2019 A.D.

Here it is, on New Year's Eve, and I am home, in pajamas, not quite alone, but functionally so as I tidy up the aftermath of Saturday's Christmas celebration with my in-laws and my husband does whatever he's doing upstairs. Our 12 year old daughter is the only one with plans tonight, and I imagine she is having a grand time with friends, watching movies, eating, and staying up well past her typical bedtime. My aim is to start the new year with a calm, peaceful living room that will look very much like it did before Saturday's festivities. My aim is also to go to bed shortly after midnight, if I make it another hour. The mess tells me I still have an hour to go, so I will probably still be up to see the new year in. Whether I am or not, the 2019 will arrive. It doesn't need pomp and circumstance, it just needs time. With it, though, is a new year in which to declare Christ as Lord. Having just celebrated his birth a week ago, it is time to remember His lordship as we ring in the 2019th year of the reign of our Lord, Jesus Christ. I do not think it coincidental that we mark the passing of time with reference to the birth of Christ, though I think we often forget why we number our years as we do. It is easy to forget, on nights like this that are quiet and dark and cold - it's -7* outside currently - that we are in the midst of Christmastide, of celebrating the hope that has come and is coming again! As we wait in anticipation of the new year, may we remember that we serve a King who already sits on the throne, whose image is stamped on our souls, whose light shines in the darkness, who is our hope and our peace. Tonight, we celebrate, as people around the world declare that Jesus Christ is Lord with the ringing in of a new year. Tomorrow, we continue looking forward to the day when every tongue confesses that He is Lord. Happy New Year!

New Year's Eve

Of old and new

Of gold and blue

The clock ticks on 

To midnight. 

It feels darker, starker,

But the countdown

Leads to day. 

This eve is like Advent:

A time of waiting

For the hope of something new 

To arrive. 

But advent has gone

And Hope has come

And we are but awaiting 

His name on this eve of 

the 8th day of Christmas.

2019 years it has been

Since He was named

Lord 

of the ages

of Lords

And of Kings

Anno Domini

His sovereignty declared

With each exploding star

In the midnight sky

With each cheer of goodwill

Each twelve stroked kiss

They celebrate 

The past and future 

Coronation of the King

With the ringing in of this

New Year of our Lord. 

On New Year's Eve, Anno Domini, Advent, and Christmastide.

The Battle of Advent

I wrote this poem on the afternoon of December 22nd, while pondering the busyness of the Advent season, even while trying to keep the holiday frenzy at bay. I have yet to figure out how to flip the paradigm from busy Advent and "restful" (i.e. tuckered-out) Christmas, to restful Advent and celebratory Christmas.

I feel like it is a battle to hold the clamor of commercialism at bay, to actually Advent well. A friend and I visited recently and discussed what it would be like to Advent well, to actually sit in the watchful, waiting dark. We bounced around ideas like not decorating until Christmas, or not lighting any lights until Christmas Eve. But the battle rages within me; on the one hand, I love having my decorations up throughout the season and the idea of putting up my decorations on Christmas Eve sounds daunting. On the other hand, it is hard to imagine that the Light has come when we've been enjoying the lights for a month.

And then I think thoughts like... but what if we didn't turn on the Christmas lights or light the candles until Christmas Eve? How would that change the anticipatory feel of Advent? For one, it might magnify the light of the Advent wreath. Instead of it being the only bank of candles we don't light, it would be the only ones we do light, and incrementally at that. The Advent wreath could take center stage on our table, and we can burn the candles during dinner, lighting one more each week. The brightness of the Christ candle would shine forth, then, in a new way on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. It's a thought, with more to follow, I'm sure.

Fast forward a few hours after this poem. We came home from dinner out. I had left a bag by the front door with a bowl to return to my friend, in case she stopped by to pick it up while we were out. Sure enough, the bowl was gone, and in its place was a movie she had borrowed, a wrapped gift, and a book titled The Christmas Plains by Joseph Bottum. She suggested I read chapter 3, especially as it pertained to our discussion about the disappearance of Advent. In the essay, Bottum talks about the consequences of ever-elongated Christmas seasons, beginning now before Thanksgiving. The exponential anticipation of holiday hype leading up to Christmas can't possibly be fulfilled with gifts from the store and a turkey dinner; as the "Advent" season gets brighter and louder and sparklier and busier, Christmas Day becomes anticlimactic. All the magic we'd hoped for is spent on electricity and batteries to power toys that barely distract us in a few days' time. "This is what Advent, rightly kept, would halt --" Bottum says, "the thing, in fact, Advent is designed to prevent. Through all the preparatory readings, through all the genealogical Jesse trees, the somber candles on the wreaths, the vigils, and the hymns, Advent keeps Christmas on Christmas Day: a fulfillment, a perfection and completion, of what had gone before."

It's worth fighting for Advent. It's worth waiting in the dark for the sun to rise, instead of flipping on the lights and pretending it isn't dark outside. If we want to march triumphantly, to journey with the wise men, from Christmas to Epiphany, we must make sure we haven't been led astray during Advent. It's a battle, but I think it's one worth fighting.

Advent is the Battleground

Advent is the battleground

in which we fight to rest.

