Advent isn’t a season that leaves us skimming the surface of things, rushing about with lists and lights, though it’s easy to let it become that. At its heart, Advent is an invitation into waiting, watching, and yearning. It slows us down to listen for the footsteps of the one who is coming, the Christ who once entered the world in Bethlehem, who comes to us now in Spirit, and who will come again in glory.

To wait is to admit that we aren’t in control, that we can’t make the kingdom arrive by our own effort or force. We wait like Israel of old, who longed for God’s promises to be fulfilled. Isaiah spoke of a people walking in darkness who would see a great light, and Advent teaches us to hold that promise close in our own darkness. In our world of wars, injustice, and sorrow, waiting doesn’t mean passivity. It means watching for God’s movement with eyes sharpened by hope.

This season also deepens our longing. The carols and candles are beautiful, but they’re meant to stir something deeper than sentimentality, a hunger for Christ’s presence that nothing else can satisfy. Mary’s Song in Luke 1 shows us that longing isn’t quiet or tame. It bursts out with joy and prophecy: He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty. Advent asks us whether we dare to share in that longing, whether we let God awaken a hunger for justice, peace, and mercy in us.

And Advent draws us deeper into love. As Paul writes in Romans 13, The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armour of light. We prepare not just with candles and wreaths, but with acts of kindness, reconciliation, and generosity. Each gesture of love becomes a way of making room for Christ.

Advent is not shallow waiting, but holy depth. It’s the pause before the music swells, the silence before the dawn. It invites us to wait, to long, and to love until Christ fills our emptiness with his presence, and our world is Illuminated with his coming.