The church sanctuary was packed. The audience was abuzz with chatter. The orchestra was tuning their instruments. Within minutes, I would step to the platform, greet the audience, pray, then sit back and enjoy the cantata, the performance of which was under the very capable hands of our Minister of Music, who that night, was the Conductor for the big event.
Then someone told me I’d better check on him.
Having made my way to his office, I stuck my head in the door. “You okay?” I hesitatingly asked.
His wife was understandably worried about his blood sugar (He is a diabetic, and it was high), plus, he had accidentally brought the wrong pair of slacks for his tuxedo. (A relative was on the way with the right pair.)
I should have been relieved, but I wasn’t.
What to do?
They do not teach this in seminary: what to do when it’s past time for the cantata to begin because the Conductor of the whole shebang is getting his blood sugar under control while waiting for tuxedo trousers to arrive?
I told the audience to be patient, that we had some momentary technical difficulties, and to relax as the pianist would play some music I would dance to. (laugh, laugh)
I’m sure the delay seemed much longer to me than to anyone else, except of course, to the Conductor himself.
He was met with a warm round of applause when he walked to the platform.
And I relaxed.
Then, I sat back and enjoyed the best cantata I had ever heard.
The lesson was for me: Advent is about waiting, is it not? The word literally means, “arrival.” We wait for the arrival of Christmas, even though we know Christ is with us.
We don’t get Christmas all at once; we anticipate it; Christ is here, but we wait for the celebration.
They certainly weren’t prepared for Him that first Christmas, were they? Christ came in a most unusual way, at least for a King.
Most people didn’t see it, or Him, coming. They weren’t anticipating the unexpected—like that bearded wild man, John, wearing a camel hair suit shouting, “Repent,” to those who thought they had it all together.
And then, there was the King of Kings Himself, arriving not in a royal entourage, but in a cattle stall, nestled in a backwoods village in an obscure outpost of the Roman Empire.
And what about those smelly shepherds arriving to celebrate the big event?
I haven’t even mentioned the event itself, which was not a “big event” to anyone but Mary and Joseph, at least not on that night.
And what of Mary and Joseph? A peasant girl and a carpenter? There is no royalty there.
I should have remembered all that, while I sat there, anxiously waiting for the performance to begin. After all, the title of the cantata was, “How Should a King Come?”
How did the King of Kings come?
Just like He does today.
In the most unexpected ways.
Just when you think it’s time, it’s not.
And then suddenly, it is.
Much like the start of our cantata.
So, wait patiently: let the King come.
And rejoice that He is already here.