Most of us spend our lives building walls. Not stone walls, usually. Although we certainly know fences, locks, and passwords. We build personal walls. We retreat into routine and hide inside busyness; we reassure ourselves, “I’ve got it handled.” That is how life stays manageable, predictable, and even pleasant. And if we’re not careful, God is treated the same way—tidy and familiar, safely kept at arm’s length.
Then Advent arrives like a cold wind at the gate. Jesus praises John the Baptist, and he asks the crowd one question: “What did you go out to the desert to see?” The word we hear as “desert” is better understood as “wilderness.” And the wilderness is not a scenic backdrop. It is outside the city’s protection, beyond the lamps and the watchmen. It is where you are exposed—to the elements, to hunger, to danger, to uncertainty, to your own limits.
Why would anyone go there? Because salvation so often begins there.
God’s great encounters happen in places where human strength runs out. Moses sees a fire that does not consume in a lonely place he did not plan to be. Elijah hears God, not in the earthquake or the storm, but in a quiet voice that cannot be forced. Israel learns to live, day by day, not from barns of grain but from daily bread given by God. John the Baptist preaches repentance in the wilderness because the wilderness strips away the illusion that we can save ourselves.
Even the birth of Jesus has the scent of the wilderness. Not a polished home, not a proper room, but an animal stall—vulnerable and exposed. The Son of God comes where we are least defended.
That is why Advent may be our truest season of wilderness. Lent is clearly marked with penance, but Advent brings the mercy of a lamp switched on before the guest arrives: it shows what needs clearing while hope is still on the way. The Church places joy on our lips this Sunday—not the joy of comfort, but the joy that comes when God draws near to the lowly. Real joy shows up when our hearts stop pretending to be self-sufficient.
We are already halfway through the season. Christmas is close. The question is not whether the tree is up or the gifts are wrapped. The question is whether there is room within us for Christ to be born.
And that room is made in the wilderness. So let Advent do its work. Put down, for a time, the ceaseless noise. Loosen your grip on the things that make you feel in control. Take the small, holy risk of being vulnerable before God: a sincere examination of conscience, a humble confession, a deliberate act of generosity that costs you something, a few minutes of silence each day that you cannot “optimize.”
When we step beyond our walls, we discover that God has been waiting there—where we are honest, where we are poor in spirit, where we need him.
Salvation begins in the wilderness. And the One who comes at Christmas does not stand at its edge; he walks straight into it.