A Spiritual Reflection for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

FOURTH SUNDAY OF ADVENT

2 S 7:1-5, 8-11, 16 -- Rm 16:25-27 -- Lk 1:26-38

Our Duty to Be Prophets
By Harold A. Buetow, PhD, JD

These days, everywhere you go you meet people who profess to be speaking for God. You see them on the street corners, often sandwich signing the need for repentance. You meet them at social gatherings, prophesying the possibility of the technology of our age leading to the last things. But what is true prophecy? Today's liturgy on this last Sunday before Christmas, recapitulating all salvation history, speaks to that.

When St. Luke pictured God's announcement to Mary of the coming birth of the Savior, much of what he wrote had to do with prophecy. Luke's narrative is a study in contrasts between the angel's message to Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, and his appearance to Mary. When Luke describes the message to Zechariah, he gives many details; in the announcement to Mary, simply the time and the place. When the angel came to Zechariah, it was within the gold-plated walls of the Temple at Jerusalem; when within six months he came to Mary, it was to a humble dwelling in Nazareth (v. 26). The angel's appearance to Zechariah involved a large crowd, his appearance to Mary was private.

To Zechariah, the angel had delivered his pronouncement without first addressing any greeting; in Mary's case, he greeted her beautifully. In fact Mary, more than any human being in the Bible, is the recipient of the most impressive salutations. The Church has added to them. We call Mary not only the mother of Jesus, but the "mother" of divine grace, most pure, inviolate, and undefiled. We call her amiable, admirable, counselor, prudent, venerable, most powerful, merciful, and faithful. She's the mirror of justice, seat of wisdom, singular vessel of devotion, the tower of David. She's the house of gold, a gate of heaven, healer of the sick, a refuge of sinners, and comforter of the afflicted.

When the angel came to Mary, she wasn't much more than a young girl. How much was she like other girls? Poets have written about girls, and their observations are heart-warming as well as humorous. They've called them the nicest things that happen to people. They're born with a little bit of angel-shine about them and, though it wears thin sometimes, there's always enough left to lasso your heart. A little girl can be sweeter (and badder) more often than anyone else in the world. A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head. God borrows from many creatures to make a little girl. He uses the song of a bird, the squeal of a pig, the antics of a monkey, the spryness of a grasshopper, the curiosity of a cat, the slyness of a fox, the softness of a kitten.

A little girl likes new shoes, party dresses, small animals, make-believe, make-up, and tea parties. She doesn't care so much for large dogs, hand-me-downs, or vegetables. She's prettiest when she's provoked you, busiest at bedtime, quietest when you want to show her off, and most flirtatious when she absolutely mustn't get the best of you again. But when your dreams tumble down and the world is a mess, she can make you a king when she climbs on your knee and whispers, "I love you best of all!" Was Mary ever like that?

With Mary, the angel's greeting began by calling her God's favored one (v.28). Honoring God with her whole being, Mary displayed what it meant for a human being to be "full of grace." The angel's statement that the Lord was with Mary, when it comes from God, implies a special prerogative. Much more intimate than God's presence to David, the Lord is literally with her. She's the new Ark, beyond all our reasonable expectations. She was to be the first human being who could say of Jesus, "This is my body, this is my blood." It's no wonder, then, that this simple girl was greatly troubled (v. 29). Unlike Zechariah, however, who was afraid at the sight of an angel, Mary was only troubled by his words. Gabriel understood Mary's perplexity, and spoke her name (v. 30) for reassurance.

He then proceeded with the promise that Mary would conceive and bear a son (v. 31). Mindful that the very first command given to people was to be fertile and multiply (Gn 1:28), Jews knew in addition that the whole purpose of their nation was to hand down their belief in one God until the Messiah would come: This meant rearing children. The childless man had his name struck out of family registers. And men wanted to have sons to pray the Mourner's Kaddish for them at death.

Mary was full of questions. "How can this be?" (v. 34), she asked. How was she to know that the child she was to conceive would be the Son of the Most High -- because, as she said, she had no relations with a man, actual or intended. The angel's answer was, in short, that everything would be accomplished by the Holy Spirit coming upon her (v. 35). This pictured the brooding Spirit sweeping over the waters of creation (Gn 1:2). It recalled also the cloud signifying God's presence that covered with glory the Meeting Tent and the Temple, and that would be present at Jesus' Baptism and Transfiguration. The same Spirit coming upon Mary brought about a new creation. By speaking of the Spirit coming upon Mary, Luke draws attention to the warmth and life of God present in this new creation as it was in the first.

