Growing up I don’t think I ever heard the word Advent. Baptists came to this liturgical season late. In reaction to Catholics we had no crosses in our churches. We had no candles on the table up front. We wore no robes—choir and certainly no Preacher. Processionals—well, no. There was no candlelight communion. We were busy wrapping presents at home.
But somewhere along my road I discovered Advent. It meant getting ready. It meant arrival on the day of days—Christmas. It meant opening your eyes and seeing. It meant reading the story of the wise and foolish virgins and the admonition: Watch. Unlike the Catholics and Episcopalians we began singing Christmas carols on the first Sunday of Advent. In time Advent became one of my favorite seasons. I love the music, the color, the bathrobe dramas. Everything.
THEN
So in my first church off the main highway in Western, Kentucky I thought it was time to introduce Advent to our little church. When they finally realized this word did not belong to the Catholics they began to settle down. They tolerated their young preacher and some of his new ways. Our rural church was drab. And down front was the Warm Morning Heater that kept us too hot or shivering. So that first Christmas I decided to deal with some of the drabness by introducing our first Advent Christmas wreath. I put five candles in place and decorated it a little with greenery. I instructed the all-male Deacons on the meaning of the wreath and the five candles. And I chose one of our Deacons to light that first candle on Sunday. We began that service with Miss Jenny playing the Hammond organ. The designated Deacon came forward took out his cigarette lighter and lighted not one but all five of the candles! Five.
Despite my mortification Christmas came. Maybe we celebrated Jesus’ coming not one day but five special Sundays. The candles did not deter my parishioners. They came every Advent Sunday and sat in their chosen seats and stared at the pretty candles. On Sundays there were a trickle of divorcees, an unmarried pregnant girl, and old couple dealing with the ravages of old age. And here and there were the ones who had lost somebody. And farmers worried about the weather and their tobacco crops in the spring. And there were the squirming children who just couldn’t wait for Christmas morning. I learned a powerful message that season. The baby comes despite our screwups and all our human frailties.
NOW
And this year I watch that first candle being lighted by a little girl whose Daddy held her shoulder high. For Jesus has come a zillion times to me and people inside and outside churches the world over. Those who never darkened the church door. The drunks and the whores and those crippled with drugs. The homeless sleeping in card board boxes.This Jesus reaches across the enormous political divides. And the grievers are not left out. Or the refugees and the power-mad politicians. But more—those sitting in our pews last Sunday well-dressed need what we all need. A message as old as time. Jesus comes. And so next Sunday we light the second candle and we will remember. No wonder we call it Advent.
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.logspot.com
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