In her book, Advent: The Once & Future Coming of Jesus Christ, a collection of articles, writings and sermons, Episcopalian Priest, Flaming Rutledge shares one example after another to underscore her running theme that Advent begins in the dark.

In one of her sermons she recalls a story that illustrates her point:

“A woman told of praying for her husband’s safety the night before he took off on Pan Am Flight 103, which exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland. After his death in the explosion, she said her view of God had changed. “I don’t dislike him,” she said. “I’m not mad at him. I’m afraid of him.”1

What Fleming points to is not only the darkness in our world, but a darkness to God.

I am not saying that there is darkness in God. 1 John 1:5 assures us that “God is light and in him there is no darkness at all.”

No, I am suggesting that there is a darkness to God. A darkness in our understanding of God. A darkness in our experience with God. A darkness around God that can make feel lost and afraid.

It is overwhelming to think about God’s infiniteness in relation to us. Or better yet, how finite we are in relation to God. Why does he bother with us in our smallness? Why, especially, would he bother with me? And if he really has chosen to bother with me, how can I begin to understand him and his love for me?

In his book of meditations, Encounters with Silence, Catholic theologian, Karl Rahner wrestles with these questions.

At one point he prays on the page,

“Grant, O Infinite God, that I may ever cling fast to Jesus Christ, my Lord. Let His heart reveal to me how You are disposed toward me. I shall look upon His heart when I desire to know Who You are. The eye of my mind is blinded whenever it looks only at Your Infinity, in which You are totally present in each and every aspect at once. Then I am surrounded by the darkness of Your unbound-edness, which is harsher than all my earthly nights.”2

He is blinded by the bigness of God. Darker than any night, he says, is the never ending vastness of God. And yet, he finds the darkness to be lessened when he considers the infinite God who became an infant.

As he prays in the dark, he knows where to look. By looking to the heart of Jesus, he can begin to embrace the infinite God and understand how God can love the finite.

Rahner continues…

“But instead I shall gaze upon His human heart, O God of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and then I shall be sure that You love me.”

This is how we are able to wait in the dark.

Because we know where to gaze, we can have hope — even in the dark mysteries of God.

Like the watchmen who wait for the dawn in Psalm 130, we know where to look. Though the guardians on the wall cannot see the morning, they are able to watch and wait with confident expectation.

They know that the sun will appear.

And beyond all comprehension is this… That even more certain than the sunrise is the appearance of the Son who is risen. That is what the psalm would have us believe. We can be more confident in the advent of God than the arrival of tomorrow.

Even in the darkness of unanswered prayers.

Even in the darkness of sickness and disease.

Even in the darkness of sleepless nights, empty hearts and doubting prayers.

Even in the dark surroundings of God, we know the Light will come.

In Jesus we know where to look.

And because Jesus does not fail to show, we can hope for his light more the sun that shines.