Today marks the second week of Advent on the western Christian calendar. One of my favorite four-part Advent hymns, which I first encountered during my time in theology school at Collegeville, was "People, Look East" by Eleanor Farjeon:
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.
Furrows, be glad. Though earth is bare,
One more seed is planted there:
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower may flourish.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the rose, is on the way.
Birds, though you long have ceased to build,
Guard the nest that must be filled.
Even the hour when wings are frozen
God for fledging time has chosen.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the bird, is on the way.
Stars, keep the watch. When night is dim
One more light the bowl shall brim,
Shining beyond the frosty weather,
Bright as sun and moon together.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the star, is on the way.
Angels, announce with shouts of mirth
Christ who brings new life to earth.
Set every peak and valley humming
With the word, the Lord is coming.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the Lord, is on the way.
As a Roman Catholic growing up, my experience was that hymns were kept to a strict three verses, or two if the nave wasn't long enough to make a generous procession. As a theology student preparing liturgy, however, my fellow liturgy students and liturgical music instructors and eventually I harped (so to speak) on the importance of singing a hymn from start to finish. Even though young ones might fidget and knees might be ache, a hymn deserved its full run. One wouldn't recite several verses of a poem and leave out the rest at a poetry reading, after all.
This hymn in particularly strikes me, because apart from the final verse, it is not explicitly Christian. Metaphors give color and texture to the mystery that is revealed in the final verse: the Christ, the Savior, the Light of the World, is on the way. How hopeful that is. And our job?
This hymn in particularly strikes me, because apart from the final verse, it is not explicitly Christian. Metaphors give color and texture to the mystery that is revealed in the final verse: the Christ, the Savior, the Light of the World, is on the way. How hopeful that is. And our job?
Trim the hearth and set the table.
I always remember this line as "sweep the hearth and set the table," because the sweeping is as integral and exciting as the trimming--one wouldn't normally trim a space without first clearing, organizing, and putting away the old to make way for what is coming.
I've thought of this hymn often in the last several months, particularly as I have prepared sacred space for my women's circle. We pray Thean Evening Prayer together and follow it with yummy food and conversation, and my preparation for this time together is diligent. I want every piece of it to be ready. Not perfect--perfection is not necessarily a virtue to my mind--but ready, which is to say thoughtfully, fully, and thealogically prepared. My role is to make sure that the hearth is trimmed and the table set. I am to ready the way for the guest, the rose, the bird, the star. The women I meet are each of these; the women I meet are the incarnate presence of Thea.
My circle met yesterday evening, and on my journey home I cried tears of gratitude and sang a new song:
I've thought of this hymn often in the last several months, particularly as I have prepared sacred space for my women's circle. We pray Thean Evening Prayer together and follow it with yummy food and conversation, and my preparation for this time together is diligent. I want every piece of it to be ready. Not perfect--perfection is not necessarily a virtue to my mind--but ready, which is to say thoughtfully, fully, and thealogically prepared. My role is to make sure that the hearth is trimmed and the table set. I am to ready the way for the guest, the rose, the bird, the star. The women I meet are each of these; the women I meet are the incarnate presence of Thea.
My circle met yesterday evening, and on my journey home I cried tears of gratitude and sang a new song:
For Rhonda
For Kelly
For Jessica
For Melani
Thank you, O Thea,
for these, your Icons:
for blessing me with your Presence
Over and over I sang my gratitude. I considered adding my own name, in honor of my own identity as Theatokos, but I did not. My gratitude was all for these women who did what I am incapable of doing alone: rendering my burgeoning, solitary Thean faith communal.
"People, Look East" invites those who sing it to do the same: to prepare for the unarrived to arrive. Folding one's arms and shutting the door with firm resolve might be simpler and require less effort, but Advent invites us to prepare for something and someone new, something and someone of genuine and ultimate concern. What and whom do we await? And how will that one manifest? Are we ready for the visitor who will arrive at last, changing us as we gather in circles of love, revealing the presence of the Holy in all its imperfect, unexpected, wonderful glory?
"People, Look East" invites those who sing it to do the same: to prepare for the unarrived to arrive. Folding one's arms and shutting the door with firm resolve might be simpler and require less effort, but Advent invites us to prepare for something and someone new, something and someone of genuine and ultimate concern. What and whom do we await? And how will that one manifest? Are we ready for the visitor who will arrive at last, changing us as we gather in circles of love, revealing the presence of the Holy in all its imperfect, unexpected, wonderful glory?
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