Advent Pt. 1: When You're Not Going to Church
Sunday December 1, 2019
The people who walk in darkness will see a great light. For those living in a land of deep darkness a light will shine.” - Isaiah 9:2
I spent my afternoon walking around the neighborhood trying to find an Advent calendar — you know, the cheap cardboard kind with not-so-great chocolate inside of them? Trader Joe’s was out. Target didn’t have any. Neither did Walmart, TJ Maxx, or Bed Bath & Beyond.
Up until yesterday, I was intent on skipping Advent altogether. I hadn’t really thought about it until last Sunday, November 24, when Sarah Bessey sent her email subscribers a message about Advent and how to celebrate when it feels like the world is on fire.
“Oh yeah,” I thought, “Advent! I kinda forgot about it this year.”
Two days later she sent another one — an invitation to her paid subscribers to join her in a weekly Advent meditation.
“Okay,” I thought again. “You can stop sending me Advent emails. I don’t want to celebrate.”
Normally, I’m all about Advent. I love the way the weeks-long practice draws me into the birth of Jesus and asks me to consider the tension between celebrating all that already is, and the longing for what is yet to come.
Advent is such a strange season, but it’s a season we really need. Humans, especially us Christians it seems, like to sit comfortably in the black and white, in absolute truths and absences of mystery. We like for things to be good or bad, right or wrong, happy or sad, holy or unholy. Rarely do we find ourselves open enough to hold the truth that most things in life are a very uncomfortable bit of both.
Advent is a season of both — of waiting and receiving, of confessing and forgiving, of light in the darkness, of joy right alongside heartache.
Last night, Dan and I came home after a day of Small Business Saturday shopping in Evanston with my parents when the idea of Advent popped back into my head.
Will you leave me alone?!?! I thought. I’m not celebrating Advent this year so get out of my head.
I laid in our bed that night, wondering what the heck was wrong with me. Why didn’t I want to celebrate Advent? I usually love it. And that’s when it hit me — there’s a bitterness inside me that I haven’t been addressing, a hurt that I don’t fully know how to heal, a sadness fear that I have yet had the courage to lay before God.
Dan and I left our church at the end of August, and while it was the absolute right decision, it was still a very hard one. I haven’t written much about it publicly yet, mostly because I want to make sure my emotions are clear enough for me to say what’s true without dishonoring a people and a place that has also brought so much good into our lives.
But for the purposes of this blog, I will say this: The circumstances surrounding our decision to leave have been both confusing and frustrating. They’ve left me with a lot of questions that just aren’t easy to answer —Why did things turn out this way? What was the purpose of enduring all that? How can I trust myself to set boundaries and make decisions when for two years, I ignored what I needed for the sake of an organizational vision? How do I know this won’t happen again? How will I know if a pastor is trustworthy? Why do growth and fame seem like the goals of so many American churches? How is it that good things are still happening at a church that seems to actively ignore the ways it’s hurting so many people?
In the end, I’ve wondered if I’ll always feel this way. If I’ll always be cynical and skeptical and closed off to the idea of investing in a church community again. I’m worried that I’ll end up feeling used again, that what I have to contribute will be seen as the most valuable thing about me and when I’m tired of overly contributing, I wont matter anymore. I’m worried about a lot of things, and I’ve held that worry for far too long now.
The role that I have to play in all of this is acknowledging when it’s time to let it all go— to write about it, to pray about it, to bring it before God and ask him to help me grow. What do I have to learn from all of this? What do I take with me, and what do I leave behind? Journey with me, God, the way you journeyed with Mary and Joseph on their way to Bethlehem — a bumpy and somewhat uncomfortable, hours-long donkey ride.
During Advent, we long, and in longing, we hope. In our hope, we wait, and in our wait we pray,
We look to Jesus and we forgive. We breathe in grace for ourselves and exhale grace for others. We seek to sit in the light while also being the light. During Advent, we embrace the discomfort of the both.