Advent is a time of hope, of anticipation, of waiting for the celebration of the coming of God among us, of waiting for the time when God will come again to make all things new. We await the age to come, we await the remembrance of the past that inaugurated that future age, and we do it every year. Advent, especially, reveals the circular, spiraling nature of liturgical time, as it begins the new liturgical year in the same way every year.
This year, Advent finds me surrounded by things that have not been done, that are not going to get done, because grief slows me down and tires me out and makes everything harder.
This year, I am gratefully conscious that Jesus comes down from heaven into our occupied cities, our mucky stables, our messy houses, our fraying lives. He doesn’t require that we dress up for company or make ready for royalty, which is good because I’d like to but I can’t. All he asks is that we welcome him into the middle of our mess, so that he can abide with us.
That… that I can do.
Come, Lord Jesus.
O come, o come Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here
until the Son of God appear.