Advent Escape: From Ache to Being Awake
Yesterday was Black Friday—with all that entailed. Millions rushed to stores, both physical and virtual, chasing deals that promised more than savings. “This will complete you. This will make you whole,” the ads blared. It’s a scene we know all too well, one that seems to capture something essential about us—a restless desire for more, a hope that the next thing might finally bring the satisfaction we’re looking for. Watching it all unfold, I couldn’t help but reflect on how deeply this longing runs through us all, and it took me back to a moment in my childhood that first opened my eyes to its evocative truth.
I was in seventh grade, just starting to earn my own money with a paper route—early mornings folding newspapers in the half-light, scuffing up sneakers on long walks, and feeling the weight of earned coins in my pocket. That weight felt like possibility. Independence. Power. On one particular Saturday, I took my earnings and headed to Park Plaza Mall in Oshkosh, Wisconsin—a place that was more than a mall. To a boy like me, it was a temple of wonder, alive with glowing signs, jangling music, and promises so vivid they felt almost sacred.
I had two treasures in mind. First, a pair of walkie-talkies from RadioShack—multi-channel, long-range marvels that I was sure would elevate me to legend status in our neighborhood games of capture the flag. Second, a vinyl album from our beloved music haunt, The Exclusive Company—Escape by Journey, a band whose music seemed to understand every mood of a kid trying to find his place in the world. These weren’t just purchases. They were milestones, declarations, promises of something just out of reach.
But something unexpected happened that day. As I handed over my hard-earned cash, the thrill I’d anticipated faltered, like a song dropping off-key at its crescendo. A veil seemed to lift, offering a fleeting glimpse of a truth so many seemed unable—or unwilling—to see. The walkie-talkies worked perfectly, and Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ and Who’s Crying Now brought the sound of “The Rockin’ Apple”—our regional rock station, WAPL—into my hands whenever I wanted. Yet, an unease began to creep in—a faint hollowness I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t disappointment, exactly, but the nagging realization that, like the refrain of another familiar song, I couldn’t get no satisfaction. It was the first time I began to sense the fleeting nature of material promises, a sobering truth that no possession, no experience, could ever fill the deeper hunger in my soul.
From that moment on, I began to understand that what I thought was a private ache—a small, personal dissatisfaction—was something far greater. It wasn’t just my story; it was the story, the silent thread running through humanity. What began as the thrill of a new purchase—a walkie-talkie or a record album—revealed itself as a universal struggle. The promises of fulfillment, woven into glossy advertisements and whispered through storefront windows, shaped the desires people chased. They didn’t just sell products; they sold the illusion of completion.
As I grew older, I saw how this ache scaled with age and ambition. The toys became more expensive, the pursuits more extravagant, but the hunger remained unchanged—a relentless longing that no possession, no achievement could satisfy. Whether in the rush of Black Friday or the relentless drive to build billion-dollar enterprises, the scope and gravity of this ache were staggering. It wasn’t about condemning purchases or ambition; both have their place. Rather, it was about recognizing the misguided belief that these things, however good, could satisfy the deepest hunger of the soul.
This is the defining rhythm of our age. Beneath all our striving—the holiday sales, the curated Instagram feeds, the relentless pursuit of the next thing—lies the same unspoken longing. We chase the material, the fleeting, all the while yearning for something we can’t quite name, something no deal or device can ever truly deliver. “I want it all… and I want it now,” Queen’s anthem echoes, reflecting a culture that whispers instant gratification is the goal. But in chasing everything now, we lose sight of the eternal “all” our souls were truly made for.
Psychologists call this dopamine’s dance—short bursts of pleasure engineered to keep us hooked. Every notification, every glow of the screen sparks a momentary high, wiring us to crave more. Spiritually, the cost is staggering. The soul, designed for deep communion and eternal purpose, is reduced to chasing fleeting impulses. It’s as if we’ve mistaken the flicker of a candle for the light of the sun. But as Kerry Livgren of Kansas astutely observed, “All we are is dust in the wind.” Even the moments we clutch tightly slip through our fingers, leaving us longing for something greater.
That album, Escape by Journey, held truths I couldn’t fully grasp at the time. Its soaring melodies and evocative lyrics spoke to something deeper than the fleeting satisfaction of my purchases. Now I see it clearly: at the heart of every desire, however fleeting or immaterial, lies a pointer to something eternal. Each yearning, whether for music, possessions, or experiences, echoes a deeper longing for intimacy with God, who made us for Himself.
This Advent offers us an opportunity to reflect on that ache—not as a flaw, but as a sacred signpost. It is a season for reawakening, where our restlessness becomes not captivity to false promises and despair but a journey—a journey toward a deeper encounter with Jesus Christ, in whom alone we find true hope. Advent invites us to escape the hollow promises of our age and rediscover the profound joy of connection—with God, with those we love, and with the eternal purpose for which we were made.
Here is an invitation to heed that call, to embrace the ache as a reminder of the eternal joy that awaits. In doing so, we might finally find the peace for which we so desperately yearn—a peace no mall, algorithm, or fleeting promise can ever deliver. For in Him, and Him alone, our restless hearts find their home.