Hope

"But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory [...] Therefore, keep awake -- for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake." (Mark 13:24-26, 35-37)

Advent is profoundly mysterious: the time that is coming, that we are waiting for, will come like a thief in the night, at a time we know not when. Who can know for sure what that day will hold? The angels will gather the elect, but will we be among them? After the Son of Man has come on the clouds and gathered the elect unto Himself, what will our existence in glory be?

Mystery, mystery: all the things we anticipate but do not understand. All the certainties we are uncertain of.

We know that Jesus has come. We know that He is coming again. But about that day and hour no one knows. It's unsettling, this time that pulls together the past and the future into an uncertain present, looking backward and forward into a veil beyond which we cannot see.

We are called to prepare a path for the Lord -- like Elijah, to make a straight path in the desert. Wait, and be watchful, always making ready, for we do not know when our Saviour will come. Advent calls us to prepare ourselves for God's coming, to make ready for the final day by immersing ourselves in a period of watching and waiting.

We do not watch by looking resolutely forward, by focusing ourselves on that which we cannot see. That is not really hope: that's an obsession with trying to predict or catch the very moment we cannot grasp upon the instant of its awakening. Nor do we watch by turning backward to what has already past, what we know and understand, because hope cannot live looking behind itself. We watch by preparing within ourselves a silent space, a place within which we immerse ourselves in the present moment, the time in-between.

What we know to have been is part of our hope: the Incarnation we prepare to celebrate fills us with certainty about who God is. We know that Jesus has come. What we know is coming is also part of our hope: our longing for the future fills us with direction and a yearning to be with God. But hope is primarily about the present, because it can only be experienced now.

Our hope and longing for God's coming is like watching a sunrise. We know that the sun has risen a thousand times before. And we know that if we wait long enough the sun will come up above the horizon. But it is by immersing ourselves in the blackness, by watching each moment pass without hurriedly imagining a future where the sun is risen, that we open up a space inside our hearts to see the light seep in.  

Dawn is gradual and sudden, a crack opening up to the light in myriad ways. It illuminates us with longing and sweetness for each moment as we experience it. The past and future never really fall away. But only by really being in the moment can we experience the awe and mystery of what is taking place. We prepare ourselves by being fully immersed.

So, too, the mystery of Advent springs upon us suddenly and is quickly gone. Through patient hope -- a hope that longs by a willingness to see each moment as one in which God is coming -- we abide in the coming of the Lord. 

The Lord has come and the Lord will come. In hope, we live in the conviction that the Lord is coming always, and everywhere.  

"for in every way you have been enriched in him [...] He will also strengthen you to the  end, so that you may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is faithful; by him you were called into the fellowship of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord." (1 Corinthians 1: 5, 8-9)