This past Sunday the church around the world did a strange thing. It began a new year in the Liturgical Calendar and entered, once again, into the season of Advent. This is strange for, at least, two reasons.
First, it is strange because of where we begin. The Church Calendar is not merely a calendar; it is an avenue of discipleship, a way of inhabiting time that—if we let it—can draw us deeper into God’s life and form us in Christlikeness. Each year we journey through the story of Jesus: his coming, his ministry, his suffering, his death, his resurrection, the sending of the Spirit, and more.
And yet, the strange thing is the Church year begins at the end. The very first words we hear in Advent are not “Unto us a child is born,” but, “Wake up.” “Keep watch.” Before we meet the Christ child in the manger, we encounter the returning Christ in glory. Before we hear about peace on earth, we hear of God’s final judgment. Advent, which means “arrival” or “coming,” is about learning to wait on the living God.
As many have said, “Advent trains us to observe God’s coming to us in history, mystery, and majesty.”
In history, God has come to us in Jesus Christ, born to Mary, living, dying, and rising to new life, ascending into heaven, and reigning, even now; In mystery, Christ still comes to us now in the bread and the wine, wherever two or more are gathered together in his name, whenever we share a cup of water with someone who thirsts, clothe the naked, visit the imprisoned, we encounter God’s mysterious presence. And of course, as Advent will not let us shy away from, in majesty, as Christ will one day return to right all wrongs, to make all things new.
We begin at the end.
But second, it is strange because of how we begin. We begin not by picking up the pace but by slowing down. And if we are honest, this invitation of Advent is the opposite of what we expect in December. December is when we are accustomed to the Christmas lights, it is when we receive Christmas cards in the mail where everyone’s life looks bright and beautiful, and it is when we hear that relentless siren song of advertisements promising that the joy we so desperately crave is just one click or purchase or product away. So much of this season in our contemporary world is marked by lights, noise, and a fast pace.
And yet, Advent meets us like a speed bump right at the outset of the journey, forcing us to slow down. Rather than rushing from one frenetic season to the next, the church’s life is marked by rhythms of preparation and celebration: Lent then Easter; Advent then Christmas. And mysteriously, this rhythm is not something that is intended to deny our experience of joy, but instead, to deepen our capacity for it. In slowing down, we give joy and hope the time they need to sink their roots down into the darkest of places.
Toward that end, the lectionary readings from the first Sunday of Advent invite us to consider the what, why and how of Advent.
What is Advent? Advent is a wake-up call. For most of us, the first sound we hear each day takes the form of an alarm clock. For some of us that sound takes the form of a young child or infant, for some it is our default or favorite tone on our phone. In many ways, Advent is like a startling alarm clock in the midst of our ordinary rhythms and routines.
In Matthew 24, Jesus likens his return to the days of Noah—in the midst of ordinary life unfolding. People were eating, drinking, marrying, working, and going through the motions. The people in this allusion were not doing anything especially sinful or dramatic. They were simply… going through the motions of life. And yet, they were profoundly unready. They were spiritually asleep, distracted, and numb in the midst of the routines of life.
And is that not us at times?
And if we are honest, we know that becoming spiritually asleep does not often begin by consciously choosing darkness. Rather, it’s more often a slow drift:
We become absorbed by routines and task lists.
We grow numb through smart phones and entertainment.
We are dulled by busyness.
We escape through fantasies of what life “could be” with a different house, with a different job, with a different person.
We go through a thousand motions without a moment of true attentiveness.
We settle into patterns that form us more into what Eugene Peterson referred to as “functional atheists”, people whose lives have no reference or openness to God’s presence or activity.
Paul says it plainly in Romans: “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.” Why? Because salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. Because the night is far gone, and the day is drawing near.
And so Advent confronts each of us with questions:
Are we awake to God’s presence in our daily life?
Are we aware of how we are actually doing and feeling?
Are we awake to the needs of our neighbors, the vulnerable among us?
Are we attentive to the habits that are shaping our desires and our affections?
Are we living as though Christ really will return?
The Christian year begins with the reminder that discipleship has less to do with dramatic heroics and more to do with spiritual attentiveness. According to the market today, our attention is the most valuable resource we have. And so it is no surprise that Advent begins with a ringing alarm: Wake up, beloved.
But why Advent? Stated simply, the Lord is near and time, history itself, is headed somewhere. Jesus speaks of his return with intensity. There is both mystery—“no one knows the day or the hour”—and there is certainty—“the Son of Man is coming.”
And the promise of his return has, at least, three essential aspects:
First, his return means judgment. This is a word we may be tempted to shy away from. But Jesus will not allow us to forget that his coming brings division, like the separation of sheep from goats, wheat from chaff, light from darkness.
