The Four Last Things—and the Advent We’ve Forgotten

This is Father Jared Cramer from St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, Michigan, here with today’s edition of Christian Mythbusters, a regular segment I offer to counter some common misconceptions about the Christian faith. One of the big myths this time of year is that Advent is basically “Christmas, but for a whole month.” We crank up the carols, deck the halls, schedule the parties, and treat these four Sundays as a long on-ramp to December 25—a kind of extended holiday season with a light religious glaze on top. But in the older, deeper tradition of the Church, Advent is something very different. Advent is not Christmas stretched out. Advent is preparation stretched deep. Even those little Advent wreaths many of us use have shifted meaning over time. A lot of modern churches talk about the candles of Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love. Those are all beautiful virtues, and they certainly have a place in Christian life. But traditionally, Advent wasn’t focused on those four themes. It was focused on what the Church has long called the Four Last Things: death, judgment, heaven, and hell. Now that might sound a bit intense, especially when the rest of the world is piping “Jingle Bells” into every store and pushing us to be relentlessly cheerful. But the wisdom of this older pattern is that it takes the real world seriously. It acknowledges that the world is dark—and that sometimes we are complicit in that darkness. Advent in this traditional key says: don’t rush past that. Don’t put shiny wrapping paper over a creation that is still groaning. Don’t cover your own grief, or anxiety, or guilt with another layer of tinsel and pretend you’re fine. Instead, let God meet you in the truth. When we meditate on the Four Last Things, we’re not meant to sink into fear; we’re meant to wake up. Death reminds us that our time is limited and precious—that every act of love or cruelty really matters. Judgment reminds us that God cares about justice, that what we do to “the least of these” is not forgotten. Heaven keeps before us the promise that God’s final word is restoration of all things… and joy. And yes, hell—however we understand it—forces us to confront the reality of choices that destroy us and others, the ways we can stubbornly cling to selfishness instead of surrendering to love. Taken together, that’s not morbid. It’s clarifying. It keeps us from using Christmas as a distraction and instead invites us into a holy longing for something more—for a world actually healed, for lives actually transformed, for a love that doesn’t just decorate the darkness but drives it away. At my parish, St. John’s Episcopal, we lean into that Advent depth in a few particular ways. One of them is liturgical: at our regular Sunday worship during Advent—the 8:30 a.m. and 10:45 a.m. services—we use Rite One from the Book of Common Prayer. The language in Rite One is more formal, a little older, and yes, a bit more penitential. It talks frankly about sin, about our unworthiness apart from God’s mercy, and about our need for grace. We don’t do that to be nostalgic or fussy. We do it because Advent is about feeling that distance between the world as it is and the world as God has promised it will be—and then crying out, “Stir up your power, O Lord, and come.” Rite One helps us feel that ache. It slows us down, sobers us, and makes space for repentance and hope. We also offer a quieter, more contemplative way to walk this Advent road: Compline by Candlelight each Sunday night at 8:00 p.m. Compline is the Church’s traditional bedtime prayer, a short service of scripture, confession, quiet, and blessing. In the soft light of candles, with gentle music and silence, you’re given permission to exhale—to admit where you’re tired, where you’re worried, where the world feels too heavy. That’s very Advent. In a culture that shouts over our pain with canned cheerfulness, Compline by Candlelight says: bring your fatigue, your grief, your questions. Sit in the dark with other people who are also waiting. And together, we watch for the Light that the darkness cannot overcome. So instead of treating Advent as a month-long Christmas party, I want to invite you into its older, tougher, and more beautiful truth: a season that refuses to deny the world’s brokenness or your own, and that teaches you to long—really long—for Christ’s coming, in judgment and mercy, in justice and joy. Thanks for being with me. To find out more about my parish, you can go to sjegh.com. Until next time, remember: protest like Jesus, love recklessly, and live your faith out in a community that accepts you but also challenges you to be better tomorrow than you are today.