Homily for November 30, 2014: 1st Sunday of Advent

Fittingly, as we begin Advent, my wife and I spent much of the last few days waiting.

We waited at the airport to go to Washington for Thanksgiving. We waited at my in-laws for the dinner to be ready. Friday, we all went to a Chinese restaurant and waited about 45 minutes for a table. Saturday, again, we waited at the airport for our plane. And then, once we got on the plane, we waited about a half an hour on the runway while the pilot waited for clearance to take off.

We didn’t brave the mall on Friday, but I have no doubt that if we had, like a lot of people, we would have spent a lot of time…waiting.

When you think about it, that is the story of our lives, isn’t it? We wait. Researchers say we spend years of our lives doing nothing more than waiting, whether on the phone or in doctor’s offices or bumper to bumper in traffic. By one estimate, Americans collectively spend 37 billion hours a year just waiting in line. Over a lifetime, the average person will spend three years waiting.

Looked at that way, it seems clear: our lives are a continual Advent.

And Advent, in its way, shows us there is grace and holiness in the act of waiting. It assures us that this particular period of waiting has a purpose—which is our salvation. We are waiting for our Redeemer.

This Sunday in particular it tells us also to find grace in the act of watching. “Watch” is Christ’s final word in the gospel. But watch for what?

The short answer is: keep watch for Christ and the final judgment.

But I think it is even more immediate. It is about what is happening here and now.

Thomas Merton once wrote about St. Bernard and his theology of the “Three Advents” of Christ—the first being the Advent in Mary’s womb, waiting to be born…the third being Advent at the end of time, awaiting the final judgment. But the second is the one we encounter every day, here and now. “We learn to recognize,” Merton wrote, “the present Advent that is taking place at every moment in our own earthly life as wayfarers.” And so we keep watch for Christ. “If we neglect him and let him go by,” Merton wrote, “our neglect is our condemnation!”

So the question this Sunday, in the opening hours of Advent: are we keeping watch for Christ? Are we not only waiting…but watching?

There are many places right now where the waiting and the watching are especially hard, where the desire to see the face of Christ is overwhelming.

I think, in particular, of Ferguson, Missouri.

Last week, one image captured that yearning—and captured also the attention of the world. It happened in Portland, Oregon, site of one of many protests that took place around the country. A 12-year-old African American boy named Devonte Hart went into downtown Portland with his parents to try and bring a message of simple compassion and peace. They made some signs that said “You Matter” and “Free Hugs.” But the emotion and anger that Devonte witnessed was too much for him. He stood there, holding his sign, and just began to cry.

A white police officer named Bret Barnum was on his motorcycle that morning working in crowd control. He saw Devonte and gestured for him to come over. They shook hands. Officer Barnum asked Devonte where he lived, where he went to school, what he liked to do, how he’d spent his summer. As they spoke, Devonte stopped crying and then the officer pointed to Devonte’s sign offering “Free Hugs” and asked if he could get one of those.

Devonte fell into his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. A photographer named Johnny Nguyen captured the moment. And the picture was published around the world. Later reports gave more details about Devonte’s life. It turns out he is one of six children adopted by a white family when he was four years old. The first four years of his life, he grew up among crack, among gunfire, among abuse and neglect. But by the grace of God and the love of his adopted family he found a new life, a new beginning.

There is overwhelming hope in that image and in that story.

There is Advent in it, too.

It speaks of the desire we all have for the Prince of Peace. O come, O come, Emmanuel. We mourn in lowly exile here, until the Son of God appears.

And it reminds us that the second Advent—of Christ among us every day—is here and now, if we only keep watch.

Christ may be found in the haunted, tear-stained face of a broken child.

He may also be found in arms of police officer, who saw an opportunity in a divided world to build a bridge.

As I said at the beginning: our lives are a continual Advent. We wait every day. But Christ continues to come to us, to reveal himself to us, if we are open to him.

Let us pray to make that so.

Let us pray to wait with patience and hope—and to watch.

Emmanuel may be closer than we realize. We do not want to miss him.