The Ghosts of Advent
The fourth candle to be lit on Sunday, December 18, is a reminder of the presence of Angels--and sometimes our Angels, though they tell us not to be afraid, shake us inside and indeed frighten us.
Last night, I dreamed of ghosts. They were not flitting about, drawing attention to themselves, for they had my attention, and they knew that. As Charles Dickens portrays Jacob Marley’s ghost, however, even in stillness while looking at me, there was ethereal and fluid movement about them. Their voices were women’s—possibly even girl’s voices. They were not malevolent, nor were they kind. They simply wanted my attention.
Ghosts are a recurring dream for me and have been for many years. I’m most often unaware of the intention or meaning of these dreams, though some have been acutely the “ghosts” of people I know who are close to me—my mom, my dear friends Michael, Phyllis, Edd—it took me a long time before I dreamed about Edd after he passed—Brett, who is almost always silent and is always turning his back and pointing in some direction he wants for me.
Last night’s ghosts were unknown to me and for reasons I cannot fathom, I awoke remembering them perfectly this morning. When I awoke immediately after the dream, in the “dark night of the soul” as Fitzgerald called 3:00 AM, I was afraid to move. I was afraid—and I knew I should not be. I immediately prayed, simple and direct, for protection from malevolence and for peace from God through Jesus, hopefully lighting my own imaginary candle against the darkness.
The hard part of these dreams is that, perhaps as Dickens imagined it, the ghosts who populate my dreams are restless for some reason I can’t understand or explain. Dickens’s ghosts are restless, too—though it’s true that the ghosts of past, present and future are in the main content with what they represent and present. But Scrooge is a challenge for all 3 of them, with perhaps the exception of the ghost of Christmas future-who based on his inability to directly speak, simply points Scrooge to what will happen to him if he doesn’t shape up. It is, though, that spirit who ultimately takes pity on Scrooge and chooses to believe his pronouncement of honoring Christmas—past, present and future.
But Advent is, of course, a restless time if one is a Christian. It’s one feeling that has been passed directly from its Theological underpinning—anticipation and waiting for the birth of Christ—into the commercial and secular world in which children eagerly await the arrival of Santa Claus and Christmas day with presents under the tree. So it is not necessarily surprising that these ghosts of mine arrive during this week of Advent to announce their restlessness.
They frighten me, I know that. In my immediate wakefulness after the dream last night, I contemplated the day ahead of me—-these days, my only companion from morning until late afternoon, is Simon the wonder-dog. And in his old age, he is a fine companion. He is clingy most of the day and chooses to be in whatever room I happen to be in, and sometimes standing right next to me—though as today, and as is more often the case—he falls asleep on a handy couch or on the floor where I am. Beyond my sense of loneliness at times, I find that darkness and I don’t co-exist well together. I’m a man full-grown, but if I’m home alone at night-time, I struggle with contentment and almost always need a radio, some background music or television. Sitting or lying in darkness—and silence, is almost always something I refuse.
That, of course, got me to thinking about the symbolism of it all. What is my comfort level with darkness? Not just the kind at nighttime, but darkness that pervades the soul, about which we all have to render up an answer. It occurs to me that this may be the impetus for these seemingly unknown ghosts as they come into my dreamscape, their voices shrill, but often without any form of words being said.
And that’s where I begin to look into the abyss. The past 3-years have been traumatic to me for some specific reasons, as they have to so many of us. The obvious reasons of our limited freedoms, the fear-mongering of the virus itself, done by local, regional and federal governments didn’t help—but it did succeed in making us all forget that we are free to do as we please. That’s in writing. And yet, how quickly we managed to scamper out of the light and hide away waiting for something—anything—to provide salvation. Therein lies a part of the trauma—the abject fear, not of the virus—or a virus—or any illness, but in the realization that our government suddenly has a totalitarian bent to it and that the freedoms we’ve cherished all our lives may, in fact, be illusory.
That is no small part of the trauma for me personally. I am aware that some who read this will disagree with my characterization, and that’s OK too. I understand. But the other parts of the trauma I’ve experienced are not my stories to tell for the most part. They belong to others who are close to me and I dare not divulge those without their indulgence and permission. Suffice to say, that the number of nights I’ve lain awake during these past 3 years, have exceeded what is rationally good for me.
The Ghosts of Advent this year have now heralded themselves, however—alongside the ghosts in my dreams. The former feel stronger than the latter, which is perhaps my own optimism—or, perhaps my own hope. I’ll take either one. I still have those and during this time, as the dark creeps in early here in the Pacific Northwest, I strap them to myself and bring them with me everywhere—out to the forest with Simon for walks, in to the store to shop—and certainly to bed with me each night. Because I have to believe that the Angels are stronger than the ghosts, that the candles I light burn persistently, quietly for purpose—and what they’re trying to teach me, they’ll do, as Dickens said of the ghost of Christmas future, in their own good time.
Onward.