When the angel added that the holy offspring to be born would be called Son of God, did Mary understand him to be announcing that her son would be divine? The First Testament was familiar with the idea of divine fatherhood. The prophets had declared Israel to be God's firstborn son, and King David, the shepherd, for one, was an embodiment of this sonship. But it would have been blasphemy for Jews to consider that God would be born of a woman, and Mary, as a Semite, wasn't in the habit of thinking in abstract terms like two natures in one person, a habit of the Western mind that would take hold later.

Indeed, there are indications that before Pentecost Mary didn't fully understand the divine nature of her son's mission (Lk 2:48-50). So she pondered him ever anew. Presently Mary, in an agreement that's a magnificent lesson to us in affirming God's plan even when we don't fully understand, assented (v. 38). Her prayer wasn't the usual one -- "May God's will be changed" -- but the greatest prayer in the world: "May God's will be done." If God wanted it, with faith and hope she would live with her uncertainties and fear. Would that all baptized persons, in spite of fear and doubts and uncertainties, were willing, with similar faith and hope, to let Christ be born and show the world God's love and compassion and joy!

As soon as she pronounced her words, the Son of God took upon himself our human nature. At once the good tidings were known in heaven, and little by little they were spread on earth. God's intention to express himself in the terms of humanity began to be fulfilled. Through the Incarnation, people were to know of the salvation, love, truth, justice, mercy, and other qualities of God.

Today's reading from the Second Book of Samuel and today's Gospel echo each other. The passage in the Jewish Scriptures is a famous messianic prophecy, written long after David lived. With the objective hind-sight of history, it shows David to have been Israel's ideal king, his age the golden age of Israel. He was wise and, despite his failings, loyal to God. Joseph, who was thought to be Jesus' father, belonged to the house of David. Just as Mary's relationship to Elizabeth, who was descended from Aaron the priest, showed Jesus' priestly character, so Joseph's membership in the house of David was intended to show Jesus' kingly character.

Today's passage tells of David's resolve to build a house to the Lord. He was disturbed to be living in a cedar palace while God's ark was confined in a tent. There was peace: With God's help David had defeated the Philistines, captured Jerusalem, and brought the Ark of God to the city. That Ark, which according to tradition contained the two tablets of the commandments given to Moses on Mt. Sinai, symbolized the presence of God with the Jewish people. The Ark had accompanied them on their journeys, even being carried into battle.

But God opposed the temple-palace David was proposing, and the class distinctions it would bring. So the prophet Nathan brought God's promise to build David a better house -- not a house made of wood or stone or gold, but a royal house, a lineage, that would last forever. What Nathan was talking about was the establishment of a New Covenant between God and the Israelites; it's the first mention of the promise that became a basic part of Jewish hope and expectancy. This prophecy to David -- this time a prophecy in the sense of foretelling the future -- formed the basis for Jewish expectations of a messiah. Jesus, of David's family and town, would fulfill this prophecy. The offspring of the virgin, as promised, restored David's dynasty, which by then hadn't existed for 600 years.

St. Paul, in today's portion of his letter to the Romans, uses the work "prophecy" in both of its senses: the foretelling of the future and the duty of speaking up on God's behalf -- a forthteller. Paul here brings his letter to an end in a song of praise that's also a summary of the Gospel. The Gospel is the revelation of the mystery kept secret for long ages (v. 25). That mystery has to do with the identity of Jesus.

Paul's idea is that God is present in history, whose central person is Jesus. Jesus is the one in whom all God's promises are fulfilled, the one to whom all nations must look for salvation. Through God's command Paul has made Jesus known not only to the Jews, but to the Gentiles as well. Jews and Gentiles hated each other. Strict Jews saw Gentiles as being immoral, unloved by God, and condemned. Gentiles saw Jews as snobbish, fanatic, pushy, and constant trouble-makers. Jews wouldn't eat with Gentiles, visit their homes, or even use money coined by them. That Paul, the strict Pharisaical rabbi, would become the apostle of the Gentiles, reconcile Jew and Gentile, and bring Jesus to the world is a lesson for all of us.

God has done the unexpected throughout salvation history. He took an obscure shepherd boy, David, built from him a royal house, and promised that his dynasty would last forever. Jesus, of that royal line, became man in order to save us. In Jesus, God reconciled Jew and Gentile. In our time, Jesus is there to help reconcile us all. These days, we contemplate the unexpected spectacle of Jesus' birth at Christmas. Every new birth is a wonder, but the newness of this one is an especial marvel. On this last Sunday before Christmas, it makes us straighten up, square our shoulders, and face our responsibility to let this newness enter and open ourselves to the possibilities of growth through God's creative action. Let's create the wonder of Christmas anew by saying "yes" to God at all times and bringing Jesus to the world.

