Dreams: looking oddly backwards while moving forward

Early this morning, as lay abed in the chill of December, I dreamt it was Good Friday- perhaps the result of reading Beckett before falling asleep. Being a deacon, it is my duty during Good Friday service to leave the sanctuary, make my way up the nave, go into the church's narthex, and emerge with the Cross that will be venerated by everyone else present as I hold it. This moment each year serves for me as something of a renewal of my commitment to serve my parish and the larger community in which I live.

On my way back up the narthex, I stop three times. The third stop is in front of the altar at the top of the chancel, facing my sisters and brothers. Each time I stop, elevating the Cross, I sing: Behold the wood of the Cross, on which hung the salvation of the world. To this sung verse, the congregation responds: Come let us adore (Good Friday, no. 15). My dream was set in the church of the parish to which I am presently assigned (my neighborhood parish, a mile from our house) but I was vested in the red vestments from my previous assignment: our Cathedral.

Crucifix over the altar at my parish

As I came around the altar to begin my trek up the nave to retrieve the Cross, my bishop suddenly appeared, wearing vestments that matched the ones I was wearing. Then, from the congregation, emerged a dear friend who died earlier this year. She was vested in the same diaconal vestments with which I was vested. She came alongside the bishop, to his left. Once she was there, everyone in the church (which was filled), began to prostrate. As they prostrated for the first time, being me, I thought, "What are they doing?! This isn't part of the service!" They prostrated three times. Setting aside my alarm at this rubrical anomaly, and thinking, "Well, it is the bishop" and "This seems fitting on Good Friday, especially given the large crucifix over the church's altar," I scrambled to the other side of my bishop and made it in time for the third prostration.

My friend was a mentor, a wonderful woman, one of the best Christians I have ever known. She was a prominent family law attorney and ended her career, which she interrupted for 20 years to raise her three children, as a state district court judge. She was quietly and genuinely pious. She was a person of deep and abiding faith, even through her last few years as she quietly battled the cancer she knew would ultimately kill her (and it did). In short, I cannot think of a person I know who lived such a diaconal life, that is, a life of service. What does it mean? I don't know. It was a nice dream. I awoke with a smile.

Anyway, as I thought about what our traditio might be for today, Matthew Wilder's 1983 hit "Break My Stride" came immediately to mind. This video and song are from the heart of the 1980s, which is why is why I find them both amusing and strangely comforting.

Ain't nothin' gonna break-a my stride
Nobody gonna slow me down, oh no
I got to keep on movin'

"We the people" - another political non-rant

This morning I read a short but packed editorial by John Dingell. Dingell served in the United States House of Representatives from 1955 until the end of 2015. His sixty years of service in Congress makes him the longest-serving member of either the House or the Senate in the history of the Republic. Retired now for nearly four years, he wrote a short piece for The Atlantic, which was posted yesterday: "I Served in Congress Longer Than Anyone. Here’s How to Fix It: Abolish the Senate and publicly fund elections." This strikes me as a good starting point for how the United States needs to be constitutionally altered if it is to thrive or even survive in the future. In essence, this means making some revolutionary constitutional changes in the service of democracy. Before I delve into Dingell's prescriptions for what currently ails the United States, allow me a short, albeit relevant, digression.

Ever since learning about it as an undergraduate, I have been a strong believer in the "Iron law of oligarchy." First posited by German sociologist Robert Michel in a book published at the beginning of the last century, the Iron law of oligarchy asserts all countries, institutions, and organizations, even those founded on and dedicated to perpetuating democratic ideals and practices, yield over time to oligarchy or governance by the few. Stated more robustly, this law holds that, in essence, there is no such thing as "organizational democracy." Even more to the point, while "elite control makes internal democracy unsustainable, it is also said to shape the long-term development of all organizations—including the rhetorically most radical—in a conservative direction" (see "Iron law oligarchy: Sociological Thesis" in the Encyclopedia Britannica). Historians of the United States have amply demonstrated that the Constitution of the United States was clearly the work oligarchic forces, which diminished the radicality of the colonies' rebellion against Great Britain and channeled it in a more conservative, anti-democratic, that is oligarchic direction.

