People Without a Clock
Advent begins where the world slows down enough for grace to be heard.
First Sunday of Advent, Year A: Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44; Psalm 122.
Happy New Year, friends.
I know—we haven’t reached January yet. But within the Church’s rhythm, Advent signals the moment when everything begins again. Not with fireworks, not with countdowns, not with noise. Advent starts quietly in the glow of candlelight, where something gentle is already awakening in the darkness.
This morning at Christ Church Episcopal, I preached about what it means to become people without a clock—women and men who move not by the pressure of the hour but by the pace of God’s grace. And I want to share some of that reflection with you here.
Because Advent isn’t just a season on the calendar. It’s a way of living, listening, and noticing the God who is already near.
Most of us live by the clock. Our phones buzz. Our schedules tighten. We rush, hustle, and worry about what we’re “behind” on.
But Scripture tells a different story. God’s time—what the saints called kairos—doesn’t tick or tock. It expands, opens, and moves through us during those quiet moments when love finally breaks through the noise.
Advent isn’t about counting down to something distant. It’s about awakening to what God is already doing right in front of us, in real time, in real flesh.
The prophet Isaiah offers a tender vision:
“In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established… and all nations shall stream to it.”
No rushing.
No competing.
Just a world learning how to walk in peace.
Isaiah describes a slow transformation—swords turned into plowshares, weapons into tools for nourishment. That kind of change doesn’t happen quickly. It happens in God’s gentle, dawn-breaking way.
Paul writes, “You know what time it is… now is the moment to wake from sleep.”
He’s not talking about actual sleep.
He’s not advising anyone to drink more coffee or stay up all night.
Paul emphasizes something much more urgent:
“Wake up from the world that numbs you.”
“Wake up from the illusions that distract you.”
“Wake up from believing the world’s story instead of God’s story.”
To “wake from sleep” means to snap out of the secular dream—the pressure to rush, achieve, fear, compete—and step into God’s reality, where the Kingdom is already breaking in.
Paul is telling us:
Shake off what dulled your spirit.
Let go of what kept you spiritually sleepy.
Open your eyes to the light that has already risen in Christ.
The Kingdom is not delayed until the world gets better. It is not waiting for some future time.
The Kingdom of God is here now.
Here.
In this breath.
In this season.
In this very moment.
And Advent is the sacred time when we remember how to see it.
Then Jesus tells us, “No one knows the day or the hour.”
Not the angels.
Not even the Son.
Only the Father.
These words have been distorted into frightening predictions about who is taken and who is left behind. But that was never Jesus’ point. He wasn’t teaching escapism; He was teaching attentiveness.
Being “left” doesn’t mean abandoned—it’s about being entrusted.
Entrusted to love.
Entrusted to forgive.
Entrusted to be the light in the world, even when it grows dim.
The rapture is a modern invention. But the Gospel? The Gospel is ancient, steady, and full of hope. It calls us to live faithfully now, not anxiously wait for a timetable that was never ours to control.
When Jesus says, “Stay awake,” He isn’t asking us to remain physically exhausted or to stand guard for cosmic signs. “Stay awake” in the Gospel means something gentler, deeper, and far more hopeful.
It means be open.
Be aware.
Be spiritually attentive to the God who is already here.
Jesus is inviting us to notice how the Kingdom quietly breaks in—through love, mercy, and the neighbor who needs a little extra grace today. He is calling us to stay alert to the movement of the Spirit, to the ways God is transforming the world not with dramatic explosions of glory, but through steady, everyday holiness.
Staying awake means refusing to go through life on autopilot. It involves living with a deep awareness that says:
The Kingdom of God isn’t someday—it’s already breaking through right now, all around us.
I once wrote that we are the Beatitude People—the blessed ones. The ones who hunger for justice, who make peace, and who carry mercy out into the world.
Being “people without a clock” doesn’t mean drifting aimlessly. It means trusting God’s timing more than our own.
It means allowing love to lead.
Letting compassion determine the flow.
Letting grace guide the rhythm.
And yes — it also means making room at the table for everybody and every story.
If Advent is about awakening, then accessibility is integral to the Gospel.
A church that listens only to those who hear clearly isn’t truly awake.
A community that welcomes only those who move quickly hasn’t yet awakened.
A people who believe God speaks only through sound haven’t experienced the fullness of Pentecost.
Advent reminds us that God reveals Himself through all the senses.
Through silence.
Through touch.
Through vision.
Through breath.
Through the languages of hands, bodies, readers, interpreters, captions, loops, screens, and devices that help us communicate.
When Jesus says “stay awake,” He is calling the whole Church to notice who has been pushed to the margins and who is still waiting for the door to open.
A church that lacks accessibility is still asleep.
A church that prepares a space for the Deaf, the disabled, the neurodivergent, the slow-moving, the fragile, and the grieving—that church is already living in God’s time.
Because in God’s Kingdom, no one is late.
No one is behind.
No one is “too much trouble.”
Everyone has a place at the mountain of the Lord.
So this year, maybe Advent feels less like a countdown and more like holy slowing.
Maybe it looks like lighting a candle not to mark the passage of time but to mark presence.
Maybe it looks like stepping outside under the stars—feeling the air, noticing the quiet, and remembering that God holds time itself.
Maybe it looks like learning to listen to those who communicate differently.
Maybe it looks like making worship more accessible, more spacious, more welcoming.
Maybe it looks like measuring your day not by accomplishments but by attentiveness.
Psalm 122 says, “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord.’”
Advent happiness isn’t about what’s coming.
It’s about who’s already here.
Christ is near.
The dawn is breaking.
And we—this beautiful, diverse, imperfect community—are learning to move to the rhythm of grace.
We are becoming people without a clock.
People who walk in the light.
People who know that God’s time is always now.
Come, friends.
Let’s walk in that light together.
Amen.