Marilu Thomas, “New House”
On the third Sunday of Advent some years ago, we moved into a new house. I know—two weeks before Christmas! It was chaotic and very hopeful at the same time. Truth is I had stalked this house and was sure that, once we lived there, we would be perfect because it was the perfect house. We would be more like you, at least the You that I imagined you to be—like the Christmas catalog families with special sheets just for Christmas Eve and every corner of your house looking new and shiny, with little candles in the windows. Like the families in the Target commercials—orderly, cheerful, playing with smiling dogs. Not just our address would be different, we would be new and improved. I would be more normal, happier, less stressed. And then we moved in --and we were still imperfect us, but in the chaos and disorder of a new house.
During the pandemic, I have felt the ‘house stalking mind’ come back. I know I am not alone in this! House hunting, or more precise House Envy, has become a way to ease our collective anxiety by focusing on what life would be like if we lived in That house. Another house. One unlike the one we are living in, maybe with different people than the ones we are living with. A friend of mine told me that she moved to Charlottesville because the UVA Alumni magazine real estate section is fantasy candy. It makes you believe that you can go back to when life was fun and more carefree, at least if you remember college that way. Move here and you will feel young again. It’s intoxicating. This includes addicting remodeling shows: Love it or List It, Chip and Joanne, The Property Brothers, Ty Pennington, Master of Flip-- you name it, and I watch for hours. We’re renovating so much that there is a lumber shortage! Even when we didn’t have a house, the thought of having a house seemed the answer to all of our problems.
Meghan Daum, in the book, The American Idea of Home, writes, “A perfect house is lust made manifest. It can make its visitors delirious with longing. It can send butterflies into their bellies in ways a living, breathing human being rarely can. A house that’s an object of lust says, You want me, but you’ll never have me. It says, You couldn’t have me even if you could afford me. You couldn’t have me even if I didn’t already belong to someone else. And that is because houses, like most objects of lust, lose their perfection the moment we’re granted access.
To take possession of a house is to skim the top off of its magic the minute you sign the deed. It is to concede that the house you live in will never be the house you desired so ravenously.”
But where did this ravenous house craving come from and what will satisfy it? It seems to be lodged deep within us to have not just a house, but a home. And not just any home but a place that will feel like home. We have dreams about what this should look like. How many novels have been written about this subject? As we have been staying at home more than ever, we are keenly aware that home is not a building or a geographical location, it’s a feeling. Ask yourself what home means to you—is it Where you grew up? Where your parents are? Where your spouse is? Where your children are? Where your friends are? What feeling is it that is home? Belonging? Welcome? Acceptance? Forgiveness? Love? When I was at the very lowest point in my life, in the darkest part of my life, I called the most grace-filled relative I have who simply said, “Come home.”
Our Advent 3 Old Testament text digs deep into our soul’s search for home. It’s from a short book written by the prophet Zephaniah. I like to consider the Old Testament as our collective history, so let’s look at our family scrapbook of the prophets. In about 650 BC, our family lost the only copy of the bible we had because we were busy doing other things. When one of the kids found it in an old basement, we didn’t even know what it was. Our attitude toward god was that god didn’t do much of anything—good or bad. We kind of went with whatever idol was cool at the time. It would be like forgetting that your Grandpa was actually related to you; he built your house, took care of your whole family, gave you your inheritance, and then you lost his picture and forgot who he was. Grandpa would be sad.
Ok- now think how happy Grandpa would be if you called or came by? This is what I’m talking about! The people had forgotten all about God, but he forgave them because he never has, and never will, forget them. I’m soft pedaling it a bit here in because the people had really messed up and they took a really long time to admit it. Self-centeredness to the max. But that doesn’t ever seem to be a deal breaker with God. He likes to be the joy at the end of our road.
The text says, “He will renew you in his love, he will exult over you with loud singing,” and then God says, “I will bring you home.” This is the home we are really longing for, not the fantasy ones in the catalogs or on a drive by. It’s the God-shaped hole in our soul that can’t be filled by stuff. Even beautiful stuff like new houses.
C. S. Lewis said, “The fact that our heart yearns for something Earth can't supply is proof that Heaven must be our home.” It reminds me of the Kenny Loggins song, usually on the radio at this time of year, “Celebrate Me Home.” “I’m finally here, but I’m bound to roam, come on celebrate me home.” That’s us. We are finally here but we’re bound to roam. We are like puppies who can’t seem to keep our focus and keep roaming away from God. We are the lost lamb, the lost coin, the lost puppy, the lost child. We do nothing to be found, but God celebrates us home every time.
C.S. Lewis also compared us to a house in his book Mere Christianity. He wrote, “Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”
You may feel a bit ‘knocked about’ as C. S. Lewis says. You may also feel lost or forgotten. You may feel you have done something God can’t forgive. Many people at this time of year feel distanced from God—what has been called disconsolation. Not feeling consoled. Others feel great consolation—a feeling of comfort. Neither of these states of being are due to the efforts of the person experiencing it. These are seasons in our life of faith, our relationship with Christ. It may feel false to hear but, no matter how you are feeling, you are still always in God’s home. I don’t know when you will ‘feel’ like you are home again—loved, belonging and accepted—but you have God’s promise that you will never be abandoned. We have a God that wrapped Himself in flesh and blood to be with us, to make His promise tangible and everlasting. This Zephaniah text tells us that there is nothing you can do to turn God away from you. He will renew you with His love and exult over you with loud singing every time. Taylor Caldwell wrote, “We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses.” God chooses to be with you. God celebrates you home. Amen
