The First Sunday of Advent
I love Advent.
Many churches have moved away from the traditional Church calendar, but I find that my soul truly longs for the season of Advent. “Advent” means “coming”, and so it is in the season of Advent that we await the coming King. We remember the waiting and name our own waiting for His second coming.
Advent makes us slow down from what can too easily become a season of busyness and “cheer.” Don’t get me wrong, I love some Christmas cheer, but I long for something fuller, something truer. And what of those seasons where Christmas doesn’t feel cheerful? Advent names our longing for the King’s return—the day when all will be set right—while celebrating the true thrill of hope we have in the incarnation. Advent creates a space for pilgrimage to wonder.
This year I’m longing for Advent a bit more acutely than others. I’m eager to slow down and remember the God that is with us. I need to remember that there is a promise on the other side of waiting. I need the watchful anticipation that comes from this season.
I was longing for Advent so much that I started early. Last Sunday I picked up a dated devotional Watch for the Light, thankful that it started at the end of November. The front of the devotional includes a 15th century Advent poem that captures why I love Advent
Could but thy soul, O [wo]man
Become a silent night!
God would be born in thee
And set all things aright.
I’m grateful for the invitation to become still and see what new things will birth in the waiting. There’s something about waiting with each other. As anonymous as the internet is, I love the way it invites others to see with us. Each day when I pick up my Watch for the Light devotional, the title strikes me. (I’ve been using this devotional for years, but this year…something different.) Watch for the Light. I’m attentive. I’m looking for glimpses that I’ve missed.
There’s so much that’s been written about Advent and Christmas that it feels nearly superfluous to add to the choir. But I’ll be adding my voice over here every Sunday and Wednesday.
Because the moment we think we’ve figured out the incarnation is a dangerous one. I’ll be diving into the mystery and wonder of the One who is with us.
Below is my contribution that originally appeared in the 2017 CCO Advent Devotional.
For ten years, I dealt with varying degrees of chronic pain and found few answers about why this was occurring. Possible treatments always came with side effects that seemed just as bad as the issue itself. So I prayed, wrestled, and trusted the Lord to guide me perfectly.
I wanted a miraculous breakthrough of healing. But after years of wrestling, I decided to schedule a small surgery.
I scheduled it for December 17th, and my doctor warned me that it might take weeks to feel normal again. I thought to myself, stubbornly, “A few weeks? She has to tell people that. I’m very strong, so that probably means a few days for me.”
Surgery was the last resort for me, and it felt like the embodiment of hopelessness. It felt like defeat. I spent the days leading up to December 17th reminding myself of Advent hope. Each time I struggled to hope, I remembered the One who came to earth to draw near and make me a friend.
After the surgery, I laid in bed, alternating between sharing my disappointment with God and numbing my emotions with “Grey’s Anatomy” reruns. I thought this would be a speedy recovery, but with each passing hour, I was faced with my own weakness. This led to more struggle, but it was also an opportunity to draw near to the One who sees everything—every moment of pain, and every choice to hope.
Less than a week later, I waddled to my seat at my church’s Christmas Eve service. As we sang one of my favorite carols, “O Holy Night,” we sang an often skipped-over verse:
In all our trials born to be our friend
He knows our need, to our weakness no stranger
Behold your King, before Him lowly bend
I wept at the truth of the words. The King who is my friend is no stranger to every weakness that I feel. My Maker knows every question, every physical weakness, and every moment of confusion that I experience. He was born for this.
And when He comes near to us, He breaks in with peace. Even more than this—in every overwhelming impossibility, Jesus Himself is our peace.
I wanted the miraculous breaking in of His healing power. Instead, as I sat in church on Christmas Eve and sobbed, I remembered the greatest miracle of all—the King of Kings entered our world to make me His friend when I was still an enemy.
We were once strangers without hope. and now we have been brought near by the One who entered our world. This is both a cosmic truth of salvation and an ever-present truth of God’s work in our lives. We weren’t just brought near once, but every time that we are far off, God draws us closer to Himself.
And I need to be brought close, again and again.
My surgery decreased my pain, but it continues. Jesus broke into one of my deepest moments of suffering with His mercy and hope, but I long for the fullness of hope and healing—I look to the coming day when every bit of pain is wiped away.
In the season of Advent, we long for the completion of our hope. We long for our Friend to come near.
Come, Friend. Come, Prince of Peace. Come, Lord Jesus.