confession and grace: advent two...

The Christian season of Advent is slowly ripening and, as is often the case, I am about one full week behind. When I was much younger, my distractions - and liturgical laziness - drove me crazy. Usually I was ready for Advent I with the wreath, candles, and lights to help us focus on hope. Somewhere during the next seven days, however, I lost my place within the rhythm of prayer. Were it not for the fact that I was a worship leader, I would have missed the second Sunday in Advent completely. 

Peace? How in God's name could I contemplate peace, let alone embody it, with all the demands of the season crashing in on me? When the children were small this included figuring out how to stretch our meager finances to buy gifts as well as a tree. The second week of Advent was about the time shame washed over me like waves on the shore: church leaders are always horribly under paid and I felt my financial inadequacy as a provider superlatively living in the shadow of the season's glitz. No matter that we consciously chose to live a simple life as a corrective to conspicuous consumption: old demon shame found a way to sneak into my heart during this week of peace and drag me into its shadows. 

About that time I would become obsessive with our evening Advent wreath  ceremony. If I couldn't give my daughters the lovely clothes and fun toys that all the other kids would get on Christmas morning, at least I could share with them the beautiful mystery of Christ's birth. The only problem was that I wanted this ceremony to be perfect. An adult mystical encounter with candles and music. And the girls were 5 and 7. Children - with wandering attention spans and only a modest interest in medieval Advent music. 

We would begin by stumbling and bumbling our way through a few nightly lessons, each aware of my brooding mood, all striving to get the readings right. And sing from our hearts. And expertly move the animals and shepherds towards the Nativity's stable. And then something would trigger my inner rage - some innocent mistake - and the fury within would explode outwardly. "Why can't you do this RIGHT!?!" I would bark, reducing someone to tears and everyone to despair. There was no physical violence, to be sure, but my inconsolable rage still evoked terror in their young hearts. And I became what I hated. I became a tyrant in those moments like St. Paul knowing even as I acted I ached to do otherwise:

I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree that... nothing good dwells within me. I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. And if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me. (Romans 7)

Perhaps you've been there, too? Yearning for peace but creating chaos and fear In those early days, there was such a gap between the serenity I hurt to know and the reality of my heart, that whenever my inner wounds erupted in words of anger, my precious children experienced the sins of their fathers and mothers being passed on to their generation. In the aftermath of these storms, I wept as addicts often do. I lamented my behavior praying for the "Peace, Perfect Peace" of the old hymn, but felt only emptiness.

Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?

The love of Jesus whispers peace within.

Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed?

To do the will of Jesus—this is rest.
Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round?

On Jesus’ bosom naught but calm is found.

Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away?

In Jesus’ keeping we are safe, and they.

Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?

Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.

It was about this time that I was introduced to the 12 Step spirituality of the AA movement. Thanks be to God. As a few members of my congregation needed me to walk with them towards sobriety - attending meetings and starting to work the steps for myself - I discovered the healing of confession. This morning, Richard Rohr's reflection emphasized the importance of confession like this:

Both Christianity and the Twelve Steps believe that our sins and failures are the setting for transformation and enlightenment. Grace isn’t a gift for getting it right but for getting it wrong! But as any good therapist will tell you, you cannot heal what you do not acknowledge; and what you do not consciously acknowledge will remain in control of you from within, harming you and those around you, particularly those you love. Step Five sets forth a clear structure of accountability for knowing, speaking, and hearing the full truth so that it does not ultimately destroy the addict or others. But it is not an easy step to take.

Step Five in this spirituality states: I admitted to God, to myself, and to another human being the exact nature of my wrongs. This is confession. This is both how we get the darkness within out into the light, and, how we own its power and pain over ourselves and those we love. The late Thomas Keating used to say: "Humiliation is the way to humility." Like the Eneagram, step five exposes what we fear and dread. It gives shape and form to our brokenness and shows us the consequences of our actions. No more lies. No more denial. No more excuses: humiliation is the way to humility. And here's the blessing: the more we release into God's grace in an accountable way with honesty and humility, the more light replaces darkness within. 

You (incrementally) lose the sense of shame and gain more and more

inner freedom. The point may come when you actually love your weaknesses and faults because they keep you humble. The feelings of shame and humiliation give way to a loving acceptance of the truth and a complete trust in God’s infinite mercy... (Not that we're) asking anybody to think that we are good, because now we see that whatever good we have comes from God. We don’t deny that we have this basic goodness, but we acknowledge that we have made a mess of our lives... and that God is healing us. (And) instead of grieving (and obsessing over) our sins, we realize that God has used them for our great benefit. (Thomas Keating on Richard Rohr's CAC blog @ https://cac.org/category/daily-meditations/) 

Thirty years ago I started to work the 12 Steps. As a recovering adult child of two alcoholic parents there was a lot of shame, fear, and anger within that I needed to own. And release into God's grace. Gradually, in God's own time not my own, as I accepted my wounds and the pain I created, learning to change direction rather than descend into my shadow, many of my inner demons were been set free. Not all, to be sure, so I must stay close to the light. But experiencing the release and relief of trusting God I joined the ancient Psalmist who sang: I have tasted - and seen - the goodness of the Lord. 

At the start of this Advent, I realized (again) that I had slowly wandered away from simply following Jesus. Recognizing and confessing this helped reorient me to the hope of Advent I. Like Henri Nouwen wrote: "Following Jesus is following the voice of the One who calls us away from useless wandering or just from sitting there."

Jesus says, "Follow me." If we choose to listen and follow, our life gradually comes into focus. It is no longer tiring. We know where to direct our energies. We know what is important and what is not... Following Jesus means to dare to move out of ourselves and to slowly let go of building ourselves up. (Nouwen, Following Jesus, p. 46)

Now, as the second week of Advent II draws to a close, I know I am late to the feast and way behind in the season. But I feel ready to rest a bit into the quiet peace of the Christ Child. 

Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to us to preach repentance and prepare the way for our healing: Give to us grace to listen to their warning and turn away from our wounds, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, now and forever. Amen.