The nights are drawing in and getting colder; the morning commute is barely illuminated by fog lights cutting through the mist. Winter, if not officially arriving for another few weeks, is waiting in the wings and making sure we’re ready for her big entrance, and this year, perhaps more so than any other I can remember, it feels like a midnight of a season.
We started 2016 grimly joking that it was going to be a difficult year. After all, we lost David Bowie and Alan Rickman within days of each other, things weren’t off to a great start. From there on in, things seemed to spiral until we’re knocking on the door of December and the world barely feels like it’s holding together. We live in interesting times, so the saying goes, but “interesting” is said with hollow, humourless laughter and a gnawing knot of fear.
Advent starts today, the closest Sunday to St. Andrew’s Day on the 30th. It starts the liturgical year with a sense of anticipation and expectancy, a countdown to Christmas and the coming of Christ. Children eat chocolate hidden in calendars. It’s a time of fervent waiting, but in this earthquake of a year, I need to see Advent as a journey back to Bethlehem.
I suffer from anxiety. That’s not an easy thing to admit, here in public, but there you go; we’re sometimes helped by honesty and, being honest, my sense of hope feels like so much static, no signal cutting through the noise. The people living in darkness still wait to see a great light. Or maybe it’s not about waiting; maybe it’s about having the eyes to see what’s already there, to see the source rather than the reflection or the shadows of imagined absence. The Magi saw the star but they still had to make their way to the manger.
I’m holding on but my fingernails hurt and I need to rediscover hope, need to trust that hope is there, even if that feels like a pilgrimage through the dark. And I don’t have a map and it’s too cloudy to clearly make out the stars, but I need to keep moving and just hope I’m moving forward.
We stand on the cusp of Christmas, the celebration of God moving into the neighbourhood. And so I pray that I’ll learn to trust in the promises implicit in that, not in some eschatological way, but in the day-to-day. Nowadays, when the world we built on shifting sand seems so fragile, when everything seems to be mutating towards something toxic, that trust is more important than ever. But it’s hard to hold on with hands balled into fists.
We use the seasons as symbols, and Advent takes us through the longest night so that we can see the light start to lengthen at the end of it. Christmas is coming, that hope is out there swaddled in a manger. This year I grope towards it once again, beaten and bruised but still stumbling stable-wards. The stumbling feels harder this time, there’s more to fight through. But by grace we manoeuvre through the night, the star still burns above a stable as we move ever onwards in the direction of Bethlehem.