Advent 1: Apocalyptic Visions

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” ~Luke 21:25-28

As a child I learned about Advent-- I'm sure-- in school, Saint James' Parochial School, in Ventnor, NJ. (The school and the church were exactly one block from the beach and the vast, amazing Atlantic ocean, in which I was immersed every summer for approximately 8 hours each day. Saint James was where I learned all about God. The Atlantic ocean was God started to get under my skin.)

And I learned-- I'm sure-- that Advent was about preparing for the birth of Jesus, which we would celebrate at Christmas. I imagine (more than I remember) that we had an Advent wreath in church, whose candles would have been lit by an altar boy before mass began. I remember (and don't have to imagine) that the church was particularly beautiful during Advent. And even as a child--maybe a slightly older child, maybe a 10 or 11-year-old--I knew that Advent was, in some powerful way, about longing.

If I had to tell you what I (as a 10 or 11-year-old) was longing for, it probably would have sounded like: I want so-and-so to be my friend; why isn't she my friend? But I think beneath that was: a sense of belonging, a sense of security in my connections with other people.

My sense of longing would NOT have been focused on exposure to what, even when I was 10 or 11, was the reading each and every First Sunday in Advent: something apocalyptic. (Apocalypse, from a Greek word mean "uncovering," or "unveiling." Overtones of end-of-life-as-we-know-it catastrophe are a recent development.) I know I went to church every single weekend unless I was sick. So, I must have heard these readings. This one, for instance, talking about signs in the sun, moon, and stars. (I, who wished on more than one star, to know: Why didn't she want me?). Talking about distress among nations. (When I was a 10-year-old, one cousin on each side of the family was in Viet Nam.) Talking about roaring seas and waves. (I knew by that age that the ocean was fun, but it was also dangerous. You only have to get caught in a riptide once.)

I read this week that Bernard of Clairvaux wrote in the 12th century about the three comings of Christ: "in the flesh in Bethlehem; in our hearts daily; and in glory at the end of time."Advent kicks off like a war film evoking the utter chaos, fear, and dread that, supposedly, will mark that last one.

Most every Advent of my adult life I've greeted these readings with a jaded eyeroll. After all, hasn't every era, every generation, believed at some point that the world was about to end? A lovely older gentleman in my congregation tells a story of riding his bike down by the river as a boy, and coming upon a group of people in white robes at the water's edge. He said, "Watcha doin'?" And one of them responded, "Waiting for the world to end." He was intrigued. "Can I watch?" "Sure," was the reply. He lasted about fifteen minutes. Tedious stuff, waiting for the end of the world.

But we're just a couple of weeks out from a congressionally mandated report on global climate change that should make the knees of every human being weak as we contemplate its implications. I'm no prophet, but I do tend to think the scientific consensus on this issue is pretty compelling. We're in trouble, friends.

So, Jesus says, "Stand up and raise your heads." I've always assumed he says that so that we will be aware of his advent, that third one, the coming of the Son of Man in glory.

I wonder, though: If the earth is prematurely nearing its demise-- if this isn't, in fact, God's Original Plan for how this should all unfold--whether God wouldn't want us to stand up and raise our heads and hands and voices in outraged protest (rather than in eager anticipation). At the risk of sounding like I'm encouraging us to be our own saviors, I do think it's a damned shame to lose a perfectly good planet a good 500 million years early. Maybe we could do something about that?

My preference for signs in the stars would be to be able to stand outside, somewhere away from light pollution, and see the ridiculous millions of them that are mostly obscured from our sight and yet wheeling across the sky all day long, and all night, too. Or, to see the first star, the evening star, shyly showing itself to my 10-year-old self, a reminder of things and people impossibly far away and yet, somehow, as close as opening my eyes. In either case, the outcome would be lovely. It would be longing. I'm sure.