I’d never paid attention to the O Antiphons until I read Kathleen Norris’ account in The Cloister Walk of searching during Advent for a place to hear them sung.

How could I have missed this?  The most common hymn we sing during Advent is Hymn 56, “O come, O come Emanuel.”  And there, beginning for December 17, clearly beside each verse, a date is clearly written, as well as rubrics at the bottom, The stanzas may be used as antiphons with “The Song of Mary” on dates given.

Since the passage we are hearing from Isaiah tomorrow for the Fourth Sunday of Advent contains these words: Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel (Isaiah 7.14), and the Gospel being like unto it:  Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel (Matthew 1. 23), I’ve spent some time this week thinking about Emmanuel (the spelling from the Greek) and Immanuel (from the Hebrew)–both meaning God with us.

One author I read said that in her parish a question was posed the last week of Advent in response to this hymn:  How will He come to us?

I believe we have a gift this final week of Advent. Beginning today, we can ask each day in prayer:  If God is indeed with us, how will Jesus come to us today?  The answer is found in singing a verse from the hymn appointed for that very day.

Today our verse is this:

When I went out for my morning walk this morning, it was gray and drizzly.  My street was full of trash, and as I looked down the road towards the neighborhood school, I saw leftover campaign signs from yesterday’s election.

Sleep deprived as many, if not most Americans are this morning, the weather and the view on my street matched how I was feeling.  Gloomy.  Surrounded by garbage.

So I did my walking prayer.  Thoughts rose to God:  My anger and frustration that my home, the Rectory, seven months after the Tax Day Flood, had not yet commenced its restoration.  My sadness for all people who are angry and afraid of what the future holds for them.  I beseeched God for the strength, God’s Strength alone, to help me lead the community entrusted to me to be instruments of reconciliation, peace, and Gospel living.

I prayed for our newly elected leaders and for all of those who had the courage to put themselves forth with unbelievable vulnerability and were not elected.

When I returned to my becoming less and less temporary home, I went indoors and put on my work gloves.  I grabbed a trash bag and went back to the street.  I picked up soiled sacks of MacDonald’s waste, a Lone Star beer can,  dirty napkins, a spent bottle rocket, and an empty Vodka bottle.

And I wrote a note to our newly elected president in my head:

Sir, you have vowed to unify our broken nation in your acceptance speech this morning.
As I write this, the majority of our American citizens who voted yesterday did not vote for you.  Please know they will hold you to this early morning promise.

Meanwhile, this one chick priest is already picking up the trash and will continue to work for a country where we strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of human being.

No exceptions.  

I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad lately.  He died in 2008, and the last person he ever voted for was Hillary Clinton in the 2008 Democratic Presidential Primary.

My dad was a lifelong Southern Baptist.  He was a deacon in the Baptist Church, and at least two of his pastors wrote of him in their books;  their words were about how he had inspired their own spiritual journeys.

One of his tasks the last year of his life was to read the Koran in its entirety.  He could no longer easily hold a book, so he sat at his computer each morning and read chapters from the Koran, in addition to the Bible, as part of his morning discipline.  Daddy was curious and wanted to understand folks who believed differently from him, so he read and he listened.

Daddy was a clinical psychologist, spending much of his professional career serving veterans as Chief of Psychological Services at Veterans Hospital in Dallas.  A president of Texas Psychological Association, he was nationally respected.

Daddy led an effort in Texas to require that psychologists be accredited. Before this effort, any person could simply claim to be a psychologist and take clients, whether they had had proper preparation and training, or not.  He had seen the deep damage that poorly educated therapists could inflict on those who were the most vulnerable, and he was an instrument of change.

In this election season, I’ve been wanting to talk with my dad.  As both a Christian and a psychologist, he always had interesting insights into the people who served in government and those who put themselves forth as candidates.  He had a gift of wisdom that clarified.

I’ve wondered what he would say about Secretary Clinton and Mr. Trump.  I know that he would have been respectful, because that was a value he held.  Daddy would have had some sage insights about their personal motivations.  He would have helped me understand the anger and fear of the American public, and would have offered me wise counsel about how I could be an instrument of God’s reconciliation and peace.

In this season of All Saints, I am especially aware of the prayers in heaven of all of those we love and see no longer. I have a keen sense of my dad’s prayers for all of us.  That includes his prayers for Mr. Trump and Secretary Clinton.  A veteran of World War II, I know how much he loved our country.

When I voted last week, as I made my selections, I thought of my dad.  I miss him so much.  I’m grateful he’s praying.

On Tuesday I received an urgent call at the office from a parishioner.  His wife, who had had life-threatening complications following heart surgery, had taken a turn for the worse.  Could I come and bring her communion and pray with her?

Of course I would.  Before I left, the staff circled around me and prayed, and I got in the car to drive to the hospital.  I was half way there when another call came in.  It was the wife of a sweet man who attended worship from time to time at St. Mary’s.  He had just died–could I come and pray?

After offering her words of care, I told her our curate could come immediately, and before I had arrived at the hospital to see one parishioner, Alan was on his way to be with another.

It was that kind of day.

It’s been that kind of year.

Friday I was on my way to meet with the contractor who is hoping to begin work very soon to restore the Rectory, my Tax Day flooded, now gutted, home.  I had a little extra time before we were to get together, and I stopped at Starbuck’s for a bite of lunch and to check emails.  In my inbox there was a particularly negative email that left me feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach. I’m actually pretty good at not letting those type of words have any lasting effect, but this was the latest in a series of less than helpful emails from a person who is supposed to be helping me negotiate the rebuilding of my life after the flood.   I allowed the unkind email to color the rest of the afternoon and evening.

It was that kind of day.

It’s been that kind of year.

On Saturday I was cooking,  and I cut my hand grating some cheese. We’ve all had one of those small cuts that bleed and bleed, and then open up and bleed again every time you accidentally hit it.  I knew that this could be a problem when celebrating Eucharist the next day (not wanted to bleed into the Blood of Christ), so I went looking for bandaids.

The thing about losing most everything below waist level in your home is that you keep discovering ordinary things that you no longer have.  Thankfully, I had remembered this before my grandson came to visit in July, and I had made sure that I had basic first aid items in supply for the cuts and injuries of a five year old boy.

That meant on Saturday that the only bandaids I had were Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bandaids.  As I put a green bandaid with a ninja turtle over my cut, I had to smile.  Good memories of my grandson’s visit surrounded my heart.  It also felt good to have a symbol of power (be it a cartoon figure) pop up in sight each time I used my hand.

I celebrated Eucharist on Sunday with a liturgically correct colored Ninja Turtle bandaid.  The sorrow in my heart, the grief in my spirit, got a little abated by the silly bandage each time it came into view.

That bandage represented the many more kind and caring words that I receive from parishioners and friends and families and even perfect strangers.  That bandage represented that most cuts and hurts, cared for, heal. That bandage is a reminder of how God’s (not so) small gifts of joy can be a raft in a flood of tears.  That bandage reminded me that with God, I have all the Power I need to face any challenges that pop up on the Way.