Hope: A Poem for the First Sunday in Advent

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On the way to new birth,
there is labor.
And in the midst of labor,
there is waiting.
Much waiting.
Agonizing, painful, teeth-gritting waiting.

For the one who waits,
words slip away,
time dissolves,
and expansive existence is reduced
to this moment,
this experience,
this pain,

breath
by
ragged
breath.

Direction, purpose, goal . . .
all fades, is forgotten
in the urgency of not going under,
not drowning,
right here and now.

This, my brothers and sisters,
is when we carry the hope for each other.

This is when we who wait with
whisper hope to those whose sight is obscured by their pain.

The Body of Christ is communal.
When one suffers, all are affected.
To live in opposition to this truth
is to deceive oneself.

When members of the Body hurt,
are oppressed,
are ignored,
are targeted,

the time for business as usual
has passed,
and the time has arrived
for supporting, risking, speaking up,
and entering into deep, full companionship.

The labor is slow.
The progress is uncertain.
The suffering lament how long . . .

so we join our hearts and souls together,
place our hope in the promises of God,
and midwife each other towards the light,
towards the kindom,
towards the new life about to be born.

 

 


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