The Incomplete Restoration

by Robin Allan Jones

In a time when both sea levels and unemployment are rising, as we come to the end the church year and we are regaled by Luke with imagery of the End of Days, it is easy to turn one’s thoughts to the eventual demise of the human race, however that might come about. Recently, my wife and I watched a fascinating production of The History Channel titled Life After Humans. We saw it on NetFlix , and if you haven’t seen this yourself, you really ought to, because the folks at History Channel, through the magic of computer graphics, depict a marvelous world of replenished seas once again teaming with life, of lofty forests growing on the towering skeletons of skyscrapers, populated with songbirds and flying cats—something not improbable; actually there’s a lot of evidence flitting about the Internet that your common house cat contains genetic and evolutionary potential for, among other things, bipedalism, and gliding flight similar to that of flying squirrels. And of course, the rain forests and the redwoods and the chestnut trees reassert themselves, and in a few thousand years, planet earth seems to have healed itself from the short-term, self-limiting disease of infection by Homo sapiens. The air starts to clear of all the toxins and particulates, and above the skies now musical with the return of songbirds, the heavens, once again visible with stars so long masked by artificial light, sparkle in the night sky. It’s all heart-explodingly beautiful--except for one thing:

There are no humans to appreciate it.

Rejoice, rejoice!

by Stephen Crippen

(Not sure what this is? Click here for more.)

December 24

Rejoice, rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to you, O Israel.

Glad feast: roasted seasonal vegetables, red wine, warm bread. Glad guest: on Christmas Day, our homeless neighbor takes the chair set out for Elijah. Glad host: each folded napkin and each perfect morsel give voice to an elegant "I love you." Glad tidings: this year, the citizens of Washington state affirmed the civil rights of same-sex couples. Glad peace: from Tacoma to Tikrit, we will never forget those who lost their lives in pursuit of justice and peace, and we will build a better world in their memory, year by year. Rejoice! And blessed Christmas.

O Emmanuel

by Stephen Crippen

(Not sure what this is? Click here for more.)

December 23

O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, who mourns in lowly exile here until the Son of God appears.

God-with-us: an infant nurses at her mother's breast, both of them so luminous that even the baby wipes are caught up in the Holy. God-with-us: a night chaplain sits with a family as they stagger under the weight of tragedy. God-with-us: a young father, a modern Christ-bearer, shades his newborn daughter's face from the bright sun as he rushes her to the car. God-with-us: a woman in detox awakens from her nightmare and discovers that she is not alone. God-with-us: "O great mystery, that farm animals witnessed the birth of the Christ child!" God as God-with-us.

Advent Antiphons

by Stephen Crippen

The liturgy for evening prayer (Vespers) includes the singing of the Magnificat, St. Mary’s song of victory and praise. Antiphons are appointed to be sung before and after the Magnificat, usually tailored to the feast day or season. In the last seven days of Advent, the appointed antiphons are the beloved “O Antiphons,” seven short verses that borrow images of God from the Hebrew scriptures to pray for Christ’s coming.

One of my spiritual disciplines is to write very short reflections on an image. I like to train myself to write sparingly about a theme, idea, or metaphor. For each O Antiphon, I searched for five ways to open up the image and shape my prayer during these late days of Advent.

I’ll post further reflections in the coming days, but here are the first four. Blessed Advent!

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December 20

O come, O Key of David, come, and open wide our heavenly home; make safe the way that leads on high, and close the path to misery.

A Key that opens a barn for a pregnant mother and her anxious husband. A Key that opens doors for immigrants so they can find work and dignity. A Key that opens minds and hearts to unfamiliar and frightening ideas. A Key that explains the symbols on a map so I can find my way home. A skeleton Key that opens everything, even the door of death. God as Key.

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December 19

O come, O Branch of Jesse's tree; free them from dreadful tyranny who trust your awesome power to save, and give them victory over the grave.

A Branch that shades living creatures from the noonday sun. A Branch that holds and hides the nest. A Branch that returns oxygen to earth's atmosphere. A Branch of fragrant flowers and nourishing fruit. A bare Branch that buds with life. God as Branch.

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December 18

O come, O Adonai of might, who to your tribes on Sinai's height, in ancient times once gave the law, in cloud and majesty and awe.

