We are grateful for the words of Dr. J.P. Kang, who provides us a renewed lens through which to see our relationship to the Advent story and the divine鈥攖he familiar in the unfamiliar, and the known in the unknown.

When I visit a home for the first time, the space that typically feels the most unfamiliar is the kitchen, because so much is concealed. I must ask or learn by trial and error where things are. This experience of discovering things in kitchens is pervasive because there is no universal standard for organizing such spaces, but that, of course, is also precisely what makes one鈥檚 kitchen (or, by extension, home) distinctly personal.

The discipline of User Experience (UX) studies human-object interactions (e.g., doorknobs, dashboards, appliances, etc.) in order to improve reliability and to reduce frustration. These interactions generate a language which describes the form and function of the objects within a context. Learning to read, write, and speak this language鈥攊ts vocabulary, grammar, and syntax鈥攊s challenging, and inevitably, some things will get lost in translation.

These examples of seeking the familiar in the unfamiliar, the known in the unknown, may provide us a fresh way to think about the Christian tradition and our relationship to it.

How do you experience unfamiliar 鈥渞ooms鈥� and 鈥渇loors鈥� of the Bible? If you are only familiar with one house, what happens when you venture out and spend time in an unfamiliar space? Sebastian Moore (OSB) memorably observed that 鈥淕od behaves in the Psalms in ways that [God] is not allowed to behave in systematic theology.鈥� Is it possible that the good news is not 鈥渙ne size fits all鈥� but is irreducibly rich, relational, and contextual? And what is lost in the translation of the Scriptures from Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek into modern languages?

And how then can we be certain that our experiences of the divine鈥攂oth familiar and unfamiliar鈥攁re authentic? How do we recognize God鈥檚 form and function, especially when we are afraid? The Psalmist offers one answer:

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff鈥�
they comfort me. (Psalm 23:4)

Comfort comes from recognizing the protective presence of the divine Shepherd. Jesus adds that sheep follow the shepherd 鈥渂ecause they know his voice鈥� (John 10:3). What is the most consistent mark of Jesus鈥檚 voice and presence that help us recognize him in the new and unfamiliar? I believe the answer is love.

God鈥檚 alphabet specifies a DNA of faithful creativity, including such bases as the power of the spoken word (e.g., 鈥渓et there be light鈥� as well as 鈥渢hus says the LORD鈥�) and the relationship binding the divine community. God鈥檚 vocabulary is comprised of the persons and families that are expressions of that DNA, every one created in the 鈥渋mage of God鈥� (Genesis 1:27). God鈥檚 syntax governs the coordination of those vocables into phrases, clauses, and sentences. For example, the drama of the exodus from Egypt and the spectacle of the cross both realize divine compassion in surprising ways. The unexpected return from Babylonian exile and the resurrection show that God鈥檚 grammar describes a living language, one that can still
communicate effectively today.

If God is love (so 1 John 4:8), God鈥檚 form and function may be discerned whenever we humans love one another (1 John 4:12). If we keep our senses tuned to the divine frequency of love that resonates in all living creatures, we will be able to discern God in unexpected persons and places, including a newborn in a feed trough.

Christmas is less about presents being unwrapped or answers being revealed than it is about this mind-bending idea that God became one of us, in carne, in the flesh.

Why would God so empty and humble himself (Philippians 2:5鈥�8)? Why would the Creator voluntarily subject the self to creaturehood with all its limitations and difficulties? Why else but to enter and fully know our lives, and therefore to love us as we are?

God in Christ knows the dysfunctions of our families (Matthew 20:20鈥�24), the anguishes of chronic illnesses (Mark 1:34), the shadows of terminal diagnoses (John 4:49), and even the unspeakable sadness of the death of beloved children (Matthew 9:18; Luke 7:12). Mary, too, would one day experience the death of her beloved son.

Advent is a season of light and shadows (Matthew 2:16鈥�18). The light of the world shines in our darkness (John 1:5), a light seen most fully in the face of Jesus, who is said to be 鈥渢he image (Greek eikon) of the invisible God鈥� (Colossians 1:15). May we, like Mary, contemplate and treasure even the things we do not understand (Luke 2:19).

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Here, , reflects on the divine challenge of Jesus to love radically and how, even though we are in a season of waiting, we can be part of this holy transformation, the impossible possible, in the here and now.

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Advent is a transformational countdown to transformation itself. A paradoxical time, Advent is a time of expectation and anticipation for something that hasn鈥檛 happened yet and which can鈥檛 fully be imagined. In our corner of the world, Advent shows up on the landscape of our grey and (usually) rainy winter. Bundled up in our coats and sweaters, we wrap hands around our peppermint mochas and hunker down until the first light of spring when robins join us with their knowing 鈥渟ee-didn鈥檛-I-tell-you-it was-coming,鈥� tweet tweet tweets. And so we wait and trust that spring will come and we鈥檒l one day see the sun again.

