Advent Hope for a Weary World

A few weeks ago, Companions in the Darkness released into the world. I suppose some might say it’s strange to talk about depression during such a season of the year, one purportedly filled with “comfort and joy.” But I beg to differ.

This is not only because many people struggle with depression during the holiday season. It is also not only because of the weariness many of us are feeling after all 2020 has brought our way. Though both of these things are true.

No, for me, it is the season of Advent that makes space for conversations about depression during this time of the year. Advent gives me the space to be honest about the dark and to sit with it for a while. Advent invites me to be honest about the pain and the brokenness I see and taste in the world. For it was into this darkness and because of this brokenness our Savior came—and will come again. Advent offers me hope that as dark as the night may become, it will never be the end of the story.

I wrote about this hope earlier this week over at the Vere Institute:

“If all we had were the questions, weariness, or pain, we would be worthy of pity indeed and dwelling on such things would truly be depressing. But here in the valley, here in the dark of winter, we are met with a spark of hope. We sing of it: "A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices." Why? Because the valley—and all it brings—is not the end of the story for disciples of Jesus.

“In this Advent season we are reminded of the hope that offers to sustain us no matter what valleys we may be asked to walk—or how long they may endure. We are reminded of a God who stooped low to enter our world for our redemption. Of a Savior who took on flesh and all its pain and became one of us. We are reminded that Christ joined humanity in the mundane of every day life, of work and play, of dirty diapers and sawdust, of celebrations and funerals. He stepped into it all and in everything invited His disciples then, and us today, to follow Him.

“But in the season of Advent we also remember Christ's second coming, the one His people wait for today, when He will restore all things. We find hope as we long for this yet-to-come advent, when all of creation will be remade and there will be no more tears or sorrow or pain.

“This promise of the Kingdom fully come offers us hope as we walk through the valley today. And even more—it offers us a pathway to find joy in the midst of suffering, to stare into the darkness yet not be overcome. We can walk through the valley—and speak honestly of it—and yet not fear. We can walk with another through the valley and not be dismayed. For even the deepest of valleys can become a sacred place when we are joined by Immanuel—God with us.”

If you are finding joy in this season, thanks be to God—may you rest in the joy of His presence. And if you are weary, as so many of us are, may you know the quiet thrill of hope offered to weary souls—for our God keeps company with you there.

A blessed Advent, and a Merry Christmas to you all.

Waiting Without (On the Mudroom)

“When I wait for God to act in answer to my prayers, when I wait for him to break into my season of pain and unmet longing, I am given no guarantee he will act in the way I desire. The guarantees I am given and the divine promises I must rest on are of a different sort entirely.”

Advent is a season of waiting. It’s a season to embrace the tension of the “already” and “not-yet” reality. It’s a season for lingering questions and for aching hearts.

As I wrote this post for the Mudroom blog, I thought of the generations of people who waited for the Messiah to come. Were they like me, I wonder? Did they too struggle with the wait? Did they struggle as they saw God delay to act in the way they desired?

They too faced a long wait. And they too had no other anchor than God’s promises.

I’m over at the Mudroom reflecting on these promises - and on how bad I am at waiting. Head on over there to read “Waiting Without.”

Seven Advent Practices to Find Quiet in the Bustle

This time of year always has a sense of warmth about it for me. I love the music, the twinkling lights, the baked treats, the nights by the fire, the time with family. It feels cozy and rich in my mind’s eye. But it can also easily feel hectic or stressful. I find myself swept in the bustle, my thoughts set on getting the best deals on gifts, and how I’ll manage getting everything done on my to-do list with a toddler adventuring everywhere.

This is why I love Advent. It creates a space that tells me to stop. It resets my focus. It gives me permission to be still. It also gives me permission to admit that all is not “merry and bright.” It invites me into the dark—into mourning over the ways the brokenness of the world invades my life, my community, and my soul, into anticipation for the day yet to come when all is made right. It reminds me that it was because of this very darkness that Jesus entered the world. It reminds me that his light has shone in that darkness and regardless of what I see, regardless of the wait, that light will not be overcome.

I love the Christmas season, don’t get me wrong, but I’m realizing that the stress of the hustle and bustle is not good for my soul. As I try to resist the stress it brings, I’ve thought about some practical steps we can take to cultivate an Advent spirit and create space for stillness and reflection during this season. Though it’s by no means exhaustive, I wanted to share that list with you.

1. Use a tool for reflection. There are many wonderful tools you can use for reflection. The key with these isn’t about doing more or finding yet another routine to be distracted by. These resources are intended to serve us as we attempt to train our vision in the right direction. You can look for whatever tool will best help you and your family. Here are some that I have found helpful.

Music: At least once during the Advent season I take time to listen to Andrew Peterson’s album Behold the Lamb of God. (And I mean listen, as in lay on the couch with my eyes closed, press play, and stir only after the last note sounds.) I’ve talked before about why I find that album to be meaningful.

