Month: November 2020

PART ONE : The prophesy and realization of God’s plan to redeem mankind by the coming of the Messiah

George Frideric Handel wrote his beloved Messiah in about three weeks in 1741. The libretto for Messiah was compiled from the King James version of the Bible and the Coverdale Psalter by Charles Jennens, a man who believed in the primacy of scripture and created the wordbook of Messiah as a statement of faith.

Messiah is an oratorio. Oratorios were originally intended as unstaged, religious dramas, written for performances in an oratory – a sort of communal gathering space for church matters, much like today’s Fellowship Hall – during Lent when the theaters were closed.

Messiah differs from Handel’s other oratorios in that it does not tell a story. Rather, it is about the idea of a messiah, a series of texts that point to Jesus Christ as both God and man, savior and redeemer.

Much like Handel’s operas, Messiah is constructed of three parts, or acts. These three parts are divided into sixteen scenes.

Part One focuses primarily on prophecies by Isaiah, with a few other minor prophets thrown in. It deals with the advent, nativity and life of Jesus. Jennens’ compilation of texts paired with Handel’s music creates a rich backdrop for an Advent meditation. I’m going to use these texts and music for my quiet time this year as I prepare to celebrate Christ’s birth, and his second coming.

Jennens was obviously a deep thinker and a man of God. In the frontispiece of his wordbook, he includes the following scripture:

And without controversy, great is the Mystery of Godliness: God was manifested in the Flesh, justified by the Spirit, seen of Angels, preached among the Gentiles, believed on in the World, received up in Glory (1 Timothy 3:16)

In whom are hid all the Treasures of Wisdom and Knowledge (Colossians 2:3)

My prayer is that I (and perhaps you) can spend Advent contemplating the Mystery of Godliness, using Messiah as a catalyst.

O come, o come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel! That mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear.

It is the first Sunday of Advent, and I’m sitting on my couch in front of the fire looking at the display on my mantel. Every year I use my nativity as liturgical action figures to remind me of the Great Story. Currently the angel of hope stands before an expectant Mary, flanked on each side by two quotes – one that says “Ponder anew what the Almighty can do” and the other that simply admonishes us to Wait.

We have done so much waiting this year. Waiting for election results, waiting for a vaccine, waiting for the other shoe to drop…

Not all waiting is involuntary, but much of it is. So much of waiting lies in something beyond our control. Everything about this year feels out of control. A lesson I am trying to learn is that there is no control. Control is illusory.

Waiting is perhaps the hardest work there is, because waiting implies that there is not much we can do. I am a doer. When one is a doer, it is easy to assume there is control. To sit and ponder is stressful and uneasy. All major religions admonish us to learn to be still. My religion encourages me to be still and know that God is God.

To be still means to wait. To do nothing but wait.

To be still and know that God is God means to wait with expectancy, just as Mary did.

The first candle of advent signifies Hope. In some traditions that translates as Faith. To wait with expectation of something not yet arrived. To relinquish control, but acknowledge something is coming.

In my nativity set, the angel of hope holds a small candle that she shelters with her hand. The flame is fragile and must be protected. Hope can be like that. Hope must be nurtured and protected and that happens in the waiting. Without waiting, there is no hope, only things already fulfilled. Without hope, there is no waiting, only despairing. We wait for what will come. As a Christian, I wait with hope for what will come.

O come, o come Emmanuel. And ransom captive Israel.