsatisfied desire more desirable than any other satisfaction—was none other than Christ himself. As Christians we discover that Christ is available to us here and now as both present reality and future hope. Knowing Christ affords greater joy than any earthly pleasure or happiness. Still, we also discover that, in this life, our joy in the Lord always retains something of this quality of unfulfilled longing and unrealized expectation.

 

Theologians describe the Christian life as lived in the tension between the “already” and the “not yet.” When we receive the Lord’s Body and Blood in the Holy Eucharist, for example, we really and truly receive Christ himself here and now. Yet the sacred meal always points beyond itself as a foretaste of that heavenly banquet awaiting us in God’s Kingdom. In other words, our joy remains in large part the joy of anticipation rather than that of consummation and fulfillment. But, to quote C. S. Lewis again, even as an unsatisfied desire it remains “more desirable than any other satisfaction.”

 

Advent is the season when we anticipate our future—the new life awaiting each of us after death, and the new life awaiting all creation when Christ returns to inaugurate the Kingdom in its fullness. For this reason, Advent is a season of longing, expectation, and hope. But this Rose Sunday also reminds us that, like Advent, the entire Christian life, is also a season of anticipatory joy. Even amidst our present difficulties and darknesses, we dare to rejoice in the glorious future that God promises us in Christ.

 

ADVENT 2, YEAR C

Sunday 8 December 2024

Saints Matthew and Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

Luke 3:1-6

 

At the beginning of today’s Gospel, St. Luke introduces John the Baptist by carefully dating his appearance in a detailed snapshot of who was in power where:

 

“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas…”

 

Here Luke has given us a geopolitical map of the biblical world at that moment, complete with emperors, governors, tetrarchs, and high priests. (The fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberias Caesar can be dated with reasonable precision as 29 A.D.)

 

Some commentators suggest that Luke is making the point that his story is neither timeless myth nor abstract philosophy but the record of events that happened at a definite time and place in history. Others propose that Luke is hinting that the good news of Jesus Christ is to be taken out from Jerusalem and Judea into the Roman Empire and beyond, transforming the whole world and relativizing the authority of its rulers in the process.

 

But then, what follows contrasts explosively with Luke’s lead-in: “the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness …” Luke has just given us a grand tour of imperial palaces, governors' mansions, kings' fortresses, and priests' temples. But God’s word comes to none of the high and mighty in those power centers, but rather to a relative nobody in the middle of nowhere: “John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.”

 

The word wilderness can also be translated as “desert.” In the Bible, the wilderness or desert is the classic place of encounter with the divine. Of course, God is capable of revealing himself wherever, whenever, and to whomever he chooses. In many of the biblical stories, the Word of God, or indeed the Angel of God, comes to someone in a town or a city—such as the Blessed Virgin Mary at her home in Nazareth of Galilee.

 

Nonetheless, there’s something about the desert—its wide-open spaces, its solitude and silence—that disposes people to be receptive to divine communication. Away from the constant distractions of our lives in the world, we find the room and the quiet we need to explore our own inner landscapes—our questions, conflicts, hopes, doubts, and fears. And sometimes, just sometimes, God speaks a word that changes everything, offering us a new horizon, a new sense of mission and purpose, a new vision.

 

Early in the seasons of both Advent and Lent, the readings take us into the desert. In all three years of the lectionary cycle, John the Baptist appears on the second Sunday of Advent, as “the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.” And again, on the first Sunday of Lent, the Holy Spirit drives Jesus into the wilderness following his baptism by that same John in the River Jordan.

 

The journey into the desert seems an indispensable component of both seasons. It seems that before we can truly experience the joy of either Christmas or Easter, we need to spend some time out in the wilderness.

 

The Sundays of Advent always follow a specific sequence. The first Sunday announces the Lord’s return on the last day to judge the living and the dead. The second and third Sundays take us into the wilderness of Judea to hear John preaching his baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Then the fourth Sunday begins to unfold the fulfillment of God’s promises in the Annunciations to Mary and Joseph and, this year, in Mary’s Visitation to Elizabeth.

 

The point seems to be that the River Jordan is a necessary stopping place on our journey to Bethlehem. Before we can hear the angels sing “Glory to God in the highest”, we need to respond to the Baptist’s call: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.”

 

This season of Advent originated as a penitential time of fasting and prayer before Christmas. In the Eastern Churches, it’s known as the Nativity Fast, kept for forty days before Christmas, just as Lent is kept for the forty days before Easter. But in the Western Church, where it became known as Advent, it’s kept at most only 28 days, from the fourth Sunday before Christmas. And the focus has been more on preparation for the two comings of Christ: first, in weakness and vulnerability in Bethlehem; second, in power and majesty when he returns to judge the living and the dead.

 

The liturgical reforms of the 1960s and 70s further de-emphasized Advent’s penitential character, highlighting instead themes of joyful hope, longing, anticipation, and preparation. In many Episcopal churches, including here at Saints Matthew and Mark, blue vestments, rather than the traditional violet, mark the season’s unique character.

 

All that’s well and good. Still, the second and third Sundays of Advent confront us with John the Baptist’s call to repent. So, there remains this irreducibly penitential dimension to the season.

 

John administered a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. People received his baptism to makes themselves ready for the coming of the Lord. And while John’s baptism was not the same as Christian baptism, it was not ineffective in achieving its own objectives. Certain passages in the Gospels indicate that those who received John’s baptism were those most likely to welcome and follow Jesus when he appeared, while those who rejected John’s baptism were those most likely to reject Jesus as well.

 

Today’s celebration invites us to find some extra time to be alone and quiet this Advent, even in the midst of all the pre-Christmas hubbub. In this way, we undertake our own spiritual journey into the wilderness to be attentive to God’s Word. And we need to use some of that time—not necessarily all but some of it—to examine our consciences and identify the sins of which we need to repent at this particular point in our lives.

 

We can certainly always confess those sins directly to God, knowing that he hears and forgives in virtue of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. No human intermediary is required. But the Church also affords us the opportunity to make use of the rite called the Reconciliation of a Penitent, found on page 447 of The Book of Common Prayer, in which we confess our sins privately to a priest, and receive the benefit of counsel and absolution. The rule regarding Confession in the Episcopal Church is “none must, all may, some should.” So, it’s worth bearing in mind that it’s there, available, if we ever need it.

 

Confessing our sins, whether directly to God or in the Sacrament of Reconciliation, is a wonderful way to prepare ourselves for the Lord’s Nativity. And our celebration of Christmas becomes all the more joyous when we know that we’ve been forgiven.