But no. Like the poet of Isaiah 64, I have only the facts of Isaiah 64:8 to sustain me this and every future advent I am privileged to experience. 'Yet, you, YHWH, are our father (and mother); we are clay, you are potter; we are all the work of your hand.' In effect, that may be the torn sky I have looked in vain for all these years. All of us, the good and the bad, the black and the white and the brown, the gay and the straight, the male and the female, and those who find themselves some of each; we are all the work of God's hand. We need to look for God not in the great deeds or in the torn heavens, but under and through the wrapping paper, in the bowl of gravy, in the face of a wife or husband, or child or grandchild. Don't ask me how we do that. I just know that is where God will be.
But after I find God there, it will be true that God will call me out from my presents, and my feast, and the warmth of family and into a world of pain and hurt to be with all those whom God has made and loved and redeemed in the child whose coming we await. Happy New Year! Happy Advent!