There is something about the joyful festivities of the season that create a stark back drop to our suffering. Whether it’s the flu that causes us to miss out or the ache we feel at the sight of a love one’s empty seat, the joy of Christmas has a magnifying effect on our grief. The reality is we feel suffering more acutely in the Advent season.

And, maybe we should.

This year I’ve been following the liturgical calendar as I prepare for Advent. And, the traditional passages of Scripture the global Church has chosen for centuries to mark this season (especially the first two weeks of Advent) have surprised me a bit. They are not jubilant, but solemn, even a bit dark.

Traditional Advent, it turns out, is not entirely about build-up. Not in the sense I’ve always thought. See, I thought Advent was intended to ramp up our excitement for the 25th; to reflect on the story of Mary and Joseph and reread the prophecies in the Old Testament that point to Christ.

Yes, the term “advent” means anticipation. But I’m learning the anticipation our church fathers had in mind was much closer to the carnal groans of creation mentioned in Romans 8. Advent, is more of a longing anticipation for Christ’s (second) return, rather than a glittered-up countdown to a birthday party. 

In the earliest traditions, I’m learning, Advent was more like Lent. It was a somber season, a time of intentional (yet uncomfortable) waiting and watching like the parable of the doorkeeper in Mark 13. He waited in a state of expectant, liminality for the master to return. How long did he wait? Was he frustrated? Was he weary? The state of “limbo” is uncomfortable for all of us, but this is exactly where the Church is oriented today. Hopefully longing. Watching the door. And, if we are honest, it’s a bit of an uncomfortable spot to be.

Yes, the hope of Christmas should involve celebration and rejoicing. Christ put on the tender flesh of an infant to save us, to pave the way for eternal Hope. Praise God! But the uncomfortable part of Advent is that it also brings us face-to-face with the “not-yet” of our faith. Because, the brokenness of this world, ugly and painful as it is, has not fully been mended yet. Tinsel and lights cannot cover up the homeless camped under 75 on this cold day. Gifts can’t heal the cancer reading havoc on the tiny, innocent bodies curled up in beds at Children’s hospital today. Even the most fabulous holiday parties cannot mend the martial tensions or painful family conflict we experience.

This world is broken. Things are not as they should be.

In a sense, Advent is supposed to orient us toward the darkness. It’s a chance to sit in the not-yet and anticipate the future return of Christ. I think we lose something if we gloss over our pain at Christmas time. Advent is a season to confront the void Christ came to fill. Let’s not polish the chasm. Doing so discounts His great victory. It mutes the joy we find in Christ alone.

The British chaplain, Frederick Landbridge, once wrote,

“Two men look out the same prison bars;

One sees mud and the other stars.”

As Christians, we are people who look past the dirt and the darkness to the Star of David—that blinding light that announced the Savior of the world. We celebrate and give glory to a Savior whose compassion and love for His people drove Him to enter into darkness with us. Emmanuel, God with us, stood in the same dim prison we stand today—this world with all its nauseating mix of joy and suffering, corruption and virtue—and, promised us a way out. This is good news!

Joy for the Christian is not based on our circumstances, it’s rooted in an eternal hope in Christ. In His parables, Jesus reminds us to expect His return and ultimate victory over darkness. This is our hope and were our joy takes root. But, just like the doorkeeper, we do not know when that time will come. The presence of joy does not mean grief and suffering are absent.

Still the question remains: What do we do with grief during the holidays?

Maybe we simply chose not to look away. What if instead of distracting ourselves with shopping and decorating and parties, we allowed ourselves to pause long enough to really see the brokenness of this world? What if we considered where God might be asking us to enter in? What if we simply sat with our loved ones who are feeling the pain of loss this season? And, maybe this time, we don’t offer platitudes.

See the incredible thing about the Christian faith is that we believe God is still with us. As we wait for Jesus to return, whether we feel unbridled joy this Christmas season or deep grief, the Holy Spirit indwells in each of us. Christ’s light shines through us into a dark world. And, when we are walking through darkness or suffering, Romans 8:26 says it is the literal Spirit of God who helps us in our weakness. “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.”

Sometimes the “anticipation” we feel during the Advent season looks less like carols singing and more like silent tears offered up to a holy God. The good news of Christmas is that we can be sure that we cry out to a God who sees us— a God who is with us both with us as we look through the prison bars and coming for us one day soon.

Today, it might feel like night for some of us who are grieving, but the stars are (still) brightly shining. And even the weariest souls can rejoice in that.