The other day I was talking on the phone with a friend. Mid-sentence—as we lamented the losses of normalcy—he stopped and asked, “Has it always been this bad, and we were just too young to notice or pay attention?” I didn’t have a real answer so I deflected with humor, “Man, I’m not gonna lie, I haven’t been paying attention during this conversation, much less the last forty years.” We both laughed, and then there was silence for a moment. A very long moment.
We said our goodbyes and hung up, and then the silence fell upon me, again. Has it always been this bad? I sat in my idling truck, staring at the front door of the church—I didn’t even remember arriving—and stayed with the moment. I thought about the special days that had passed and the ones coming up; how they had felt different and how they might continue to feel that way. I thought about friends I deeply missed seeing, and how much I wanted this isolation to end. Then, still idling in the driveway, I looked at the closed doors of the church.
And I wept.
Those tears were composed of grief and loss, but they also contained droplets of hope. The church was still standing, even with the doors closed. The church was at home, watching tv or working; playing with children or teaching students online; weeping along with me, or simply sitting in silence, waiting for someone to call. The church had left the building, and was doing its best to live through the latter part of the first phrase of that famous Dickens’ novel. The church has been forced out of its comfort zone and scattered, but faithfully continues to carry on in hopes of a new normal, a reincarnation of togetherness and homecoming.
The church—and by now you know I mean all of us—has been living in Advent since Easter. We have rejoiced in resurrection yet we have been sitting on the edge of our couches waiting for the good news to come. The news of a new life, a new world, a hope fulfilled that we can all be one body again, in the same place at the same time. My idling truck seemed to be another example of that feverish waiting—a vehicle churning and firing, fueled and ready to go somewhere, yet having to remain in park until the destination was opened and the way made clear.
While we wait for a reincarnation of life as we knew it, we enter into a season awaiting the Incarnation of life as we know it. It has deeper meaning for me this year, this Advent. In truth, sitting silently in my truck with the engine thrumming and the outside noise whooshing by, I realized that—just like holding my breath on a silent night, waiting for the world to change while it bustled with the trappings of preparation—I was holding my breath with hope renewed for the morning. There is hope on the horizon. While it may feel like a mirage sometimes, and the thirst for it can be overwhelming, that hope is what sustains us and is real: It’s the hope of Jesus Christ which lives inside us, kindled by the fire of the Holy Spirit and fueled by the grace of God.
The Way is coming. The Truth is coming. The Life is coming. That Incarnation that saved the world once and for all is worth the wait, worth the days and weeks ahead, and worth the trials we’ve lived through this long. And it’s absolutely worth taking a moment to sit in silent anticipation of what’s to come, preparing ourselves to shift gears and get moving again. Snapping out of my reverie, I shut off the engine, and stepped outside. I took the keys to the kingdom, to the house of God, and I unlocked the doors with that hope burning inside me. I filled the candles with oil. I started preparing for the weeks to come. I prayed for the return of the King. And I thanked God for the church; praying for its safe return home. And then I realized…
Advent has begun.
Faithfully,
Fr. Sean+