When Jesus Moved Into Our Hood

We are leaving the last week of Advent and drawing near to Christmas, with Epiphany just ahead on the following Sunday. So what have we noticed about these past few weeks of waiting, watching, and, if we’re honest, trying not to lose track of which candle we’re supposed to light? Advent has been walking us through the wilderness with John the Baptist, who didn’t choose a comfortable pulpit. He chose the erēmos , the desert of Judea. A rugged, barren stretch east of Jerusalem all the way down toward the Dead Sea. A place you don’t pass through on your way to anywhere else. The desert is honest like that. It doesn’t flatter. It doesn’t distract. It simply says, “All right, what’s really going on in your soul?” That’s where John appears, calling people to prepare the way of the Lord anywhere. Which, depending on who you ask, sounds a lot like Borrego Springs. Anyone who has driven east of town toward the Salton Sea knows that feeling: the land opens up, the noise falls away, and suddenly the desert asks you questions you didn’t plan. Not with guilt, but with clarity. Repentance, in his voice, is not a scolding; it’s a spiritual housecleaning. A chance to sweep out the dust of fear, resentment, and spiritual clutter so the light of Christ can get in without tripping over anything. And the desert is a good teacher for this. Out here, nothing grows without intention. Life survives because water is shared, shade is offered, and roots learn to reach deep. Borrego Springs reminds us that transformation is possible even in harsh places, especially when compassion flows like a hidden spring. Advent work begins inside us—softening the heart, forgiving ourselves, forgiving others—but it doesn’t stay there. It moves outward into the dry places of the world, where justice, mercy, and peace are desperately needed. Christ calls us to be streams of kindness in thirsty landscapes. As we move toward Christmas and then into Epiphany, the season of revealing, we remember that John’s voice was only the beginning. As Martin Luther said, with John “a new voice is in town,” pointing toward the One to come who brings light into every shadow. And here in our own desert, we know something about light. We know how it rises over the mountains and floods the valley. We know how it reveals everything, beautiful or otherwise. And we know how it can warm even on the coldest morning. So as Advent gives way to Christmas, and Christmas leads us toward Epiphany, may we carry that desert clarity with us. May we make room for joy. May we welcome Christ’s peace. And may we become signs of hope in this rugged, beautiful place we call home.

We are leaving the last week of Advent and drawing near to Christmas, with Epiphany just ahead on the following Sunday. So what have we noticed about these past few weeks of waiting, watching, and, if we’re honest, trying not to lose track of which candle we’re supposed to light? Advent has been walking us through the wilderness with John the Baptist, who didn’t choose a comfortable pulpit. He chose the erēmos , the desert of Judea. A rugged, barren stretch east of Jerusalem all the way down toward the Dead Sea. A place you don’t pass through on your way to anywhere else. The desert is honest like that. It doesn’t flatter. It doesn’t distract. It simply says, “All right, what’s really going on in your soul?” That’s where John appears, calling people to prepare the way of the Lord anywhere. Which, depending on who you ask, sounds a lot like Borrego Springs. Anyone who has driven east of town toward the Salton Sea knows that feeling: the land opens up, the noise falls away, and suddenly the desert asks you questions you didn’t plan. Not with guilt, but with clarity. Repentance, in his voice, is not a scolding; it’s a spiritual housecleaning. A chance to sweep out the dust of fear, resentment, and spiritual clutter so the light of Christ can get in without tripping over anything. And the desert is a good teacher for this. Out here, nothing grows without intention. Life survives because water is shared, shade is offered, and roots learn to reach deep. Borrego Springs reminds us that transformation is possible even in harsh places, especially when compassion flows like a hidden spring. Advent work begins inside us—softening the heart, forgiving ourselves, forgiving others—but it doesn’t stay there. It moves outward into the dry places of the world, where justice, mercy, and peace are desperately needed. Christ calls us to be streams of kindness in thirsty landscapes. As we move toward Christmas and then into Epiphany, the season of revealing, we remember that John’s voice was only the beginning. As Martin Luther said, with John “a new voice is in town,” pointing toward the One to come who brings light into every shadow. And here in our own desert, we know something about light. We know how it rises over the mountains and floods the valley. We know how it reveals everything, beautiful or otherwise. And we know how it can warm even on the coldest morning. So as Advent gives way to Christmas, and Christmas leads us toward Epiphany, may we carry that desert clarity with us. May we make room for joy. May we welcome Christ’s peace. And may we become signs of hope in this rugged, beautiful place we call home.