A Spiritual Reflection for the Third Sunday of Advent

THIRD SUNDAY OF ADVENT

Is 61:1f,10f -- 1 Th 5:16-24 -- Jn 1:6-8,19-28

Joy: What It Means, Where You Look for It, and How You Get It
By Harold A. Buetow, PhD, JD

Thinking people have over the ages tried to plumb the meaning of joy, where to look for it, and how to get it. Some have observed that joy is most intense in the years of childhood, and that some sights from the years of youth – a meadow, a house once lived in, a familiar face – can resurrect the joy of youth. Others have said that the deep power of joy can enable us to see into the true life of things. Some have contrasted the whole-hearted joy of the poor with the relatively stiff joy of the rich. The more religious-minded have said that the spelling of JOY reminds us that “Jesus” is first, “you” are last, and “others” are in-between. One religious-minded person, Abbot Marmion, described joy as “the echo of God’s life within us.”

The life of John the Baptist, despite his sacrifices and hardships, was full of joy – if you define joy as the state of bliss over having or expecting something or someone that you love. In today’s Gospel, the Evangelist introduces the Baptist with a contrast between the temporality of creation and the eternity of the Word: A man named John was sent from God (v. 6). And, while we call John “the Baptist,” or “the baptizer,” “the immerser,” “the dipper, or “the plunger,” he might with equal accuracy be called “the witness”: The Gospel says that he came to testify (v. 7). The Evangelist puts forth witness after witness to the truth of the claims of Jesus: God the Father; the Holy Spirit; Jesus’ own words; his works; the Jewish prophecies; people with whom Jesus came in contact such as the Samaritan woman, the lepers, and the man born blind; the crowds; the disciples; and -- now – John the Baptist.

Today’s Gospel tells of the Baptist’s witness when the Jews sent to ask his identity (v. 19). It was a time when some of the Baptist’s followers weren’t becoming Christians because they were disillusioned over Jesus’ not showing all the spectacular “signs” they expected of the Messiah. John’s unconverted followers were spread throughout the whole Mediterranean world. St. Paul encountered them, still unconverted to Jesus, at Ephesus and in Asia Minor (see Ac 18:24-19:4); followers of John were also in Alexandria, Egypt. John, however, still maintained his faith and his hope; from these came joy.

The first question of the religious authorities from Jerusalem was direct: “Who are you?” (v. 19). It’s a question, perhaps unspoken, which is continually asked of us by others – and, hopefully, by ourselves too. All their questions pertained to some of the persons expected to return when the Messiah would come. John answered forthrightly, first with a negative definition of himself. Because they were expecting the Messiah, John answered that he wasn’t he; because they were awaiting the prophet Elijah who had been taken up to heaven and was expected to return to prepare the way of the Lord, John said he wasn’t he, either; nor was he a prophet like Moses, expectations of whose return were also current in several circles. We, too, need to say who we’re not -- to have a healthy sense that we aren’t defined by the expectations of others, nor by our job, nor even by our family.

More positively, John quoted a text (Is 40:3) that every one of the Gospels uses about him: that he was the voice of one crying out in the desert, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord’ (v. 23). The roads of the time weren’t paved, or even surfaced, unless a King or a conqueror was about to make a journey. Then, repairmen would straighten the roads over which the Great One’s litter would be carried. John’s answer was startling, unique, and beautiful. Our positive self-definition should, like the Baptist’s, also give expression to our singularity, our creativity, and our beauty.

The Pharisees’ emissaries weren’t satisfied with the Baptist’s answers, and asked about his authority: Why then do you baptize? (v. 25). It was a proper question. The Baptist was making Jews who already embraced the faith do what only unbelievers who were just coming into the Jewish faith had had to do: wash to be clean enough to be one of God’s people. John pointed to Christ, the one among them whom they don’t recognize (v. 26) – a remark that applies to our generation as well. John humbly observed that he wasn’t worthy to untie this one’s sandal-strap (v. 27). The unfastening of a master’s sandals was a slave’s work; the rabbis had a saying that a disciple could do anything for his master but unfasten his sandals, because that job was simply too lowly.

