Embracing the Embarrassment of Advent

“It might be said of Advent that it is not for the faint of heart. To grasp the depth of the human predicament, one has to be willing to enter into the very worst.” — Fleming Rutledge¹

“It is,” wrote C. S. Lewis, “certainly the most embarrassing verse in the Bible.” That eye-catching sentence is found in the essay titled “The World’s Last Night,” first published in 1952. What verse was the famous author and apologist referring to? This one:

Truly, I say to you, this generation will not pass away till all these things take place. (Mt: 24:34)

Lewis was apparently flummoxed by much of what precedes that verse in Matthew 24—a passage that, including chapter 25, is known as the Olivet Discourse and sometimes called the “Small Apocalypse” (cf. Mark 13 and Luke 21), in comparison to the Big Apocalypse, or the Book of Revelation. These two chapters in the first Gospel are, to understate the obvious, difficult to interpret, as they intertwine cosmic judgment, specific historical upheavals (especially the destruction in 70 A.D. of the Jerusalem Temple), and declarations about approaching tribulation, the end times, and the coming of the Son of Man.

Embrace the Word

It is unfortunate that Lewis thought some of these chapters to be “embarrassing,” especially since the apparent murkiness of some passages of Scripture is, in my experience, an opportunity to grow in both faith and humility. When Christ states, immediately after the “embarrassing verse,” that, “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away,” he is not waxing poetic but proclaiming prophetically, as the Son of God and the Incarnate Word.

Rather than flinch, we should ponder the words. Rather than hesitate, we should embrace the Word.

Monsignor Ronald Knox (1888-1957), who was born a decade prior to Lewis and had been (like Lewis) an Anglo-Catholic—the son of an Anglican bishop!—before entering the Catholic Church as a young man, certainly pondered Scripture, being the last man to ever translate the entire Bible by himself. Of Matthew 24:34, he simply wrote, in his Commentary on the Gospels: “‘All these things’ must consequently be understood as meaning the fall of Jerusalem, but not the Second Coming at all…”² And it important, without doubt, that we consider the historical context of Christ’s remarks, which were made a generation prior to the shocking and devastating events of 70 A.D.

The larger point is that apocalyptic texts are meant to reveal profound and eternal truths in surprising and challenging ways. The Greek word apokalypsis means “an uncovering” or “unveiling”. The final book of the Bible, for instance, is intended to unveil, or fully reveal, the risen and triumphant Jesus Christ, “the firstborn of the dead and ruler of the kings of the earth” (Apoc 1:5). Apocalyptic writings were popular among Jews in the two centuries immediately prior to the birth of Jesus, and Christian literature of the two or three centuries following Christ’s death and resurrection sometimes emulated these Jewish works in their use of visions, angels, journeys to heaven, and prophecy about the future.

What does this have to do with Advent?

The final verse of the Gospel Reading for the First Sunday of Advent points the way: “Therefore you also must be ready; for the Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect” (Mt 24:44).

Christ does not say, “Think about being ready,” or, “Consider ways that may help you be ready,” but simply: “you also must be ready…” He has come. He will come again. And He is coming now.

This ancient trinity of divine comings was articulated beautifully nearly a millennium ago by the brilliant Cistercian monk St. Bernard of Clairvaux (10900-1153):.

In the first coming he was seen on earth, dwelling among men; he himself testifies that they saw him and hated him. In the final coming all flesh will see the salvation of our God, and they will look on him whom they pierced. The intermediate coming is a hidden one; in it only the elect see the Lord within their own selves, and they are saved. In his first coming our Lord came in our flesh and in our weakness; in this middle coming he comes in spirit and in power; in the final coming he will be seen in glory and majesty.³

Three embarrassing “comings”

These three comings are, separately and together, an embarrassment to the world.

The Incarnation is unique, singular, and “the distinctive sign of Christian faith” (CCC 463-464), which divides men while uniting Christians in their Advent focus. And although the Infinite invaded human history with quiet humility, that first coming was public. When Jesus was lifted on the Cross, his broken body and his perfect love were both revealed to all who had eyes to see. But Christ crucified, the Apostle Paul explained to the Christians in Corinth, is “a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles” (1 Cor. 1:23), and it continues to anger and alienate people today, even as they insist that (take your pick) Jesus did not exist, was a mere man, was an eccentric rabbi or misunderstood guru or token avatar.

