“‘Remain watchful; because, you don’t know the day or the hour'” (Matthew 25.13).
When you think about it, the days of the liturgical year are like hours on a clock, or, at least, like times of the day. Advent, for instance, is a season that begins in darkness, deep darkness as the prophet Isaiah might call it. It’s the time before sunrise when the moon has set and it seems the world may well have stopped spinning, leaving us here facing the vastness of the universe and knowing how small we are in it. But on the horizon there is the first glow of dawn, and as the weeks pass that light grows until, on Christmas, morning breaks and we are bathed in its light—a light of a new beginning.
Then there’s Lent, which is at the close of the day. The sun is setting, the gloom and uncertainty of night grows with each passing week. We can feel our anxieties and fears creeping upon us until, in Holy Week, that darkness falls fully, leaving us stumbling, groping for some illumination. And with Easter, light comes unexpected and we find a new day.
But, if Advent and Christmas are the morning and Lent and Holy Week the dusk and night, what time is it in these days? If we could pull our phones or consult our watches, would it still be morning or late afternoon?
W.H. Auden called this Time Being noon, midday. Which sounds about right as January is beginning to give way to February. It feels like that time when a late-morning meeting is starting to wind down or the last of the morning chores are done and you start thinking about lunch. Maybe it’s time for a quick sandwich or some soup as we look at our calendars or our to-do list to see what the afternoon will bring. Maybe it offers a moment to yourself, but most often it’s when you eat with one hand while clicking through emails with your other.
It’s the time of day that is the most subjective, least to me. Sometimes I look at the clock in the corner of my screen and think it’s already noon? Other days I see the same numbers, in the same corner and shake my head that the day is only half over. Usually in the latter type of days, I start wishing I could take a nap.
But midday naps are for children. We adults have to keep plugging away, drinking another cup of coffee, maybe taking a quick walk to get the blood moving to chase off the heaviness in our eyelids.
And, yet, Jesus’ words slip through and tell us to keep watching, keep looking. Because while it seems that hope and joy and new beginnings will come in the depths of night or the bright, bright morning, there is no schedule for these things. They can come and surprise us, and often do, when we least expect them. Jesus, after all, didn’t seem to roam on any set schedule. He just showed up, ready to have a meal or a parade no matter the time of day.
Even in the middle of another ordinary day.
Beloved On, In this midday of a season, may we keep awake to see what amazing things you may do.