Let Advent Come

This stained glass piece rests over our kitchen sink. Leaving Niagara Falls, moving toward Niagara-by-the-Lake in Canada my wife and I saw a tiny village and we stopped there. We saw a shop that said, “Stained Glass Here.” Going inside we met an old man, the shopkeeper. He was surrounded by small beautiful pieces made of stained glass. “Tell us about these glass pieces.” And he said after the Second World War he was able to buy stained glass figures from bombed-out churches. He took those broken pieces and framed them with stained glass. We bought this window and it has hung at different places in our houses since that time.

Over our sink, washing dishes, scraping plates—doing the most mundane of things—we see Mary and beside her an angel that brings her an impossible news. “You shall have a son and his name will be Jesus.” To the most unlikely of people, in the most unlikely of places this angel came whispering, “Do not be afraid." 

And so Advent comes. No 40-piece orchestra. No people standing around clapping and cheering. No message in the sky. Just a pregant woman and her cousin, too. And a puzzled Joseph and scruffy shepherds and three kings. And at the centerpiece a manger filled with straw holding a tiny child surrounded by sheep and goats and steaming dung. 

Some days as I wash the plate after munching on my breakfast I look up at my stained glass. Most days it is just another decorative piece. And some days I remember the story of good news and a great joy that has come to all. 

Nobody is left out. No body. And some days I think maybe, just maybe his coming means that in my old age with a hurting back and too many doctors he comes to me. Let Advent come. Even with all the sadness out there. Even coming to all the broken people and broken things. Let Advent come with this slip of a girl and that angel that even speaks to Ukraine and Hershel and Warnock and Biden and a world in disarray.

God, let Advent come to me and mine and everyone. And may we find some great news and maybe joy, too. It seems unlikely. As unlikely as that poor Mother and husband shivering by that tacky manger. The angel said, “Do not be afraid.” And that too is unlikely. And yet if we turn off the TV  and the fear out there so strong that you could cut it with a knife—Advent may just come. And so in the back room far from the Christmas tree we might find that he comes to cancer and Alzheimer's and enormous grief. But isn't this always the setting of Christmas?

Why do we do this year after year and decade after decade? Because despite it all we need an Advent that comes even just a sliver. Bringing this stubborn word called Hope that might just keep us going.

“O holy child of Bethlehem,

how still we see the lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

the silent stars go by

Yet in the dark streets shineth

the everlasting lasting light;

and hope and fears

of all the years

are met in thee tonight."

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com