Wednesday, January 2, 2008

An Advent Reading

I got invited to a party. Several folks invited me, actually. Word of mouth. Evited. Got a card in the mail, asking me for a RSVP.

I always respond.

But I am fairly particular about personal appearances. I've come to events before and people always act awkward. They say, "You need to come." Or, "I'm so glad you came." But then they act like I'd have done better by staying away, like the invite was a formality.

Part of the awkwardness is the scene: It's not exactly a birthday party for a two-year old. No streamers. No balloons. No Dora the Explorer plates and napkins.

This party is a romp. A rave. An unholy gathering that would make priests and prophets blush.

But they've asked me to come.

The adults drink too much. They say it's to loosen thick tongues and oil their social apprehensions. But as they open another bottle, pour another glass, I know it's to fill an empty spot in their souls.

They've asked me to come.

It starts after dark, and it's fashionable to show up late. Guests are wearing masks and dancing closely in the smoke of greed, gossip, pettiness and self doubt.

They've asked me to come.

The men are too sexual and the women too compliant. They say they're playing fore, just having fun. "Nobody gets hurt," they say, but I know that's because they already are...lonely.

I will come.

Some think I shouldn't; they think I should throw my own party. Why sit where the music is too loud, the drink too strong, the passion too thick, and love too thin? Why waste my time? Why would a holy man bother with such a scene?

Because my Father wanted me to come. To come and redeem it.
To come and give it real life. Eternal life.
My life.

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