Issue No. 25: Cheerio Antiphons

Reflections on the Great Songs of Advent

A big huge Merry Christmas to everyone out there.

I pray to the Lord you’ve thrown away all the leftovers by now. It’s time to let them go.

All that coming from the girly (me) who transported not one, not two, but three frozen turkey carcasses back home from the family gathering. What am I supposed to do, let the slow roasted gorgeous gorgeous bones go in the trash???? Abso-fruitly not. As I write this, I’m remembering I left my container of rendered turkey fat in the freezer. Drat.

Great plans are afoot for my homemade stock. Think of the soups I’ll enjoy when the cold winds of Oklahoma rip across the plains come January. Imagine the coziness of my kitchen as it simmers. Enter me, stage right, the picture of winter warmth. Auld Lang Syne plays in the background. A gentle steam wafts across the room. We are immune from influenza because of the collagen in the broth. All this, I would argue, is worth the hassle of transporting a Yeti cooler full of poultry bones across state lines. This is perfectly legal far as I am concerned.

What’s your Thanksgiving report? Who won a prize for best side dish?

I successfully commandeered the cooking of one of the turkeys. Dry brined that sucker for about 15 hours, and then stuffed her up with lemons, garlic, onions, and a small bouquet of herbs. Slathered in butter and lemon zest. One hour coming to room temp. Three hours at 350. Let her rest a while. Pan drippings. Gravy. Pour off the fat and leave it all in the freezer. As my husband would so eloquently say… Bada bing, bada boom.

Me in my natural habitat

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Exciting news — Advent begins this Sunday and I finally had a spark of inspiration to write an Advent-themed essay. It’s about the Great O Antiphons (keep reading if you’re scratching your head). I hope you enjoy it in this issue!

XOXO

Allison

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The Journal: Cheerio Antiphons

It feels silly to ask if God likes Cheerios. But he was a one year old once. I ask myself questions like these when I look at my Christmas tree. When I set up the Little People nativity scene, search out my bookshelves for my Advent poems, and ponder why I've thrown tinsel all over everything in my house.

Did the Christ child cling to his mother? Did he cry when she laid him down at night? Did he sit at a table and pick at his food? Did he ask for fruit instead of his dinner? Did he ever say, "Mom, I just want a snack of plain grapes in a little bag?"

I look at these little people in my home, almost three and newly one. It's often so tempting—so easy—to let out a hefty sigh and throw myself on the couch in exhaustion. The messy floors, the crumbs in my socks, the occasional clump of oatmeal in my hair. Most days I am not meditating on the Incarnation.

For heaven's sake, I’m ginning up the willpower to put away the laundry, sweep again, make up some screen-free, developmentally stimulating Montessori-esque activity. I’m feeding the little people so many string cheeses I might as well be the String Cheese Factory Outlet. Can I buy stock in Tillamook?  You can bet your denarius that Mary did not wear herself out making whole wheat yogurt mini muffins after preschool today. And could you imagine, just this week, I got to mark off two real winners on my Mom Bingo card: “clean up a shattered snow globe on the kitchen floor”, and yes only minutes later, “toddler somehow has poop on toes”. I’m so sorry to even share that with the world. My mother is rolling over somewhere on I-35.

After no one is in immediate danger of perishing off the face of the planet or slicing their foot open on glittery snow globe glass, then and only then, a thought cuts across—a flash of light.

O Emmanuel!
Come to save us.

Indeed, we are in desperate need of saving.

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Advent has taken on a new depth for me as I mother my children. Three years ago, I was pregnant with my daughter and was a weepy mess every time I thought about Mary with child. Last year, I held my newborn son in my arms and was struck anew with the shocking reality that the God of the universe was swaddled up and nestled into this lowly earthen home. This Christmas, in the throes of toddlerdom, I feel the wonder welling up when my daughter comes in the living room, sees the Christmas tree, and exerts, "O! This is just lovely."

I don't think I'd heard the word Advent til I was in college. My low church protestant Restoration movement family history can sometimes catch up with me quickly. If I hadn't heard of Advent until college, I certainly don't think I'd ever heard the word "antiphon" until my dear friend gave me a copy of Malcolm Guite's Waiting on the Word collection of Advent poetry about three or so years ago. The seven great O Antiphons? Never heard of 'em.

