Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Waiting and Walking


I thought that there was a dark wall in front of me.  I thought that before me was a mountain of stone, impenetrable rock.  I knew there was light on the other side of this wall.  I knew it not because I saw slivers breaking through the cracks or because I felt it growing inside of me.  No, I knew it because I could hear the distant cries of God in the flesh, those first earthly sounds of Love.  These cries of God, they have me stirring.  And when God stirs, I only need to step.    

Sometimes it is the simplest act that feels the most daring.  To move in the darkness, to step ahead while waiting, it sends my soul shaking.  But I walk, and step after step I realize that I have come quite a ways.  And those cries of God sound not quite so distant.  My feet are tired, and my heart heavy, but I keep walking, discovering that I am neither closer to the dark wall, nor farther from it.  I am seeped deep into it, and darkness still surrounds.  But perhaps this darkness was never a wall to walk through, but a world to walk among. 

For isn’t this how He came?  Born in the pitch of night, birthed in the middle of darkness, arriving at the height of longing?  I nod my head as I keep stepping.  He came not to rid the world of darkness, but to walk among it, to be seeped deep into it, to offer light in the very midst of it.

Perhaps this is the work of the slow, stumbling journey to Bethlehem.  This is the trek of faith, the walking towards the voice of God while waiting in darkness, eager to catch just a glimpse.  I have been called to wait.  Yes, the waiting is good.  But may I not forget to walk while I wait in the darkness, to put one clumsy foot in front of the other, towards the light of the manger. 

And when I do arrive, when I do finally see the face of God, my feet raw from walking and my heart sunk from hurting, I will raise my hands to the heavens as I hold the light of life. For I may be too weak to carry the old, rugged cross of Christ the Crucified.  But even a weakling, even someone who is tarrying through the thickness of dark, can lift the fresh, new body of Christ the Infant.  For this, this encounter with the living God, I will wait.  But not only will I wait.  No, I will also walk.