Today, though, John was fulfilling the words of Isaiah in today’s First Reading. This last part of Isaiah began with the prophet’s uplifting reference to his having been anointed with the spirit of the Lord God (61:1f.). This language always signals a monumental work of God, beginning with the very first verses of Genesis, when God created the heavens and the earth from the formless waste and the Spirit of God brooded over the waters. Here, God’s mighty work is to bring glad tidings, to heal, and to proclaim liberty. The last is similar to the words from Leviticus (25:10) inscribed in the Liberty Bell in Independence Hall, Philadelphia: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

The basic idea is the total salvation of God’s people: bodily and spiritual, individual and social. That’s the meaning of the year of favor and the day of vindication (v. 2), a reference to the “Jubilee Year” (Lv 25:8-22) when offenses were forgiven and the people rejoiced. Isaiah wanted his dispirited people to realize that, despite the hardships, cares, and worries of this crucial time, it was truly a “jubilee Year”: The people had been freed from their captivity and were under God’s own care.

When in the second part of this passage we hear the voice of the people, we understand that the first recipients of the message are the little folk – those who rely on God because they have so few resources of their own (vv. 10f.) They sing a song of joy for salvation; they see salvation as being as ecstatic as a bride at the approach of her bridegroom, a fond image. These lines have caught the joyous spirit of those Jewish feasts on which pious men dance and sing. Closely resembling this song is the song of the Blessed Virgin Mary when the angel presented her with the news that she was to become the mother of God (Lk 1:46-55, today’s Responsorial Psalm). Among other things, the song joyfully celebrates the wonder of salvation. Yet Jesus didn’t heal all ills or right all wrongs; he didn’t intend to. Hence his non-acceptance by many who expected a messiah who would.

Today’s portion of Isaiah is the passage that Jesus chose when he gave his first sermon in his home-town synagogue at Nazareth. On that occasion, after Jesus read this passage, he rolled up the scroll, sat down, and proclaimed that the passage was being fulfilled in the hearing of his audience – by him!

St. Paul, at the end of his first letter to the Thessalonians which is today’s Second Reading, reminds disgruntled worry-warts – and all Christians – that we’re to be joyous. Like the Thessalonians who were discouraged because of the delay in the Lord’s Second Coming, we can find reasons to find the glass of live half-empty. But Christianity is a way of life in joy: not a passive wait for Christ’s coming, but an active participation in life. Paul emphasizes three pieces of good advice that summarize the Christian life: rejoice, pray, and render thanks. As in Paul’s life, so now and always joy is the infallible sign of Christ’s presence. St. Augustine said that “the Christian should be an alleluia from head to foot,” and St. John of the Cross that “the soul of one who serves God always swims in joy, always keeps holiday, and is always in the mood for singing.”

Because this isn’t easy, we should pray without ceasing (v. 17), an exercise Paul amply demonstrates in this letter – especially in his final words in today’s reading (vv. 23f.). These words stand by themselves as a perfect prayer as well as a perfect blessing for Advent. And we should in all circumstances give thanks (v. 18). Paul’s “thank you notes” appear in this and almost every other letter he wrote. Even on the darkest days, there’s always something to be thankful for, if we but reflect.

And reflect we must. Inspired by the questions to John the Baptist, we can reflect, for one thing, on what sort of God we worship. Is he an insurance agent (“I’ll do this just in case”); a referee (“Mustn’t break any of God’s rules”); an accountant (“Have to have the books balanced”)? Or do I really live out of the vision and attitude of a God of love revealed as such by Jesus Christ, whose birth we’re preparing to celebrate?

Let’s take home with us the message that we, like John the Baptist and many others in the Gospels, must be joy-filled witnesses to Jesus. In these days, that often takes courage. It also requires that we be rays of sunshine to a sometimes dark world.

A Spiritual Reflection for Advent

SECOND SUNDAY OF ADVENT

Is 40:1-5,9-11 -- 2 P 3:8-14 -- Mk 1:1-8

Preparing for Christ's Coming: Repentance
By Harold A. Buetow, PhD, JD

People have for a long time alternatively loved and hated living in cities. One poet said that the builder of cities was Eros, the spirit of life, but another spoke of "the hum of human cities" as torture. When people get filled up with the dirt, corruption, and crime of cities they move out; at other times, impressed with cities' convenience, culture, and nearness to other people, they move back. In the long span of history, suburbs are a relative newcomer.

It's difficult to fathom why in the time of Jesus the people left relatively comfortable cities like Jerusalem to go out into the desert to hear John the Baptist. Despite the stirring and spine-tingling opening words of today's Good News, sometimes the Good News seems to have a packaging problem. In New Testament times the "Good News," or Gospel, had come to mean in particular political good news, one being the visit of a king to one of his subject cities. In the ancient world such a visit could mean pardons, the promise of new buildings, and other benefits.

