In church today, the readings and the sermon prompted some musings on history and joy. The readings were about the end of time, dramatically apocalyptic. As one refered to a times when the oceans will roil and cover the land, you can see why some people believe that these are end times, if you take Scripture very literally. But that wasn’t what led me to muse on history. The priest was talking about Advent as waiting for something special, for joy, were his words. And one of the images he used was that of his mother, coming to Australia 8 years after her husband, bringing with her a small boy. He remembered her excitement growing as they got closer and closer to the old Victoria Docks, and how she prepared herself to meet him. Big tick for him using female imagery for the holy. Few people seem to recognise though that the first Advent was a pregnancy. This was part of his explanation of getting ourselves ready for something big, and he spoke of the tragedy of Hiroshima, when people had no warning and so were pulverized. What struck me was that he had to explain to the youth that Hiroshima was in Japan. This astounded me, as the thought of forgetting that horror is like forgetting the Holocaust. What joy is there in that? But I found a trace—these kids did not, like my generation and my children’s, grow up under the shadow of the bomb. They did not grow up wondering if the man with his finger on the button would be hi-jacked by fear or hubris and press it. I pray that we can keep it this way.