I think that what our gospel lessons have been telling us over the last few weeks, what John says to us this morning, is that the kind of preparation that we’re supposed to do in Advent isn’t about anticipating the unexpected, or preventing unknown dangers. It’s not about erecting scaffolding that keeps us safe from the winds and waters of the world. What today’s Gospel lesson teaches us is that Advent preparation is in some ways the exact opposite of scaffolding, of bracketing the unknown into something that becomes manageable. And I think this is the lesson that John teaches us is especially important on this Sunday of Joy. When he excoriates the crowds as a brood of vipers, he does so not because these are bad people but because he wants them to shed themselves of the fiction, the idolatry, that they can shore up their social and spiritual worth by scaffolding, hitching their spiritual safety to Abraham. John tells the crowd to share coats and give food to those who have none; to tax collectors, he admonishes them to collect just enough and no more; he instructs the soldiers not to abuse their power, not to be greedy. This is more than John telling the people to be equitable, to enact justice. Rather, he is preparing the crowd for a different way of being, a way of being in which the key to life is not about hiding yourself from danger, keeping risk at bay, but actually embracing vulnerability as a core experience to our common life. These walls, these things we erect to protect ourselves and shut us down and shut us out of the risks of life aren’t the answer, John is saying. No, give away your coats, don’t hoard, because in doing so, in opening yourself up to vulnerability, in becoming vulnerable, you open yourself up to joy.
Indeed, the deep wisdom of the Season of Advent, and particularly this Sunday reserved for Joy rests in this radical idea that joy comes when we prepare ourselves to be vulnerable. Noted author Brené Brown, a professor at the University of Houston, writes in her latest book that “Vulnerability is the core of all emotions and feelings. To feel is to be vulnerable. To foreclose on our emotional life out of a fear that the costs are too high is to walk away from the very things that gives purpose and meaning to living.” Vulnerability, then, is a precondition to joy. To be open to the uncertainty, the risk, of the world around us, to leave ourselves exposed to this world is intimately tied to our capacity to experience joy. Our capacity for joy can never be greater than our willingness to be vulnerable. Softening into, leaning into the joyful moments of life requires vulnerability; vulnerability is the precondition to joy.
I cannot begin to tell you how scary this sounds, because even as I say these things I’m so filled with dread it almost takes my breath away. I’m particularly mindful of how dreadful vulnerability can be given this week’s horrific tragedy in Connecticut. When we open ourselves to vulnerability, we open ourselves to pain, disappointment, heartbreak, grief. We are laid bare, and there’s no guarantee for joy. Our exposure puts us at the highest risk; for me, there’s nothing more terrifying that this prospect of laying open not just me but my children to the world’s risk. It brings me to my knees. I don’t want to be vulnerable, I want to hide and be secure from danger. But what our gospel lesson teaches us this morning and what this season of Advent invites us into is to live this risk, to prepare ourselves as open vulnerable souls so that joy can seep in. And this of course what the whole story that we’re preparing for is all about, isn’t it? The story of God risking God’s self by becoming a terribly vulnerable, frail, fragile human being, Emmanuel, God with us, God as us. For we worship a God who risks it all, who embraces vulnerability as a precondition to joy and who invites us to be vulnerable, to ourselves, to each other, so that we might experience joy beyond our wildest imaginations.
My friend Andy Marra knows something about this intimate connection between vulnerability and joy. An adoptee from Korea, Andy came out to her adoptive parents as transgender in 2003, but she hesitated to complete her transition before she met her unknown family in Korea. In 2010, Andy had the opportunity to visit Korea, and on the last day of her stay she found herself in a police station asking an officer to help her find her mother. The officer initially balked with a lengthy bureaucratic response, but then Andy cried, “Help me! I need to find my parents. I have waited all my life for this moment. Please help me!” In that moment, something shifted in the police station, and within two hours, she and her mother were reunited for the first time in almost three decades. But the story doesn’t end there. Two weeks later, Andy’s mother asked her, “What is worrying you? You seem worried about something.” Wondering and questioning whether to reveal her identity, Andy finally said to her mother, whom she had only been reunited with for a few days, “Mother, I am not a boy. I am a girl. I am transgender.” “Silence filled the room,” Andy recalls. “I searched my mother’s eyes for any signs of shock, disgust or sadness. But a serene expression lined her face… Then my mother spoke: ‘Mommy knew. I was waiting for you to tell me.’” Later, she proudly introduced Andy to a local waitress and her church pastor as her trans daughter. In a recent Skype conversation, Andy’s mother leaned into the computer screen and said, “My daughter, you are beautiful.” Andy and her Korean mother know something of deep joy borne out of deep vulnerability, joy made possible when you and I prepare our hearts to be transformed by the unexpected, the unknown, when we put ourselves at risk in the manner that God puts God’s self at risk.
My sisters and brothers, God invites us into a life of joy beyond our wildest imaginations by inviting us into the risky life of vulnerability. As we prepare our hearts and minds to receive the bread and wine made holy, may we be open to the risk of being broken, even today as we bear witness to the risks, just as Christ is broken for us, so that we might be open to the life-giving joy that comes from being open to all that God presents to us. And may in this season of Advent we prepare our lives by giving away our coats and everything else that stands in the way of our being deeply vulnerable, so that we come to know the joy that is God’s dream for us and for the world.
