Perhaps my emotional response can be attributed to the weight of our accumulated reality of our times—the bloated, blundering leadership of a once-great nation, the accelerating demise of public civility, rampant accusations of sexual abuse (and the seemingly little impact they are having on the culture that nurtures those actions), the reality of gang violence and mass shootings, carjackings as close as the corner bank, the bludgeoning the gospel is taking from noisy people on the right, on the left, and across the academy, the opioid crisis in many places and the teen suicide crisis in others—the list goes on. (And that’s just in one part of the First World.) I know our global situation is no worse in this year than it has ever been, and far better than it was the night the Word became flesh and began his dwelling among us. But it is our reality—our dogged daily reminder of the depravity and desperation of a world that is largely ignorant of or allergic to its Savior.
Or, my response might be to the tenacious truth of the gospel itself: the Word did become flesh, and the world is being redeemed. The good news is true; it determines the liturgy of Advent. Not that I’ve doubted any of this before, but perhaps this season I am experiencing (and desiring to share) more of what C. S. Lewis called “the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.” Maybe it’s the sympathetic resonance of the gospel—the Truth behind the truth of the birth we celebrate, the glory about which we sing, the shalom, the endless bliss, the Love that rules the universe above, that is becoming more tangible this year, the Light made brighter by the darkness. After all, Lewis went on to say:
Apparently, then, our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. And to be at last summoned inside would be both glory and honour beyond all our merits and also the healing of that old ache” (from The Weight of Glory).
Who knows?
In the end of the day, whatever the trigger, I am deeply thankful for the opportunity to weep when we sing this text this year. Perhaps it is part of the stirring of a deeper spiritual healing. If so, I’ll take it—and pray the same for you. Something, somewhere, amid the lyrics and liturgy of Advent needs to catch all of us off guard with its beauty, its clarity, or the profound simplicity of its gospel message. When that happens, we dare not be afraid to weep at the marvel of that night—it is, most likely, a teasing taste of what we miss.
This article on the liturgy of Advent originally appeared here, and is used by the author’s kind permission.