Given that the Iron law of oligarchy has been proven over and over again, even in advanced Western societies (a factor usually overlooked by recent critics of liberal democracy, most of whom, especially Catholic ones, seem to want to bring oligarchy in through the front door, instead of smuggling it in the back), revolutions are required from time-to-time. The revolutions required need not be violent and bloody. In fact, they can be non-violent and peaceful. This is what brings me to John Dingell's Atlantic editorial. In it, he suggests nothing less than constitutionally altering the United States of America. Given that most U.S. citizens revere the Constitution as something akin to sacred writ (some, like the LDS among whom I live, do so quite explicitly- not a criticism, just a statement of fact), suggestions that it be changed in fundamental ways is never a popular position, no matter the issue or how compelling the argument. By contrast, state constitutions are altered all the time via ballot propositions.

In his piece, Dingell highlights four things, including two revolutionary constitutional reforms: "An electoral system based on full participation"; "The elimination of money in campaigns"; "The end of minority rule in our legislative and executive branches"; "The protection of an independent press." I concur that these are four keys areas. I am certainly in favor of every citizen being automatically registered to vote when s/he turns 18. We have the technology to do this. When it comes to getting money out of campaigns, taking aim at Citizens United without naming it by name, Dingell wrote:

Public service should not be a commodity, and elected officials should not have to rent themselves out to the highest bidder in order to get into (or stay in) office. If you want to restore trust in government, remove the price tag. I am fully aware that the Supreme Court has declared that 'money is speech.' That’s nonsense. The day my wallet starts talking to me, I might reconsider that view. Until then, I believe that the pernicious influence of money on our elections must be removed

Given the Supreme Court's Citizens United ruling, this would require a constitutional amendment. All I can say to this is, "Amen!" The necessity of a free press should be apparent to everyone. Attacks on the free press by our current president should be alarming to us all.

I also agree with him about the need to end minority rule in the legislative and executive branches of government. I part ways with him on how best to accomplish this. To wit, I am not sure about having a unicameral national Congress. I know the state of Nebraska has a single-chamber legislature. If we maintain a two-chamber Congress, Senate seats need to be allocated differently with each state having at least one and states with large populations more than 2. As a result, the Electoral College should be altered with it, or perhaps eliminated altogether. Should the Electoral College be maintained, the system of granting the Electoral vote(s) for Senate seats to whoever wins the state overall should be kept. All the other Electoral votes should be given to the candidate who wins the Congressional district. Winner-take-all is undemocratic and cuts across the grain of congressional representation.

Even if we eliminate the Senate and add the 100 seats to the House of Representatives, we would still need to increase the number of seats in the House to make it, once again, the chamber of the people. If the Senate were to remain, senators' terms should be four-years, not the current six. As presently constituted, each member of the House of Representatives "represents 747,184 people" (See "The case for massively expanding the US House of Representatives, in one chart"). Compared to other advanced representative democracies that is a very high number. In the United Kingdom, the ratio of people to members of parliament is about one to 100,000. In Australia, the ratio is one representative for about 164,686 people. Germany has one Bundestag representative per 115,817 citizens. It would be most useful just to cut ~750,000 in half.

Another practice that fosters oligarchy is our silly practice of office-holders maintaining titles for life. In reality, once a person completes his/her service in, say, the Senate, the House, as a cabinet secretary, ambassador, governor, or even as president, they are no longer Senator So-and-so, President So-and-so, Ambassador So-and-so. Retention of titles runs contrary to our egalitarian ideals. After your service ends, you once again become an ordinary citizen. Hence, you should be called Mister, Missus, Miss, or Ms, as you like.

I appreciate Mr. Dingell's wise words. With his piece, he proves he is an elder statesman, of which this country currently has very few.

We shall see the King when he comes

Today's reading from Luke's Gospel is wonderful for showing us how, as followers of Christ, it's always the end of the world until the end of the world (see Luke 25:25-28.34-36). Our Gospel begins with Jesus telling his followers about cataclysmic events that will portend his glorious return. This is followed by him exhorting them to live vigilantly in anticipation of his return. Looked at a certain way, the second part of this passage neutralizes the first.

There has never been a time in human history when there were not the kinds of cataclysmic "signs" the Lord points to in this passage as indicative of his return. According to news reports, back on 11 November, a "tremor occurred... near the archipelago of Mayotte, a collection of French islands in the Indian Ocean between Madagascar and Mozambique." So massive was this tremor that it registered on seismometers around the world, "from New Zealand to Canada - and even in Hawaii." Nobody is clear as to what caused this huge seismic event. Best assessments are that it was either volcanic activity or a meteor strike. But its cause remains unknown. Does this mean Jesus is due back by month's end? My point? There is no way to calculate the Lord's return.

