Wednesday, December 3, 2014

A Blog for the First Week in Advent

Hope is a Diamond Ring



(Isaiah 9:5-6 NIV) The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned. … 6For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
* * *
(Romans 8:19-21 J. B. Phillips) The whole creation is on tiptoe to see the wonderful sight of the sons of God coming into their own.
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Well, the season is upon us. There’s no turning back. We “Hanged the Greens” last Sunday at First Christian Church in Conway. We sang the carols and lit the candles and celebrated “Hope” on the first Sunday of Advent.

Hope. It’s a central theme of the whole Bible. But the story’s not a smooth one. It constantly confronts hills and valleys.
On the basis of hope Abraham moved to a strange land. A call and a promise fueled hope for a future in which Abra­ham and his children and his chil­dren's children would share in God's plan to bless the whole world.
That hope was passed from one generation to the next. It almost died in Egypt; but a smol­dering ember was fanned into flame by Moses, this time in the form of a yearning for a land—a place.
But that hope had to confront Philistines, Amorites, Mid­ianites, Jebusites—Pales­tinians who had the nerve to fight back when Israel took their homes and land. Hope wilted and then sprang back, energized by the heroic leadership of David; a renewed hope, this time rooted in military strength and political and economic power.
For many generations the hope alternately burned bright and faded, choked by political corrup­tion, economic inflation gone ber­serk, and an apathetic, materialistic citizenry. Isaiah and other prophets occasionally breathed life back into it; but only temporarily—life support for a hope that could no longer sustain itself. Finally, Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon "pulled the plug," and in exile, the Israelites remembered the hope; but mourned its death.
By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for …how can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land? (Psalms 137:1-4 NIV)
Israel hadn't yet learned that their God was a God of resurrection. The plant had died; but under the surface of the earth the bulb was there, waiting for springtime, when a new plant would spring up—a sprig out of the root of Jesse—a new hope, kept alive by the memory of a promise: God would yet redeem God's people, "When Messiah Comes!"

A child goes to bed hungry. His mother pats his hand: "When Messiah comes, ther­e'll be no more hunger!" A beggar clutches his rags in some cold alley: "When Messiah comes" there’ll be no more homelessness. A young girl, cries in her pillow: “When Messiah comes”, there’ll be no more Roman soldiers to rape and pillage.
And then he comes; and he's a carpenter, poor as they, running with prostitutes and tax collectors. Instead of recruiting a rebel army to overthrow the Romans, he tells them to carry the Roman soldiers' packs an extra mile; and he says, "Love your enemy." Instead of establishing a government to erase poverty and hunger, he says, "You feed the hungry." That's not what they were hoping for.
It is the witness of scripture and of history, and of our own lives, that Christ does come in fulfillment of hope—but he comes "like a thief in the night"—often undetected. He comes "to his own;" and his own do not receive him because, somehow, when he comes it's not what we expect.
God's people always have held to a hope that life would be better—for us, more meaningful—for us, more joyful—for us; but when he comes, he tells us to make life better, more meaningful, more joyful—for others!
And somehow that’s supposed to be "Good News". Somehow that’s supposed to mean the Kingdom of God is at hand. That’s supposed to be what we've waited for and longed for and hoped for.
The epistle says the whole creation stands on tiptoe to see the Sons of God revealed. And when they appear, they're not wearing crowns, but hard hats; they're not wearing fine linen and silk, but denim overalls and work boots.
* * *
Not long ago, a man promised his wife a Christmas gift that would dazzle and brighten her life. She just knew it would be that diamond ring she’d pointed out to him so many times.
Just before Christmas his military reserve unit was called overseas; and on Christmas morning she and the children opened their presents without him. She saved the large, heavy package from her husband until last, knowing that he took great joy in disguising his gifts. The huge, heavy boxy, she knew, would contain several boxes, each smaller than the previous one. There’d be some bricks, she guessed, for weight; but eventually she’d peel the layers until there would be one last box: tiny, and wrapped in gold foil, and holding her ring.
Finally, the time came, and with quivering hands she began to tear the paper away from the box. It was a vacuum cleaner box; but that meant nothing. Inside would be a smaller box and a smaller box and a smaller box. And so she tore open the lid and—it was a vacuum cleaner.
There was no joy in Mudville that night. Mighty Casey had struck out. She refused to call him that night, as they had agreed; and she cried all night. For the next several days she wouldn't answer the phone. Oh! She was angry!
But, finally, things had to be done. The dry Christmas tree was a fire hazard. Besides, it represented her greatest disappointment; so she put away the ornaments and dragged the bare tree to the curb.
There were pine needles all over the carpet, so she took the new vacuum cleaner and cursed it as she began vacuuming the carpet. When she moved a large chair that had stood near the tree, she found a small box—obviously overlooked on Christmas morning—wrapped in gold foil, and on the tag was her name. With trembling fingers again, she opened the box, and found her diamond ring.
Oh, she received all she hoped for; but only when she used all she had received.
That’s how I see it through the flawed glass that is my world view.
Together in the Walk,
Jim

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