The First Sunday of Advent

It’s been cold in a raw, bone-grinding way the past week, and we’ve burned a lot of wood in the evenings to keep things cozy. These days, the hostility of the petty and screeching world outside contrasts so dramatically with the peace found within the family walls, and I spend much of my time maintaining the chasm that separates the two

Almost a year ago, Mrs. Orr and I watched Terence Malick’s haunting film A Hidden Life, and I was so moved that I wrote a blog post about it. I re-watched the movie yesterday and was affected even more forcefully by the similarity to what happened to the quiet Austrian farmer and what is happening nowadays to those who refuse to submit to the experimental drug they’re calling a vaccine. Every day I am more and more mindful that the world that existed just two years ago is gone forever. Thus I have joined in spirit those who have gone before, those who watched wars break out in their homelands and knew that their worlds would never return as before. Many have written and spoken about the odd, disconnected feeling of this present age, trying to name it and make sense of it. For me, I believe the days feel like grief.

The title of the film made me think of the monks and nuns in the monasteries and convents who are intentionally hidden from the world, deliberately forgotten by all but their own spiritual siblings and their Father, to Whom they lift holy hands several times daily. It also reminded me of my own quiet ambition, which is to live a hidden life. The ugliness of the world and its system and its symbols makes me turn my face to the wall, like a dog that has been mistreated so much it no longer wants to contemplate the world that allows such things.

We did a bit of shopping over the weekend,  hoping to find some Advent candles, or at least some comparably-colored tapers for our Advent wreath, since wooden-brained me forgot to even think about getting any in advance. Walking into a Christian bookstore/gift shop these days and asking for Advent candles elicits the same response as if I had asked for a can of goat’s head soup, or a new planchette for my Ouija board. So we were forced to turn to the regular stores that sell everything, and we ended up with candles of almost the correct colors. The Lord and His Mother know my heart; I do not think they will frown at my devotions. Perhaps I’ll remember to order a slew of proper candles in advance this coming year. Doing so would spare me some stress, not the least of which is the sight of adults wearing pajamas in department stores.

This coming year. Thus, the old church year has ended, and the new one begins as we start the ritualistic yet genuine yearning for the appearance of the Light of the World during the dark and still nights of wintertime. And we will try to keep our quiet Christmas while the masked and jabbed knot of consumers and influencers down there in the cities spend and spend in their orgy of material lust, embracing their own Delilahs and putting out their own eyes as surely as if they were running down to the mall in Gaza with cries of “Me next!” Me next!”

We will try to keep our Christmas quiet. We will try to find and savor the flickers of divine promise and love, and we will probably succeed.

But in the midst of the season, I will still feel the grief. I will still wince from the ugliness and the noise. The impenetrable sense of gloom never leaves me, and perhaps it never will.  This is my way, and I have never been able to change it in all my days of willful striving, nor in all my evenings of bowed head and folded hands.

May this season of Advent bring true blessings and sense of deep peace to you and your loved ones, my dear readers.

~ S.K. Orr