Like my wreath, this year’s Advent rituals have been non-traditional.
The Advent wreath sits on the dining room table tonight with four candles burning, one for each week of this season, their flames speaking into the darkness that the wait for Christmas and its twelve-day celebration is soon over.
The wreath reminds me of things liturgical that had long been part of my life: communal services and prayers, singing hymns and carols in churches decked with candles and poinsettias, and enjoying coffee, cookies, and conversation after Mass. One year our young family made a wreath and took it to Mass on the first Sunday of Advent where the priest put it on the altar and blessed it. (Full disclosure: He also blessed a lantern battery and two glow-in-the-dark rosaries that my daughters brought along after our impromptu exchange – moments before we had to leave the house – about why Fr. Mario would bless our wreath. But that’s another story.)
This year there are no official liturgical rituals for me. No attending church. No prayers with an in-person community or belting out carols, though I’ll break out my guitar and do some singing.
Virtual gatherings with a couple of groups have become my way of sharing communal prayer. But all in all, my spirit has been directed to more individual contemplative practices. And, when you think of it, rooted in ancient times across cultures and faiths, those practices certainly are traditional: quiet prayer, Lectio Divina, spiritual reading, writing, and most of all, trying to be awake to the Divine Presence that permeates all creation, including us.
The ongoing incarnation—what we celebrate at Christmas—means that whatever we do, wherever we are can be a meaningful encounter with the Sacred.
This isn’t a time to dwell on missing former ways of observing the season that are not possible in pandemic times, but a time to recognize “holy rituals” embedded in the quotidian that can pass unnoticed, untapped for the grace they hold: baking cookies to share; chatting with a cashier, neighbor, or friend; thanking the one who is delivering mail during this stressful season. We can strive to reverence Emmanuel who dwells in all we meet as St. Benedict instructs in his rule: Welcome the stranger as Christ.
The eyes of our hearts can be opened to see Christ among us not only by people we meet, but also by surprising events that break into our lives. That happened for me just as Advent was beginning. An unexpected health issue upended my routine and replaced it with tests and doctor appointments. Instead of Lectio or reading, my primary Advent practice became gratitude: Every morning appreciation for the gift of another day opened my heart. Gratitude for the healing hands and skills of medical staff, gratitude for family who cared for me and friends who supported me.
Once begun, the gratitude practice heightened my attentiveness to the myriad of Good that pours over the world, troubled as it is. Gratitude opens the heart, tenders it. It focuses on good that is life-giving instead of what threatens to diminish it and encourages us to do our part of sharing God’s transforming Love.
No matter the state of the world, Christmas and its season proclaim that God dwells within our hearts and in creation. The universe is always singing praise. Christmas reminds us that our call is not only to draw hope and strength and courage from the incarnate God we encounter in the world, but also to participate in that ongoing incarnation by birthing God into the spaces around us. Into our circle of family and friends. Into our towns and cities. Birthing the healing and loving God into a world reeling from the lack of it.
Tonight, as I sit with Advent wreath candlelight, I am grateful for a God who chooses to live intimately with us, in our hearts, in every bit of creation from atoms to galaxies. I’m grateful for those present and those who have gone before who have shone the bit of Divinity they knew into the world. And, inspired by Howard Thurman’s poem “The Work of Christmas,” I am grateful for being part of the never-ending Christmas story of God-with-us.
The Work of Christmas
By Howard Thurman
When the song of the angels is stilled
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and the princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.
I read this a bit after 11 pm. Beautiful words to ponder and live. Thank you for sharing your deep union with our God.
I’m glad the column spoke to your heart. Have a happy Christmas. Thanks for writing!
Thank you, Mary. As I am alone at my daughter’s house, cat-sitting while she visits her father in Belfast, it would be easy to forget that I am not alone, that Christmas is within me. I will go to Canterbury cathedral this morning, a rare experience, and while I will know no one there, I will share Christmas with many people. Then home for a contemplative day with a good book!
You’re welcome, Olga. I hope you have a quiet, lovely Christmas day. How wonderful to attend the day’s services in Canterbury cathedral!
I am grateful for the many contributions of yours to the never-ending Christmas story of God-with-us! I watched the Mass that took place in my parish and then enjoyed your column and a reminder of the Beatitudes — the BE-attitudes for which I strive. Merry Christmas, Mary!
Pat
Merry Christmas, Pat! I appreciate your take on the BE-attitudes. Thanks for sharing that!
Just lovely, Mary. Enjoyed it so much and you hit our feelings about Christmases past.
I’m glad you enjoyed the column, Judy. Thanks for your comment.
Can’t wait to hear the REST of the story as to WHY Father Mario blessed your wreath! Healing thoughts and love to you.
Thanks, Nancy. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas celebration!
Beautiful writing and reflections. I especially loved this paragraph: “No matter the state of the world, Christmas and its season proclaim that God dwells within our hearts and in creation. The universe is always singing praise. Christmas reminds us that our call is not only to draw hope and strength and courage from the incarnate God we encounter in the world, but also to participate in that ongoing incarnation by birthing God into the spaces around us. Into our circle of family and friends. Into our towns and cities. Birthing the healing and loving God into a world reeling from the lack of it.” May your health improve, Mary. Thank you for sharing your experience of the Divine with those you meet and those you touch with your writing.
You’re welcome! Thank you for writing, Marianne.
I just read this after you shared the link this morning in Writer’s Hour. I have been asking myself how to bring the true meaning of Christmas back into my life with simple rituals, and contemplation. Your post points the way. I greatly appreciated the “smallness” of Christmas this year, celebrating in person with one of my sons, and a video call with far-flung family. Thank you for sharing.
You’re welcome. And thank you, Michele, for visiting my website and reading the column. I’m glad it spoke to you. Christmas was simpler at my home this year, too. No in-person celebration for me, but wonderful video chats with my also far-flung family! All the best as you begin the new year, bringing simpler rituals and contemplation into your days. See you at the Writers’ Hour!