Sunday, Third Week of Advent
Isaiah 61:1-4,8-11; Psalm 126; Luke 1:46b-55; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
(Republished from Advent 2014)
Seasonal Trumpeting
A voice says cry out.
What shall I cry?
What shall I cry when my faith is a faint bulb
in a large, cold room?
Well, it isn't all dark I suppose.
It could be colder, and it isn't.
This is not a stirring cry.
A voice says cry out.
What, Voice? What shall I cry?
My faith is an ice skate in a closet box,
and I have not considered it like this since last year.
It's seasonal, but nice. It's nice to have.
This is not a proclamation.
We are so close to Christmas
and even now, I am no heavenly host before shepherds.
I am no crier of news, no bringer of joy.
I am the shepherds themselves, hurrying from their nighttime fields,
finding the family,
peering into the manger.
I am the sheep themselves,
shrugging fleecy shoulders.
What shall we cry?
What shall we cry?
Until the shepherd pulls us in,
carries us close, warms us,
lights up even the largest, coldest room.
I Am the Sheep