Nothing in today's Gospel looked much like good news. That desert was one of the most abandoned places in the world. Its deep gulches, arid limestone soil, and rocky precipices looked warped and twisted. Its days were unbearably hot, its nights terribly cold.

John's food was locusts and wild honey. The locusts supplied his body's need for protein, the honey its requirement of sugar. Whereas locusts are unlikely candidates for an American dinner menu, that's in part the result of cultural eating habits. Americans consume by the millions less clean-living animals such as lobsters and oysters. In the bayous of Louisiana, some people eat a stew of nutria, which is a water-dwelling rodent. One United States cookbook on strange foods has recipes for things like rodents, pigeons, reptiles, sharks, insects, and fish sperm.

Locusts remain high-protein foods that nourish people in other countries. A young man in Korea, hearing of the Baptist's menu, said, "Ugh, that's disgusting! I hate honey!" Bushmen of Africa's Kalahari desert eat cockroaches. Crickets and termites are standard in other parts of Africa; termites, ounce for ounce, have twice the protein of sirloin steak. In Bali, butterflies and moths, lightly toasted, are staple fare. In Thailand and elsewhere, plump, juicy, high-protein, low-fat dragonfly larvae are considered a delicacy. In China, people eat camel hump, dog, cat, raw monkey brains, snake, armadillo, and bear paw -- and make most of it taste good. In Japan, grilled snake meat is eaten; in Mexico, fried caterpillars; in Samoa, baked bat; in Turkey, charcoal-grilled lamb testicles.

John's skin was like leather, his feet strong and hard, his face emaciated and stern, his hair never cut or shaved, and his body wiry. His clothes were a loose weave of camel's hair, tied about his waist by a leather belt. No political marketer would permit John to appear in public looking like that today.

Another side of John caused some of the people to think that he was the Messiah; his remarkable austerity, which struck the imagination; the very suddenness of his appearance; his mighty voice which shook the people from their listlessness; and the fact that there had been no prophet for about 400 years. John's self-sacrificing way of life resulted in a piercing eye, a majesty of bearing, a voice of authority together with a touching humility.

John's message was present not only in his words but in his whole life: The man was the message. The time of Jesus was a time of elegance for the rich. That a messenger should make paths straight (v.3) by filling in the valleys and cutting into the hills (Is 40:4) was the custom of kings. A herald would precede a king on a journey, to forewarn the inhabitants of his arrival so that they might thus smooth out their ill-kept roads.

John's essential message was repentance. This would be an important message of Jesus, too. Repentance doesn't mean only regret for the past or the performance of penance, but in addition a change of mind and heart, a new direction of life, and a new beginning, in keeping with the will of God. Its outward sign for both John and Jesus was baptism. John's baptism was an external sign and no more. The Jews were familiar with ritual washings like that. Symbolic washing and purifying was part of the very fabric of Jewish life, as we know from the regulations in the Book of Leviticus (11-15) and from part of the Pharisees' criticisms of Jesus. All of this is, of course, different from Jesus' Baptism, which is a Sacrament containing the Holy Spirit.

St. Mark, the first of the Gospels to be written, shows us that Jesus' story didn't begin with his birth on earth, but began in the mind of God long before. Mark reminds us that what he is presenting is the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The word "Christ" is not a surname, and it means "Anointed One" or "Messiah." To his contemporaries Jesus, whose name means "Savior," would have been referred to as Jesus the Son of Joseph, to signify whom they thought his father to be, or Jesus the Nazarean, indicating his city of origin, as later with Francis of Assisi, Catherine of Siena, and others.

Mark calls Jesus the "Son of God," These opening words are special: They fling us right into the middle of Jesus' reason for coming into this world; they make us want to read on. Mark tells us about it here in the very first verse of his Gospel, and again at the end, when the soldier who stood facing him on the cross will declare that this man was truly the son of God! (15:39).

Even in early Christianity, though, not all the disciples of John the Baptist followed his advice. As with us when things go wrong, they wondered where God was in all of this, and became discouraged because justice didn't seem to be triumphing. Many of John's followers didn't become Christians. These were a difficult problem for the primitive Church.

The vision of what can happen for those who live by God's word is contained in Isaiah, especially in passages like today's First Reading. This is the part of Isaiah that is set most beautifully to music by Handel in his Messiah. It's the part of Isaiah that Mark was quoting in the beginning of his Gospel in today's reading. It was written when the Exile in Babylon was about to end, and the people of Israel about to be set free from their captivity. To capture the joy and excitement of the time, the sacred writer tried to rekindle the vision of the great events of the first Exodus.

