Wake up, it's getting light

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

Everything is still on the hill this morning.  Not a creature is stirring, not even a possum. The gentle light of the rising sun is kind, like a parent letting an adolescent child sleep late on the first days of Christmas break.  Nothing is moving, frozen by the cold air of the night.  But the still and quiet are beautiful, and welcome.  My plan is to blow a mountain of leaves off the hillside later, but they are still frozen to the ground, so dagnabbit, I will just have to lie here and drink coffee for awhile.   My heart is being warmed, literally, by my bowl of coffee that sits on my chest as I write while lying back on my sofa, custom fit to my body from hundreds of mornings of waking up.  Like the world outside my windows,  I have not completely committed to starting the day.   I will leaf here soon enough.  Sorry about that.  Not really.

I have never been more ready for Advent.  In my Christian faith tradition, United Methodist, Advent is a period of time, the first month or so of the Christian year before Christmastide (not to be confused with Crimson Tide), a time of waiting and preparation. Advent is a time for pausing to remember the coming of Jesus into the world, and to wait,  prepare for and anticipate what God will do next.

Like my Christmas shopping, my intentional observance of Advent is getting a late start this year.  Some of my prayers of late have included remembering, mostly out of a desire for assurance, and anticipation, mostly out of a desperation for God to do something.  So perhaps Advent for me started out of necessity rather than intentional liturgical practice. 

Maybe that is the way it is supposed to be.  Maybe that's the way folks felt 2000 years ago.  Desperate hope for many came from remembering when God did mighty acts centuries before, and anticipation of the time when the promises of God would come to pass.  There was liturgy back then too.  Judaism, the faith that Jesus was born into and practiced, included liturgy of remembrance and anticipation long before Jesus was born.  Faithful Jews knew it well.

But I wonder if the Jews at the time were much different from me.  The liturgy and scripture that was so dear and familiar to them informed them of how it was supposed to be.  But maybe the world around them made it real.  Oppression. Poverty. War. Cruelty. Inhumanity.  The ancient histories and promises had told them where hope was to be found.  But the mean world required that the hope of history become real in the present. The pain of the present required that the promises be fulfilled now.

I doubt that there is anyone who is not weary of the battles of this world right about now.  But in the darkness even a small light is bright.  Perhaps that is why we are moved to tears by unexpected hopeful signs, or small acts of kindness recounted on social media or acted out in the check out lane, or why we linger to talk instead of passing hurriedly by when an old friend greets us on the street, or why our hearts melt from the grins and giggles of an innocent child, eyes filled with the wonder.

So, this year, as always, it is good and healthy to pause, to remember,  to watch and wait, to anticipate.  Because there is light in the darkness.  It started as the tiniest, white-hot, pin-point of light that appeared in Bethlehem a long time ago. 

And it has pierced once and for all the darkness of our long night.  And is still warming up our world.  Like a gentle parent, waiting for us to wake up.


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