Theresa Dunn had always loved Advent for the wrong reasons.
Not sinful reasons—just sentimental ones. She adored the lights, the wreaths, the notes of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel drifting through the parish speakers. She called Advent her “soft season,” a cozy runway toward Christmas Day. Each December she arranged her home with the precision of an experienced hostess: garlands perfectly aligned, candles symmetrically placed, carols timed to her decorating rhythm.
One thing, however, she never managed to perfect: her spiritual life.
She loved the idea of Advent far more than the work of Advent.
She loved anticipation more than repentance.
Her pastor, with the gentle accuracy of a man who knew souls, often reminded the parish: “Bethlehem is not reached by music and lights, but by humility and penance.” Theresa smiled politely when he said it, the way one might smile at a doctor recommending a diet change. She agreed in theory.
But the practice?
“Well…that can wait until next week,” she would say.
One evening, after a long day of errands and decorating, Theresa stepped outside to admire her handiwork. The house glowed with warm lights. A wreath hung perfectly centered. Even the walkway appeared inviting. Everything looked ready for Christmas.
Everything except her soul.
As she turned to go back inside, she noticed something she’d never paid attention to before: across the street, in the window of Mrs. Alvarez—the quiet widow who lived alone—burned a single small lantern. Just one. No garland, no icicles, no blinking lights. Just a humble flame flickering in the darkness.
Theresa felt a strange pull toward it.
The next morning, as she left for daily Mass, the lantern still burned in the pre-dawn dimness. Again that subtle tug in her heart. Again the quiet thought: What is she waiting for?
That afternoon, curiosity overcame her. She crossed the street and knocked softly.
The door opened with a gentle creak.
“Ah, Theresa!” Mrs. Alvarez smiled. “Forgive the dimness. I keep the lantern on for Advent.”
Theresa looked at it again. “Why just one lantern?”
The widow’s eyes softened. “Because Advent is not about decorating the house. It’s about lighting the heart. I keep this lantern as a reminder that the Lord comes to the humble and the ready. It reminds me to make room.”
Theresa nodded awkwardly. Something inside her stirred—uncomfortable, honest.
Mrs. Alvarez continued, lowering her voice:
“Some years, dear, the house looks lovely, but the heart has no space for Him.
So I light the lantern to remind myself: clear clutter, forgive quickly, confess sincerely, pray quietly.
Only then does Bethlehem draw near.”
Theresa swallowed. “I…don’t think I’ve ever thought of Advent that way.”
The widow smiled with a knowing tenderness. “Most don’t. We make the house ready and forget the soul. But the Christ Child does not come to tidy mantles. He comes to clean hearts.”
That night, Theresa sat in her living room surrounded by decorations she now saw differently. They were beautiful, yes. But they were noisy. Busy. Distracting.
She remembered the lantern—small, steady, humble.
On impulse, she turned off every light except a single candle on the coffee table. The room felt strangely peaceful. The silence pressed gently on her spirit.
After a long moment, she whispered aloud:
“Lord…how far am I from Bethlehem?”
The answer was not a sentence but a feeling—an ache of honesty. She knew she had avoided the sacrament of Reconciliation for months. She knew she clung to grudges she pretended weren’t there. She knew her prayer life had become a sentimental gloss rather than a real conversation with God.
She covered her face with her hands.
For the first time that season, she prayed not from nostalgia but from need.
The next morning she returned to church—this time not for Mass, but for confession. She walked into the church’s quiet interior, lit only by the Advent wreath. The confessional door was slightly ajar. Her heart raced.
Inside, she made her confession—not dramatic, not complicated, but honest.
When she heard the priest’s gentle words, “I absolve you…” something loosened, then lifted. Grace moved swiftly and quietly, like dawn breaking behind clouds.
When she emerged, she noticed the Advent wreath glowing softly before the altar. A quiet realization unfurled in her heart:
The lantern in the window had not been a decoration.
It had been an invitation.
That night Theresa placed a single lantern in her own window—simple, unadorned, silent. She turned off the surrounding lights and let it burn alone.
Her house no longer sparkled the way it had the week before.
But her soul finally did.
She whispered a small prayer of gratitude:
“Lord, light my road to Bethlehem.”
And somewhere—in the unseen geography between Heaven and earth—the Infant King drew nearer.
They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. The journey to eternity begins with the most recent act of repentance, a powerful and transforming mercy of God. Advent is that first step—a sacred stretch of road meant not for glitter but for grace, not for pre-Christmas frenzy but for the quiet work of faith. As we prepare our homes for Christmas, sweeping floors, trimming trees, and hanging wreaths, the Church calls us to prepare our hearts for Christ. The road to Bethlehem is not paved with sentiment or nostalgia, but with silence, prayer, and penance.
