A Hope Carol

 A night was near, a day was near;
  Between a day and night
I heard sweet voices calling clear,
    Calling me:
I heard a whirr of wing on wing,
  But could not see the sight;
I long to see my birds that sing,—
    I long to see.

In "A Hope Carol," Christina Rossetti sings the twilight hopes of Advent. The speaker finds herself in half-light, where ordinary time no longer makes sense: day and night approach at once. The voices she hears--winged voices, heralding joy--are "clear" but invisible. 

I can think of no more fitting poem for the final hours of Advent. We have heard from Scriptures, carols, prophecies, and traditions that joy has come, comes now, and will come again, but what we see so often argues against our hopes. We hear, but we long to see.

Below the stars, beyond the moon,
  Between the night and day,
I heard a rising falling tune
    Calling me:
I long to see the pipes and strings
  Whereon such minstrels play;
I long to see each face that sings,—
    I long to see. 

"Below the stars, beyond the moon" -- now space cavorts and shifts, making room for something that sounds like a fairy tale, or a gospel. The "rising fall tune" is sanguine but not naive, mournful but not despairing. And it calls. It calls us not to some generalized goodwill, but to a desire for intimate and particular love: we long to see "each face that sings."

To-day or may be not to-day,
  To-night or not to-night;
All voices that command or pray,
    Calling me,
Shall kindle in my soul such fire,
  And in my eyes such light,
That I shall see that heart’s desire
    I long to see.

At Advent, when my longing for a cozy vacation seems at odds with my desire for revelation, when I know that I long for Christ but can't imagine what his coming will actually mean, I take comfort in Rossetti's ability to set hope in resonance with uncertainty. But no, not uncertainty: with space, waiting, humility, silence?  She does not doubt that vision will come; she does not doubt that she will see, but she cannot name "that heart's desire." She concludes with her refrain, "I long to see" -- the same refrain we have heard from Simeon, from Anna, and from a thousand other mighty and minor prophets. 

Some days I boast precise visions of how the Incarnation ought to change the world. I grasp hold of programs, doctrines, or theories that seem to fit with my interpretation of Christ's words and ministry. These programs can be good, for they are, like church-buildings, man-made places to work for the glory of God. Such structures can be beautiful, effective, and holy.  In these last hours of Advent, I am spending time with my sister Rossetti. She has become one of the the "voices that command or pray, / Calling me." 

She calls me to step out into the cold twilight, to walk toward a place "Below the stars, beyond the moon," and to watch for the light.

If you are weary

"Can I come?"

We asked my friends, her parents, and they nodded: twenty minutes until supper, and the sun slipping down toward a hundred bays and bayous.

Out the door, across the road, under a quarter moon. "There's Venus," she said, pointing above the pines. My little hound leaped toward the bright planet, straining at the leash.

"Let's run!" and off we romped, careening across the field, toward the tree line, then back again, to the edge of the creek, running faster even as the light faded.

"Hello!" she called up the loving planet, as though inviting the wandering star to run with us. We circled and ran and galloped until we tumbled to the grass, even the puppy panting to stop.

"It is good to sit on the grass and look upon the moon," she said. "It's good," I said.

"Teach me something," I said, and so she told me about the planets (how one is tilted, how early observers thought this one was a comet), and about the moon that changes with such constancy.

Before going inside, we took one more run, round the trees in a crazy orbit, and then I took her home.

If you are weary, go run with a six-year-old who has braids down her back and stars in her eyes. Go, take the hound and leave the work and romp under the waxing moon. Laugh in the cold air until your lungs hurt. Then take the child home, promise to come back with a new story to read, and turn toward your own house.

Remember, as you walk, that this this is advent, season of hope, and of peace, and of waiting. Ponder what it means to wait, and wonder what it is your heart hopes to see.  Look up. Find that planet "kindling love in man," and smile to see she's running home with you.

Waiting with joy

"We'll arrive in two more hours!" My friend Kt sent me this text message a few minutes ago, letting me know that she and her husband Wyatt would be arriving soon. Several of my Texas friends have families to visit in Florida, and Alabama makes a perfect halfway-haven. Yesterday I spent all day looking forward to the arrival of Amanda, Zachary, and Baby Lily; today I've been receiving frequent updates as Kt and Wyatt draw near (Wyatt sent the best so far: "Over the river & through the woods / To Bethany's house we go!).

