I made matzo the other day. I want to
share Communion weekly with Stuart during Lent, so I made matzo last
week in preparation. In my definitively un-kosher kitchen, with my
thoroughly gentile hands I mixed together some flour, salt, olive oil
and water in a glass bowl. I rolled it out paper-thin on my
Mexican-made table. I pierced it properly with a fork. I baked it
till it bubbled and browned on my handy pizza stone.
I made matzo last week, because I wanted to bring something of myself
to the Lord's table this week. An offering created from my own time
and effort. I enjoyed the experience.
I'll buy the grape juice.
I wrote an order of service for
our shared meal. Now, I'm all ready to wait. All ready to wait in the
season of Lent as we pray and fast. Ready to contemplate the big
themes of life and death. Sin and redemption. Sacrifice and
obedience.
Growing up near the coast of southern
Connecticut, our family spent countless days on the beach. I've
walked miles upon miles on sandy coves and rocky piers, gathered a hundred pailfuls of pebbles and sea shells, jumped through a
thousand plus waves crashing to the shore. Give me a blanket and a coastline and I could wait for hours contemplating life and love within earshot of the ebb and flow of the tide.
To smell the salt air, to hear the crashing of the waves, to feel the spray of the sea on my face brings
a sense of belonging no other place on earth provides for me. I can
wait on the beach. I can relax. I can breathe. It's there I long to
remain. To wait for one more wave to crash in.
Just one more.
Ebb and flow. The beach reminds me of
the importance of rhythm in our lives. Its consistency, its constancy stabilizes me. The tide comes
in. We wait. The tide goes out. We wait. We know what we long for, so we wait.
For those of us who allow the
liturgical calendar to dictate our seasonal rhythms, we notice that
the Church Universal spends much of its time waiting in pregnant
expectation. In Advent, we wait with hope for our Savior's birth. In
Lent, we wait with ashes for our Lord's resurrection. In the days
before Pentecost, we wait together for the promised Holy Spirit. We know what we long for, so we wait.
When ordinary time finally arrives,
when the consistent ebb and flow of waiting and celebrating, waiting
and celebrating, waiting and celebrating finally ends we may think: alas, the
waiting is over. Except, it isn't. In reality, even in what we call
ordinary time, it doesn't take long to remember that the
Church remains in a persistent state of waiting for the blessed hope.
Still pregnant. Still waiting. Still hoping.
The tide is still out on the final
great expectation. But, in eager expectation, I'll grab my blanket, head for the coast and I'll keep a weather eye
on the horizon.
I know what I'm longing for, so I'll wait.
