Turn on a porch light and welcome somebody home.
Where is the porch light?
We long for its steady promise
to appear somewhere out there
as we journey wintry roads.
Longing for light, we wander.
Someone has lit a lamp.
An obligato flame dances,
comforts aching eyes,
choreographs bone-tired feet.
Seeing the light, we follow.
The mountain house keeps vigil,
Watches through the night.
Waits up for heart-weary travelers
to find their way home.
Sharing the light, we wonder.
Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.
Isaiah offers our first image for Advent this year (see Isaiah 2:1-5):
2The word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem. 2In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it. 3Many peoples shall come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob. . .[C]ome let us walk in the light of the Lord.”Isaiah 2
In the prophet’s vision, we see a mountain in the distance and crowds of people streaming toward a house on the mountain. A lush garden surrounds the house (at least as I imagine it). The garden has been cultivated by swords and spears that have been refashioned into plowshares and ruining hooks.
What does this mountain house image mean for the 2019 Advent season?
I am always glad when I come home after dark and Sheila has turned on the porch light. When I drive up and the light is on, I know that someone is waiting for me. Watching for me. When I drive up and the porch light is on, I know I am home.
I hope this year’s Advent waiting includes a porch light liturgy for those whose hearts and bodies ache for home. What do I mean by this? I hear a double call to action in Isaiah. We are called to keep seeking home—God’s home where the walls are built of justice, love, and peace. We cannot settle down and abide anything less than this. We are also called to keep vigil. We are called to watch through the night for homesick travelers who need for-now dwelling places.
We are approaching the winter solstice—the longest night of the year. People in our lives—people in our world—are bone-tired from wandering uncertain roads. One part of our Advent liturgy—of our work as God’s people—may just be to turn on a porch light and welcome somebody home.