I am tired of waiting for Jesus. The wrangling of a national election that had the tenor of a raunchy reality show, the endless violence of war, the blatant racism of our country, the tsunami of mistrust that swamps us, the vitriolic hate ubiquitous on the web. Enough already.
Come, Lord Jesus.
I don’t know what the Parousia will entail, but some days I think it can only be better than what we’re living. I looked back at pastoral prayers I’d written not years ago but over a decade ago, and I realized that I could have written them last week, or yesterday. Change the name of the country devastated by war or natural disaster, insert a different person in need of healing, replace one grieving family with another, and there you have it: the prayer for the day that was the prayer for yesterday and for the day before that. And for tomorrow, too. Liturgical Madlibs that make you cry instead of laugh.
Come, Lord Jesus.
I am weary of waiting for reconciliation, for redemption, for the peace that passes understanding, for light and life and the end of crying and mourning. I want it now. I want the meek to have their turn with the earth. I want the last to be first, even if it means I get moved to the back of the line. I promise I will cheer for the underdog and gladly give up my seat if it means we all get to rest and rejoice.
Come, Lord Jesus.
As the days get shorter and the nights get deeper, I long for the angels to announce to the shepherds that Jesus has finally arrived. I hope I will be close enough to overhear their chorus, the good news of great joy for all of us. I hope I can peek out my window and see that glowing star. Too often I forget to look up because I am concentrating so hard on the ground, trying not to stumble in the dark.
Come, Lord Jesus.
The twinkling lights of the Advent season get my attention, though. At dusk, when the sun has all but set and I round the corner of the country road near my house, they start to glow, faint at first, but increasingly bright as I get closer to home. There are angels, snowmen, candles in windows, colorful strings on trees and mailboxes. The later it gets, the more vivid the characters become. Finally, there is the Holy Family, all lit up in a neighbor’s front yard. The darkness hasn’t overcome them. Instead, it casts them in brilliant relief.
Jesus is here.
The pastoral prayers of years gone by and the ones lifted up today have not gone unheard or unheeded. The pleas of the last and the least haven’t been in vain. Right there, in the dark, is Lord Jesus. In the outposts of our lives and the world, new life is born, and the ones working the night shift are the first to hear its cry.
Jesus is here.
Emperors make decrees and governors rule, and all the while shepherds go to work, and prayers are mumbled, shouted and pondered in people’s hearts. The great world spins, wars rage, cancer spreads, death visits with relentless certainty. Petitions are repeated again and again and again.
Come, Lord Jesus.
And then, in the midst of it all, he does. Heaven and earth kiss with Mary’s lips on her baby’s brow.
Peace becomes not possible, but promised. Healing and wholeness, now remote in a stable, will soon come to find us. The light of the star points to the light of the world, and the twinkling lights reveal angels among us. The mix and match of names and places and pleas of pastoral prayers aren’t a never-ending rotation of random tragedies. Each place and person is known by God, so beloved that Jesus is coming, not to condemn, but to save them.
Come, Lord Jesus. Please, Lord, Jesus. Now, Lord, Jesus.
It is getting dark. Dark enough to be afraid. Dark enough to see the baby Jesus cast in high relief, illumining the night as I round the corner to home.
Grace and peace,
Jill