Yesterday was also the third Sunday of Advent: the Sunday when most churches light a rose-colored or blue candle, its color a symbol of joy in the midst of a penitential season. Many liturgies call this Sunday "Gaudete" Sunday -- "gaudete" is a Latin imperative, meaning "Y'all rejoice!" The coincidence of personal and liturgical expectation has set me pondering what it means to rejoice as we wait.

My parents named me "Joy" (it is my middle name), and my teachers trained me to be a scholar, so this morning I curled up with a thick volume of Kittel's Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. (My college boyfriend gave me the entire 10-volume set for Christmas one year. That, and a harp. But that's a story for another entry). At first I thought I should look up χαίρω. This verb means "I rejoice" and appears in familiar Bible verses such as Philippians 4:4-6, a passage often used on Gaudete Sunday. However, as I looked at my Greek New Testament, I realized that of all the times "joy" appears in the New Testament,  it appears most often in Luke, and Luke uses a different word. In Luke 1, Zechariah, Elizabeth, and Mary receive astounding promises: they all learn of children--their children--whose coming will be a cause for joy. The verb for "rejoice" or "be joyful" in these passages is αγάλλομαι. Stick with me now, because I learned some fascinating (and practical) things about joy from this word.

Kittel's notes, first of all, that the verb αγάλλομαι is a "new construct" derived from an older Greek word that means "to make resplendent, to adorn," and the new word builds on its source, meaning "to adorn oneself," and even "to be proud."  Aγάλλομαι only appears in Biblical language (both the Septuagint and New Testament) and in early Christian writings. Unlike χαίρω, which appears in Greek texts throughout the ancient world, and which can refer to many kinds of merriment, αγάλλομαι never loses its religious connotations, always meaning "joy in God or joy before Him." Perhaps most fascinatingly, αγάλλομαι refers to joy in both the present and future; faith makes future joy real in the present. And finally, even individual joy--such as Elizabeth's delight in finally conceiving a child--is always eschatological and communal: my joy will be bone-shakingly real to me, but is also yours as it looks forward to the full redemption Christ brings.

My fellow word-nerds probably enjoyed that lesson in etymology, but what does all that Greek say about how I can practice the joyful expectation of Advent? Here are a few thoughts, which I have derived both from Herr Kittel and from the experience of waiting for my beloved friends to reach my door:

* I adorn myself and my life in order to demonstrate my joyful hope.  As I wait for friends, I make sure that my rooms are in order, that the lights on the Christmas tree are shining. I put on a favorite shirt and brush my hair. Even before my friends arrive, I will show that I am about to participate in something wonderful.  As I wait for Christmas, I hang symbols of hope on a tiny tree, inviting all who enter to read evergreen signs that foretell unending joy.

* I allow the joy-that-is-coming to direct my work and ways. Because I am confident that Kt and Wyatt will come, I have set dough rising for bread. The smell and texture of that food--already good, but not yet ready to eat--remind me of what will come. Similarly, because I know that Christ has come, comes now, and will come again, I strive to reorient my life according to that arrival. For this reason I went to grad school and spent six years learning to lead others toward the love of wisdom, rather than plunging into a more lucrative profession.

* I use language that sets my joy apart from the world's happiness. This one is hard, much more than a reluctance to curse or swear. It is grace, seasoned with salt. Paradox instead of proposition. Stories that speak otherwise. Handwritten letters. I long for the day when creation ceases to groan and begins to sing. I long for the day when language doesn't falter before truth, but until that day, I can try to make language dance even as it stumbles.

* I consider my joy to belong to all who are called by Christ's name, and I remember that we are waiting together. If my brothers and sisters cannot share my joy, or question it, then I must mistrust it, too, and call it happy-pretty-something-or-other, but not joy, not Advent, not Christmas. I ask, "How might my wealth, my tranquility, my strength add stones to the roads in the Kingdom of God?"  Whether I wait for a train, a friend, or a messiah, good company takes so much sorrow out of the delay.

