Finding Meaning in Advent's Quietness

In my early days as a pastor, I had too much theological education and not enough time in the real world of the church. I tried (unsuccessfully) to get my congregation to hold off celebrating Christmas until it was actually Christmas!

On a church calendar, these weeks are called Advent, a time of waiting and reflecting on the coming of God into the world in a whole new way. I had hoped that church could be a refuge from hectic socializing, mandatory gifting and enforced merriment. I hoped my congregants would learn to appreciate the gathering darkness outside and reflect on where and how darkness touched their lives and where they needed light to shine.

During Advent, the light comes slowly and purposefully as each one of the purple candles is lit each week. The one white candle in the center of the wreath waits for that moment on Christmas Eve when the announcement is made that the light of the world has come and darkness cannot overcome it. I find this practice moving and offering a sense of heightened anticipation.

Hymns sung during Advent are quieter and in minor keys. One is “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus,” which talks about delivering people from sin and fear. Another is “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” To my congregations, it had far too many verses (6). I would get the question, “Pastor, can’t we sing something happier? Like ‘Joy to the World’?” I would remind the asker that the full title of that carol is “Joy to the World, the Lord Is Come.” How could we sing it so soon? “It will mean more if we wait,” I would say. 

As a vertically challenged woman in a depressing black robe who preferred purple to red and green, I was no match for Christmas coming to church too soon. The wreaths went up on the doors. The garland with large handmade bows was looped across the chancel. The lights on the tree were lit. Red poinsettias filled every open space. The life-sized manger scene went out on the lawn, complete with baby Jesus in the straw in a wooden crib. “Couldn’t we at least wait to put the baby in the manger until Christmas Eve?” I asked. “But then it would be empty!” was the horrified reply. “Isn’t that the point?” I remarked. Eyes would roll.

No one really wants to hear that these weeks before Christmas are a good time to practice sitting with the darkness. The darkness, paired with cold temperatures for our area, feels pressing, chilling and foreboding. Our discomfort shrieks, “We Need a Little Christmas Right This Very Minute!”

Another view comes from Author Anne LaMott who wrote this week --

Last Sunday, Pastor Charlie at Memorial United Methodist inaugurated us into this season of darkness and waiting. Speaking from his own experience, he talked about hopes dashed and dreams denied. From my vantage position in the choir loft, I could see the expectant faces, filled with emotion from their own experiences. "Where do we go from here?" their faces asked. Just then, he swept his arm toward the communion table on which sat the wreath with just one purple candle burning bright. "There it is!" he exclaimed.

That one brave light was the symbol of our hope. It was alive and persistent in the face of darkness, just like each one of us can be. Let’s not let the outward trappings of Christmas come too soon and block our access to the hope this season promises to bring. Each week, let us allow more light to emerge and help us see that darkness cannot overcome the light in each and every one of us.