I’ve given up waiting, God.
It’s too hard to keep asking ‘how long?’
when I read the prophets and find their questions,
just the same as mine
but thousands of years older.
I read the paper.
I look at the world right outside my window
and even the world that’s inside me
and I have to wonder whether you’ve got it right
and to be honest,
if I’m asking the same questions as Isaiah did –
(when, God, when?) –
then what difference did this birth make?
But it’s the season for miracles
and it will probably take that
for you to wade through my weariness
and theological correctness
and endless justifications of the kind of God you are.
So in spite of my cynicism,
in spite of my faithlessness,
bring love to the earth
in spite of all I know to be rational and true,
be born again.
Be the faith I need this advent.