ADVENT, ’23 AD

Adveniat regnum tuum. So reads the Latin for “Thy Kingdom Come” in the Our Father. Which is the meaning of the liturgical season of Advent. Awaiting the birth of Jesus who not only proclaims God’s kingdom or reign “on earth as it is in heaven”, but who is the coming or the incarnation of that kingdom.

Some feminists would have us say “kindom,” not liking kings and other masculine authorities. So be it. Yet I continue to say “Father” and “kingdom”, not because I happen to be male, but because I prefer the sound of those words. When saying the Our Father, whether aloud or in silence, I always add “Our Mother, Great Spirit”. But not “kindom” which, in English at least, sounds strange, even weird. Maybe it’ll catch on, but I’m too old to wait for that.

In any event (which sounds like “advent” and the great event it proclaims), I do find myself awaiting again, in this year of Our Lord 2023 AD, or Anno Domino, awaiting the celebration of Jesus’ birth. And remembering when my children, in costume, at church, dramatized the scene of that birth at the altar. (By the way, I use AD and resist the now culturally mandated “CE” because the birth of Jesus really does constitute THE major turning point in all of history.)

This year I’ve been part of a zoom group talking about “the cosmic Christ”. Some good readings discussed, but always returning to the central question about how Jesus, the Christ, is present and active in this world and throughout the cosmos – embodying the presence of the Kingdom.

Perhaps the point is that He, Jesus, is “Lord of Lords and King of Kings” (Handel), always present and active – the Alpha and Omega (to throw in a bit of Greek).

Where is this presence? God knows; I only guess. At the margins, as Pope Francis the Great keeps saying. In the smell of the stables and streets.

It happens that, a few days, ago I gave out clean socks and underpants, warm hats and gloves, and some books, to an encampment or tent-city surrounding the blocks around Denver’s main post office. Mostly homeless and jobless African American men with grizzled beards and hungry looks. Probably over 100 tents, typically with two or three guys sleeping and living there. Maybe some women, though I didn’t see any. I only had enough for the first 20 or so tents. And I’m not trying to boast. Rather I was humbled by how little I could do and by how I typically avoid encountering the poor. Next time I’ll buy cigarettes as well, for they seem the primary currency of street life.

The good news is that our Denver mayor has realistic plans for moving those folks to more permanent housing. Not to get them out of public eyesight, but with real compassion for the people on the streets. He’s a young Irish American, with Harvard and Yale degrees and a long history of anti-poverty work. He may be Catholic, perhaps influenced by Francis.

Still, and not just because Jesus said it, the poor will always be with us. In part because of the kind of capitalism embodied in Trump and his ilk. Also because of the inevitability of social stratification. And most deeply because of the reality of original sin with its continuing consequences. Yes, with Matthew Fox and other theological flakes, creation is indeed an original blessing. Yet however we understand Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, and the rest of Genesis and Exodus, that blessing was soon stained by sin, deeply stained, wounding our own flesh and spirits. As a theological friend regularly said, it’s the only Christian doctrine that is empirically demonstrable.

Every Advent we await the coming of the Savior who takes away the sins of the world. Not, as my mentor Lynch says, in some big triumphal, capital “S” way. Rather in all the small “s” ways we try to love our neighbor, even our enemies, and are loved by others even with all our shabbiness. And every time a child is born.

“For (again Handel) unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace.” True, analogously, for the birth of every child, daughters as much as sons. For the birth of every child is a new beginning for the world. However much stained by sin the world into which every newborn enters.

So yes, let’s together say “Amen” and “Alleluia”.

This Advent I’ll be listening again to Handel, and to Leonard Cohen’s deeply sad “Alleluia”.

Should you listen to these and other Advent and Christmas songs, then perhaps what I’ve been struggling to say in this essay will make more sense than my rambling words.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.