The Frolic Sanctity of Advent

A few years ago during the Advent season my wife, Anna, and I attempted to teach our children the story of Christ’s birth through song. We would all gather, rather haphazardly, around the couch or sprawled out on the living room floor. The intention was to teach the kids one hymn each Advent week until Christmas. We truly attempted to teach them more than one hymn, but our fatal (and fantastic) flaw was that our first hymn was “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”. When we tried to move on to a new hymn the children would have none of it. My feeble efforts in teaching “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus” and “Away in a Manger” were met with resistant yawns. So I gave in. It was an O Come, O Come Emmanuel-athon.

Our eldest, Adison, from the moment she heard it, was determined to learn every word to the song. She soaked up every haunting note, carefully watching our mouths as we sang the words. Watching her sing it is infectious. Since then I've spotted her now and then off in a pew by herself before worship flipping through the hymnbook to find “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and then, with a studious finger-pointing technique, she traces the lines, singing softly to herself. She was seriously devoted to learning the song because her heart had it memorized the first time she heard it.

My son, Noah, on the other hand, was seriously devoted to flipping across the room while we tried to teach this hymn. He had no time for anyone mourning in lonely exile. He was ready to disperse them gloomy clouds and get to the good stuff. As we sang our way through those solemn, expectant verses, he was gearing up for the refrain, ready to unfurl a noise that would make a trumpet curse. “REEEJOICE! REEEJOICE!” Every tiny particle of that little boy’s body united as one biological choir striving towards this one purpose. “REEEJOICE! REEEJOICE!” His voice only gave credence to what the rest of his body was already saying. His face, with eyes wide and wild, screamed, “Rejoice!” His arms rocketed to the sky and his legs sprung him upwards faster than a spooked cat and together they cried, “Rejoice!” Had it not been for the ceiling, the Heavenly Host would’ve undoubtedly mistaken him for one of their own.

And so we sang. I held the hymnbook and carried the tune. My wife held onto Arwen, our third child, and carried our fourth, Willow, in her womb. Adison, like an anchor, delving the depths of the soul of the song, singing the ancient words as if it were the first time they had ever been sung. And we needed that weightiness, because the second our lips stopped moving we would’ve been hurled into the heavens—zipping through the Aurora Borealis and bypassing the Pleiades—borne on the wings of a little boy’s praise.

During that time I experienced, what Chesterton off-handedly calls, deep levity. The seriousness and gravity of the birth of God as Man dancing on the lips of children. Children who have yet to scratch the surface of the amazing implications of what it means for God to become Man, yet with a shriek and a laugh seem to understand it better and with more intimacy than the most learned theological scholar. C.S. Lewis described his Eve-like Green Lady in Perelandra as one who possessed ‘frolic sanctity’. As I think back on it, no better words could define such a moment. A family searching together the depths of the riches and the wisdom and knowledge of God, not through textbooks and chalk dust, but through singing, laughing, and children jumping off of couches.

Thou Shalt Sing!

As a kid growing up I was blessed (without realizing it) that our family ate together. Sometimes we ate in front of the TV, but more often we ate around the big wooden table in the kitchen. One of the things instilled in me as a result was the dinner table etiquette. I assume each family has there own ‘house rules’ but I’m sure many are the similar. We learned how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ when passing and receiving the mashed potatoes. We had to ask to be excused from the table. Belching was a big no-no (despite our attempts to convince our parents that it was a complement…). And saying, “Yuck” or “I don’t like that” became a death sentence because when those words were uttered you were served an extra spoonful. You quickly learned to think twice before you criticized your plate. Of course if you simply just left the inedible food on your plate untouched then came the ominous threat of “Eat it or wear it” (ominous then…hilarious now). However, it was mostly an empty threat. I say mostly because I can recall some form of food being dumped upon one of my siblings. I don’t remember who, but it was probably my brother…

Those were some good rules with good intention behind them. But there was one ‘house rule’ that never made sense to me. The rule was “No Singing at the Table!” I always thought (and still do) that it is a stupid rule. Looking back as a parent myself I can only assume this rule was enacted because singing at the table must have distracted us from eating (and it was likely true…I would’ve sung till dawn if it meant I didn’t have to eat my brussel sprouts…).

So when I grew up I swore to myself that there would be no such rule at my table. I actually think singing at the table is one of the best things a family can do together. Nothing goes better with good food and drink than a good song. So the rule at my house is "Thou Shalt Sing!"

One of the things I’d like to do is to be more intentional about singing at the table. So far it’s just been willy nilly. The other night we did an impromptu ‘Guess the movie by what song I sing’ game that lasted until after the table was cleared and it was a blast. I need to be more deliberate about doing things like that. What a great time to introduce your kids to one of the great hymns. Maybe incorporate a hymn before the meal that is offering thanks to God. My son thinks everything is a drum. The table is a sturdy place to teach that boy some rhythm!

Of course we want our kids to have table manners and we want them to eat what’s on their plate, but what is more important than table manners, and even more important than finishing every last bite is the ongoing character shaping experience of joy that is found in a family fellowshipping together. I want my kids to remember that our times at the table were times of joy. Times where we not only talk about God, but sing about Him. I want them to remember good food and good fun. When I’m an old man I want to hear them tell stories about their time around the table that causes us to laugh until it hurts.

Singing is so rare outside of the realm of commercialized entertainment that it is almost weird for people to sing together. I want my kids to be weird. I want them to be countercultural. I want them to value song and singing together as much as they value food and eating together, and the dinner table is the most natural place for these things to take place.

Trying to become more intentional about singing at the table is just one part of developing that joyful experience of eating together. In the future I'll post about other fun things we try to do around the table...like Crazy Hot Dog Night...

Do you sing at the table?