Let's face facts, the earth is far more endangered by reckless human activity than by natural disasters. What do I mean by reckless human activity? Things like dead whales being found with loads of plastic, which was dumped in the ocean, in their stomachs (see "Yet Another Dead Whale Found With Pounds Of Plastic In Its Stomach"). How will we, to borrow the words of today's Gospel "stand before the Son of Man" and answer for this? My point? We should be far more worried about our environmental stewardship than about natural disasters. We can do something about the former and nothing about the latter. As we know, when it comes to natural disasters caused by extreme weather events, rapid climate change caused by human activity is increasingly caused by the same kind of pollutive activity that results in whales consuming deadly plastics. Maybe a good Advent activity would be a careful reading of Pope Francis's encyclical letter Laudato si'. Follow this up by finding practical ways to be a better steward (see "Reusable coffee cups? Tote bags? Here's the truth about what you can do to be more climate-friendly").

Taken by the author at St Olaf parish Bountiful, Utah, 2 December 2018

My primary point is not repentance with regard to our abuse of the environment (as badly as this is needed). Advent is a time of joyful waiting. Joyful waiting implies preparation in anticipation of encountering the one for whom we wait. What do I mean by the second part of our passage, which begins six verses after the first part, neutralizes the first part? I mean that we are to live not only in constant readiness for the Lord's return but anticipate it eagerly as we wait for it in joyful hope. Joyful anticipation of the Lord's return requires us to be awake and alert. Living this way means living sub specie aeternatatis, or, in English, "under the aspect of eternity." As I suggested in my previous post, this means living between the already of the Lord's Incarnation and the not yet of his glorious return. This, in turn, means seeking to extend God's reign, not by power-seeking through politics but by our constant practice of prayer, fasting, and alms-giving.

In short, if we could calculate Christ's return in some kind of algorithmic way based a pre-determined convergence of natural and human-made disasters, we would not need to be vigilant. Stated this way makes it sound like, pardon the expression, "Well, duh?!" But there have been charlatans who have claimed to have made just that kind of calculation and determined the exact day. Sadly, there have been people who believed these religious grifters and altered their lives dramatically but incorrectly. Advent is the time to alter my life accordingly and correctly. This means an inward conversion that results in a changed life. I can think of no better example of what it means to alter one's life in anticipation of the Lord's return than the Christmas Eve conversion of Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol.

Being a Christian means experiencing the transcendent in the immanent, like finding Jesus in the poor or in a small, flat, tasteless wafer and a sip of not-that-great wine. These two are connected. If you don't see Jesus in poor, downtrodden, forsaken, addicted, imprisoned or ill people, it's unlikely you'll find him in the bread and wine. After all, the most convincing proof he becomes the bread and wine is whether or not by our partaking of these we become more like him.

Advent: Forsaking darkness, embracing light

For the First Sunday of Advent I want to focus briefly, not on the readings for Mass, but on the reading for another of the Church's liturgies: Morning Prayer. More traditionally, Morning Prayer is called by its Latin name: Lauds. I would point out that the name Lauds is derived from the last three Psalms (Psalms 148, 149, 150), together known and "the Laudate Psalms." Before the revision of what is now known as the Liturgy of the Hours after the Second Vatican Council, these three Psalms were prayed each day during the morning office. Beyond that, in all three of these Psalms the Latin word laudate is often repeated. Of course, even in English, to "laud" is to praise. Over time, the entire office came to be known as Lauds.

Given that the morning office no longer features the Laudete Psalms each day, apart from carrying the name over for the sake of continuity, it really makes no sense to call it "Lauds." So, we properly call it "Morning Prayer." Now that my didactic itch has been scratched, I want to move onto Advent and the reading for Morning Prayer for the First Sunday of Advent.

The reading for Morning Prayer at the dawn of the first full day of Advent, a season that calls us to repent as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ, is taken from St. Paul's Letter to the Romans. Specifically, Romans 13:11-12 (the translation from the Liturgy of Hours differs from that found in the New American Bible):

It is now the hour for you to wake from sleep, for our salvation is closer than when we first accepted the faith. The night is far spent; the day draws near. Let us cast off deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light

