As we move through the season of , a time of anticipating and hoping for the promise of the Messiah while fully recognizing the reality of our broken world, we are continuing with our second annual Advent series鈥攁 collection of reflections here on the Intersections blog and content delivered exclusively through emails every Sunday. If you鈥檙e not receiving the email series yet, it鈥檚 not too late to sign up for the final two weeks and the Christmas Eve edition. Here, Matthias Roberts, a second-year and student, writes about the resilient hope that nags at him despite frustration and disappointment.
Last week, I was laying on my couch looking at God. At least, I was looking into the air where I assumed God was sitting, skeptically asking aloud, 鈥淲hat help have you been these past few days?鈥�
My prayers, my journaling, my yelling in the bathtub with a glass (or four) of wine, had gone unanswered and I wasn鈥檛 very happy about it. My tears had turned into contempt and I wanted an answer.
It didn鈥檛 take long for other voices to come rushing in, a damage control team, 鈥淲hoa whoa whoa, wait a second, you鈥檙e talking to the creator of the universe there, mister! Let鈥檚 be a little more respectful.鈥�
Really?
I shot a few choice words back at them with an even dirtier look than the one I was shooting at God. Then I turned to watch the smoke rise from the stick of incense I lit a few minutes earlier, pouting.
Hope is not something I鈥檓 particularly into these past weeks. It feels dangerous and yucky. After a summer of leaning into hope and an autumn of having those hopes plucked off one by one, I want nothing to do with it. I鈥檇 rather stay wrapped in a blanket on my couch sighing loudly while listening to Adele and watching the rain fall.
However, hope doesn鈥檛 want to leave. Despite my best attempts to scare it away, I鈥檓 left wondering if maybe I should stop taking Vitamin D because it鈥檚 making me too cheery. Why will it not leave me alone? What is it about hope that makes it sticky? I鈥檒l be lost in my clouds and all of a sudden a little burst of wind will whisper 鈥淲hat if?鈥�
Ugh.
What is it about hope that makes it sticky?
Last year around Advent, I wrote about how the mourning of Holy Saturday felt more appropriate than the hope Advent brings. The world feels like it has been ripped apart even more since then. More shootings, more terrorist attacks, more deaths: heartache surrounds us with an impenetrable thickness. To jump to hope feels glib, as if we are whitewashing the pain. I don鈥檛 want to hope. Thus, I鈥檓 even more hesitant to be entering into a season almost solely based upon hope and anticipation. It doesn鈥檛 match my mood. That鈥檚 annoying.
This season is the little voice whispering 鈥淲hat if?鈥� to me while I鈥檓 cursing on my couch. I may try to sleep through it, but it鈥檒l still be Advent nonetheless. With silent persistence, the days will continue inviting us to come see the Good we鈥檝e all been waiting for. We are swept up into it whether we like it or not.
With silent persistence, the days will continue inviting us to come see the Good we鈥檝e been waiting for.
I was walking around downtown Seattle when I spotted the first Christmas lights of the season. They were wrapped around the trees of 4th, softly glimmering off the streets. My breath left my mouth as the mirror-like wetness of Seattle magnified the magic. That small voice whispered, 鈥淲hat if?鈥�
What if, even on these cloudy, rain-filled days, there鈥檚 still light?
There鈥檚 a part of me wishing I would see the Christmas lights as a vain attempt to decorate mostly-dead trees and focus instead on my perpetually wet socks. The world is awful and nothing good seems to be coming out of it. Why even bother?
Why even bother talking to that guy? Or contemplating that relationship? Or working on that book? Or writing that blog post? Why bother hoping for peace and a church that welcomes the least of these? What is the point if it鈥檚 all going to turn out horribly anyway?
These are the questions I鈥檓 directing at God as I stare at the bit of space where I鈥檓 pretty sure he鈥檚 sitting, smiling coyly, waiting patiently for me to tire of my outburst. When I鈥檓 sufficiently worn out, he gets up, pulls my blanket around my shoulders, puts in a fresh stick of incense, and whispers, 鈥淏ut, my dear child, what if?鈥�
I like to imagine the magi, the astrologers, who spent their time looking up at the glimmering lights in the sky. The ones who noticed the bright new star and decided to follow it, not knowing what they would find. A daunting journey all based on the question 鈥淲hat if?鈥� and the hope something Good was waiting for them. I鈥檓 sure the little light in the sky was covered at times by clouds and rain and wind and sand and despair. Yet, the little voice remained, whispering softly, annoyingly. 鈥淲hat if?鈥�
That voice remains today too, in the wind, and in this season.
What if the Good we are hoping for is almost here?