In many ways, my life right now is like the third Sunday of Advent. After years of wondering if I would ever finish my PhD, my life has turned into a tall rose-colored candle. I recognize that I do not, cannot, yet enjoy all the things I am waiting for in this world or the world to come. Nevertheless, this Advent balances so much of the agonized, uncertain waiting I experienced last year. Waiting is hard, and darkness often threatens to snuff out the pink candle along with all good lights. But for those of us who have new words for "joy," there is no fear that the dark will overwhelm our hope. The darkness has never comprehended the light, and for this reason, above all, we wait with joy.

Waiting with joy. 

Most of us have experienced difficult times of waiting, but can you think of a time you were able to wait for something with joy? 

Advent Decorations, Part 1

Last week I wrote about my decision not to put up my Christmas tree immediately after Thanksgiving (read all about it here), but I wouldn't want anyone to think that I object to decorations per se. Rather, I love having little elements to signal the natural, academic, or Christian seasons of my home. This weekend, in honor of Advent, I did introduce some new elements to my house. First, the Advent wreath, which I used yesterday to welcome the first Sunday of Advent.

While I live here, Advent will be "the season in which I don't use my record player." 

I also brought out my nativity scene, but its arrangement represents my efforts to approach Christmas slowly and thoughtfully.

Can you guess what's missing?

The angel has delivered divine messages to Mary and Joseph, while the shepherd remains occupied with his flock. 

The Magi will spend several more weeks journeying from afar--at the moment they are
in the exotic land of Greek mythology and Arthurian legend. 

That's all for now. The tree will come up soon: probably this Saturday evening in preparation for the second Sunday of Advent. I've never done decorations like this before. Usually I pull all my ornaments and other Christmas things at once, but I am enjoying this experiment. It feels less like swallowing a whole bag of candy at once, and more like savoring a deep, warm cup of cider

How do you decorate for Christmas? Does everything go up at once, or do you bring things out slowly? 

Hoping for Advent

My Texas church welcomed Advent in a beautifully Baptist sort of way: on the first Sunday of Advent we would have a potluck lunch, followed by Advent-wreath making in the fellowship hall. Cutting and arranging juniper branches with friends became a time of hope and reflection even during the most busy doctoral semesters. Sunday morning worship would include a time of lighting and discussing a candle from the church's large wreath, and many years the sermons during Advent would follow the lectionary texts used by our high-church kindred.

Celebrated in this way, Advent slowed the season down for me, encouraged me to study church history, turned my eyes to familiar passages of Scripture, and prepared my heart for Christmas.

The church I've been attending in Alabama has many virtues--hospitality, generosity, concern for the poor, active missions efforts--but overall it shows about as much awareness of church history as a shopping mall. Consequently, I've been pondering how to keep the season without the support of a local congregation.

When some late (but all the more serendipitous) graduation money came to me in the mail last month, I decided that I would buy a beautiful Advent wreath. I found one from Abbey Press, which is housed at the beautiful archabbey of St. Meinrad in southern Indiana. It arrived the week of Thanksgiving, and on Saturday I covered my turntable with a green cloth, placed the wreath there, and filled it with holly from the bush that grows outside my office.

Sunday morning I followed the morning readings from Common Prayer, but I set aside the last hour of my day to welcome the first Sunday of Advent. I made myself a little order of service (which you can read here), turned down the lights, and read through the daily reading from Watch for the Light, then Isaiah 9, then the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. I asked God to teach me how to keep my lamp trimmed and burning, how to make sure my oil was ready for the Lord's coming.

Finally, I stood before my wreath and sang "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" while I lit the first candle, the candle representing hope. For an instant, I felt terribly alone in my private Advent hour: pitiful, even, with my quavering voice and makeshift liturgy. I missed the friends whose voices have caroled that with me for the last six years.

Strange to say, that loneliness washed over me like a wave, passing quickly and leaving me clean: so clean, swept free from distractions or uncertainties. Advent, I realized, belongs to those "who mourn in lonely exile here, until the Son of God appear." I do not mean that I feel in exile in Alabama -- hardly so. However, that salt tang of that sorrow reminded me that my hope as a Christian should answer creation's exile, and that this season should revive my dedication to impossible prayers: prayers that a beloved skeptic would return to the faith, prayers for all the lonely adults in our hyper-individualized culture, prayers for reconciliation among denominations, prayers for revival in North Korea and jubilee in Iran.

