An Uncertain Advent: Longing and Doubt at Christmas
Fear not; I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people. (Luke 2:10)
I grew up immersed in the Biblical nativity story. I remember spending Christmas Eve out in our barn with our sheep, pondering the beauty of Christ’s birth in a stable. I imagined myself as Mary, afraid and unsure but faithful. Year after year, I delved eagerly into the themes of hope, joy, peace, and love found in every verse and every prophecy. And for me, Immanuel — God with us — was the center of everything.
But suddenly now I find myself uncertain and increasingly alienated from the story I have always held so dear.
I’m unsure about the divinity of Christ, the historicity of the nativity stories, the incarnation of God into a single baby. Letting go of some of these things has made me feel like the Christmas story no longer belongs to me, like I have crossed a line from “faithful” to “faithless.” I have felt like an outsider in the places I used to feel most comfort and joy. I have found myself avoiding the very parts of Christmas that I love most: the Scriptures, the story, the songs, the symbols.
I don’t want to lose Christmas; I don’t want it to become a shopping holiday devoid of the meaning and depth I’ve always known. I still long to find real hope in this season. I find myself asking, Is there a way to genuinely celebrate Christmas in the Christian tradition even if I’m not sure I believe it? Is there still some “good news of great joy for all people” in the Christmas story?
I’m doing graduate work in biblical studies, so I get to dig deep into fascinating topics, including ancient birth narratives. Recently I’ve been working with the Dead Sea Scrolls, particularly with some texts that expand on the life of Noah. In the Second Temple Period — the several centuries leading up to and including the life of Jesus — Noah was an increasingly significant figure, and so literature about him grew and developed. Perhaps the most prominent of these texts is 1 Enoch, a widely circulated piece of literature that is even referenced or alluded to by New Testament authors. (These texts, though not in our Christian Bible, don’t need to be threatening — they were well known writings in Jewish culture.) The text of 1 Enoch includes a particularly supernatural birth narrative for Noah. The author writes, “When the child was born, his body was whiter than snow and redder than a rose, his hair was all white and like white wool and curly. Glorious was his face. When he opened his eyes, the house shone like the sun. And he stood up from the hands of the midwife, and he opened his mouth and praised the Lord of eternity” (1 Enoch 106:2–3). Naturally, Noah’s parents were quite shocked by this and the story follows Noah’s father on a journey to discover who this child really is. The authors here are attempting to explain how Noah became the one chosen by God to survive the flood and restart the human project.
Noah’s miraculous birth story wasn’t alone in ancient Greek and Jewish literature. By the time of Jesus, miraculous birth narratives were becoming somewhat commonplace for prominent literary figures. In this context, it isn’t surprising to see birth narratives for Jesus developing too. Jews of the time would have expected to see a story develop to explain the growing figure of Jesus, and we see that happen as the Gospels are shaped. Matthew and Luke both contain stories around Jesus’ birth that include some similarities and a lot of differences, which would have been normal in the storytelling literary culture of the Second Temple Period.
What strikes me, however, is that both the birth narratives for Jesus are notably different from Noah’s and others’ in this: they are beautifully and intentionally human. Sure, there are angels and dreams and guiding stars in the sky, but the arrival of the baby himself is the opposite of what we would expect in a story of divinity incarnate. There is no supernatural appearance, no glowing face, no miraculous abilities, nothing about this newborn to make him any different. Whether the story “really happened” or not, the choices of these authors reflect a longing that I still feel today: a longing to find God in the most ordinary, unexpected, human places.
That is how I’m learning to come to the Christmas story again: looking for the inner longings of the ancient authors that resonate deep within my own soul.
In the Old Testament, they longed for a prince of peace, for the breaking of dawn upon a people in darkness, for justice for the poor, for God to be with them.
In the New Testament, Jesus became the face that spoke to their longings for hope, for an end to violence, for a reassurance that God was still with them.
In the last two millennia of Christianity, Christians have still longed for that thrill of hope in a weary world. We still long to believe that God — whoever that is — is somehow with us.
If I were to sit with the authors of our biblical Christmas stories, we might believe different things about who exactly Jesus was. But we would be united by our common longing to find hope, to find “God” with us, to find that divinity is indeed inseparable from humanity.
So I celebrate this Christmas season with eyes open to the imagery I’ve always known and loved. I treasure the mother, the manger, the shepherds, the bright star in a dark night sky. I cherish the carols, the candles, the traditions. And while in many ways I feel more distant from the Nativity than ever, I am also closer than ever to the human hearts in every piece of the story. I feel the tingling of peace as I recognize the unchanging bonds of humanity that tie me to the ancients. We are united by our hopes, all of us, every one.
That is good news of great joy for all people.
And perhaps, if we let them, those common longings can save us still. Perhaps they can lead us toward peace on earth. Perhaps the baby in the manger will lead the way.
