As a child, the Christmas season felt like an eternity. I remember the daily ritual of moving our family’s Advent calendar forward one day at a time toward the number “24,” marking the night when our waiting would finally be over.
As an adult, my sense of anticipation for Christmas has been replaced by a flurry of distractions and preoccupations. Even now, I find myself joining fellow Canadians during a time of political tension and uncertainty that will likely unfold within our borders by the turn of 2025. Likewise, just a few hours south, Americans are navigating new challenges and opportunities in anticipation of a new presidency. Not to mention the countless people we both know who are waiting for many things: a judge’s decision, a diagnosis, a paycheck, a hopeful forecast, or a child’s safe return home.
This leads me to wonder: What are we waiting for this Christmas?
In late November of 1943, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote a letter from his cell in Tegel Prison. Writing one week before Advent began, Bonhoeffer suggested that “a prison cell like this is a good analogy for Advent.”1 Of course, it seems strange for a prisoner to look around a lonely cell and see symbols of Christmas. Yet perhaps if we look with him, we might also see something essential about our own journeys through Advent this year.
By the end of 1943, Bonhoeffer had many concerns rushing through him. With flares from incoming air raids falling outside his cell window—what he mockingly called his “Christmas trees”—Bonhoeffer faced constant dangers and uncertainties about his future. He was plagued with worry about his loved ones’ safety and the possibility that his life could be cut short at any moment.2 Even his prison walls, still scratched with hopeless words from previous inhabitants, signified the end of all Bonhoeffer knew and loved. And yet, despite these circumstances, Bonhoeffer found himself drawn into a genuine experience of Advent.
So, what did he see? And what might we see alongside him?
To begin with, Bonhoeffer saw a locked door. Continuing his letter, he wrote, “[In prison] one waits and hopes … the door is locked and can only be opened from the outside.”3 In the shadow of the locked door, Bonhoeffer could only wait and hope for someone to come “from the outside.”4
This illustrates something profound about Advent: it is a season of waiting for someone to come “from the outside.” The season does not arise from somewhere within ourselves—heaven forbid we need another task to manage! Instead, Advent invites us to stop our striving, acknowledge where we are, and wait for someone to come “from the outside.”
Besides his locked door, Bonhoeffer saw tangible symbols pointing to a past and a future held in God’s hands. Seeing bits of food delivered to the prison guards by his family, Bonhoeffer remembered the table fellowship where he had encountered the “reality of the reign of God,” writing, “Every ‘material’ greeting I receive from you all is transformed here into a remembrance of table fellowship with you. Is it not an essential dimension of life precisely because it is a reality of the reign of God?”5 Further, he hung wreaths, lit candles, hummed carols, and leafed through prayers and Scriptures that told a story reaching beyond his present cell—even beyond his present life.6
In Advent, we surround ourselves with similar signs of a greater kingdom. We sit at tables, hang decorations, and tell stories, pointing to a “reign of God” that has come, is coming, and will come in fullness. Even the lonely prisoner emptied of hope within their grasp can and must learn to hold onto symbols pointing to a greater story. This is part of our waiting and hoping for what is coming “from the outside.”
Granted, Bonhoeffer still experienced moments of hopelessness that fateful year. He was lonely, afraid, and frustrated by what was happening to him and those he loved. He did not know his future—nor do we.
Yet he continued waiting, confessing his confusion and praying his fears—and so must we. He kept sitting, lighting, humming, and telling himself and those around him the stories that make Advent what it is: a season to cease striving, acknowledge where we are, and wait with hope for someone to come “from the outside.”
Lord, let this Advent be a time of waiting, not for what will come from ourselves, our governments, or any other place inside these walls. Let it be a time to look at our locked doors and hope for someone to come from the outside. Let it be a time to see kingdom feasts where only scraps remain and heavenly lights where ours are dimmed. Give us eyes to see beyond these walls and hope for the one who comes “from the outside.” Come, Lord Jesus.
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison, ed. Christian Gremmels et al., trans. Isabel Best et al., vol. 8, Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2010), 188. ↩︎
- Ibid, 211. ↩︎
- Ibid, 188. ↩︎
- “Advent” comes from the Latin Adventus, meaning “coming”. ↩︎
- Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers, 189. ↩︎
- Ibid, 201, 245. ↩︎