In the Bleak Mid-Advent
So we carry our heavy load-lights
And hang them on the tree,
And we didn't quite think
They could shine so bright, so bright
In this Christmas time.
—“Endurance in Christmastime,” Hymns from Ninevah
Advent is my favorite holy season. Its themes of waiting in the dark for the coming light, entering fully into the story of Christ’s first appearance on earth, and paying attention to our longing for Christ’s return all feel like “Yes, yes, and yes. This is my heartbeat.”
Each year, I count the Sundays until the first Sunday of Advent arrives. I think the reason that entering into Advent feels like such a relief is because it is as though finally, I have permission to be who I am. I am not alone as the rest of the world enters the darkness of both the winter and spiritual season and awaits the light. In an ever deeper way, I am able to connect with Zechariah and Mary in their questions and wondering and surrender. In encountering their story, I better understand my own. With the rest of Christendom, I honor the longing I have for Christ’s second coming, in which he will make all that is wrong, right; all that is old, new; all that is lost, restored; all that is broken, whole.
And yet for the past several years of adulthood, I have entered Advent feeling tired and not good or focused enough. I worry I am not doing enough to take full advantage of the gift of this season. I end up feeling a bit guilty when I spend my days hunting for presents online and evenings watching Hallmark Christmas movies instead of lighting an Advent candle and meditating on the coming of Christ.
On Monday night, I tried to be more intentional. Knowing Drew was about to enter a 2 hour meeting, I thought to myself, “At last! This is my chance to make the most of Advent! To finally get it right.”
But as he closed his office door and I chose a spot on the couch facing our Christmas tree, I just kind of. . .sat there. Staring vacantly into the electric flames of our fake fireplace, I didn’t quite know what to do or read or how to enter into “the most wonderful time of the year.” I felt like a stranger waiting outside on a cold night, looking in through a window at everything this season should be, wishing I could be part of it.
At that moment, I was surprised to find tears well up in my eyes. Until that point, my heart had felt numb and closed off to warmth. No room in the inn. But the warmth of the tears on my face reminded me that I am human, and that is okay. In fact, that is precisely what Advent is about—God coming in the flesh to redeem our humanity. My tears told me that I was longing for something I couldn’t quite name—but that didn’t make it any less real.
And then, something a bit odd happened: I felt a sudden prompting to go sit on the floor and stare up at the Christmas tree like a child. Initially, I resisted, thinking “I can see the tree just fine from here, thank you.” But then I thought “Why not? No one will see,” and timidly approached the tree, unsure of where to land. Once seated, I looked up, all the way to the top, where our shining gold star illuminates the branches below. On nearly every branch, a shining ornament hangs and shimmers with the twinkling lights—each one a beautiful memory, a token of God’s faithful goodness in the past. I felt small and wonder-full again, content to simply look upon the lights and be glad.
At some point, the Spirit spoke to me, letting me know what it is I longed for. God doesn’t speak to me audibly; so when I say “God spoke to me,” I mean “God gently impressed upon my heart something that I hope wasn’t just from my own head.” This is what I sensed God saying:
Your neediness in this season means you are precisely embodying the spirit of Advent. You need my Son, and you know it. This is good, for that is why he came.
Those are words I can rest in. There is rest in realizing that Advent isn’t something we strive to achieve; it is a gift we are invited to receive. In the recent words of a wise friend, “There is no obligation here—only invitation.” Advent isn’t just for cheerful Christians—it’s for those who sometimes feel despair, who are still waiting in the dark, longing for God’s presence. Christ doesn’t pound loudly at the door of our hearts, insisting that he come in. Instead, he waits with us in the dark with the tenderness of a child and the love of Emmanuel, God with us.
Emmanuel, even in our weeping.
Emmanuel, even in our waiting.
Emmanuel, even in our fears.
Emmanuel, God with us.
In this Advent season, will we trust that Christ came for us once and will do so again, just as we are? Can we view our weariness or discouragement as the doorway through which we may find the Christ child?
In his Christmas sermon No Room for Christ in the Inn, 19th century British preacher Charles Spurgeon said this:
“Come to him, ye that are weary and heavy-laden! Come to him, ye that are broken in spirit, ye who are bowed down in soul!
...In the manger there he lies, unguarded from your touch and unshielded from your gaze. Bow the knee, and kiss the Son of God; accept him as your Saviour, for he puts himself into that manger that you may approach him.”