Advent: now and not yet

I walked through Harvard Yard one evening last week, my breath clouding in the frigid air. The Yard is dark and empty at that time of day, but I was drawn by the sight of Memorial Church, a tiny light in its bell tower, illumined both by floodlights and the rising misty moon.

I stopped to snap the photo above, thinking about the news lately: protests, disease, injustice, wars and rumors of wars. I wanted to go and sit in the church and pray, but instead I stood there, shivering, thinking: this is Advent. We want so badly for everything to be all right, and it isn’t. Not at all.

This weekend, my friend Laura (who is spending this fall in Oxford) wrote on Facebook: “Tonight as I stood in St. Mary’s church listening to the Hallelujah Chorus being performed, I watched the blue lights of an emergency vehicle illuminate the stained glass. And it occurred to me, this is Advent. Now, and not yet.”

On Sunday, my friend Desiree called as we were leaving the house: “The power’s out at church. Can you guys pick up some coffee?” It was too late to cancel the service, so instead we huddled in the front few pews, two tall purple candles on the Advent wreath burning merrily, winter light slanting in through the windows. It was chilly and dim, but the red poinsettias splashed the sanctuary with color, and Abi read aloud the words of the prophet Isaiah: Comfort, comfort my people, says the Lord your God.

We sang a few Christmas carols – O Come O Come Emmanuel and O Little Town of Bethlehem, O Come All Ye Faithful and Amy’s favorite, the haunting Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming. I stood between Kelsey, whose soprano soared on the high notes, and Betsy, whose rich alto voice matched the notes I was singing. And I looked around at this group of people, some of whom I love and some I barely know, and I thought: this, too, is Advent.

It has been a difficult few weeks around here, whether I’m watching the news or checking in on sick relatives or simply trying to get through the day. I worry about the injustice that is still so prevalent in this country, and I remind my husband to call the dryer repairman. I check in on a friend who has had pneumonia, and I hum carols as I chop veggies for dinner or answer work emails. I hurt and I pray, for the world and for concerns closer to home, and I buy gifts and send Christmas cards. I text my sister to see how she’s doing, and I sit in front of our twinkling tree, filled with quiet awe and wonder.

This is Advent. Now, and not yet. Tension, and aching, and longing for the promise to be fulfilled – the promise of redemption and renewal. The waiting, and the tentative hope. The quiet solidarity of walking this road together.

Most days, the fulfillment of the promise seems a long way off. But there is beauty, and deep joy, in the waiting.

Advertisement