Laid Bare

A Reflection on the First Reading for November 29th, 2020:
First Sunday of Advent

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Isaiah
63.16b-17; 64.1, 3-8

You, O Lord, are our father;
“Our Redeemer from of old” is your name.
Why, O Lord, do you make us stray from your ways
and harden our heart, so that we do not fear you?
Turn back for the sake of your servants,
for the sake of the tribes that are your heritage.

O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
so that the mountains would quake at your presence.
When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect,
you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
From ages past no one has heard,
no ear has perceived,
no eye has seen any God besides you,
who works for those who wait for him.

You meet those who gladly do right,
those who remember you in your ways.

But you were angry, and we sinned;
because you hid yourself we transgressed.
We have all become like one who is unclean,
and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth.
We all fade like a leaf,
and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.
There is no one who calls on your name,
or attempts to take hold of you;
for you have hidden your face from us,
and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.

Yet, O Lord, you are our Father;
we are the clay, and you are our potter;
we are all the work of your hand.
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Pause. Pray.

And then read more...

I am mourning and rejoicing as Isaiah takes me on this journey of becoming bare before my Lord—as bare as clay—as bare as a winter tree.


Gazing upon the trees in this season, the few still stand with their leaves clinging desperately to the branches, to the only life they know. They console me as I reflect on my own clinging; my own desperation, my own desire to see the face of my God who will deliver me from my iniquity and release me from the toxicity that I oftentimes also cling to.


My longing increases as I breathe in Isaiah’s words. Through him, my Father is peeling away the hard, deadened layers of my heart, exposing them to the elements. It stings and burns as the pith is revealed, unveiling my tendered heart before its very Creator. One layer after another peels away, as the leaf that dries and reluctantly falls from what once gave it life. No longer necessary, it breaks free and drifts away.


It is a good death—a necessary death.


And the tree, and my heart—laid bare...


wait.


My heart in the waiting, is grubbed out. The useless, stifling familiarities give way, as its callow flesh is revealed. Just as the barrenness of the tree is revealed by its fallen leaves; each are being returned to their original state—and it is by waiting that they become.


But this is where the journey of their paths diverge, because my heart waits differently than the tree waits. My heart in its opened state senses its vulnerability. My heart waits, but it is restless. My heart waits, but it complains. My heart waits in trepidation. My heart waits because it must, but it resists.


The tree, however, waits just as it was created to wait.


It waits in steadiness.


It waits in trust.


It waits in acceptance.


It waits in peace.


“From ages past no one has heard,
no ear has perceived,
no eye has seen any God besides you,
who works for those who wait for him.”


Though my heart writhes in the discomfort of the waiting, this is where God does some of His most masterful work. He sits with us while we wait. He whispers consolations while we wait. He heals what is revealed in the waiting—moulding and forming us with His gentle and loving hands. He rewards our stillness by adorning us with a new season of fresh blossoms—by offering us a beautiful new life, free from all that separates us from Him.


Let us pray: My patient Father, though Your face is hidden from me in this season, let me wait in the hope that as You purify my temperamental heart, I may one day soon see Your face shine upon me—restoring fruit to my vines and life to my soul.

Amen




Lori MacDonald

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