cannot be all that defined, this fragile, formidable, spiderweb we claim and cling to. If it could it would not be hope, but plan or goal, reward even; and true hope is not like that. It is an experience; and experience can never be fully described. It is a reality, not just a projection; and no one has yet come close to pinning down, explaining reality. Like those mysterious, bulky packages that appear and disappear around the home during this season, hope has to be unknown, or it wouldn’t be hope at all.
Yet there are a few things we can say about this hope, this hope we are given to get by with. It has something to do with birth—this much is sure—but with an unexpected, seemingly quite inappropriate birth, one that no one will believe is really true, the right one, in the right place, at the right time, under the proper circumstances.
It has something to do with peace—this too seems certain. But, once again, not the kind of peace that we desire, or think we hope for. It will be a peace that will surprise us, shock us, drive us to our knees, a peace that will demand nothing, nothing of us except our entire selves.
It has something to do with mystery—this cannot be doubted—prophecies, kings, and seers, astrologers and virgins, stars, shepherds, sheep, and angels. And this mystery, too, is hard to recognize, even to look for, in this eminently practical, common-sense, dollars-and-cents, all too literally down-to-earth world. It will boggle the mind when it comes, our hope, shock our rationalistic heads all the way through into eternity.
It has something to do with a baby—we know this much also—and so we should be especially attentive in these latter days to children, seeing in them a sign, a promise, a foretaste of this hope we are allowed to share without ever really grasping it.
It has everything to do with God—of this we can be certain—the power that gives us life and takes life from us, the source of all the gifts with which we bless and curse ourselves along the way. Hope has everything to do with God, and with trusting ourselves to God, and with recognizing, all around us, the life God pours out for us this and every day, until our hope is no longer hope, because it has become Immanuel—God with us.
A shocking hope. A hope born in the midst of suffering. A hope that finds its home within that fragile, yet enduring web of mystery and promise. Not much to hope for, to hang on to there, is there? Yet, think about it for a moment. Is this not the only kind of hope that can be hope in a world like this one, a world which cost the Son of God his life, still costs the lives of forty-thousand children who die of hunger each and every day? If it won’t play in a cancer ward, as a wise man once taught me, then whatever it is it is not the gospel. And neither is it hope, the hope we have in Christ.
Keeping your eyes open . . . That’s what that Anglo-Saxon root implies, and what Mark’s gospel tells us:
Watch therefore—for you do not know when the master of the house will come . . . And what I say to you I say to all: “Watch.” (Mark 13:35–37).
To be in hope this time of year is to keep our eyes open, open for each and every moment when the light shines in the darkness, when the mystery at the heart of it all reveals itself, unveils itself. But that means looking deep into the dark, not gazing at the tree lights till it all becomes a multicolored blur. That means finding, in the hospitals and homeless shelters, the lonely hearts and empty hands about us, and within us, the meaning of it all, the secret, not just of this festival of light, but of the feast of life itself, that truth beyond all death, that life, true life is born, begins, and never ever ends, in love.
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Now may the God of hope fill us with all joy and peace in believing, so that, by the power of the Holy Spirit, we may abound in hope. Amen.
1. Khayyam, Rubaiyat.
A Prayer to Open Advent
For a gray November sky
with a filigree of bare branches
outlined against one patch of blue,
for random swatches of bright gold and scarlet
fallen around the bases of tall trees,
for the calling of the geese on the move overhead,
their trailing, V-shaped skeins lifting eyes and hearts
to the heavens and beyond,
for a touch of frost on the lawn,
and that feathery first flake of falling snow,
for family tables circled with fond laughter, honest prayer,
bright candles, good food, rich stories, new and old,
the young ones, the not-so-young,
the cheery, noisy moments, the quiet, thoughtful ones,
for long and easy walks with dogs,
crackling log fires, bright colored cards in the mail,
remembrances of folk and moments almost now forgot,
yet still bearing a light and lingering joy,
so many gifts, so many blessings
to thank you for, our God,
in this past week of high Thanksgiving.
And now we turn again toward the manger.
We begin to trace once more those familiar,
age-old hopes and dreams, prophecies in song and story,
well-worn traditions of both church and fireside.
We make plans for moments of rejoicing
to be experienced and enjoyed just up ahead.
And as we think of all such blessed sharing,
as we take up our daily walk to Bethlehem
where God shared himself with us,
we take time to think of others, those in danger
and distress, all those in desperate need,
those who face terrible decisions,
those with no possible decisions left to be made,
all those in whom the face of Christ
lies waiting to be recognized and welcomed.
Slow us down, O God, this Advent season.
Let us savor every sparkling winter sunrise,
every golden sunset. Let us claim again the grace
that shapes each moment of our days,
and let us live that love that leads us toward life,
that simplest, deepest, truest love of all,
the
