My rationality tells me that a year should end with longing and a new year begin with celebration, but the Church year surprises me. The new Church year begins with the longing of Advent—I find that rather wonderful, don’t you? On December 31st, the secular world is longing and anticipating the mere dawn of a new year. But at the beginning of the Church year, the kingdom of heaven and all her saints are longing and anticipating the dear desire of every nation, the joy of every longing heart. The Church doesn’t discard longing in the old year and ask us to make merry afresh out of nothing like the world in some ways asks of us. No, the Church knows that longing is at the center of all of our lives, it is an undeniable, inescapable experience, and so the Church leans into it here at the beginning of the year, points to the manger, saying “this, this is what you long for—bow down to him here at the beginning—follow him to Egypt, and to Jerusalem, watch him as a joyful boy in the temple, see him grow up and make miracles of love, follow him to the cross and to the tomb and to the skies. Chase after him—not after yourself.”
The Incarnation, the climax of God’s story of salvation for his people, is an inexplicable mystery—it is why, when we put words to it in the Nicene Creed, we kneel and bow our heads: “who for us men and for our salvation, came down from heaven, and was made man.” The Incarnation makes possible his death and resurrection for us, makes possible the Eucharist: “this is my body, broken for you.” It is why we rejoice at Christmastide, singing “Born thy people to deliver, born a child and yet a king, born to reign in us forever, now thy gracious kingdom bring!” It is why I can be waylaid with a fever Christmas Eve through Christmas Day and yet be glad, because my God has come to meet me in misery and to know my pains (this effort was difficult and rather imperfect, but suffering is sanctification and oh, he gives us so much grace).
Just like the Incarnation, where God put himself into our time and place—we ought to put ourselves in his time and place, to become incarnate in his kingdom. When we worship and live our days by the church calendar, when we take time to remember the life of Christ and the lives of the saints, we are setting our hearts on eternity, on everything that is lovely in the world—and we are becoming, like Lewis in The Great Divorce, of more substance in his kingdom. We move from existing as faint shadows in that mysterious, beautiful realm to real, true being. What does that look like? Well, you can’t put your finger on it—his kingdom isn’t a visible place. But his church and its sanctuary are the threshold to that place—with angels wandering up and down the aisles and seraphim over our heads, with the Holy Spirit breathing into us, and Jesus holding our hand. It may not be visible—but I think it is indeed with the eyes of faith. The last verse of “Now my tongue the mystery telling,” says “Word made flesh, true bread he maketh/ by his word his Flesh to be,/ Wine his Blood; when man partaketh,/ Though his senses fail to see,/ Faith alone, when sight forsaketh,/ Shows true hearts the mystery.”
When one lives in remembrance of him—she becomes incarnate in his kingdom—her life overflows with love, worship, and praise. I want to enter this new church and calendar year with my eyes and heart fixed on remembering Christ and thus catching his eyes more often in my day-to-day, seeing him in the faces of those around me and in the sweet rhythms of life, turning monotony to miracles with the light of his presence.
