By Jane Moran
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Then two will be in the field; one will be taken, and one will be left.
Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken, and one will be left.
Matthew 24:40-41
The lectionary readings for the First Sunday of Advent aren’t exactly what you would expect: at a time when most of us are planning parties and decorating our houses, these Scripture selections confront us with imagery that feels straight out of a horror film.
In Matthew 24, we see a woman snatched away from her friend while grinding meal. We are left to imagine the other woman’s shock and fear. Mark 13 gives us a darkened sun and the stars falling from heaven. In Luke 21, people “faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world.”
It’s tempting to skim quickly past these passages and find something happier to focus on. All this apocalyptic imagery, however, is there for a reason. When we meditate upon the end of everything we know, we learn something about ourselves. We learn something about God; we learn something about the truths that matter most in human life.
That’s why there’s an established place in the canon for books about people living after the world as we know it has passed away. This science fiction subgenre is often referred to as dystopian literature, and it makes perfect reading for Advent. All the themes we associate with the season–hope and peace, joy and love–are present in the titles below.
Advent I: Hope
A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
When it comes to themes of faith in dystopian literature, A Canticle for Leibowitz set the standard back in 1959. The book, which takes place in a Catholic monastery after a nuclear war, spans thousands of years of history. It follows a group of monks who have dedicated themselves to preserving the remnants of humankind’s scientific knowledge so that future generations might benefit.
Miller reminds us of what it means to work for a better future in circumstances that may seem hopeless. His characters understand that when we say we have hope, we don’t mean that we expect to be spared suffering. On the contrary, we know that suffering will come–but we also trust that something better waits beyond the suffering of the present time.
Advent II: Peace
Private Rites by Julia Armfield
A common misunderstanding about dystopian literature is that it’s about the future. In reality, dystopian literature is about the time when it was written. It reflects the concerns and anxieties of that moment.
That’s why A Canticle for Leibowitz, written in the 50s, is about a nuclear war. It’s also why there’s been a recent interest in “climate fiction,” a kind of dystopian literature that focuses on life after a climate catastrophe. Julia Armfield’s Private Rites is one example of climate fiction.
Private Rites takes place in a world of endless rain. After their father’s passing, three sisters are drawn back together by the mundane problems that death brings. Lawyers must be dealt with; a funeral must be arranged. Meanwhile, the climate conditions are getting worse and worse. As the story goes on, we see how the lack of peace in the outside world is mirrored by a lack of peace within the family.
Advent III: Joy
Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler
Octavia Butler is a giant of science fiction, and her work–especially 1993’s Parable of the Sower–has had a lasting impact on countless readers. Fidelia even named her as a saint in a recent article.
Parable of the Sower is about a young woman named Lauren Olamina fighting to create a better way to live in the midst of climate change, increasing wealth inequality, and the violence of poverty and racism. Lauren, the daughter of a Baptist minister, creates a new religion to speak to her present moment. She calls this religion “Earthseed.”
Eventually, Lauren takes to the road and begins a journey north. Others join her along the way, and she shares her faith with them. Slowly but surely, they begin to find joy in the building of a community.
Advent IV: Love
Paul Lynch won the 2023 Booker Prize for Prophet Song, which imagines a near-future Ireland sliding into totalitarianism. The story is told from the perspective of Eilish, a mother trying to hold her family together after her husband is taken by the secret police. Eilish’s love for her children is her anchor in a world that grows more horrific by the day.
That love (and Eilish’s resulting fear about what might happen to her family) motivates her small acts of resistance. At other times, it drives her to make foolish, hasty decisions.
For Lynch, love isn’t a redeeming force so much as it is a fundamental part of our identity. Even after everything else has changed, our love for our families and friends remains. Sometimes, it manifests as grief or rage or panic…but even then, it’s there, reminding us of what it means to be human.
Writers like Miller, Armfield, Butler, and Lynch share an assumption with the writers of the Gospels. After everything we know has passed away, something else will take its place. That doesn’t mean that the circumstances of the passing won’t be frightening or even horrific. However, it does mean that hope is never lost. It means that human love continues on.
As people of faith, we must remember these truths in all circumstances. Reading dystopian literature can be a wonderful way to build that muscle.
Instead of looking away from what frightens us, we do what the Gospel writers want us to do: we sit with these possibilities. We imagine. We consider what is eternal and what is not.
The apocalypse is as much a part of Advent as the Annunciation. Perhaps this is the year for us all to remember that.
The Rev. Jane Moran is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ. Originally from Connecticut, Jane now lives and works in Kentucky.