We hurry to wait

so we can rush fast

the feast of the Nativity

all the while feasting

on cakes and cookies 

and candies and choirs, 

because the artificial twinkle 

lights have swallowed up

the very real dark,

and we have marched

in the triumph

before the battle's begun.

And that is how we lost,

not marching,

but being marched

through the fields in which

we should be fighting,

led without resistance

by those who declare it

a time for rejoicing. 

Repent, for the kingdom of heaven

has come near. 

On the loss of Advent in our culture and the triumphal march of commercialism

Bearing the Light: Saint Lucia Day

Today is Saint Lucia Day. In general, we don't celebrate saint days, but this one... this one feels... different. Maybe it's the Scandinavian heritage passed from my husband to my daughter. Maybe it is the darkest of the dark setting in as we approach the solstice. Maybe it is the beauty of taking what we have and carrying it forth in the light of Christ to share his love with others. Whatever it is, over the past few years this has become a day that we love.

As I revisited the stories about Saint Lucia, I was pondering her name, derived from lux, lucis, meaning "light". It is fitting for her day to be filled with light, not because she is the light, but because she bears the Light before others.



One whose name is also derived from lux means "light bearer" and yet in stark contrast does not bear the light, but seeks to destroy the light. Lucifer was intended to bear the light, but rejected the role he was supposed to play.



Lucia also rejected the role she was supposed to play, dedicating her life to Christ instead of to the dictates of contemporary culture. One is a rejection of Christ for culture in order to gain glory, the other is a rejection of culture for Christ, for His glory. I think there is more to ponder here.



Both Lucia and Lucifer share a common linguistic root, and with that playing through my head this Advent season, a time of dark and light, anticipating life and death, these are my thoughts (in draft)...

Luci(fer)

Whose name means light

but bears the light

Is not the light

But steps with light, quick feet

to bring light

and hope

and abundance

to those whose is waning

like the afternoon sun

like the lifeless walls 

of the tombs they indwell

dead inside

and outside

dark outside

and inside

but light

and life!

survive.

Whose name bears light

But means the light 

To not be light

And uses light and heavy hands

To twist light

Into darkness

And lack

To steal rest from the weary

With sleepless nights 

And busy days

That trade life for death

Empty inside

And outside

Sepulchral outside 

And inside 

To overcome life

And light

But can’t. 

The Light... comes

and with it, Hope

and Abundance

Grace and Peace

and Joy and Love

and death

and life.

And light

Shines. 

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. 

On Saint Lucia and Lucifer and Christ, who is the Light of the world. 

On Striving and Sabbath

Sometimes I wake up 

with plans 

for all I will accomplish, 

and what I am given

is a body 

in need of rest. 

All is gift.

O joyous reminders 

to stop working in 

my own strength,

to let the One 

who began the work

work in me. 

All of my strivings, 

all that comes from me

is all for naught, 

if I do not rest in Thee. 

On pondering RA, rest, my strivings, and the Sabbath.

Ladies in Waiting

Tomorrow begins Advent. This morning I lit incense instead of the Christ candle in the front hall. I pulled out the advent devotional we are reading as a church and read this:

It was fitting, because just last night, after an afternoon making liturgical bracelets and discussing Sabbath with a dear friend, I was pondering what it is to imagine the kingdom, even as we wait for the king. As thoughts swirled around in my head, I was drawn to Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return as the Church waits for Christ’s return as a bride waits for her bridegroom. Though not yet polished, these are my thoughts from last night... 

Ladies in Waiting 

Which of these ladies is waiting for me?

Asks the Bridegroom on his long journey home. 

Only the Bride keeps her lamp well lit.

Only the Bride holds her suitors at bay. 

The rest say they're waiting, 

but they're eating and drinking. 

They sing and they dance and they sleep

while she waits.

They stay in my kingdom

but it's not their home. 

I built it for her, for my Bride, for my Love,

A refuge for her, 

a shadow and promise of what is to come,

of a future secured,

a life that is shared.

So she waits

and hopes

and dreams

about what it will be like to share the fullness of this kingdom

with me, when I return,

when I remove the suitors

who are squandering the gifts

I left for her to enjoy.

Her ladies in waiting tell her I am long gone,

that I never really loved her,

or that I died, and there's no returning from the dead. 

But they are not waiting,

they're just biding their time. 

No hope for the future,

they hunger for now.

They eat the seeds instead of waiting for fruit,

settling for winter instead of longing for spring.

They use the oil instead of lighting the lamp. 

"Look how my skin glows!"

They say in the dark.  

"Can we use your oil, too?" They ask.

"What do you have for us?"

"Join us," they say, "make yourself pretty, too!

The Bridegroom will like you better that way!

(if he comes)"

But she does not listen

for she knows I am coming

and beauty is faithfulness

not skin that might glisten.

So she keeps her lamp lit

and her eyes on the horizon,

weaving and waiting,

waiting, and weaving,

not a funeral shroud, or a garment for mourning

but wedding clothes she will wear in the morning,

when the lamp is not needed to get through the night,

when the day breaks forth in glorious light

and we are home, together. 

Penelope, the Church, the Wise Virgins, and Advent