I let the candle burn for nearly an hour. With the house lights off, I sat in my favorite chair and watched the candle shine. Its light sang my own words back to me: "Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...."

Exchanging anticlimax for hope

"Anticlimactic."  My fourth-grade teacher used this word to answer a question I posed, with some urgency, when I was ten years old. "What do you call it," I had asked, "when you look forward to something with all your heart, and then it isn't as good as you imagined?"

I asked this question with reference to Christmas. As a child, I would have told you that Christmas was my favorite time of year, but really, I loved everything about Christmas except the actual calendar days deemed "the holiday season." Beginning in July, I would count down the days until December 25, and from the age of six until I was ten or eleven, I recorded multi-hour Christmas "radio" programs on cassette tapes. I pored over children's biographies of Saint Nicholas, read about Christmas customs in foreign lands, and memorized the lyric to every carol I could find. However, the actual observance of Christmas rarely satisfied my hopes for the holiday. I often felt that the Christmas I imagined--a world of starlight and midnight journeys and strange friends--existed in a realm of time that eluded my December 25 countdown. A similar feeling hit me in college, when I realized that I only used the word "home" to designate elsewheres--places I was not.

My Yuletide discontent is hardly unique, but it lies behind the practical decision I decided to share with you all tonight. I have decided, for the first time in my life, not to decorate a Christmas tree.

Oh, it will go up eventually, but I am forestalling my typical Thanksgiving-is-over-let's-have-Christmas customs. Thanksgiving came unusually early this year, so early that the Sunday following is not even the first Sunday in Advent according to the liturgical year. Even if Thanksgiving were later, however, I would be waiting to put up my tree for the sake of experiencing Advent.

For several years I have been trying to understand what Advent means, and how observing it might enrich our celebration of Christmas by curtailing the annual surfeit of trees-lights-films-and-fa-la-la.

No tree yet.

A Baptist born and bred, I first heard of Advent in high school, when I discovered Plough Publishing's semi-annual reader. They published readings from writers throughout Christian history who delved into Advent as a time of expectation and repentance--two essential conditions for joy. (The best of these reading were later published in Plough's wonderful anthology Watch for the Light). It was not until last year, however, that I realized how precious this season of consecrated waiting could be (read those reflections here). I was waiting for job news, waiting to finish my dissertation, waiting to see what vision I might rightfully build for the next season of my life.

This year, I am happy in a wonderful job, finished with my dissertation, and, most days, waiting for nothing more urgent than a letter from a friend. Nevertheless, I am praying for ways to be intentional in my celebration of Advent. Delaying the appearance of my Christmas tree might seem like a small act of defiance, but my hope for this little sacrifice is strong.

I enjoyed the privilege of growing up without Daylight Savings Time (thanks, Indiana), and even after ten years I still despise being jolted from one season to the next with the time changes. I miss the gradual descent of the sun toward the winter solstice, and the slow lengthening of days throughout the spring. In the same way, I do not wish to fling myself from one holiday to another. I still have spiced pork and maple pie from Thanksgiving to enjoy. The pear trees are more intensely vermillion this week than last -- why must I hurry into mass-produced visions of a Currier & Ives December?

And so my window displays no tree -- not yet. I will deck my halls, but slowly, and with care. Next Sunday the Advent wreath will come out, and perhaps I will cut a sprig of holly from the bush outside my office. Then the crèche (but the magi must stay across the room until Epiphany). Then the music: first "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," with triumphant carols waiting just a little longer.

When I watch for Advent in this way, resisting rushed and reckless merriment, Christmas no long disappoints my visions. Rather, attending to Advent reminds me that every day of our terrestrial calendars--including December 25--is part of the universe's long winter, and that all creation still moans, waiting for its full redemption.

Are you from a religious tradition that observes Advent? What, if anything, do you do to make the weeks preceding Christmas a time of repentance and expectation?