Isaiah's command in the first verse, to give comfort, sets a tone of mercy. The beautiful injunction to speak tenderly (v. 2) indicates that the prophet is to speak to the heart, like the deeply-felt words with which a lover woos his beloved. But Jerusalem at this time was in shambles, hardly able to listen to God's words -- like us when we're wrapped too much in pain.

Isaiah's phrase about the glory of the Lord (v. 5) promises a wonderful manifestation of God's redeeming presence, like what we have in the wonder of the undeserved enthralling gift at Christmas. The remaining verses (9-10) move with a mounting crescendo to the point where we fear not to cry out the good news. The climax is God as both powerful conquering hero and gentle shepherd-king who is close to his people (v. 10f), a familiar figure to the Jews. One of the most moving modern uses of this passage of Isaiah was Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" sermon, pleading for freedom and equality for all forgotten peoples, a true messianic expectation.

Reconciling our vision with God's sometimes seeming absence from our lives is what today's Second Reading is about. Written in the tradition of St. Peter, probably after the turn of the first century, it's the last book of the Bible to be written. Two generations had come and gone since Jesus and, contrary to expectations, the Lord hadn't returned. Many people were disillusioned.

The passage reminds us that Jesus' comings other than the first Christmas may seem like delay. We associate delay with a tactic of bureaucracy, and we don't like it whenever we're its victims. As the letter reminds us, however, time isn't the same to God as to us: A thousand years to us are as a day in the sight of God. Perhaps the author got his statement from Psalm 90, which says to God that a thousand years in his sight are as yesterday. To God, time is vertical: that is, all time is always present. To us, on the other hand, time is horizontal: that is, Saturday follows Friday, eleven o'clock follows ten, December follows November. So when we do wrong we're causing Jesus' sufferings in the past, in the present, and in the future.

And though all of our life -- not God's -- is a waiting, an Advent, we can't hold God to our time-table: He will come. In the case of the Lord's coming into our lives -- at the death and at the end of the world -- it's not delay; it's God's patience. And God's patience is for our benefit: God doesn't want anyone to perish (v. 9), and we who live in the order of time have with every day an opportunity, a gift of God's mercy. The "day of the Lord" (v. 10), a phrase we find throughout the First Testament, offers a larger hope.

For us to put off hearing and acting upon John the Baptist's message of repentance, however, isn't like the patience of God; that is delay. We delude ourselves if we think that our experience is the reality, and all of these lessons a dream. Just as the earth which we think so solid is really a group of giant plates underground, whose movements produce the turbulence of earthquakes and volcanoes, so Advent reminds us that we don't live on firm time but on giant shifting epochs whose transitions mark the advents of God.

Think, for example, of the consequences of unprepared-for volcanic eruptions. The volcano of Santorini, near Crete, in 1600 B.C., exploded with a force that spelled the end of the entire Minoan civilization. In the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius near the Roman city of Pompeii in A.D. 79, many thousands of victims died. When Mount Tambora near Java erupted in 1815, it caused summer crops in France to fail, snow in New England in June, and fields white with frost on the Fourth of July in the United States South.

With the explosion of Krakatoa, a 2700-foot-high volcano in Indonesia, in 1883, the noise shattered the eardrums of sailors 25 miles away, and the eruption set off seismic sea waves -- tsunamis -- that swept miles inland on nearby islands and killed some 36,000 people. In 1906, when the rocky masses of the San Andreas fault heaved violently, it distinguished San Francisco as the only United States city ever to have been destroyed by earthquake; fire raged uncontrollably for three days until extinguished by rain; four square miles in the center of town were gone, many lives lost, and incalculable property damage caused. San Francisco's 1989 earthquake was minor in comparison. Seismologists warn that the next great rumbling of the San Andreas fault may take a vastly greater toll.

When Mount St. Helens in Washington State in May 1980 erupted with a force equivalent to more than 20,000 Hiroshima-sized bombs, it blew down forests as if the trees were toothpicks, some as far as 17 miles away. The outbursts of Mount Pinatubo in the Philippines in June 1991 blasted up to 20 million tons of sulfur dioxide into the stratosphere. Hot pumice rained from the sky, blotting out the sun. An observer said it looked like the end of the world.