Creo que lo que nuestro Evangelio nos dice es que el tipo de preparación que debemos hacer en esta temporada no es sobre prevenir lo inesperado. Lo que nos enseña la lección del Evangelio de hoy es que la preparación de Adviento es en cierto modo lo contrario de convertir lo desconocido en algo que es manejable. Y creo yo, que esta lección que Juan nos enseña es especialmente importante en este domingo de la alegría. Cuando se llama a la multitud una camada de víboras, no lo hace así porque son gente mala, sino porque él quiere que ellos dejen la idolatría, que su valor espiritual está ligada a su relación con Abraham.
Juan le dice a la multitud, compartir los abrigos y dar comida a quienes que no la tienen; les amonesta a los recaudadores de impuestos, recoger solamente lo que es necesario y no más; les instruye a los soldados que no abusen su poder, ni ser codiciosos. Esto es más que Juan diciendo a la gente a ser equitativo. Más bien, se está preparando la gente para una forma de ser diferente, una manera de ser en que la clave de la vida no se trata de esconderse del peligro, pero en realidad abarca la vulnerabilidad como una experiencia fundamental para nuestra vida humana común. No. Compartir sus abrigos, no acumular, porque al hacerlo, en abrirse a la vulnerabilidad, al hacerse vulnerable, te abres a la alegría.
En realidad, la profunda sabiduría de este domingo de la alegría reside en esta idea radical de que la alegría viene cuando nos preparamos a ser vulnerable. Profesor Brene Brown, de la Universidad de Houston, escribe en su último libro que "La vulnerabilidad es el núcleo de todas las emociones y sentimientos. Sentir es ser vulnerable. Impedir nuestra vida emocional por miedo que los costos son demasiado altos es alejarse de las cosas que dan sentido y significado a la vida." Vulnerabilidad, entonces, es una condición previa a la alegría. Nuestra capacidad para la alegría nunca puede ser mayor que nuestra voluntad de ser vulnerable.
Esto suena muy aterrador. Es especialmente aterrador cuando pensamos en el tiroteo que tuvo lugar en Connecticut, el pasado viernes. Cuando nos abrimos a la vulnerabilidad, nos abrimos al dolor, decepción, angustia, pena. Y las 28 personas muertas, 20 niños muertos, rompe todos nuestros corazones. Pero nuestra lección evangelica nos invita a prepararnos con almas abiertas y vulnerables para que la alegría puede penetrar. ¿Y esto, por supuesto, es lo que toda la historia que estamos preparando significa, no? La historia de Dios arriesgando el ser de Dios por hacerse humano, un humano terriblemente vulnerable, frágil y quebradizo, Emanuel, Dios con nosotros, Dios como nosotros. Adoramos a un Dios que arriesga todo, que nos invita a ser vulnerable, ante nosotros mismos, con los demás, para que podemos experimentar la alegría más allá de nuestras imaginaciones más fervientes.
Mi amigo Andy Marra sabe algo acerca de esta conexión íntima entre la vulnerabilidad y la alegría. El adoptado desde Corea, Andy anunció a sus padres adoptivos que era transgénero en 2003, pero vaciló sobre completar su transición antes de conocer a su familia desconocida en Corea. En 2010, Andy tuvo la oportunidad de visitar Corea, y en el último día de su viaje fue a una estación de policía pidiendo a un oficial para ayuda a encontrar a su madre. El funcionario se negó inicialmente con una respuesta larga y burocrática, pero Andy gritó: "¡Ayúdame! Tengo que encontrar a mis padres. He esperado toda mi vida para este momento. ¡Por favor, ayúdame!" En este momento de vulnerabilidad, algo cambió en la estación de policía, y dentro de dos horas, ella y su madre se reunieron por primera vez en casi tres décadas.
Dos semanas después, la madre de Andy, le preguntó: "¿Qué le preocupa? Usted parece preocupada por algo." Andy finalmente dijo a su madre: "Madre, yo no soy un niño. Soy una chica. Yo soy transgénero." Andy relata: "El silencio llenó la habitación. Busqué en los ojos de mi madre signos de choque, asco, o tristeza. Sin embargo, una expresión serena alineado su cara ... Entonces mi madre dijó: 'Mamá sabía. Estaba esperando que me digas.’’ Más tarde, se presentó con orgullo a Andy a su pastor de la iglesia como su hija trans. Recientamente en una conversación de Skype, la madre de Andy se inclinó hacia la pantalla de la computadora y le dijo: "Hija mía, eres hermosa." Andy y su madre coreana saben algo de la alegría que es posible cuando nos ponemos en riesgo a la manera en que Dios pone a sí mismo en riesgo.
Mis hermanos y hermanas, Dios nos invita a entrar en una vida de alegría más allá de nuestras imaginaciones más fervientes por invitarnos a la azarosa vida de la vulnerabilidad. Que podamos ser expuesto al riesgo de romperse, así como Cristo es quebrantado por nosotros. Y que podemos preparar nuestras vidas, compartiendo nuestros abrigos y todo lo que bloquea nuestro camino de ser profundamente vulnerable para que podemos llegar a saber la alegría que es el sueño de Dios para nosotros y para el mundo.
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