On Advent
Popular culture does not do the Advent season particularly well. We’re not encouraged to prepare for Christmas in quiet stillness, straining to hear the voice crying from the wilderness. In fact, such voices get drowned out by blaring Christmas pop music and beeping cash registers. We tend to fill this season with more busyness than most of us can manage.
The quiet darkness of Advent is resisted at all costs.
For the record, I am literally listening to Christmas music with gingerbread in the oven as I write this. I am not a Grinch. I just believe that Advent should have its place too.
One of my favorite teachers, the garden, is a strict observer of Advent. Short days and cooler temperatures compel the plants to slow or stop growth for a period of time. Leaves have fallen, seeds are scattered, and the work of the growing season is complete. The garden rests in the quiet darkness.
Lighting the traditional Advent wreath is an acknowledgement of that darkness. We are also invited to slow and stop. Rest and reflect.
Lighting the first purple candle calls us to Hope, knowing that this long darkness is not lasting.
I hope we see snow this winter, sigh many children in the Southern US. Hope is more than wishful thinking. The child who hopes for snow can see it clearly, the hill by her house, dazzling white and ready to be slid down. She can feel the thrill of an unexpected day off from school, and the satisfaction of a well-thrown snowball.
In Advent, our hope can be seen just as clearly - laying in a manger. Love born anew on Christmas, ready to be born again in our hearts.
Now is the time to prepare our welcome.