We wait in lines, at work, at school, in traffic.
Always waiting, our vaporous time on
this earth dictated by clocks, buzzers, lights, ringing.
Life around us constantly flowing, everyone about
their business, everyone running and waiting.
Isaiah waited for a Savior while preaching of His majesty, His healing.
David waited as he sang psalms and adored the one he had not seen with fleshly eyes.
They knew the promise. The Messiah was coming.
We celebrate the Advent, this season of anticipation, and we imagine that we are tending sheep in cold silence, wondering about the star in the east, wondering when this promise will walk among us.
The Word, which always was, took on flesh, flesh that laughed and cried, flesh that needed food and water, flesh that felt cold and heat.
Flesh that awoke, worked, rested, slept.
Flesh that walked among us.
Divine flesh that died for our redemption.
Two thousand years later, we wait. We know the promise.
The Messiah is coming. Not as a baby with human flesh, but as the King of Glory.
The King who will destroy death and darkness, and will reign forever and ever.
Still, longing, we wait.
Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. Isaiah 53:4-5