Walking through the dark, frozen air of an early December morning in Michigan I think, “I’m probably the only person in the world who has this as the idea of a fun weekend.” The monks I am visiting at St. Gregory’s Abbey begin their first time of prayer at 4 AM. Most who know me know if it was at midnight I would be yawning and begging off at 10 PM, but 4 in the morning doesn’t scare me. So, I set an alarm for 3:45 and after hearing it and waking I bundled up for the cold December morning and walked from the Guesthouse to the church. Inside the room is dark with only a few lights lit, but candles are burning. The candles’ light could be seen as an act of defiance or desperation against the darkness, but I see them as a sign of hope. It might be dark and cold, but the candles say “Here is a little light.”


It’s a full season outside of the monastery with parties and gift giving and decorating filling the days and evenings. Most enjoy those things, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But, here for a couple of days in Advent I want everything to be quiet and to wait for God. I visited someone in the hospital this week; I was called in by a pastor from another state. She was looking for someone who was close to his hospital. I agreed, and I found a man on the edge of death with his family waiting either for a sign of good news or for death to take him. There they were waiting for something. I’m so torn by the news now. I know, with my work as a volunteer police chaplain, how many police officers serve their communities with humility, dealing with the worst things and keeping a level head when the rest of us would lose it. Most officers are public servants in the purest of its definition, serving the community so the rest of us might be safer. I know, too, that every profession, police and pastors included, has its bad apples who are in it for the wrong reasons and often do the wrong things. Many friends, African American and Latino pastors, have told me stories of being pulled over and accused by the police. These are holy men and women, people I wish I could be as righteous as, but they are viewed as thugs and criminals because their skin is brown or black. They see those who have been killed by the police and think, “That could be my son, brother, father, or even me.” I wait for a world where we understand one another and don’t need to fear one another. The news this week, too, has brought us back to the fear of a few years ago, when people in my country’s service tortured individuals to possibly squeeze out a little information on terrorist activities. Some try to convince us that we need to meet evil with evil if somehow good is to win the day, but I’m unconvinced and wait for God to show us a better world. Even within myself, I wait for my own heart to change so that I might be better, more charitable and less judgemental. I wait, hoping for the day when knowing God’s presence will be as natural as breathing. Here in Advent I’m waiting, and I pray with Isaiah’s Advent text, “Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” (64:1).

Isaiah, too, paints a picture of a messenger whose feet are beautiful, and the beauty comes from the fact that they bear this messenger along with good news. Along the walls of the city are sentinels who see the messenger coming with good news, and they announce it to the city. “Listen! Your sentinels lift up their voices, together they sing for joy; for in plain sight they see the return of the Lord to Zion” is how Isaiah describes it (52:8). Churches and monasteries are like those sentinels. The people of the city don’t see the good news yet, but along the wall the sentinels do, and they announce it to the city, and they even have great joy in what is coming even while the news within the city is still bad.

Faithful people see it , the good news coming, even if it may be far away, and they light a light of hope and joy for its coming. I see it--if its only with the eyes of my heart I see--that one day all of creation will walk with the light of God’s love as our streetlamps, swords and guns and weapons will be recycled to make tractors and combines, and every tear will be wiped away. I see it; I do. Until then, I light a candle and pray and wait with the monks on these cold Advent mornings, knowing God and God’s new world are coming.