This month revealed a big difference between my new life and my old one. Right now, every day is filled with new ideas, new confidence, new people, and new support. I cherish every second. But the change I am talking about is felt on a biological level. The difference is daylight itself.
Here in Connecticut, our days have already grown short, and they are growing shorter. Yesterday while walking from one class to another, I saw the moon fully risen in the sky at 3 PM. I smiled my greeting. By 4:45, an hour earlier than in my old life, the sun was gone. We were entering into night.
This increased darkness parallels another big change in my life. For the first time in ages—and in some ways, for the first time ever—I am surrounded by religious visions of Advent. Poetry and art and lectures and song. Candlelit services and a massive party.
For many people, the word Advent itself is likely a thorn. Its associations with Christianity can be an immediate turn off. I understand this on a personal level, having fled the church completely after an oppressive childhood spent in its grip. Now I am carefully dabbling in it again. But the church, as an institution, is deeply flawed.
Much of Western Christianity is embedded in systems of domination and oppression. It gave shape and purpose to colonialism in the United States, and never freed itself from that mindset.1 Let us not forget that in this country, colonialism and its mechanisms are connected to genocide. Put another way, Christianity was used by our forefathers as a permission slip to commit mass murder.
Today, the church often functions as a capitalist political weapon in ecclesial trappings. As many know intimately, the church frequently uses religious conviction to abuse, exclude, and ignore. It employs God-talk to sanction death for some and life for a privileged few.
Despite that, the themes of Advent pull on my soul. Advent is not just for Christians. The season of Advent is for everyone.
To understand why Advent is for everyone, we must uncover what Advent actually means. The term Advent comes from the Latin word “adventus” and its Greek predecessor “parousia.” Both words mean presence, coming, arrival.
Inside the Christian tradition, Advent is known as the season of waiting. It symbolizes waiting for the arrival of promised deliverance. Its message is that the ultimate hope of suffering people can be fulfilled.
Here is the thing. We are all waiting for something. Our hearts are yearning. This is an unavoidable part of the human experience.
When I think about my close circle of friends, I see this clearly. One of us is yearning for children and worries it will never be possible. One craves a partner with whom to share her life. Another longs to improve her father’s health and extend their time together. Still another wants to be recognized for her work.
Zooming out, I observe that people in my life share collective longings, too. They want justice in their communities but do not know how to demand it. They ache to feel safe at public celebrations, without fearing the appearance of an assault rifle. They yearn to know that money spent might offer those serving them enough to at least pay their rent.
To really understand Advent, the period that symbolizes waiting for the arrival of a savior, we must ask ourselves what the Jews who chose to follow Christ—the original Christians—longed for. By all accounts, the answer is simple.
The Jews of that period were living under Roman occupation. They were marginalized. They were abused and misunderstood. They had more in common with oppressed populations in the United States than the white mid-to-upper class that claims their God today.
In waiting for the fulfillment of a great promise, the Jews yearned for one thing: to be freed from those holding power over them. They wanted to be liberated from their suffering. They believed it was possible.
This is worth noting: Once Christ arrived amidst those Jews, he painted a picture of what life in deliverance might mean. His vision had nothing to do with shame or exclusion. It was not about making the rich and powerful more rich and powerful. His vision was one of healing for the marginalized, and it centered abundance. He pointed followers towards restoration for the oppressed, the sick, the hated, the forgotten, the cast out.
Advent is about waiting in the darkness—the oppressive, powerful darkness—and choosing, despite that darkness, to believe deliverance can come. It requires faith. These days, and each from a different place of privilege, we all need deliverance.
November temperatures are shockingly warm, yet we must press on. Hate speech and anti-Semitism are being unleashed, yet we must press on. Our society fails to support mothers, yet we must press on. Our education system is riddled with problems, yet we must press on.
In the face of threats, a number of which are existential, we have no choice but to keep going and hold our heads above water. We must make money to exist, and our jobs ask a lot. Most people, again from varying degrees of privilege, feel they are constantly held in survival mode. The issues seem to multiply, and our days are growing short.
