October 31
the evening shift starts ---and there she is pushing carts
of orange and black boxes of toothless pumpkin chocolates
from the floor of the seasonal section
to the checkout corridor
half price but still high margin
they should go quick anyway
to bargain shoppers and the trunk of her car because
When she comes back tomorrow morning
for her split shift
she’ll buy some for her son who can’t go out tonight because she’s here instead of there.
First morning break she’s ringing up these choices –
these affordable extravagances
and she puts them in a plastic bag with her receipt of course and ties a knot
and sets them on a shelf beneath the till.
And then she gathers the remains: ten more boxes of her favorites
And fifteen of her son's and wheels them out to the back of the store
over to the chute of the trash compactor where she solemnly drops them in one by one.
Then it’s off to the loading dock and she comes back with a pallet jack
and a wrapped pallet of chocolates that are virtually the same
just the designs of the boxes have changed.
Their orange and black exchanged for red and green
and the seasonal shelves she stacks high with
trees and elves and candy canes
as over Muzak Christmas bells
ring out their urgent song:
“Prepare the way of the Lord.”
The shoppers scoff at her growing display
It’s only November 1st she hears them say
then “Oh, these are really nice” to ornaments and lights inspected
by number 81 –
before a half-world trip on a container ship that a gantry crane would then unload
so by rail and by road these hollow things could find their way
To a beige steel shelf where they’d be sold for $1.99
And spend two months as decoration gaining nods of appreciation at holiday bashes held by fine hosts in those suburban homes
Then two thousand years to shine and glitter buried with the rotting trash,
To endless nods of appreciation from the donkey pumps working through the winter in the manger of the nation.
A surprise visitor – in the fire lane: a BMW. It’s the owner. She sees him hurry down the aisle and forces a narrow smile as he passes while she works faster.
He doesn’t stop to speak to her. At this she is relieved.
"Why wasn’t this done last night” - she overhears her supervisor get an earful.
"The season starts November 1st this year. You know that. It was in the memo. In the back - there’s product piling up and every second it stays there is a sin – Now hear me. You will move more this year than you did last year. Or rest assured, there will be a reckoning.
The supervisor emerges, wide eyed and tearful. “You heard that, right?” and lets out a deep shudder as she pulls out her box cutter and works to break down boxes for the seasonal aisle, those red and green chocolates. Those golden animals - the reindeer that look treacherously like rabbits. And thirty trays of painted plastic things that hang on twisted silver strings.
So that she can be ready for her reckoning when the world’s self-selected Lord returns.
Four weeks later, it is midnight and the three wise men are camping underneath the star. Two nights have they spent shivering in spite of their North Face parkas and long underwear bought solely for this occasion, as they sit passing a flask between laps of the guard keeping watch over the store by night.
Yesterday they laughed with eagerness and anticipation. But tonight it is cold and they talk very little except when he needs to confirm that the others will keep vigil over his place when he paces back to the car to see if his phone is finished charging.
Or head under the overpass down to the gas station where he lingers a little long at the magazine rack, at long last finally giving thanks on this day for the warmth in that place and for the fact that at least he had missed the awkward family feast. So that for two nights the three of them might lay reverent on that most sacred square of concrete spotted black with discarded gum.
Their devotion has bought them a place at the front of the line on good Friday morning.
The line grows long and morning sees a throng of pilgrims shiver, pacing in the cold. They are festive now, more wide awake than any other day this early in the morning, and eagerly they contemplate tossing down their plastic offerings, planning their route through the stations of the cross knowing
that there will be no time for thinking once the crowd starts going.
And no Simon to call for those who might fall
on this here Via Dolorsa.
The chant of loyalty resounding
The acolytes brace in their battlestations, as the high priest at last intones
“Lift up your heads, you gates! Be lifted up, you everlasting doors, that the King of glory may come in”
The wise men see the key-man moving and silently rise along with their pulses in their starting blocks outside on the sidewalk as their minds begin to whir. “Steady men, clear your eyes and stay awake, for this our advent now begins.” The key-man nears, the pilgrims roar- the wise men’s gaze fixed through the door on bins stacked high with discount piles of Gold and Frankincense and Myrrh.
Ten blocks north the day is dawning, traffic dwindling, chaos ending
unlikely autumn sun projecting colors on the chancel floor.
Ancient carpet worn and tearing, nevertheless proudly wearing a story from the faith that had been practiced there some time before.
A tree stands dry, in need of water. The church is empty as the vicar has returned to selling real estate, a victim of reduced demand for the most holy Gospel. Some grey-haired saints sometimes appear to keep the dust and cobwebs clear and sometimes even bend to pray and tend the sacred fire of the apostles.
The shaft of light shifts
with the turning of the earth, itself so tired, and yearning for God’s Spirit to deliver.
The long dry font begins to brim with azure light cast by the windows’ scene of John the Baptist calling for repentance at the Jordan river.
A warm draft stirs the air and though the table’s bare, the rainbow dust-motes gleam as if they can remember. The means of grace once given in this place. And words that filled the seats from January to December.
The remnant longs for the time that Friday morning’s throngs would come automatically each Sunday sharp of shoe and white of collar. And many who remain deceive themselves as they would claim that they indeed are pure and free of worship of the dollar.
For just as Friday’s horde defames the coming of the Lord, the church itself has often been quite shameless. To stand in judgement or in fear or to suppose that standing here gives one the right to brag that one is blameless.
A beautiful and lovely box, this empty church that sits 10 blocks away from all the blasphemous commotion.
Its advent mission once seemed clear.
It was to bring the people here.
But now it seems God has another urgent notion.
We know not the day or hour of his coming with great power.
Of that the texts are very clear and plain.
Nor do we know which way his Spirit drives his church to go
although we seek to learn from Jesus God’s intentions’ once again.
This advent fire which hangs once more over our heads
is not intended merely as a pleasant or a peaceful decoration.
It is the fire we burn that we might stay awake
that we might witness God bring forth the new creation.
It is none other than the fire God lit at Pentecost -
a fire brought forth by power of God’s Spirit.
A light God shines through all who once were lost,
and a heat that cannot help but thaw all who are near it.
