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One of the most difficult adjustments I have had to make in moving from the northeast to this metropolitan area is my orientation to light. For years, my daily routine had been guided by rising and setting of the sun. By the light, and location, of the sun, I have known when to wake up and when to meditate or study; when to be out and about, when and where to take a brisk walk; when to go to the office and when to come home; when to drive twisty winding roads or when it is best to take the straight away. By the fading of light, I have known when to begin the journey towards a good night sleep. Now everything is different, out of sync…

While we continue to live within the same time zone, the actual hour the sun appears and disappears differs by a couple of hours. We are now just far enough west that my body needs an alarm clock—with at least three snoozes—to awake. While I am grateful the clocks were rolled back an hour a couple of weeks ago, I continue to discover that I often do not have a clue what day it truly is let alone know the hour.

Stay awake!—this is the answer given in the lectionary readings for today. Stay awake—for we do not know the day or the hour. The paradox here however, is not about what time we go to sleep and what time we wake, nor is it about how we will manage our scheduled activities for the day. Instead, each reading speaks of our attentiveness to the expected arrival of Immanuel, God with us; God in our midst. That arrival can happen during any part of our day, no matter our routine, no matter the activity. So, the text tells us to stay awake.

Today we begin the Church year anew and we begin with the season of Advent. A time when we are invited, and in a sense expected, to pay particular attention to our preparation—or readiness--for the in-breaking of God into the shadows of the human heart and the shadows of a broken world.  This is a season of hope, peace, joy and love. It is a time to stay awakened so that we do not miss the opportunity to fully experience what God is and will be doing in our lives and in our world.

The word Advent literally means to come. Advent is also the root word for “adventure”. So you could say, during this season of Advent, we are invited to embark on a spiritual adventure that orients us, or perhaps re-orients us to God’s light. On this journey, we are invited to engage this season with imagination and hope.  In fact, during this season of the church year, we are encouraged to imagine or envision the future differently than what we see and experience today. Clearly, the readings from Isaiah and Matthew are doing that very thing—imagining the future.

Isaiah speaks of a time of perfect peace, when many people from many places come to worship one God and as a result people will turn their swords into plowshares. People will come to live into the way of justice and peace.

The Gospel inadvertently creates the context of a world which challenges us to consider the status of individuals noting who is in and who is out and while pondering—or perhaps accepting who truly, ultimately, decides who belongs in God’s realm. As you read Matthew’s gospel, it is not clear who stays and who goes or the reason why for that matter. Advent brings us face to face with the reality and the hope of what tomorrow can be—will be--when Immanuel—God with us, comes.

It is the season of Advent. So, imagine, imagine a world governed solely by peace, the kind of peace that brings hope to our world today. Imagine a time when it will no longer be necessary to set aside a particular day on the calendar to focus on the epidemic of HIV-AIDS or when it is not necessary to remember the courage of a Rosa Parks remaining in her seat on the bus in hopes of changing the status of her people.  Imagine a world where war is no more between nations or neighborhoods; gangs or individuals; a world where no child is cold or hungry or left behind.  Advent is a time to stay awake and hope!  For God comes.  God comes to us, for us; God comes always now and always at the end.

In her book “Kneeling in Bethlehem,” Ann Weems writes, “Our God is the one who comes to us in a burning bush, in an angels’ song, in a newborn child. Our God is the one who can not be locked in the church, not even in the sanctuary.  Our God will be where God will be with no constraints, no predictability. Our God lives where our God lives, and destruction has no power and even death cannot stop the living. Our God will be born where our God will be born, but there is no place to look for the One who comes to us.  When God is ready, God will come even to a godforsaken place like a stable in Bethlehem.  Watch…for you know not when God comes.  Watch that you might be found whenever, wherever God comes.”

And so we wait.  Awake and filled with hope, we wait! We wait not in a passive way, rather we wait fully engaged in a spiritual adventure seeking to orient ourselves to the light.

Often, when I travel the Beltway the 20-30 minutes it takes to get from Oakton to Silver Spring, I am awed by the sting of ruby and diamond lights which assure me I am in the right lane going in the right direction.  And yes, they are more beautiful when they are in motion than when standing still. To get to the Beltway, I often drive down Route 123 through Vienna and Tyson’s Corner. As I have traveled this route over the past few weeks I have encountered a particular paradox.  It is a juxtaposition of light which causes me pause; a pause some would call “the thin space” a peculiar membrane in the life of faith which combines the mysterious coming of God with ordinary human existence. It is a line between the now and the not yet.

Well, on Route 123 traveling east, there is a hill, just beyond Emmaus United Church of Christ in Vienna which crests at the edge of Tyson’s Corner.  There, between 6:45 and 7 o’clock am, you encounter a plethora of lights.  Bright glaring lights, yellow, white, red, green and blue.  These lights illumine shopping malls, restaurants, commercial buildings, small businesses, apartments, townhouses, condominiums, parking lots, and gas stations.  They are city lights that reflect the hustle and bustle of city life. There in the midst of those lights are people engaged in life—people from around the world, trying to make a living doing the best they can. In the midst of the lights, there are people of many faiths and people with no faith at all. As I sit on the top of the hill at the traffic light, I often wonder how folk do it all.  I wonder what God thinks of it all. Stay awake!

Lately, I have been able to arrive at this corner at a time, when just beyond the glimmers of human creation, daytime begins to dawn.  The morning sky miles away, yet seemingly so close, is usually a reddish pink turning yellow framed by hints of blue. Often clouds, stars and planets remaining present. At the top of the hill there seems to be a paradox, or a juxtaposition of city lights and natural lights, ordinary lives and the mystery of God—each a symbol of Advent, the “thin space” between what is already and what is not yet. Seeing this, imagining what could be, my heart awakens with hope; hope that brings joy and peace and fills me with God’s love. God is and God is coming…

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