Walking in the Dark: An Advent Reflection
by Tim Soerens
A thick blanket of fresh snow has covered the ground here in Chicago. It’s dark in the early morning. It’s my favorite time of day in my favorite season of the year.
For those of you who know me (Tim here!), you might not be surprised to hear that I’m what could be considered a Christmas maximalist. I love it all. The twinkling lights, the joyous music, the endless activities, the cozy nights. But, as someone who sincerely wants to follow Jesus and wants to encourage us to be and become the Body of Christ here in our neighborhoods, I find this season to be profoundly challenging if not obnoxious.
Maybe I need to explain.
For years I’ve been reading Fleming Rutledge’s brilliant book of advent sermons entiled “advent”. A consistent theme woven throughout is that Advent begins in the dark and it pretty much stays there. Against our contemporary holiday landscape we can forget that….
Before the season begins there is 400 years of God’s silence via scripture
The Roman empire is expanding with brutal force towards global dominance.
The baby Jesus is born into a context of humiliation, confusion, and threat of death.
Not exactly a warm cup of peppermint tea by the fire.
Advent begins in the dark and pretty much stays there,
which is why it feels important to learn how to look into the dark, even as we celebrate the good gifts of this delightful season.
For many of our neighbors, it’s a time when pain feels magnified, maybe this is how you feel too. For those of us who are lonely, it feels way more lonely. For those who just lost a loved one, our heartbreak is intensified. For those of us estranged from family, or without a home, or fearing we might lose our home, all the joyous decorations might feel like adding insult to injury.
We need to remember that in this world of pain, the baby Jesus resides.
With this in mind, here are some short prayers. If you find them helpful, consider sharing them with a loved one, or forward this email with a little note, or adapt it into a shared liturgy.
God, we are searching for the baby Jesus, can you help us get used to looking in the dark? May our eyes be open.
Jesus, we want to discover you, the prince of peace, teach us to pay attention to the pain of our neighbors. May our hearts be soft.
Spirit, we need the “wonderful counselor” show us how to bear one another’s burdens, especially in this season. May my our hands be willing.
Amen.
A Practice for This Advent: Attention in the Dark
Here’s a very simple practice for these next four weeks. Take it in a way that fits your body, your place, and what feels safe for you.
1. Be present to low light.
Step outside if and when it feels safe, or stay inside near a window, on a porch, in a car, or in a quiet room as evening or morning settles in. Don’t rush. Just be.
2. Notice any small light you see.
A streetlamp. A lit window. Headlights. A screen in an otherwise dark room.
3. Name what that light stirs in you.
Hope, ache, longing, steadiness, sadness, frustration, relief… whatever is true.
4. Let it be enough.
Don’t force a lesson. Don’t force a feeling. Just notice.
Practices like this don’t magically solve anything. But they do change our posture. They teach us to trust that God still moves in quiet ways. They help us pay attention to the particularities that awaken affection, which, as Wendell Berry reminds us, is where everything turns.
And maybe this Advent, we need affection more than ever.
Affection for our places.
Affection for our people.
Affection for the God who meets us not after the darkness, but in the midst of it.