Devotional reading: Many organizations and churches now put out daily advent devotionals that are great. I also recommend a collection of sermons by Fleming Rutledge called Advent: The Once and Future Coming of Jesus Christ.

Jesse tree: This is something we’ve decided to start doing as our kiddo gets older. It’s an ancient concept that focuses on the lineage of Jesus. The tree begins bare, and each day an ornament is added that represents some aspect of the big-picture story of Christ’s coming. You can read a corresponding Scripture passage (or read it as a family). By Christmas Day, the tree is full of these ornaments. There are many derivations, so you can adjust the Scripture passages and the ornaments to what you desire. For example, the ornaments can be simple paper printouts that you can color—or you could make or buy your own set. You can learn more and find a recommended guide here.

2. Spend some time in the Old Testament. Advent focuses on waiting, anticipation, and longing for promises to be fulfilled. Try reading some of the Old Testament prophets each day, particularly passages looking forward to the coming of the Messiah. Sit with the long, long wait of the coming of Christ. You can cobble together your own set of readings, choose one prophet, or use a curated guide. I recently had this one recommended to me that uses the minor prophets.

3. Practice a (spiritual) discipline. At the end of the day, cutting out the time for stillness, solitude, and reflection is a discipline. As with all spiritual disciplines, it’s about intentionally engaging in a practice that creates a space for you to be formed by the Holy Spirit. Some spiritual disciplines are on-the-go or communal. But some just require us to slam on the brakes and stop. We say no to the tyranny of the urgent and make the counter-cultural decision to be still, to not do, to be quiet. This will look different for each of us. It might be a pocket of time in the morning or in the evening. It may be making a day-long retreat or setting aside a day as a family to just stay at home together. It will require discipline and it may require sacrifice—but isn’t this true of most of the good things in life?

4. Say no. This is a hard one for many of us, but it is one of the foundational ways we can build spaces of stillness into this season of the year. I’m not saying you can’t participate in any of the festivities. But do you have to go to all of those parties and cookie swaps? Do you have to participate in the children’s program and the Christmas Eve service and sing that solo? Or is it possible to say no to a few of those events? Saying no does not make you a Scrooge. It means you’re making an intentional step to clear some space.

5. Simplify. There are many aspects of this season that don’t have to be as dramatic or over-the-top as we sometimes make them. Do you really need to make twelve different types of pie or forty-six dozen Christmas cookies? Do I need to host and cook everything from scratch and make my own greenery? Sometimes instead of saying no or cutting something out completely we just need to find a way to simplify what we’re doing. Maybe you have a potluck instead of cooking everything yourself. Maybe you use more gift bags and less wrapping paper. Maybe you buy the pie or the greenery or use boxed mashed potatoes. Simple may be different—but it is not bad.

6. Take the focus off the presents. Generosity is a wonderful thing—and a biblical value. There is nothing wrong with generosity expressed in a thoughtfully chosen gift for someone you love. But all too often, Christmas presents devolve beyond generosity. We can easily become swept away by consumerism that tells us to buy more, that we need the newest gadgets, that turns all of our attention on material possessions. This sort of gift-giving or list-generating produces fruit of a very different sort. We may become envious or judgmental about those who have more disposable income than we do—or have less but spend beyond their means. We may find self-righteous pity for those who have less materially than we do. We may find seeds of greed in our heart. We may be distracted by comparison. I often hear that this season isn’t about the presents—but what practical steps do we take to make it clear that we believe this?

7. Ask an important litmus test question. Is this going to help focus me on the wonder of the coming of Christ to our world? Will it cultivate hope in my heart for his return as the glorious King? Is this going to bring me joy, bless others, be a source of rest, or prepare me to celebrate Christ’s birth? How is this activity or practice forming me, what fruit does it produce, and what does it reveal about the state of my heart and my priorities?

We are all different. We’re in different stages of life. We have different gifts and callings. For some, one activity or practice might be an appropriate decision to cultivate an Advent spirit, for another it would not. This is why we need to use questions like these to reflect personally as we decide what to do and what not to do. So we ask each time - what is this doing and what will this do in my soul?

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The Weary World Rejoices

I remember the day. We were newly married and living in a quaint New England seaside town. It was idyllic, surrounding us with red brick and hand-painted wooden signs above shop doors. The deep blue of the water mesmerized me.

It was a delightful summer day, and I decided to visit a local farm stand. It was so beautiful. Why would I waste such surroundings by driving? I would walk there. I’d get good exercise. I wouldn’t be pumping exhaust into the clear blue sky. I’d walk to get my local produce and carry my purchases on my back. I slipped a backpack onto my shoulders and set out—a young bride living an enchanted life, breathing deeply the salty air.

It was a bit longer than I’d anticipated. Once I left the cozy town streets and moved further away from the water, the day became hotter. I began to question the wisdom of my decision, but I pressed on—I was so close.

