Light That Candle! Advent as a Season of Resistance
In response to horrors of war occurring in Israel and Gaza, the Global Ministries of the United Methodist Church has called for a change in the lighting of the Advent candles this season. The second candle, traditionally symbolizing peace, is normally lit on the second Sunday of Advent and subsequent Sundays; Global Ministries has called for this candle to remain unlit in memory of those killed in the Holy Land.
It seems an odd gesture: most often people light candles in memory of the suffering and the dead. Just last week in Israel, a massive Hostages Hanukkah Menorah—with 138 lights, one for each hostage still missing—was lit in remembrance of those still waiting to come home. Global Ministries reportedly made its statement as a reflection of pared-down Christmas decorations in Bethlehem. There will be no Christmas tree in Bethlehem this year, and very few lights.
Hope in the Darkness
Austere Advent decorations can provide a powerful witness, a deep testimony to suffering. But the basic purpose of Advent is to point us to Christ—both to remember his birth and to prepare us for his triumphant return. When we light candles, we point to the light of Christ and the hope that Christ brings to a dark world.
In times of war, lighting the peace candle is more important than ever. It is a reminder that “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). To extinguish that candle—or not light it all—suggests not solidarity, but hopelessness. Instead, Christians are called to resist the dark forces of this world, proclaiming the Lordship of Christ over every rule, authority, power, and dominion, both in this age and the age to come (Eph. 1:18-21). Our hope comes from fixing our eyes not on the darkness that surrounds us, but on what is unseen—that which is eternal (2 Cor. 4:18). This is how the apostle Paul was able to have such great joy despite his being chained to a Roman soldier 24 hours a day. Through prayer and thanksgiving he discovered that “the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:4-7).
We must light the peace candle in a time of war. It is an act of resistance. It proclaims a greater power than the suffering and sorrow that surrounds us.
The Power of Symbols
Perhaps it seems a bit trivial to argue over the proper use of an Advent wreath in times like these. But the candles in the wreath are symbols that point to something greater than themselves. Symbols have power. They ignite our imaginations. A single image can encapsulate deep philosophies and visceral emotions, for better or for worse. A swastika or a burning cross evokes hatred, revulsion, and fear. But other symbols? They give hope: the toppling of the Berlin Wall. A lone Chinese man standing in front of an oncoming tank in Tiananmen Square. Firefighters hoisting the American flag over the ruins of the Twin Towers on 9/11. A cross dangling from our necks.
Our churches are full of symbols: the architecture of the cathedral, the images on the stained-glass windows, the colors of the paraments, the call for a congregation to stand for the reading of the Gospel. These are meant to remind us of greater realities and deeper truths. God often calls his people to remember his mighty acts through symbols. The Passover festival, for example, was a remembrance of God delivering his people out of slavery in Egypt (Exod. 12). The symbols in the meal—such as unleavened bread to depict the haste with which the slaves left Egypt—helped the people of Israel to recall the story of deliverance.
Similarly, the Advent wreath and the accompanying liturgies describe the story of Christ’s incarnation and promised return. The lighting of candles reminds us of God’s provision of hope, peace, joy, and love through Christ. The yearly liturgical practice anchors us in a story greater than ourselves, preventing us from drifting into cultural narratives that distract, tempt, and discourage us.
Living Between the Extremes
Each year it seems that American consumerism drives an earlier display of the stereotypes of Christmas—the decorations, feasts, and gift-giving. “Christmas in July” has become a tradition for many stores. In September I walked into a chain store only to be greeted by Christmas inflatables for the lawn—snowmen and reindeer and brightly lit packages. And our social media feeds for months have been filled with advertisements for the perfect gift you simply must have.
Simultaneously, war broke out in the Middle East after the Hamas terrorists attacked Israel. In other parts of the world, earthquakes, food insecurity, and civil wars have left millions in desperate conditions. Lest we forget, Ukraine continues to battle Russian invaders.
Whether we are tempted by self-centered greed or other-centered despair, the focus that Advent brings is more necessary than ever. The weakness of the infant Christ, and the pain of his eventual torture and death, remind us that Jesus knows human suffering. He understands grief and loss, pain, anger, and struggle: “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin” (Heb. 4:15). Yet his divinity, his triumph over death, and his promised return provide the peace and hope we need to live in a world that groans as it longs for redemption and liberation from decay (Rom. 8:17-25). This tension between the extremes is captured well by Augustine:
He lies in a manger, but he holds the whole world in his hands; he sucks his mother's breasts, but feeds the angels; he is swaddled in rags, but clothes us in immortality; he is suckled, but also worshiped; he could find no room in the inn, but makes a temple for himself in the hearts of believers. It was in order, you see, that weakness might become strong, that strength became weak. Let us therefore rather wonder at than make light of his birth in the flesh, and there recognize the lowliness on our behalf of such loftiness. From there let us kindle charity in ourselves, in order to attain to his eternity (Sermon 190).
As Augustine urges, this paradox of lowliness and loftiness ought to move us to live in ways that reflect the light of Christ.
Symbols of Resistance
Jesus himself declared that his disciples are “the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven” (Matt. 5:14-16).
Our concern to stand with those who are suffering in Israel and Gaza should lead us to shine the light of Christ more brightly. But this goes beyond a simple Advent wreath declaring the promise of peace. Rather, we should sit with the grieving; provide food, shelter, and clothing for those who have lost everything; press governments for fair treatment of the “other”; refuse to treat any human being as a commodity, animal, or anything less than one made in the very image of God; bear the fruit of the Spirit (Gal. 5:22-23); and declare the truth of the coming King who one day will wipe every tear from our eyes (Rev. 21:4). Each of these is an act of resistance against a world that prioritizes greed, power, and domination.
When we sit with the grieving, we declare that the loneliness of sorrow does not have the last word.
When we provide for the physical needs of the destitute, we declare that there is One who sees their need and desires their flourishing.
When we press worldly political systems for justice, we declare that standards of right and wrong transcend any temporary human power.
When we recognize the image of God stamped on every human being, we declare that sin is not as powerful as the design of God.
When we display love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control, we declare the power of the Spirit to transform lives.
When we proclaim the Truth of God, we declare that the horrors of this world will never have the final say.
When we light the peace candle amid the suffering of war, we offer the promise of God to those who need it most.
Suzanne Nicholson is Professor of New Testament at Asbury University in Wilmore, Kentucky. She is an Elder in the Global Methodist Church and serves as Assistant Lead Editor of Firebrand.