Dear Reader,

For Christmas, I received three books, one bottle of scotch, and fewer than zero television sets.  Negative-one television set, to be precise.  Which, eventually, led to the conclusion that candles are better than TV.  Here follow the details:

You may have heard that Reed Hastings, the co-founder of Netflix, views neither Amazon Prime nor Disney Plus nor any of the other streaming services as his main competitor.  In his words, Netflix competes primarily with sleep.  There are a finite number of hours in the day, after all — twenty-four by most accounts — and given that Americans already spend about ten of them in front of screens, Mr. Hastings, Amazon’s Mr. Bezos, Disney’s Mr. Iger, and all the rest have a finite number of remaining options to steal from.  Eight hours a night must be a tempting plum indeed.  Even without an orchestrated attack from the streamers, excessive nightly news, banal late shows, “reality” series, or really almost anything else currently being televised, have the same effect.  They are not much conducive to sleeping at night nor to ever being actually awake.

But, as I mentioned, I recently became the non-owner of one television set.  It was a sort of reverse Christmas gift.  It offset by one unit the two hundred fifteen million TVs sold last year.   To be clear, we have not had a television in the historic air-waves (or cable) sense of the word for as long as I can remember, maybe for our entire marriage.  But we did at some point, somehow find ourselves with a moderately sized (by current standards) screen, situated on a dark wooden cabinet, used mostly for DVDs and streamed children’s programs — thus providing a convenient alternative to being engaged parents.  We tried to keep it minimal, and we got rid of Netflix a long time ago (take that, Hastings),  yet despite our comparatively limited household viewing patterns, we decided we were making too much use of the thing.  Its physical presence was always there, watching everyone, tempting everyone.  “Just for a few minutes, Dad . . .  it will help keep us quiet!”

Thus it was that in November we discussed giving it up as a sacrifice during the upcoming Advent.  It seemed that would be an effective way to help us and the children enter more deeply into the presence, spirit, and beauty of the Advent season.  And maybe we would just get rid of it for good after that — a Christmas offering to our healthier, future parental selves.  

We proceeded to do absolutely nothing about it.

So the TV continued on as it had — a glowing, surrogate, holiday-themed babysitter throughout Advent.  Until, eventually, it was Christmas Eve.   And on that day, a little after noon, I brought home a Christmas tree.  I carried it into the house and leaned it against a wall temporarily, not far from the dark wooden cabinet.  I stepped out of the room to get some tools or eggnog or something.  Just then,  my four-year-old son, seeing the job half-finished and always anxious to be of help, decided to lift the tree and aid in the completion of its inbound journey.  I returned, without any eggnog, following the crashing sound. My tree duties were delayed as I cleaned the remains of our television set off the floor.  Yet I couldn’t help but smile (eventually) at the way the motions of life conspire to help us implement our nobler plans, such as an Adventine screen fast, even in their final possible hours. 

We decided, almost immediately, not to replace the infernal thing.  But what to do instead?  In short order, my wife reimagined the dark wooden cabinet.  It now holds a large mirror with a dark wooden frame, in front of which are two potted plants, one on each side.  And between them stands a lovely black iron candelabra.  It has five candles, right where the television used to be.  The flickering light from the candles has proven entirely superior to the flickering light it replaced. 

Television numbs the mind.  Candlelight, I have found, calms the mind.  Television offers distraction and agitation.  Candlelight offers focus and peace.  Television causes a physical space to recede and disappear from our awareness.  Candlelight brings a physical space to life, warming it, massaging it, continuously reinventing its every surface and corner.   Television, we all know, facilitates wasteful time.  Candles, on the other hand, facilitate restful time.  No candlemaker has ever declared sleep to be his primary competitor. 

What’s more, engagement with candlelight is intentional: it is rare to find that you have accidentally been staring at a candle for hours.   Candles are useful and functional, yet they are also magical and whimsical.  Candles are comforting and soothing, yet they are also terrifying, in a wonderful, humbling sort of way.  The smallest lit flame contains all fire within it — the very power to engulf the earth, ours to hold and to own and to set on a cabinet in the living room.

Shortly, Candlemas will be upon us.  This holiday, though less observed now than it ought to be, is part of the historic tradition of numerous Christian denominations.  On this day, candles are blessed.  And in some reckonings, it is the conclusion of the elongated Christmas season — a closing bookend on the celebration of the birth of Light into the world.  In dark times, in a world that prefers darkness to light, the candles we bless are a reminder that darkness does not prevail.  In restless times, in a world that insists on keeping us stirred up day and night by endless streaming agitations, they are a reminder of the rest and refreshment offered by he who will let “thy servant go in peace.”

Candlemas falls, as it always does, on February 2 — the midpoint of winter, halfway between solstice and equinox.  As a possible activity to honor this blessed day, I suggest letting a four-year-old smash your TV; then replace it with a candle. Or at least cancel Netflix.  If the whole world did so, everyone except Mr. Hastings would sleep better at night.

Sincerely,