Like a Thief in the Night—Reframed

Dear Friends,

This week, we make the transition from the Season of Pentecost to the Season of Advent, a word that means “coming” or “arrival.” It is a season of preparation and waiting, a time to ready ourselves for the arrival of God into our lives, in ways we may have missed before.

In our Gospel reading for this Sunday, we find Jesus is with his disciples in the final days of his life, and he is offering them some insights into the apocalyptic rumors circulating in the 1st century about the arrival of the “coming of the Son of Man.” He admonishes his followers to stay alert, “Because you do not know when on what day your Lord is coming.” He will come like a thief in the night…at an unexpected hour.”

For years, I was uncomfortable with this image of Jesus coming into my life like a thief. If you have ever been burglarized, you know how disturbing it feels to have your sense of safety and security invaded and violated. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to embrace a vision of a benevolent thief, who enters my personal space when my guard is down, when I’m least aware, to steal what no longer serves me, things I otherwise wouldn’t let go of. My perfectionism. My need for control. My obsessions and worries. In other words, maybe “making ourselves ready” for God’s arrival has nothing to do with predicting and planning and getting it right but being willing to make ourselves vulnerable to God’s presence in the places we hide and protect.

With this in mind, I offer you one of my favorite poems by the late Mary Oliver, “Making the House Ready for The Lord.”*

Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but

still nothing is as shining as it should be

for you. Under the sink, for example, is an

uproar of mice — it is the season of their

many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves

and through the walls the squirrels

have gnawed their ragged entrances — but it is the season

when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And

the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard

while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow;

what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling

in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly

up the path, to the door. And still I believe you will

come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox,

the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know

that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,

as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.

In Christ,

Amelie+

*Mary Oliver, Thirst (Massachusetts, Beacon Press, 2006), 13.