Advent III: “the evening is advancing, and darker night is near"
a hymn for the weary
It’s officially mid-December, the point at which the impending days of intense people time, the potential for conflict and noise, the undone to-do list, the presents squirreled away in closets, and my own dissolving self care routines, coalesce into me wanting to scream at the cognitive dissonance of it all.
Merry Christmas.
Ironically, this collision of my external and internal worlds is most likely to happen in this third week of Advent, the one in which we’re given the imperative, “Gaudete” - rejoice!
It’s not that I don’t want to rejoice, but that the sheer force of all the things, combined with story after story of people who are struggling or suffering, makes it feel impossible to slap a bow on it and cover it with tinsel. I’m an idealist through and through, but I also want things to be true. And “Christmas cheer” doesn’t feel true when the world is in shambles. When grocery prices keep going up, and I opened our energy bill to the tune of a 40% increase I don’t feel “merry and bright”. I feel stressed and pinched, my jaw aches from clenching it, and my children’s Christmas joy is grating on my last nerve, which makes me feel guilty. I know people are carrying heavy things, and if I’m honest with myself, I drag quite a few of my own burdens into Advent with me, whether I admit them to myself or not.
And yet. “Gaudete”.
It’s not a suggestion, but a command. But how?
One of my favorite Advent hymns, written by Laurentius Laurenti, is “Rejoice, Rejoice Believers”. The tune I’m familiar with is a little obscure, but it’s been running through my head this week:
Rejoice, rejoice, believers,
And let your lights appear;
The evening is advancing,
And darker night is near.
The Bridegroom is arising
And soon is drawing nigh.
Up, pray and watch and wrestle;
At midnight comes the cry.
As our pastor talked about a few weeks ago, Advent exists in the three comings - He came, He is coming and He will come. We live in the already and the not yet, our hope and longing reminding us that though “the evening is advancing” we are to wrestle to rejoice, even as we wait.
The watchers on the mountain
Proclaim the Bridegroom near;
Go forth as He approaches
With alleluias clear.
The marriage feast is waiting;
The gates wide open stand.
Arise, O heirs of glory;
The Bridegroom is at hand.
The saints, who here in patience
Their cross and suff'rings bore,
Shall live and reign forever
When sorrow is no more.
Around the throne of glory
The Lamb they shall behold;
In triumph cast before Him
Their diadems of gold.
This promise that “sorrow is no more” is what we cling to. I think of the image of Mary comforting Eve, knowing that somehow, in her body, she holds the one who comes for the redemption of the world and will defeat sin and sorrow.
Our hope and expectation,
O Jesus, now appear;
Arise, O Sun so longed for,
O'er this benighted sphere.
With hearts and hands uplifted,
We plead, O Lord, to see
The day of earth's redemption
That sets Your people free!
Imagine it. “The day of earth’s redemption, that sets Your people free!” What will that even be like?
For now, we wait.
With hearts and hands lifted, we place our hope and expectation on the Christ, knowing that in him all things hold together, even when they are falling apart.
I don’t have neat, tidy words to wrap this up. The tension of life is a lot. If you’re weary and worn, I’m there too. I read a quote a few days ago that said, “the opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality” and it made me think that perhaps it is not our happiness that God needs, but our wholeheartedness. In our weariness, in our lament, in our joy, in our pain, we are able to rejoice, not because we’ve covered ourselves in holiday glitter, but because we have hope. Our joy is not mere holiday spirit, but deep abiding joy, because “though [we] have sorrow now, we will see [him] again, [our] hearts will rejoice, and no one will take [our] joy from [us]” (John 16:22).
I have no links to share this week, and if this felt unedited it’s because it was written before I fell into bed. But if this spoke to you, or blessed you in any way, I hope you’ll pass it along to a friend or someone who might be encouraged by it. It means so much to us writers when you share our words.