December
10,
2006:
FRUITFUL
WAITING:
SURPRISE!
Luke
3:1-6,
Malachi
3:1-4,
Luke
1:68-79,
Eileen
Parfrey,
Springwater
Presbytery.
For
people
of
a
certain
age,
the
response
to
surprise
often
comes
out,
"That's
right!
No
one
expects
the
Spanish
Inquisition!"
This
refers
to
a
sketch
from
the
British
TV
series,
Monty
Python's
Flying
Circus.
In
this
episode,
ordinary
and
mundane
scenes
are
interrupted
as
people
wearing
high-Church
regalia
burst
in,
ominously
shouting
the
dreaded
words,
"That's
right!
No
one
expects
the
Spanish
Inquisition!"
The
scene
falls
into
confusion
as
the
innocent
victims
wonder
what
this
is
about,
and
then
chaos
invariably
ensues
to
hilarity
and
slapstick
comedy.
In
case
you're
a
little
rusty
on
your
Church
history,
the
Spanish
Inquisition
was
a
dreadful
period
of
torture
and
oppression
in
the
name
of
suppressing
religious
heresy.
Python's
humor
is
a
dark
humor,
as
wackiness
juxtaposes
the
memory
of
the
Inquisition's
reign
of
terror,
with
the
silliness
of
actors
posing
as
innocent
people
in
a
totally
different
century.
This
is
the
time
of
year
for
creating
and
receiving
surprises.
I'm
aware
that
there
are
some
people
who
can't
stand
to
anticipate
surprise.
My
own
mother
had
perfected
the
art
of
finding,
unwrapping
and
secretly
re-wrapping
packages.
Other
people
take
matters
into
their
own
hands,
faking
surprise
as
they
unwrap
gifts
whose
purchase
they
carefully
engineer.
At
my
friend
Shelley's
sale
this
week,
a
total
stranger
held
a
vintage
rhinestone
necklace
to
her
throat
and
turned
to
me
asking,
"Do
you
think
my
husband
wants
to
give
me
this?"
I
didn't
even
know
her
name,
but
I
nodded,
and
she
took
it
home
to
wrap.
It's
people
who
can't
be
surprised
that
are
hard
on
me.
These
are
the
ones
who
always
guess,
no
matter
how
sneaky
the
box
and
wrapping-a
book
in
a
pet
carrier
box,
the
sound
of
broken
crockery
disguising
new
socks.
It
really
frustrates
me.
This
time
in
the
lectionary
year
is
about
surprise
that
transcends
our
anticipation
and
planning.
One
Christmas,
my
friend
Ann
wanted
a
radio
so
badly
that
when
she
found
a
radio-sized
and
-shaped
box
under
the
tree,
she
planned
where
that
radio
would
go
in
her
room
and
what
she
and
her
friends
would
listen
to.
On
Christmas
morning,
the
package
turned
out
to
be
a
jewelry
box.
A
beautiful
box,
but
not
what
she
had
anticipated.
Despite
the
prophetic
warnings,
God's
coming
still
surprises
us.
Ludicrous!
God,
so
abstract,
so
far
off,
that
even
the
suggestion
of
making
God
tangible
through
a
picture
or
a
sculpture-that
was
sin.
The
prophecies
pointing
to
God's
momentous
surprise
are
both
ominous
and
thrilling-a
Messiah
to
come
who
would
both
rescue
and
judge.
But
nothing
prepares
us
to
receive
that
far-off
God
come
close
as
the
literal
Messiah,
a
real,
flesh-and-blood
human
baby
child.
"That's
right!
No
one
expects
the
Spanish
Inquisition!"
The
daily
lectionary
this
week
included
Isaiah's
prophecy
that
God's
people
would
recognize
the
time
of
judgment-the
time
preceding
the
eventual
salvation-because
everything
would
be
so
chaotic
that
no
leaders
would
emerge.
Violent
and
meaningless
bursts
of
bullying-that
would
occur.
But
it
would
only
serve
to
point
out
the
alienation
of
faith
from
political
realities
and
the
daily
lives
of
the
people.
By
the
time
John
the
Baptist
comes
along,
God's
salvation
had
become
a
formula
as
zany
as,
"That's
right!
No
one
expects
the
Spanish
Inquisition!"
By
the
time
we
come
along,
salvation
has
come
to
mean
"what
happens
after
we
die."
As
much
as
Israel
needed
surprise
and
shock
to
see
that
things-as-they-are
was
not
working,
we
do
too.
I
don't
know
what
it's
gonna
take,
but
sooner
or
later
we're
going
to
have
realize
that
salvation
is
what
begins
when
we
realize
God
loves
us.
In
this
day
and
age-our
day
and
age-salvation
is
the
courage
to
dream
new
dreams.
For
Springwater,
salvation
may
be
as
simple
as
trusting
that
we
don't
need
to
replicate
the
church
of
1948
to
still
be
the
faithful
community
of
God's
people.
Salvation
may
be
as
complicated
as
realizing
that
"the
way
things
ought
to
be"
will
never
line
up
with
"the
way
things
are."
