O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
When I let myself think about it—and now that I’m sitting here having to do that—I’m realizing something about myself that I try to avoid: Advent is a strange time for me.
There. I said it. Advent is not awesome. It’s complicated.
Perhaps during this season more than any other time of the year, I experience this conflict inside me: trying to only feel the joyful feelings, and trying not to feel the sad ones. It’s a little fight throughout the month of December, and there’s never really a winner by the end of it. I mean, I’m always rooting for the positive happy feelings, pushing them to overpower the negative ones. Sometimes I’ll even manufacture some of the happy attitude to give it more of a chance. And yes, joy is the frontrunner on several occasions and on Christmas Day. But neither really comes out on top. Overall, it’s pretty anti-climactic.
For about four weeks, I immerse myself in everything that should give joy the upper hand: fun Christmas music, favorite Christmas movies, baking cookies, preparing presents. I rehash stories and memories with my family that make me feel connected to them. I read some of the Old Testament prophecies and the first chapter or two of the gospels. And I think a lot about Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus.
Here’s the thing, though—and this is just one example of when joy loses a little bit of its footing during Advent: when I think of Jesus as a baby, I jump straight to the idea of a quiet baby at peace. Nurses easily. Sleeps easily. But if he came to earth as a human and lived a human life and felt human feelings... that baby probably cried. Hard.
Perhaps when Jesus came into the world, he felt what all babies feel and cried at the harshness of it. Maybe he felt the pang of hunger and the frustration of being unbearably tired, and he screamed. And during those hours leading up to his arrival, how did those around him feel? What was that first Advent like for everyone else? Were people already joyfully celebrating the coming of Jesus, or was Mary crying and groaning in anguish at the pains of labor? Was Joseph stressed or scared at the chaos and lack of control over what was happening to his Mary? Was the innkeeper anxious about what was happening nearby? Or was it out of sight, out of mind?
Those are the feelings and responses I’m often trying to suppress, especially during Advent. It does not feel good to let in the harshness of our broken world. It feels terrible and scary to acknowledge the lack of satisfaction or control that I have. It feels impossible to consider the idea of thriving when there are so many days that feel like just surviving. So every year when Advent comes, I put pressure on it to give me a pass and relieve me of all that. I try to avoid all the sorrow and suffering and skip straight to only the joy of Jesus. I don’t want Advent in December. I only want Christmas for a whole month.
That’s not really how Advent works though, is it? I don’t think that’s how we can wait for Jesus. If we’re looking forward to healing, wouldn’t it be unusual to ignore the fact that there’s something broken in the first place? If we’re looking forward to freedom, can we really not see the ways that we’re bound? If we’re anticipating infinite joy, shouldn’t it be natural to acknowledge the implication that there is some amount of sadness? Even the grown Son of Man who had Isaiah 35:10in his heart still had to respond to the ache of wait (Matthew 9:36; Luke 19:41; John 11:33-35).
Right now, we’re in labor before the arrival of Jesus, and it hurts. We’re hearing the groans of our loved ones and are scared that we can’t do anything to fix it. We know that our neighbors are working and suffering in ways that we are unfamiliar with ourselves. The pain is in us and all around us. We can try to ignore it, or we can acknowledge it and groan through it together.
“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” draws out the ache that my bones have become accustomed to and that my brain has been trained to deny. Even the minor keys of “rejoice” in Sufjan Stevens's version commiserate with my weariness. So perhaps this song, and other reminders like it, can be a safe and inviting space for me to practice sitting in both the joys and the suffering of Advent.
There are gloomy clouds of night. O come, Emmanuel. Cheer our spirits.
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
Original translation by John Mason Neale. Adaptation by Sufjan Stevens..
O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai's height,
In ancient times did'st give the Law,
In cloud, and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!