We may not know the hour or the day—but we do know the path and the way.
Advent gives us the chance to recalibrate: our thinking, our seeing, our actions, or some combination of all three. My hope is that by Christmas, we will know more deeply the One whose birth we celebrate.
Of course, there’s a kind of irony here. We’re not actually waiting for Jesus to be born—He already has been. We know the story: He lived our life, died our death, rose as the first fruits of our own resurrection, ascended into heaven carrying our humanity with Him, sent His Holy Spirit to renew the earth, and established the Church to teach and guide us.
So the “coming” we await now is not the quiet arrival of a child in Bethlehem but the glorious return of the King. Advent is our Catholic New Year—a built-in spiritual reset. There’s something deeply satisfying about flipping from the final week of Ordinary Time back to page one of Advent. The book even makes that little plop sound, like it knows we need a fresh start.
And this year, the snow helped us. The simplicity of the decorations helped us. The purple vestments—symbols not only of penance but of hope, preparation, and calm—helped us. Maybe you even had that moment last night: stepping out into the snowstorm and feeling the sudden, overwhelming quiet. The deep breath of cold air, the strange purity of it.
All my life, that moment has been one of my favorite images for Advent: stepping from the chaos of the warm, crowded inside into the darkness where it is finally quiet, finally peaceful, finally possible to see.
Here is the encouragement I want to offer:
We don’t know the hour or the day—but do we know the path and the way?
For centuries, Christians learned the faith through images—stained-glass windows, paintings, mosaics—because many could not read. The Scriptures were passed along through story and symbol. Ironically, now almost everyone can read, and yet so few of us know the Scriptures.
So here is my Advent invitation, and I’m doing it with you:
Go home, take your Bible off the shelf, dust it off, and read the Book of Isaiah—start to finish.
Isaiah is the great guide of Advent. Nearly every liturgy from now until Christmas gives us a reading from him. He speaks truth to Israel’s situation, but more than anything, he speaks hope, and he delivers some of the most iconic promises of this season:
“Though your sins be like scarlet, I will make them white as snow.” (Isaiah 1)
“A shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse.” (Isaiah 11)
“On this mountain there will be no more death, no more wailing.” (Isaiah 25)
“I am doing something new—do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43)
“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son.” (Isaiah 7)
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 9)
Read these not as distant history, but personally. Replace “Israel” with your own name.
The Lord said to me… I am doing something new for you.
Do you believe that?
Here are the questions I hope you’ll carry into prayer. Think of them as an Advent examination of conscience—not about sin necessarily, but about desire.
We will sing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” more times than we can count. But do I truly want Him to come? Do I want the Lord to enter my life? Will I notice when He does? Will I perceive His handiwork?
Would I recognize Him in the poor, the meek, the mourning, the persecuted—those He calls blessed?
Am I prepared for the disruption His coming will bring to my worldview, politics, ideologies, relationships, and routines?
Am I open to the total recalibration required if He is to be the true King of my life?
Do I understand that “Thy kingdom come” also means “my kingdom go”?
And perhaps most importantly:
Do I let myself be counted among those to whom He wants to show mercy? Do I allow myself to be one of the burdened, the weary, the hungry, the longing—one of those He invites to rest in Him?
We often hide the very things we should bring into the Lord’s light: the old shame, regret, or the baggage we’ve convinced ourselves cannot be overcome. Yet “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,” and that light is the life of the human race.
So lift up your heads, you mighty gates. Let the King of glory enter. He is valiant. He fights for you.
Open Isaiah. Read not about your sins—He will make those white as snow—but about the God who longs to be reconciled to His people. The God who says generation after generation:
I am the solution to your problems.
I have given you the roadmap.
Will you follow Me?
Lift up the gates of your heart, your home, your routines, your relationships. Let the King of glory enter. And by Christmas, I think we will be genuinely surprised at the difference it makes.
Of course, God—in His sense of humor—places this season of peace and preparation right in the middle of the busiest time of the year. The parties, the family drama, the school events, the shopping—it’s all coming. None of that is going away.
But we can choose how we enter into it.
We may not know the hour or the day,
but we do know the path and the way.
(Someone start printing the t-shirts. That’s how we’ll pay off the building.)
