Oh Night Divine: An Invitation to Hope

We’re stepping into another Advent season. And maybe, like me, you feel it—the weight, the noise, the division.

It’s been a long couple of years. The world feels divided—geopolitically, socially, and even within the Church. Christians arguing across lines: “Christian nationalist,” “progressive,” “liberal,” “orthodox” … the labels are multiplying while love, true Christian love, diminishes.

It’s exhausting. The headlines keep shouting. The anxiety never seems to rest. And yet … Advent arrives anyway.

Advent isn’t a command in Scripture. It’s a tradition. Think of it like a rhythm of waiting and remembering that the Church gave itself to keep from losing the story. Lent does this for repentance. Advent does this for hope.

What we observe in Advent isn’t a date on a calendar; it’s a reality in motion. In the first century, Jesus of Nazareth stepped into history and said, “I am the light of the world.”

He invited the weary to come and rest.

He told the hopeless to taste and see.

That invitation still stands.

So before you rush into the season, before the Sunday after Thanksgiving when you’re barely catching your breath, take a pause.

Take a minute for yourself.

Step outside.

Leave your phone behind.

Walk in the cold air.

Breathe.

Listen to the sounds of creation—the creak of trees, the hum of wind, the rhythm of your own breath. And in that silence, ask Jesus to speak to you again.

When I first came to faith, just before my 21st birthday, I had thrown away institutional religion. I was angry, confused, and fractured. One night, I stood alone in the snow under a starry Pennsylvania sky, chopping wood, desperate for real answers. And I prayed the most honest prayer I knew:

“God, if You’re real, You have to speak to me. Show me who you are.”

And He did.

Not with thunder from Sinai. Not with a crazy theophanic flare or some theological proof. But with peace. The Scriptures became real, somehow. They seemed to live in me when I read them. I felt the Holy Spirit; I didn’t just read about him. I was never the same after that starry night.

Maybe you need that kind of peace this year.

Maybe you’re tired, bitter, anxious, or numb.

Maybe you’re just trying to make it through.

Or maybe you’re joyful, rooted, and steady, but you still long for more. Advent is for all of us. For the weary soul. For the anxious heart. For the grief-laden and the embittered.

For the lost and the found. For those who’ve lost their joy and those who can’t stop singing.

It is a season of hope—and hope is not sentiment or self-help optimism. For the Christian, hope is a structure; it’s part of that beautiful triad: faith, hope, and love. It’s what holds you upright when you can’t see the road ahead. Ever wonder why hope and light are joined as they are? Because they both bend us towards life, physical and spiritual.

So this year, let’s chase beauty together. Let’s look for hope in the smallest lights and quietest places. Let’s remember that the first Advent didn’t happen in a cathedral. It happened in the dark, under foreign rule, in a stable, with no one posting about or commenting.

Advent is a rhythm of returning. It’s where the world pauses long enough to remember that Love entered the night. He still does. And this is the invitation of Oh Night Divine.
To come back to wonder.
To breathe again.
To hope again.