Chris McDonnell, UK
christymac733@gmail.com

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December 13, 2017

^{An experience of hope - (with an Advent poem: The Coming)}

Hope is something we have. In the United States, Hope is a place that is, a city in south west Arkansas, the birth place of Bill Clinton. Whatever faults he had as a person - and he had plenty - as a President he lived up to the name of his home town and inspired a vision of hope and leadership, unlike the present incumbent of the White House. Enough said.

Hope is something essential to our lives, something that offers a fullness, an anticipation of future circumstances, its contrast being hopelessness, a word that is full of emptiness and despair.

We are mid-way through the season of Advent, the four weeks that mark the start of a new Liturgical year, the weeks that lead to the celebration of Nativity. It is a time of preparation marked by the colour purple. It is also a time of increasing hope, as week by week a further candle of the Advent wreath is lit and the shadows begin to be overcome by light.

Time and event slip from our grasp. Taken from the eternity that is God, came the Son. To a people prepared came the unrecognised Child. In his time, he came into our time and disturbed the peace. For each of us, half-people wandering in a lost world, peace comes with wholeness.

Appreciating our broken-being, we seek completion. From the East has come to us a story of a wandering people, waiting for the Lord, the story of a turbulent people moving with purpose yet often confused, often distraught sometimes lonely, to the point of pain. But always drawn, ever closer, toward that one point of incarnation.

Each of us, a pilgrim people, sparks that the Spirit Wind blew to life. Each of us, warming to a greater fire, seek the Child that is its source, the cause of our very existence. In the silence that is night, in the darkness when the Sun is momentarily lost, huddled for warmth, we reach Other. Here tonight within these walls, proof against that awesome night here again is cause for hope, here again a birth brings light.

Pass on, pass on the fire that is given you, the fire that is within you, the fire that is you until, burnt to ash you are at the very centre. There in the stable before the Child of Mary, is the promise of the Father, the gift of the Spirit. Pass on and stand before the telling of the story of the Jesus Child. And in the disturbing of your peace, accept the peace and hope he brings from the eternity of God.

This is the story of Advent, the story of seeking, the story of hope in the eternity of God.

Yet we look around our planet as we approach another year-end and find scarcity in hope. Too often our news casts are filled with the despairing hands and faces of those without hope, whose suffering is etched in their faces, the tears in their eyes. Those from a far country, drawn by circumstance of loss, voiceless, till voiced by those with opportunity to speak of pass hopeless nights and days huddled on a beach. Listen to their endless story told by fearful faces hidden by a coloured shawl, dark wide eyes appealing for recognition. Thin-skinned, outstretched hands whose fingers speak when speech itself is lost in the unending howl of wind that comes with grief.

Still we will hurry to the High Street and the Shopping Mall to gather gifts, cards and decorations. Stock-up to overflowing with food and drink and claim we are exhausted by it all, just as we were last year and the year before that. Others can only look on and wonder why they are not invited to the party. The words of the Beatitudes ask simple questions. They give us the framework for blessedness and offer gifts in consequence. The poor in spirit, those who mourn, those who are meek and those who hunger and thirst after justice are indeed those who live in hope. The merciful, the pure in heart, the peace makers, all have so much to give. In concluding with words on those who are persecuted, we have in the Beatitudes a code of practice for the Christian life.

Negativity in outlook helps no-one; in fact it hinders progress and improvement. What others need, how their hope might be fulfilled, depends so often on our open hands and willing smile indicating our practical love.

A life without hope is an Advent without conviction. High tide marks the last hours of withdrawal before a fierce new wave in a hurry begins an inward flow creasing the strand. Liturgical purple edges the early morning glow of Advent preparation coming as sharp frost spikes the grass. Advent is indeed a place called Hope.

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Advent poem: 

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