I was still in my twenties, had just been called to be pastor of a small church literally in the middle of a tobacco field in eastern North Carolina.  I knew everything and nothing.  I was full of unfocused energy and idealistic creativity and approaching my first Advent as a pastor and that’s when it came to me.  I would plant bulbs that would grow during Advent and bloom before Christmas. 

I bought four paperwhite bulbs, a small pot, and some dirt to plant them in.  On the First Sunday of Advent, with the eastern North Carolina air unseasonably cold, a dozen or so children and I planted the bulbs during the children’s message.  I promised that we would watch them grow and by Christmas, they would bloom.

I knew it was risky, promising that dormant bulbs would come to life over the short days of Advent.  Some of the farmers in the congregation made a point of mentioning that to me.  I didn’t fully appreciate that this was one of those years when Advent was its shortest.  December 24^th was a Sunday, so the Fourth Sunday of Advent and Christmas Eve were the same day, which meant that there were just 3 weeks between the First Sunday of Advent and Christmas.

It was a crazy idea to begin with.  Flowers don’t bloom in the winter, and this Advent there wouldn’t be enough time for anything to bloom!

It was the foolishness of a young pastor—a word out of place.

Amid the gathering clouds of war, when violence threatens the city and the countryside is desolate, Isaiah surprises us.  In chapter 35, a voice speaks without calling anyone by name, without any reference to a particular time.

The wilderness and the dry
land shall be glad.
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing…

Joy!

It is a word out of place.

The French priest and theologian, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, once said, “Joy is the infallible proof of the presence of God." Joy is a crocus blooming abundantly in the desert.  Joy is the faith, the hope that the wilderness will not have the last word, that no matter where we find ourselves, we will find God—not a god who makes things all better, but our God who will show us flowers blooming in whatever desert surrounds us.

Joy!

A word out of place.

I remember a night shortly before Christmas about 20 years ago.  A beautiful, but fragile, Christmas angel was on our mantle.  One of my four-year-old daughters reached for it, and it crashed to the hearth, shattering— there was no fixing it.  She began to sob, great lamentation.  She showed me the pieces.  “Can you fix it, Daddy?”  “No honey, I can’t fix it.  There are too many pieces.”  I so wanted to say I could make it all better, but I could not.

I scooped her up in my arms, sat down in the rocking chair, and held her.  God gave me the wisdom not to say a word.  I just held her and stroked her hair and rocked her until she was quiet, and finally asleep, a wet, sad, joyful face on my shoulder.  And as I sat there, I recalled my first Advent at that little church in North Carolina, and how on Christmas Eve, a tiny paperwhite bulb burst into bloom.