In Advent, we often think of waiting: waiting for light, for hope, for peace to break into our darkness. The word reveling can feel out of place in that quiet, expectant season. It sounds loud. Excessive. Unrestrained. Something meant for parties, not prayers.
But Advent invites us to reclaim this word.
To revel is not merely to indulge. At its root, it means to delight fully, to be swept up in joy, to abandon ourselves to wonder. It is to lose restraint not in chaos, but in awe.
This season, we are not only called to be still. We are called to be awakened.
We revel in candlelight that pushes back the night, in songs that remember ancient promises, in the startling truth that God did not remain distant but chose to be born into the ordinary. We revel in the brave love of a young mother, the obedience of a quiet carpenter, and the vulnerable cry of a child who would change the story of the world.
Advent is not the absence of celebration; it is the slow unfolding of it.
We revel when we dare to believe that darkness is not final. We revel when we allow ourselves to feel joy before it is complete. We revel when we let anticipation become a form of praise.
This year, may our reveling be holy: not loud for its own sake, but deep with meaning. Not hurried, but rooted in hope. Not careless, but courageous.
We wait — and we revel — because light is coming.
Inner Altar 