TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23 , 2014
Psalm 66, 67; Isaiah 11: 10-16; Luke 1: 5-25
I grew up on the Ohio prairie, where seasonal change is a concrete and tangible experience. Those years of moving from season to season formed me and ingrained expectations for the changing seasons on the calendar.
As fall begins, I expect to need a sweater in the mornings and to see color in the leaves of trees. As winter approaches, I ready to wear my coat outside, to scrape frost from the car windshield, and, in moments of particularly splendid delusion, to catch a glimpse of snow.
In the parts of Texas where I have lived, the residual anticipation of seasonal patterns, formed in me so long ago, seem out of place and unfounded. But my body tells me that times are changing, that earth is moving, and that what has been is passing into what will soon be.
The seasons of the liturgical year shape our souls. Something is becoming deeply imbedded into who we are and the rhythm of our movement through time. The days turn again, and a deep longing settles into our bones; Advent carries us forward into promise.
So we wait. The world dims in Vesper light at an earlier hour, and reminds us that light will break through again. A stubborn chill drives us into a close huddle together in hope for the warmth of God’s love.
With the prophet Isaiah, we await that day.
Loving God, you help us to hope for what can be; so form
R. Scott Painter