The leaves have finally fallen, the sky has turned gray, and the air is cold. It is late fall in eastern Pennsylvania. This is the way it is supposed to be.
Sunday marks the beginning of Advent, this season largely forgotten save by some of the churches and maybe a calendar or a wreath of candles in fewer and fewer homes. We seem more taken by an elf on the shelf than by a call to let all mortal flesh keep silence; with fear and trembling to stand. We have no idea what it might mean to ponder nothing earthly minded.
There will be time to sit before the fire on the hearth and to enjoy the glow of the lit evergreen in the corner of the living room. Today, not yet Advent, still autumn, the bleak late fall reminds us for what Advent calls us to wait. We need more than the warmth of the fire, the glow of the lights, or whatever playful delight the game about the elf on the shelf brings. In fact, our world is a world of sad and lowly plains. Many in our world live “beneath life’s crushing load, their forms are bending low, they toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow.”
Until recent years, Advent, with its deep purple vestments, was considered a season of penitence. Where it is now much practiced, the emphasis has turned to expectant, even joyful waiting.
The bleak late fall speaks more of penitence. Something needs to change, and, to borrow the poet’s phrase I’ve already corrupted, bleak midwinter comes long before the spring. Continue reading
