Keep Awake! A Meditation on Noticing

DATE: December 1st, 2013 — First Sunday of Advent — Hope
SCRIPTURE:
Psalm 130: 5-8 and Matthew 24: 36-44
© Rev. Alison J. Buttrick Patton

[Let us pray] Advent God: As the candlewick is trimmed and lit, so ready our hearts to be kindled by You…

Have you noticed? All the autumn leaves — a grand display of gold and ginger just days ago, those leaves have abandoned their posts. Now the branches outside my window are bare — so many Japanese brush strokes against a washed out sky. The air has turned chill; so we dig out gloves, hats, striped thermal socks… surprised, a little, that a short walk turns our noses pink and our fingers numb.

Have you noticed the encroaching darkness?… The light faded around us even as we took the last bites of turkey and cranberry chutney, brussel sprouts and honey-roasted acorn squash; we lit candles on the dining room table to cast a little light, a little warmth. We mulled the cider and heated the apple pie.

Have you noticed? Darkness is not the only thing to encroach: the holiday shopping season is in full swing; I saw my first Christmas-themed commercial on Thanksgiving Day: children singing about peace on earth in an ad for air freshener (really!)… Have you noticed a sense of impending panic that you won’t get it all done in time: the shopping, the trimming, the cooking and cards? Do you worry?

I notice it every December 1st: a mix of anticipation and foreboding. I catch my breath. I step into Advent with my palms extended, as if to hold off Christmas for just a little while, so I can savor the days that come before, the waiting days. Shhh. Did you hear that? Can you see? The Spirit of Advent is my tour guide; she reminds me to pause, to cease my incessant tromping through the December underbrush, lest I scare away the shy creature that hovers in the shadows just beyond my view. “Hope is the thing with feathers,” wrote Emily Dickinson. “The thing with feathers —

That perches in the soul —

And sings the tune without the words —

And never stops — at all …”

Why then, do we so often miss it, that whispered hope, the flutter of wings? Sometimes, I think the holiday music is too loud and the lights too bright, so they ruin my night vision. Sometimes, I think, the lists are too long, demand too much of me, of us. Sometimes, I think, I miss the gift of NOW because I’m too busy getting ready for later, whether later is Christmas, or the new year, or a promotion, or college, or retirement, or my own imagined better self: thinner, stronger, brighter, more accomplished.

Sometimes, I wonder if we confuse hope with grasping. Whether we grasp toward a future of our own fabrication, a future in which we get all the best parts, and already know how we want the story to turn out. But “no one knows…” that’s what Jesus says to his followers, the ones who ask what will come next. No one knows how or when this holy, cosmic drama will unfold, not even I (says Jesus). It is not ours to sort that out. We live between the times, said theologian Karl Barth, between creation and re-creation. There are those who would fixate only on the past, and others completely consumed with that future – who will win in the end, who will lose, who will be saved and who left behind. But somehow I think that is not the point of this precious life. Somehow, I suspect that our very efforts to divine the future may rob us of the gift of living IN this in-between time, might make us less ready, not more, for whatever comes next…

It’s like waiting for a guest to arrive. When I am expecting someone, I pace the floor; I dart from room to room: straighten a throw pillow, pick up lint. I check the door. I check it again. I look at the book resting on the coffee table and think, “I should read while I wait,” but my mind will not stay focused on the page. Was that a car outside? I jump back up. I forget that my worrying will change nothing about the pace at which my guest approaches. I cannot alter the traffic patterns, or the weather or anything else.

I’d be better off to do something while I wait: bake a loaf of bread, or an apple pie. To allow myself to become absorbed in some meaningful-right-now act: to relish the silky texture of flour and shortening as I knead them together. To notice the shape, never quite round, as I roll out the dough; to savor the tang of apples; and the satisfying squish as I press the edges of pie crust together between my fingertips. Then before I know it, the pie is in the oven and there’s a knock at my door. I am ready with open arms and fresh-baked dessert, to feed a body and gladden someone’s heart. That’s what it’s like, this waiting with hope. It’s trusting that the guest will come; it’s tending to the present moment, and letting the future moment take care of itself.

The Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh calls this ‘mindfulness: “The energy of being aware and awake to the present moment. It is the continuous practice of touching life deeply in every moment of daily life. To be mindful is to be truly alive, present and at one with those around you and with what you are doing.” ¹

To be truly alive: “Keep awake, therefore, for you don’t know on what day your Lord is coming.” That’s what the Spirit of Advent enjoins: Keep awake. In the words of theologian William Herzog, we are called to ‘practice the art of watchful living.”² To notice the world around us: the lonely-looking woman at the bus stop; the harried cashier; the new parents; the man with his walking stick; the child bouncing her ball. Worry and grasping shut us off from those around us, cause us to withdraw and blind us to the precious, sometimes painful, really real bits that make up this life.

Living with hope, on the other hand, frees us to pay close attention to all those bits, while God takes care of a future, the contours of which we cannot quite make out in the dusky light – and that’s ok. Hope is listening for the rustle of feathers; it is facing into the darkness – the really dark darkness of hurt, violence and suffering, and also the gentle darkness of a womb quickening with new life. It is welcoming that darkness without fear, because we are Advent people; we know that something is coming — an extraordinary future to be played out against the backdrop of our ordinary lives. Not just our future, but God’s future. So we: we are expectant. Activist and writer Jim Wallis says: “Hope is believing despite the evidence, and then watching the evidence change.” So we watch. We wait. We savor the waiting. Along the way, if we are lucky, or wise, we become absorbed in meaningful-right-now acts that help us to prepare:we bake pies, we break bread; we feed bodies, tend spirits and gladden hearts…

This, then, is my prayer for you this Advent, for all of us: May you discover ways to practice the art of watchful living. May you notice Christmas lights and shadows, the winter chill and the warmth of wool on your cheek. May you move through Advent at a measured pace, giving yourself time to let your eyes adjust. May you pause long enough to recognize the signs of what’s to come — in the eyes of store clerk or a neighbor or in the spaces in-between…; may you hear the strains of that whispered promise. May the living of your life prepare you to welcome that most honored guest: Come, Emmanuel, come!

Scripture Texts

Psalm 130: 5–8

5 I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in God’s word I hope; 6 my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning. 7 O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with God there is great power to redeem. 8 It is God who will redeem Israel from all its iniquities.

Matthew 24:36–44

36 “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. 37 For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. 38 For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, 39 and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so too will be the coming of the Son of Man. 40 Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. 41 Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left. 42 Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. 43 But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. 44 Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.