Christ’s third and final coming—“He will come again in power, to judge the living and dead”—will also be public. But whereas his final words on the Cross were ones of kenotic gift, his words at the parousia will be ones of kinetic incision, cutting to the core of each man:

For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. (1 Thess 4:16)

Behold, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him, every one who pierced him; and all tribes of the earth will wail on account of him. Even so. Amen. (Rev. 1:7)

We, of course, live in the time of the middle coming, in the last days (Heb 1:2). This coming is hidden and quiet. In fact, it can be so modest and quiet, we can drown it out and miss it altogether. Advent is a reminder to listen, watch, and heed; further, it is a challenge to “see the Lord within their own selves” precisely because we have, through baptism, been united to Christ and made “partakers of the divine nature” (2 Pet 1:4). As St. Bernard says, in reflecting on this coming:

Keep God’s word in this way. Let it enter into your very being, let it take possession of your desires and your whole way of life. Feed on goodness, and your soul will delight in its richness. Remember to eat your bread, or your heart will wither away. Fill your soul with richness and strength.⁴

St. Bernard elsewhere also exhorts us to ask and contemplate questions that the world will not ask and cannot answer:

You therefore, Brethren, to whom as to little children, God reveals what He has hidden from the wise and the prudent, dwell in earnest reflection upon the things that are truly salutary, and diligently seek out the reason of this season of Advent, asking namely: Who is it that is coming; whence He comes and how He comes; to what purpose; when, and where, does He come? Praiseworthy indeed is this curiosity, and most salutary: nor would the universal Church commemorate so devoutly this present time of Advent unless that there was contained within it some deep significance, some sacred mystery.⁵

Christ’s coming in glory

The word “advent” comes from the Latin word adventus, meaning “to come to,” used in ancient Rome to describe the arrival of the emperor.

It is very specific, referring to a particular place, time, and event; it has nothing to do with vague and cowardly mutterings about being “spiritual but not religious.” There is a bracing immediacy to it that goes contrary to the comfortable lives most of us enjoy.

Advent is thus not just a season but a face-to-face encounter: first with Christ, who wishes to reveal more of Himself to us, and then with ourselves, as we seek to give ourselves more to the One of the Giver of Life and Lover of mankind.

Further, the word adventus is a translation of the Greek word, parousia, which means “presence” or “arrival” (e.g., Mt 24:27, 37, 39; 1 Cor 15:23; 1 Thess 2:19; 3:13; 4:15; 5:23; 2 Thess 2:1, 8; 2 Pet 3:4; 1 Jn 2:28). It is used throughout the New Testament to describe Christ’s coming in victorious glory. While the three comings are distinct, they are united in Christ’s Passions, death, Resurrection, and glorious return.

The scandals of the Incarnation, the Resurrection, and heavenly hope are bound together in his flesh and blood, soul and divinity, like three unbreakable strands woven into the eternal line of salvation history.

In the words of Joseph Ratzinger, in his book on eschatology:

By gazing on the risen Christ, Christianity knew that a most significant coming had already taken place. It no longer proclaimed a pure theology of hope, living from mere expectation of the future, but pointed to a ‘now’ in which the promise had already become present. Such a present was, of course, itself hope, for it bears the future within itself.⁶

Advent, then, is ultimately concerned with the Son’s coming in glory, when he shall “judge the living and the dead.”

Eschatological tension

In the meantime, in the quiet and hidden middle coming we live in a state of tension. We are on earth, but meant for heaven. We are spiritual and material. We are sinful and saved. We are dying but filled with new life. “The disappointment, brokenness, suffering, and pain that characterize life in this present world,” writes the Anglican theologian Fleming Rutledge, “is held in dynamic tension with the promise of future glory that is yet to come.”⁷

In the words of the Beloved Disciple:

Beloved, now we are children of God, and it has not appeared as yet what we shall be. We know that, when He appears, we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him just as He is. (1 Jn 3:2)

Put another way, we have been brought into the Kingdom, but the Kingdom has yet to be consummated. We have been saved by the Lamb of God, but we still await the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. Advent reminds us that this state of in-between is real and difficult, but also passing and temporary:

The Kingdom of God has been coming since the Last Supper and, in the Eucharist, it is in our midst. The kingdom will come in glory when Christ hands it over to his Father.” (CCC 2816; see 1405, 1682, 2861)

St. John Paul II, in Ecclesia de Eucharistia (pars. 18-19), his final encyclical, wrote at length about this tension, noting that the “Eucharist is a straining towards the goal, a foretaste of the fullness of joy promised by Christ (cf. Jn 15:11); it is in some way the anticipation of heaven…” He emphasized:

Those who feed on Christ in the Eucharist need not wait until the hereafter to receive eternal life: they already possess it on earth, as the first-fruits of a future fullness which will embrace man in his totality. For in the Eucharist we also receive the pledge of our bodily resurrection at the end of the world: “He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day” (Jn 6:54).

The “eschatological tension kindled by the Eucharist,” he noted, “expresses and reinforces our communion with the Church in heaven.” Foremost among those, of course, is the perfect disciple of our Lord: His blessed Mother, the ever-Virgin Mary, as well as the one who is least among these (cf. Mt 11:11), His cousin John the Baptist.

The Readings during Advent focus on both; they are exemplars in the Faith and true family who have gone before us. The Theotokos bore and loved the Word perfectly; the Baptizer decreased to the point of martyrdom. Their lives were not easy in the least. What we need now is to remember and accept—not with resignation but with supernatural resolve—that Advent is not about easy living, but about eternal life. And that there is nothing embarrassing about the Kingdom.

(Note: This essay was first published on the What We Need Now site and is reposted here with kind permission.)

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