There is an unmistakable moment every year — usually sometime around the first Sunday of Advent — when the Advent wreath appears in the sanctuary like a seasonal celebrity making its grand entrance. One minute the chancel looks perfectly ordinary, and the next there it is: a fir-sprigged crown of theological symbolism and mild fire hazards, perched proudly as if to say, “Yes, I am evergreen, thank you for noticing.”
In many parishes, the placement of the Advent wreath is accompanied by a level of ceremonial care normally reserved for coronations, royal weddings, and the changing of the toner cartridge. It is carried in with a reverence suggesting that if one drops it, Christmas itself may be delayed until further notice.
I remember one late Advent Sunday when the Christmas Tree had already been set up in the church ahead of the pagaent that would happen the following Sunday. It was placed in the front windos of the church, alongside the beautiful Advent wreath. On that almost ill-fated Sunday, as the children left for Sunday school, the Advent wreath with its many lit candles was knocked over into the 12 foot of blue spruce that was our annual Christmas tree. Fortunately a nearby warden jumped in quickly and extinguished the nascent fire on the tree. t would require a little turn to conceal the singed bits, but overall, escaped relatively unscathed.
But setting minor fire hazards aside, what a beautiful, hope-laden thing that Advent wreath is. Round like God’s unending love; green like the promise that life somehow refuses to quit; and studded with candles that bravely stand upright even when the heating vents conspire against them.
Of course, the lighting of the candles can be… shall we say… spiritually character-building. If Stephen Leacock had been an acolyte, he’d have written a multi-volume tragicomedy titled On the Futility of Matches. Anyone who has tried to coax an uncooperative candle to ignite in front of a watching congregation knows that nothing tests one’s sanctification quite like a lighter that sputters or a wick that seems made of Teflon. And yet — somehow — the flame eventually catches, to the quiet relief of clergy, servers, and parish fire marshals alike.
Each week we light another candle. Hope. Peace. Joy. Love. And the middle one — Christ’s candle — if your wreath is so equipped, the great show-stopper of Christmas Eve. They glow with a gentle stubbornness in the early winter darkness, preaching a sermon even before the rector can clear their throat.
Hope: the kind that wakes us up.
Peace: the kind the world keeps forgetting it needs.
Joy: the kind that sneaks up on us between harmonies in “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”
Love: the kind that knows our names, our stories, and our need for a do-over.
And in that small circle of flame and evergreen, the church is saying something bold:
We are waiting, yes. But we are not waiting hopelessly.
We are leaning toward the Light.
Sometimes we may feel like one of the candles that just doesn’t want to catch — a bit windblown, a bit weary, wick perhaps trimmed too short by life’s shears. But every Advent wreath reminds us that God keeps trying. God keeps leaning close, whispering that spark of grace, coaxing us toward our own small brilliance.
By Christmas, the wreath has done its work. It has counted down the holy days, endured the drafts, and — if yours is like most parishes — has shed more greenery than a nervous hedgehog. But it has held the circle. It has held the light. And it has held us in the promise that God is coming close, again and always.
May our lives glow with something of that quiet courage, that gentle defiance, that evergreen hope.
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A Companion Prayer
Holy One,
As the candles of the Advent wreath mark our waiting,
kindle in us the flame of hope that does not fade,
the peace that steadies us,
the joy that bubbles up unexpectedly,
and the love that circles us round.
Light our lives with the coming of Christ,
that we may shine with your grace
in a world longing for warmth.
Amen.