Ladies in Waiting

Tomorrow begins Advent. This morning I lit incense instead of the Christ candle in the front hall. I pulled out the advent devotional we are reading as a church and read this:

It was fitting, because just last night, after an afternoon making liturgical bracelets and discussing Sabbath with a dear friend, I was pondering what it is to imagine the kingdom, even as we wait for the king. As thoughts swirled around in my head, I was drawn to Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return as the Church waits for Christ’s return as a bride waits for her bridegroom. Though not yet polished, these are my thoughts from last night... 

Ladies in Waiting 

Which of these ladies is waiting for me?

Asks the Bridegroom on his long journey home. 

Only the Bride keeps her lamp well lit.

Only the Bride holds her suitors at bay. 

The rest say they're waiting, 

but they're eating and drinking. 

They sing and they dance and they sleep

while she waits.

They stay in my kingdom

but it's not their home. 

I built it for her, for my Bride, for my Love,

A refuge for her, 

a shadow and promise of what is to come,

of a future secured,

a life that is shared.

So she waits

and hopes

and dreams

about what it will be like to share the fullness of this kingdom

with me, when I return,

when I remove the suitors

who are squandering the gifts

I left for her to enjoy.

Her ladies in waiting tell her I am long gone,

that I never really loved her,

or that I died, and there's no returning from the dead. 

But they are not waiting,

they're just biding their time. 

No hope for the future,

they hunger for now.

They eat the seeds instead of waiting for fruit,

settling for winter instead of longing for spring.

They use the oil instead of lighting the lamp. 

"Look how my skin glows!"

They say in the dark.  

"Can we use your oil, too?" They ask.

"What do you have for us?"

"Join us," they say, "make yourself pretty, too!

The Bridegroom will like you better that way!

(if he comes)"

But she does not listen

for she knows I am coming

and beauty is faithfulness

not skin that might glisten.

So she keeps her lamp lit

and her eyes on the horizon,

weaving and waiting,

waiting, and weaving,

not a funeral shroud, or a garment for mourning

but wedding clothes she will wear in the morning,

when the lamp is not needed to get through the night,

when the day breaks forth in glorious light

and we are home, together. 

Penelope, the Church, the Wise Virgins, and Advent