A Devotion from Mary Ellen Ashcroft

Away from the Manger

Mary Ellen Ashcroft

Brace yourself, and I’ll tell you about my Christmas idea. You’ve seen Advent

calendars—they’ve got little doors with numbers on them, and, say for number 8, the flap is in

a chimney and when you open it, there’s a little owl perched inside. Or you flip up the top of a

box (held by a little girl and marked 13) and there is a teddy bear with a red ribbon around its

neck. Finally, of course, you swing open the big flaps (always number 24) and there is Jesus in a

manger, snoozing away safely.

These calendars exist, of course, because it is so hard for kids to believe that Christmas is

really coming—plus the fact that they need to keep track of how many days until they hit the

jackpot under the Christmas tree.

They’re helpful, but miss half of Advent’s purpose: those first 24 days of December are not

only supposed to help us remember Jesus’ first advent as a baby, but also his second advent as

Judge of the world. So, I suggest a Second Advent calendar.

The Book of Revelation provides most of the material. I’d want to start out the month low-

key, like First Advent calendars do. The first day or two, when on your First Advent calendar

you’d be opening a little oven door and finding a gingerbread man, the Second Advent calendar

would feature the pale horse, being ridden by Death, with Hades following close behind (Rev.

6:8). Things would obviously need to heat up, and by the eleventh we would have trumpets

heralding hail and fire mixed with blood (8:7). The fourteenth would give us the huge mountain

all ablaze that would be thrown into the sea (8:8), and by the seventeenth we would have the

locusts with stings like scorpions (9:3). Eventually (about the twentieth?), we would get to the

war in heaven—Michael and his angels versus the great dragon (12:7–8). That would leave us a

few days for the beast (complete with horns, etc.) and the scene with blood as high as the

horses’ bridles (14:20).

We could produce a version for pre-, post-, and amillennialist believers. But there is one

thing that would be the same on the Second Advent calendar, despite your eschatological

stance. That would be the image of Christ.

No helpless, snoozy baby here—this Jesus would be Christ in majesty, as he is described in

Revelation 19: “His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name

written on him that no one but he himself knows.… Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword with

which to strike down the nations.… He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God

Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh he has his name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS” vv.

12–16.

Imagine our Advent if it were this Jesus who was emblazoned on our consciousness. We can

tiptoe past the drowsy baby as we buy stocking stuffers for little Susannah or an electric lint

remover for Aunt Phyllis, forgetful of African children dying, bellies swollen and flies swarming

around their eyes. But it would be ridiculous to try to sneak past this Jesus, his eyes aflame. We

would squirm when we gave a cute Christmas mug (penguins in red-and-green top hats) to

Betty at work—we’d keep waiting for just the right opportunity to tell her about

Christ—knowing she would face those blazing eyes one day.

God knew we needed the Incarnation; he sent Emmanuel, “God with us.” Our problem is

that we want to keep Jesus as a baby, not have him swinging cords around temples and

tastelessly knocking over tables.

It is not odd that we prefer the slumbering babe to the consuming fire: babies can be taken

anywhere. Christmas last year brought a “Christian” version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

Instead of the “partridge in a pear tree,” we have the baby—“a child born to set the world

free.” Instead of “five golden rings,” the chorus sweetly holds “five shopping malls.” We can

cart the infant Christ to a shopping mall, where he is as “at home” as an Easter bunny. But we

wouldn’t want to try that with Jesus as judge.

Long before Second Advent calendars, there were other devices to remind Christians of

Christ’s impending judgment. Peasants or nobles entering one of Europe’s cathedrals saw a

huge carved tympanum above their heads, which, throughout the Romanesque period,

portrayed either Christ in Majesty or the Last Judgment. A Christ figure with wide, penetrating

eyes dominates the tympanum. At Christ’s right hand the blessed worship Christ; on his left, the

souls of the damned struggle with terror from a devouring “hell-mouth.” Contemporary

advertisers say to us of luxury, “Go ahead. You deserve it.” But medieval sculptors pictured

luxury as a vile snake, consuming its victims even as it draws them toward hell. Above the

tympanum at Conques, France, a poem describes the joys of the blessed, the punishments of

the damned, and ends with a warning: “Sinners, if you do not change your ways, know that a

hard judgment will be upon you.”

This Christ, not only mediator but also dreaded judge, dominated people’s thinking

throughout the Renaissance. Shakespeare’s plays frequently reflect his characters’ awareness

of judgment. Clarence addresses his would-be assassins in Richard III (act I, scene iv), not

advising them that their behavior is inappropriate or unkind, but that “the deed you undertake

is damnable,” and later, “… For he holds vengeance in his hands / To hurl upon their heads that

break his law.”

Perhaps we would be more attracted to the idea of judgment if we were not so comfortable. If

we huddled in our hut as Viking raiders burned the rest of our village, dragging our children into

waiting boats; if we felt the lash of a whip across our sweating, bleeding flesh as we crossed the

Atlantic in a slaver, we would be more likely to echo Milton:

Rise, God, judge thou the earth in might,

This wicked earth redress,

For Thou art he who shall by right

The Nations all possess.

We may not long for judgment, but somewhere inside us we believe in it. We don’t like the

idea of a Nazi war criminal eating lobster thermidor in a fine restaurant and living on the French

Riviera. Robin Hood appeals to us because he robs from the rich and gives to the poor, and

tricks that nasty, usurping Prince John. We like to see villains get punished—like wicked

stepmothers who always get their just deserts, and dragons that are finally slain by noble

knights.

We are even willing to bring judgment closer to home, and tolerate God’s wrath on

gamblers, pornographers, and drug dealers. Our real hesitation is with judgment on ourselves.

We don’t dwell on the times we act like wicked stepmothers (in the privacy of our homes, or

with windows rolled up, as we denounce “those stupid drivers”). What about our dragonish

thoughts as we recline comfortably on our hoard and others die of starvation? We would rather

not take literally Jesus’ words: “There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden

that will not be made known. What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and

what you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs” (Luke

12:3).

We try to leave him neatly tucked in the manger, but Jesus as judge may haunt us. A

Christian woman told me about her luxury cruise: “The ship had teak decks, two pools, a

Jacuzzi, elegant lounges and staterooms. There were sumptuous brunches on deck and dinners

with silver and crystal, escargot and duck a l’orange. But when we got off the ship,” she said,

“there were children, hungry in rags, staring at us.” Those staring eyes were to her the eyes of

Jesus, the same blazing eyes we avoid when we spend an extra $20 on designer jeans, push

past a bag lady (careful not to think of her as human), or turn quickly by the picture of the

hungry five-year-old in a magazine. Malachi asks, “Who can endure the day of his coming? Who

can stand when he appears? For he will be like a refiner’s fire” (3:2).

Advent is about getting ready, and Jesus tells many parables about readiness. The ten

virgins are only judged wise or foolish by how ready they are to meet the bridegroom. The

parable closes with a disturbing picture: virgins knocking on the door and pleading that it be

opened. Jesus delivers his punch line: “Therefore, keep watch, because you do not know the

day or the hour” (Matt 25:13).

How can we be ready and watching? Not by calculations or speculations. Certainly not by

leaving Jesus safely snoozing in his crib while we shop, wrap presents, hang the wreath, and

bake cookies. Peter poses and answers the question: “Since everything will be destroyed in this

way, what kind of people ought you to be? You ought to live holy and godly lives as you look

forward to the day of God and speed its coming” (2 Pet 3:11–12).