The Subversive Hope of Advent

[On December 4, we’ll be hosting here at the Abbey an Advent retreat. Details and how to register can be found here.]

In the season of Advent, we remember the story of God who infiltrated space and time, who moved into our neighborhood, to rescue us from a world soaked in sin and death. In Advent, we remember God has promised that he is coming to do it again. And so, in some Christian traditions, we celebrate by lighting a series of five candles, celebrating four themes of hope, faith, joy, and peace. These are no mere sentimental, nostalgic themes. These are fighting words we bring to the darkness of the world. These are foundational pillars upon which we can stand. In the first week of Advent, we tune our hearts to a subversive hope.

In his work The Contemplative Pastor, Eugene Peterson chooses three adjectives to redefine the identity of pastors (and I would argue all Christians). One of them is the word "subversive." He writes, "I am undermining the kingdom of self and establishing the kingdom of God. I am being subversive." It is a subversive hope that we root ourselves in during Advent, a hope that upends and sabotages the works of the darkness. As John writes, "The Son of God came to destroy the works of the devil."

The season of Advent plays an important role in the story of God's mission in the world. God is actively at work, putting the world back together again, making all things new. In Advent, we find ourselves caught in the already-but-not-yet tension of God's kingdom. This first week, we light the first flame flickering in the darkness, the flame of subversive hope.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not understood it.

Hope in the darkness at Creation

The pages of Scripture open, not with nothingness, but with chaos and anarchy. "The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters," it says. Formless. Empty. Darkness. Each one of these words describes the opposite of "hope." They are words that resonate so much with the times today. Corruption. Abuse. Cancer. Racism. Poverty. Depression. My first-grade son is learning all about synonyms, and "formless" and "empty" and "darkness" are synonyms with these words that saturate our world today.

But that's just the first half of the verse. The writer of Genesis continues, "And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters." It's in this very hopeless place that God is present, and God's very first words in this story are, "Let there be light!" Hope is present in creation.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not understood it.

Hope in the darkness of Egypt

There's a pattern throughout the story. Creation and Fall are not just two things that happened. They continue to happen every day. They are two plot points we bounce between like a dot on the screen in a game of Pong. God, in his infinite love, initiates. Humanity responds with a defiant, "No!"

And so we find the children of Israel enslaved in Egypt. And the writer tells us, "God heard their groaning, and he remembered his covenant promise to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He looked down on the people of Israel and knew it was time to act." And when God then introduces himself to Moses at the burning bush, God says, "I have certainly seen the oppression of my people in Egypt. I have heard their cries of distress because of their harsh slave drivers. Yes, I am aware of their suffering. So I have come down to rescue them from the power of the Egyptians and lead them out of Egypt into their own fertile and spacious land." There is hope in the darkness of Egypt.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not understood it.

Hope in the darkness of Exile

The pattern continues and Israel now finds itself exiled in the foreign land of Babylon. But like in the formless and empty state of creation, God shockingly shows up. The prophet Ezekiel witnesses a vision of God on the throne, despite all the evidence that God had fallen off the throne. About the children of Abraham, God says "I will make a covenant of peace with them, an everlasting covenant. I will give them their land and increase their numbers, and I will put my Temple among them forever. I will make my home among them. I will be their God, and they will be my people."

Through the prophet Jeremiah, God promises, "I know the plans I have for you. They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope." God is at work forming shalom in the very place of Babylon. There is hope in exile.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not understood it.

Hope in the darkness of Rome

It's been 400 years since any prophet spoke, "Thus says Yahweh!" It's been 400 years since any ancestor of David ruled on the throne. The Pax Romana is an oxymoron of Orwellian proportions, where anyone who says “no” to Caesar finds himself strung up on a cross.

But an angel of the Lord shows up to Zechariah and says, "Don't be afraid." An angel shows up to Joseph, an ancestor of King David, and says, "Don't be afraid." An angel shows up to Mary: "Don't be afraid." An army of angels show up to shepherds: "Don't be afraid." Reasons to be afraid abound throughout the Christmas story.

And Mary responds with one of the fiercest, most politically subversive statements in all of Scripture,

"He has brought down princes from their thrones

and exalted the humble.

He has filled the hungry with good things

and sent the rich away with empty hands."

There is hope in the darkness of the Roman Empire.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not understood it.

Hope in the darkness of right now

In Advent, we hold expectant fistfuls of hope. Hope is no cruel tease. It's not a wish dream. It’s no sentimental church tradition. Hope is grounded in reality, and we enter this story each and every year to remind ourselves of the ultimately real story, that God still today proclaims, "Let there be light!" It's what we proclaim as we light each candle in Advent.

Imagine O Come, O Come, Emmanuel as our fight song during these weeks of Advent. When we sing it, we should do it with a little attitude, a little bite, a little desperation that if Emmanuel does not come, we are utterly lost.

There's a scene in the television show The West Wing (a Christmas episode, appropriately) in which chief-of-staff Leo arranges for a psychiatrist to meet with his deputy-chief-of-staff Josh. After the appointment, the paternal Leo tells this story to Josh:

This guy's walking down a street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep, he can't get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up, "Hey you, can you help me out?" The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along, and the guy shouts up "Father, I'm down in this hole, can you help me out?" The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. "Hey Joe, it's me, can you help me out?" And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, "Are you stupid? Now we're both down here." The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here before, and I know the way out."

This is the hope of the Incarnation. This is the story of Advent. We, humanity, are in a dark hole. But God has been down here before, in the struggle, in the suffering, in the grief, in the loss, and in the disappointment. And God knows the way out.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not understood it.