O Sapientia

 December 17

O Wisdom of our God Most High,

guiding creation with power and love:

come to teach us the path of knowledge! 

Advent: The season of longing and joyful anticipation. As soon as it begins, my excitement grows as people decorate their homes with lush wreaths, garlands, and trees, and adorn them with warm, twinkling lights. I finally look forward to the longer evenings when I can spend more time watching homes and neighborhoods shine in all their holiday splendor. 

All the external decorations stand in stark contrast to the internal preparedness I feel. The brightness of the days leading up to Christmas highlights what I've kept hidden in the shadows all year. In my efforts to prepare the way for the coming of Christ, I find myself feeling like there’s no room left for him. It seems I’ve reserved every room to house resentment, fear, and disappointment from unanswered prayers. This season can be a painful reminder of the things, people, and dreams that seem far beyond our reach. The joy and bustle of the season, juxtaposed with our broken hearts and empty hands, can really dim its radiance. 

Nevertheless, it is necessary to recognize the darkness that precedes the coming of the Light of the World. Advent is the reminder of our brokenness and our need for a Savior. While it's uncomfortable to sit with the darkness, I find it necessary to journey through the inferno with those who guide us—our trusted Virgils in life. This season offers us a chance to pause and ask ourselves, "What do I truly desire? Where do I want to end up? Who do I want to become?" 

If we can’t answer that yet, it helps to ask ourselves the role desire plays—not only in our lives, but more importantly, the role it plays in our relationship with God.

I often wonder why God gives us desires but doesn't always fulfill them or answer our prayers according to those desires. If our desires are good and come from him, why not grant them? And if I’m not meant to have something, why would he allow me to desire it in the first place? In asking these questions, I feel a tantrum rising because it just doesn't seem fair. But then again, God doesn't operate on fairness—thankfully, because if he did, none of us would like what we truly deserve. By his grace, he loves. By his mercy, he acts. 

Through the lens of his merciful love, it seems God does not want me to abandon my desires. He doesn't want me to pretend that I don't long for what I want simply because I can't have it now or maybe ever. In wrestling with my desires, I find myself wrestling with God himself. Eugene Delacroix’s depiction of Jacob wrestling with the angel perfectly captures what this struggle looks like for me. The artist shows Jacob straining with all his might, his tensed muscles clearly defined. In contrast, the angel—their face relaxed—is light on their feet, almost dancing playfully with Jacob. I love this artwork so much because it reflects my experience with God: A wrestling match for me, but a chance to dance with me for him. 

As I try to unravel his mysterious ways of loving me, I find that he delights in all my desires—the silly, the serious, and even the misguided ones. He allows me to resist him as I struggle to understand my experiences. And he waits patiently until I can understand why I must get into this match with him at all.

His delight in my desires does not mean giving into my demands. In his great wisdom, he delights by drawing us nearer to him, so his presence can transform the ring into a dance floor. Here he watches me discover the joy of pursuing life's meaning with him—knowing all along what I will find in the end. With God, the story always ends the same way: He is with me and for me, loves me deeply, and I am left speechless.

It dawned on me that praying the same unanswered prayer for the millionth time means dancing with God for the millionth time—and what a joy that is! Every time I bring my desires before him, whether in the mood to fight or dance, I expose myself to his loving presence and mercy. And each time, he is waiting for me. I can continue to hope because, at the end of it all, I find that it is His being I seek, in every question, yearning, and frustration, and it is his being I will receive. 

When I ask what the point of our small earthly desires is, if we are ultimately meant to desire him alone, I realize that these desires are like St. John the Baptist proclaiming the coming of a greater fulfillment. They point to our heart's true desire: to love and be loved by God. These small desires help prepare our hearts for Jesus, where we will no longer be burdened by worldly attachments or the sadness that overwhelms us when we realize that we are not entitled to the things that we want. That’s what makes them grace after all. 

This “grace in place of grace” I received this advent season is helping me shift my focus toward preparing my heart for Christ. When I fixate on the one or two things I can't seem to have, I lose sight of the great miracle and gift that is the coming of a savior. I miss out on experiencing in my mind, body, and soul the joy that comes with that. But when I shift my gaze back on Christ and submit all my other desires to him, I find freedom from the fears and sadness of clinging to what I think I want, of what I think I deserve. I realize there is no circumstance that cannot be filled with joy, hope, or redemption. With this, I can live fully and fearlessly, no longer defined by what I do not have or cannot do, but by the love that has been poured out for me for all eternity.