I’ve been kind of numb this week, walking around in a fog. While I want to be immersed in the season of Advent, preparing for Christmas, my mind won’t let go of the names of Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner, and John Crawford. I suppose it’s appropriate, given that all of the scriptures that lead up to Christmas are calls for justice and liberation, but I’ll be honest: I’m tired. I feel small, and helpless, and that my voice is barely a drop in the ocean, and that my prayers often go unheard.
Yet Advent is about holding on to the last shred of hope, believing that a tiny light will shine in the darkest night in the darkest part of the year. I think part of faith, faith-in-the-midst-of-doubt, is the intuition that even after our faith is gone, God can still work—that God doesn’t wait on us to believe to act in tangible ways in human history. Christmas is the sign that hope can be born in the midst of our cynicism, our despairing resignation to business and life as usual, where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer and nothing ever changes. Our scripture and tradition says that change is already happening—and we can be part of it. In the fog and numbness and darkness, this is the hope I cling to. It is not sentimentality. It is desperation. And it is the raw material out of which God works best.
O come, O come, Emmanuel.