The Ashes on our Forehead

Now (For Advent 1, Year A) 

Odd, how the promise of a later peace 

comes just before annihilation – 

a tumbling of temple into Babylonian dust. 

Odd how the prophet utters comfort 

 as the reckoning beast approaches. 

Odder still, how Matthew frames a writhing, wrecked creation 

 as a plummet into hope – 

there is One-who-will-return, 

who bore violence to a cross, 

 wore wounds into a room filled with fear, 

 will portage us to a tree of life for our healing – 

for the healing of nations. 

Why do You wait so long, 

 as cities turn to rubble, 

 bodies to compost, 

 as the powerful fashion crosses for another and another generation? 

This is the world, and if the best the luckiest can do 

is cover ourselves with unearned advantage, 

or cower into privilege, 

what is to become of the unlucky, 

with no patina of privilege, 

no gospel-racket of divine protection? 

On a mountain, the One-who-will-return named them blessed – 

blessed poor, blessed meek, blessed hungry, brokenhearted – 

blessed at the safe injection site, 

blessed on the bench, 

blessed in the doorway with a matted dog,  

haunting a median with hand-printed sign and ragged cup: 

Blessed – one by one by one by one – 

blessed and still nothing changes. 

What does this blessing look like, then? 

When is its advent? When will we see a new Jerusalem – 

new Kyiv, new Gaza, Juba, Port-au-Prince – 

new World? 

We do this every year, some of us every day. 

We wonder how long; we watch from what feels like a safe distance, 

or from behind the wary eyes of those in danger. 

When will we see a Tree blooming where ashes 

were strewn from burnt crosses, 

see nourishing fruit, healing leaves, living water, new creation – when? 

The One-who-will-return just says “be ready.” (Walk the floor, pack what you need, be ready.) 

A child is born, and receives her name, Or his, or theirs, or mine, or yours – 

the family name of every child – 

Immanuel.