Advent Week 2: Promises

There is no cradle without the cross.

This is the tension in which we exist. what is and what could be. Life today and the promise of tomorrow. The true Christmas celebration cannot be whole without its fulfillment in the cross of Easter.

There is no light without shadow.

And I’ve wondered about this weariness I feel when we enter this season. With so many lights, how can something feel so wrong? Why is there such an ache?

Sink below the haze of the holiday frenzy to street level. Outside the proverbial inn are the dark corners of the holidays. Here we find the God we sing about. Here in the languid streets. Among the people.

We, the broken.

And this is the whole point, and why there is tension beneath the glowing lights: a season of hope is for the hopeless. A season of promise is for those who need to believe in something real. In a world gone mad with distrust, this is our gift. The deepest heart of Christmas is found in the hope of the cradle and the promise of the cross.

Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.

The irony of the hope we celebrate this season is that we keep it tucked within our homes and under our trees while our brothers and sisters around the world face harsh realities, a darkness the glow of our Christmas lights won’t reach; a cold the warmth of out fires can’t thaw.

For all the people.

And we remember. Hope does not thrive indoors. This news was never meant to be tucked and shuttered in our hearts. This is a season of good news. A season of promise.

Of cradles and crosses.

Of freedom.

For we, the broken.

For all.

Advent Week 1: Darkness

We begin Advent in the dark. The kind of dark you can touch. The kind of dark that has substance.

Before the first candle. Before we ignite in the heavy silence there is only darkness and it is here we must begin.

Before the light, is the dark.

In the terrible dark is the weight that sits heavy on our chests, ribs cracking under pressure, lungs gasping for air. Eyes open wide even in the blackness. Even though we know we will see nothing. In this dark is every fear.

It is loss. It is war. It is addiction. It is sickness. It is loneliness. Anxiety. Desperation.

The breaking point.

And the ache.

The wrenching of the heart. The jaw-grinding, body-shaking thirst for dawn.

And sometimes - listen to me - to ache is enough.

It’s okay to not be the strong one, for a while. It’s okay.

Just to know there’s more. To ache for it. To cry out for home. To know there are answers but to be unable to hold them for a while. Open hands.

To want something undefined, to want something defined, to want something because you don’t know what the hell else to do. Closed fists.

To ache for the world we know we can have but can’t seem to reach. To ache for the truth promised in all these holiday lights we cling to for a few short weeks. To ache for wholeness. To ache for touch. To ache for hope.

We can’t stay here, in the dark, but maybe you just need to know that, for now, to ache is enough.

Because to ache is to feel, to know, and to long for something beyond the dark. And sometimes, that is enough. For now, that is enough, because the light is coming.