"The Word became flesh and made a dwelling among us."

Dwelling can be a noun or a verb, making it a homonym. It can be where you live or the act of living somewhere. I can be at home or making a home. Where we dwell and how we dwell entwine.

The sense of home has been poignant this year. Jeanne and I spent much time supporting her father in moving from his home on Virginia's Eastern Shore to Shrewsbury, Massachusetts, near her brother. We spent two separate weeks of vacation to help him pack and make moving decisions. Even though we felt this was a good decision for his well-being, it felt like dismantling the family home. Each room had memories: grandchildren chasing around the house, Jeanne's Mom singing funny Irish songs, shells collected from boat trips to the barrier island beaches. What do you do with boxes of old letters or photo albums of travels throughout Europe in the 1950s? I lugged the heavy boxes to the moving van, knowing their destiny was for our storage, but how could we let this family history go? It felt like the work of "undwelling." Grammerly tells me undwelling is not a word, but if a word can be both a noun and a verb, I can undwell.

To counteract all this sad energy, Jeanne and I threw ourselves into outdoor landscaping in Maine. We constructed raised beds for vegetables and dug rocks (so many rocks!) out of thin Maine soil to plant rhododendrons and hastas. Dead trees came down, and we bought a 27-ton pressure wood splitter. We went all in on Maine as we felt the emotional fragility of what makes a home. We wanted to dwell well.

The family center of gravity shifted again as Jeanne's daughter, Christina, started searching for a home this Fall. As the angel Gabriel might say, "Be not afraid. Behold, I bring you good news of great joy! Your daughter and fiancé have bought a home in Edgecomb, and they shall dwell 20 minutes from your abode."

So, the word dwelling is bittersweet in our hearts this year. Even as we feel a sense of being undone with changes to family and our world, we are grateful for our dwelling, both as a noun and a verb. I'm mindful of how many people have lost their homes this year. We have had 24 weather disasters in 2024, and war and violence displaced 114 million people. The safety of home can quickly be fragile.

I was surprised doing my word studies that dwelling conveys a sense that home is transitional. It moves around. (I know many of you come to Christmas Eve for carols and the candle lighting, but this section is for everyone hoping for Christmas Greek and Hebrew word studies!). The Greek word in John 1:14 can mean to pitch a tent or to stay temporarily. The Hebrew word for dwelling refers to a Tabernacle. While the Hebrews wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, they pitched a tent called the Tabernacle for God to dwell. God moved around with them in their nomadic life.

I love that God is on the move rather than fixed in one sacred spot. God is not fixed and static in some far-off eternal dimension. God is not stuck in a set of ideas and doctrines, or one religious group, or one people or political party. God is on the move. I like this because my life often changes with transitions and uncertainty. Everything changes so rapidly that it is hard to find a good flow and feel grounded. Imagine that God, too, is moving around in flux. God pitches a tent and moves around to different campgrounds. Life changes so much that God is a backpacker in the Universe.

The Message translation for John 1:14 says, "The Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood." We can get so caught up in how word becomes flesh, how can Jesus be divine and yet fully human, lost in the metaphysics, and miss the point. God is relational and actively seeks humans. I'm unsure why since I don't always like people, but it is in God's nature. God loves us, which is a mystery, and moves into the neighborhood.

This message is truly good news. It is always good to hear that your new neighbor is terrific. When we get a new neighbor, we fear they might be too judgmental, distant, and unfriendly, or they will want to borrow all your tools and never return them. When they say they want to invite you over, they don't really mean it.

But God's nature is to dwell among us and create neighborliness. If that is what it takes to create a world where we love our neighbors as we love ourselves, God will somehow be born in a stable.

This Advent, remember that God's love is not fixed or far away but always moving toward us. God pitches a tent next to ours, seeking connection and offering love like a good neighbor. If God has moved into our neighborhood, then we can become better neighbors, especially to people who need shelter, love, and hope. Blessings on your dwelling. Amen."