Advent 3.7: going to be

Recently the question came up:
did Jesus always know He was God?
It's something I've never thought about
and I liked suddenly thinking about it,
though I don't think I can ever settle on an answer.
Was there a "Superman moment," as my friend put it,
or was the knowledge always etched in his human-yet-divine bones?
Do any of us start out knowing what we are? who we are?
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes--
but little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.
I never held much to that--infant wins out over God, in my book.
Or maybe God completely transforms into infant--
every need, every bawl, every discovery, every chuckle
full of heaven and earth all at once.
Tonight I watched our niece unwrap Christmas for the very first time.
As we surrounded her, savoring her cheeks, her light laughs, her roving eyes,
my husband asked aloud, wonderingly, close to jubilant expectation--
"What are you going to be?"
I imagine, that though they still had imprints of the angel, the dream, the star burned on their brains,
the known unknown that something far beyond them was at work,
Mary and Joseph still looked at their new boy and asked the same question:
"What are you going to be?"

Advent 3.6: Glory by

Another piece from Advent 2012.

The first verse of "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing" reminds me of the Peanuts gang, their wide mouths open, cartoon heads thrown back as they surround Charlie Brown's lowly holy Christmas tree on the fresh snowy night and sing loudly and unabashedly and joyously, like the children they are, but also with an element of knowledge, of certainty, that perhaps only animated characters can possess. It's like earlier in their Christmas special, when Linus says in his tiny sure voice, clutching his blue blanket, more matter-of-fact than any pastor, "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

That first stanza is almost like The Lord's Prayer; I know it frontwards and backwards, sideways and upside down. I learned these phrases by heart before I truly knew what they meant, one long word: peaceonearthandmercymildgodandsinnersreconciled. (I know I knew this song before I knew what "reconcile" meant.) 

The second and third verses I learned on Christmas Eves; it's the song we sing to welcome the Christ child into the world, and more immediately, to welcome the baby starring as Jesus from behind the stage and out in front of the congregation. The parents, dressed as Mary and Joseph, hold their child up for all to see, like Rafiki presenting Simba to the crowd of animals gathered around Pride Rock. They certainly don't have to act out their grins. A spotlight graces the wriggling infant, and suddenly "Hail the heaven-born prince of peace!" becomes much more real and present.

But my favorite lines are the last of the hymn, and at our church service they normally happen when the child is back in Mary's arms, being cradled and comforted after the big display. We continue to sing:

Mild he lays his glory by,
born that we no more may die.

The crescendo here brings tears to my eyes, the joy, the promise of this smallest human being.

Born to raise us from the earth,
born to give us second birth.

This little twenty-first century baby has no idea what is happening, or what is being sung, what he or she is representing. And perhaps that's the beauty of it. Did Jesus know who he was as he lay in the manger, being heralded by angels? I imagine that he probably didn't; like any child who has ever "acted" in this sacred role, Jesus was simply himself. He reached his small arms out to his mother, but as he grew up, he came to understand that he was actually reaching for the whole world.

Advent 3.5: Morning walks

Just as my dog has made me more aware of waiting, so too has she made me a more familiar acquaintance with darkness.

Not long after 6 a.m., in any weather but a downpour, I find myself pulling on my long underwear, jacket, hat, and leashing her up for an early morning walk. Our street, which has no sidewalks and becomes a chaotic cut-through during rush hour, is refreshingly silent before the sun comes up.

I put on a reflective vest and carry a small flashlight, but Lucy doesn't seem to need anything lighting her way. She tromps along as quickly and happily as if it were a sunshine-laden afternoon in the middle of July.

I try to follow her easygoing lead, sometimes flipping off the flashlight switch, but there's that slippery patch of leaves and then the rising root I tripped over a year ago, my knees still bear the scars, and is that a garbage can up ahead or an animal?...

It's not long before I turn the small soft light back on to show my steps. Sometimes, darkness can be unnerving.

At certain moments Lucy slows up, ears perked and limbs frozen in place--she sees (or smells?) something I cannot. Is she excited or nervous, eager or scared? I can never quite tell, but sometimes I wonder how long she'd stand there if I didn't start to gently tug her away, or what she'd do if I let her off the leash entirely. Would she dash into the darkness to follow her senses? Or turn away and keep walking on towards home? 

I've come to love these first-thing walks far better than evening ones--the rush hour cut-through that I mentioned makes me long for still pre-sunrise darkness over the harsh hit of headlights (sometimes light can be unnerving, too). And along with the calm-filled silence, maybe it's this early dark I love because I know the slow rising light of morning is on its way. There's still another hour yet, but there's something within that half hour before shower or breakfast or running out the door that makes me hopeful--for a new day, for the excitement of the trotting canine at my side, for the refresh of blood in veins and beat in heart.

Light's coming. And even before it shows its face, or any sign that it will again appear, we are walking toward it, trusting that it will. Until then, I begin to learn the blooming peace of the dark.