Joy & Light
Is it the most wonderful time of the year? Is it, really? According to my personal research, nobody over the age of 13 seems to think so. It was an informal study, but still. Data is data.
Christmas is an odd beast for several reasons, not the least of which being how many details of its modern form are relevant only to the very youngest among us. Santa Claus, for instance. How long is the average length of belief in this mythical character? The first five years of human life? Maybe six? By seven, surely, the kill-joy agents of growing up begin to circle and dubiously ask, “Aren’t you a little old to believe in Santa?”
Yet, culturally speaking, Santa Claus is so central to the Christmas season that there are movies on movies on movies expanding on his narrative and the associated “magic of Christmas” which do not mention any religious context for the holiday, whatsoever.
(I’ll go ahead and slow this roll a moment to assure you that, no, I am not teeing up for a Christ-in-Christmas rant. This essay is not against anything. I have no bone to pick with Santa Claus. Well I do, but that’s a whole other essay and it’s not what you think.)
What I’m driving at is the stark schism between Christmas in childhood and Christmas in adulthood. You can see it so clearly in the eyes of parents as they watch their children tear into gifts with gleeful abandon. It’s a look that is both gratified and hungry; gratified that they have managed to stoke their young ones’ sense of wonder, and for the opportunity to borrow a piece of that wonder for themselves. Hungry, because they can’t get the fullness of that wonder back.
We get older, and the holidays become complicated. The season no longer feels separate and special. The tensions we carry throughout the year, cultural, familial, and personal, still exist in December; and no amount of roasting chestnuts or jingle bells seems to make them disappear. If anything, we become even more aware of our sadness by its aching juxtaposition with a celebration defined by joy.
Cookies, trees, candlelight, and yes: Santa Claus. Anything and everything that reminds us of being too small to look around and realize that “hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.” We bury ourselves in Bing Crosby and stilted stop-motion reindeer. Our traditions become our constants, and we feel a little lost when an element of the ritual is lost. Somebody moves house, a decoration is thrown out, a loved one passes, and suddenly nothing feels right anymore. We lose another piece of Christmas, and we can’t get it back.
This unstable quality of Christmas traditions has been a source of great frustration to me for many years. What shall we do, if even Bing Crosby cannot save us? Where can we turn? Is there any sure way of feeling that the world is right? That Christmastime is, in fact, here?
I believe there is. This essay is on the liturgical season of Advent.
Over the past year, especially the past six months, I have had an increasing interest in High Church practices. Much of this is driven by a wider interest in the full spectrum of scripture-based Christianity, given that I was raised in the narrowly southern evangelical Bible Belt and have little formal knowledge of other denominations’ styles and observances. But even more than that, there is an anciently poignant quality to liturgy that always stirs up in my soul something I can only describe as the kinship among the saints. The outpouring of the Holy Spirit has always been the same, and I can feel Him in the old writings and chants just the same as I do singing Hillsong on Sunday morning. I’m sure this is a very common experience for mature believers, but it’s new to me and my mind is still super blown.
This is in no small part due to the tendency of mainstream American Christianity to fall back on our favorite lifestyle philosophy, Rugged Individualism™. Your faith is between you and God, and everybody else can knock right off. Furthermore, we seem to feel an almost entrepreneurial pressure to walk out this Personal Faith® with avant garde creativity, innovating constantly and imitating no one. It’s an odd thought to us, praying something somebody else has prayed before. Doesn’t that mean throwing out authenticity altogether? And what about all of the things that the Church has been wrong about? Didn’t you know that Jesus wasn’t even born on December 25th?
Hooh, boy. If that isn’t the favorite. Yes, dear friends, Jesus was not born on December 25th. Judging from a few key details, particularly the fact that the infamous shepherds were out with their flocks, it was likely (say it with me!) mid-to-late September. Furthermore, much of what we consider Christmas decorations and traditions were originally associated with pagan winter solstice festivals and became integrated into the Christmas cliche as the religion spread. That’s right, your mistletoe is Celtic magic.
