Advent is no soft hymn.
It is the groan of creation stretched taut,
the soil breaking open under frost,
the grinding wheel of time sharpening us
on the edge of eternity.

This waiting is not a polite nod toward hope—
it is raw and jagged,
a burning bush in the wilderness
that won’t leave us untouched.
We wait with our hearts stripped bare,
our illusions cast off like husks.

For the story we align with
is not a tale of comfort
but of piercing light breaking into shadow,
the Word that shatters and remakes.
Grace comes fiercely, without apology,
grabbing us by the collar and saying:
Look. Wait. Become.

And so we stand in this holy tension,
wrestling angels by night
and limping into the dawn.
The world turns, grinding its teeth,
but we light candles against the dark,
not out of sentiment,
but because fire is the only fitting answer.

He is coming.
Not as we expect, not as we’d choose,
but as a child wrapped in blood and straw,
as mercy in the guise of judgment,
as love that breaks and binds.

This is the Advent of the real,
a waiting that cuts us to the quick,
leaving only what can endure:
the fierce, untamed yes
of a heart torn open for God.