come and see: waiting with Jesus...

There is something liberating and humbling about beginning again. This Advent I am starting to pray in the presence of Jesus. Again. How many times have I been here? Starting again? Taking baby steps now as an old man? Too many times to count or recall, that much is clear... 

Dear Lord,

Be with me today. Listen to my confusion

And help me know how to live it.

I don't know the words. 

I don't know the way.

Show me the way.

You are a quiet God.

Help me to listen to your voice in a noisy world.

I want to be with you.

I know you are peace.

I know you are joy.

Help me to be a peaceful and joyful person.

These are the fruits of living close to you.

Bring me close.

Amen.

The late Henri Nouwen wrote this simple prayer shortly before he left his post at Harvard Divinity School. A few months after his resignation, Nouwen spent a year with Jean Vanier at L'Arche Trosly and then took up residence at L'Arche Daybreak outside of Toronto. Brother Henri hated Harvard: he hated the elitism of his colleagues, he hated the privilege embodied in many of his students, he hated the intellectual disdain cast upon him for being a practical theologian rather than an academic with a Ph. D. And he hated the isolation he experienced in that rarefied appointment. Once again, his insecurities and ego had tricked him into accepting a position of power even as his heart called him into a life of downward mobility. Time and again, Nouwen convinced himself that his wounds and emptiness could be filled by external distractions or tasks. Small wonder that he was miserable after the buzz wore off. Jean Vanier once put it like this:

The heart is never ‘successful.’ It does not want power, honors, privilege, or efficiency; it seeks a personal relationship with another, a communion of hearts, which is the to-and-fro of love. This opening of the heart implies vulnerability and the offering of our needs and weaknesses. The heart gives and receives but above all, it gives.

Like all the rest of us - myself included - Nouwen had to learn to rest in the quiet love of Jesus the hard way. Seems like this is the way most of us learn wisdom, a measure of humility, trust, and the upside down blessing of being small in a world that celebrates greatness. In a lecture Nouwen gave a few months before he threw in the towel at Harvard, he spoke about the contrasting ministries of John the Baptist and Jesus. John was demanding - brusque - and even brutal: "Repent! Repent! Repent!" he shouted, "You are a sinful people." John was relentless.  Jesus, on the other hand, simply said: "Come with me and see..." 

He doesn't say, "Come into my world." He doesn't say, "Come and I will change you." He doesn't say, "Become my disciples." Or "Listen to me." "Do what I tell you." "Take up your cross." No. He says, "Come and see. Look around. Get to know me." Jesus offers an invitation.

(Nouwen, Following Jesus, p. 19)

As I understand it, the gentleness of Jesus represented a significant break with his training. In one of her most engaging and intellectually satisfying works, The Meaning of Mary Magdalene, the Rev. Dr. Cynthia Bourgeault suggests that Jesus began his public ministry under the influence of the asceticism advocated by his cousin, John, the practices of the Nazirite sect as well as the rigors of the Essene community. The earliest written New Testament gospel, St. Mark, tells us that after learning from John, accepting his baptism in the Jordan River, being driven by the Spirit into the wilderness to wander for 40 day, Jesus entered Galilee saying: "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent and believe!" (Mark 1: 15)

In short order, however, Jesus leaves this perspective behind for a spirituality of tenderness. "From an interior stance based initially on judgment and renunciation, [Jesus] threw himself headlong in the direction of inclusivity and wholeness: toward a purity of heart that comes not from withholding, but from letting everything flow." (p. 184) He no longer rejects, but embraces. Welcomes rather than excludes. Accepts instead of separates. Bourgeault notes that as Jesus experienced the power of love, he began to "let it be" and move within the flow of acceptance and grace. 

Please note this this shift is NOT a reversal or rejection of his tradition as a Jew. Such claims by Christian authors reflects our embedded Antisemitism. It is dangerous and untrue. Rather, what the witness of Scripture shows is that Jesus experienced a change of heart. It led him away from the asceticism of his youth into the more open-hearted tenderness of some of ancient Israel's prophets. "Learn what this means," said the prophet Hosea, "I desire mercy not sacrifice, and intimacy with the Lord rather than burnt offerings." (Hosea 6:6) As this ministry of tenderness ripened, his critics skewered both his generosity as well as his cousin's rigor: "John the Baptist came neither eating bread nor drinking wine, and you say, ‘He has a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and you say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But look: wisdom is proved right by all her children.” (Luke 7: 33-35) The contrast between John and Jesus is saturated with implications. Right now, during Advent, my heart is drawn to the tenderness and mercy of Jesus.

There is a softness. There is a gentleness. There is a humility...(In this, Jesus is telling us that God wants to become our home.) God wants to be anything that makes us feel at home. She is like a bird hugging us under her wings. She is like a woman holding us in her womb. She is Infinite Mother, Loving Hose, Caring Father, the Good Provider who invites us all inside. (p. 21)

The late Jean Vanier, founder of L'Arche and beloved friend of Henri Nouwen, put it like this in his commentary on the gospel of St. John: Drawn into the Mystery of Jesus.

Jesus was not spectacular. He dressed simply. He did not live in the desert, but in an obscure village with ordinary people like us. He loved to be with those who were poor or sick, people who felt rejected and excluded from their society. He became their friend. He went to the synagogue, to celebrations and wedding feasts, like ordinary people of his time. He drank wine and ate - like us... Jesus is the one who leads us all in and through the dailiness of life and the darkness of the world into something new: a simple, loving friendship with God... His coming was prepared for not only by John the Baptizer, but also by his mother. To become flesh, there was the womb of a woman, Mary, married to Joseph. The Word did not appear out of the skies as a powerful superman. The Ward became flesh, conceived by the Holy Spirit, as a tiny human being, invisible, hardly formed, yet totally prepared for growth. He came out of the womb of a woman and lived in a deep relationship with her. (Vanier, pp. 28-29)

My heart is also drawn to the hiddeness, the quiet and smallness, of Jesus. He asks us just to "come and see." So that's what I am attempting this Advent as I begin yet again to sit in the presence of Jesus. Much of what I had expected to become real is now over. Complete. Much of what I had planned and hoped for is not currently possible. In the past I have tended to become agitated and annoyed when my expectations are shut down. Like many, I resent not being in control. And I can feel that inner frenzy still. But it never leads to life. Or peace. Or being present with those I love in ways that are open-hearted. It would seem that right now Jesus is saying to me: Draw close. Let go of what is over. Don't worry about what is to come. Just be with me for a season. Speaking to himself - and those like him - Nouwen writes that the time has come to:

We have to trust a direction for which we don't yet have a language. Jesus uses words like "breath," "life," "death," and "truth," but he imbues them with new meaning. The disciples - like us - don't understand and get confused. Only much later when the Spirit comes do the real meanings of these words become visible. (p. 38)

For now it is enough to come and see.