Who Moved my Advent?

It's the time of year set aside by many Christians for preparation for the great feast that marks the Incarnation of Christ, that wondrous prelude to salvation, when humanity and divinity were joined for time and eternity in the God-man. It's also, however, the time that our culture has set aside for catastrophic damage to our personal finances and excess of pretty much every sort, in order to bring homage to the deities of consumerism and commerce.

These two seasons do have one thing in common, I suppose (beyond convergence on the calendar): sacrifice. Okay, I will grant that one expects you to sacrifice your passions for the sake of your soul, and the other wants you to sacrifice your soul for the sake of your passions, but who has time to quibble over the details when there's so much fun to be had?

I'll be the first to admit that my observance of Advent this year has been far from the pious ideal. I can, sadly, claim to have spent more time preparing my home for the feast (hanging lights and garlands, making wreaths, buying and wrapping presents and baking goodies) than I have preparing my heart for the coming Messiah. Still, I feel a sort of righteous indignation over our collective state of affairs. It's so easy to lose track of Advent. So, I want to know: who moved my Advent, and where did they put it?

This season has meant different things to me throughout my life. As a child, I was delighted by the small Advent calendars we had most years. Each day brought a previously closed door that I could open, behind which I would find a picture or a verse, or in especially decadent times, a bit of chocolate. Those little daily openings helped me to mark the time as we approached the morning with the grand unveiling of big gifts, all in remembrance of the greatest gift of all. It was not the most elevated of practices, perhaps, but it still created a sort of journey to the Christ child, not unlike that of the Wisemen who lauded the child born of Mary two millennia ago.

When I became older and a bit more theologically and practically adventurous (at least by Baptist standards), I encountered the Advent of wreaths and readings and fasting and alms-giving. This was a different experience from the joyful December of my youth, because rather than celebrating for the duration, which had been wonderful in its own way, the focus shifted to somewhat more sober and somber preparation for most of the month, and celebration for several days after December 25. I came to really love this approach. I mean, it made sense to me somehow.

Babies don't just pop into the world without warning, which is a very good thing. Families have the better part of 9 months to "prepare him room" - cleaning the house, rearranging the furniture, buying the clothes and diapers and bottles and blankets and preparing the household to deal with complete transformation: finances, lifestyle, sleeping patterns, eating, work, routines, exercise... just everything! Responsible parents don't expect baby to coexist with all of the refuse of childless adult life--they make the home welcoming and safe for the baby, and they give up many of the things, good and bad, that marked life before baby.

If the miracle of a simple human baby stirs up that much excitement, surely the arrival of the King of Heaven merits some preparation, especially since the change He offers the household of faith is every bit as miraculous as His Virgin birth. He will, given free rein in a heart, turn it inside out and fill it with purity, newness and joy... much as a new baby does for a family home.

After my conversion to Orthodoxy in my early 20s and then my eventual transition into Eastern rite practice, Advent took on a still different color. Suddenly I was exposed to new hymns and services, and another decidedly old, yet very new, way to mark the coming of Christ. Again, Advent was set aside, hallowed as time for preparation and quiet joyful remembrance. The manger is filled with fresh hay. The stalls of the animals are mucked out. The caves of our hearts are opened to the light of His glory, and he is invited to come again to dwell with us, with angelic songs. God with us, Emmanuel.

This year, I sit here and wonder. Who moved my Advent? When did the dates get mixed up on the calendar? Why did all Hallow's eve mark the beginning of the time of preparation for Black Friday, the most holy of days in the church of commerce and the temple of consumerism? And when did I buy in?

Advent? Are you there?

I, too, have been consumed.

Where is Advent, if not in our hearts? That is where we prepare Him room. If Advent moved out of mine, it is only because I crowded it out with all of the fun of what Christmas has become in my life. I love the concerts, the lights. I love the trees, the smells. I love the music, the pageantry. I love the gifts, the sharing. I love the foods, the richness. And, indeed, I should, because these things are all good gifts from God. But I have spent so much time reveling in the gifts, that I have neglected the Giver. I've broken out the champagne before he has even arrived at the door, and I've ripped open the packages under the tree... I hope he doesn't mind if I nibble on the hors d'oeuvres while I wait. Oh, and wow! That cake looks divine! Just a little slice, maybe, back here where nobody will notice...

O, come Emmanuel, and ransom my captive heart.