An empty pulpit

The Advent wreath candles had been lit; the pianist had played and stopped; all of a sudden, the air became still and the quietness of the chapel was almost touchable. I could hear people behind me turning round by the shuffling sounds of paper, bags and who knew what. A moment of suspension stood in front of us before the piano was played again.

The speaker was nowhere to be seen. The pulpit stood singularly at the left of the chapel; the candles continued to burn without flicker.

The pianist asked us to sing one of the songs in the Taize hymn book.

We sang, dutifully, three times of that short hymn.

Then we stopped; I heard someone breathing heavily.

The speaker was still absent, a very pronounced absence.

We sang another hymn after someone came to the pianist and said a few words in her ears.

The candles went on giving light as if nothing unusual had happened.

Should we sing a third hymn? Let's not worry about what to sing next, there were plenty of songs in that little hymn book.

Then, the speaker walked up and stood in front of the altar, and he began the service in the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Did I hear a sigh of relief?

Do you know we are in the season of Advent? Do you know its meaning?

It's about waiting.

Waiting, that's what we did in chapel on Monday.

Waiting, that's what the preacher wanted us to experience.

We expected something to happen.

We waited.

Advent is about waiting.

Amen.

(More On, In and Around Mondays here.)