To
dream
the
new
dreams
of
Advent
is
to
let
"what
if"
replace
our
resistance
to
surprise.
What
if
I
forgave
the
person
who
did
dirt
to
my
loved
ones?
What
if
I
forgave
the
disappointment
and
betrayal
and
abandonment?
What
if
I
recognized
the
flawed-but-pitiable
source
of
that
outrage
as
coming
from
that
one's
pain?
What
if
I
gave
up
trying
to
be
the
perfect
person
in
the
perfect
family?
What
if
I
acknowledged
that
being
"the
most"
of
anything
took
too
much
energy?
What
if
I
gave
up
the
pursuit
of
personal
perfection
to
accomplish
my
salvation?
What
if
I
could
accept
that
another
is
different
from
me?
Would
I
still
be
right?
What
if
I
didn't
have
to
be
right?
What
if,
just
this
once,
I
didn't
have
to
blame
someone
else
for
my
pain
or
my
screw
up?
Would
I
still
be
lovable?
What
if
I
just
loved
someone
without
needing
to
change
them?
What
if
I
gave
up
world
peace
and
just
worked
for
being
fair
and
compassionate
right
here?
What
if
I
didn't
grieve
that
my
gift
isn't
as
much
or
as
big
as
I'd
like
it
to
be,
but
simply
gave?
What
if
I
just
did
what
I
can?
And
that
was
enough.
My
uncle
thinks
that
what
motivates
most
people
is
one
simple
thing-the
desire
to
be
known
for
who
they
are,
and
loved.
For
who
we
are.
I
thought
I
was
the
only
person
in
the
world
who
was
afraid
that
if
people
knew
who
I
really
was,
they
wouldn't
love
me.
There's
an
old
construction
saying,
"There's
a
whole
in
the
sock
at
the
end
of
the
job."
It
means
that
a
job's
profit
is
lost
at
the
end
as
"just
one
more
thing"
keeps
coming
up,
never
seeming
to
end.
We've
all
had
times
when
the
hole
in
our
emotional
sock
has
been
impossible
to
fill.
Times
when
the
more
love
and
forgiveness
we're
offered,
the
more
we
seem
to
need
it.
The
hole
just
gets
bigger
in
a
vicious
circle
of
neediness.
What
we
need
is
some
decisive
interruption.
"That's
right!
No
one
expects
the
Spanish
Inquisition!"
Thank
God
we
worship
an
opportunist.
God
doesn't
send
pain
to
soften
us
up,
but
neither
does
God
let
anything
go
to
waste.
God
will
use
the
smallest
chink
in
our
armor
of
self-sufficiency
to
come
to
us.
In
God's
ecosystem,
even
the
worst
experience
can
teach
us
about
God's
love
and
draw
us
to
God.
Advent
is
the
season
of
attentiveness
to
God's
coming-a
time
of
reflection,
bringing
our
questions
to
scripture,
journaling
our
prayers.
The
point
is
to
enlarge
our
hearts
and
minds,
to
clear
space
in
our
schedules-especially
to
make
time
during
this
hectic
season.
Make
room
to
experience
God's
peace
and
presence.
You
might
be
surprised
by
a
new
way
of
perceiving.
The
Spanish
Inquisition
interrupted
my
life
in
the
person
of
a
three-year
old
named
Milo
this
week.
A
group
of
pastors
met
at
the
Grotto
for
lunch
and
Advent
prayer
in
the
chapel
overlooking
the
city.
While
standing
in
line
to
order
soup,
young
Milo
spied
the
cross
around
my
neck
and
wondered
how
God
could
love
him
when
Jesus
was
on
the
cross.
The
mother,
perhaps
sensing
she
was
in
the
midst
of
a
group
of
professional
Christians,
apologized
and
tried
to
shush
him.
But
Milo
wanted
me
to
answer
how
Jesus-being-dead
showed
that
God
loved
him.
Theology
doesn't
work
with
three-year-olds,
and
so
Milo
became
my
teacher.
That
Milo
was
loved
was
evident
from
his
conversation
with
his
mother.
That
Milo
was
loved
in
the
concrete
here-and-now
was
evident
by
his
trust
that
strangers
could
explain
so
he
could
understand
the
delight
and
joy
of
being
loved
in
particular
by
a
God
so
human
as
to
be
no
longer
dead.
We
may
never
expect
the
Spanish
Inquisition,
but
we
ought
to
expect
surprise.
The
biggest
surprise
of
all
is
the
Incarnation-God
becoming
human-whether
or
not
we
make
the
room
and
take
the
time
for
it.
God
will
come.
God
will
come
bringing
a
salvation
which
is
neither
ominous,
like
the
real
Spanish
Inquisition,
nor
slapstick
like
Monty
Python's
version.
Salvation
will
break
in-even
to
our
lives.
Sometimes
it
takes
a
sudden
surprise.
Sometimes
it
brings
all
the
chaos
our
worlds
can
hold.
But
salvation
comes.
And
God
won't
waste
a
thing
in
bringing
it
about.
Even
here.
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