“A voice cries out: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.’” (Isaiah 40:3-5)
Like most people these days, I find out what’s happening in the world by starting at a screen, as an endless feed broadcasts the highs and lows of the day — especially the lows. The tricks I’ve developed to balance being informed and being overwhelmed quickly proved no match for 2025’s daily delivery of heartbreak. It wasn’t just the quantity of bad news. There was a difference in kind.
In March, I had an epiphany after coming across an AI-generated image posted by the White House. A cartoon rendered in the style of Studio Ghibli, the artists behind films like “Spirited Away” and “My Neighbor Totoro,” depicted a stern ICE agent arresting a crying immigrant woman. In an instant, I felt joy drain from my body, my chest turn to lead. I sat in silence, my mind groping blankly for a response, until a sudden clarity: this was spiritual poison. It was devised, at least in part, to induce exactly this weariness, this baffled despair.
By now, you’ve probably seen some version of this poison. A 24/7 spectacle of cruelty, performed in grinning internment camp selfies, fascist propaganda clips of humans in chains, snuff films of fishermen blown out of the water, and AI slop defiling beloved art. It is inhumane, inhuman, and feels impossible to escape.
So this year, when I read about the crowds going out to hear John, the wild-eyed, locust-eating prophet castigating the wicked, preparing the way of the Lord, I imagined them trying to escape the spectacle of empire, with its cult of Caesar, its military parades, its rituals of violence — crucifixion chief among them. I imagined them hoping that this voice in the wilderness would supplant one spectacle with another, the glory of the Lord finally arrived for all to see.
A boy plays with balloons by the Buriganga River as smoke emits from a dump yard during sunset in Dhaka, Bangladesh, on Jan. 19, 2013. (Andrew Biraj/Reuters)
All John offered them was a cleansing dip in the River Jordan and a fiery warning to repent. “What should we do?” they asked. His answer was surprisingly mundane. “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none, and whoever has food must do likewise,” he said. He told soldiers to stop extorting people and tax collectors to stop padding their bills. No spectacle, no superhuman feats, just ordinary people living honest, generous lives.
Ordinary people have been the antidote to my despair this year. I’ve seen them do extraordinary things: brave tear gas and rubber bullets, put their bodies between masked kidnappers and their neighbors. And I’ve seen the more mundane: organizing meal trains, handing out whistles, stocking a community fridge, making protest art, making people laugh. The cruel spectacle churns on for now, but there are countless ordinary acts of love happening quietly, out of sight, more than you and I will ever know.
Whatever ultimate glories await, Advent prepares us to see anew that God’s glory has already been born among us, as one of us: “The Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” He was extraordinarily ordinary. He was human the way we’re called to be human. And when our lives become images of his life, the glory of God shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.
Rev. Sarah Miller is an Episcopal priest and a doctoral student in theology and education at Boston College’s Clough School of Theology and Ministry.
NOTE: This is part of our Unsettling Advent devotionals running Nov. 30-Dec. 24. You can subscribe for free and receive them each morning in your inbox.