Repenting means to wake up, to return not only to God but to yourself and to reality. This requires asking yourself some serious questions about the meaning of life and how you live your own life in light of its meaning. You see, faith means more than just believing in some inchoate way. To have faith means to step out, to take action. Faith is my response to God's loving initiative towards me. While faith is a gift from God, the surest sign one has faith, as James suggests (likely contra some of the excesses or incompleteness James found in some of Paul's preaching and writing), is shown through works of righteousness. Chief among righteous works is caring from the poor, the outcast, the person who probably makes you uncomfortable. What else could Paul be referring to in his exhortation to "put on the armor of light"? Well, since it's Paul, he's referring to a lot of things but he certainly includes caring for each other and those in need. Too often we limit morality to "personal" morality, by which we usually mean things like not swearing, not drinking to excess, if at all, comporting ourselves circumspectly in matters pertaining to sex, and so on. I reject none of this, but these do not come before the requirement to love my neighbor in concrete ways. Indeed, what Advent calls us to, again, is to practice the three fundamental spiritual disciplines: prayer, fasting, and alms-giving, the latter of which can also be called selfless service to others.

Taken last night in the chapel of St Olaf Parish Bountiful, Utah, as I began First Vespers- the first liturgy of the new liturgical year

As to "deeds of darkness," each of us knows our own heart. We are all too aware of what often lurks there. We need to expose the darkness of our hearts to the light of day. Light disperses darkness automatically. A good place to start is by going to confession. I would urge you, as you examine your conscience, to consider sins of omission and not just those of commission. Since Advent begins as a penitential season, the Sacrament of Penance is usually made more available towards the middle of the season with Advent Penance services and the like. With the Third Sunday of Advent, on which we hear the Baptist's call to repent, Advent takes a turn from preparing for Christ's return in glory by extending God's reign, which requires us to live as if God's kingdom is already fully realized (it should be fully realized in us), or the "not yet," to "the already" of his Incarnation. Even our turn from the not yet to the already is a plea for Christ to be born anew, or maybe for the first time, in us by the power of the Holy Spirit so that we might incarnate him, each of us an alter Christus, another Christ. Becoming an alter Christus is what each of us was baptized and confirmed to be. Communion and confession, then, become means of grace for each of us to be transformed into the image of Christ, together becoming Corpus Christi, the Body of Christ.

In the magnificent Prologue to St. John's Gospel, the inspired author states: "through him [the Incarnate Word] was life, and this life was the light of the human race; the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1:4-5). As Christ's followers, made the children of the Father by rebirth, we are light of the world:

You are the light of the world. A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and then put it under a bushel basket; it is set on a lampstand, where it gives light to all in the house. Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father (Matt 5:14-16)

And so, as we begin a new year of grace, a new year in which we wait in joyful hope and eager anticipation for the Lord's return, let us repent, casting aside deeds of darkness and putting on the armor of light. In anticipation of the establishment of God's never-ending reign, let's seek to establish this kingdom each day in all we do, seeking to make Christ present wherever we are. In addition to making us all one with him and with each other, which unity should include everyone, Christ comes to dwell in us so that we can make him present wherever we go.

Perhaps the best thing about Advent is that, unlike Christmas, it is not a sentimental season, but one that beautifully enables us to engage reality to the full as we await the fulfillment of reality. I will end by turning to our Sunday readings. As befits a post in which the Liturgy of Hours, which mostly consists of praying them, I turn to our Psalm (25):

Your ways, O LORD, make known to me;
teach me your paths,
Guide me in your truth and teach me,
for you are God my savior,
and for you I wait all the day

This, my friends, is the pilgrimage of Advent.

Join the Conspiracy: Wait for it

Here in Utah, Advent does not officially begin today until 5:01 PM, which is official sundown. Again this year it appears that many people, Catholics, Episcopalians, and Lutherans included are already deep into Christmas.

Being demographically and culturally LDS, Utah is a place where there is little-to-no liturgical sensitivity. This not so much a criticism as it is a statement of fact. To give an example, on Ash Wednesday it is not unusual to be told, "You've got something on your forehead." Even after a brief pause, there is no realization that it is a Wednesday in late-Winter or early-Spring and so it just might be Ash Wednesday. Saying, "It's Ash Wednesday" usually provokes a puzzled expression. Similarly, there is a popular notion here that the Twelve Days of Christmas are the eleven days prior to 25 December with Christmas Day being the twelfth day. But, hey, what are you going to do?

More generally, for us Americans, there are few things we find more frustrating than the admonition Wait for it. No doubt this contributes to why we find things so dissatisfying and move quickly to the next thing, looking for who knows what. Waiting for something good, savoring it when it arrives, as the Advent and Christmas seasons bid us do vis-à-vis the Lord's Incarnation, are things we have simply given up on, or, more accurately, forgotten how to do.