Handed Down and Made by Hand

"Why do we give gifts at Christmas?" My friend Dustin asked this question as he led discussion in Sunday School this week. During Advent, our church has been studying the Advent Conspiracy, a campaign that calls Christians to make Christmas celebrations vivid and effective testaments to the Gospel. (Click here for the Conspiracy's most recent promo video). The tenets of the Advent Conspiracy are that we should "Worship Fully, Spend Less, Give More, and Love All" in ways that counter the glut of money, time, and anxiety most Americans spend on Christmas presents.

As our Sunday School class discussed ways to live out these ideals, I spoke about the gifts my parents used to make for me. In response to my recent post about traditions, many of you wrote that making Christmas presents helps you celebrate. As a child, my favorite gifts were things my mother or father made for me. The first Christmas I can remember, I awoke to a toy kitchen my father had built. Often, I would catch hints of these projects during the months leading up to Christmas. From a time before I was old enough to see over the kitchen table, I can remember marveling at the pieces of fabric and yarn that would eventually become Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. Years later, I would sneak into the basement to peek at the doll's trunk my father was building, or I might catch a glimpse of calico that would somehow become a little dress by Christmas morning.

Making or buying handmade gifts certainly answers some of the Advent Conspiracy's calls. By making gifts for me, my parents spent far less money than most American parents, yet they gave me gifts I will always treasure for the time, care, and thoughtfulness they required.

Homemade, matching nightgowns, so Bethany can be just like Mama, 1987.

However, these happy reflections didn't quite answer Dustin's question. Can making gifts teach me about worship?  Can any kind of Christmas gift-giving help us experience and proclaim the Incarnation?

 Before I had an answer to these more difficult questions,  Jeremy spoke up from across the room. "I think giving gifts can teach us about the Incarnation," he said. "Ideally, any Christmas gift should remind us that Christ's willingness to live among us was a gift. But think about Bethany's story -- she saw signs of the gift long before it came. From the hints and signs in her house, she learned that good was coming, and that one day those bits and pieces would become something wonderful because her parents loved her. Maybe that's one way giving gifts can teach us about Christmas -- by reminding us that something more is coming from one who loves us."

The more I think about Dustin's question, the more I like Jeremy's answer.  Making a gift for someone requires the kind of love that God has for us: I should know the colors that catch her eye, the shape that will suit him best. I should notice that she shivers on our evening walks, or that he always plays that certain song after long days. Once I have found a need or desire I have the power to fulfill, I look for the finest materials and select the most skillful pattern. Then I work in secret, anxious to fill my friend with joy, but waiting for the proper season. Once finished and given, these gifts are one small way I can send some of myself with my friends--all so scattered and far. The gifts I make are signs of my hope that busy schedules and long miles will one day pass away, and we can enjoy all our work and rest side by side. Unlike God, I don't have the power the make that hope reality. However, the love that grounds the desire is divine.

Jackie learned the pattern as a girl in France.

This Christmas, I have scores of ideas for gifts that can help us recognize aspects of God's creative, generous image within us. However, some of my readers will soon be recipients of these gifts, and so I will save most of those ideas for the new year. Instead, I will share one project idea that is going to someone I am sure does not read this blog.

This gift is a pair of knitted slippers. I love knitting, in large part because it leaves the mind open for conversation or prayer. I transcribed the pattern from Jackie, my surrogate "grandma." Jackie came to America from France in the 1940s, and each Christmas I look forward to receiving a cup of tea and an hour of stories from her. I am excited to share this pattern with you because it could be the emblem for these ruminations of handmade gifts. Jackie once gave me a pair of these slippers, and I wrote the pattern down at her kitchen table last December. My notes, a strange composite of English and French, provide a very rough prophecy for the warmth the actual slippers will provide, and I love the idea that I am passing the pattern to you as it was passed down to me.

You can find the pattern by clicking here for Grandma Jackie's Slippers.

I think it has a rather pleasingly elfin look to it.

 I still have many gifts to finish before Christmas, and sometimes I think how much faster it would be to buy a gift I could put in my friend's hand today. For mere mortals, waiting can be difficult for the giver as much as for the receiver. I hope I am learning that in the patience and waiting it requires, making gifts offers yet another lesson in experiencing the slow hope of Advent.


What is the most meaningful handmade gift you have ever received or have given? Do you think giving gifts at Christmas can teach us anything about the Incarnation?