We can be certain that this present age of which the Bible speaks will one day for all of us change into what the Bible calls "the age to come." The character of the age to come is going to depend on what we do in this present age. There comes a day when Christ will break into the life of each of us. Our life is a perpetual advent for that. Let's not delay to prepare for the coming of the Lord.


From All Things Made New: Homily Reflections or Sundays and Holy Days, by Harold A. Buetow, published by Alba House.

A Spiritual Reflection for Advent: 'The Comings of Jesus'

As part of my own preparation for the season of Christmas, I am going to post on the Sundays of Advent reflections from a publication entitled "All Things Made New: Homily Reflections for Sundays and Holy Days" by Harold A. Buetow, PhD, JD. Father Buetow has in recent years published an array of superb spiritual reflections for all the days of the liturgical calendar and the special occasions in one's life.

Father Buetow is a priest of the Diocese of Brooklyn who spent thirty years on the faculty of The Catholic University of America and was Senior Staff Editor on The New Catholic Encyclopedia. He is the author of the two most important books on Catholic education -- Of Singular Benefit: The Story of U.S. Catholic Education and The Catholic School: Its Roots, Identity, and Future. His more recent spiritual reflections are published by Alba House and are available through Amazon (see widget to the right).

I was privileged to take two graduate courses from Father Buetow at Catholic University and he has been my good friend for over twenty years. I have no doubt you will find these reflections helpful and inspiring for your own spiritual journey.

FIRST SUNDAY OF ADVENT

Is 63:16f.;64:1, 3-9 -- 1 Cor 1:3-9 -- Mk 13:33-37

The Comings of Jesus
By Harold A. Buetow, PhD, JD

A critic with a sense of humor once said of a play he disliked that he saw it under adverse conditions -- with the curtain up. For many people life itself is a shapeless play without any apparent plot or direction. Many of us just slide along in life. If we gave the same amount of reflection to what we want to get out of life that we give to the question of what to do with a two-week vacation, we'd be startled at how aimless are our "busy" days. Reflection upon meaningful goals of life is made difficult by such pressures of modern living as how we're going to meet payments, the rampant secularistic outlook which suggests that this present world is all there is, the political approach which says that the materially good life is all we want.

Christian teaching goes against all that. In the Church's celebration of the mystery of Christ, during the closing Sundays of the past Church year we looked forward to the final coming of Jesus. Today, as we're beginning a new Church year, we do the same, in a marvelous mixture of end and beginning. Some, however, say that the Church's real "New Year" should be at Easter time, when the Lord makes all things new in his death and resurrection. Still others observe that there really is no "Church Year" as such, but that we simply have different liturgical seasons and celebrations. In any case, there are three cycles of readings, today we begin Cycle B, and Cycle B is the year of St. Marks' Gospel. Because of the analogy with Lent, Advent acquired a penitential character. The liturgical color is the color of penitence. But in Advent we're told to rejoice. So many would like to eliminate the penitential character of Advent. Advent should be a season when we renew our hope because of the coming of Christ.

As we reflect upon the period of waiting for Jesus' first coming at Bethlehem, as we begin to prepare for his coming now at Christmas, we also await his final coming into our lives. In other words, we celebrate his coming in history, his coming in mystery, and his coming in majesty. Knowing that he has already come as a child born of Mary gives us confidence. Amidst the overshadowing material preparations for Christmas, we begin our spiritual preparation for Christ's coming by way of the season of Advent.

Jesus' voice, through St. Mark's Gospel, stirs us to be watchful and alert (v. 33). The disciples had asked when the end of the world would come, Jesus didn't get specific about time, but his central teaching is that he will return in glory to usher in the end of the world. Because no one but the Father knows the precise time of any of the end events, it's necessary to be constantly vigilant. One thing is sure: No matter when Jesus' second coming to planet Earth, he will be coming to each of us at our death.

Jesus' one-line (v.34) parable about it tells of a traveling master who leaves his employees in charge. The moral of the story (vv. 35f.) is that we have to be on the alert not only about the end, but about our responsibility toward the present; Every moment has an eternal significance, so we should be on guard (v. 37). It's a message that's relevant to all times, but especially to our own, when some of our technological inventions remind us constantly that we live in the shadow of eternity. Troubled societies always ask questions about the end of the world. Ours is no exception. The fact always is that we're either going to go meet the Lord at death or when he appears in his glorious second coming -- whichever comes first, as the warranties say. These are fitting thoughts for Advent.

