Last night we went to “A Tranquil Advent Evening” at St. Mark’s Cathedral. The labs were all lit, as were the steps to the altar. There was classical guitar, and peace candles, Gregorian chants, a harp. It was raining outside, as it had been all week. But inside…well…I wasn’t prepared for the sound.

It was as if the wind had decided to roar and sweep only around the cathedral. As if the rest of the city had been abandoned by her touch, that she might rally around this one space, a focal point. Her tendrical arms were weaving and circling only around the deep, quiet nave.

“I am in a ship,” I thought, behind closed eyes, “below deck, and out of the way in my berth while the crew works to outstand the storm. Or perhaps we are all below, grasping tin mugs of coffee, working with the sway of the sea, hoping for the best, now that we’ve battened down the hatches.

No, it is more like a submarine, submerged and silent and waiting—hoping not to be heard by the enemy, hoping to be found by rescue rather than salvage.

We are Jonah, sloshing amongst fish bones, listening to the sounds of digestion, praying for rapture.”

Then another thought sprang into my consciousness—more true for its unbiddeness. We are in a womb, in this strong walled Mary. We hear, not the howl of a storm, but the pulsing and swish of the stuff of our own making, the life-blood of our own to-be-ing. Hoping. Waiting. Being very still, yet very present. Are these not the actions of both the mother in pregnancy, and the infant in utero? Mary’s song, the howl and swirl of heartbeats, the rush of blood in the vein. Entombed. Enwombed. Either way, a closing in before the reality of new life. A crowning head. An empty tomb.

Advent. Emmanuel. Oh that you would hold both words in one space, between the roof of your mouth and the top of your tongue, in between the hollow of your cheeks, the loose-jawed spaciousness.

To Come. God with us. Do you feel the void between these two phrases? It spills out, whispers wait. Breathe in…the sound swirls inside this still, incubating space where words come to wait to become reality. They hover amongst your teeth. Exhale….breath hangs like a plea. O come!