Advent belongs to a season shrouded in darkness, especially in New England. December days decrease in length, while nights grow long and cold. The halcyon cool of an August twilight seems lost to time. But for those with eyes to see, this implacable darkness offers a lesson. In the bleak mid-winter, in the darkest of days, the Creator of the stars of night brings light. In just a few days, everything will begin to change—almost imperceptibly. Providence does not turn the cosmos on its head, replacing one solstice rapidly with another. Instead, beginning on December 21, each day brings a small increase in light—so small, in fact, we must look for it to notice it. But as the days slowly get longer, we see that the light doesn’t overwhelm us. Rather, it invites us to delight in it, yearning for more of its rays, until the full flowering of those glorious days after Easter, when the sun hardly sets.
In many ways, this is how the Son of Man descends among us, veiled in flesh. Only the eyes of faith can see the Godhead in the babe of Bethlehem. The King of Kings doesn’t arrive in royal fashion, in the glory of Easter Sunday, but in the manger below a few bright stars scattered across a night sky. The Branch of Jesse’s stem doesn’t shoot out with a loud thump for all to hear, but with the quiet cry of an infant, heard only by Mary, Joseph, and some shepherds keeping watch.
Pope Benedict XVI once put the Incarnation in this perspective, when he preached, “God’s sign is that he makes himself small for us. This is how he reigns. He does not come with power and outward splendor. He does not want to overwhelm us with his strength. He takes away our fear of his greatness. He asks for our love.” The Lord has chosen this quiet way for a reason. Faith sees what mortal flesh hides. Love yearns for more of what faith sees, but does not yet fully possess.
The glory of the never-ending Easter will indeed come, of which Revelation says, “The night will be no more. They will need no light or lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever.” But until that never ending Sunday, we should not spurn these dark days, which lack any hint of glory. These are the days when God chooses to pitch his tent among us, like a candle flickering in a dark chapel. In that darkness, his light—as small as it may seem—flames out, as Hopkins would say, like shining from shook foil. This light, which is Christ, beckons us to draw closer to him. The closer we draw to him, the more we yearn for him. And the more we yearn for him, the more we love him. Yes, this is how God reigns. He invites us toward him gently, so that we won’t fear our God, but love him.
