One of my least favorite December rituals is putting up Christmas lights. I loathe having to untangle the strands and can never quite summon the patience to put them up as beautifully as many of our neighbors. Needless to say, our house will never win any Christmas light competition. At the same time, I love the beauty of a well-adorned house, glowing with light that cuts through the darkness and communicates joy.
But before we get to the light, we must first contend with the darkness.
This past Sunday marked the beginning of Advent. Drawn from adventus, a Latin word meaning coming and arrival, the season looks forward to the impending birth of Jesus: Emmanuel, God with us. Yet Advent begins in darkness, awaiting the arrival of a light that is coming but not yet here. Amid the jingles of Christmas insisting that this is a season in which we are “merry and bright,” I’ve always found Advent to be countercultural: We do not try to hide the darkness that surrounds us but stubbornly insist that this darkness is not the end, but a new beginning. This is why many Christians observe Advent by lighting a new candle each week on a wreath, a reminder that God’s light is growing in a dark world.
Advent feels particularly powerful in years like this one, when it feels hard to see God’s light breaking through. I think of masked Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers aggressively, and in many cases unlawfully, detaining both migrants and citizens; the Justice Department targeting the president’s perceived enemies; the unnecessary hardship caused by the government shutdown; and the preventable suffering that will be caused when millions of Americans can no longer afford or qualify for health care coverage due to congressional inaction.
As the days get shorter and nights get longer, I’ve grown weary by the constant lies, the gaslighting, the capitulation, the vitriol, and the dehumanization in our politics, even as I know my weariness was the goal of the “flood the zone” strategy the current administration has employed. I’m weary of seeing the gospel twisted and contorted to sanctify fear and even hatred toward those deemed “the other.” The good news is that Advent can provide a needed balm to our weary souls, particularly during darker days.
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Jesus’ birth took place amid this kind of darkness, too. The Jews suffered under the brutality of Roman occupation, hunger, and humiliation; the cross, Rome’s punishment for criminals and sedition, especially non-citizens, was an especially stark example of this brutality. A maniacal king ordered the murder of every child under the age of 2 fearing a new king who would bring a revolution. And yet, even under Roman occupation, a star shone brightly, directing the shepherds and the wise men to the baby Jesus, a savior born in the filth of a barn, upending expectations of what a messiah should be.
Amid this darkness, Advent isn’t passive waiting—merely counting down the days to Jesus’ birth. Instead, Advent is about active expectation: staring at all that’s broken around us and reflecting on how we are called to join God in interrupting the darkness. If we take Jesus’ birth seriously, a new way of living is at hand and we get to participate in it, bringing God’s reign of justice, peace, and love into a hurting world. The stories leading up to Jesus’ birth—stretching from the prophets, John the Baptist, to Mary—are full of hopeful expectation that led to courageous action in preparation for the messiah.
In the past year, I’ve seen some Christians respond to the growing darkness surrounding us with a more passive form of waiting—a sense that we can “wait out” our political crisis until it all blows over. In practice, this can look like a reticence to name the authoritarian threat we face or an unwillingness speak out against the many red lines the Trump administration has already crossed—such as dismantling federal agencies like the U.S. Agency for International Development without congressional approval, abusing emergency powers by deploying national guard troops in major U.S. cities, and most recently committing war crimes off the coast of Venezuela by blowing up the boats of alleged drug smugglers.
As much as I’m committed to lowering the temperature in our politics, I don’t think depolarization alone can end our current crisis. In different ways we must find ways to engage with greater moral courage in nonviolent resistance, all while casting an alternative, hopeful vision. Downplaying or ignoring the authoritarian danger we face or succumbing to a sense of resignation or fatalism abdicates our own power and responsibility to affect change. It can also ignore and understate the dire harm that is being done to communities we are called by scripture to protect, including immigrants, people living in poverty, and more.
For us, Advent is a season of living between the already and the not yet—even though we know what happens: Out of an abundance of love, God became proximate in the most human way possible. Jesus’ birth ushers in God’s reign and demonstrates God’s grace and unconditional love. But even as we prepare to celebrate Christ’s birth, we still grapple with a “not yet.” We feel it as we long for economic security, a reversal to our climate crisis, and a system of governance that isn’t beholden to wealth and power. We feel it in our loneliness, our desire for reconciliation in our relationships, and in a world torn apart by so much violence. In our longing, we are not pining for a nostalgic past but instead eagerly looking forward to a day when Christ will make all things new.
Even in our most hopeless moments, Advent reminds us that Christ is the light of the world, and the darkness cannot overcome him (John 1:5). With all the consumer and social pressures of Christmas, Advent invites us to slow down and to center ourselves in this promise: Yes, many people in our nation are embracing authoritarian leadership, scapegoating immigrants, and ignoring our climate crisis, but Advent reminds us that darkness is never impenetrable; injustice never has the last word.
So if Christmas feels unsettling this year, perhaps it’s because the darkness of Advent is indeed more intense. But instead of passively waiting, let us lean into hopeful expectation that God is drawing near, ushering in a reign of peace, justice, and love that is always breaking through the darkness. Let us remember that Advent isn’t about fixing what was but instead joining in God’s work to build something new. As we await and celebrate Jesus’ birth, God can do a new thing in us, as we commit to replace the darkness we see with more light.
Yes, many people in our nation are embracing authoritarian leadership, scapegoating immigrants, and ignoring our climate crisis, but Advent reminds us that darkness is never impenetrable; injustice never has the last word.
Rev. Adam Russell Taylor is president of Sojourners and author of A More Perfect Union: A New Vision for Building the Beloved Community. Follow him on Bluesky @revadamtaylor.
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