the gale but never breaks, a tender child, as full of promise today as he was two thousand years ago, an infant whose tiny, apparently powerless hands embraced the hopes and fears of all the world, still hold them tight today.
Advent is the season for promise. There are the promises of God that are fulfilled, and then renewed, in that humble manger birth. But there are also promises evoked in response, promises on our part that are called for in this season. Therefore, by the welcome we extend to all we meet, of whatever race, economic level, sexual orientation, by the generosity we extend to those in cruel want these wintered days, by the witness we bear to those in power against injustice and inequality, we must renew our own commitment to this vision—the vision of the prophets and of the Christ child—and work toward a world built on promise not on fear, built on hope and not the counsels of despair.
Above all we must claim this Advent gift of promise. The promise of our God to be faithful if we will only trust, to be with us in our struggles and trials no matter the odds, and in the child of Bethlehem—Immanuel—God with us—to take our yearning, hurting, ever hoping hearts and hold them, heal them, mold them, grant them peace. That is the promise that God gives us in this season. That is the gift of Advent.
•
Lord, in all the looking forward, all the expectation of this season, turn our hearts toward your coming. Teach us to watch for that greatest gift of all: your presence, your grace, your vision of the kingdom yet to come. Amen.
2. Nietzsche, Twillight of the Idols, maxim and arrow 12.
3. Steves, “Travel Writer.”
Something for Christmas II
Something Worth Waiting For
Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage yea, wait for the Lord!
—Psalm 27:14
If it seem slow, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay.
—Habakkuk 2:3
. . . for the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God.
—Romans 8:19
Some months ago I began yet another course of physical therapy; things tend to develop that way when you reach what are dubiously called “the golden years.” As I sat there waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting for my name to be called, my bored and weary brain flipped back to another such occasion, several years before, the first time, as I recall, that I had actually undergone such treatment. The therapy, on both occasions had been prescribed for shoulder pain, due to wear and tear on something known as the rotator cuff, a condition I had thought afflicted only major league baseball pitchers. There can be, for some, a certain satisfaction, something vaguely “jock-ish” about such therapy and, I must confess, I did relish at first this imaginary mini-communion with such legendary sporting figures as Sandy Koufax, Steve Carlton, and Roger Clemens. But not for long.
They led me into a tiny room, laid me out, half-naked, on a narrow bed, and tucked ice packs around each shivering shoulder. Then they turned the light out and abandoned me. The intriguing thing was that I quickly got used to the cold; what really bothered me was having to lie there for fifteen minutes and do absolutely nothing. In fact, after that initial experience, I made sure I took a book or magazine along and insisted that they leave the light on. I just could not afford the time to simply lie there and be healed.
And here we are in Advent once again, a season when, of all year long, time seems to be most precious, and in most short supply. How many shopping days are left, not to mention mailing days, baking days, cleaning days, decorating days, partying days? The countdown has been off and running for some time now and the momentum is becoming irresistible, sweeping people into the frantic pace, the frenetic race of getting ready, getting ready to be happy at Christmas.
Yet, in contrast with this scene in the secular world, these weeks that we Christians traditionally call Advent are all about waiting, about patience, about trusting, not in our own energies and organization to get everything done, but in the Lord to bring his happiness to earth for us at Christmas. And we are not, at least I am not—as I learned at that therapist’s office—much good anymore at waiting.
We exist nowadays in an instant, on-demand society, where the microwave takes far too long, and after more than twenty seconds in an elevator we start pressing buttons to get the door to close and get on with it. Why wait for a thing to be repaired, we reason, when it’s just about as cheap to buy a new one? Why wait in long and tedious lines at the store, when you can order everything online? Why wait until you can afford it to enjoy the newest toy, the latest electronic gadget, your winter cruise in the sun, when you can put it on plastic and worry about it later? We are not very good anymore at waiting.
Another waiting experience I have been undergoing of late, in this season of traveling and visiting, has been that of waiting for a train. I’m sure many who read these words have sat, as I have, in one of those splendid old center-city railroad stations, New York’s majestic Grand Central, for example, or Philadelphia’s elegant 30th Street Station, waiting for the Metro-liner. After a while it becomes not all that difficult to set aside the fussing and fuming at those repetitive security announcements, the dreary details of scheduling glitches and delays, to lay aside the newspaper, and simply to wait, and to be alive in that waiting.
You can look around and up at the spectacular building, recalling a time when folk believed it was important to take time—time enough to build something that will stand the test of time. You can take the time, in waiting, to survey the fascinating parade of people passing by—the soldier, in combat fatigues, preparing for who knows what, who knows where, disheveled college students on their wanderings to and fro, a young mother struggling with suitcases and two adorable little girls, Brooks Brothers-suited business types complete with laptops, smartphones, and Wall Street Journals. Then there are the homeless, aimless, lost—begging handouts in a routinely hopeless manner.
On just such a trip, to New York City, I toured a visiting exhibit of Dutch Masters at my favorite museum, the Frick, alongside Central Park. Searching in vain for a spot to sit and reflect on those miraculous Rembrandts and Vermeers, I was reminded of instructions issued by a guide at Florence’s famed Uffizi Galleries. “Don’t stop to look at anything,” she told her charges, “or you won’t have time to see everything.” A story that is certainly worth a smile, but also a telling illustration of the way we go through our days, so eager to get everything done, to squeeze everything possible in, that we never have time to stop, look, listen, and thus find ourselves in the timeless presence of God.
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