Advent – Thru the Eyes of Youth

Cassandra Lewis, Guest Writer

ome years Advent feels full of excited expectancy. We know the end result, and with giddy excitement we struggle to sit still in the somber pews. But this year it feels more to me like a season of boredom, of not-yet, of unknown, of no guarantees about the future. I’m living in that uncomfortable space that exists before a promise is fulfilled. Like how the Israelites, when in captivity, faced the decision of how to make sense of God’s promises which were as yet unfulfilled. Or Mary being told she was pregnant…but she’s a virgin…it’s not possible, and it’s going to wreak havoc on her social standing. I’m imagining that space-in-time—those days and weeks and months between the proclaimed promise and its fulfillment.

Right now I’m in my own season of Advent—not the obvious, pre-scheduled weeks of Advent on the calendar, but a longer season marked by uncertainty, waiting, and inaction. These seasons seem to be cyclical, and I find that the various movements of the Christian calendar serve as helpful metaphors for the seasons of our lives. I have experienced seasons of Gethsemane, and then of Resurrection where I find my situation infused with new life.

In my present season of Advent I face:

• Uncertainty about how to align my vocation and my career; feeling a definite call from God, but having doors close on my attempts to follow that call.
• Boredom and dissatisfaction, unrest in my work and daily routines.
• Sadness in the aftermath of a divorce, confusion and fear as to what lies ahead as I try to piece together a new life—a position I never dreamed I would find myself in. 
  
  The challenge of Advent for me this year is to find new faith—faith where there is meaning and purpose during these in-between times, these long, chilly seasons. Trusting not only that there will be a coming of God-in-flesh-in-our-midst, but also that life isn’t empty in the meantime. Like in my garden: the soil appears dark, uninteresting, bereft of life. But a closer examination reveals that it is teeming with life! Microbes and insects and worms and spiders—all those things that make you cringe until you learn that they’re actually beneficial and necessary to bring about what you hope for. This dark, damp, coolness is prerequisite to the fresh, green, new life of spring. The darkness must not be resisted, but submitted to. The waiting period in a garden is far from empty, wasted time; it is actually necessary for building deep, strong roots and furnishing the soil with the nutrients needed to support life.

My lesson of Advent this year: Patience—patience to adapt to the darkness. To not rush too quickly to turn on the lights; rather, to let it envelop me, transform me, create new life in me. What do I need to allow to be awakened, newly-born in the coming season? What areas need to be permitted to die to make room for new, healthier growth? What painful realities exist in my story that I need to address, wounds in my heart to bind?  It is a time for me to pay attention to the unpleasant experiences in my life, rather than hastily force them into happy feelings. Am I being told to scratch the itchy desire for radical change in my present life? Or should I instead learn to be still and weather the inevitable dry seasons? That is the task of discernment. The dark, cold, quiet of Advent invites me to search for God’s voice in my depths, to pay attention.

I pray that when this season of waiting ends, I’ll be better able to recognize the coming of God-in-our-midst, since God has a knack for showing up in obscure and unsophisticated scenes like a feed trough at a manger in Bethlehem. I am eager to discover where God will turn up next.  These are the questions stirring in my heart this Advent season.

Cassandra Lewis is a graduate of Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego. She holds Master’s Degrees in religious

education and social work. She presented this essay in a recent chapel service on campus that featured distinguished alumni.