A Season of Waiting

I have been dreading Christmas this year.  My eight-year-old self would be horrified at such blasphemy; my twenty-eight-year-old self is certainly not pleased to admit how grimly I have watched December's approach.  Ever since I can remember, I have exulted in the approach of the Christmas season. Beginning in kindergarten, I began recording Christmas "radio" shows, complete with carols, special guests, and thrilling dramas about motorcycle gangs (yes: motorcycle gangs. Don't ask me why.).

Living on an academic calendar my entire life only enhanced the inherent joys of Christmas. Before I started school, Christmas marked the season when my parents' lives calmed down for several weeks, and once I entered school, the holiday break provided long and blissful days for listening to Orson Wells narrate A Christmas Carol or hosting Christmas tea parties.

Even grad school, so often an enemy to comfort and joy, has never before jeopardized Christmas. I have endured many sleepless nights finishing seminar papers or grading exams, but by the time Christmas itself comes, I have always been able to leave my work alone for a week or two, at least. Christmas has represented a clean break between semesters.

Why, then, has this year's holiday filled with me such reluctance, even dread? Because for once, I cannot pretend that Christmas is my reward for a semester of superhuman activity. Certainly, I have been working hard--painfully hard, unceasingly hard--on teaching, my dissertation, and job applications. My dissertation is coming along well, but job applications have unsettled me far more than I expected.  Whenever anyone asks me how the process is going, I hear a sanguine voice say something about "exciting prospects" and "trusting God," but somehow I don't sound so chipper when talking to myself. I have sent out more than twenty applications, and now I must wait. Many preliminary interviews for academic positions occur at national Modern Language Association (MLA) Convention at the beginning of January, and not knowing whether or not I will have an interview has been overshadowing my eagerness for Christmas.

Waiting for news about interviews reminds me how many other things I am tired of waiting for: I am tired of waiting for a job that does not require every waking moment, for some sense of where I will be at this time next year, for reconciliation with a friend. 

Always waiting

 Only this week have I recognized the root of my discontent: I refuse to welcome Christmas--the feast of the Incarnation--because I am sick of waiting.  I do not want Christmas to come because I am not ready: I have not worked hard enough, it seems, to earn a fruitful and peaceful Christmas vacation.

Despite my reluctance, I began my traditional holiday reading on Sunday--selections from Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas. The voices the editors of this book gather--from Bonhoeffer, Donne, Hopkins, L'Engle, Romero, and many more--have been my guides toward Christmas for years. Last night, the reading was from Henri Nouwen, and his words made me ashamed of my selfish impatience. After observing that waiting is a very unpopular attitude in our culture, Nouwen writes

...waiting is even more difficult because we are so fearful. One of the most pervasive emotions in the atmosphere around us is fear. [...] Fearful people have a hard time waiting, because when we are afraid we want to get away from where we are. [...] It impresses me, therefore, that all the figures who appear on the first pages of Luke's Gospel are wiating. Zechariah and Elizabeth are waiting. Mary is waiting. Simeon and Anna, who were there at the temple when Jesus was brought in, are waiting. The whole opening scene of the good news is filled with waiting people. And right at the beginning all those people in some way or another hear the words, "Do not be afraid. I have something good to say to you." These words set the tone and the context. Now Zechariah and Elizabeth, Mary, Simeon and Anna are waiting for something new and good to happen to them. (27-29)

This time before Christmas, Advent, calls God's people to wait. Simeon and Anna did not look forward to the coming of the Messiah as something they could accomplish, but as something they waited for God to do. Their role was to wait faithfully and watch carefully, doing the work before them.

I am faithless if I let my own impatience and anxiety deprive me of the joy that comes with Christmas. So I am waiting. So my future is uncertain. So I may not have done "enough." The Word of the Lord has come to dwell among us, and that Word says, "Do not be afraid. Good is coming." Maybe in my life that good will take the form of news about a job interview. Maybe not. Regardless, Nouwen and other messengers-of-the-most-High challenge me to wait in hope, and when Christmas comes, I will remember that this hope is about much, much more than my job prospects or a vacation from school. Freedom from selfishness, salvation from fear, the redemption of all creation--these are hopes much better than anything the MLA could offer.