O come, o come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear

This is the quintessential Advent hymn for me. It's not Advent unless I sing it, and I sing it over my Advent wreath to open my night prayer.

On the first Sunday of Advent, my voice stumbled in surprise as I sang the words "in lonely exile here". I've sung this hymn every year of my life, but this year, I was writing a paper on a passage from the book of Kings, that was written -- so most scholars believe -- in exile, after the fall of Jerusalem. I had spent weeks trying to place myself in the mindset of those who had seen the walls breached, the city sacked, the temple itself looted and burned, and then been rounded up and deported to a foreign land, far from every tangible connection with the Lord their God.

How surprised I was to find this exile in the Advent hymn; how much more fully I appreciate, now, the common metaphor of "exile" for the Church on earth; and by extension, the soul in exile, longing for her God.

The Posadas pinata:
Battling my sins every night

Pax's brilliant diary series on Las Posadas has woven itself into my observance as well. The story of exile is not very different from the story of the wanderers, turned away from every door, the marginalized, the outcast. But most powerful for me was that pinata and what it symbolized.

Every night, every story offered me a different reflection of my own imperfect self, my weaknesses, my failures to live up to the graces I've received. And every night, I was offered that pinata, to whack away at those sins and failures and weaknesses. And every night, my whacking away yielded me not condemnation, but a gentle rain of sweetness.

I have never before been offered such a safe and welcoming and accepting mode in which to encounter my own sinfulness. I found it influencing my litany every night; "Come and save us" was the response, and I don't believe I've ever prayed such a comprehensive and meaningful examination of conscience as I have these past few days. I will take this with me into reconciliation chapels for the rest of my life.

You shall be holy, as the Lord your God is holy

Early this fall, I attended a program on scripture and authority offered by the Institute for Christian-Jewish Studies. During one of those sessions, Rabbi Zaiman identified the most basic element of the covenant as "You shall be holy, as the Lord your God is holy." For weeks thereafter, I heard every scriptural description of God through that lens: is God merciful? Then we are to be merciful. Is God just? Then we are to be just. Is God close to the broken hearted? Then we are to be close to the brokenhearted.

Advent is the season of preparation for the feast of the Incarnation, and I also found myself reflecting on whether and how I have incarnated God in the world -- as is my duty and privilege as a Christian -- especially as I sang the Magnificat every night.

O come, thou Wisdom from on high
That ordreth all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
and teach us in your ways to go

This season, life has presented me with a variety of opportunities to mess up, to learn from having messed up, or to manage to avoid messing up my relationships with others as well as myself. Wisdom to avoid messing up anymore became a pretty heartfelt prayer, especially with one particular ongoing situation at work; and wisdom to realize what particular piece of painful personal reality I'm distracting myself from by obsessing over that situation.

Meditations from the book
Usually my experience with special Advent meditation books has been, well, somewhat disappointing. This year I picked up a series of meditations on the names of Jesus, and for whatever reason, I found I was using it differently. Rather than obediently trying to meditate on what it gave me to meditate on, to think along with the author, to make its words my own, as I have in the past -- this year, I found I was using them really as sort of "prayer prompts". You know, like "writing prompts" where someone gives you a scenario or an opening sentence and it's just meant as a spur to your creativity? That's how it worked for me this year, and that made a huge difference to me.

I found it was very helpful to include someone else's thoughts in my prayer ritual, as long as I encountered them this way, as a prompt rather than as a script. It brought some freshness, some new direction, and helped keep me from staying safely within my own familiar thought-traces.

Candles on the wreath
I was especially aware this year of the gathering fullness signified by the increasing number of candles. That visual symbol reached me at a level where words don't operate, reminding me again that we are living, even now, in the space and time between the "already" and the "not yet".

Rejoice, rejoice!
Emmanuel
shall come to you, O Israel!