Similarly, advent is a time of impending hopeful change and transformation鈥搒omething is coming but it鈥檚 not here yet. It鈥檚 a time when we turn our attention to the impossible possible鈥� the coming of what we can only imagine. Theologically we are waiting for the transformational presence of God in our time. We are waiting and counting the days for the breaking-in of a radical spirit of transcendent immanence.

In Christian tradition, God breaks into our time, disrupts time, displaces time, disorients time and all we can do is wait. And trust. Trust that that transformation will come, that divine love and peace is coming just like the spring blossoms. It鈥檚 a theology of radical rupture where the impossible becomes possible. This is a theology of hope.

Liturgically Advent marks the time of waiting til Jesus鈥� birth, but it鈥檚 so much more than that鈥�it鈥檚 a countdown for the message Jesus would bring into this broken world鈥搕hat of the kingdom of God where society would live in love, peace, and equality. Advent therefore is a time of waiting for the divine message, the promise, the hope for something righteous and holy.

Early 20th-century theologian Walter Rauschenbusch taught that the kingdom was not an apocalyptic vision of what was to come, but rather, a prophetic call for social transformation in the here and now. This radical message would become central to the visionary movement known as the social gospel. We live in a time where we desperately need to be reminded of this transformational vision for what could be, right here and now as we鈥檙e not just in the season when nights are long and days are grey, quite literally and figuratively our days are grey. Our political climate is dire, to say little of the state of the climate itself. There鈥檚 xenophobia, nationalism, gender inequality, economic instability, food insecurity鈥� these are but words pointing to deep hurts and pains inflicted on us and by us. We feel it in our bones when we see families separated at borders, when white supremacists spew hate, when gun violence and toxic systemic oppression abound鈥搕hese are dark times indeed.

Advent though is a time of waiting for the transformational in-breaking of radical, vibrant, spirit incarnate. A divine presence in fleshly form come to tell us that there is a different way to live and be. While we often wrap Jesus in platitudes about love, grace, generosity, and equality, Jesus also posed a divine challenge to systems and structures by flipping tables in the temple and challenging the narrative of empire calling truth to power with divine love and righteous anger. The divine challenge Jesus brought is to love so radically, so boldly, that you question the very structures that seek to rob people of divine love, acceptance, peace, and abundance. In fact, the very narrative of Jesus鈥� birth and death defies all reason, it flips the script on what the world tells us is possible!

Our theology of hope therefore is not one that should rest on hope alone without informed action, or without conscientious response to systemic and structural inequality. Rather, the summons offered to us through Jesus鈥� divine in-breaking, is one that challenges us to love one another so much that we create the impossible through structural and systemic transformation鈥搕hrough our interrogation of political and economic institutions (those which Rauschenbusch called 鈥渟uper-personal entities of evil鈥�).

Rauschenbusch argued that these institutions perpetuate social sin drawing us away from one another and binding us in individualistic thinking, that which moves us further away from collective thriving. We may feel that the kingdom is too far from our own reality, too ephemeral to capture. And yet the work of persistent hopeful imaginative radical love is the very task we are given. Theological descendent of Rauschenbusch, Dr. Cornel West reminds us that, 鈥淲e鈥檝e forgotten that a rich life consists fundamentally of serving others, trying to leave the world a little better than you found it. We need the courage to question the powers that be, the courage to be impatient with evil and patient with people, the courage to fight for social justice. In many instances we will be stepping out on nothing, and just hoping to land on something. But that鈥檚 the struggle. To live is to wrestle with despair, yet never allow despair to have the last word.鈥�

This Advent, as in the past, we鈥檒l participate in liturgy commemorating the incarnational in- breaking of the divine. We鈥檒l buy Christmas trees and put up decorations, attend a Christmas pageant or Advent festival. But as we live in liminal time aware of the days that pass, might we imagine ourselves as part of the impossible possible? St. Teresa of Avila wrote that 鈥淐hrist has no body now but yours/No hands, no feet on earth but yours/Yours are the eyes with which he looks/compassion on this world/Christ has no body now on earth but yours.鈥� Might we remember to live into a love so potent, so present that it shatters the landscape of what is and reveals through our very hands and feet social justice and divine transformation of the here and now? Let us embrace this Advent, a divine challenge to be bold lovers who imagine and who question, who resist forces that seek to separate us from neighbor, and who believe that divine love binds us to one another and to the future that we create together.

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