No one knows the hour,
not the spirits riding the high winds,
not the old people watching from the star-river,
not even the Son—
only the Creator, whose breath first warmed the red dust
and set the world dreaming.
Advent comes with soft feet,
like dawn brushing across the eastern horizon.
It comes as a quiet turning,
a shift in the wind,
a rustle in the grasses of Country
saying Be ready. Be awake.
For Christ does not arrive as a stranger—
he emerges from within the weave of life,
as light arising from the east each morning.
We have long lived between the ages:
one age marked by grasping hands,
violence, entitlement,
walls built between neighbour and neighbour,
nature and humankind;
another age—a coming age—
where justice flows like sweet water,
where kinship is restored,
where forgiveness walks barefoot on the earth,
leaving soft prints of healing.
Matthew saw this in-between place clearly:
the old world cracking,
the new world crowning.
His people grew tired waiting,
their hope thinning like smoke.
But the teacher whispered,
Stay awake. The Spirit has already come.
Do not sleep through the rising of the light.
We sometimes ask,
When will Christ return?
Why is he delayed?
But perhaps we have been gazing too long to the west
while the sunrise dances behind our backs.
Perhaps the coming we wait for
has already stepped onto Country quietly,
like a black swan gliding into view
when all the world swore such things could not exist.
Christ returns each time
power is upended
and love stands firm.
Each time exclusion is broken open,
and kinship is restored.
Each time someone sits beside the lonely,
feeds the hungry,
or challenges the machinery of harm—
the Kingdom breaks through the veil
and Spirit breathes again.
We are called to be watchers on the ridge line—
alert to the unexpected gift,
the black-swan moment
where possibility arrives unannounced:
a door opened,
a voice heard,
a presence felt,
a moment to stand with the wounded,
or lift the fallen,
or birth justice into being with our own hands.
For Country knows this truth:
creation is not waiting for some distant rescue.
The sacred is already here,
in the soil, in the breath,
in the web of relationships
binding us as one people,
one story,
one kin.
Christ returns through us—
through the spirit placed in our chests,
through our choices,
our courage,
our willingness to love beyond fear.
The second coming is not merely above us
nor ahead of us—
it rises from within,
like fire glowing under the ashes
ready to flare into life
when tended with care.
I see this return every day:
in parish mobs caring for each other
when sickness or loss arrives,
in meals cooked,
hands held,
presence offered.
I see it in those who stand for refugees,
march for justice,
lift the homeless into dignity,
champion First Nations enterprise and voice,
or rise against the odds
with joy still burning in their spirit.
This is what it looks like
when the Kingdom overturns oppression—
quietly at first,
then boldly,
like dawn spilling across Country
and colouring everything it touches.
So the teaching of Matthew stands:
Be ready. Be awake.
Act as though Christ has already come—
because he has.
And he is coming still,
through us.
Amen.