Читать книгу 95 Prostheses - Frank G. Honeycutt - Страница 8

“Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near” (Luke 21:28).

Right after Jesus shares these dire warnings about the end of the world, Luke’s gospel reports what seems to be a rather innocuous detail: “Every day he was teaching in the temple, and at night he would go out and spend the night on the Mount of Olives” (21:37).

I’m drawn to this little detail. Just before and after Jesus spoke about signs in the stars and the sashay of planets and the churning seas, he went camping. Just before they came to get him for the trial and just days before he died, Jesus slept out for several nights in a row. We’re told earlier in Luke that “the Son of Man has no place to lay his head” (9:58), but this sleep-out (presumably alone) seems to be a conscious choice by Jesus.

Did he build a small fire and watch it get dark? Did he lean back and lace his fingers behind his head, staring at the evening sky? Was the moon waxing or waning that week? Or was it so ink-black dark and still that his entire body blended into the night? I suspect that Jesus thought about quite a bit on the mountain each night, camping out alone. If you’ve ever camped solo, you’ll recall how much more there is to see and hear.

When our children were very small I used to love to walk outside late at night and look back at our house, entirely dark except for a small light that would help guide me back in. I’d stand in the darkness and think of the three kids and a great wife, all sleeping inside. And I would often lie down right in the middle of the driveway and look up and think about the contrast between the dim light in the house yonder and the celestial lights so far away—the nearness of Christ at Christmas and the amazing grandeur of God that fills the cosmos; just looking and looking at layer upon layer of time and space. Upon returning inside, it was an overpowering thing to stand over their beds and pray, and just watch them sleeping; welling up with gratitude. Watching a child sleep is a good time to pray and wonder about life and our place in the whole scheme of things.

The reason I like to think about Jesus camping out every night for a period of time is that it’s important for me to have images of the man simply thinking, off alone somewhere—considering his life, this life, the life to come. Perhaps you’ve noticed an almost-breathlessness to the Gospels. He heals, he teaches, he preaches, travels this way and that. One story quickly blends into another. The image of Jesus camping under a night sky slows down all the gospel action. Even Jesus needed time to think and reflect quietly. The message here is pretty clear: so do we.

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You may already know the origin of the Advent wreath in Christian tradition. About this time of year in Scandinavia, farmers would put away their tools in the waning light of the year, and clean and service their carts and farming implements for the coming spring. Families would take a wheel from the cart and bring it inside, decorating the wheel with greenery and candles. It was a way of marking time, but also an invitation to slow down and think—because you can’t go anywhere on three wheels. If you doubt this, remove one of your Michelins and try driving to the mall.

The cartwheel in the middle of our worship spaces each December is an invitation to slow down and think about this life and the life to come, even while the culture we live in rockets through the month at a frantic pace. Someone has beautifully described Advent as “leisure to incubate.”

Jesus camped out under the stars for several nights in a row just before his arrest and crucifixion. He no doubt thought about life—his own and the lives of his followers. And perhaps his reflections under the stars made it into his sermon the following morning: “There will be signs in the sun, moon, and the stars, and on earth distress among the nations confused by the roaring of seas and waves” (Luke 21:25).

We who take our Christmas with lots of sugar may be a bit puzzled by Jesus’ words this time of year. Who has time to think about the coming kingdom when there’s so much to do? “Be on guard,” says Jesus, “so that your hearts are not weighed down with the worries of this life, and that day catches you unexpectedly, like a trap” (Luke 21:34). We may sing, “Oh come, oh come Emmanuel” every Advent, but what would it mean if he did?

“Now when these things take place, stand up and raise your heads because your redemption is drawing near.” But if truth were told, we’re a lot like one character in a Flannery O’Connor short story who says, “A man with a good car ain’t got no need of redemption.” And so we’re invited to remove a wheel.

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Here’s an interesting story3 told by a Presbyterian pastor. Her grandfather was attending his sixtieth class reunion. There was a break in the weekend agenda so the granddaddy and three of his old classmates grabbed their clubs and headed out to one of the local golf courses. They rode in carts, laughed a lot, and swapped old stories. One of the friends in the foursome teed off somewhere on the back nine. Still with club held high, after a great shot, the man looked at his three friends and said, “Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.” And with those words, he fell down dead. Not a bad way to go if you love golf, but a rather jarring goodbye for those stranded on the back nine with a body.

Advent is a gift to the church, inviting us to stand on tiptoe, alert and watchful. Advent invites us to honestly consider our place in the world, our attachments, and where our true investments reside. Such important reflection need not be morbid. But it might strengthen our faith so that when our time comes, we can say without fear: “Ladies, gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.”

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I’ve always loved the words of Charlotte near the end of E. B. White’s classic barnyard story Charlotte’s Web. Charlotte is about to die and Wilbur is overcome with grief, wondering aloud why a spider would ever help a pig: “You have been my friend,” says Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die.”4

As Jesus camped those nights, fingers laced behind his head, looking up at the stars, he probably knew that his own death was only days away. Maybe he walked to the brow of the hill those nights on the Mount of Olives, and looked back towards the lights of the city, imagining the occupants of the various homes.

Does he look back today at the lights of our cities and towns, the driveways of our homes, from a certain vantage point?

For further reflection:

1. Recall the last time you spent time alone, looking at the stars. How does this perspective shape the living of these days?

2. Describe how you might try to “remove a Michelin” this Advent.

3. Gillespie, “Emergency and Rescue.”

4. White, Charlotte’s Web, 164.