02 / Advent on the Island
The sun sank into the other side of the bay as I walked along the ocean where the waves wash up on the rocks. The sky was a dark, deep blue with a band of pink where the sun’s rays were still in the atmosphere. It was the end of day on one of the shortest days of the year, and in the purple-blue darkness of the sky, the first stars began to emerge.
In the Christian calendar, the season of Advent marks the new year, and the color of the season is purple. You can see this in the purple candles of the Advent wreath, and in the evening sky. There is a paradox in darkness that Advent reminds us with its color. The deep blues and violets are literally at the edge of the visible spectrum for human sight. These colors and the darkness near them remind us that what we normally see is not all that is. What we often pay attention to is not necessarily what ultimately is real or matters most. It is in darkness that we begin to see the stars that have been there all along.
It is both funny and sad to me how the commercial world of “Christmas” - with all its bright lights announcing that the season is urgently upon us - completely misses the dark, quiet reminders of Advent. No television commercials blare out, “Happy Advent!” As the days get shorter and the “holiday season” gets more frenetic with its pressure to buy more stuff for the people we love, I find that these quiet walks by the ocean become more important. It is there where I can cherish the purple darkness that invites me to the edge of things, in a way that stretches my capacity to see and hear what I often overlook or ignore. It’s a good place to pray and be still with God.
The Gospel stories of Advent call us listen, and consider, and see what we otherwise may not notice. In this holy season, we are reminded of the voices of prophets, and angels. The prophets called out to their people to see the truth that the world was ignoring, and even to repent of their way of living that was not the way of life. The prophets of old were not much liked in their own times. They were seen as too much on the edge of things. But the light of their witness in the darkness of their own times was revealed in the course of history to be true.
In this season of holy darkness, let us pause for a moment to consider the truth that can be revealed at the edge of things. Let us consider the lights we don’t usually see (or want to see). Let us hearken to voices crying the wilderness that we don’t hear (or want to hear). Just for a moment, let us try this.
The holy stories that stretch our imaginations and hearts are worthy of pausing in humble reverence before. In them, prophets cry in the wilderness for a society that seems to be crumbling around itself and dividing within itself. In them, a young woman is visited by an angel who tells her that she is pregnant with a special child – and not by her husband. She holds this message in her young heart, not knowing what it all means. And this is how the Holy One of God will come into the world, such a surprising and uncertain way to enter this world!
Sometimes I wonder how many times I have just stood still and listened to these stories, letting their details wash over me like these waves on the rocks. But as these little waves come in tonight at the edge of the land and the edge of the ocean, I wonder if the waves of this story are calling us to go someplace new in our lives that we can’t yet see. It’s kind of exciting and it’s kind of scary. And it’s not lost on me right now how daylight makes me me blind to the stars that only darkness can reveal. In some ways, it makes no sense. But there it is, obviously true.
It is in darkness, after all, that the stars are revealed. It gets darker and darker and darker, and then comes the dawn. It is after the loneliest silence that the angels’ voices can be heard. And when we can be still enough to hear the angels, we can understand the truth in their message: “Alleluia. Do not be afraid. You are not alone.”
Advent blessings to you, wherever you are.
