Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Friday, December 14, 2018

we wait, we wait

“Whatever it is you're seeking won't come in the form you're expecting.”
                                                             Haruki Murakami

We made a valiant attempt at Thanksgiving
that time when we ate too much,
and perhaps, drank too much
and attempted, for at least one day
to fend off the dark wolves of despair
and remember
that there are things to be thankful for
(and there are)

Today in the lingering dark
I look out the window at an almost colorless day
Following the footprints of some lonely deer
which wandered aimlessly through fresh fallen snow

the scene is both compelling and repelling
the ambiguity of darkness muted by white
softeness and cold harshness blended

and I remember that we are entering
that odd and melancholy season of Advent

I know that in the public marketplace
the true “war on Christmas” shoots forth is volleys
of color and music
with Santa reigning supreme over malls filled with
music and color and imposed good cheer

but in the church it is Advent
a relatively somber time of quiet and thoughtful preparation

we are waiting for…. ?
Ah, that is the question!
What are we waiting for?

Faith says that what we are waiting for has already come!
In the person of that baby, born in poverty, thousands of years ago

We are told this baby changed, and changes everything
Swords into plowshares
Peace, Justice, Love, Joy

But here we are in a world that is full of strife
Bursting with anger and hate, fear, trepidation
And a lot of bone deep sadness

And so we wait
What are we waiting for?
What are we hoping for?
What would it look like if “it” got here?

So we wait,
For we know not what
Yet for something we know, we feel,
deep down at the center of who we are
is there

We wait for something to burst forth into being

We have expectations

But I suspect, that when it comes, it won’t look
Or perhaps even feel, the way we expected

It won’t come through Trump
It wouldn’t have come through any president
It does not come, I suspect, through wealth, or power

It comes, I believe, in unexpected, often unheralded ways)
(as it did the first time)
For all our waiting and preparing
It is in odd and poignant moments
That Sacred Presence advents in our lives

In those all too rare times when we quiet our fears and hates
And open up our hearts
And wake up to the Sacred
In all its surprising and unusual forms

And participate, at least for the moment
In the kingdom

Which has been inaugurated, but not yet fully realized

Just as nature replays, endlessly the seasons
Our soul too participates in an endless cycle
Of waiting, and fulfillment
Celebration and struggle
Success and failure

Returning again and again and again
To that time of reflection and preparation

And we wait

Knowing that somehow,
what we wait for,
all unfolds through us or not at all

through the Advent of The One
into the manger of our heart

Swords into plowshares
Peace, Justice, Love, Joy

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