Last December, our son came home from preschool excited to show me his new treasure. It was a “rock” that one of his buddies gave to him. At first glance, I thought it was a clump of dirt. Upon further inspection, however, I discovered it was old, hard, and thankfully no-longer-stinky animal poo. Yet because it was so special to my son (and because it made me laugh), I allowed it to join other treasures we collected like sticks, chestnuts, acorns, pine cones, and leaves as part of our family’s annual Advent wreath.
I liked knowing that there was a small piece of poo in our Advent wreath. Perhaps I liked it because it was so irreverent. Perhaps I sneaked it onto our dinner table every evening because it felt like a secret nod to the first Christmas, which included sheep keepers and took place in a literal barn. For both baby Jesus and his earliest worshippers, poo was very much a part of that first unsanitized, yet-to-be-commercialized Christmas.
We live in Japan, a country where less than one percent of its 125 million people know Jesus. Christmas here feels imported and revolves around Santa, romance, fancy cakes, impressive light displays, and Mariah Carey. As storage space is quite limited in our snug home, I decided several years ago that rather than getting an Advent wreath like I had growing up, we would assemble a makeshift “wreath” using a cake pan and five soon-to-be-recycled glass jars. Our boys help decorate it and light candles one by one in the weeks leading up to Christmas.
I’m increasingly thankful to have grown up with the tradition of lighting candles and singing a short and simple song before dinner. The rhythm of turning out the lights and noticing how dark it is – simply sitting in that darkness for a few moments – is so helpful to me. It gives me space to acknowledge that, yes, the world is dark and broken and needs Jesus. Then we light the candles and – every night – we see light dispelling darkness.
Over the past several years, I have felt increasingly overwhelmed by the darkness in the world. Yes, the world is staggeringly beautiful and meticulously created. Yes, many people are remarkably good, brave, generous, kind, and loving.
Yet the mind-boggling, gut-punching, heart-breaking headlines of wars, natural disasters, and hurt and hungry people remind me of the darkness. Stories around me do, too. I think about a friend whose husband took his life around this time last year, another one whose marriage recently ended, and yet another single mom trying to rebuild her life after abuse. I think about people we know and their loved ones who struggle with mental illness, about neighbors with significant physical and emotional pain, and about others who continue to grieve many layers of loss connected to the March 2011 tsunami. I think about systems that are dysfunctional, problems that feel insurmountable, and issues that are huge, horrible, and hopeless.
How appropriate to have Advent during the darkest month of the year. It gives us extra time every day to feel the darkness and reminds us of what we celebrate: light is stronger than darkness. And it reminds us of who we celebrate: our Savior came, He is alive now, and we are waiting for Him to come again.
The candles in our cake pan remind me of people like me with weak, flickering faith who wonder: Is this true? Is He true? People like me with nagging questions, who look at the frequent examples of those who use Jesus’ name but have lost their way. People like me who realize, yet again, that we’ve lost our way (and our tempers and compassion and focus and nerve). Yet the candles mostly remind me of Jesus – Light of the World – the vulnerable, beautiful baby who was born in a barn who would grow up to be a gentle king on a donkey. After all, donkeys also poo.
