I always feel strangely conflicted at this time of year. On the one hand, we are into the third week of Advent, just having celebrated Gaudete Sunday—which translates to “Rejoice” Sunday from the Latin. We are gearing up for Christmas, one of the most joyful celebrations of the year as we remember Christ’s birth.
On the other hand, we are into (depending on where you are) the depths of another bleak winter. As I write this from England where the days are currently short, cold and dark, please forgive me for straying from the spirit of the happy season which we are about to enter. However, I do think it’s relevant to contemplate not just Christ’s first coming at this time of year, but also his second, the one at the end of time.
I don’t know about you, but when I start thinking about the end of the world, a few things can happen. Ideally, I become productive, thinking about how I would like to prepare spiritually, and what I can do to help the world prepare, too.
Much more easily, however, I fail to make it to that productive spirit, and am piled-on by feelings of dread, foreboding, and a long list of questions that are not easily (nor pleasantly) answered. The end of the world, after all, is not biblically painted as a particularly pleasant time. “There followed hail and fire, mixed with blood, which fell on the earth; and a third of the earth was burnt up, and a third of the trees were burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up,” Revelations 8:7. Not too rosy.
It’s not surprising that contemplating the end times can fill us with such dread. As our dread feeds anxiety and turns to despair, we might begin to lose sight of the Little Baby Jesus who loves us so dearly. Hence one possible place I arrive at when thinking about the last days (yes, even this close to Christmas) is—inward despair. “How can I ever prepare for this?” “What will this look like—a falling sky, a global war, or something unimaginably worse?” “Will it hurt, will it be scary?” It’s very easy to spiral.
Another response some may fall into, when pondering the end, is outward despair. Just look around at much of the world’s media, government and societies at large—it can be hard to see past the obvious sin and brokenness. This may lead us to mourn for Godlier times gone by, and to resent the one we live in. “It’s hopeless,” we tell ourselves, as we check out. Or worse, we slip into becoming modern-day Jonahs, gleefully awaiting God’s wrath to rain down upon those who, however willfully, do not obey Him.
If you are anything like me (and, I believe, many other Christians), you may find yourself flipping between these two states—being overwhelmingly conscious of my own shortcomings, and also aggrieved by the state of the world. I see my bad, I see the world’s bad—and, pretty quickly, my outlook on life is dim. Not exactly what Christ has in mind for us, I’m sure.
There must be another way. I propose: turn that despair into determination. For example, feeling dread over one’s own condition, so long as the train doesn't terminate there, can be a helpful starting point. It can draw us toward stronger devotion to prayer and the sacraments. It can light a fire within us, ignite a zeal for more—more holiness, more effort, more Him.
Likewise, recognising the fallen state of the world and yearning for justice is a good, natural, holy desire. It even acts, as journalist Peter Hitchens has said, as a proof of God’s very existence—that we innately should seek such ultimate justice, the likes of which this world cannot provide. However, we should not resort to Jonah’s mistake, standing outside the city walls, arms crossed, waiting for it to fall. Instead, we should be moved to pity, to action, to a stronger desire to help the world to understand and accept God’s love.
Yes, it’s bad out there. Really, quite bad. But that’s why we are needed. That’s why our faith is so important. It’s a light in the darkness. A city on a hill. A lamp, not to be put under a bushel. It’s a stupendous gift from God, and one that He entrusts to us with a purpose and a mission—to help save others.
A figure I have taken great comfort in reading is the 14th-century English mystic, Julian of Norwich. In her book “The Revelation of Divine Love” she writes about how Christ says that “you yourself shall see that all manner of things shall be well”. Why does God send this reassuring message? Julian answers, “He wants us to be more at ease in soul and more peaceful in love and to stop looking at all the tempests that could keep us from true rejoicing in Him.”
Even when confronted by the seeming impossibility of such a statement—how can “all be well” in a world riddled with such sin, death and destruction? Just as we hold this thought tightly in grasp, our Lord turns to us and says (through Julian of Norwich), “What is impossible to you is not impossible to Me. I shall save My word in all things, and I shall make all things well.” This Advent presents itself as an opportunity to rest in this truth, to open ourselves up in trust to Christ and His promise that He will—somehow, in His incredible power—make all things new. Yes, even you and me, if only we let Him.
Instead of turning to despair this Advent, light a candle, say a prayer. Get into the productive mode of preparing not just to commemorate Jesus’ first coming, but also to embrace His second.