So why are we still doing the whole December 25th thing? We all know it’s wrong, your smug cousin alone has shared enough memes to educate the whole of Western Christianity. Yet here we are again each year, merry and bright as ever. Why is that? This may come as a shock to Cousin Devon, but it turns out the celebration of Jesus’ nativity has absolutely nothing to do with throwing the Lord a dope birthday party. We symbolically celebrate Christ’s coming on the 25th of December because of the liturgical calendar. Advent begins at the start of December, Christmastide begins on the 24th, and Epiphany comes twelve days after. Later on is Lent, and then Easter. It’s an annual rhythm with beginnings in the apostolic age of the first century, and while it certainly has not been permanently fixed, you can hear the echoes of the early believers in every ritual and tradition.
That’s why we do it. Tradition. It’s the way we’ve all been doing it for as long as any of us can remember, so we’re going to keep on doing it. And you know what? That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
The Spirit of God is an amazing Being, always in a perpetual state of renewing and revealing. We see this phenomenon first and foremost applied to scripture, but it also comes into play with the writings, habits, and practices of the Church throughout the ages. Is the liturgical calendar as essential to Christian living as the Bible itself? We’re going to go with, “no.” However, there is a true sacredness to the observances of the saints that, when illuminated by the Spirit, can reach down into our souls and pull heaven that much closer to earth.
For me, at least recently, one of the most powerful aspects of these traditions is the acute awareness that there was a time when they did not exist. We so take for granted being born into a world that has Christmas. The first chapters of Luke are concrete fixtures of our reality, remembered by our parents’ parents being sincerely lisped by Linus under a hand-painted spotlight. Yet they have not always been.
There was a time when being in right relationship to God meant the constant, nationwide striving of a people to remain pure. Since the Fall, this standard was precarious at best; difficult to attain and always temporary. But the Lord saw the hopelessness of His people, and He promised to save them.
“I see Him, but not now;
I behold Him, but not near.
A star will come out of Jacob;
a scepter will rise out of Israel.”
Numbers 24:17
“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
though you are small among the clans of Judah,
out of you will come for Me
One who will be ruler over Israel,
Whose origins are from of old,
from ancient times.”
Micah 5:2
“Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.”
Isaiah 7:14
Immanuel meaning, of course, “God with us.” The Old Testament prophets foretold a king who would bring the presence of God to the world, permanently. The chasm between creation and Creator would finally be closed, and we would once again be whole. The weight of sin, “the yoke that burdens them, the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor,” would be shattered (Isa. 9:4).
For thousands of years, the people waited for this Messiah. For around 450, the Intertestamental Period (“deuterocanonical” for our Catholic and Eastern Orthodox friends), they waited in silence. One can only imagine how disheartening it was, generation after generation, to long for the fulfillment of such a promise: That Emmanuel would come to ransom captive Israel.
And then, all at once, the Son of God appeared.
It began with the angel Gabriel’s visitation to Zechariah, Jesus’ relative, promising a son who would “go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” (Luke 1:17). Less than six months later, Mary received a message from Gabriel as well.
“‘You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call Him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David, and He will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; His kingdom will never end.’”
Luke 1:31-33
The first chapter of Luke is absolutely packed with rejoicing. When Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who was well into her own pregnancy with Jesus’ cousin John, she immediately recognizes that Mary is carrying the Messiah and breaks into praise. Mary responds with a spontaneous song overflowing with delight and awe at God’s faithfulness, recalling the promises made to her ancestors that were now, of all things, being fulfilled through her. Zechariah also sings at the birth of his son John, prophesying over the near arrival of the Savior:
“‘Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel,
because He has come to His people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a horn of salvation for us
in the house of His servant David
(as He said through His holy prophets of long ago).’”
Luke 1:68-70
The time comes for Jesus to be born, and through a bit of bureaucratic inconvenience He is, indeed, born in Bethlehem. An angel appears to nearby shepherds (the ones with the flocks, remember?) and delivers one of the most famous speeches of all time:
“Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.”
