[v3] 4th Sunday Advent – Jesus, the Dew from Heaven
1. Dew, Not a Storm
There is a
long tradition in the prophets and in the prayer of the Church of speaking
about the coming of the Messiah using the language of nature—especially the
language of climate and weather.
One of those
images is dew.
Not rain. Not
a storm. Not a flood.
But dew.
Quiet. Gentle.
Almost unnoticed.
The books of Genesis (27:27-29) and Hosea (14:5) speak of God’s
saving presence using this image of dew descending from heaven—an image the
Church comes to recognize fully in Christ. The ros in Latin, rocío in Spanish—the
moisture that appears on the grass overnight, without noise or force. We go to
sleep, and while we are not watching, the ground is touched. Something dry is
refreshed.
Dew does not
announce itself. It does not overwhelm. Yet with the dew, life prospers.
2. From Dew
to Flood: Activity and Attentiveness
That image
stayed with me last night, especially because, about 45 minutes before Mass started,
we noticed something very different from dew or a bit of moisture on the ground.
Ssometime yesterday during the morning or afternoon – not sure when - a pipe
burst in the sacristy, and water poured across the floor. Suddenly, everything
was wet. Buckets came out. Vacuums came out. Volunteers came out. (Several volunteers
vacuumed up water in the sacristy so that Mass couild proceed and we started only
10 mintes after the regular time. It was a reminder to me that we work also so that
we might pray!)
Thank you!
We moved quickly.
We even called
the West Orange Fire Department because the firefighters were able to bring a super-duper
wrench to turn off a valve that we could not manage. Thank you West Orange Firefighters!.
At first,
all I could see was the problem with the soaking water. I could not see any
blessing in this. Later, a friend told me that something similar happened to
someone he knew, and the water ran for days. They lost their house. We were
fortunate. We caught it early.
But I needed
help to see the reality.
That moment
reminded me how often we turn immediately to
activity when what we really need is attentiveness. Cleaning up the
water mattered—but so did stopping long enough to see the situation truthfully,
not just urgently.
Advent
reminds us of this. Preparation is not only physical. It is spiritual. None of
us is finished. No room is ever completely in order. All of us need God’s grace
for reordering and healing.
Conversion
requires effort, yes—but it also requires honesty about our limits, our
vulnerability, and our need for God to come to us.
3. Joseph:
Receiving What Cannot Be Fixed
And that is
the world into which Jesus comes.
In today’s
Gospel, Joseph is anxious. He is righteous—but he is also afraid and uncertain.
The situation before him cannot be fixed by planning or productivity or
control. It can only be received.
Joseph catches
his breath not by escaping the problem, but by listening. God speaks to him in
a dream—not with a long explanation, but with a simple invitation: Do not be afraid.
Joseph
obeys, not because everything suddenly makes sense, but because he trusts.
Isaiah tells
us that God Himself will give the sign. God does not wait for ideal conditions.
God does not wait until everything is in order. God enters human
vulnerability—your vulnerability, my vulnerability.
Jesus does
not arrive above the mess of life. He comes within
it.
4. What
Christians Mean by the Incarnation
This is what
Christians mean by the Incarnation.
We are not
speaking about reincarnation—a soul returning in another form. We are speaking
about something far more radical and far more tender: God Himself, fully
divine, freely taking on our full humanity, entering our real history, our real
limits, our real flesh.
God does not
send a message from a distance.
God comes close.
Jesus comes
and stays “down with us”—close to ordinary life, close to uncertainty, close to
the daily work of loving imperfect people. He shares our vulnerability, because
love is not possible without it.
5.
Downstairs in Bethlehem: The Method of God
Biblical
scholar Kenneth Bailey reminds us that when Joseph returned to Bethlehem—his
own village—hospitality would have been assumed. The Holy Family was not
abandoned outside. When Scripture says there was “no room at the inn,” it does
not mean a hotel with a “no vacancy” sign.
It means
there was no room in the usual upstairs guest space.
So Mary and
Joseph stayed downstairs—close to the animals, close to work, close to
survival. This was not a failure of hospitality. It was the method of the Incarnation.
Jesus does
not come to lift us above vulnerability.
He comes to share it.
6. Dew and
Breath: How God Draws Near
That is why
the image of dew matters.
Jesus comes
not like a storm that overwhelms us, but like dew from heaven—quiet, gentle, life-giving—entering our vulnerability
without force.
In this regard, Jesus as Lord and Savior is the ideal guest, the perfect visitor. He does not barge
in. He does not take over. He does not overwhelm what is fragile. He enters
respectfully, patiently, and transforms from within.
Pope
Benedict XVI once wrote that in prayer—especially at Christmas—we are trying to
catch our breath. That image reaches
back to Genesis, where God breathes life into humanity. The word for Spirit
also means breath, wind, life.
Many of us
are out of breath—emotionally, spiritually, even relationally. When that
happens, where do we turn? Do we reach for distraction? Do we fill the silence
with noise, screens, or constant activity?
In the
Gospel, the risen Jesus breathes peace on His disciples after they have failed
Him. Even betrayal does not disqualify them from closeness. Mercy itself requires
vulnerability.
7. Advent
Honesty and the Prayer of the Church
This is why
Advent is honest. It invites us to stop pretending we are self-sufficient. It
invites us to admit where we are tired, afraid, or unsure.
Jesus comes
not because everything is in order, but because it is not.
For now, our
Savior chooses to remain close—in the ordinary, in the fragile, in the places
where love costs something. He is not distant or demanding. He draws us by
closeness. He stays where life is lived.
As these
final days of Advent unfold, we are invited to interrupt our momentum, to catch
our breath, and to allow God to be as close as He already desires to be.
This is how
Jesus comes.
And this is how He stays among us.
And the
Church gives us the words to pray for exactly this grace. We heard them at the
beginning of Mass, and I pray we might return them now with deeper
understanding and gratitude:
that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ, Thy Son, was made known by the message of an angel,
may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever. Amen.
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