I will not forget the day I heard the Christmas story in a new way. I was just entering my teenage years, sitting next to my mother on a chapel pew.

I had heard this story many times before. But that day, I sensed something deeper: The birth of Jesus was not a sweet legend told to calm children; it was a startling reality, that the God beyond all understanding chose to come close, be present at the heart of our humanity. Instead of showing distant power, God revealed God’s self in the fragility of human birth—vulnerable, exposed, dependent.

Years later, that choice still unsettles me. Our world teaches the opposite, telling us to protect yourself, hide your weaknesses, prove your strength, accumulate more. Yet the promise of God takes shape differently—in a fragile child, in a family forced to leave its home, in an unnoticed manger.

So, what does it mean to “prepare for the promise of God” in Advent? It cannot mean simply repeating rituals or adding more lights to our chapels while our societies grow darker. To prepare is to allow ourselves to be disrupted, to make space for the promise where we least expect it: in refugee camps, in forgotten neighborhoods, in the silent wounds we carry.

Look at our world today. Forests burn, oceans overheat, weapons thunder. Families are broken by addiction. Migrants cross borders in desperation. Children fall asleep on sidewalks. And amid this chaos, we sing, “peace on earth.”

What a paradox! Christmas is not an escape from reality. It is God’s surprising response to reality itself. Not an act of force, but of tender courage: God choosing to enter our chaos and bring light. And in that light, hope is here.

Christmas is not an escape from reality. It is God’s surprising response to reality itself.

In my own life, I once believed that preparing for Christmas meant “doing my best,” keeping my commitments, showing strong faith. But God’s promise has taught me that I don’t need to prove anything. It is by accepting my fragilities, my doubts, and my limits that the promise takes root. And in that recognized vulnerability, hope is here.

We often discover that hope is not born in comfort, but in struggle. Christian faith is not a way of escaping the world, but of inhabiting it differently, with tenderness and courage together. It pushes us to ask questions many avoid: What are we doing with the life, the Earth, the humanity entrusted to us? Daring to ask is proclaiming that hope already is here.

Advent is such a time: a time to resist easy answers, to look at the world as it is and still choose to believe that the light is coming. Preparing for the promise of God is an act of spiritual resistance. And because we make that choice, hope is here.

At its heart, Advent may be calling us to a quiet revolution: to choose tenderness over domination, simplicity over excess, hospitality over fear. A revolution that begins in our communities, our homes, our daily choices. A revolution that boldly proclaims: Hope is here!

The God who is beyond all things took the risk of being born into the vulnerability of a child. What if we, too, took the risk of living differently?

Once again, hope is here.