It’s exhausting to live in “unprecedented times.”
I grew up in a post-9/11 world. My time in Catholic school was bookended by the papal conclaves that elected Benedict XVI and Francis, respectively. During the Great Recession, I witnessed the election of the first Black president of the United States. I graduated from college in the middle of a global pandemic. I live in Los Angeles, a city plagued by wildfires and troops in the streets.
The thing about being a child living amid turbulence is that you believe a hero will save the day. You anticipate the hero will suddenly arrive from on high — mask, cape and all. So you wait. And wait. At least, I did.
When I first heard Tori Kelly’s rendition of “O Holy Night,” I was a senior in college. I had stopped waiting for a hero. I was spending my final year in my bedroom, staring at a laptop screen and wearing a mask when I warily ventured outside. There would be no gathering that holiday season, just the waiting. For a vaccine. To be together.
Kelly’s Christmas album was a silver lining, and “O Holy Night” is my favorite Christmas carol. But I suppose that latter statement is hyperbole, because when the second verse began, my first thought was, “There’s more than one verse?” Had I really listened closely before?
So I listened closely then. Then again. And again, utterly blown away.
From the first verse to the second, we are catapulted forward 2,000 years, from the birth of Christ to today:
“His law is love and His Gospel is peace.
The slave is our brother.
Let all within us praise His holy name.”
All statements unmistakably grounded in the present: This is what we abide by now. This is what we do while we wait.
As Christians, we reside in the tension between already and not yet. The world we seek is our responsibility to create. I’ve seen life-giving and heart-wrenching elections, a pandemic, racial reckoning, fires, and federal troops arresting the people of my adopted city. And yet, such upheaval is often accompanied by community-driven movements that embody solidarity. Our hope is alive.
Perhaps I’ve outgrown waiting on a fictional character or a charismatic politician. That’s okay. My faith has already given me someone to await. And, just as important, it’s given me something to do in the meantime.
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