How is it that Advent—those lean days entrusted to grieving prophets and the hard reckoning of our predicament—has been dressed up in kitsch and set beside Elf on the Shelf? Advent is ache. Advent is silence. Advent belongs to the weary, the ones who’ve run out of road. And yet here we are, Advent gone swanky. The engines of commerce have shown they can conscript anything, even the holy ache, into the relentless machinery of the holiday blitz.
In October, I wandered through the make‑up emporium of a department store and was confronted by a banner advertising a luxury Advent calendar—each day revealing not prayer or prophecy, but a glossy lip balm, wrinkle‑vanishing cream, or glow drops. The religious marketplace has kept pace, unleashing its own avalanche of polished Advent products, each designed to maximize the season and ensure we perform Advent “correctly.” Yet in the process, we Christians have proven ourselves adept at flattening mystery, bludgeoning wonder into something marketable, stripping Advent of its ache and silence.
I have no quarrel with seeking joy wherever it might be found—whether in a Christian feast or a secular season—and most of us, apart from those orchestrating the commercial frenzy, are simply doing our best to gather small fragments of hope and kindness in a world that often feels heavy with sorrow. I trust that if we keep pursuing that trail, even if we stumble and lose our way like the fox, we will eventually encounter unexpected moments of grace.
Still, I hold fast to the belief that Advent is especially for the broken, the weary, and those who feel completely undone by life’s burdens. Advent is for those whose voices falter, who cannot muster the strength to describe how grief, regret, or evil have splintered their lives and torn their families apart. It is for the dying, the bewildered, the silenced, and for all who are bowed beneath shame or despair, including those living in war-torn regions where hope is a scarce commodity. Fleming Rutledge reminds us that Advent “bids us take a fearless inventory of the darkness.” During Advent, we are called to face what is terrifying, crushing, and merciless, and to admit that we are powerless to invent any cure on our own. To conjure a breathless, cheerful spirituality is not only dishonest—it ultimately fails to offer real comfort or healing.
And if our Advent does not descend into the thick of human struggle and misery, then it is no Advent at all.
These truths endure because Advent is, at its heart, about God. Unlike many other seasons or holidays that often shift focus onto personal improvement, traditions, or social gatherings, Advent stands apart as a time that directs attention beyond ourselves. It is not an invitation to embark on self-improvement projects, nor is it a call to manufacture new rituals just to fill the weeks leading to Christmas. Instead, Advent actively resists our tendency to centre our experiences and expectations around ourselves. It reminds us that our role is not to create meaning by our own efforts, but to respond to God’s initiative in the world.
Our task during Advent is pared down to something deceptively simple but deeply demanding: to remain awake, to stay watchful, and to cling to hope until help arrives. This means cultivating a spiritual alertness, refusing to become numb or indifferent to the world’s suffering or our own. It requires vigilance—not just of mind, but of heart—so that we do not fall into despair or distraction. We are called to be present, attentive, and expectant, trusting that God is at work even when we cannot see or understand the full picture.
While we bear responsibility for keeping this flame of hope alive, ours is not the primary role. The initiative belongs to God—the actor, the Saviour, the Deliverer—who “rescues us from all our terrors and saves us from our troubles.” It is God who takes the decisive action: shining light on those who dwell in darkness and in the shadow of death, scattering the night and transforming our darkness into light. Advent is fundamentally about God’s movement towards humanity, God’s willingness to meet us where we are, and God’s power to redeem and restore.
In this context, there is no need to go searching for sorrow; it is already abundant in the world, and inevitably, it finds its way to each of us. Loss, disappointment, and grief are woven into the fabric of human life. Yet, Advent also insists that alongside sorrow, there is a riot of joy—a chorus of gladness that erupts in the most unexpected places and moments. The season teaches us to hold both realities together, rather than dismissing one for the other. It calls us to summon the faith and courage to name anguish wherever it appears, to be honest about pain and brokenness, while also remaining open to the flashes of delight and wonder that punctuate our days.
During Advent, we lift our fragile, flickering flame toward God—the One who stoops low, who bends near, who tends to troubled souls with mercy and compassion. This image speaks to the vulnerability of human hope, but also to the intimate care that God offers. Advent is not something we achieve or manufacture; it is God’s descent, God’s coming down into the mess and beauty of human life. God meets us in both our despair and our joy, reminding us again and again that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” The season becomes a profound invitation to trust in the steadfast presence of God, who brings hope and healing, even when circumstances seem bleak.
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