On the first sunday in december, i sit in Saint Aldate’s church in Oxford and hear these words:
Now is the time to wake out of sleep: for now our salvation is nearer than when we first believed.
And I think: now is the time to make a purposeful trip to the supermarket and do the shopping for all the baking that needs to be done. Now is the time to make sure all the church programs and neighborhood parties and school activities are penciled in on the calendar so we don’t overbook like we did last year. Now is the time to get up in the attic and dig out the Christmas decorations! Now is the time to get the children to the barber, and call the university to see if they have any decent tickets left for this year’s performance of A Christmas Carol.
Mrs. Williams has stepped to the lectern for the New Testament reading. I hear her proclaiming something about dates and times, my friends, and how we know perfectly well that the Day of the Lord comes like a thief in the night, and I wonder why it is that Christmas so often comes like a thief in the night for me.
I remember standing by my mother’s side in the kitchen—on a little chrome stool to help me gain counter height—receiving patient instruction on how to form the small, savory meatballs that will be served at our Christmas Eve smorgasbord; how to work the cookie press as we prepare dozen upon dozen buttery spritzes that will melt in the mouth; how to heat the oil “just so” for puffy rosettes, and then dust them with powdered sugar. I can hear the slam of the back door as my father enters the kitchen and gives my mother a hug; she complains that she’s behind on the baking, the whole thing has snuck up on her, and he steps back and asks, “What, you weren’t expecting Christmas to be on the twenty-fifth this year? You thought maybe it would be later?”
Watch at all times, praying for the strength to stand with confidence before the Son of Man.
On the second Sunday of Advent I arrive at church having made my seasonal list, having reconciled the various programs and invitations, having done the big shopping trip. And the minister opens the service with:
The kingdom of God is close at hand: Repent, and believe the gospel.
Christmas is close at hand! Only … only 16 more days ‘til Christmas. Advent is short this year—always happens when Christmas comes in the middle of the week. I may never get the hang of Advent, I despair. It’s not really in my blood. It’s not a Baptist sort of concept, really. I was raised in a church that marked the seasons with observances like Valentine’s Day Sunday, and Mother’s Day Sunday, when we sang “Faith of Our Mothers” and an orchid corsage was given to the oldest mother, the mother with the most children present, and the mother who traveled the greatest distance. Or my favorite: Labor Day Sunday. On Labor Day Sunday, my dentist ushered us to our seats in that white smock he wore when he cleaned my teeth, the one that buttoned off-center and had such a high, almost Oriental collar. The farmers wore overalls to church, and women worshiped in housedresses with pretty aprons. Businessmen and teachers looked the way they always did. Memorial Day flowers and special music, Thanksgiving Day prayers, New Year’s Eve watchnight services—these composed the liturgical year of my childhood.
I am struck with free-church panic, the same sort of panic I get when I arrive for worship on Easter realizing that I’m not prepared for the Resurrection because I didn’t observe Lent. My heart actually starts to thump, and I realize that I’m here, in his holy place, smack dab in the middle of Advent, and I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to be doing about it. What does it mean? What does it mean that the kingdom of God is close at hand? Repent, and believe the gospel—that’s what it means.
I fall on my knees and confess my sins. “For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, who died for us, forgive us all that is past; and grant that we may serve you in newness of life to the glory of your name. Amen,” I intone with profound shame. Amen. How sweet are the words of the Lord to the taste, sweeter than honey to the mouth. Through his precepts we get understanding.
Third Sunday In Advent:
When the Lord comes, he will bring to light things now hidden in darkness, and will disclose the purposes of the heart.
When the Lord comes. My thoughts are back in time, 9 years ago and 11 years ago, when I was waiting for a child to be born. The anticipation! What a frightening, exciting time it was. Every morning I would waken and wonder: Is it today? Is this the day when the child will arrive? Is this the day when the child, hidden in my body, will be disclosed to me? When I see his hair, or her toes; his pointy head, her scrawny legs? I wanted so badly to know if I would be mother to a boy or a girl. Would the child be whole? Would it look like me, or Steve? My daytime thoughts were hopeful and expectant. But at night I had frightening dreams of deformity and death.