Adonai to powerfully overthrow our oppressors. Adonai to powerfully challenge our own oppressive behaviors. Adonai to powerfully defend the weakest and most vulnerable among us. Adonai to powerfully confront our internal demons of anxiety. Adonai to powerfully overcome perpetrators of terror, torture, and genocide. God as Adonai.

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December 17

O come, Sophia from on high, who governs all things tenderly; to us the path of knowledge show, and teach us in your ways to go.

Wisdom to remember that human lives depend on quality health care. Wisdom to notice what our culture wants to hide from us. Wisdom to care about the ethical dimension of what we cook for dinner. Wisdom to ask more questions than we answer. Wisdom to hold our beliefs in a matrix of healthy doubt. God as Wisdom.


Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.

Advent: Purple or Blue?

by Stephen Crippen

In my quest to be named the Weirdest Dog Owner in the World (and that’s a hard get!), I have purchased dog collars for all the liturgical seasons. We have a variety of collars for summer and fall (green), Lent (purple), and high days/seasons (bright colors, since white is not a good color for dog collars). But Advent—that’s a problem.

In my home, the color of Advent is hotly disputed. Andrew: “It’s purple!” Stephen: “It’s blue!” Who’s right?

As much as I want to say I’m right, I know that reasonable people differ. For time out of mind, the color of Advent has been purple, in keeping with its identity—like that of Lent—as a penitential, solemn season. (Christmas and Easter are solemn too, but joyfully so.) In the ancient world, purple dye was highly expensive, so it was associated with wealth and royalty. A commoner like you or me simply couldn’t afford it. In Lent, this added layer of meaning—royalty—evoked Christ’s identity as the sovereign figure at the center of our salvation story. That Christ ironically was not an earthly king but a poor peasant only added to the significance of purple as a liturgical color. And since Christ is central in both the Incarnation Cycle (Advent/Christmas/Epiphany) and the Paschal Cycle (Lent/Easter/Pentecost), beginning both cycles with royal purple seems fitting.

But I like blue. Indigo, really. In recent decades, the use of deep, rich blue in Advent arose to differentiate Advent from Lent as a season of hope and expectation. Advent blue, at its best, reminds the eye of the deepest blue of the night sky just before dawn. As we await the dawning of Christmas, we drape ourselves and our altar in deep blue. Every Advent I like to sing the hymn, “As the Dark Awaits the Dawn,” by Susan Palo Cherwien. Here’s a stanza from her lovely text:

As the blue expectant hour
before the silvering skies,
we long to see your day arise,
whole and wise, whole and wise,
O lucent Morning Star.

So…how did we resolve the dog-collar dispute? Naturally, we met in the middle: since we have two dogs, we have two opportunities to clothe our beloved charges in the color(s) of Advent. May your Advent draw you ever closer to the dawning light of Christ.


Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. You can find his personal blog here.

Advent: Sweet Sorrow

by Stephen Crippen

I’m one of the people who loves Advent. The deepening darkness, the silence, the sense of longing and expectation. Readings on Sundays are bracing: warnings of end times, commands to stay awake, to keep the watch. But they are also exhilarating: a young woman is told that she’s pregnant, and that her child will bring hope and salvation to her people. All of us who are waiting—and who isn’t waiting for something?—hear the Angel’s words of encouragement: “Rejoice, favored one! The Lord is with you.”

So like all great seasons, like all great celebrations, Advent is all about paradox: in waiting, we are fulfilled. In watching, we find the face of the other, gazing back at us in the darkness. In grieving, we are comforted. The light shines all the brighter because of the deep darkness around it. I’ve been reading poetry by the 13th-Century poet Rumi, and I like how he talks about grief. This is for me an Advent poem:

I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow
and called out,
It tastes sweet, does it not?
You have caught me, grief answered,
and you have ruined my business.
How can I sell sorrow,
when you know it’s a blessing?

I’m a therapist who works with people on relationship problems, grief, and coping with change. So I know how sorrow can be a blessing, how a cup of sorrow can taste sweet. My clients (like me) usually learn the most about themselves—and grow the most—during times of sorrow, struggle, and challenge. This season doesn’t banish the darkness, or deny the sorrow that human beings experience. Advent helps us see how our sorrows and problems transform us, and strengthen us. It sounds weird, but I’ll say it anyway: may you be blessed with sweet sorrow this Advent!

Stephen is a therapist and postulant to the Diaconate. His website is linked above, and you can find his personal blog here.