Forget the Light

That’s It?

Tomorrow is the darkest day of the year.  And coincidentally (or not) things feel pretty desperate right now.  Between the news coming out of Syria and now Germany, the terrifying list of Trump appointees, and the horrific things being done by citizens emboldened by his shocking-not-shocking election, the darkness feels palpable.  It snakes and suffocates as it winds its way around me.

The Church calendar tells us it’s advent and for followers of Christ, this means that we are in a season of waiting.  We are a people in between Advents– the advent of Christ and the advent of Christ-come-again.  Every December, we remember the waiting and we continue the waiting.  We remember the arrival of Immanuel, God-With-Us, who brought light into all this darkness and yearn still for the next arrival, when the in-breaking of God’s kingdom in this, our weary world, will be complete.

The Church is told during the advent season to watch for the light.  WATCH FOR THE LIGHT!  There are advent blogs by this name, sermon series, you name it.  It’s even the title of one of the advent books on my shelf and while I don’t think it’s bad advice, the phrase brings to mind the quiver of a candle in a dusky room.   A sea-worn sailor watchful for the morning sun to break on the horizon.   The late afternoon sunlight pushing it’s way through dappled trees to light a patch on the forest floor.

In other words, a glimmer of light so small that we must strain our eyes to see it.  This is how I have observed Advent all my life. The watchful waiting for the striking of a match in a world otherwise obscured by darkness.

But this year, and perhaps every year, that doesn’t feel sufficient.  When I see hospital workers executed in Aleppo and remember the nurses and doctors that so kindly and attentively watched over Isaiah earlier this year, a weak flame on a windy night isn’t enough.  When I read about a black baby doll being hung by a noose in a dorm room elevator on election night, a faint flicker isn’t going to cut it.  We need more than that.

All is calm?

Earlier this year I was awakened one morning in the wee hours by the sound of one of my boys calling my name.  I shuffled sleepily to the room he shares with his brother and discovered that the storm outside had woken him up and he was afraid.  I carried him to our room and settled him into the bed with us.  We laid still in the darkness for over an hour as the wind whipped at the windows and the thunder boomed about us.  Every now and then, there was a flash of lighting so bright it lit up the entire room.

That’s what I want to watch for this year.  Jesus didn’t come quietly.  It wasn’t a silent night.  He came to us through a woman in labor.  One of the most wild and exhilarating things to behold.  As a doula who has witnessed the arrival of countless babes, I’m guessing there was blood and screaming and untold cacophony in the so-called stable that night.  And the life that followed was anything but meek and mild.  The life of Jesus was one of resistance and shocking non-conformity.  The life of Jesus uprooted and challenged and unsettled everything we thought we knew about God and the world.

So it seems more suitable that we look and long for more than the weak light of a little candle.  As I behold the bleakness in the world this advent season I want so much more than that. I want something huge.  I want something shocking.  I’m longing for something to crash and bang wildly into the world.  I’m longing for disruption and something that shakes the ground beneath me.  I’m done watching for the light.  As I sit through the darkest day of the year tomorrow, I’m going to watch for the lightning.