And when it came time for me to be delivered of my children, I was ready. There was no complaining that the babies arrived too soon. By the time my 140 pounds of body weight had become an alarming 185 pounds, by the time my feet no longer fit into my shoes, by the time I had attended three baby showers, I was ready. The apostle Paul had it right when he spoke of the Messiah’s coming:
We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.
The Scripture is being read now. “In the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” And I know that in my heart I am groaning with pain, panting for the kingdom, longing for justice and reconciliation.
Our Lord says, Surely I come quickly. Even so: come, Lord Jesus!
On the fourth sunday of advent, i stand with the congregation for the introductory sentence.
The glory of the Lord shall be revealed: and all mankind shall see it.
My sons have been shaking the packages already under the Christmas tree. Grandma sent a big box of goodies to our overseas home via air mail—such extravagance! It arrived on Friday: a big, heavy box of toys and books and all manner of heavy gifts, flown from her town in the middle of the United States to our village in Britain. No forward planning, no thought given to cost, no wondering if it’s “worth it.” Out of the depth of her loving heart she had showered us with large and small gifts, several for each one of us. And now each individually wrapped parcel has found a place under our tree, and the children are wild with excitement. Ross complains of stomach aches and can hardly eat his meals. Drake has nervous legs; his body shakes at the dinner table. They’ve identified a jigsaw puzzle, and two books—those were easy. Ross was squeezing one small package, and it responded by playing an electronic melody. He and Drake laughed until they cried. A pocket video game! It had to be.
On Christmas morning all will be revealed. There have been hints that we might open gifts—at least one gift?—on Christmas Eve. That’s Ross’s proposal. But in his heart of hearts he doesn’t want a preview. He doesn’t want a little bit now and the rest later. He wants it all, in one huge, early-morning revelation.
I am sitting on an uncomfortable pew in a church where believers have worshiped since Elizabethan times. In this very spot, men and women of great faith and very little faith have gathered to worship, to pray, to proclaim with their presence that their hope is in the Lord. They, like me, have looked for the glory of the Lord to be revealed.
On this morning we pray for the needs of the world, for we have young men and women preparing for war in a distant land. We pray for the needs of the nation, for there is recession and unemployment and homelessness everywhere. We pray for the needs of our church, for we have a mission to fulfill. And we pray for ourselves, our marriages and our children and our friends. We pray for the glory of the Lord to be revealed.
We are waiting for an infinite God, unbound by time and space, to reveal himself to us in a way we can understand.
The virgin is with child and will soon give birth to a son: and she will call him Emmanuel, God-is-with-us.
On christmas eve, there is a service of les-sons and carols. We begin our worship with a startling promise:
In the morning you shall see the glory of the Lord.
It’s all come down to this. All the preparations—the cookies that were made, and the ones that weren’t. The presents that were bought, and those that were forgotten. The parties attended, the invitations declined. The cards sent and received, the prayers spoken and unspoken, the days of hectic activity and the quiet evenings staring at the fire. The shops are closed, the readying is over. If it hasn’t been done yet, it won’t be done at all. In the morning we shall see the glory of the Lord.
In the candlelit silence, eyes closed, I see a clearing. It is a small patch of nothing in particular, just a bit of nothingness in my world of cinnamon bread and carol sheets and pirate Legos. It is noteworthy for being uncluttered, as a small clearing in a deep wood is noteworthy for being without trees. It is a place of calm in my life, an unstructured center where schedules and deadlines and obligations cannot thrive. It’s not much, but for me it’s a start.
The uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain.
It is Christmas Eve. I am almost faint with exhaustion and revelation.
The glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all mankind shall see it.
