My friend tells me about a man who takes his son to movie matinees. That is not unusual. Except this: the boy, his son, is deaf. The man is accustomed to questioning. "Why do you do this to your son, if he cannot hear the movie?" Or, "If your son can't hear, what value is there?" The Father smiles and says, "You are right. He cannot hear. But I wonder. In the movie we watched last weekend. What color were the walls in the house? How many windows where there in the main house? What color was the heroine's hair? And her eyes?" The Father continues, "I guess the value depends upon what we are paying attention to." We are in the season of Advent. Which means, literally, "to wait." Wait implies that we are paying attention, (one would assume), to something. Something specific. It's just that modern life has rewired our expectations. Waiting is okay. However, whatever it is, we want it now. As if waiting is a test with unambiguous and accurate answers. Could it be, that (just like the hearing-impaired boy), the value of waiting, depends upon what we are paying attention to? Wait is most certainly a word we know. And loathe. And wish to eliminate. (I read that the average person will spend 5 years of his or her life waiting in line, 2 years playing telephone tag, and six months sitting at red lights. That is over 7 and half years of waiting, at best, doing nothing, or at worst maxing out our blood pressure! The bottom line is that even in our fast-paced world, with instant gratification tools, we are all waiting for something. And it doesn't seem to help that we can text while we wait.)So tell me again, why are we waiting? (My favorite golf store has a special deal on new clubs this week, what with the world not ending and all--the Mayans were off a little in their calculations, or perhaps were eager to golf.)
Here's the deal: waiting and paying attention are connected. Or to put it another way, waiting is about making space. What if the power is in the waiting itself? In other words, in the space waiting creates. What if, it's not about getting over the waiting, or having answers for the waiting. In other words, it is not about absence, but awareness. Truth is, we don't know what Mary learned as she pondered. What we do know is that she made space. To receive. To welcome. To invite.
There is an import, weight, value and substance in the very space that waiting allows.
What if the waiting of Advent is the story of a God who pitches his tent among us, even as we live in the midst of a culture grown weary from too much work, from too much speed, from to much fear and from too much war?
A waiting that provides a space for recollection.
For what we value.
For those things and people, for which we are grateful.
For the gift of simple grace.
I do know this: In the hurry and the hubbub and the noise, our world grows smaller.
However--just like the young man in the story--when we make space, we see. We hear, we notice, we pay attention, we remember, we are grateful, we take delight, we grow. And our world grows larger.
This message resonated with me this week. Yesterday I stood in St. Paul's Chapel (at Ground Zero, where first responders rested and were tended). Now, it is not only a church and worship space, but also a memorial. In the corner stands the Pilgrimage Altar. It is covered with post-it-notes of various sizes and colors, in a myriad of languages, the writing reflecting thoughts from young and old. Above the Altar is this sign:
After 9/11, those remembering their lost loved ones filled this altar spontaneously with mementos. To this day, every pilgrim to St. Paul's Chapel brings something precious with them: a hope, a question, a memory, a wound. This is a sacred place to name and offer what is in your heart. Pause a moment; write a name or a prayer.
Mark Twain is right, "Kindness is a language, which the deaf can hear and the blind can see."
So, when we do pause... when we do wait... is that what we can hear? Kindness, hospitality, compassion, gratitude and inclusion?
I am writing this on an airplane, returning home from the east coast. (Next to me is a baby auditioning for the X-Factor... apparently not all nights at this time of year can be silent.)
I had a good day, walking parts of Central Park, Columbus Circle, down Broadway and later in the afternoon downtown, Battery Park City, where we could look out at the Statue of Liberty. It is Zach's first trip to New York, and we savor the sights and sounds and in the end, the gifts of grace.
There was never a thought of race, creed, color, or gender. I just hope that once this has all passed, that is not forgotten.
Joseph James (first responder at 9/11)