Luke 2:10-11
A little later the magi from the east come as well, having read the signs foretold by the prophets that the True King has arrived. Matthew 2:10 says that when they realized they had found Him, they were overjoyed.
When Jesus is brought to be consecrated in the temple, He is met by two elderly prophets: Simeon and Anna. Both had been awaiting the coming of the Savior their entire lives, and both had the incomprehensible privilege of beholding Him with their own eyes and speaking the word of God over Him (Luke 2:22-38).
When we sing about joy coming to the world, this is what we mean. A heart-bursting excitement, an uncontainable hum of delight that all of heaven and nature sings: That Christ had come to make His blessings known, to wipe out the curse of sin and death as far as it is found. These names and phrases can become so familiar to us that we forget that Jesus’ birth changed everything.
“Yet to all who did receive Him, to those who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God— children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.
The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us. We have seen His glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”
John 1:12-14
After years of silence and waiting on a word from God, the Word Himself came to us. After years of striving to reach God through the barrier of the Fall, He broke through the barrier to bring us back, and the first blow was struck in the Great Offensive against Death and Darkness. The age-old anxiety, “How shall we please God?” was answered in the form of a baby born to a no-name girl in a no-name town in a no-name nation, exactly as promised. And thus, the hopes and fears of all the years were indeed met that night, likely in mid-to-late September, in the little town of Bethlehem.
Already the sun is sliding out of sight closer to 5PM than any of us are comfortable with, and every year it seems so hard to believe that it’s happened the same way all the years before. My friends with seasonal depression tuck their heads down and try to ignore the gnawing sense of Not Enough Light. I, too, have found myself struggling through the shorter days. As I drive down the dark road, having only just finished work, the unease bubbles in the back of my throat. I obsessively cycle through everything not done yet, everything that could go wrong, and everything I wish I could get to but know I won’t because the daylight is being steadily stolen away from me. This is what December is like in adulthood: Not enough time, not enough energy, not enough you. The year begins to feel cramped, barren, faded, and used up.
And then we drag into the mix one of the most significant holy days of the entire church year, which again has absolutely nothing to do with when Christ was actually born. It’s easy to become irritated with the current state of affairs. What is the purpose of a chronologically inaccurate celebration blended with pagan rituals and symbols? Does that alone ruin Christmas? Or should we also pile on the indignity of commercialism? The desecrating effects of cultural appropriation? Is there anything of true worthiness left here?
Of course there is.
God has not abandoned Christmas to its cultural assimilation to the American dream, nor has He abandoned it to the encroaching dusk. He is not dead, nor does He sleep. What could be a more fitting setting for us to remember the time before the Messiah’s birth and to look for His second coming than the winter solstice?
“When the wind is coldest, and the sky darkest, we’re invited to experience anew the warmth and light that’s existed all along.”
Amanda Bible Williams
As I wrote in my last essay, Save the Cat!, it’s been my experience that God reveals Himself most perfectly through contrast. How better for us to comprehend the revolutionary moment of the Light entering darkness than to endure the long winter night? How better for us to truly grasp and rejoice over the truth that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5)
Has not, will not, cannot.
There was a time when all of creation was cramped, barren, faded, and used up; and then, all at once, a thrill of hope. Glad tidings and great joy. Unto us, a Savior was born. And now, every December, we can all gather together around this Light of the World to celebrate His arrival and anticipate His return.
And this is why I have come to dearly love the Advent season. It’s a time of hope and wonder, of leaning into the thin places where eternity draws close. It’s a vital exercise in gratefulness and awe. It’s a much-needed touchstone of familiarity, of comfort and joy. The beauty of Advent, and the liturgical calendar at large, is the gentle rhythm of remembrance and renewal. When seen in the right light, the True Light, traditions are our way home.
As I drive through the deepening blue of winter twilight, I no longer see the dark. I see the lights shining through it, and I can feel it in my soul. A thrill of hope. A spark of joy. A jolt of anticipation.
O come, o come Emmanuel.
- Kyle