Second Thursday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
Hope Sneaks In
by Elle Pyke
Christmas records appear in heavy rotation when the calendar hits December 1st at my house. I can't help it; I'm just a sentimental fool for Christmas music. I have some well-worn favourites, but my most cherished cuts will always be the jazzy classics. Give me Bing Crosby and Carol Richards crooning out "Silverbells," and I'm already imagining decking the halls of my house with garland and lights. I quickly drift away, dreaming of a full house, a full calendar, and, classic me, a rushed and sped-up Christmas. I was amused the first time I listened to Silverbells this season and caught the lyrics afresh:
"Busy sidewalks"
"Shoppers rush"
"Children rush"
"Above all the bustle"
Geez, Bing and Carol, it sounds like you were hustling back then, too!
Every Advent season, we're invited into sacred timekeeping—one that slows down, savours, anticipates, and awaits. Perhaps, dear reader, you suffer from the same affliction as I do: slowing down isn't easy. I'm much more at ease giving into the slipstream of the busy and the rushed. I can sink into hurried rhythms like a well-worn chair. I've discovered that slowing down is a holy practice. One for me that requires discipline, focus and intention. Slowing down also means I can no longer play hide and seek with my emotions. When I slow down, all the emotions I try to outpace come knocking at my door. First in line is always grief.
It's been my most profound privilege and honour to sit with many "Undone" pastors, ministry leaders, and theology professors this year as they wrestle with the grief that has come knocking. We light candles, we break bread, sometimes we cry. Whether it's the loss of their denominational affiliation, their innocence about religious institutions, or their hope for a different outcome, the weeping has been undeniable. I've had a front-row seat as they've been forced to unwrap a more complex picture of faith. They've had to find Jesus amidst more complexity than ever imagined. They've had to grieve and shake off some old wineskins. Perhaps in your own way, you can relate.
In today's text, the Psalmist offers us bountiful language of restored fortunes, shouts of joy and mouths full of laughter. But as I slow down and let these words work in my soul, these verses remind me that something had to be broken for something to be restored. For something to be quenched, something once had been dry. Ignoring the psalm's distinctive combination of sorrow and joy is impossible. There is a radical reversal in the making, but first, there was a mourning.
It's been my experience that the Spirit works in flesh, time and together in community. If we slow down enough to acknowledge our grief out loud, before Jesus and before the beloved community, there's often a holy moment when a crack opens just enough for hope to sneak on in. Just when we think our hope is spent and out of gas, Advent offers us a picture of what this restoration can look like — a grand reversal of our grief and fortunes. Found not amongst the powerful, the put together or the palace, but in a lowly stable, with a newborn baby.
This slow and longing wait for the Messiah through Advent mimics our slow, longing wait for Christ to come again. Jesus wasn't born into a beautiful Christmas scene wrapped in a snow globe. He was born into the world that was. We now invite the Spirit of the risen Christ into this "now and not yet" moment of waiting again for the holy mystery of Messiah's return into our world that is.
If you've sown in tears this year, as you slow down this season, may you reap with songs of joy. If you went out weeping this year, goodness me, it's my earnest prayer that you return with some songs of joy; that you may find a Spirit-filled reversal waiting at your front door.
As Bing and Carol remind us, "Soon it'll be Christmas day," and we need not rush to the party. Advent in its wisdom, teaching us again, because of this long-awaited Messiah, we have confidence that our waiting is not in vain.
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