This is a day late, I know.

God has a controversy with the people. God has done a great deal for Israel. They were brought out of Egypt. They were freed from slavery. They had been saved again and again from calamity. Yet the people seem weary of God. How can this relationship be made right? Some sort of religious show should be put on, should it not? Sacrifice upon sacrifice. Calves? Firstborn children? Something to prove that they are a nation of God.

No. The response is that God requires that the people do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.

"I waited patiently for the Lord..."

That's the trick isn't it? Waiting patiently. Waiting past the heartbreak. Waiting past the brokenness that we see in the world. Waiting past all the things that seem like they are lost. Waiting patiently is not a given. It is difficult. As much as we think we mature beyond our kicking-and-screaming childish selves, waiting patiently often proves how far we have to go. 

Psalm 40 is a salve to those moments when the patient waiting is more than we can bear. God lifts the psalmist out of the mud and mire of a desolate pit. God places their feet on solid ground. God puts a new song in their mouth and the melody bursts forth in praise. That light at the end of the tunnel helps the worn out heart wait a little big longer.

Odds are you know the story. The angel. The young woman. Her betrothed. The miraculous baby. Another angel and then many more. The shepherds. We hear the story every year. We sing the songs. I admit that sometimes, if I am not careful, the entire Christmas season can go right past me.

And yet...

Do not be afraid; for see I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth in lying in a manger....Glory to God in highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom He favors!"

The gospel text is kind of awkward and uncomfortable this week. Joseph is thinking about leaving Mary. The idea of marrying her and raising a child that is not his own is more than he think he can handle. Understandably he doesn't buy her story about being impregnated by the Holy Spirit. Matthew tries to give him a bit of a pass. He's going to separate from her quietly. But people are still going to know. Sure, he's not dragging her into the town square to be stoned to death, but he is still planning on leaving her.

Maybe he's hurt. Maybe he's heartbroken. Maybe he's a coward. I don't really know. Each time I read this passage, I feel differently about Joseph. I feel sympathy for him. I want him to man up. All I know is that God rescues him from the eyes of history via a dream. Joseph stays with Mary and sits across from her in a million manger scenes two thousand years later. Did Mary know he was going to leave? Did that road nearly taken haunt him? It's a thorny passage with which to grapple on Christmas' doorstep.

"Are you the one?"

That question in itself was a bit awkward. John the Baptist and Jesus had history. They were cousins. John had baptized Jesus. In Matthew's account, there was even an exchange where the baptizer balked at immersing his relative from Nazareth. If anyone was to be baptizing the other, John reasoned, it should be Jesus. And then there was the language John used in the wilderness. He baptized with water, but the one coming after him would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire. John clearly saw himself as a prelude.

"So are you the one? How do we know?"

The answer seems crystal clear. But it only seems obvious after the fact. What exactly was the Messiah supposed to do? Jesus was special, but was he the special one? Is this what John had been waiting for or should he continue to preach of that one still to arrive? After the fact, people read that question as a declaration of doubt. Yet it was a good question. It was awkward, but it was a question that needed to be asked.

In Sunday school this morning, I made an offhand comment that these pictures would be like a baby riding a Tyrannosaurus Rex. That picture makes me smile. So let me humbly and simply continue in that vein.

The mongoose shall hang out with the cobra, cats and dogs shall live together, the angry raccoon shall look out for the Baby Groot, the Koopa Troopa and the plumber shall race together, the Pawneean and Eagletonian shall unite, the cyborg shall cancel the robot uprising, the shark shall decide that fish are friends and not food, and a baby shall ride a T-Rex.

Isaiah 2:1-5 reads like hope. All nations gather to walk in God's ways of love and justice. Weapons are turned into tools for farming and cultivating the earth. War is no longer taught. The image is beautiful. This is what Advent is about: looking forward to when God will make all things right.

Rewind just a few verses and one sees that Isaiah's vision is born in a time where the opposite is true. The prophet (problematically) calls the city a whore. He states that, once a home of justice and righteousness, it is now a community filled murderers. Everyone is looking to make that extra buck. The orphans are abandoned. The widows are ignored. Everything is broken.

"God is on the throne." I heard that refrain repeatedly in the lead up to and aftermath of the Election. Don't worry, God is on the throne. But there is a disturbing distance to that image, isn't there? Perhaps that's just me.

When things fall apart, the God on the throne seems like the God faraway. When children die, when war breaks out, when hatred devours, God is on the throne? The image of this pristine, heavenly king doesn't seem to connect with a world that needs so much help. I want God to get God's anthropomorphic hands dirty.

I looked at the passages for a good half hour, trying to get some neuron in my brain to fire. Nothing. I'm tired. I left for church at 8:30 this morning and got back at 7:30 this evening. It was a good day. A ton of people got together to unload an 18-wheeler full of pumpkins for our youth missions fundraiser. It was exhausting, but fun and meaningful. Meaningful in seeing all sorts of people gather in community for a common purpose.

But I'm tired. And, if I'm going to be honest, I'm lonely. I miss my family and the whiplash of so much change has gotten to me the last couple of days. People are nice and I'll see EA and the boys this coming weekend, but there are times I feel like a ghost fading in and out of existence. Coming here was the right decision. I do not doubt that for a minute. It is just a little more difficult than I anticipated.

So tonight I will rest.

"Why do you guys let me hang around? I'm not one of you."

"When you're outcasts like us, don't matter where you come from."

I remembered that conversation as we sprinted through the streets. Ten of us, lepers all. There was no community for us except each other. I don't remember how I ended up with them, but I was always acutely aware that I was the outsider. I saw the disgust when we came into town and then disgust heaped upon disgust when people saw me. I was worried the others would turn on the Samaritan. Abandon me. Those words assured me: None of that matters when you're already an outcast.