It was not unusual growing up for me complain a few hours before supper that I was hungry. My Dad would say in a calm, gentle way, "It's good to be a little hungry. Your supper will taste better." Guess what? I found what he told me to be true! Of course, back then I didn't realize what a valuable life lesson he taught me. When it came to celebrating, our house was not one in which we went nuts for any holiday. We observed Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, etc. but managed to keep sight of their essence, what they were about. My parents were more quietly than overtly religious. To this day, a lot of my family is taken aback by my religious fervency. Far from complaining, I appreciate the check and balance they provide for me.

As for me, starting at 5:01 PM, I will pray First Vespers by myself in the small chapel that connects our parish office to the rectory. I will do so by candlelight. I will sing, chant, stand and sit at appropriate times as called for by this office. Most days when I pray Morning and Evening Prayer alone at home I just sit in a chair. However, I always sing and chant Sunday Evening Prayer out loud.

I pray that by my no doubt imperfect observance of this sacred season the Holy Spirit will soften my heart so Christ can be born anew in me and live his resurrected life through me by the power of the Spirit.

I invite everyone reading this to join me in the hopeful waiting of this sacred and oft-neglected season by intensifying prayer, fasting, and selfless service to others (i.e., alms-giving). This is how we resist the fevered pace of the rush to and premature observance of Christmas, which leaves many people tired, broke, physically bloated and spiritually empty. Join the resistance! Join the Advent conspiracy!

Listening to podcasts and longing for home

Back in September I (finally) acquired an Android phone that, as I like to say using technical jargon, "does stuff." I apologize to Apple affectionados, among whom is my wife. I jokingly say, when pressed by Apple users, that Apple is the tech subsidiary of Scientology. Then, a few weeks ago for my birthday, I was given a pair of Bluetooth headphones. Since then I have discovered podcasts. What a vast domain! The app. I chose for podcasting, after doing a little market research, is Castbox. I won't bore you with all my adventures in the podcast-i-verse over the past few weeks. I have to say, it's been kind of fun.

I have found a number of entertaining, inspiring, and informative podcasts. One is an old stand-by: the podcast of Harry Shearer's weekly radio program Le Show. This is a program I have listened to for years. It's nice to be able to listen to it almost anywhere on my "audio device of choice." While I know this will rub some people the wrong way, I also very much enjoy listening to Alec Baldwin's Here's the Thing podcast, which I discovered onboard a Delta flight on business trip earlier this year. Most recently, he interviewed Roger Daltrey, lead singer of one of the greatest rock groups of all-time, The Who. I have also found a couple of useful podcasts that help me with some issues with which I struggle.

On the spiritual side of things, I benefit immensely from the Renovaré podcast with Nathan Foster. Over this past week I have listened to a few episodes of In the Studio with Michael Card. Michael has a new book coming out that I am excited about- Inexpressible: Hesed and the Mystery of God's Lovingkindness. A recent podcast features Michael giving a deeply insightful presentation on the Hesed, or lovingkindness, of Jesus. Do yourself a favor and listen to exactly the first 24 minutes of it.

One particular episode of Michael Card's podcast that struck me even to the point of tears, touched on a theme I have explored on this blog: my longing, our common human longing, for home. In a post from more than four years ago (tempest fugit!) I wrote about this (see "Odysseus and the quest for home"). From 2002 to 2009, The Studio with Michael Card was a weekly radio program. Judging from the episodes available for listening, about a year ago Card resurrected this for a podcast. Some of the episodes, those dubbed "Classic," are radio programs that were digitally recorded and now made available for podcasting.

The episode of In the Studio that struck a deep chord within me this week is a Classic episode. Well, actually, it's the first-half of an episode. This part of the the program featured Dr. Larry Crabb, from whose writings I have benefited for years, and contemporary Christian musical artist Sarah Groves. It is one of the "Classic" episodes, meaning it was originally broadcast at least nine years ago. It also features a pretty insightful discussion on the Book of Job.

Home is where the heart is, which is why our hearts our restless as we journey towards what the inspired author of the Letter to the Hebrews called our "sabbath rest" (see Hebrews 4:9-11). I suppose this is a good place to cite the over-cited observation of St. Augustine, which he made in Book I Chapter 1 of his Confessions: "You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you."

Yesterday on Facebook I posted the titles of several movies that I think are among the best Christian movies (another post will follow on this). I asked my friends to do the same. I was surprised by how many responded (I only have 112 FB friends). One friend of very long-standing, not-so-tongue-in-check, put forward Monty Python's Life of Brian. This prompted me to immediately call-to-mind these lyrics from the song with which the movie ends - "Always Look on the Bright of Life" - "Life's a piece of shit/When you look at it/Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true..."

