We are told the time of Advent is all about waiting.  Waiting.  Preparing.  Quietly contemplating.  So where does Love fit in?

Is there time for love?  If I’m any example, my days are chock full and noisy. Dashing.  Rushing.  Juggling.  Between working on a presentation—it’s, maybe, really good, but definitely really late; attending holiday performances for school—can I get to the MetLife plaza in time to hear my kid for yet another year; coordinating visiting family over Christmas—wait! I can’t sleep 8 additional people here, and you know “she” doesn’t get along with “her”; baking cookies—“No Mom! not Cinnamon Stars, we wanted Raspberry Thumbprints”; waiting for the cashier who’s taking his or her time—“so what do you do with fennel?”; end-of-year odds and ends—yikes, we’re out of gift wrap; and well, someone’s got to get dinner on the table (every night!).  Where is the time for Love?

Is there the proper setting for love?  The way the days go, are we ever in the right place for love?  The office is sterile, the classroom is noisy, the kitchen is a mess, the sidewalk is crowded, the gym is sweaty, and well, the subway platform is crowded, and something doesn’t smell too good.  Where is the place for Love?

Do I have the capacity to love?  You mean you want more than I’m already giving.  It’s not enough that I go to church on Sunday, that I write an extra check to a good cause, that I’m baking and buying and shopping, that I’m here for you!  So I ask again, where does Love fit in?

I’m stuck on the wrong love.  Here I am talking about drumming up and doling out more of the same.  But we’re talking about a different kind of love altogether.

Advent offers us a sanctuary for a quiet moment of relationship to God amid the noise of the season.  The coming of Christ is our sign of the presence of divine love in our lives, in our relationships, in our world, and in us.  The coming of Christ is our marker of divine love.

How ironic that I and others take this season devoted to the birth of Christ and allow it to drown out just exactly that quiet contemplative love.  Could the advent of divine love free me and free others from my self-centeredness?  Might I then experience my own possibility for good will? It’s easy to love my friends, but not so easy to love the slow cashier, the demanding client, the pushy parents, the needy child, and the fetid masses.

At this Christmastime, as we experience the season, as we gather and celebrate the coming of Christ, let us feel divine love and pour out our love and receive love in worship, among friends, family, our global community, and our faith.

Penelope Kulko

This year’s presidential campaign has been depressing for many of us.  There are major religious issues facing our country that do not seem important to either major political party.

Caring for the poor is a religious issue.  While both parties argue over the middle class, no one is putting forth courageous policies that offer a real chance to poor families.

War is a religious issue.  Jesus’ call to be peacemakers and love our enemies would seem out of place in either party’s platform.  Do people even remember that we have troops in Afghanistan?

Telling the truth is a religious issue.  After each debate, media outlets print lists of lies each candidate has told.  Both lists are getting longer.

Neither of the major parties is making a serious effort to consider how free trade could be used to alleviate hunger, how basic medical coverage could be adjusted to lessen suffering, or how scrupulous concern for justice in the international arena could alleviate anger towards our country.

Christians are smart enough to consider issues beyond the last ridiculous punchline.  Immigration, prison reform, and the environment matter to Christians because our faith has something to say about hospitality, revenge, and creation.

When Dorothy Day was criticized for what observers saw as the inconsistency of her “radical” political life and “conservative” religious life, she responded, “I don’t act politically on the street or worship in church to fit in with people who are radical or people who are conservative.  I read the Bible.  I try to pay attention to the life of Jesus Christ.  I try to follow his example.  I stumble all of the time, but I try to keep going—along the road he walked for us.  I belong to a church, and when I made the decision to join it, I knew my whole life would change.  For me, everything is religious—politics and the family and work, they all are part of our obligation to follow our Lord’s way.”

Imagine the good our country could do if Christians followed “our Lord’s way” and took God’s concern for the poor, peace, and honesty into the voting booth.  What wonderful things would happen if our values were derived from the life of Christ rather than political partisanship?

Sincere Christians can choose to vote for different candidates for reasons deeply rooted in their faith.  We can and do disagree on how to enhance human rights, protect children, promote racial reconciliation, and support gender equality.  We may also share frustration that our politicians tend to appeal only to individual interests, national interests, and special interests.  Faith leads us away from narrow-mindedness to act for the good of others.

Ours is a remarkable country with lofty, worthy goals.  Participate in the process, pay attention to more than the superficial, and vote with concern for all people.  On November 8, I will walk to P.S. 8 to cast my ballot.  I will vote with appreciation for the privilege and disappointment at some of the choices we have been given.

