Advent marks the beginning of the church year. You would expect this first Sunday to be marked by scripture readings that are celebratory and upbeat. But in truth, the gospel lessons assigned for today are always about the end of the world, like this one from Matthew 24:
But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so too will be the coming of the Son of Man. Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left. Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour. (Mt 24:36-44)
When the bible tells us to be alert and watchful, it isn’t talking so much about vigilance as it is about field of vision. Christ calls us to keep our eyes focused on more than just ourselves; to love others as we ourselves wish to be loved. The wise Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel has said that true persons of faith have the ability to hold God and humanity in a single thought. It is that type of dual focus, double vision, that marks Advent watchfulness. And it is in this spiritual vigilance that we remember that history matters. That all that has happened, is happening and will happen is intimately connected with God’s hopes and plans for humankind. And we are a part of those plans, especially if we can stay alert.
After reading this passage, a second question pops into our mind: “Why does Christ, the Son of Man, want to return to earth?” As soon as we say those words, we brace for the answer, expecting someone to hit us with words about judgment, separating sheep from goats, welcoming some and leaving others out to weep and gnash their teeth. But after a pause, we hear a one-word answer: “Nostalgia.” Nostalgia, from the Greek words nostos, meaning to come home and algos, meaning pain, grief or longing. It’s a translation of the German word heimweh, meaning a painful longing for home. Christ wants to come home to us. Sure, God is with us always – in our past, our present, and our future days. But the mystery of the incarnation tells us that in the fullness of time, God emptied Godself and became human – how did Paul put it? – emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness (Phil 2:7).
We believe that God in Christ lived and walked like us, ate bread and watched the sun rise and splashed in water and smiled at children and sat beside others in prayer. We believe that God in Christ breathed through his lungs, felt his heart beat, listened to songs sung by workers in fields, and fully knew how precious it is to be alive and to be together. Christ is impatient for this world to be healed of its brokenness, for it to study war no more, for food to be shared and all to be well. Christ is full of “algos” – a pained, persistent longing for us, full of sighs that are too deep for words.
The Advent reading speaks about one person being taken and another being left behind, but that’s symbolic language to emphasize the unexpected quality of Christ’s return. At it’s heart, Advent reminds us to watch and wait and work, serving a Christ who is watching and waiting and working and longing to return, full of nostalgia to be completely, utterly amidst us again. Do you believe that? Knowing that Christ is so anxious to return is what makes today meaningful – what makes history have a purpose – and what makes Advent the most important season of the year.