Gritty, grainy hope makes the rest of Advent possible
By Marv Knox
As 2020 recedes with each darkening day, families the world over might pretend (who could blame them?) their Advent candles represent the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Imagine little Cindy Lou, reading the initial Advent meditation: “Every night this week, we will light the first purple Advent candle, Death. Next week, we will light the second purple candle, Famine, followed by the pink candle, War. And then, the week before Christmas, we will light the final purple candle, Conquest.”
Yes, it’s been that kind of year. Joanna and I have seen a coyote and a bobcat in our suburban neighborhood. And we weren’t surprised. “It’s 2020,” we said. If our neighbor who dresses as Santa and waves to children from a huge sleigh in his yard decides to dress as Satan and mount a Moped, we won’t be surprised. “It’s 2020,” we will say.
But still … at Fellowship Southwest, we continue to call our Advent candles by the labels Christians have affixed across the millennia: Hope, Peace, Joy and Love.
We need Advent, don’t we? This season of anticipation offers time to tune our hearts to the divine frequency that transmits the “true meaning” of Christmas—hope, peace, joy and love, all brought to the world in the birth of Jesus.
So, during these four weeks, we are marking our pilgrimage through Advent with essays on those themes. True confession: I chose last and didn’t really want to write about hope. This year, with all the dispiriting degradation dumped on us by colossal calamities, I haven’t felt hope-full.
But here’s good news: Hope isn’t up to me. It isn’t up to you, either. We don’t have to manufacture hope. In fact, we can’t grit and groan and gin up gumption to hope through the holidays and then shout, “Goodbye!” to this godforsaken year.
Thanks to Christmas, we know Christ is our hope—deposited in the spirit of Jesus, made flesh at Christmas. Hope came to us.
Maybe we don’t see it when we gather our news. Maybe we don’t feel it when we long for our loved ones. Maybe we can’t sense it when our masks make our glasses fog and we stand socially distant from folks we want to hug.
But hope came to Earth for us. Jesus arrived to offer hope. Years later, he explained: “God so loved the whole world that he sent his only child, his only son, so that whoever believes in him will not die, but will have everlasting life.”
Hope still shows up for us. We need not wait for eternity to experience it. Jesus also said the “kingdom of God” already is present. Hope infuses that kingdom. Hope happens every time someone embodies Jesus’ selfless love and risks loss on behalf of others and for the greater good.
Even this year—especially this year—I have seen signs of divine hope. Examples abound:
Medical professionals, who place the value of others’ lives ahead of their own
Teachers, who risk their health to make sure others get an education
Workers who leave the security of their own homes to provide goods and services so others may go about their lives
Ministers who venture far beyond their comfort zones to provide spiritual care to parishioners, almost all of whom wish the ministers would do it differently
Protestors who risk their lives on behalf of justice
Police who risk their lives to secure the safety of the protestors
Refugees on our southern border, who risked their lives to secure a better, safer future for their children
Pastors and aid workers, who risk their health to secure the safety of refugees
Politicians, civil servants and volunteers who risked myriad threats to stand in the gap for democracy
If I were to make my own Advent candles, I’d mix the soft wax of the hope candle with sand, because hope is gritty and grainy; hope makes the other elements of Advent possible.
If not for hope, we might never get around to peace, joy and love.
Marv Knox is coordinator of Fellowship Southwest.