It’s November and in a couple of weeks, it’ll be Advent, the countdown to Christmas that for the past five or six years, I’ve marked by participating in #AdventWord in some shape or form. I looked forward to this time and task much as I look forward to the long stretch of autumn rituals and feasts. Last year felt strange, as though Advent had arrived too quickly or something; I wasn’t ready, but I was still inspired. This year feels worse.
I thought that maybe I’ll gain motivation by meticulously planning what I want to say; I looked over the word list and read ahead in the lectionary and even mapped out connections to this new esoteric world I’ve become more familiar with over the past year. I made lists. I created folders to organize my lists. If the thrill of spontaneity that I so relished in years past was waning, maybe I’d find the joy of broad sweeps and grand gestalts. Maybe this was the logical progression.
But the more I think about it, the less I want to do it. And when I dig to find out why, I hear the echoes of the inner conflicts I feel about church and work and vocation reverberating from deep inside the hold. I can steam ahead because I like my traditions or I can recognize that it doesn’t feel right this year.
I’ll still be marking #Advent; I’ll still be anticipating the arrival of the Child. Maybe I’m to say less & listen more. Maybe this is a temporary glitch or a happy accident; or maybe it’s a logical progression.