Prepare the Way
This Sunday marks the first Sunday of Advent. Many of us carry faint memories of seasons past—moments when carefully set tables and glowing candles helped us anticipate the coming Messiah. Mark’s Gospel opens with John the Baptist echoing the prophet Isaiah: “Behold, I send my messenger before your face, who will prepare your way… the voice of one crying in the wilderness: prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.” John appeared in that wilderness preaching, baptizing, and preparing the hearts of God’s people for the One who would light the path of hope for all who follow.
Advent invites us to pause, reflect, and prepare our hearts for Christmas—not the Christmas of presents, parties, and lights (as enjoyable as those are), but the deeper truth that light breaks forth only after the darkest night. When the New Testament story picks up, Israel has endured centuries of silence. God had spoken through Abraham and his descendants, acted through Moses, David, and the prophets, and sustained His people through promise after promise—a promise to restore, to give rest, and to renew relationship with a weary world. Even in that long silence, God was at work. Empires rose and fell. Assyria, Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome. Yet the longing endured for a Messiah who would rescue, rule, and renew. Advent invites us to stand in that same longing with hope: remembering what God has done, recognizing what He is doing, and anticipating what He will complete.
The first week of Advent in the Anglican tradition focuses on the patriarchs. Their hope was rooted in God’s promise to Abraham in Genesis: people, land, and a blessing for all the earth—ultimately fulfilled in Christ. He came not as the triumphant warrior many expected, but as a humble child, born of the Virgin Mary. This brief sweep through the Old Testament only hints at the depth of God’s long, faithful work. Yet it reminds us that in pausing and preparing our hearts, we may—if only for a moment—taste the joy we will one day know in full.
I write this now from the top of a mountain pass—a narrow strip of road nestled between peaks just high enough to stay snow-covered, and just low enough to remain passable. We are visiting family for Thanksgiving, and in the cold and darkness of these mountains we found space to consider how God has worked this year. Each year after the meal, someone in the family asks us to share one thing we are thankful for. You might imagine that, as a therapist, I relish these moments of public reflection—but truthfully, I find them difficult. I strive to express gratitude to others throughout the year, and in this moment—full belly, football waiting—it feels like I must produce the perfect answer. And yet, every year, I am grateful: grateful to be asked, grateful to pause, grateful to share in a moment I would not have chosen on my own. Without it, many of us would simply drift through in quiet darkness, unaware of the goodness around us. In its own way, this is Advent—entering darkness long enough to see the light.
It is fitting that this day also closes the season of Ordinary Time in the church and opens the path toward Advent. How easy it is to move through this season unaware, lulled to sleep by complacency, consumerism, and busyness.
“…you know the time, that the hour has come for you to wake from sleep.” —Romans 13:11
Mark’s Gospel draws us Isaiah’s truth that Israel—and we—have walked in darkness and must learn again to “walk in the light of the Lord” (Isaiah 2:5). We celebrate a God who parts the waters that separate us from Him, restoring communion so His children might walk with Him once more. Advent reminds us that even the smallest light—the light of a newborn child—pierces the deepest darkness.
As I consider my own complicated history with Advent, I recognize how often I clung to the polished image of Christmas instead of letting God work in the quiet places of my heart. Isaiah does not simply call us to walk in the light, but to be renewed and transformed by it. As we remember the patriarchs—imperfect people who reordered their lives around God’s promises—we are invited to do the same.
So how do we live differently this week, knowing so many generations have carried this hope before us? I am someone who loves finding the perfect gift, spending far too many hours hunting for the right moment of joy for each person. But it is easy to forget the generations of longing that preceded Christ’s birth, and the immense love of the God who came to us, vulnerable and small. We so easily miss the joy Mary proclaimed in Luke 1: “For he who is mighty has done great things for me… and his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.” Overwhelmed by frustration or anxiety, we can forget the “great things.”
If we want to live differently, Advent gives us a path—a path of humility. A way of living that helps us, like Mary, to let our souls magnify the Lord.
“Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.”
Perhaps this is our beginning. In the cold and darkness of this season, choose to love your neighbor: write a card, invite someone to dinner, volunteer at church or in the community, practice generosity. Ask yourself: Am I following a king who reflects humility and holiness? Do I prepare the way for others to see the joy and love of Christ? Or am I distracted by lesser pursuits?
This Advent, may we follow the example of the patriarchs—living sacrificially, listening for the quiet whisper of the God who stoops in love to draw His people home.