On Second Thought
Advent has a way of slowing us down just enough to see what we normally rush past. It is the season when the Church deliberately resists noise and hurry, choosing instead to wait, to watch, and to remember that God entered the world quietly—without coercion, spectacle, or force. In that spirit, the story out of Wauconda, Illinois, offers a timely invitation to refresh the spiritual mind and reconsider what it truly means to “keep Christ in Christmas.” At first glance, it appears to be a familiar cultural skirmish over symbols and public space. Yet beneath the surface lies a far more instructive testimony about perseverance, witness, and the unexpected ways God magnifies faith when it is pressed.
For decades, two illuminated crosses perched atop the town’s water towers marked the Christmas season for residents returning home. They were not aggressive declarations or political statements, but familiar landmarks—quiet reminders that Christmas meant more than commerce. When legal pressure forced their removal, the loss felt decisive. Economically and legally, Wauconda could not win. By all external measures, the town had conceded defeat. Yet Advent teaches us to look again, to ask what God might be doing beneath apparent endings. As Joyce Mitchell’s prayerful posture reminds us, faithful response begins not with outrage but with humility before God, asking for the “right words and right spirit.”
Scripture consistently affirms that faithfulness is often refined through resistance rather than rewarded by applause. Job declares, “The righteous keep moving forward, and those with clean hands become stronger and stronger” (Job 17:9, italics added). Righteousness here is not triumphal but tenacious. It does not depend on institutional permission or public endorsement. When the crosses came down from government towers, they did not disappear; they multiplied. What had been centralized and distant became personal and embodied. Windows, yards, antennas, and trees became altars of witness. The light moved indoors—and outward.
This is where the Advent parallel becomes unmistakable. God did not announce salvation from the highest tower of Rome or Jerusalem’s Temple. He placed it in a manger, entrusted to ordinary hands. The incarnation itself is God’s refusal to be confined to sanctioned spaces. As Jesus later warned His disciples, “You will be hated by everyone because of me, but the one who stands firm to the end will be saved” (Matthew 10:22, italics added). Standing firm does not always look like winning arguments or preserving traditions unchanged. Sometimes it looks like adapting faithfully, allowing witness to spread in quieter but more enduring ways.
The residents of Wauconda discovered something the Church often forgets: symbols imposed from above can be challenged, but symbols embraced from within are difficult to extinguish. When Rosemary Buschick’s husband built a cross in the back room of a small business, he was not staging a protest; he was offering testimony. Within weeks, the town itself became a living canvas of faith. What two towers once carried, hundreds of homes now proclaimed. The Apostle Paul’s exhortation rings true here: “Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain” (1 Corinthians 15:58, italics added). The Greek phrase ouk estin kenos—“not empty”—assures us that faithfulness always bears weight, even when outcomes differ from expectations.
Advent also reminds us that God’s glory often intensifies when it is decentralized. The light of Christ does not diminish when shared; it multiplies. What seemed like a loss became a testimony precisely because it shifted ownership from institutions to individuals. No court could order those crosses removed from private windows or hearts. As Rosemary Mers observed with quiet resolve, “No one will tell us to take our cross down.” That statement is less about defiance and more about devotion. The cross endured not because it was defended, but because it was loved.
On Second Thought
On second thought, perhaps the real danger to faith is not opposition but convenience. When symbols of belief are safely elevated—mounted high, distant, and untouchable—we can admire them without embodying them. The removal of the tower crosses forced the people of Wauconda to decide whether Christmas was merely something they observed or something they carried. Advent presses the same question upon us. We often assume that keeping Christ in Christmas means protecting external markers, but the Gospel suggests otherwise. God does not entrust His presence to structures alone; He entrusts it to people willing to bear His light personally.
There is a paradox here that Advent gently exposes: faith becomes most visible when it loses its platforms and gains its people. The incarnation itself is the ultimate example. God relinquished heaven’s vantage point to dwell among us, not to dominate culture but to redeem hearts. When the crosses descended from the towers, they did not lose their power; they found their proper place—close to homes, families, and daily life. Perhaps the Spirit was not being removed from Christmas at all, but redistributed.
On second thought, what looks like retreat may actually be advance. What appears as silencing may become amplification. Advent teaches us to expect God to work this way—quietly, relationally, and persistently. The light shines not because it is protected, but because it is shared. As we prepare our hearts for Christmas, may we ask not only how Christ is displayed in public, but how faithfully He is reflected in us. When the season ends and the decorations come down, may the light remain—steady, personal, and unmistakably alive.
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