The weather has turned cold in Walltown, and with it you can feel an expectancy in the air. This is Advent. We wait for Christ to come even as we remember how he came the first time, when there was no room in the inn. And we cannot forget our homeless friends who feel the coming of winter like an aching in their bones. We hear from them more this time of year. When the weather turns cold, Christ comes knocking.
We do not have a door bell at the Rutba House (if we did the babies would never sleep); but we do have a knocker that quotes Matthew 25: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” It would be easier, I sometimes think, if Jesus were more of a stranger—if we didn’t already know too well our friends who have no place to stay. But we’ve been here long enough to know the stories of most folks who show up at our door.
Suzanne already has her eviction notice thi! s year; she’s not worried about herself, only wants to find a place for the eight dogs that have been her only companions since her partner died a year ago. Ronnie’s been staying with his mom in her Section 8 apartment, but he knows it won’t last long. He’s angling for a back-up plan and trying to fight the depression that comes when he realizes that there really is no place like home for the holidays–and he’s never really had one.
Two different kids in the WAY, our mentoring program, have lost their homes in the past month. Thankfully, they have friends who are letting them (and their families) camp out in the living room. Another friend, Carl, recently home from prison, is staying with a guy he met when he was locked up. Three generations of family are already living together in one household, but this guy doesn’t want to see a brother left out in the cold. He invited Carl to roll out a sleeping bag beside his bed–this after he already kn! ew how bad Carl snores.
We like to s! ay around here that ours are houses of hospitality—that we keep a ‘Christ room’ open, not wanting to miss the chance to welcome out Lord. I was thinking about this a couple of weeks ago when we read the gospel text for the first Sunday of Advent: “As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. For in the days before the flood people… knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away. That is how it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left” (Mt.24:37-40).
The bitter cold of winter is no deluge, but it certainly has the power to take folks away. I remember a night ten years ago in Philadelphia when a friend and I slept in a park downtown to test the bed rolls we’d been giving out to folks on the streets. We survived the night (with little real sleep), but I don’t believe I’ve ever fe! lt that close to death. A man went to sleep in the park that winter and never woke up.
When the flood waters rise, those who can get out do (they are ‘taken away’ by their Hondas and Chevrolets). Those who are left behind have to deal with the mess. But they also have the opportunity to imagine, even in the midst of chaos, what a different way of life could look like. The apocalyptic warning of Matthew 24 comes before the revelation of the works of mercy in Matthew 25. “I was a stranger and you welcomed me,” Jesus says. To feed the hungry, to visit the prisoner, to clothe the naked, to welcome the stranger—these are the works of mercy that prepare us to welcome Christ’s coming in our lives. If we are, like Noah, left behind, we are left here by grace for the good work of “preparing the way of the Lord.” I’m beginning to think I have something to learn from my neighbors who refuse to see a brother left out! in the cold.
In the 9th century, a Benedicti! ne monk wrote, “We must always be on the lookout for Christ’s twofold coming, the one when he comes day after day to stir our consciences, and the other when we shall have to give an account of everything we have done. He comes to us now in order that his future coming may find us prepared.” It’s a good word for this Advent season. I’m praying to remember it the next time I hear a knock at the door.
Peace and all good,
Jonathan
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Originally posted on December 23, 2010
Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove is an author, New Monastic, and sought-after speaker. A native of North Carolina, he is a graduate of Eastern University and Duke Divinity School.
He was an author of Common Prayer; Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals. Check it out here: http://www.amazon.com/Common-Prayer-Liturgy-Ordinary-Radicals/dp/0310326192/ref=pd_sim_b_5