Second Sunday of Advent A
It’s
just about a month ago
that
I left for my annual retreat.
The
Sisters of Bethlehem—
at
whose monastery I spent the week—
take
their silence pretty seriously.
In
fact, the first time I asked to make a retreat with them,
I
was sent a sort of contract to sign,
stating
that I understood just how quiet I was expected to be.
Pretty
much the only spoken words I heard all week
(unless
I was talking to myself)
were
when I offered Mass each day for the Sisters
or
when I joined them for Morning and Evening Prayer
in
the monastery church.
When
you speak or hear so little,
you
choose your words very carefully.
with
which they conclude Vespers each night—
their
last prayer together for the day.
First,
they turn down the lights in the church,
until
the only remaining illumination
comes
from the two candles left burning on the altar.
And
then they begin to chant
one
of the most ancient of Christian prayers: Maranâ
thâ!
In Aramaic—
the
language spoken by Jesus and his Apostles—
it
means, “Come, Lord!”
Now,
when I say that the Sisters “chant” it,
you
probably think of something very somber and subdued…
…but
that’s not the case here;
“haunting”
is the best way I can describe this brief song,
whose
piercing notes echo through the rafters
of
the chapel all in shadows.
It’s
clearly a heartfelt—almost a heart-wrenching—
cry
shot straight up to heaven,
and
each evening as I walked back in the dark
the
half-mile road to my cabin,
it
was something that just wouldn’t stop ringing in my head.
It’s
fairly obvious—to me, anyway—
that
the Sisters really mean what they’re singing.
When
they plead, “Come, Lord!”
they’re
taking it absolutely seriously.
Which
got me to thinking one night
as
I walked amid the moon-lit trees:
What if Jesus takes these
Sisters seriously?
What if he’s listening one
day
and decides—well—to heed
their call?
Throughout
these days of Advent,
we
echo that prayer of the early Church
as
we sing and say, “Come, Lord Jesus!”
But
do we really mean what we’re saying?
Do
we realize what’s involved
if
we take these words seriously?
Or
are we sort of play-acting—
routinely
looking forward to December 25…
…but
not to another coming of Christ?
While
the last days of Advent rightly focus our attention
on
such immediate preparation for the great feast of Christmas,
these
first weeks of the season
are
meant to have a very different tone:
one
not so much concentrated on getting ready
to
recall when the Son of God first came in human flesh,
as
getting ready for the day when Christ will come again.
The
whole history of the Jewish people
had
been a preparation for his first coming:
from
the call of Isaiah to make straight the way of the Lord,
to
the desert preaching of John the Baptist,
who
challenged his hearers—from the greatest to the least—
to
drown their sins in the waters of the Jordan
and
emerge with hearts made clean. (cf. A. Esolen)
If
the whole history of the Jewish people
was
a preparation for the Messiah’s first coming,
then
the whole history of the Church
ought
to be a preparation for his return in glory.
That
certainly was the perspective of Saint Paul
and
the first believers to whom he wrote letter after letter
of
encouragement and hope.
But
what about us, all these twenty centuries later?
Do
we still take faith in the Second Coming seriously?
Most
of us could list the careful preparations
we’ve
already made to celebrate Christmas
(or
least we’ve got a pretty good idea
of
all the work that’s yet to be done).
But
what if, one quiet night,
Christ
listens to those singing nuns down in the Catskills?
What
if we don’t have until December 25?
Do
we live in such a way that we’re ready to meet Christ
I
challenge you, this Advent:
take
things a step further.
Each
day,
whether
in the first light of the morning
or at day’s dark end,
pray
with sincerity for Christ’s return.
It’s
a practice that has the power
to
completely change your perspective.
But
choose your words carefully!
He
just might take you seriously.
Maranâ thâ! Come, Lord Jesus!
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