The Advent Wreath

I wish to speak of a mystery, glimpsed,
as a light around a tunnel bend,
but not understood.

Each winter we commence a common journey,
marching through a tunnel of dark walls
pressed on either side of short days

and as we march we tell a story,
to warm our hands and light our way,
whispering words to light candles in our hearts.

Faith

So as light fades into the first Sabbath
we light the first candle in faith.

Faith, like the faith of Mary,
borne of God, yet God-bearer,
who, in one faithful choice,
lit a candle brighter than the sun.

Faith, like the faith of Immanuel,
choosing a fragile baby’s body,
trusting in Mary and Joseph
to raise him to manhood,
feeding His flame until He lit the world.

Faith, like the faith of Christ,
entrusting Himself to our messy hands,
believing in those we rejected,
seeing love where we saw evil.

In the dead of winter we trudge onwards,
placing faith in the One who placed faith in us.

Hope

We light the second candle in the name of hope.

Early dusk and cold winds come hand in hand,
tearing and scratching at locked shutters and doors;
while in the dark pain echoes, long and loud,
and tires scream as we race away from our wounds,
praying the darkness will steal no loved one tonight.

In the tradition of our fathers, we push against the dark,
hollowing out safe havens with our flames,
lighting candle after candle in the name of hope.

What is hope in this cold and weary world;
to the man choosing between a pill and the unbearable weight of grief
to the girl choosing between the flickering light screen
and the loneliness of reality —
choosing, feeling the bruises of the last hundred falls.

What is hope when your friend is bleeding,
when the numbers don’t work, and the line stretches on,
when death comes and rips love from your hands
           without breath for goodbye
What is hope when the light burns out before the dark?

My words are too cheap and small
to answer the cry of a world with a burnt up fuse;
or rather, too small to wipe my own tears.
And yet I spark the flame again and again,
digging matches into the wax,
bringing in fresh candles
as last year’s hope drips into stubs,
Waiting for the light to come again.

Love

We light the third candle in the name of love
the basis and culmination of our faith and hope.
For love became weary feet and tender hands,
love stopped bleeding and closed wounds,
love walked besides, mile after mile,
weeping as we wept,
unfazed by our addictions, our constant search for peace,
oblivious to the peace besides us.
Ignored, rejected, despised,
yet love did not falter,
did not hesitate to enter death,
and dying freed us from the dark.
And how then can we doubt
that light will come again.

Peace

We light the fourth candle in the name of peace.

Peace, what is peace when I wake daily
to the words of war
flickering across our virtual reality.
Weapons of mass destruction, yet we toss them
more easily than children throwing snowballs.
And I begin to think every “other” evil —

Yet he speaks peace over the heathen,
and who am I to deny my neighbor
the kiss of peace when Incarnate Divinity
comes to kiss death.

Repentance

We light the fifth candle in repentance,
confessing that we are rocky and crooked.
We have ten coats and we give not,
rotting meat and we share not.
As for violence, have I struck a man?
Yet there are many I hate,
denying their Divine Image.
(Refusing to learn colors,
I paint them in black and white boxes.)

And after all this, still I hear,
“a voice crying in the wilderness”,
and I confess that I wake daily, discontent,
counting my silver, and longing for more,
just a little more, a little more,
yet I will not be satisfied.

The ink pours from my pen
in a cold baptism of repentance;
washing smooth a path
for the coming Dayspring.

Communion

We light the sixth candle in communion,
a common flame refracted across a thousand rooms,
a warm light in the darkness of our distanced days.

And in the isolation of our homes,
a light begins to shine
on the isolation of our souls,
revealing the true nature of the independence
we have run after, calling it freedom,
cutting every tie that holds us,
till drifting in our private space,
we find that we have sold our souls,
and gained, not paradise, but hell.

And at last our cut off souls cry out
for the neighbor we did not recognize as brother,
longing for our joining in the coming light.

Immanuel

We light the seventh candle for Immanuel,
the light that came,
that is,
that comes again at the last day fall

And through the grainy flickering screen
I catch and join the angels’ song
“Christ is born, glorify Him”

Note: there are six candles for Advent because the Orthodox Church Nativity Fast is 6 weeks long.