Heat, Not Snow—Advent Under Australian Stars

Series: Getting Ready for An Aussie Christmas

By WJ de Kock, ThD

Educational Consultant to Partners in Ministry

Professor of Practical Theology at Palmer Theological Seminary of Eastern University

5 minute read

Late November. The thermometer's climbed past 35 before 3 p.m., your church building's a tin shed sauna, and someone's mentioned in passing that this year's bushfire season is shaping up to be a shocker.[i] You're standing in your office trying not to pass out from heat and confusion: What does Advent even look like here? Because let's be honest—the whole northern hemisphere Christmas aesthetic is baked into the liturgy like snow on a Hallmark movie. Candles against the dark. Silent nights. Frost-covered pines. Deep winter hush.

Except there was no snow in Bethlehem. Jesus was born in the Middle East—a place where December is mild, sure, but hardly a winter wonderland.[ii] Bethlehem sits on a plateau about 770 metres above sea level; winter nights get cold, but the daytime temps hover around 12–15 degrees Celsius. Think Melbourne in July, maybe, but dusty, dry, and decidedly not picturesque. No snow on the stable roof. No White Christmas. No carollers in scarves and mittens. Just shepherds out at night because it was cool enough to breathe, animals kicking up dust, and a sky full of unfamiliar southern stars—well, unfamiliar to us; familiar to them.

So here's the gorgeous irony: the whole northern hemisphere "Christmas = snow and cosy fires" thing? That's a European invention.[iii] It's Dickens and Germanic Yule logs and Victorian nostalgia, all wrapped in the fact that for folks in London or Stockholm, December actually is freezing. They built Advent around their reality: candles against the darkness, waiting for light to return, the gospel as warmth breaking through ice. Fair enough. Beautiful, even. But not universal. Not the only way.

And yet we've inherited it wholesale down here in the Antipodes. We sing about snow we'll never see. We plaster fake icicles on church halls while sweat drips down our backs. We hang tinsel in 40-degree heat and pretend the symbolism still works. Kids in nativity plays wear woollen shepherd costumes and nearly faint under stage lights.[iv] It's absurd, when you think about it. We're trying to celebrate a Middle Eastern birth story using a Scandinavian aesthetic in the Australian summer. It's like serving pavlova at a Sichuan restaurant—technically possible, but wildly out of place.

So what if we stopped pretending? What if we leaned into the actual season we're in and asked: How does the incarnation show up in this heat? Under these stars? In a land where fire isn't a cosy metaphor but a literal, dangerous reality that sits on the edges of every dry summer?

Before there were church buildings with air conditioning and plastic nativity sets, there was fire. That's how God's people gathered—around actual flames, under open sky.[v] They told stories. They shared food. They felt the heat on their faces and knew they were alive, that something sacred was happening. Fire was the centre, not a stage. Fire was warmth, yes, but also light, danger, transformation. It kept you honest. You couldn't hide in the back row when you were sitting in a circle around embers, your face lit up for everyone to see.

Jesus himself talked about fire—not the gentle candlelight kind, but the wild, refining, judgment-bringing kind.[vi] "I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!" That's not a guy talking about cosy hearths and cocoa. That's a guy talking about disruption. About the Spirit that burns through pretence and lights people up from the inside. About transformation that hurts before it heals. About the kind of presence that makes you sweat.

Sound familiar? Because that's exactly what an Australian Advent feels like. Not waiting in the dark. Not lighting candles against winter's chill. But walking into the heat. Into the discomfort. Into the bushfire warnings and the threat of catastrophic conditions. Into the blistering, dangerous, alive-with-possibility reality of summer in a country where fire is part of the landscape's DNA.[vii]

What if we stopped apologizing for that? What if, instead of pretending we're in a Bing Crosby movie, we gathered our people outside—under the jacarandas, under the Southern Cross—and said: "This is our Advent. This heat. This danger. This dry grass and red earth and relentless sun. This is where God meets us. Not in fake snow, but in the actual sweat and wildness of the life we're actually living."

Picture this: late November, and finally, finally, the sun dips low, the heat slackens its grip, and you and your people shuffle outside like a bunch of overheated wombats craving shade. Backyard, church carpark, patch of bush—doesn’t matter. Nobody’s in rows, and you would laugh anyone out of town if they suggested pews. It’s a circle: you, old mate Jim with his battered esky of ginger beers, and the church treasurer who’s brought citronella candles because—let’s be honest—we all want to avoid a repeat of last year’s mozzie disaster.