Despite our efforts, darkness prevails.
When I think about the shorter, darker Connecticut days that shape my life right now, I find solace in the knowledge that in a couple of weeks, light will slowly begin to return. That is the promise of the Earth’s tilt around the sun. In the meantime, I look for peace in the mystery of darkness, as if the extra time with an illuminated night sky might give us some answers to our pressing questions.
Darkness can feel disorienting, restrictive, even scary. But let us not forget: It is the dark that emphasizes how meaningful every sliver of light can be.
I believe there’s a reflection—and a promise—that applies to each and every one of us this Advent season. It does not matter if you call yourself a sinner or a saint. Your longing is what matters. Your vision is what matters.
Consider those deep desires of your heart. Remember whatever yearning you hold for yourself, and in parallel, for all people. In this dark season, dream and dream and dream of what liberation from suffering might mean.
As a kid, I adored Christmas morning for obvious reasons. The gifts! The sparkle! But oh, the wait between Christmases felt long. It seemed impossible we would ever reach that bedazzled holiday again, even though the calendar promised it would eventually arrive.
One day passed, then another. Late winter slowly blossomed into spring. Before I knew it, I was swimming my way through summer, but Christmas morning still felt far away. Eventually the days eclipsed the nights and months became a year. Before I knew it, Christmas had come again.
We carry a little of that childlike wonder—and impatience—with us still. And thank goodness for that. We try to remember how good things can feel. We wait in anticipation of great gifts that must be coming down the line.
Whatever you dream of this Advent season, it is true: The wait may feel eternal. But to hold a vision of those night-sky slivers of light, the gradual return of longer days, the promise and possibility of our deliverance—this is what it means to embody the spirit of Advent.
Advent is translated to “arrival,” but we must not forget it also means “presence.” Slivers of our deliverance are already here. Like the twinkling stars on a dark winter night, little bits of our big dreams are falling into place. Sometimes, the challenge is to notice.
This Advent season, my hope is that we remember to see the good, to find the potential, to embrace childlike joy despite the darkness. To point our belief towards a longer, brighter day. This is the meaning—it must be the meaning—of being alive.
Between you and me—
This week, John is conducting holiday shows down South while I finish classes for the semester and start my final projects. We had a week off from class for Thanksgiving, and since it was my first chance for rest in months, I started a romance novel. Wow, nothing feels more like pure indulgence after a period of nonstop academia than a romance novel. I had forgotten what pure indulgence on the page feels like. I wish it for everyone.
We are back to business now at school, and I almost don’t want the semester to end. Things are being learned, and relationships are being forged, and I am soaking in the joy of feeling like I am exactly where I am meant to be. But the end is coming nonetheless, and that means writing. Lots and lots of writing.
Among other things, before the end of the year I will write many pages reclaiming Mary’s agency and co-creation with the divine for a class on the Cult of Mary in Byzantine Art. If that’s not a perfect project for Advent season, I don’t know what is. Thinking about what Mary has meant to people over time and why has been beautiful, especially since so many traditions reduce Mary’s role to utility and remain suspicious of anything else. Yet Mary’s role in the story reaches far beyond utility. She wove divine vision into material reality—first in her body, then out in the world.
This whole thing has the song “Mary, Did You Know?” on my mind. Not in a good way.
Of course Mary freaking knew! Mary was the first to know, the first to believe, the first to offer a vision for “bringing the powerful down from their thrones and lifting up the lowly.” As a friend of mine mused recently, “Mary, Did You Know?” is the original mansplaining. It is mansplaining set to song.
If you need a song or eighteen to replace “Mary, Did You Know?” in your rotation, I humbly offer my favorite holiday album of all time. This album and I have been going strong for twenty years. Track four played a role in my earliest trysts with John.
Thank you so much for reading. I am excited to hear what you think about today’s vision of Advent. Till next time, take care out there.
The audio version of WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is available on Spotify, Apple, Substack, or wherever you listen to podcasts. The last episode offered an answer to the climate emergency—in the form of time travel!
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