Advent

I don't know if it's because I'm getting older and less able (or willing) to tolerate the madness that seems to overtake us in December, if it is because I have just come through a stressful and demanding season at work, and so am simply more tired than usual, or if it is because recent stories in the news, whether printed in papers or in my newsfeed, have left me feeling sad and discouraged, but I don't feel much like I'm in the "Christmas spirit". Jingle bells and fa-la-la get on my nerves.  Even "Silent Night" and "Joy to the World" feel like too much to handle.  Truth be told, I don't feel much joy, just a deep-seated weariness, and a thinly-masked resentment against the expectation of Christmas cheer.

It feels like everyone is putting on a big fake peace-love-and-goodwill mask, while underneath, this world is crying out in agony.  All the families who have recently lost a loved one ... friends of mine who are separated from their most loved ones at this most wonderful time of the year ... and I'm so tired I can barely get out of bed, let alone think about baking desserts to add to the weight of food on the tables, which will only add to the weight on our backsides.  But, oh, we must have Christmas cheer!  Bah, humbug.

What I feel mostly is sadness that the world DIDN'T end on December 21.  Not that I was under any illusions that it would, but still.  Oh, Jesus, why?  Why couldn't you have come back yesterday?  When, Jesus, when?  When are you going to come back?  Oh, Jesus, can't you hear us crying?  Do you hear the cries of a friend who just lost a brother?  Do you hear the cries of friends separated from family at Christmas, missing their sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, grandkids?  Do you hear the wailing of the families in Newtown, Connecticut?  Jesus, do you hear the sobs of the Syrians, the people in Palestine, in Israel, in Egypt, Iraq, and all the other countless places where war is waging and lives are being torn apart?  Do you hear my sighs, sighs wrung from a heart that is weary beyond words?  Jesus, if you came, all would be made right.  If you came, all tears would be wiped away.  Jesus, why didn't you come?  If you don't come soon, I'm not sure how much longer we can hang on.  When will you come?  Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel!

. . . oh . . .
     . . . come
           . . . oh, come . . .
                      . . . Emmanuel.

But isn't that a Christmas carol?  But if that's a Christmas carol, I wonder . . . I wonder if we haven't got this all wrong.

We sort of know that Advent isn't about the excitement of waking up to a white Christmas with presents under the tree.  But perhaps it's not even about the anticipation of a new birth, the way I was recently anticipating the birth of my new niece.  Perhaps Advent is much more about feeling the awful weight of a broken world until I am groaning for relief from the agony of it.  Perhaps it isn't so much about welcoming the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay, no crying he makes, but about feeling again my desperate, desperate need for a Saviour.  Perhaps it's about knowing that I just can't go on unless he breaks in and intervenes.  Perhaps it's recognising that my heart is broken, and I am powerless to fix it unless the Healer enters in.  I wonder if perhaps the true Christmas spirit is found not in smiles and laughter, but in tears and a deep longing for Emmanuel to come and right this world.  Emmanuel.  God with Us.  He, only he can make what is wrong right again.  Perhaps looking forward to Christmas is not so much about joyful anticipation, but one of longing for relief.

Which makes Christmas all the more surprising.  Because that's an awful lot of expectation to put on a baby who is suckling at his mother's breast, still red and wrinked from his passage into this world, utterly helpless, utterly dependent on his inexperienced, teenaged mother. We need a rescuer and we find a baby.  We're looking for a Saviour, and we find a squalling infant.  I wonder if, in our disappointment that he is not what we expect, we settle for what he think he is, and forget what he will become.  A baby can't save us, so we try to put our longing aside for a while, to focus on the joy of a new baby -- after all, who doesn't love a new baby. We pretend we're ok, and we can hang on for a while longer, at least until, say, Easter.

Well, I can't.  I can't hang on. And I don't have to.  Because Emmanuel came at Christmas, not Easter.  He came.  Just when I was slipping and falling to my death, he came.  He came, as a baby, yes, but God-With-Us.  I am not going to put the grieving aside to find some false Christmas cheer.  I am not going to pretend that all is right when all is wrong.  I will feel the depth of sadness of a world that is groaning in agony.  I will feel the weariness of my own heart and soul.  And I will cry, "Oh, come, oh, come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here."  And then, I will marvel at the thought that Emmanuel HAS come.  And he is coming again.

And that, I believe, is the true Christmas spirit.