The Mysterious and Imaginative Truths of Advent

What do these all have in common? 
Madeleine L’Engle 
Stranger Things
Theology
Mystery
Luci Shaw
Unlikely heroes
Imagination

Read ahead and you will see.

In the introduction to her book, Journey to the Manger, theologian Paula Gooder lays out an argument for the interweaving of truth, wonder, and mystery in the Advent narrative. She says,

“Christmas presents to us, mostly in narrative form, some of the most wonderful truths about our faith—truths about a God who loves us, who was prepared to risk everything to live among us in human form, who drew the most unlikely people to him by doing this and who continues today to seek to draw people to him from all walks of life. . . Christmas is a feast that encouraged our imaginative engagement with the mysterious truths it seeks to portray.” (p. ix)

“This God chose a ludicrously risky means of redeeming the world he loves so much.” (p. xiii)

“The birth narrative of Jesus lays out in story, in poetry and in song, something of what we believe about this Jesus, Immanuel, God with us. It helps us to think imaginatively and creatively about the one we worship, he who came to us in the most precarious manner possible—born as a baby into poverty.” (p. xviii).

If you’ve ever been caught up in a story full of unlikely heroes, harrowing adventure, and miraculous victories, then you know this feeling. The mystery, and wonder, and truth available to us through story.

Scripture utilizes a variety of literary forms, but the Holy Spirit inspired the Gospel writers to record Jesus’ birth, life, and death as narrative stories. When I first sought to begin an Advent blog, I wanted a space to record and share Advent/Christmas poems I found. I had long loved the writings of Madeleine L’Engle, and was likewise drawn to her mystery-embracing poems about the Incarnation and Immanuel, God with us. Her words demonstrated the way that the Advent story can reach across time and space to meet our hearts exactly where we are.

Many writers, L’Engle included, use the most unlikely of characters to tell their story. This is true in her classic, A Wrinkle in Time. And it is true for the hit Netflix show, Stranger Things. I don’t want to give any of the final season away, so I will only say that the imagined world in A Wrinkle in Time becomes an interwoven theme as the show’s unlikely heroes continue to seek truth and imagine victory. I think this shows us something important about the way we tell stories.

Most literature can stand alone, but it is a beautiful thing when a story is strengthened by our understanding of a parallel narrative. Tales like C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia can make reading about God’s redeeming power in Scripture all the more meaningful and miraculous. Writers like Wendel Berry and Luci Shaw can give words to the way we feel about God’s creation.

In the 1970s, two writers met at a literary conference at Wheaton College. Their names were Madeleine L’Engle and Luci Shaw. The two became quick friends and eventually collaborated professionally, with Shaw’s publishing company releasing many of L’Engle’s poetry collections. L’Engle passed away in 2007, and just a few days ago on December 1st, Shaw entered eternity.

Both writers have influenced the way I read and reread the Advent narrative each year. Because as Paula Gooder argues, we each bring our own imaginations to the manger. The way we picture the nativity scene is far from what it really looked like, but that’s ok. During Advent we cannot be gatekeepers for historical accuracy, because that is not the point.

The point is: We were a world without hope, and God sent his Son to become like us (though completely unexpected in appearance, motivation, word, and deed), ushering in a kingdom of eternal hope and salvation.

I will end with a poem by Luci Shaw.

It is as if Infancy were the Whole of Incarnation

One time of the year
the new-born child
is everywhere,
planted in madonnas’ arms
hay mows, stables,
in palaces or farms,
or quaintly, under snowed gables,
gothic angular or baroque plump,
naked or elaborately swathed,
encircled by Della Robbia wreaths,
garnished with whimsical
partridges and pears,
drummers and drums,
lit by oversize stars,
partnered with lambs,
peace doves, sugar plums,
bells, plastic camels in sets of three
as if these were what we needed
for eternity.

But Jesus the Man is not to be seen.
There are some who are wary, these days,
of beards and sandalled feet.

Yet if we celebrate, let it be
that He
has invaded our lives with purpose,
striding over our picturesque traditions,
our shallow sentiment,
overturning our cash registers,
wielding His peace like a sword,
rescuing us into reality,
demanding much more
than the milk and the softness
and the mother warmth
of the baby in the storefront crèche,
(only the Man would ask
all, of each of us)
reaching out
always, urgently, with strong
effective love
(only the Man would give
His life and live
again for love of us).

Oh come, let us adore Him—
Christ—the Lord.

Pay attention. The stories always have more for us than at we first thought.