When I pushed open the wooden doors, I felt victorious. I remember buying berries that day and carefully stacking the containers in my backpack. Everything else is lost in my memory. The shopping and produce-selection a success, I set out for home, rejuvenated, with the bounce once more in my sure steps.

It didn’t last long. I’d naively underestimated how far it would be to walk two miles there and two miles back. I hadn’t accounted for the sun beating down on me as I walked along the road. I hadn’t factored in the weight of my fruit and vegetable-laden backpack, pulling at my shoulders. I (foolishly) hadn’t brought water. These I could have—and should have—accounted for. On top of it all, though, was the beginning of a sickness I hadn’t fully experienced or recognized the effects of, a sickness that would strip me of my energy and strength for the next year and a half. I didn’t know the debilitating sway it already had over me.

My steps slowed. My back ached. My mouth was dry and the back of my throat begged for water. My legs were leaden and muscles sloppy and aching with fatigue. My mind slowed and blurred, narrowing its focus to the effort it took to take one more step closer to home.

When I reached the brick streets once again, I was grateful. So close. When I rounded the last corner and saw the windows of our apartment, relief washed over me. I could make it the last block. My legs trembled as I climbed the stairs. By the time I turned the key in the lock and stepped into the apartment, my entire body shook from weariness. My eyes filled with tears as I poured a glass of water and collapsed onto the couch. I was home. And I rejoiced.

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Do you know what it is to be weary, friend?

Perhaps you have experienced the weariness of body—that mind-numbing fatigue when you think you cannot go any further, when you must simply give up and sit down on the side of the road. Or perhaps it’s been a weariness of spirit—when discouragement, pain, and sadness darken thoughts and emotions and you can’t seem to muster the will to get out of bed, to smile, to hope.

That word—weary—jumped out at me this year in the words of the Christmas carol, “O Holy Night.” A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.

Oh the relief that comes when weariness is lifted. When you reach the end of a long journey you didn’t think you’d survive. When you can finally settle into rest. When your longing is satisfied. The rejoicing that comes is not the exuberant sort, with jumping up and down and screaming. The face of this rejoicing has heavy-lidded eyes and a smile made faint by fatigue—but its joy runs into the deepest parts of the soul.

This Christmas, we rejoice in the thrill of hope that infused a weary world. Our world is still weary, groaning under the effects of sin. We stumble along under the weight of conflict and sickness. We bear the yoke of death and pain. We are weary for redemption—and creation itself cries out with us.

But our hope has come. The Hope cradled in a manger. The Hope who lived, died, and rose again for our redemption. The Hope who will return again in glory. He is the Hope that dispels the clouds of our weariness. Who gives us rest. Who satisfies our longings. Who brings the end to the reign of sin and death and the beginning of the Kingdom of Life and Peace.

So, we rejoice. We treasure this thrill of hope. We keep it nestled in our weary hearts. For Christ our King has come.

Thanks be to God.

The Immediacy of Hope & Eyes to See (Simeon and Anna)

“Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation…” - Luke 2:29-30

How many days had Simeon waited to see this moment? How many prayers had he offered up before this one could burst forth in praise? How many hours had he spent in the temple, looking, watching, expectant before the great hope of his life was rewarded?

When I think of Simeon—and Anna, whose story appears immediately after his in Luke 2—I am challenged on two fronts. First, that they persevered in active, expectant hope. Second, that they recognized Jesus when he came.

Centuries had come and gone since the prophecies were made about the coming “consolation of Israel.” Centuries of men and women living and dying without seeing the promised Messiah. After hundreds of years, it would be easy to give up hope. It would be easy to rationalize away the promises, to doubt them, or at the very least to not waste your time standing on tiptoe for them to be fulfilled at any moment.

In my experience, this sort of perseverant, expectant hope is difficult to maintain. As each day passes, with no sign of change, no hint that the following day will hold anything different, hope easily loses its immediacy. It grows quiet and still, and I sit down from weariness instead of standing at attention on the lookout.

But Simeon and Anna kept their posts as watchmen. (To be fair, there were other Jews and Jewish leaders at their time who did as well. Expectations for the Messiah ran high.) They stayed alert.

Alertness was not everything, though. Simeon and Anna had to recognize Jesus when he came. He came quietly—not with the pomp of kings but as a baby in the arms of a poor Hebrew girl. There was no fanfare as he entered the temple, no glory cloud descending in fire and smoke. He came helpless and small, dependent on his parents to offer the faithful sacrifices on his behalf. There was nothing remarkable about his arrival at the temple that day. He could have been anyone’s child. But Simeon and Anna had eyes to see, and they rejoiced at this One who would be the hope of the nations.

Today they are making me wonder—do I stand expectant and watching for God to appear in my life? Is my hope lively and attentive? Do I have eyes to see when He appears quietly in my ordinary, when He comes in ways and places I don’t expect? Do I recognize Him when He comes?

Lord, may it be so.

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