This is it. Don’t Get Scared Now.
“The Magnificat reminds us that what we most value, all that gives us status—power, pride, strength, and wealth—can be a barrier to receiving what God has in store for us. If we have it all, or think we can buy it all, there will be no Christmas for us.”
Photo by Ryan Parker
I grew up in a world where the rapture was imminent, and the phrase "sign of the times" was a regular part of Sunday sermons. This is true in my memory, at least. This unique way of thinking about Jesus' apocalyptic return left me with fearful childhood memories. I recall laying in bed, unable to sleep, afraid Jesus would burst through the sky at any moment. All I could do was beg Him not to. I wanted to live what I thought was a full life—marriage, kids, school, friends, career, that sort of thing. I wasn't fearful of Him; I feared the new world I expected He'd bring with Him. Of course, as a child who was hearing bits and pieces of questionable eschatology, I completely misunderstood the nature of this new world. Misguided theology aside, there is still something left of this fear lurking within me to this day. The coming of Jesus means the end of life as I know it.
Advent captures so much of this apocalyptic imagination. The season rushing us towards Christmas is filled with songs and allusions to Christ's first coming. But it is also occupied with His return. And once you see this, you can't unsee it. It is everywhere. And because of this, the Christmas season can fill us to the brim with profound hope.
Yet, as ever, when God shows up to a broken world, confrontation is imminent. We see this in God's post-fruit conversation with Adam and Eve, in Isaiah's throne room encounter, in Herod's maniacal Massacre of the Innocents, and we certainly see it in Jesus' Revelation to John. God's coming is confrontational. It not only confronts us with God's presence but the reign of God that accompanies Him.
God brought the first apocalypse with that baby. And with Him the rectification of the world. In Advent, we remember this while looking forward to that final apocalypse with hope.
With an infant's wail, darkness was put on notice. The birth of a baby meant the beginning of the end for the powers that be. The world's rulers, authorities, and influencers and all that propped them up were ending. The rigged system was about to come crashing down. The night is ending. Dawn is breaking.
The days are numbered for the powers and systems of oppression and injustices, big and small. All we face, sicknesses, debt, racism, mental illnesses, injustice, and inequality will end. This is the good news of Christmas. Not just that God has come into the world, but that a new world order comes with Him. Heaven invades Earth, and Her light will drive the darkness out.
The manger lying in darkness tells us that though darkness may still be here now, it does not win. Its reign is over. The baby has come and conquered. In weakness, humility, love, and death, Jesus conquers the broken world, and all that animates and enables its brokenness.
What I feared as a little boy laying in bed at night has already happened. Jesus has come, and life will never be the same. But what I must continue to remind myself, what that little boy didn't understand yet, the thing I fear is actually fantastic news.
Jesus' coming, both past, and future, confronts us because it will not allow us to go on our merry way and live our lives unaffected by His coming. The world as you know it is gone. A new world has come.
This confrontation terrifies us. We fear God's coming to take from us the wealth, power, influence, and authority we've lived for and loved. The things we've given so much of our lives to are at risk.
It's what Amos is getting at when he says to God's people, "Woe to you who desire the day of the LORD's coming! Why would you want that? It will be darkness for you, not light. You think it is an escape, but it is instead a snare. Don't you see the day of the LORD's coming will be darkness and gloom for you, with no brightness in it? Why? Because I despise your self-serving parties disguised as religious feasts and take no delight in your gatherings of so-called confession and lament. Even though you offer me your worship, I won't have it. Even the best worship you can muster altogether misses the point. I will not pay attention to it. Take away from me your noisy songs. I won't listen to them. Instead, let a torrent of justice roll down and righteousness burst forth like an endless spring (Amos 5:19–24, my paraphrase)."
Amos' point was simple. Israel didn't want what they thought they wanted. God's coming means everything you depend on and are so proud of, your wealth, your position, your influence, your religious standing will all be stripped away. More than this, Amos' prophesies to a people enjoying this prestige, affluence, and success at the expense of the poor around them. Suddenly Amos sounds a lot like Mary, scattering the proud, toppling the powerful, and sending the rich away empty-handed (Luke 1:46-55).
