Always Winter, Never Christmas

As we enter the end of the year, the perennial discussion of what counts as a Christmas movie inevitably arises. In one of these conversations with family, it was noted that Christmas plays a key role in Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. If you are familiar with the story, then you will be familiar with the White Witch’s curse of “always winter and never Christmas.” It’s a phrase that is particularly applicable to 2020, to the point of perhaps being a bit on the nose. At the very least, it captures what this Christmas season has felt like. The dark, dreariness of winter has come, but the hope and joy seem to be trailing behind.

 

Into all of this comes the season of Advent. In the evangelical world, Advent is often used as a fancy synonym for Christmas. We set aside time to focus specifically on Christ and the Incarnation, but do so with a heavy emphasis on the hope and joy which his coming heralds. This focus is not without reason--after all, the coming of Christ is good news and a key moment in the story of the gospel. Highlighting this fact provides a way to take the cultural joy and celebration which surrounds Christmas and tangibly connect it back to Christ.

 

This approach, though, falls a bit flat in years like this. When the surrounding cultural joy is damped, evangelical Advent also feels flat. When it feels like a season of winter without Christmas, an Advent message of joy seems tone-deaf and forced. Coincidentally, though, I think that this longing for missing joy can lead to a deeper appreciation for the season of Advent and the beauty of Christmas.

 

In more liturgical traditions, Advent is a season of fasting, not celebration. The weeks leading up to Christmas are focused more on the brokenness of the world and ourselves, and how this brokenness leads to the Incarnation. Consider some of the lines from one of my favorite Christmas/Advent hymns, O Come, O Come Emmanuel:

 

“O come, Desire of nations bind

All peoples in one heart and mind;

Bid envy, strife, and quarrels cease,

Fill all the world with heaven’s peace.”

 

Pick up any hymnal (or do a lyric search online), and you will find the same theme running through the entire hymn. The world is broken and hurting and looking for a healing king for restoration and order. Underscoring this is the hymn’s minor key and slow melody. It is a musical embodiment of longing--the longing that is at the heart of Advent.

 

As you might have guessed, I had planned to have these thoughts ready to go in the middle of Advent, not the very end. Still, I hope that they will speak to some. After all, in the last couple of weeks, the world has not become miraculously easier to live in, nor have all concerns completely disappeared. And, if Advent tells us anything, it is that it is good and proper to feel the pain and hurt of the world. Not only is it healthy to recognize and grieve the world's brokenness, but perhaps, this is an especially appropriate time of year to express our grief and longing. Further, this reflection brings us into the second facet of Advent--focusing that longing on the Second Advent. While we may not fully understand what it will look like, we know that Christ will be coming again to complete putting what is wrong to right. As we reflect on the pain and joy surrounding the Incarnation, we should also anticipate and prepare for the joy of Christ’s return. This feels especially fitting for the end of 2020, where our need for Christ is even more apparent than ever. It will not be winter forever--Second Christmas is coming!

"I Don't Know What the Likes of Me Can Do"

    Many years ago I had a professor who intimated that, contrary to the evidence of our eyes, he was indeed Gandalf. He was just in disguise since getting a sword through the airport would have been slightly tricky. That semester, I began earnestly developing my love for literature, and Tolkien's Lord of the Rings in particular. Since then, I have on average read Tolkien's epic once a year.

    Over the last couple of years, I have been particularly struck by a piece of conversation that takes place fairly early in the story. Frodo and Aragorn have just related to Barliman Butterbur, an innkeeper, that in helping them he will be facing forces from Mordor. In light of this information, they want to know whether he still wants to assist them. Tolkien relates his answer this way:

 "I am," said Mr. Butterbur. "More than ever. Though I don't know what the likes of me can do against, against---" he faltered.

"Against the shadow in the East," said Strider quietly. "Not much, Barliman, but every little helps."¹

    This idea of inability, or limited agency, recurs repeatedly through Tolkien's saga. Examples could include Frodo's "I do not know the way" in Rivendell, Theoden's description of himself as a lesser man, Denethor's despair at winning the war with Mordor, and Sam's reluctance to continue the quest when he thinks Shelob has killed Frodo. Each of these moments in their way capture Barliman Butterbur's "I don't know what the likes of me can do." Each of these characters is brought to face with how small they are in the face of the evil they are opposing.

    Part of the refreshment in Tolkien's story is that he does not undermine this question, but rather gives it  full weight. In the hands of a slightly more contemporary storyteller, one would expect the protagonist to discover that they were uniquely equipped to address the evil they find in the world. The apparent limits on their agency end up being limits of perception, rather than limits in reality. Without discounting the value of those storylines, it is worth noting that Tolkien generally supports his character's assessment of themselves. Even when it turns out that they were stronger than they realized, their additional strength does not give them the resources to successfully confront the evil in Middle Earth.

    And yet, they do win. How? Before we can fully explore that answer, we ought to look at Madeline L'Engle's Wrinkle in Time series. Specifically, the second book in that series, A Wind in the Door.

    In A Wind in the Door, the Murry family's youngest, Charles, is dying, but for no reason which doctors can identify. As his older sister, Meg, seeks to discover the case of and heal Charles' illness, the reader is taken on a trip that spans from galaxies to cells in the human body. A key point that is brought out in the story is that all members of creation are interconnected and have specific roles to play relative to each other: ". . . we all need each other. Every atom in the universe is dependent on every other."² Because of this need of each for the others, "A fara or a man or a star has his place in the universe, but nothing created is the center."³ Not being in the center does not detract from one's importance. Rather, it recognizes that no one person or thing is all-important, requiring no support from others. In the end, Charles is healed, but only as a result of everyone else playing their part. Separation leads to disorder and chaos. Unity, though, brings greater harmony and order.

    Return to Barliman Butterbur. The fact that my own resources and efforts are minuscule in the face of the disorder and injustice in the world is quite obvious. More often than not, I find myself repeating with him, "I don't know what the likes of me can do." What both Tolkien and L'Engle affirm is that when this is our perspective, we are grasping an essential truth. On our own, we cannot defeat evil. However, that is not the end of the story. They go on to remind us that "every little helps",  and "every atom in the universe is dependent on every other." We cannot personally right what is wrong with the world. But, the interconnections in the world mean that the effects of our small actions ripple out in ways we rarely can anticipate.

    In the end, I am sure that this is rehashing ideas that others have done a better job explaining. Still, with the general unrest in the world, we have all been faced in a new way with our inadequacies. Like me, perhaps, you need the reminder that "can I make a significant enough difference" ought to be reframed to "what can I do now?" It may not be much--but, it was never supposed to be much. It was supposed to be the piece that supported the work of those around you.

What are particular wrongs in the world which capture your attention?

What skill sets or strengths do you have which allow you to speak to those wrongs?

---

Notes and References

1. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord Of The Rings (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1993), 185.

2. Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time Trilogy (New York: Square Fish, 2012), 441.

3. Ibid., 431.