An Advent Prayer
A “collect” (pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable) is a short form of Christian prayer. It is written to be used in public worship, and has several traditional elements. In the Anglican Church, we are given a collect for each Sunday of the Church year. So, Easter Sunday has a special collect, as does the Sunday closest to September 22nd, as do they all. These are called the “Collect of the Day.”
Having grown up in this tradition, and having now been ordained (in a few days) for eleven years, I’m familiar with all the Collects of the Day. Since I was a child, my favorite of all of them has been the Collect for the First Sunday in Advent. It was written by the great Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer, and first appeared in the 1549 edition of the Book of Common Prayer. Here it is, as he wrote it:
Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armour of light, now in the time of this mortal life, in which thy Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious Majesty, to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Ghost, now and ever. Amen.
Advent, the season that begins this year on Sunday, November 29, is the first portion of the Christian Year. It is the time in which the Church prepares for both the First Coming of Christ (the Incarnation) and also for the Second Coming (the End of the Age). You see both of these in this collect. ‘This mortal life in which Christ came to visit us in great humility” is his incarnation. “The last day, when he shall come again” is his second coming.
The poetry of the prayer is based in part on the New Testament reading that was appointed for this day back in 1549. Romans 13:12 says “The night is far spent, the day is at hand; let us therefore cast off the works of darkness and let us put on the armour of light.”
The prayer weaves together the reading, as well as the meaning of the season. More importantly, it asks God for a two fold grace. First, that by grace we will put away the works of darkness. With God’s help we will repent, leave behind our wicked ways. Second, that by grace we will put on the armor of light, the whole armor of God in Ephesians 6:10 etc.
Both the First and Second Coming are about light coming into the world, as in John 1:4 etc. So the prayer uses the imagery of light and darkness, as well as other poetic use of the English language like “this mortal life” vs “the life immortal.”
It is a beautiful prayer, a poetic prayer. It is a prayer that is founded in the Bible, as prayer is at its best. It is also a prayer that opens us up to God’s special grace during this holy season. In the midst of all the shopping and driving and football and everything else that these last few days have been about, it is a door to the Reality of the season. I commend it to your use, but today and in the season to come.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Amen.
The Book of Common Prayer collects are wonderful prayers for the season. I am not Anglican, but I have been incorporating them into my church’s Advent worship over the past few weeks.