Have you noticed how December feels like it is yelling at us?
The music starts early. The lights go up fast. The pressure to feel cheerful arrives before we have even caught our breath after Thanksgiving. We are told, politely but firmly, that this is the season to be happy. Buy the gifts. Go to the parties. Smile for the photo.
But what if you are tired? What if this year has taken more from you than it gave? What if joy feels aspirational at best?
That quiet discomfort you feel in December is not a failure of faith. It is actually an invitation. The tension between the hustle and bustle of the World celebrating Christmas and the Church calling us to prayerfully prepare for the coming Christ is intentional.
The Church, in her stubborn wisdom, refuses to rush Christmas. Instead, she gives us Advent, a season that does not pretend everything is fine. Advent dares to say the world is still broken, and God has not finished fixing it yet.
Advent begins not with a cradle, but with longing.
Reflection
Historically, Advent emerged in the early centuries of the Church as a season of preparation and repentance. In many places, it looked a lot like Lent. Fasting, prayer, and a sober attentiveness marked these weeks before Christmas. The focus was not sentimentality, but readiness.
The word Advent comes from the Latin adventus, meaning “coming” or “arrival.” It held political weight in the Roman world, used to announce the arrival of an emperor. The Church boldly borrowed that word to proclaim something radical: the true ruler of the world arrives not with armies, but as a child born to the poor.
Advent holds two tensions at once. We remember Christ who has come, and we wait for Christ who will come again. Jesus tells us plainly, “Stay awake, for you do not know the day or the hour” (Matthew 25:13). Isaiah cries out, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down” (Isaiah 64:1). Advent lives in that ache.
I will be honest with you, I often want to skip this waiting. I want God to hurry up, fix things, smooth the rough edges of my life. Advent gently tells me that waiting itself can be holy. That longing can deepen love.
Hope, real hope, is not denial. It is trust practiced in the dark.
Call to Faithful Action
This Advent, resist the pressure to perform cheerfulness. Make room for honesty. Light the candle even when you feel unsure. Pray even when your words are thin.
Advent invites us to live awake, to notice injustice, loneliness, and suffering without numbing ourselves. False gospels promise instant fixes and shiny answers. Advent teaches patience, courage, and fidelity instead.
Slow down. Listen more than you speak. Let your faith mature beyond easy answers.
God is coming, whether we rush or not.
Closing Prayer
Loving God,
You who chose silence before song,
darkness before dawn,
and waiting before fulfillment,
meet us here in this Advent season.
We confess how quickly we rush past our own hearts,
how easily we distract ourselves from grief, fear, and longing.
Teach us not to be afraid of the quiet,
not to flee the questions that have no easy answers.
As we light these candles,
ignite hope within us that does not depend on circumstances,
peace that is deeper than comfort,
and love that is strong enough to endure uncertainty.
Prepare us, O God,
not for a holiday, but for Your presence.
Prepare our homes, our communities, and our wounded world
for the coming of Christ,
who enters gently,
who waits patiently,
and who never abandons us in the dark.
May we recognize Him when He arrives,
not in spectacle,
but in mercy, justice, and quiet faithfulness.
Amen.