When my stylist at Supercuts finds out that I have only lived in Brooklyn for five months, she offers to explain New York to me.  She looks me in the eye and says, “If you love New York, she will love you back.  If you don’t love New York, then you need to leave right now.”

I love New York and, most days, she loves me back.  I wake up in the morning and thank God that I am here.  The river, the skyline, and the people rushing around make me grateful.  I am thankful for the amazing art, theater, and food.  Our city is vibrant, diverse, and resilient.

But I have also been here long enough to know that New York is complicated.  Some things are more difficult here.  Driving unpainted, narrow streets filled with bicycles, scooters, adventurous pedestrians, and aggressive taxi drivers is frightening.  Parking—alternate side unless it’s a street cleaning weekday with an R in it 8 am to 6 pm—is confusing.  Paying a reasonable amount for housing is impossible.  Raising a family is tough.  Helping children get the best education is complicated.  Lugging groceries home is problematic.  Finding a quiet place or a restroom or a way to retire is tricky.  Being kind is challenging.  Making friends is difficult.  Feeling like you matter is hard.

New York makes it clear that we need the church.  We need others to help us recognize God’s presence.  When the city treats us poorly, when we feel confused, alone, or sad, we need Plymouth.

We need Plymouth because we need a place where people know who we are, treat us with kindness, and let us be kind.  We need a place where people listen to us, talk about the things that matter most, and trust us.  We need a place to spend time with children and senior adults, be around those with a deep sense of spirituality, and serve those who need our help.  We need a place to pray, sing, give, and listen for the Spirit.  We need Plymouth.

Dorothy Parker said, “London is satisfied, Paris is resigned, but New York is always hopeful.  Always it believes that something good is about to come off, and it must hurry to meet it.”

That is a good description of the church Brooklyn needs—always hopeful, believing something good is about to happen, hurrying to meet God.

Londoners have reacted with horror to an attempt to get them to speak to one another on the subway.  Three weeks ago “Tube Chat?” buttons began encouraging riders to engage in conversations with fellow travelers.  The response on social media has been universal distress:

“I feel like civilization is ending.”

“You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot lead a Londoner into social interaction on the Tube.”

“It’s bad enough on above ground trains, where random strangers want to talk while I’m on Twitter, chatting to random strangers.”

New buttons have appeared: “Don’t even think about speaking to me,” “Wake me up if a dog gets on,” and “Nope.”

One Londoner argued:  “Only drunks, lunatics and Americans talk on the Tube.  Resentful silence is the proper way.”

The man behind this attempt to get commuters talking is indeed an American.  Jonathan Dunne admits that he has not received the friendly experience for which he hoped.  He explains his motivation by saying he comes from a small town in Colorado where “We actually talk to people.”

When I moved to Brooklyn, I got lots of advice on how to ride the subway:

Do not be discouraged if your metro card does not work on the first five swipes

If there is an empty car, avoid it.  There is a reason it is empty.

You should offer your seat to a woman with a small child or a pregnant woman—though she should be at least eight months pregnant.

Hang on to the pole.  This is no place to pretend you are surfing.

Face the right direction—the direction everyone else is facing.

If you look at the “NEXT STOP IS . . .” sign, you look like a tourist.

Do not stare at anything that is hard not to stare at.  This includes tattoos, piercings, uncovered body parts, and hair colors Disney has never tried.

Do not pay attention to the crazy guy giving a speech—even if he is making sense.

If someone tries to hand you something, do not take it.

Move to the side to let people get off the train and avoid getting moved off the train.

I enjoy riding the subway.  I am amazed by the number of nationalities you see.  I love the singers and musicians—both the ones who have permission to be there and the ones who clearly do not.  $2.75 is a bargain.

An early morning subway car can be amazingly quiet.  When this many people live this close together, we need to give each other space so, for the most part, we leave each other alone.

Commuters hold on to their coffee as if it is their last hope.  College students study.  People in suits read The Wall Street Journal.  People in Philadelphia jerseys read The New York Post.  Teenagers play the kind of games I am too smart to put on my phone, but which I wish I had on my phone.  Lots of folks wear earbuds which may or may not be connected to anything.  Commuters have a surprising level of weariness.

While I love riding the subway, I am afraid it might make me less caring.  I do not want my silence to become apathy.  I do not want to learn to ignore those around me, so here is what I am doing.  I look at the people on the train.  I look at each face and say to myself, “God loves you.”  That crying little boy.  That elderly woman.  That angry man.  That bored teenage girl.  I need to think “God loves you” so that I will remember that it is true.

And if there is ever a moment when it does not seem horrifying, I will start a conversation.