Over the course of about a decade, I’ve come to appreciate Advent in a way that has surprised me. While I was raised in a Christian home, we didn’t pay much attention to the church calendar. We even tended to skip services on Christmas and Easter because they were so much more crowded than normal Sundays. I remember that, as a child, some of my secular friends had Advent calendars in their homes, and that I felt resentful that they got a bit of chocolate every day, a reward for the coming of a Savior they didn’t even believe in. A little bit petty, to be sure.
Eventually, I came to believe that Advent is about being patiently impatient. Actively waiting for a promised peace and wholeness that is already, but not yet. For Christians, Advent marks a time of pre-revolution, the anticipation of the coming Kingdom of God in which all people will turn to God instead of turning on one another (Isaiah 2); a time in which the rod of the oppressor is broken, the people rejoice, and tools of war are burned (Isaiah 9); a time in which all creatures will live in harmony with one another (Isaiah 11); a time in which death will be no more (Isaiah 25). The Creator of the world took on human flesh, came to the Earth as a human infant, showed us how to live and love and obey, was executed as an enemy of the government and religious powers, returned to life as an eternal victor, and told his followers that he’d be back and while we were waiting, we should spend our time on earth sharing the Good News far and wide.
There were three chapters in my journey from Advent agnostic to Advent enthusiast.
First chapter: Jesus was born in a particular time, in a particular place. Palestinians, including Jesus’ family, were under the thumb of the Roman empire. Their movement and economy was restricted, they were under the constant threat of violence. The Jewish people anticipated the coming of a Messiah who would overthrow their oppressors. Instead, they got Jesus, a Messiah who befriended Romans, tax collectors, and other undesirables and who was a constant thorn in the side of the religious establishment. In 2012, I visited Bethlehem. I sat and touched the spot in the Church of the Nativity where Mary is said to have birthed Jesus in the midst of political tyranny. A few hours later and just footsteps away, I sat in the living room of another Palestinian mother, who described nursing her own newborn on the floor of her family’s home as rockets and gunfire were exchanged between the Israeli army and a group of armed Palestinian hostage-holders inside that same church. Mothers and their infants, across centuries, searching for peace.
Second chapter: in all the nativity plays and movies I’ve seen, Jesus’ mother Mary is portrayed as a kittenish, frightened girl. Timid, barely speaking. But when I read Mary’s song of praise after meeting my Palestinian mother-friend, I hear a young woman secure in the promise and protection of her Creator:
“And Mary said,
‘My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever.’”
Luke 1:46-55
This young mother wasn’t wringing her hands in fear. And though these holy promises wouldn’t be realized in her lifetime, her confidence was secure--a hope in the midst of tragedy and uncertainty. As a young, unwed minority, Mary may not have had much political power, but she used her voice to proclaim the truth she knew would come to pass. There’s a celtic hymn based on Mary’s song of praise that I’ve written about before, the Canticle of the Turning. It’s a perfect song for Mary: a gentle tune with a particularly powerful message: “The world is about to turn.”
Third chapter: we were part of a church in Philadelphia that observed the liturgical calendar, and that included welcoming Advent in through a church-wide theme. One particularly chilly year, shortly after a spate of high-profile extra-judicial killings of unarmed people of color had made headlines, there was a discussion about the year’s Advent theme. Someone suggested we talk about getting small and quiet as we waited for the coming of the Lord. And I remember a friend of mine, a black woman who worked as an attorney fighting some egregious injustices in the city, said, “Advent is about a coming revolution, it’s not about being quiet.”
Advent is about revolution coming in the form of a helpless infant human who would grow into a young man, executed by the state. Advent is about the assurance of peace in the midst of war. Advent is about the hope of reconciliation in a world that has had only a small glimpse of conciliation. Advent is about patiently waiting for the coming of the Kingdom of God, while actively witnessing and working towards the promises of the Good News of that Kingdom.
I’ve had a hard time having hope recently. I’ve had a hard time feeling my faith. But perhaps this Advent can be one in which I press into paradox, being sure of what I don’t know and certain of what I can’t see.
About the Author
Sarah is the author of Vegangelical: How Caring for Animals Can Shape Your Faith (Zondervan, 2016) and Animals Are Not Ours (No, Really, They’re Not): An Evangelical Animal Liberation Theology (Cascade Books, 2016). She spends her days working for CreatureKind, helping Christians put their faith into action. She lives in Eugene with her husband, son, and animal companions and enjoys action movies, black coffee, the daily crossword, and dreaming of her next international journey.