For the Evangelical Protestants reading:

antiphon:
1: a psalm, anthem, or verse sung responsively
2: a verse usually from Scripture said or sung before and after a canticle, psalm, or psalm verse as part of the liturgy

Now that we have our definitions in order, let me introduce you to the seven great O Antiphons.  These verses are seven Magnificat canticles sung in the last days leading up to Christmas, beginning December 17. These short verses date back to at least the sixth century and have been a part of liturgical traditions for centuries. Some scholars wonder if the antiphons have been a part of Christian worship since the 400s, when several cheeky monks liked to create hidden acrostic poems within their songs, which we will get to momentarily. Regardless of when the Os came on the scene, they've been with the Church much longer than Jingle Bells.

Maybe like me and you're thinking, "I too have never heard of antiphons." But you actually have. You're probably more familiar with the verses of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.  Each verse of the song begins with a Messianic title: O Come, Emmauel, O Wisdom from on High, O great Lord of might, O Branch of Jesse's stem, O Dayspring, O Key of David, O King of Nations.

In Latin, these titles are Sapientia (O Wisdom), O Adonai (O Lord), O Radix Jesse (O Root of Jesse), O Clavis David (O Key of David), O Oriens (O Dawn of the East), O Rex Gentium (O King of the Nations), O Emmanuel (O God with Us).

Each antiphon follows the same format.

• Opens with an O

• A Messianic title, all references from the book of Isaiah.

• An invitation to Come

• An elaboration on the request (come and teach us, come and save us, etc.)

Here is a version of the antiphons for the curious:

O Wisdom of our God Most High, guiding creation with power and love: come to teach us the path of knowledge!

O Leader of the House of Israel, giver of the Law to Moses on Sinai: come to rescue us with your mighty power!

O Root of Jesse’s stem, sign of God’s love for all his people: come to save us without delay!

O Key of David, opening the gates of God’s eternal Kingdom: come and free the prisoners of darkness!

O Radiant Dawn, splendor of eternal light, sun of justice: come and shine on those who dwell in darkness and in the shadow of death.

O King of all nations and keystone of the Church: come and save man, whom you formed from the dust!

O Emmanuel, our King and Giver of Law: come to save us, Lord our God!

These brief verses can frame our reflections on Jesus as we journey toward Christmas morning. Whoever structured these songs did it with great intention to draw us into meditations on Christ's coming. The first letter of each Latin word creates a reverse acrostic, spelling ERO CRAS, which means "Tomorrow, I will come."

Now, let me tell you, this kind of knowledge just bowls me over.

In a season of life where most all my attention is consumed in the caring for small children, I find great consolation, encouragement, and strength in leaning into ancient liturgical seasons that draw me out of myself into something grand. It's quite remarkable to me that for hundreds of years, hundreds of thousands of people have also seen this same flash of light cut across the darkness.

My days can feel like sometimes endless ordinary time. But Advent is a real shift. Something changes. These days are markedly different. It's not just Cheerios and cheese sticks for all eternity. We are actually moving toward the great reality that God arrived the same way all of us do.

So to that great gift, we say, O come!

Come to our dirty dishes, our long days, our snack times, our laundry rooms, our rocking chairs, our Goldfish-crusted car seats. Guide us toward Bethlehem. We'll bring the pack-n-plays. We'll grab the diaper bag, the Infant Motrin, the phone chargers, the sippy cups. We'll cover the kitchen in flour and sprinkles. There will be plenty of twinkle lights and paper chains and scissors and glitter and glue sticks.

And he says Tomorrow! Tomorrow I will come.

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If I haven’t met you In The Flesh, I’m Allison. I live outside Oklahoma City with my husband

Mitchell East

and our two precious children. I am an editor and book designer and a home chef, among other things. I run a small bookish agency called North Parade Press. My work here on Substack often explores the intersection of food and faith and literature. Grab a book and a fork!

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The Bookshelf

What am I reading this days?

I have a big stack of cookbooks by my bed that I checked out from the library. Yes, please read cookbooks in bed, 10/10 recommend, extremely delightful bedtime material.

• Tenderheart by Hetty Liu McKinnon /

  To Vegetables, With Love

• Mi Cocina by Rick Martinez

• Dinner in French by Melissa Clark

I’m also reading The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin!

I’m picking up Praying Like Monks, Living Like Fools by Tyler Staton every now and then.

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And thus concludes our issue today. I’m headed to an Andrea Boccelli concert tonight and New York City tomorrow. Forgot to let y’all know I’m both an opera singer, fluent in Italian, and was recruited to be an understudy for the Rockettes this season. Huge news, I know.

Love to you and yours,

Allison