ADVENT FOR THE WARY

     We didn't celebrate Advent at our house, 'cause it was clear that neither of my folks were believers, although my mom and I did sing in the local church choir. She, because she liked to sing, as did I, and I, because all the cute guys were in the choir. It wouldn't be the last time that some cute person drew us to faith.

     We did put up a Christmas tree, decorated with large colored bulbs and trinkets. We 3 kids took fistfuls of tinsel and simply threw them at the tree, where they settled on the green fir branches. (Then, when the tree was taken down, we balled up the tinsel and had an impromptu inside tinsel-ball fight, until Mom stopped us.)

    But Advent? Did I even know what it was or what the word meant? Probably not until I became a Christian at the age of 20 and later, a Catholic at the age of 55, although as you know, we also attend the local UCC because I have to have a place that welcomes anyone in the LGBTQ community.

     At Mass yesterday, the priest with the beautiful voice reminded us that Advent, meaning "waiting," means anticipating the coming of a PERSON not a DAY.  We are waiting for Jesus (not Jeebus) to come into our lives, and Christmas marks the day that happened, with a tiny, squalling baby laid in the crib. (I don't believe this, as moms at the time of Mary would have kept their newborns close to their skin and wrapped in a shawl.)

     Once when praying (and you know I get messages), I asked God, "What was Jesus doing  all those years before he began preaching?"m (We call those "the hidden years.") The immediate answer was, "He was learning his wisdom." That makes sense to me, he didn't come ready filled with the Gospels and all of his remarkable sayings, stacked up like clean laundry in a closet.

     Later, when we had young kids in the house, we would always put up the creche to remind us what we were waiting for. We had some tattered straw to put around the crib, 3 wise men, a donkey, one cow, shepherds, and Jesus and Mary. Some people put a piece of straw in the creche each day in Advent, until it is time for the big day when they finally put the baby in the crib. I am wretched at waiting, so the baby goes into the crib immediately. 

 Back then I would read to my son, Ben, from "The Children's Bible," wonderfully illustrated with holy people sporting protruding eyes like ping pong balls. We talked about what was coming and a little bit about what that meant for our world.

      There are 2 images which stay with me when I think about Advent and all of its shimmering anticipation:

--Years ago we had a dented mastiff, rather sweet but erratic, who whenever I was out, either teaching or doing errands, would come and sit by the door 5 min. before I arrived.  I am like that dog, intuiting that Christ is on His way, then going to the door, stepping from foot to foot, eager to open to Him.

--The other image reflects the wonderful ritual in Judaism on Passover, when people keep an empty seat for Elijah to come in and sit at the table to share the feast. Then we remember the perilous journey out of slavery, and we remember how God saved us from the Angel of Death.  This year I plan on pulling out a chair and keeping it empty for Christ, possibly putting some goodies on the plate; I assume Jesus loves chocolate, right? Maybe a strong espresso or a cappuccino, dairy-free?

     I also believe that Advent beckons us to join our story, our narrative, to God's wider story. How do I do that? I think of all the times when I waited for something or someone: anticipating with dread the day my mom would die; pushing a child out of my body, eager to see his or her face; waiting for my husband to come home, worrying about snow, ice, and bad roads; and waiting now for our benighted world to right itself again and embrace compassion and sanity. God carries this all in her hands--our sorrow and joy; our grief and happiness.

     All this is to say--we are already saved. Our companion walks with us daily through all the moments of our lives. Her hand is there, just as Anne Lamott once thought; when she woke in the morning she would often crumple a kleenex in her hand, imagining it was God's hand in hers. We don't have to imagine it. It is there. We just can't see it, or often feel it.

  I will set a place for Jesus at our Advent table with some chocolate, hidden from the greedy dog; I will stand by the door looking for the arrival of my most beloved person in the universe. And like a dear friend, once God opens the door I will kiss her on both cheeks, cold from the winter outside, and say, "Here you are! Welcome. Come in and sit down."