To approach Advent poetically does not necessarily involve busting out tomes of Shakespeare, Shelley, and Keats, or (more appropriately) the nursery poems of Christina Rossetti. Poetic in this sense has to do with the Greek idea of poesis, or making. As an educational philosophy, the “poetic mode” of learning emphasizes the sensory-emotional experience of the world, providing the basis of wonder from which higher viewpoints arise. The connection with “making” concerns applying mind to matter, transforming and being transformed through embodied reality.
Such intentional experience enlarges “the chest,” C.S. Lewis’s robust image of a heart wholly alive. It is through the chest, the beating organ that directs us to love of God, family, country, and the natural world, that the mind governs body and soul wisely. As modern people, our tendency is toward abstraction and mechanization on one hand, or hedonism on the other. A poetic education helps to avoid these extremes.
In the recovery of tradition, there’s a temptation to skip over the childlike and small, the physical, the imperfect. We forget how much of Christian tradition is embedded in family and social structures, customs, and artistic expressions, which flows directly from our faith in the Word Made Flesh. The Incarnation is not simply an event, but the paradigm of reality; God makes himself known through a body. The bodily image of Christ in the Gospels and in the sacraments is our pathway for knowing God, and by extension, all that He has made. It is wonderfully human and redemptive that Christian faith manifests in sensory images from the humble to sublime. The educational power of the image should not be overlooked.
Engaging the poetic mode in Advent is not difficult. In fact, it may be the easiest point of the liturgical year to enter. Western Christmas is, after all, tremendously sensuous. Ribbons, lights, stockings, bells, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, stuff up our imaginations. It’s the one time of year Americans are not embarrassed to sing together (other than the obligatory national anthem at sporting events), and the one time of year school children might be induced to memorize a poem. Christmas celebrates a child, and the culture responds with the exuberance of a child’s birthday party.
It’s understandable, and perhaps reasonable, to recoil at the material excesses of the holiday. There are undoubtedly places where restraint is necessary, especially in resisting consumer habits. For obvious practical reasons, businesses need to display Christmas items before Halloween; in the home, starting Christmas in November exhausts everyone by January 1. Many are right to claim this is a misfortune. When Advent has had its rightful place historically, the twelve days of Christmas were a riotous affair. Who doesn’t yearn for that kind of communal norm to return to our days?
But if Lewis is right, that the problem facing us today is not cutting down jungles but “irrigating the desert,” then our use of the material should be carefully discerned. Advent in a Catholic home need not look barren; rather, the material should fit the spiritual aim.
And here, options abound; so much so that they can become quickly overwhelming. To make matters worse, families largely take up liturgical practices in isolation. Historically speaking, Catholic customs were never invented and borne alone by the mother in the home. Neighbors, grandmothers, parish priests, townsfolk, and travelers were all in on the act. As much as possible, we need to reach out to likeminded families (and not just online) in the efforts to reclaim our Catholic heritage. It can be as simple as picking a feast, packing a snack, and heading to the park together. Renewal in America must overcome the status quo of social and psychological alienation.
So the first step in a poetic Advent is choosing community. The second is limiting your options. The smart guys at Design Your Life point out that having a list of 30 choices is equal to having zero choices. Three is about the maximum number anyone can put into action well. Committing to one thing daily is superior to random, ad-hoc amazing-ness, and yes, I am preaching to myself. Simplicity honors God because He is simple, and it forces us to place our trust in Him. The Rule of St. Benedict reflects this mindset almost perfectly: focus on a few things every day, and finish them to completion. This is a gift we can give our children during Advent.
The third step takes us to the menu itself. And here again we have to find the mean between extremes, especially in avoiding snobbery. We can prize quality without putting down others, or despairing over our lack of nice things. The menu gives us the sensory; we give the emotional. The relational element of our activities is irreplaceable, even if it means baking cookies of Grogu wearing a Christmas hat, because that is what is speaking to our child today. Then we can follow up with great-grandmother’s cinnamon-almond-fig-butter cookies, and it will be more meaningful, because our hearts are connected.
So with all the caveats in place, here is a sampler menu for a poetic Advent season. Links to companion posts will be added as we go along.
A Poetic Advent Sampler Menu
Picture Books
Nativity Scene Lessons
Picture Study
Bible Memory and Recitation
Christmas Poetry
Feast Day Celebrations
Advent Wreath
Family Cultural Studies
Liturgy and Sacraments