Throughout Scripture, judgment is sobering news, but it is also good news. It means that God takes the world’s wounds seriously. It means that evil and death will not have the last word. It means that what is hidden will ultimately be brought to light. And prophetic talk of judgment is always a wake-up call: our choices matter. Our lives matter. All will be revealed in the blazing clarity of Christ’s return.
Second, his return means renewal. As one of my seminary professors, C. John “Jack” Collins, often said, “The judgment of God is never the end of the story.” It is the beginning of renewal. Jesus comes not simply to expose what is wrong but to make all things new. As Isaiah 2 reminds us, his judgments make for international peace. He comes to heal the nations and to wipe away tears.
So, when we speak of Christ’s return, we are not speaking of abstractions or ethereal realities. We are speaking about something that touches the depths of each of our lives and addresses everything we see in the news. When we speak of Christ’s return, we speak of the end of war and genocide. We speak of the end of hunger. We speak of the end of exploitation. We speak of the end of hatred and despair. We speak of the death of death. We speak of a day when we, with all of creation, can finally exhale.
Third, his return means the revelation of righteousness. In Scripture, righteousness is not merely “moral correctness;” it is the revelation of God’s character and commitment to set the world right. So, Advent reminds us that the world is not drifting toward chaos. Rather, it is being drawn toward Christ. History is not a random collision of events. As Catholic theologian Karl Rahner writes, “The drama of world history is already decided… in Christ, God has planted his eternal future in the midst of the present, and it grows even now.”
And thus, Paul says: “The night is far gone; the day is near. Put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light!”
So, how do we approach Advent? If the alarm clock is ringing, if the new day is dawning, if Christ is near, then how should we live? What might some invitations be for us in this Advent season? Consider a few:
For some, Advent is an invitation to honesty: We might ask, in what ways am I spiritually asleep right now? Where am I numb to God? It could be because of grief, where we don’t feel much of anything and everything feels like a fog. It could be hardheartedness, where we simply do not want to be near God right now. It could be any number of expressions of escapism—where we are looking for something outside the constraints of our real life.
Regardless, beloved, God knows. God can handle—and yes, even invites—your honesty. No matter how dark. As Fleming Rutledge says, “Advent begins in the dark.” That’s where God does his best work.
For some, this is an invitation to hope, that is to say, to “live expectantly.” As Henri Nouwen puts it, “Advent spirituality is not passive waiting. It is active hope.” To live expectantly is to pay attention—to look for glimpses of God’s kingdom breaking into ordinary life. To notice moments of reconciliation, acts of generosity, experiences of conviction and repentance, words of forgiveness, quiet faith, small seeds of justice. Living expectantly means resisting cynicism, and vulnerably yet expectantly, anticipating God’s presence.
And finally, for all, to borrow language from the apostle Paul, Advent is an invitation to cast off the works of darkness and to put on the armor of light. This sounds pretty radical and it may be. What are the works of darkness?
Paul names a few: revelry, drunkenness, sexual immorality, debauchery, quarreling, jealousy, but we know these are examples and not an exhaustive list. The “works of darkness” are both personal and public. They are the lies that cloud our experience of God’s presence, that wrongfully label others, that stoke fear, that empower oppression, and that hinder God’s righteous and just purposes. Where is the Spirit nudging us, inviting us to see with greater clarity, inviting us to resist?
And, of course, this can only be done as we put on the armor of light, which is to say, ‘put on Christ.’ Many believe this refrain in Romans 13 comes from an early baptismal liturgy. At the heart of it, we recognize that we do not awaken ourselves. What we most need is not to conjure something up from within ourselves but to receive something given to us.
Receive and put on Christ. Be clothed in mercy, humility, justice, compassion, self-giving love—all of which are yours in Christ Jesus. For the armor of light is not something you achieve; rather, it is Christ’s life—and light—shining through the cracks of our humanity.
And so, this Advent, we are invited to “begin again”, but we do so, already at the end. Something that many of my friends know is that when my wife and I get into a new mystery or suspense thriller show she will often, sneakily, peek ahead to catch a glimpse of the ending. It helps her not get too anxious, to keep the cortisol levels low, and to receive what comes expectantly. I have gradually grown to cherish this about her, and, over time, I’ve come to see that Advent—that is, the Christian year—begins at the end for a similar reason. We begin the year remembering that the final page of history is already written. As we say each week: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.
And because we know the ending, the invitation to “wake up” can be heard not as a threat, but as truly good news. Because we know the ending, we can live in what Eugene Peterson calls “the messy middle” of our ordinary, complicated, beautiful lives with faith, hope and love.
So, hear the alarm clock of Advent ringing today: The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber, beloved, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed.