Awaiting Advent: Hope in a Violent World

Advent begins not with glitter or comfort, but with longing. It is the season of deep waiting, of aching expectation for a world in desperate need of restoration and healing. In an age of war, ecological collapse, and social fragmentation, Advent invites us to stand still before the obvious darkness of our time and whisper, holding onto faith no matter how small: God is coming. It is a season that does not deny suffering but dares to proclaim that even in the midst of it, we remember that because of God — love is being born.

Mary’s story stands at the heart of this waiting. Her yes to God came in a world far more violent and oppressive than we sometimes remember. She lived under Roman occupation, in a patriarchal society that held little regard for women’s voices or autonomy. Poverty and political instability were the air she breathed. When we sing of her obedience to God, we must not forget her courage. Her hope was not naïve optimism but a radical act of defiance in a world that crushed the powerless. The Magnificat, her song of praise, is a revolutionary cry — declaring the proud scattered, the powerful brought down, and the humble lifted up. It is the voice of one who has glimpsed the coming of divine justice amid human cruelty.

To enter Advent through Mary’s eyes is to enter the heart of God’s promise of liberation. She embodies the waiting of all who have longed for a world free from domination and fear. Her hope is not passive; it is active, risky, and rooted in trust that God’s mercy will overturn the structures of oppression. The child she carries is the embodiment of that mercy — God taking flesh not in a palace, but in poverty; not through the powerful, but through the vulnerable. In the Incarnation, heaven bends down to earth, and divinity becomes one with our frailty.

This is the scandal and the wonder of Advent. It proclaims that God does not stand apart from human suffering but enters into it. The coming of the Christ is not an escape from the world’s pain but God’s transformation of it from within. In our age of cynicism, when violence feels endless and political systems seem incapable of compassion or fairness, Advent calls us back to the daring hope that love is stronger than death, that mercy will have the last word.

To hold onto this hope is not easy. It demands faith that resists despair and practices that keep the soul awake. The Advent candles are not primarily decorative; they are symbols of defiant light. Each one is a small rebellion against the darkness of our age — of violence against women, of hatred against strangers, of racism, homophobia and of indifference to the poor. When we light them, we align ourselves with Mary’s courage and her vision of divine justice. We declare that love is coming, even when the evidence says otherwise.

This is not sentimental piety. It is the deep spiritual freedom of those who know that God’s love cannot be defeated. Advent reminds us that hope is not a feeling but a discipline, forged in prayer, silence, and compassion. It is the contemplative gaze that can hold both the world’s wounds and God’s promise in the same heart. The Incarnation we await is not only a historical event but a continual unfolding – the Word becoming flesh again and again in every act of mercy, every choice for peace, every moment of kindness, every heart that says yes to love.

Mary reminds us that the Church, too, is called to her way of humility. In her trust and vulnerability, she shows us what it means to live the values of the Beatitudes — to be poor in spirit, merciful, pure in heart, and peacemakers in a world that prizes control and self-interest. Advent challenges us to let go of the need to manage outcomes or to expect God to work on our terms. Instead, we are invited to serve God where we are — in the context of our own neighbourhoods, among those who struggle, hope, and seek meaning alongside us. The Incarnation begins not in grand plans or perfect systems but in ordinary lives open to grace, where love quietly takes flesh in acts of compassion and faithfulness.

In such a world as ours, Advent faith might seem foolish. Yet perhaps this is exactly the kind of hope we need: one that stands against despair with tenderness, one that believes God is still at work in hidden places. Mary’s song still echoes through the centuries, reminding us that God’s promise is not undone by human cruelty. The Christ we await is not a distant saviour but Emmanuel — the soon-to-be God with us, God among us, God within us.

So, we wait, not with fear, but with holy expectancy. We wait for the birth of love that no empire, no violence, no hatred can destroy. We wait for the God who comes to dwell in our own humanity, to liberate us from fear and to set us free for love. In this waiting lies our deepest Advent prayer: Come, Lord Jesus — come and make all things new.

Ian Mobsby

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