A Cure for Christmas Cheer

When I first came across the word “chrysalism” as a teen in some melancholy corner of Tumblr, it immediately resonated with me. This neologism comes from John Koenig’s Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows and is defined as “the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm” — but for me, it took on a much broader meaning.

It gave a name to a sensation I’d always loved: being in an enclosed space, safe and warm, despite the danger and cold outside. My husband recalls that when he was a toddler, he loved to cram his little body into the tightest nook available and then jubilantly declare himself “stuck.” There is primal comfort in having one’s own little hideout, set against the vastness of it all.

One tradition that consistently fills me with this “amniotic” feeling is lighting an Advent wreath. At my church growing up, we made wreaths on the first Sunday of the liturgical season then took them home with a little leaflet of prayers. Every night before dinner, we’d darken the room, light the appropriate candle(s), and say that week’s prayer, creating a little pocket of warmth and light.

As I struggled with severe, persistent depression in my teens, the cheer associated with Christmas in secular culture felt almost alienating to me. Scraping together enough energy to get through each day was a Sisyphean task — how could I possibly muster “holiday spirit”? I felt like a foreigner in merriment’s territory. But the sensation I could attain, that did feel like home, was Advent’s chrysalism.

I am far from the only one to have felt they are viewing the joy of Christmas from the outside. The holiday season seems to heighten emotions like grief, loneliness, and despair, throwing them in stark relief against the happiness we’re being sold. Between the commercialization of Christmas and the rise of social media showing us only the shiniest moments of others’ lives, those who don’t feel so wonderful can easily perceive themselves as the minority.

But Advent gives us a different picture: not pain being dwarfed by manufactured joy but light struggling against very real darkness. For those of us in the northern hemisphere, the days are short, the air is chilly, the leaves have died and fallen. The Advent wreath combats this with evergreen boughs and warm, twinkling candles. Through the weeks, as the skies grow darker, the wreath grows brighter. Just after we’ve made it through the darkest day — the solstice — Christmas dawns.

Christmas is, after all, the triumph of the proverbial little guy — in this case, a baby, his vulnerable young family, and a handful of shepherds. They carve out a space of safety and celebration among farm animals. The new mother, both a unique and universal figure, is said to “treasure” each miraculous detail and “ponder them in her heart” (Lk 2:19). There is a distinct sense of chrysalism at the Nativity.

Looking to the texts from Isaiah that the church traditionally reads throughout Advent and Christmas, we find that these prophecies are words of comfort for the vulnerable, the meek, the mourners — those whom Jesus calls blessed (Mt 5:3–12). Isaiah proclaims, “With righteousness he shall judge for the poor and decide with equity for the oppressed of the earth” (11:4).

In God’s promised kingdom, no more will predators menace their prey nor will children fear violence: “The calf and the lion will feed together, and a little child shall lead them” (11:6). Swords will be beaten into ploughshares (2:4), the poor and disabled will find relief (35:5–6), exiles will return home (62:10–12), the desert will be refreshed with water (35:7), and the darkness will be defeated by the light (9:2).

Advent is a time when we lean in to the mystery of the Christian faith: that God has accomplished our salvation through Jesus, and yet, we still live in a broken world as we await his return. Through Jesus’ resurrection, we know that light and love and life are victorious in the end — but it’s not the end yet. In Advent, we recognize this central tension. We hold comfort and longing together.

Perhaps this is the bittersweet beauty of chrysalism: it is aware of the darkness outside. Huddled around the Advent wreath, warming our hands at the fire of God’s promises, we find immense comfort, a sense of safety that does not invalidate our desire for more. Our individual and social wounds are acknowledged, and we find strength to carry a bit of God’s light back out with us.

Prophecy like that of Isaiah plays a time-transcending role as well. In addition to sharing promises for the future, it comments on what has happened in the past and what is happening in the present. It proclaims what side God is on and, by implication, what side we should be on — the side of the marginalized and mourning. It reassures those in pain that they are not abandoned, that justice and joy will come.

In Isaiah, in the nativity, and today, God sees our childlike vulnerability and our deep need for comfort. God meets these needs with both tenderness and power, our divine Helper becoming incarnate in the most helpless form imaginable. Our frailty is made strong (1 Cor 1:25–31) by the miraculous Advent of our Savior.

So, for those who find this to be the most wonderful time of the year, may your joy be made full through the love of your neighbor (Jn 15:11–12). And for those who feel on the outs, may you find that Advent is for you too. May you see your longing and pain acknowledged and yet, until the world’s rebirth is complete, find amniotic comfort in the warm promises of God.