My first year after college, I lived high on a hill above the city of Pittsburgh. Troy Hill was the name of my neighborhood, a community that seemed to defy gravity with its homes built into the sides of steep slopes. Each morning, I would walk to the corner of Mt. Troy Road and Highland Avenue to catch Bus 4, which would precariously wind its way down the serpentine streets of my neighborhood and drop me off into the center of the city where I worked. At certain times of the year, my bus stop was encompassed by the darkness of the early morning with no street lamp to illuminate it. I would experience the disheartening moment of watching Bus 4 pass by me and barrel down the hill while I chased after it, wildly waving my arms in an attempt to be seen by the driver. The bus always kept going. 

I appreciated my proximity and access to the bus stop, but anyone who has ever used public transportation knows that it cannot always be relied upon. Sometimes your bus barrels past you because it’s too dark out to be seen, or the metro breaks down because it’s on fire, or the plane can’t take off because it was swarmed by cicadas. Whatever the reason for a public transit mishap, these moments remind us passengers of a truth that is so universal yet so difficult to accept: we are not in control.

In Mark 6 — the chapter where Jesus feeds the five thousand, then later walks on water, there’s a small detail in the story that’s easily unnoticed (indicated by italics):  

He saw that they were in serious trouble, rowing hard and struggling against the wind and waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. He intended to go past them, but when they saw him walking on the water, they cried out in terror, thinking he was a ghost. They were all terrified when they saw him.

He intended to go past them. 

How could Jesus, who “saw that they were in serious trouble, rowing hard and struggling against the wind and waves,” in the middle of a dark night, intend to not stop? Was this the disciples’ Bus 4 Moment? I can arrive at my bus stop on time; the disciples can get in the boat that Jesus tells them to. But when the moment comes to catch the bus or to face the storm, our human bodies are no match to the power of nature. We can wave our arms and sprint after the bus, but we can’t outrun the dark. We can row with all our might, but we can’t beat back the wind. Contending with nature and with the nighttime can be terrifying. 

Hours before the night Jesus walked on the water and calmed the storm, Jesus fed the five thousand. The disciples have just seen Jesus turn a meal meant for five into one that fed five thousand, but only a few hours later, they confuse God for a ghost. In their terror, “They still didn’t understand the significance of the miracle of the loaves. Their hearts were too hard to take it in.” 

The whole passage can feel disheartening. Jesus’s seemingly purposeful ‘passing by’ confused me, prompting questions like: Why did Jesus wait to intervene? Was the storm God’s way of punishing the disciples for their doubts? Was the dark a form of a divine discipline? And where was Jesus going when he passed them by? These questions were about the disciples, but I wondered about them in my own life, too. Does God plan to barrel past me at the bus stop? Does he see my striving and scoff? The struggle of these questions feels like the same struggle I often find myself in during the season of Advent. 

Like the disciples, I have heard Christ’s claim: that’s he is the son of God who was sent to save. But each year, as we begin Advent in the dark, I wonder if the Messiah will really show up? Or this Advent, does Jesus intend to pass me by, too? Will the light of life leave me lonely and in the dark? But grappling with the questions Mark 6 prompts, initial disheartenment gives way to something else: mystery. 

The language of Jesus “passing by” in Mark 6 parallels with other passages in scripture, calling to mind Moses’s interaction with God on the mountain in Exodus, or when Elijah is hiding in a cave in 1 Kings. 

(Exodus 33) Then the Lord said, “There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen. 

(1 Kings 19) The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. 

These passages show that God really does reveal himself to Moses and Elijah, but there is still an element of mystery to his presence with them. Moses and Elijah experience the glorious gift of holy terror — an experience that makes it clear that God is real, not an imaginary apparition. And it is in God’s mysterious and intentional “passing by” that he proves to be a keeper of his promises.

Jesus does not intend to leave us in the dark at the bus stop or shaking in terror at the helm of a boat. Rather, the Incarnate Christ means to do just the opposite. The miraculous mystery of the Messiah is that he passed through our world not to simply solve our transportation issues, but to transform our very nature from perishable beings into imperishable ones. I’m not going to pretend that I know exactly what that means. Most of the time, I’m still quite terrified by the mysterious prospect of death while simultaneously annoyed by the irritations of everyday life. But other times, particularly during the season of Advent, mystery is what draws me closer to Christ. As Tish Harrison Warren writes in her book Prayer in the Night, mystery is “an acknowledgment that the world crackles with possibility because it is steeped in the shocking and unpredictable presence of God.” 

The stories we encounter in the Scriptures read during Advent invite us to revisit the mysteries of the Faith. We’ve become accustomed to the stories of Christ’s birth as well as others in Scripture like the miracles of Mark 6, but Advent allows us the opportunity to be necessarily startled, to experience the glorious gift of holy terror. I’m not wishing for the mysteries of Scripture to scare us like a specter, but I am hoping that we would not barrel past them, either. The Annunciation was amazing. The Incarnation is incredible. The star which foretold our Savior must have been a stupefying, spectacular, stunning sight in the sky. The stories of Advent make it clear that human beings have never been in control, but this is not bad news. In fact, it is the capital G, capital N Good News — a beam of bright hope in this Advent season. 

The mysterious God I’m getting to know better this Advent is the same one who met Moses in a cleft and encountered Elijah with a whisper. He fed crowds with crumbs and stilled the wind with a wave. “Don’t be afraid,” he says. “Take courage! I am here.” And perhaps most mysteriously and miraculously of all, his passing by has proved the promise to be true; he really is “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” He is Immanuel: God with us.  

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