A few years ago, I became inspired by a particular question: could I possibly enter the Christmas season feeling less stressed, more spacious, with my heart more prepared to feel the birth of hope, love, joy, and peace—all the qualities Advent called me to contemplate? Could I make space for this kind of birth, make space for my heart to feel more alive?
The practice became so essential that each year since I have practiced this Advent contemplation. And so again, I’ve arrived at this time.
Advent is a practice in some Christian traditions, but the Christian tradition does not hold ownership to seasons of heart preparation. I’ve come to think of this as a time of holding space for anticipation and for stretching myself to believe that more than one thing can be true. Advent exists in a world that wants us to skip ahead to the shiny season of Christmas (if you happen to practice this), with all it’s bells and glitter and fancy wrapping. Yet, Advent isn’t shiny or fancy at all. In fact, it comes during the the days leading up to the darkest day of the year, the Winter Solstice.
Advent suggests the possibility that there could be a birth of hope, love, joy and peace even as it recognizes that the world and life in it is filled with pain, injustice, hardship, death, destruction.
How can both be true? I do not always know, but it’s essential to me that I wonder over it all.
This past week began with the contemplation of hope. Yet, hope in Advent is not a quality of false optimism. It’s not “best life now” everything is “love and light” kind of blinders. This kind of hope is gritty. What does real hope look like in the midst of so much disappointment?