liturgies for advent
Elizabeth Moore
i. longing
A cry escapes from my deepest place,
an audible ache for my native land.
Is there a sanctuary where I may go to dwell?
A shelter where I am welcome to stay?
I was born with a longing for arrival
but I know not where,
compelled by a hunger for homecoming
but I do not remember the way.
I am a stubborn traveler,
and weary to my bones,
desperate for deliverance,
and frightened by the familiarity of darkness.
Yet I seek an Answer,
a Face not hidden away,
a place where I might finally rest,
gazing upon a Beauty that is not mine.
Dare I look for Belonging while the stain of forbidden fruit colors my lips?
Dare I await the Messiah with the marks of iniquity seared onto my skin?
Dare I hope for the fulfillment of the promise,
of the Everlasting Goodness that has already begun?
Let me learn the language of longing from those who have gone before me,
and join the ranks of Zechariah,
of Elizabeth,
of Mary,
of Simeon and Anna,
who searched for the Messiah with gritty expectancy,
in the bloody baptism of birth,
in the dirt of the stable beneath their fingernails,
in the ordinary routines of everyday.
We are watchmen, waiting for morning.
We are needy souls, quivering with anticipation.
We are darkened eyes, looking for Light.
We are barren wombs, expectant for a Child.
We are defiant people, believing in hope,
that at any moment,
eternity will erupt on earth.
ii. curiosity
Lean in, O Childlike Self who once believed,
and listen to the faint, forgotten disclosures of youth.
Remember the stories of old that thrilled your heart long ago.
What did they teach you then?
What can they teach you now?
Remember the promises kept,
the power displayed,
and the prophecies foretold
Of an Almighty God making His way to earth.
Of a Love that would take on flesh.
Of a Savior so magnificently simple,
so divinely humble,
that unless we seek a baby in a manger,
we will miss Him.
You wonder, How can this be?
For there is much trouble at hand.
Prophecies have dissolved into folklore,
and the vitality of innocence has lost its place on the frontlines of battle.
Oh Child, may your fear be turned into boldfaced wonder
as you ask questions of the quiet, the scandalous, and the dangerous.
May you perceive of a different kind of power:
one that rules with gentleness and judges with divine wisdom.
May curiosity not be muddled by your own explanations,
nor your openness be limited by your own understanding.
May you seek that life-giving Spirit of the baby in the manger,
and investigate this good news of heaven come to earth.
May you become one who keeps watch for God,
following His star and seeking His light,
never becoming too comfortable with the Annunciation,
nor too familiar with the Incarnation,
but continuously moved by wonder,
and ceaselessly overcome by the mystery of it all—
of pure Spirit piercing the earth,
of the Word of God made flesh,
of Immanuel, God with Us.
iii. finding
As we peer into dim vacancies of mud and manger,
teenage mother and frightened father,
we are searching for understanding,
for something to splinter the darkness with light,
and make our fractured pieces whole.
And what have we found?
With the shepherds,
we have found the heartbeat of God,
staggering in its simplicity and devastating in its vulnerability.
With Zechariah,
we have found the fulfillment of prophecy,
sprouting from the soil of our unbelief.
With Elizabeth,
we have found a restoration of dignity and a divinely rewritten conclusion,
hidden away in the final chapter of life.
With Mary,
we have stumbled upon the undeserved favor of God,
and pondered the perplexity of His improper and holy commission.
With Simeon,
we have searched for relief and found it,
tucked into the exact place we were told it would be.
With Anna,
we have lived among loss and depended on hope,
unwilling to miss out on the redemption we were promised.
Together, we gather in silence,
in the unlikely, rejected places,
in no room at the inn,
to discover the Treasure we have been seeking,
this salvation for all,
this revelation of light,
this gift of glory and grace,
this mystery we did not expect.
iv. joy
The night leans in to listen
and stars perform their constellation dance,
as a newborn’s cries pierce the night,
rousing stable dwellers from their sleep,
stirred by the Spirit that will startle sleeping souls awake.
This birth is a beginning and an ending,
the genesis of eternity and the termination of life as we know it.
This beating heart has come to bring life,
but first, He bids us come and die.
From here, we begin to comprehend our future as new creations:
weak yet strong, slaves yet free,
sons and daughters of love and light,
ready to lose our lives,
yet finding them again in complete surrender.
Though now we see dimly as through a mirror,
the vapor will soon give way to substance,
and the King will be seen for who He truly is.
May we be thrilled by this hope,
by this beautifully disruptive Emmanuel,
by the Kingdom of God miraculously in our midst,
for His presence has come to earth,
and is the sure and steady refuge for our souls.
May we become like children and believe,
remembering our first love,
challenging our limiting beliefs,
beholding glorious wonders,
experiencing depths of peace beyond our understanding.
Our new spirits are now awakening,
flickering tongues of the Consuming Fire’s flame,
bursting with longing,
journeying with curiosity,
marveling at the Mystery,
destined for never ending joy.
Our souls magnify the Lord,
for He has come and is coming again.
These liturgies were recited at Church of the City New York’s Christmas service. Watch here.