Advent Week 3: The Rhythm of Joy

The rhythm of joy isn't something many of us would recognize.

We have expected a King, a Messiah, robed in threaded gold, adorning a jeweled crown, to overthrow our governments and rule with peace and might. And amidst this we will sing, "Rejoice!"

We have expected to be freed from slavery, to be made great, to be guests at a feast unlike one our eyes have ever seen nor our stomachs could ever contain.

And then...

then we will experience joy.

But wait.


The king we've been promised, has come. So steadily in the rhythm of typical life, he joins us. He is born. He cries. He is held. He is cleaned. He is nursed. He is weak and dependent.

But we're waiting for jewels and gold and spotlights. And we may have missed him.

There is still death. There is still pain, suffering, mourning,

We still have questions, we still have anger, hatred, and anxiety,

We are still marred, pining, and twisted with nausea at the sight of the chaos...

The chaos that should have been contained, re-ordered, tamed, and made to be peace...

Because of the promised Savior.

But from what have we been saved?

Our wrists still bleed and bruise from shackles of poverty, (mental) illness,  oppression, inequality, injustice...

But somewhere the rhythm of joy runs deep


I only know because every now and then I catch an echo of it in one's eyes. As though the rhythm of one birth, of the life, of the death, the effervescent presence of one small utmost-loving and gentle Child continues to ripple in and among humanity...deep, ever so deep among the broken beings of humanity. May we look closer, beyond the marred and ugly faces, behind each fear stricken eye, beyond ourselves to see a steady, quiet rhythm of joy, of blessedness

O Night Divine.

Advent Week 2: The Rhythm of Discord

Advent comes to us as a frail infant,

helpless

and needing a mother's attentive care.

He comes at night,

when all have gone to sleep,

no one has staid up to wait for him. Few are even expecting him anymore...

A promise spoken such a long time ago

Has grown green and whithers,

Put on the topmost shelf

So as not to attract the attention of guests

Yet not so hidden that its keepers have forgotten it.



Might we be reminded that this frailty, humble and gentle, has come to remind us where we have come from. Where we are. Where we are headed.

Let us not forget peace has come not in strength of sword or in power of language.
Love has not come in a raised fist, with yells and shouts of revenge, or due equality.
Hope did not come during the dawn or the noonday, that everyone would be amazed and fall down in awe.

The one thing we can not seem to find until our arms lay by our sides, our voices quaver in silence, and our bodies shiver in the dark...

is the Love that an infant has come to bring.

May we be reminded we have brought the dark by our own deeds. That which we claim against our neighbor, our brother, is the very thing we are capable of, no matter how defile it seems.

And the only thing that can echo throughout our humanity to bring us into solidarity under peace is a small child.

Advent Week 1: The Rhythm of Waiting, The Rhythm of Loss

It has come. The season of waiting.

The season in which our ancestors, the Israelites, waited. Waited for several. hundred. years. Hoping, waiting for a sign.

And as they waited they watched. Watched the government leaders destroy their sacred Temple. Their sacred space desecrated. Marble, Gold inlaid walls battered and busted. Lampstands crushed. The holy oil defiled and spilt. No more light within the meeting place of their God. And they helplessly watched as their people came under oppression, once again.

"Had we not escaped from this when the Sea parted? Had we not gotten away from this very situation not too long ago?"

And...they found themselves back in slavery. Who was this God they spoke of so often, the One they worshipped, the one they labored for in building and rebuilding the Temple. Had He not seen their sweat streaked brows as they built this sacred space? Had He not seen the many bloodied and blistered hands who worked neath the sun, round the hours, to erect the Holy Place for the Living God? Could He not see the loss they had come to endure? Were still enduring?

And yet. Silence. Stillness.

Is this how You repay us, Jehovah? Have you broken Your promises? To come, to save, to deliver Your people? The Levites call you Jehovah Jireh, the One Who Provides. But what have You provided us but the very thing we sought you to deliver us from, slavery?

I do not hear hope. I hear Pain. Despair. Anger. Rage. Perhaps hate. Shame. Disgust. Disappointment.
There is a rhythm of so much loss in the history of our heritage. What great Divine act could ever repair the hurt, the damage, the loss experienced?

It is said the windows to the most sacred part of the Temple were much smaller than average. Within this space, there were lampstands containing seven wicks burning oil. The lamps within shone night and day, under the careful watch of one who would cautiously refill the oil as it waned. It was also said that because the windows were so small, the light from the wicks burst forth from all four corners, consuming the gaze of onlookers.

When the Temple was destroyed a second time, all oil had been defiled. The Holy Place had gone dark. Stillness. Silence.

And Loss.



A familiar rhythm for the people of God.


But wait.


One jar, one day's worth of light, remained sealed, unadulterated.



And the Israelites took it. Poured it. Lit the wick, and the Sacred Space was warmed by light once again. Amidst the ruin. The loss.


And they waited towards the end of the 24 hours. When the oil should have been depleted.



But. It burned for eight days.



A wick that burned for seven more days than it should have. Did they wait, watching each hour pass, noticing the flame, healthy and flickering. Did they begin the process of rebuilding, again. Did they pick up the rubble and salvage what had once stood so firm, a testament to their faith.


What would they say if someone told them, "Don't bother. This will happen again." Would they recognize the rhythm of loss? And would they still be waiting for a promise of another deliverance?

Advent is not an easy time of waiting.

With the rhythm of loss, Christmas is not an easy time.

Many of us are still waiting for the pain to leave. For despair to wane. To feel whole again.

Let this time of waiting be a time to invite the unwelcomed oppression, loss, destruction, into the sacred space. That we may wait with it. Acknowledge it. And look to the small windows for the warmth of an ever present, simple light.