People look East — the first words of a familiar hymn often sung during Advent.  I’m having trouble leaving the words of this hymn confined within their traditional time frame.  The meaning of time has certainly changed for many of us these past months, and if 2020 changes anything, those changes call me to embrace the hope and preparation of Advent as a lifestyle, not a season.

People look East, the time is near. Yesterday, as I rose at an hour all too early and all too cold for the end of December, again, I made my morning calculation — which way will I walk?  Will I head to the east, towards the Marine Barracks and my little patch of sky on the other side of the bridge, or will I head west and north a bit, towards the Capitol and Prospect Park?  This is a calculation that I make every morning, now without hesitation, after considering the weather and how well I slept and whether or not I need milk and bread from the local organic store.  But, yesterday I realized that the biggest factor in that often unconscious choice is the cloud level. I ask myself this impossible question:  what are the chances of a brilliant light display as the sun peaks over the horizon?

People, look east.  The time is near of the crowning of the year.  Every morning I rise and look East with anticipation of the sun, and often too,  I see  the moon and the remaining bright stars, sun and moon together in the totality of the sky, and ask myself in wonder, what is coming?

Star of wonder, star of night,
Star with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to they perfect light. (We Three Kings)

And so I rise, and I look East.  Yesterday, however, I wondered, as I calculate and plan my steps, am I asking myself the right question? Like so many of us, when I see no hint of glory, when I see complete cloud-cover or total, impermeable darkness with no trace of light, I turn and walk another way.  I trust my intellect and my human senses rather than my sense of something greater than myself. I turn my back on the potential for unexpected beauty.  I give up the hope of light.

Sometimes, despite my turning away, despite my attention that is riveted to the pavement beneath my feet, I am able to let my eyes and the eyes of my heart look up and see an unsuspected truth — that  I am still surrounded by light, no matter which direction I turn at the beginning of my walk. And sometimes, no matter where I begin, the eyes of my heart turn my feet around and I find myself faced with the visible glory of creation before my eyes, a glory that I did not expect when I set out in the darkness.

People, look east. The time is near
Of the crowning of the year.
Make your house fair as you are able,
Trim the hearth and set the table.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the guest, is on the way. (People Look East, v. 1)

I don’t know about you, but, I think this hymn needs to shake loose the bonds of Advent.  Right now, I feel this hymn as a call to the new year, in fact, a call to life, to the only thing that has kept me going during these months of pandemic and chaos — a call to wonder.

Looking east, from the viewpoint of the Western Hemisphere, is a holy act for so many people, why not for all of us? And why not every day?  At the very least, our first glimpse of day’s light, that sign that we have another chance to live into the gift of this life and to do some good with that gift of life, comes to us from the East, whether or not we see it each day.  Are we not always, each and every day, setting the table for more love and more light in our lives and  in the life of the world?  For me, these words speak to my journey each and every day, but especially now, as we look to the turning of the year, a time that normally is heavy with expectations for what is coming, for the potential for love and light that is in all of us to manifest in a better, stronger way.

Your direction of hope doesn’t have to be East.  Just because for centuries, people of faith have looked towards Jerusalem or Mecca in prayer, just because we live in the Western Hemisphere…none of that means that the direction “east” carries any special significance.  But we all look somewhere for hope.  We all look to some place, maybe over the horizon, maybe not, a place that signals to us that things can be better, that we can be better.  East is my metaphor, it may not be yours, but find your metaphor.

People, look East.  A new year dawns soon. Welcome what you see, be it clouds or light or even birds on the trees.  That’s where I’m heading right now.  Amen.