Silence and Submersion
A spoken word for this Advent, surrounded by violence, saturated with silence, and yet present to the presence around us, perhaps of hope's arrivance.
Be awake.
We do not know the day
when all our sorrow will fade,
our fear gone without a trace;
tomorrow, even today, it may
emerge with angelic array
do not even blink or look away,
stay awake and wait
for the advent of hope,
the God-sent man
who came declaring repent
and believe for the Kingdom is at hand,
for all this waiting is part of a
more beautiful plan.
But we who are here
are here in the ravines
between the arrivals,
when we cannot outrun
death’s incessant survival.
We are told to wait,
and let our longings stretch
as scars etch the weight
of our trials,
while the darkness does not for one second abate
nor your presence prevent the sting of your rivals.
How long must we wait,
God?
As we watch the world toil and spin,
again and again,
the merry-go-round
of war and sin,
well tell me,
who wins
in this game we call
day, after day, after day,
does it ever break?
Will relief ever come our way?
Or was it all just a mistake?
Because I can’t help but see
the pain in each face,
the scars in every eye
looking back at every time
the light would only fade,
every deed in the dark displayed.
How long must we wait,
must we go on this way?
And you God,
have you nothing to say?
Or are you silent because your pain is too great,
because you weep at every death
and wince at every cruel surge of hate
of rulers sinking their claws of oppression
into the raw backs of every image of your face?
How long must we wait, God?
Do you yearn to bring healing to us,
for the great sting of death to end,
for the waiting to not be superfluous
for the world to finally be on the mend?
God,
when will you come and ruin the unbreaking night and its rayless pain,
Your silence undoes us like the storm to the day,
and still we wait.
But though you feel silent,
maybe you are silent like the waves:
You never speak, but you roar
always rushing ashore
with power we could neither stop nor implore:
you flood the grave,
you even named your son, “God saves.”
You submerge us in your untamed
power we could never afford
to explore unadorned
without your breath,
the quiet of these depths
the refuge from the rage of the storm,
Oh you speak without saying
all the simple answers we’re looking for.
We long for you to touch us in our most wounded place,
for you to flood every inch of this aching space,
with your word ensure every trauma is erased
and make every corner of your creation be defaced
no more.
But you don’t when we ask,
when we long for rest and we cry for justice,
is it really so hard a task?
That our yearnings must go unanswered?
maybe the answer is that we’ve missed
that despite it all we have been heard,
that there’s a tidal wave of justice in store.
God of Talitha Cumi,
speed your coming soon, we
who wait for you declare that
even in the dark you bring beauty,
So we wait for the resurrection to be.
Lazarus our world, God,
And let our waiting not be too long
For that world in which our bodies and our souls will finally belong.
But we will wait for your sake,
for you are not silent.
Though we yearn and protest and
resist all that is violent,
we know you stand to our doubts defiant:
your answer is the son that in love you have sent,
whose arrival we recall this quiet advent.
For you are the waves and the wake
And though the yearning is long,
your silence is actually a song:
you have come,
you are coming,
this world is yours and has been all along.
-🌖
Photo by Josh Sorenson.
Delivered December 13, 2023 | Coracle Advent Service | Recording here