Something about Christmas time enables Amos' words to cut deeper. We swim in a sea of shallow imitations of Christmas worship. Materialism, empty sentimentality, and the pretense of joy consume the world. And so much of it is done in the name of Jesus. Perhaps this exposes something about our hearts.
It's easy to stand in judgment of the dressed-up imitations of peace, joy, and hope. But what if our pursuit of these cheap substitutes betrays our deep-seated longing for something more? Perhaps it's why we get so excited about Christmas each year and why we are often so dissatisfied come January. We long for something more.
Our eggnog and tinsel are not the problems. The Christmas season pulls the curtain back, exposing all we hope to save us, family, money, security, stuff, popularity, etc. Things that in and of themselves are good and beautiful but cannot bear the weight of our hope. And this misplaced hope creates idols out of good and beautiful things. Family can save us, or more money can save us, or more influence can save us, or better religion can save us, or more/better friends can save us, and each gift cracks under the weight of our expectation.
So Advent directs our attention to a dirty trough in a stall dug into the side of a hill, where a baby lay. There, our hope lay in that small, helpless, weak child, anointed with the perfume of manure, rotting hay, and poverty. And we are confronted. Is this really it? Is this really what we need? And we must choose where to place our hope. At once, that weak, small, helpless child demands every idol we have. It is terrifying.
If we allow this confrontation, if we will make room for this apocalyptic irruption into the depths of our souls, we can find some real hope. But the real hope of Advent requires some fearful letting go. Will we be courageous enough, faith-filled enough, to leave our wellbeing in the hands of God?
Skipping Christmas is not the answer. That merely slaps a self-righteous bandaid on the deeper heart problem the tiny infant is prying from our hearts.
And here again, more confrontation. We quickly discover how weak and needy we are. How addicted we are to looking for lasting life in trivial things. When we know, life can't be found here. We discover that our fate, our lives, hopes, and dreams are not really in our hands at all. This, too, is terrifying.
And so Advent asks us to be brave enough to admit all is not well with us or our world. It asks us to face and name the darkness within us and around us while holding out hope that God is bringing real, lasting redemption.
Advent tears us in two. We live in the paradox of already and not yet as we experience suffering and joy, lament and praise, discontentment and peace, and judgment and deliverance. We are caught between what is and what should be.
Allowing ourselves to feel the emptiness of the sentimental version of the season can be helpful. Our longing stirs us to hope for something more. We remember that the light has come and is already shining into the darkness in and around us. At the same time, we know its fullness is yet to come.
Advent teaches us that it is ok to sit in expectancy and waiting and to be somewhat dissatisfied. After all, Christmas reminds us that God has not abandoned us, and so we can cling to that fact as we wait for rescue.
Suddenly, our fears bloom into hope, and we acknowledge the painful truth that nothing here can pull us out of this mess. So we hope in the one who can. And the words of Amos suddenly become a comfort instead of a judgment. We are no longer the rich and powerful religious hypocrites but the needy and impoverished. As justice rolls down, the waters will not wash us away but raise us up. In God's grace and righteousness, we will find the life we've been searching for all along.
Advent assures us that Christ's coming brings with it God's peace (or shalom). And shalom is everything we've ever longed for. Our grief, shame, brokenness, mortality, anonymity, loneliness, poverty, hypocrisy, Shalom sweeps up all of it—God's wholeness in full, God's presence, peace on earth. The coming of God's reign we feared so much becomes the deep longing of our hearts.
Until then, we remain vigilant, keeping watch for the dawn, living as if it is already here. Now, with hearts fixed with hope, we can enjoy the season, feasting, celebrating, drinking in glimpses of the goodness to come. But we do so with an aching in our bones that knows that any joy found here is only a sliver of what's to come.
Find delight in these slivers of God's presence, community, friendship, love, hope, and joy. Delight in the fact that whatever peace you find in your participation in the Christmas season is merely a glimpse of the tidal wave of peace that's to come. We have no reason to fear. God is coming, and His presence offers us everything we've ever longed for.
We've created a playlist to accompany you on your prayer and reflection during Advent. The songs are meant to speak to yearning, dissatisfaction, and Jesus' second coming. You can find it here.
Let's support, pray, and encourage one another to reimagine lives lived into revolutionary trust and love of Jesus'. Join the discussion on discord.
