sad advent

To hear Brandi read the essay instead, click here: https://youtu.be/Q5BEUsZkrJg

This year’s hard has felt like a continuation of last year’s awful, so I decided I needed Christmas music early. I listen to NPR pretty much anytime I drive or cook, but during Advent, from Thanksgiving to January, I replace the news with Christmas tunes. It is a lovely thing to spend a 12th of the year revisiting songs that hold keys to the memories of my life. This year, instead of waiting for Turkeys to make my annual switch, I started November 4th.

It occurs, to me, as I write that date, that early November holds significance to my family. The week of November 4th marks the day we gathered at a court house for a Judge to tell us we were officially and legally, now and forever, the family of Stella. We began adopting her before she was born, as her mom chose to become part of our family forever too. She talks about knowing we were the ones: That we would raise Stella with big brothers and a good dose of chaos, all rooted in long-gathering love. She sensed in us that we would stay that course as long as we had breath, and she wanted that kind of loud, fun, head shaking love for her little girl.

I think maybe the first week of November should always kick off Christmas for me.

Today Stel and I were driving to church and a bluesy jazz piano version of “Silent Night” began to play. The chords were often minor and sustained, and it gave the familiar carol a darker tone. Recognizing the song, she asked, “Why does this Christmas song sound sad? Christmas is supposed to be happy.” I explained to her that Christmas was happy, and—most of all—hopeful, but that the night this song remembers was probably also scary and sad. Dark and cold. Uncomfortable and lonely. But that’s how hope works. It doesn’t show up at the end of the sad, but coexists within it.

“Can I have a twizzler?”

As usual, she found my explanation compellingJ Her interest notwithstanding, I offer us a reminder as we enter Advent: Hope and Lament coexist in the community of God. Advent gives us the chance to feel how heavy the weight of waiting can be. It is sacred weight, grounding us in the divine intention of God to come near when we need rescue. Needing rescue does not mean faith has lost or that despair will win; it simply means we are humans honoring the limits of our everything.

The bluesy music Stella heard today carried this message with no words at all. There is a lesson here as well, and that is to remind us to look to those who have suffered long when we face our own dark nights. Blues music was developed, performed and perfected by African Americans. It is an artifact of their culture—an evolving, shared act of creation that acknowledges the legacy of song-as-balm as it pours forth lament. Blues music reflects the African diaspora, the belonging in home unvisited, the rootedness in a history full of holes. Blues music uses all the keys, black and white, and finds a melody in discordant notes. The blues, in that way, are the perfect vehicle for the songs of Advent.

If you have been taught that faith in Christ looks like joyful, sure hope at every turn, I hope you will allow the voices who hurt—for me often voices of color—to open your eyes to another part of the familiar Gospel story. God comes to our darkest places, sometimes to rescue and pull us out, but often to join us in our poverty. Kings brought Jesus gifts in those early days, but they did not rescue him from his poor, oppressed existence to live comfortably in a palace. God chose to heal humanity with the gift of presence, of shared suffering, of recognizing hope in the midst of despair.

The first week of the Advent season—now, for me, the first week in November—reminds me that knowing God means knowing we belong in a way that expands our capacity to carry the burdens of others. Stella’s belonging to us is the greatest gift of our lives, and we celebrate her with all the hope and grief those who love her must carry. I feel profoundly grateful to have been taught that a faithful life does not require us to only play the happy keys. We are troubled and joyful, forlorn and gathered close. Advent is an invitation to explore all of it, to end this year aware of God’s presence in the dark and in the light.

Before Sunday I will add readings below this essay if you like to practice a daily rhythm of pausing with our Maker. I hope you find time to pause, to wait, to reflect and to wonder with the One who chose poverty, the Light who knew the dark. Merry Christmas.