Equally fitting for the spirit of Advent are today's thoughts from Isaiah; thoughts given to his dispirited people around the end of their exile in Babylon of the need for a Redeemer for the human race's sinfulness. The passage opens and closes by addressing the Lord our father (vv. 63:16; 64:7), a reminder of the Exodus from Egypt when God had called Israel his son, his first-born (Ex 4:22). Because in this life we're all exiles, we make Isaiah's Advent prayer our own. No matter what one may see of sin in oneself and be disappointed, there's always encouragement: God rescues and saves -- but He does rescue and save. Even if you've hit bottom, there's the encouragement that there's no place to go but up.

When Isaiah saw Jerusalem hit bottom in ruins, he pleaded for God to tear the heavens open and come down (v. 19); the people of that time thought of the skies as a solid, plastic-like transparent vault, which would need breaking through for God to come to earth. At the same time Isaiah's prayer (64: 2-7), intended to be recited by all the people, confessed their guilt and admitted that God was right to have permitted the Exile as a punishment for sin. God hasn't heaped a heavy burden of sorrow upon sinners; He's simply allowed sinners to wallow in their own responsible guilt. By ourselves, we're like withered leaves carried to and fro by the winds of our guilt. (God's welcoming attitude is well expressed by the beautiful hymn, "Come back to me.")

St. Paul in today's Second Reading also provides an appropriate opening to the season of Advent. Paul was aware of the sinfulness of the Corinthians, even the Christians among them: pride, immaturity, faithlessness, and -- a very great problem -- the divisions within the community. Despite his knowledge that he was going to have to deal honestly with these problems, Paul diplomatically begins his letter warmly. He opens (v. 3) with a prayer for what have become the essential blessings of Christianity: "grace" -- what the nonreligious world might call "good health" or "good luck" -- and "peace," the Jewish "shalom," a special kind of all-embracing well-being that can come from God alone. This includes not only harmony among people, but also the forgiveness of sins and reconciliation with God: the kind of warmth we feel at Christmas.

In this opening of his letter, Paul addresses some Corinthian Christians who were boasting of their many gifts. None seemed to understand that gifts are things one doesn't deserve and can't earn. Among their gifts were the wonder-causing speaking in tongues, prophecy, proclaiming wisdom, teaching, and making public God's revelations. We can think of others that have been given to us -- music, for example, or the ability to work with one's hands, and all kinds of other talents. All of them aren't to be used for our gain, but held in trust for the honor of God.

Right up front, Paul states his own position about himself. Some Corinthians had had doubts about whether Paul was a true apostle, because other preachers were more dynamic than he. He reminds them that the very gifts they had from God were proof that his preaching had been effective (vv. 6f). Paul's reference to waiting for Jesus' full revelation (v. 7) is an excellent expression of the Advent spirit. Part and parcel of Paul's teaching is that the Lord will come in glory at the end of time. Until that time, all are to rely on God's gifts of faith, grace, and peace.

The Advent theme continues as Paul speaks of the "day of our Lord Jesus Christ." The Jewish Scriptures had often used the phrase, "The Day of the Lord." Paul and the other early Christians looked upon that day as the time when the Lord would return in his full glory; it would also be a day of judgment. Meanwhile, reminiscent of the spirit of encouragement in Isaiah, Paul reminds us that through all our problems and difficulties God is faithful, and has called us to fellowship with his Son (v. 9). That fellowship is very intimate: It means the life-giving union that exists among us faithful that arises from our union with Christ.

We can't call ourselves Christian and live our lives without a purpose. We wait for the comings of Jesus -- in everyday living, at Christmas, at our death, and at the end of the world. We're going to be held accountable for the eternal significance of every moment. All waiting involves some tension, even if it's simple waiting on a street corner for a friend. When waiting involves the very meaning of life, temptations can intrude themselves. In that respect, we're no different from the ancient Israelites who were tempted to despair before seemingly insurmountable difficulties, the Corinthians who were tempted to pride over their gifts, and Jesus' first apostles who were tempted to gloat in the power of the Second Coming.

The seventeenth-century Italian painter Salvator Rosa painted "L'Umana fragilita." It depicts a mother, an infant, and Death, who is represented by a winged skeleton. As the mother looks on passively, Death is forcing the baby to scrawl the following words on a piece of paper: "Conception is sinful, life is suffering, death inevitable." At an exhibit of that painting in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., modern cynical non-believers stood transfixed before this barren summary of their lives.

But Christians have what Isaiah promised: a new hope, a new light. And our waiting for Jesus isn't a despair-filled tension. So we live by faith, walk in hope, and are renewed in love so that, when the last scene of the drama of our life unfolds and Jesus comes to be our judge, we shall not merely know him, but come to him as a friend.