Hope, it often seems to me, is simply the obstinate belief that somehow, in the end, the journey of life is worthwhile. The idea of returning home, of suffering to return home, like Odysseus, which is what the word "nostalgia" literally means (not "Odysseus" but suffering to return home - language is a funny thing), is how this obstinate belief can be understood in the service of being realized.

Fittingly, our traditio for this final Friday of this year of grace is Sarah Groves singing her song "Going Home"-

Making God's kingdom present

Because it's Year B of the Sunday lectionary cycle during which we take St. Mark's Gospel as our Sunday staple, on today's Solemnity of the Christ the King we turn, as we did for five weeks earlier this year, to St. John's Gospel. But what we hear is perfectly congruent with what have heard from Mark over the previous few months. In today's Gospel, when Jesus tells Pilate "My kingdom does not belong to this world," he is referring to the fact that God's kingdom is not established by force, by political coercion, or by imposition. In much the same way we distinguish "the flesh" from the body in the writings of St. Paul (in Greek "flesh" is sarx and body is soma), we must distinguish between "the world" to which God's kingdom is the antidote and the world, perhaps most accurately described by Wittgenstein at the beginning of his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus as "everything that is the case." In short, Jesus is not saying his kingdom is other-worldly. Because of the Incarnation, Christianity is not a form of Gnosticism.

The kingdom over which Jesus will rule and reign is a kingdom made u[ of those like Bartimaeus, the blind beggar, the scribe who grasped that loving God by loving one's neighbor is worth more than all burnt offerings and sacrifices, and the poor widow who selflessly gave all she had, even though it wasn't very much. Suffice it say, a kingdom comprised of such people does not need to be ruled with a firm hand, let alone an iron fist.

As the Messiah, Jesus was a disappointment. Yes, he was a descendant of David, which is why Bartimaeus hailed him with the Messianic greeting "Son of David." But he did not come to route the occupiers (i.e., the Romans) and re-establish a united Israelite kingdom over which he would serve as temporal ruler. Because his kingship is æternal, there is nothing temporal or temporary about Christ's kingship.

Jesus is autobasileia, the kingdom in person. This is why, in the very first chapter of Mark's Gospel, after he emerges from the desert, the Lord declares, "This is the time of fulfillment. The kingdom of God is at hand" (Mark 1:15). By means of the communion we share, Christ desires to be present in us so that through us he can be present wherever we go. Wherever we go we should seek to make God's kingdom present. You see, the kingdom of God is not currently absent. It is present in you and me like the small mustard seed. God's kingdom is not established by governments or cultural institutions but by people who lose their lives for the sake of further establishing it. Whether through martyrdom or simply by lives lived in service to those in need, God's kingdom is spread by people most of whose names we do not know. This does not matter, as these people seek to glorify the name of Jesus, not their own.

Last evening we watched the 1975 movie The Hiding Place. Filmed two years after the book was published, the movie (and the book) tells the story of the Ten Boom family. The Ten Booms were Dutch Christians who, in German-occupied Holland, opened their watchmaking shop and attached home to Jews seeking refuge.

Eventually, the Ten Booms were arrested by the Germans. Casper, the family patriarch, died shortly after being detained. His daughters Corrie and Betsie, along with his son Willem, were deported to concentration camps. Corrie and Betsie were sent to Ravensbrück. Throughout their ordeal, the two sisters made the kingdom of God present by praying, bearing witness, serving their fellow prisoners, and working not to harbor hatred in their hearts for those who mistreated them. Betsie perished in the camp. Willem also died in detention. Only Corrie, who wrote The Hiding Place, survived.

Corrie Ten Boom's gravestone in Fairhaven Memorial Park, Santa Ana, California

What the sisters Ten Boom discovered while interned in Ravensbrückis is set forth very well in a sort of motto Betsie uttered: "There is no pit so deep, that God's love is not deeper still." This certainly echoes the words of Psalm 139:8b- "if I lie down in Sheol, there you are." These two women show us what it means to make God's kingdom present. They also show us what Christ himself showed us on the cross: the power by which Christ will finally establish God's kingdom in full is love. It is people like Corrie and Betsie Ten Boom who will inhabit God's kingdom. I suggest reading the book or watching the movie over Advent.

We are not to wait for Christ's return to reign in a passive manner. No, as his followers, we must seek every day in each situation to make God's kingdom present wherever we are.