O come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease,
And be Thyself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
Waiting isn't something I do well. Impatience has been a prominent personality trait of mine from the time I was very young, and even though it often leads to near-disatrous results in my personal life, I persist in being impatient. The realities of life are beginning to wear impatience down a bit, but for the most part, I'd still rather go without that have to wait for something I badly--even desperately--want. This makes me a terrible Black Friday shopper (even if waiting in line for a few hours outside of Best Buy at 5 am guaranteed me a $20 ipod, I'd probably still be at home in bed); coincidentally, it also makes me a terrible Christian.
Christianity is all about waiting. Christians continually wait for a redeemed world: for God's kingdom to come, for the lion to lie down with the lamb, for the bridegroom to come for the bride, for Jesus to make sense of this mess. I've never liked this about my religion, and recently I've revolted against it: I've chosen to embrace the present world as an important part of the faraway idyll that first existed in Eden and (we believe) will exist again. I'm not totally convinced that the world as we know it will cease to exist, which is why I think we should care for it the best we can and try to work toward the ideals we associate with a redeemed earth.
But, undeniably, the world sucks right now. When I look around, and when I look inside, it becomes painfully obvious just how broken everything is. Much of the time I ignore this (I'm not sure I could stay sane if I didn't); then, suddenly and randomly, it takes my breath away. And again, I'm stuck with the waiting I deplore.
It's Advent, and in church every Sunday, we've been learning about waiting. Advent is, symbolically, the season of waiting for the Christ child, even though I've never really thought of it that way. (Being raised in a Baptist church, I wasn't well schooled in symbolism.) As I sang the well-known hymn quoted above, which is all about the simultaneous ache and joy of waiting, I was reminded of the symbolic role of Isreal in the Christian faith: just as Israel endured periods of exile and had to wait for redemption, we experience moments of brokenness during which we wait, desperately, for Christ's presence. But, as the song argues eloquently, the periods of waiting should also be times of celebration, as difficult as that may seem, because of God's promise.
This is how I've decided to view the world: it's sagging under the weight of our burdens, but I'll "rejoice"--i.e., work toward and pray for redemption--as I wait for Christ to return. And maybe mysteriously, miraculously, waiting will be transformative.
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease,
And be Thyself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
Waiting isn't something I do well. Impatience has been a prominent personality trait of mine from the time I was very young, and even though it often leads to near-disatrous results in my personal life, I persist in being impatient. The realities of life are beginning to wear impatience down a bit, but for the most part, I'd still rather go without that have to wait for something I badly--even desperately--want. This makes me a terrible Black Friday shopper (even if waiting in line for a few hours outside of Best Buy at 5 am guaranteed me a $20 ipod, I'd probably still be at home in bed); coincidentally, it also makes me a terrible Christian.
Christianity is all about waiting. Christians continually wait for a redeemed world: for God's kingdom to come, for the lion to lie down with the lamb, for the bridegroom to come for the bride, for Jesus to make sense of this mess. I've never liked this about my religion, and recently I've revolted against it: I've chosen to embrace the present world as an important part of the faraway idyll that first existed in Eden and (we believe) will exist again. I'm not totally convinced that the world as we know it will cease to exist, which is why I think we should care for it the best we can and try to work toward the ideals we associate with a redeemed earth.
But, undeniably, the world sucks right now. When I look around, and when I look inside, it becomes painfully obvious just how broken everything is. Much of the time I ignore this (I'm not sure I could stay sane if I didn't); then, suddenly and randomly, it takes my breath away. And again, I'm stuck with the waiting I deplore.
It's Advent, and in church every Sunday, we've been learning about waiting. Advent is, symbolically, the season of waiting for the Christ child, even though I've never really thought of it that way. (Being raised in a Baptist church, I wasn't well schooled in symbolism.) As I sang the well-known hymn quoted above, which is all about the simultaneous ache and joy of waiting, I was reminded of the symbolic role of Isreal in the Christian faith: just as Israel endured periods of exile and had to wait for redemption, we experience moments of brokenness during which we wait, desperately, for Christ's presence. But, as the song argues eloquently, the periods of waiting should also be times of celebration, as difficult as that may seem, because of God's promise.
This is how I've decided to view the world: it's sagging under the weight of our burdens, but I'll "rejoice"--i.e., work toward and pray for redemption--as I wait for Christ to return. And maybe mysteriously, miraculously, waiting will be transformative.
No comments:
Post a Comment