Today is the first day of Advent.
Advent is nothing if not a season of anticipation—leaning forward into the story of God’s arrival in the world, wondering anew how heaven and earth might collide.
Anticipation is a kind of magic, isn’t it?
It keeps us leaning forward, our hearts tuned to possibility.
It’s that split second before the artist walks on stage to begin singing the first song.
The butterflies in the stomach before a loved one opens a gift you’ve waited so long to give them.
It’s the energy of watching a sunrise, knowing the first rays will soon break the horizon but not quite knowing how the beauty will be displayed when it does. There’s an openness to anticipation, a surrender to the unknown, trusting that something beautiful is just around the corner.
But anticipation has a shadow side. It’s called expectations.
And darn it – don’t those expectations get us into trouble more often than not?
They are more rigid, more insistent.
While anticipation holds its hands open, expectation clenches its fists.
We know and feel this tension in our daily lives, don’t we?
The way we eagerly look forward to Christmas morning, imagining “the perfect Christmas” yet carry the quiet fear that it might not live up to the picture in our minds.
We anticipate the laughter and connection of family gatherings, but we also brace ourselves for the possibility of old wounds reopening, for the unspoken histories that sometimes linger just beneath the surface.
There’s a story buried in the Gospel of Luke where this tension plays out. Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, finds himself in the holy temple, face-to-face with an angel. The angel declares that Zechariah’s long-held prayer for a child will be answered. Zechariah’s response? A mix of anticipation and skepticism: “How can I be sure of this?” (Luke 1:18).
Zechariah’s expectations had become a wall. After years of disappointment, his heart no longer dared to anticipate the unexpected.
How often do we do the same?
We expect God to work in the ways we’ve seen before—or not at all.
And when those expectations aren’t met, we pull back, arms crossed, faith a little more guarded.
Yet here’s the beauty of Advent: it invites us to loosen our grip on expectations and lean into anticipation.
Zechariah’s story doesn’t end with his skepticism.
God fulfills the promise anyway. A baby is born, not according to Zechariah’s timetable or understanding, but in the fullness of God’s mysterious plan.
The pros of expectations are easy to see—they give us structure, a sense of control, a framework for what “should” happen. But they also come with a cost: the heartbreak of disappointment when life veers off course.
Anticipation, though, is lighter. It holds space for mystery.
It allows God to be God.
It’s not about lowering our hopes; it’s about opening our hearts.
So today, as we light the first candle, let’s sit with this tension.
What expectations are we carrying into this season?
Which ones are helpful, and which might we need to release?
Can we trade the rigidity of our demands for the spaciousness of hope?
The flame flickers, steady and small. And we wait—not with a script, but with an open heart, trusting that the God who came before will come again, in ways we cannot yet imagine.
Prayer:
God of the waiting,
Teach us to hold space for hope.
Help us release the expectations that keep us from seeing Your work in unexpected places.
Grant us the courage to lean into anticipation, trusting that You will meet us there.
Amen.