Three unlikely places of grace

https://www.treespnw.com/resources/2022/3/22/can-stumps-keep-growing

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irst, the stump. Isaiah begins with an image that surprises us: “A shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse.” A stump normally means the end—cut down, lifeless, unable to bear fruit. Yet Advent dares to say otherwise. Even in nature, some stumps are not fully dead. They seal themselves. After a tree is cut, some stumps grow a bark-like cap over the wound. They widen. They add growth rings for years. They remain alive. But how can a stump—without leaves, without photosynthesis—stay alive? Foresters tell us that such stumps survive because the surrounding trees feed them. Through root grafts or fungal networks beneath the soil, sugars and water flow from healthy trees into the wounded one. A stump lives because the forest keeps it alive. It is an underground communion of life.

This is a powerful Advent image. Israel was a stump—its monarchy cut down, its future uncertain—yet God whispered, “Life will come from here. Holiness will come from here.” God often works in the stumps of our lives too: in failure, in loss, in exhaustion. What we think is dead may still be breathing because grace flows from places we cannot see. When relationships feel cut down, God plants reconciliation. When ministries seem tired, God gives new purpose. When creation looks wounded, God stirs us to hope and action. Advent tells us: do not fear the stumps. Even what seems dead may be alive beneath the surface. God loves to begin again.

Second, peace in opposites. Isaiah then gives us a scene that feels impossible: “The wolf shall be a guest of the lamb.” Wolves and lambs, lions and calves, children and snakes—all living peacefully. This is not biology but a vision, a picture of God’s shalom, right relationships among all creatures. It is deeply ecological. When the Messiah reigns, creation heals. Predators no longer harm. Fear disappears. Violence is unlearned. Even the smallest child is safe. And so Isaiah shows us that salvation is not only personal; it is cosmic. It embraces the whole earth. Advent quietly asks us: Am I building this peace, or adding to the world’s wounds? Do my choices heal or harm?

Third, grace in littleness. There is a saying: “The advantage of being tiny—like a blade of grass looking up at a tree, like a stream looking out on the ocean, like a light in a small hut looking up at the stars. Because being tiny, I can see what is great.” In the Gospel, Jesus rejoices in the Holy Spirit. He praises the Father for revealing His secrets not to the learned but to the childlike. “Yes, Father, such has been your gracious will.” The wise may miss God. The small ones do not. Their hearts are open. Their eyes are clear. They expect nothing, so they see everything.

And this is the paradox: the smaller the heart, the more it can hold. The more childlike we become, the more God fills us beyond measure. Jesus tells His disciples, “Blessed are the eyes that see what you see,” because only the little ones can bear such abundance without being crushed by it. Advent invites us into that holy smallness—not to shrink in fear, but to open in wonder. When we become little, God becomes great in us. When we empty ourselves, grace does not trickle in—it pours, it floods, it superabounds. In God’s kingdom, littleness is not scarcity. It is the very place where abundance begins.

And perhaps this is why the song “For Good” speaks so deeply to many hearts. It reminds us that grace often comes through relationships that change us quietly and permanently. Like Elphaba and Glinda, we carry handprints on our hearts—from people who walked with us, forgave us, challenged us, or simply stayed beside us. Advent invites us to notice these graces: the ones who fed us when we were “stumps,” the ones who helped us make peace with our own “opposites,” the ones who taught us the wisdom of littleness. We may not always know if we have been “changed for the better,” but we do know this: because God came to us—and because certain people came into our lives—we have been changed for good. Amen. Fr JM Manzano SJ

“For Good” comes from the Broadway musical Wicked, which tells the story of the unlikely friendship between Elphaba—the so-called Wicked Witch of the West—and Glinda, the Good Witch. The song appears near the end of the story, when the two women recognize how profoundly they have shaped one another’s lives. It is not a romantic duet, nor a triumphant anthem. It is a quiet confession that real change often happens through relationships marked by honesty, struggle, forgiveness, and grace. The lyrics speak of being “changed for the better,” but even more deeply, “changed for good”—not simply improved, but transformed in a lasting way. It is a song about how people become instruments of grace for one another, even with all their imperfections.