The familiar twist in my stomach and weight on my chest. It’s one of the countless times what I hoped for didn’t work out like I imagined: disappointment. Dreams die, plans are rerouted, and it feels like the wind gets knocked out of you. Advent begins in the darkness, Fleming Rutledge says, and disappointment might be where I feel it most.
Many of us have prayed the big prayers, the specific prayers, the personal prayers, and we expected God to answer. He can do the impossible, right? He cares about the details, right? Right. But I can’t explain why it takes so long or the path is so difficult or he says no. I’m not sure what to do with the disappointment other than to feel it. I don’t have the words for the big and small moments when the rug gets pulled out from under us.
The Advent season is about expectation, waiting for something we know will happen. “Come thou long expected Jesus” we sing. Advent reminds us that our expectations and reality don’t always align, not always because we expect wrongly or too much. To be sure, sometimes our expectations are a bit off, but even the purest of expectations will be disappointed. And sometimes there will be no clear explanation why or redeeming quality that makes it all better. Sometimes it’s just hard, and we trust God and we move forward knowing that it all fits into his big cosmic redeeming plan even if we can’t conceive of how.
I’ve been thinking about four of the first people we meet in the gospels: Mary, Joseph, Elizabeth, and Zechariah. My pastor recently preached a sermon on Joseph, so I’ll let her incredible work speak for itself.
What about Elizabeth? There are some major discrepancies between Elizabeth and Mary’s timeline in life. American culture’s emphasis on Christmas being about the nuclear family can really highlight the life stage we’re in, especially if it’s not where we want to be. Grief, loneliness, and longing are all felt a bit stronger.
While I don’t think Christmas is all about the nuclear family, I can’t help but recognize how Elizabeth felt that pressure, too.
Elizabeth waited a long time. Like Sarah, she longed for a child way past the point of physical possibility. Like Hannah, she felt anguish multiply under the pity and gossip from friends, family, and distant onlookers. Her childlessness, it was assumed, was not integral to God’s plan as much as it was a sign of her own inadequacy. Elizabeth and Mary were pregnant at the same time, but their stories are complex in their own right. Mary’s shame came from being pregnant out of wedlock, while Elizabeth bore the shame of childlessness. Mary was pregnant before she ever wanted to be; Elizabeth conceived way past the point she had hoped. The dream of children may very well have died. Perhaps she laughed like Sarah, too—her body much too old to carry this baby without supernatural intervention. Elizabeth wasn’t holding the Son of God, but the baby in her womb was a miracle nonetheless.
John the Baptist was a specific reminder of God’s faithfulness to her. It’s a story of God seeing her desires and granting them. Elizabeth’s pregnancy is a tangible work of God in her body, in the particularity of her life. It’s also God’s work in her community.
We hear a lot about Elizabeth and Zechariah’s community in Luke 1. They seem to be constantly weighing in. The people wait and wonder why Zechariah took so long in the temple, and why he walks out mute. They’re there after Elizabeth gives birth to John, in this lovely verse: “Her neighbors and relatives heard that the Lord had shown her great mercy, and they shared her joy.” When Zechariah speaks again, all the neighbors are there, standing in awe.
Being the communal beings that we are, our disappointment and joy impact the people around us. Our disappointments need an outlet, a community of people who safely hold the sadness. Our hopes and dreams also are not meant to be held alone or suppressed. They’re meant to be shared with trusted people, who will carry us along, whether they’re fulfilled in this lifetime or not.
Each of us has our own particular story surrounding disappointment and hope. The story of Elizabeth doesn’t tell us how to deal with it as much as it shows us this: God enters in where we are. The outcome doesn’t look the same for everyone, but like the ever-present community, God doesn’t leave his people. He’s present in the sorrow and wonderings just as he’s there in the joy and restoration.
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