sleep in heavenly peace.

Our enemy, our captor is no pharaoh on the Nile
Our toil is neither mud nor brick nor sand
Our ankles bear no calluses from chains, yet Lord, we're bound
Imprisoned here, we dwell in our own land

Deliver us, deliver us!
Oh, Yahweh, hear our cry,
and gather us beneath your wings tonight.

Our sins they are more numerous than all the lambs we slay
These shackles they were made with our own hands
Our toil is our atonement and our freedom yours to give
So Yahweh, break your silence if you can

Deliver us, deliver us!
Oh, Yahweh, hear our cry,
and gather us beneath your wings tonight
Deliver us, deliver us!
Oh, Yahweh, hear our cry,
and gather us beneath your wings tonight

'Jerusalem, Jerusalem
How often I have longed
To gather you beneath my gentle wings'

-Andrew Peterson Deliver Us


I can’t help but meditate on the word ‘advent’ this month.
Everywhere I look up the word, it’s always included with some sort of Christian doctrine of the Incarnation, which makes sense. But when I finally find it without being sprinkled by vocabulary I’d hear on a Saturday morning Bible cartoon (color me cynical), the simplest definition is what moves me.

‘n. the arrival of something important, something awaited.’

It’s funny, I’d never really taken any time or effort in learning what this season was really all about. It wasn’t until I was finishing up my time at Wheaton that I began to care at all about any sort of liturgical practice. I’d always been pretty sensitive to things that appear ritualistic… it had always rubbed me the wrong way. It’s so easy for us to get caught up in the movements and lose any and all substance…

But then,

then you drown in substance.

And you can’t help but notice the piles and piles of chains being placed on you by your seemingly imperative responsibility to form an entirely original opinion on every single matter in existence (or not in existence, for that matter). You find yourself saying, what is this even for?

What good is this accomplishing?

Where is this all going to land?

What, in God’s name, am I doing here?

The blood pumping thru the veins in your arms and legs is slowing down, turning to cold liquid lead… they burn as you step and drag the dead weight what feels like half an inch forward. You nearly fall backward and glance behind you to see the sharp edges of ice and rock that would serve as your landing spot. More chains.

More opinions.
More substance.
More reasons to quit.

Suddenly, the rituals – the movements almost entirely done by somebody else—don’t look so heretical. They look like relief. Like the only thing close to rest.

You could almost weep thinking of them.

We did this because we saw You do it once. We do this because this makes us feel like You were just here… like You’re close. We miss You.

we miss You.

Advent.

Weeping.
Fasting.

Deliver us.

deliver us.

When I think about all the things I’m waiting for… waiting with such desperation and anxiety… and hope…

I even carved it in my arm. So much to be delivered from…

How beautiful its arrival will be. The only way I can even imagine reacting is weeping and maybe jumping up and down or wiggling my fingers like I do when I think about one of our road trips or a really good milkshake...

Sometimes I can smell its entrance. It gets quiet and thin around me. I don’t know if it’s sunny, but I don’t care. Because everything is changing. Still moving, but slowly. My vision blurs slightly and I try not to panic because I don’t want to miss anything…

I blink and rub my eyelids and my stupid contacts move out of place. I know I look ridiculous trying to get them to move back. And then, without a hint of theatrical staging, no background soundtrack, no makeup or clean-shaven leading man…

with blood and straw
and gore
with dirt stained faces and the stench of livestock and farm filth

He’s here.

We’ve been waiting for You.
Deliver us.