Advent Calendar

by Archbishop Rowan Williams

He will come like last leaf's fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to the bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud's folding.

He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

Counting the Days

I remember Advent as a child.

It was not an overly religious affair, but my God, it was joyous. Every morning, we would walk around the house opening little paper doors on a dozen store-bought Advent calendars. But there was one unlike the rest taking pride of place—made of felt by a great-grandmother. While the others focused on the magic of Santa Claus or the charm of animals dressed up as humans, this one focused on the birth of a baby. A very special baby.

For about four weeks a year, Advent transforms the everyday (what might be called ordinary time) into something extraordinary. We await something magical, a transformation that brings about that ultimate gift of the sun. But as the darkness reaches its height, we gather up the inner resources to ready ourselves for that burst of the new year, the new cycle.

Today, I feel more and more the joy and weight of Advent as a time of spiritual preparation. Whether Christian or otherwise, we all spend this time awaiting the opening of the Gates of Winter and the return of precious light.

This is why we count the days. Yet, what does it mean to count them?

Each one—held this way as a part of a long and important march from here to the dawning of a new era—takes on special significance. The counting ennobles us, heightens the tenor of the time, reminds us that there are precious few days in any given Advent season, in any given year, in any given life.

And in Advent, in this period of spiritual preparation, we are challenged to hold exquisite practice.

We Remake Ourselves Through Repetition

There are many ways to achieve exquisite practice. Charity. Asceticism. Circling every chance we get.

One of the simplest and most powerful, however, is the repetition of phrases—a tool used by every mystical tradition on Earth. These slowly reshape our psychological processes, creating grooves that become the easiest way for our energy to flow. Through conscious repetition of phrases, we rewrite our habits of mind—the prism of highest consequence for the rays of the heart that glow their brightest in this season.

For anyone who has attended 12-Step meetings, you’ll know this method very well. It’s similar to those of us who have been given a mantra by a spiritual teacher, or those of us who pray.

“One day at a time.”
“Om mane padme hum.”
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

One that I’ve enjoyed working along with Sigh is the phrase, “Every cell in your body can hear you.”

We say it to ourselves and each other multiple times a day and have been for going on two years. It’s the perfect antidote to negative self-talk, pessimism, sarcasm, etc. It does not admonish. It simply reminds you that everything you say and do has some impact on the field. And it can be said with the warmth of humor.

Whatever the slogan, mantra, or prayer we choose, it should call us to make even this moment—yes, this very one—a moment of spiritual practice and alignment.

How We Give Ourselves the Gift of Exquisite Practice

The balance, of course, is in being exquisite without being overwrought and overbearing. As Richard Rudd of The Gene Keys reminds us, enlightenment is a series of softenings.

We thus ask two questions. How can we turn every moment of our day over to the divine, to the sacred, to our practice? And how can we do that without the vicelike grip of white-knuckled determination?

If we simply beat ourselves into submission, will we rise like light to meet the newborn sun? If we crush what we see in ourselves as not good enough, will we ever have the chance to love whatever is here?

We are reminded not to force ourselves into better and sharper and more diligent practice. Instead, we soften into it.

We say yes to more and more of our time and effort slipping into practice, poured with gratitude and smiling hope. With the giddiness of children waiting for Santa Claus, we place still more of ourselves into our spiritual practice.

Effortless, then, is the practice.

It is softness, after all, that is the way to the magic of the season. In the Christian mystery, it is Mary’s softening to the call of the angel Gabriel that makes everything possible.

In the story, Mary becomes the most important human in history not by force or will. She gives birth to the infinite by saying yes and releasing her will.

For those experienced in circling, we know how to do this well. The practice of surrender and welcoming everything guides us to an energetics of submission to whatever is—perhaps now met with a spirit honed by the repetition of phrases that have remade it in honor of what we hold highest. That is—connection, love, presence, dissolution into that great ocean that shifts silently beyond the mask of differences.

Advent sees us count down the days to the giving of these most important gifts.

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