by An Dau and Morgan E. Underwood
Stories, including fairy stories, require light. A little light that ventures into the darkness and restrains the shadows. Perhaps a radiance shines from the tip of an illuminated wand or a vile containing pure starlight. Maybe a spark resides in a character like a Marsh-wiggle who stamps out a poisonous fire for the love of a light belonging to a better world, even a play world, because in that world, sometimes, the king dwells with his people. These little flames scattered throughout stories illuminate the shadows just enough for the heroes to fight for their homes. Advent requires light too—the Light that ventured into the darkness and restrained the shadows (John 1:4–14; 8:12). This season places boundaries on the darkness and reawakens our longings for home. Like stories, advent casts a light into the shadows—a light that captures and sustains our longings until Christ appears.
Dragons belong to fairy stories, and those beasts enchant readers, including Tolkien who articulated his own fascination with dragons, writing, “The dragon had the trade-mark of faerie written plain upon him. In whatever world he had his being it was an Other-world.” The otherworldliness of fairy stories contains wonders, perils, and enchantments. Talking beasts, wraiths, and potions inhabit their pages. Paradoxically, this otherworldliness helps us make sense of our own existence. The wandering heroine facing the darkness in her world counts herself fortunate to stumble on the rich and strange land of fairy. There she finds a source of strength. There she encounters a sense of home, a dwelling place where that otherworldliness, strangely familiar, communes with her. Sometimes, fairy stories impress on us a foretaste of our home, the realization of God’s vision for his good creation—God dwelling with humanity. We gain glimpses into that home through imagination: the unique part of human nature that allows for the discovery of beauty hidden in God’s creation. The human imagination resides in the soul and orients our longings outward toward that point never seen but always craved when God lives among us. Fairy stories satisfy our imaginations, kindling in us an inconsolable longing for that home. We cannot return from those stories unchanged.
Christ’s first advent awakened our world. The Incarnate Word appeared, shattering four hundred years of silence. Prophetic whispers of a coming hero came true. Home came to earth. Christ’s advent beckons us to a new vision, God’s vision for His creation. This advent season prepares us for a time when God will restore all things, when calamities will give way to happy endings, when the shadows of this world will disperse, undone by our King’s return.
Dangers lurk in fairy stories. Dragons slumber in caves, dark lords stalk black forests, and shades unsheathe poisoned weapons. Perils inhabit fairy stories, and heroes bear scars. Dangers exist in our world too. In his first advent, Christ submitted himself to all kinds of perils from the manger to the cross. Born in a cave and surrounded by livestock, his first breath risked infection and exposure. He encountered temptation in the wilderness, experienced sleepless nights, and endured rejection. Nails punctured his wrists. Our Hero bears scars too. Christ, our Emmanuel, risked every peril to bring us home—to dwell with us and restore us to the home we thought we’d lost forever.
Both fairy stories and Christ’s first advent capture and sustain our longings for places we’ve never visited. His birth provides a foretaste of home—God dwelling with humanity. Advent primes our longings. We burn candles and usher nativities into our dwellings. Countertops overflow with cookies, and we invite dozens of fingers to coat themselves in still-gooey chocolate—a miniature feast. We lace our Christmas trees with lights and then squint, radiating light from those little bulbs to drive out the darkness. Advent does not flinch from the darkness but imagines into the darkness, and our imaginings build up our anticipation for the time when God will dwell with humanity.
Right now, we live in darkness. Relationships break. Sickness attacks our bodies, and death takes away loved ones. But we’ve seen a great light (Is 9:2; Mt 4:16). In his first advent, Christ pierced the darkness. He stripped the last word away from death (1 Cor 15:51–55). Advent casts just enough light to guide us as we live in the darkness, waiting on the Light’s return. Eventually, Christ will restore relationships, heal sickness, and destroy death. Emmanuel, the object of every desire, the joy of every longing heart, will make his home with us. Advent invites us to witness anew the Light that so long ago brought a little bit of home to earth in a stable.
