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
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