There might be a fire ban, but you’ve still got a circle, and someone’s rustled up enough jam jars and tea lights to make the backyard feel almost magical—like bush doof meets Christmas Eve. People are spread out on faded picnic rugs, fanning themselves with whatever they can grab: church bulletins, old Bunnings catalogues, the plate from last night’s barbie. Blessedly, no one’s putting on a show. It’s far too hot for that kind of theatrical effort—everyone’s just being real, letting the sweat and mozzie repellent do the talking.

You lob out a question, half-serious, half-hoping it’ll get a real answer: “Tell us a story. Where have you seen God this week? Or is there something keeping you up at night?” And to your amazement, people lean in. Someone talks about the trees glowing orange as the sun set, and how it reminded them the world’s still got beauty, even with the fire season creeping up. Someone else, eyes bleary, shrugs and admits they’re running on empty. Someone confesses a silly little joy—a lost dog found, a baby laughing, a moment of grace in Woolies with a stranger over the meat pies.

The yarns are ragged but true. No one’s rushing to impress. Even the grandkids are half listening, half chasing geckos. The heat strips everyone down to honesty—and you let the silence sprawl, because there’s a kind of magic when nobody’s frantically filling space just to prove life is interesting.

And here’s the sneaky genius: this is Advent—but not as imported from a northern hemisphere Netflix binge. We’re not faking joy in a snow globe. We’re meeting God outside, in the sweat, the grit, and those bug-bitten moments when something sacred quietly sidles up.

Let’s be real: that first Christmas? It was hot, dirty, and uncomfortable. Mary and Joseph were just another pair of refugees squeezed into a noisy, overfull town, clutching at whatever space was left, surrounded by the animal chorus and a night sky that didn’t care about their plans. Nobody prepped a curated tablescape. God rolled up sleeves and got messy—showing up in a world that needed presence, not perfection.

Maybe that’s why the gospel fits our crazy, sunburnt Advent so well. God has a thing for showing up where nobody expects—certainly not in the fake snow aisle at Big W. Here, under these impossible stars, our mess and laughter and yawns and prayers are exactly the setting God loves to crash.

So here’s your challenge, fellow heat survivor: Keep the air-con humming and sing about snow if you want, but know you’re allowed to meet God right here, sweat and all. Or you could head outside, circle up, let the mozzies come, and trade perfection for presence. Maybe this year, the fire you can’t light will be the one that sparks between honest stories and shared, slouchy hope.

The manger? Not a snowdrift in sight. Just the glow of exhausted, open-hearted people, a couple of animals, angels maybe lurking just out of frame, and a ragtag group staring up, just as clueless and hopeful as you, at a sky full of new possibilities.

ENDNOTES

[i] CSIRO and Bureau of Meteorology seasonal bushfire outlooks; see also Bill Gammage, The Biggest Estate on Earth: How Aborigines Made Australia (Allen & Unwin, 2011) on fire as a defining feature of the Australian landscape.

[ii] Bethlehem's winter climate averages 12–15°C during the day, with cold nights but no snow in most years. See Kenneth E. Bailey, Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes (IVP Academic, 2008) for cultural and climatic context of the nativity.

[iii] The association of Christmas with snow, evergreens, and winter festivities is largely a product of Victorian England and Germanic traditions; see Penne L. Restad, Christmas in America: A History (Oxford, 1995).

[iv] Australian schools and churches regularly costume children in woollen robes for Christmas pageants despite summer heat—a beloved absurdity acknowledged across denominational lines.

[v] For the ancient practice of fire-centred gathering and its theological significance, see Christine Valters Paintner, The Soul's Slow Ripening: 12 Celtic Practices for Seeking the Sacred (Sorin Books, 2018).

[vi] Luke 12:49 (NRSV). For commentary on Jesus' fire language, see "Commentary on Luke 12:49," Working Preacher, November 10, 2020.

[vii] Fire ecology and Aboriginal cultural burning practices are essential to understanding the Australian landscape; see Victor Steffensen, Fire Country: How Indigenous Fire Management Could Help Save Australia (Hardie Grant, 2020).