Few guides walk that road more surely than St. Alphonsus Liguori. In The Road to Bethlehem, his daily meditations turn Advent from a season of sentiment into a pilgrimage of the soul. Written in the saint’s unmistakable style—tender, direct, and aflame with love for the Infant Jesus—it leads the reader on a spiritual pilgrimage. St. Alphonsus invites us to gaze upon the humility of the Incarnation and let it pierce our pride, fostering a sense of humility and introspection. “The stable of Bethlehem was poor,” he writes, “but there was no pride within it; hence God was pleased to be born there.” God still seeks that same humility in every soul that welcomes Him.
Advent is not sentimental waiting; it is conversion in motion. St. Alphonsus reminds us that joy begins only after repentance. Each meditation follows a rhythm—consider Christ’s love, recognize one’s sins, and resolve to amend one’s life. He never separates the crib from the Cross—the Child who lies in swaddling clothes will one day hang upon Calvary. When that truth sinks in, the tinsel fades, and the soul begins to hunger for grace rather than glitter.
Advent not only looks back to Bethlehem but forward to Christ’s return in glory. Each confession not only prepares the heart for Bethlehem but readies the soul for His final return.
Advent demands patience, humility, and honesty. It is a school of waiting that purifies desire. The world races toward December 25, but the Church strolls, candle by candle, toward the coming of Light. Each candle of the wreath marks a step of hope, peace, joy, and love—virtues that cannot be bought or wrapped. These virtues must be cultivated in silence, the same silence that reigned in Bethlehem’s stable.
This penitential spirit finds reinforcement in Fr. Benedict Baur’s Frequent Confession, a small but luminous book that presents anew confession not as emergency medicine but as ongoing prevention. Confession is both spiritual CPR and preventive medicine—reviving the soul in crisis and preserving it in grace. Baur teaches that every sincere confession “makes the soul more transparent to God’s light.” Advent, then, is the perfect season to return—repeatedly—to the confessional. Just as Mary swept a humble space for the Holy Child, we must clear the clutter of sin so Christ may find room in us. A clean soul is the finest Christmas gift we can offer Him.
Confession, in addition to cleansing the soul, also rekindles hope. We bring our weariness, our repeated failures, to the tribunal of mercy and hear again the astonishing words, “I absolve you.” In that moment, eternity breaks into time. Heaven stoops low to lift the sinner. That is the real Christmas story repeated in every confessional encounter, a profound reminder of the transformative power of God's mercy.
In the quiet poverty of Bethlehem, the Holy Family teaches the art of interior readiness. Joseph obeys. Mary ponders. The shepherds listen. The Magi persevere. Each traveler on that sacred road shows how to prepare: obedience, prayer, listening, perseverance. St. Alphonsus captures it perfectly: “Every sigh for Jesus draws Him nearer to the heart that longs for Him.”
The journey is not complicated—but it requires honesty. It begins when we admit how far we are from Bethlehem and how deeply we need a Savior. Pride delays the trip; humility hastens it. The soul that kneels before grace travels faster than the one that charts its own sanctity. The saints advanced swiftly not by mastery, but by surrender—to God, and to those who spoke for Him—for prayer covers ground that calculation never will. Advent reminds us that holiness is both a destination and a direction: toward the manger, toward the Cross, toward Heaven. It’s a simple path, but one that requires our full commitment and honesty. For it is humility and prayer that truly light the soul’s road to Bethlehem.
This Advent, take ten minutes a day with St. Alphonsus. Read one meditation slowly, preferably before the day's noise begins. Let his words remind you that God’s coming is both tender and demanding, tender in mercy, demanding in His call to change. Then follow Fr. Baur’s counsel: confess not from fear but from love. Each absolution renews the soul’s capacity for grace; each penance smooths one more mile of the road to Bethlehem.
You will find that repentance does not diminish joy; it deepens it. The soul that has been forgiven celebrates Christmas with a clean heart, able to love without fear. The world decorates trees; the repentant soul becomes one—rooted in faith, adorned with virtue, crowned with charity— for joy always grows where sin has been confessed and grace restored.
The lights, the gifts, the carols—all have their place. But none of it matters if the heart remains unprepared. Christ was born once in Bethlehem; He desires to be born again in every contrite soul. That birth begins with repentance. As you travel this Advent path, remember: the manger was clean, the hearts of Mary and Joseph were pure, and Heaven bent low because humility made room for God.
If you genuinely wish to keep Christ in Christmas, don’t merely say it—live it. Take the road St. Alphonsus walked—the road that begins in repentance and ends in a manger, where eternity first touched time.
Bethlehem is reached not by haste or display, but by humility and repentance.
The soul that makes room for Christ will find that joy arrives quietly—and fully.