By Devra Dato-on & David Chase
This year has had its fair share of suffering, especially as we live in a time where we’re intimately connected to the news of the world, often minute-by-minute. Witnessing global pain and trauma on a daily basis can often feel overwhelming and hopeless, as we simply watch horrors play out that we can’t do much about. Adding this to our own personal struggles, in family, work, friendships, health and more, and any chance of light or hope is snuffed out as we bounce from one difficulty to the next.
At Advent, we ask, where is the light? What can the birth of a baby really do in this incredibly thick darkness? How do we hold on to the flickering light of Jesus’ birth without repeating rite sayings and spreading toxic positivity?
While we certainly don’t have any neat answers to the pain of this world, this Advent several of our Reclaim editors are sharing what Advent means to them in the middle of real life, how a baby in a manger can point to a bigger story of redemption and hope.
“Truly he taught us to love one another;
His law is love and his gospel is peace.
Chains shall he break for the slave is our brother;
And in his name all oppression shall cease."
These lines come from the second verse of "O Holy Night." It's a Christmas carol that I am very familiar with as it was my Lolo's (Tagalog for grandfather) favorite. Every Christmas family gathering included us reading scripture passages about the birth of Jesus and singing Christmas carols accompanied by my uncle on guitar. The highlight was when we would sing "O Holy Night." My Lolo had a deep baritone voice that carried above everyone else's. My Lolo passed away in 2012, and when our family gathers for Christmas celebrations we still sing that carol in memory of him.
Even though I have sung this carol every year, it was only recently that I learned the story behind the song. The original lyrics are in French, written in 1843 by Placide Cappeau, a secular poet; the tune was composed by Adolphe Charles Adam, a Jewish composer. The people of France loved it, but the Catholic Church at that time did not. They took issue with the lyrics as not being "spiritual enough," and the fact that it was written by two non-Christians. The carol became popular in the United States when Unitarian minister and abolitionist John Sullivan Dwight translated it in 1855. He was particularly struck by the second verse with its message of emancipation and justice.
The song has taken on new meaning for me, especially in light of the suffering and injustice we witness in this world. It is easy to feel helpless when our fellow image-bearers are oppressed by those in power. However, I take hope in remembering that the Prince of Peace was also born into a time of turmoil. When his birth was announced, the shepherds rejoiced but Herod was afraid. Jesus had come to proclaim liberty to the captives. And so when I sing "O Holy Night" again this year, I remember another song that was sung by Mary as she carried the one who would usher in the kingdom of peace and justice: "He has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate" (Luke 1:52, ESV).
~ Devra Dato-on, Reclaim Editorial
This year, someone as close to me as my own heart was given difficult medical news; every day we deal with this chronic medical condition that inexplicably showed up in our lives. There is no cure, and the lifesaving treatment is sometimes painful, irritating, and an impediment to even routine tasks.
Two generations ago, this condition would have been a death sentence, but it is still a lifelong condition. One Sunday, my pastor preached about the miracles of Jesus, the healings, the resurrections of Lazarus and others. When we know the end of those stories, it is easy to look at the people in them and dismiss their momentary turmoil, knowing that healing was coming. For my loved one, there is no miraculous resolution in sight, even though I believe God could end the illness. When I wake up, the weight of my loved one’s condition settles on me again. When I lie down, I feel it until I fall asleep.
This advent, the hurt of the world is close. Not just when I turn on the news and try to make sense of the headlines and the suffering of people from violence, greed, injustice, prejudice, hate, and neglect. We often speed past parts of advent: “Rachel weeping for her children… because they are no more” (Jer 31:15, CSB), or Isaiah acknowledging the terrible realities that God came to fix: “you have shattered the yoke that burdens them, the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor. Every warrior’s boot used in battle and every garment rolled in blood will be destined for burning, will be fuel for the fire” (Isa 9:4–5, NIV).
As of now, I do not feel I will ever understand why this sadness and hardship came into our lives or our world. But either we accept the message that God came to deal with all of it, somehow, or we give suffering the final word over our lives. Jesus did not avoid his own suffering in life, but his suffering meant something: the ultimate defeat of death. Even though I am sad, I still look to this reality that: “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isa 9:6, NIV).
~ David Chase, Reclaim Editorial
Image source: David Beale
Devra Dato-on is a music educator and content creator. She teaches private piano lessons and is also a middle school assistant choir director. She was on the multimedia team of two independent web series and was the social media team lead for a non-profit advocacy organization. She loves books, tea, baking, and board games.
David Chase is an art history instructor and has studied literature, languages, visual art, and film. He has two kids and enjoys engaging with their variety of interests from how things work to nature, camping, reading, and visiting museums. In his spare time, he enjoys birding, running, and strategy board games.