VICAR’S LETTER
As you may have already heard, I grew up in Buffalo, New York. And, while I love California
and consider the Bay Area my home, there is something about this time of year that always
leaves me feeling a little out of place. In Buffalo, the nights around Thanksgiving get really cold,
and the air gets really crisp, and there’s nothing better than taking a late-night stroll and
reacquainting oneself with the comfort of scarves, and the bracing discomfort of a lungful of
frosty air. And, to be honest, I just haven’t gotten used to seeing houses decorated for Christmas
with no snow on the ground. Not that I miss it —
it’s just hard to imagine winter without it.
On December 2, when we celebrate our 50th anniversary and welcome Bishop Marc to be with
us for his first visit to Redeemer, the church begins a new year with the season of Advent. Since
the Middle Ages, it has been customary to consider Advent a season of “preparation” for the
coming of Christ. To be sure, there’s something very important about using the period of time
before Christmas in prayer and reflection. But in some ways, there’s something anti-Biblical
about “preparing” for the coming of God. Indeed, as scripture constantly reminds us, it is
impossible to prepare for what is already here!
In an odd way, the secularized version of Christmas which now dominates mass media and
popular consciousness has, I think, nurtured some of the real Spirit of Advent: intense desire and
longing for the day that we know will come, but whose very drawing near inspires ever-greater
feelings of urgency and anticipation. For me, those cold nights of late autumn and early winter
are part of that atmosphere of intense possibility — the feeling that, at any moment, the first
beautiful snowfall could descend on the city, and transform it overnight. Such a simple thing:
frozen water falling in flakes from the sky; and yet so full of wonder.
Over the centuries, the story of Christmas Eve has become romanticized to a great degree. But
that same simplicity and that same wonder are still there: Mary and Joseph, the animal’s stall, the
baby in the manger, the wise men following the star. I’ve often thought that what makes the wise
men wise is that, upon apprehension of the tiny, helpless baby lying in a place completely unfit
for babies, they saw the salvation of all humankind. It’s easy see God in a mighty thundercloud,
or a dramatic and beautiful sunset — some awesome demonstration of nature’s power. But
a
newborn baby? Born to anonymous Jewish itinerants? Laying in a cow’s feeding trough? Seeing
God in that takes some serious wisdom.
And of course, we’re called to the same wisdom as we spend these coming weeks preparing for,
anticipating, longing for, the coming — again — of Emmanuel, God-With-Us. Where in your
life is there a poor, tiny, helpless infant? Where are there strangers asking for a room? Where is it
that you think God is least likely to appear? Take a hint from the wise men who saw through the
helplessness and squalor to the breathtaking mystery of God’s incarnation in a human being. You
might then want to honor that place with gifts of comfort and balm, as the wise men do.
A blessed and peaceful Advent to you all, and a Merry Christmas!
In peace,
Fr. Steve
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