It is believed that in the fourth century, European followers of the still-newish religion called Christianity first formally observed the period in December leading up to the birth of Jesus Christ. They called it “the advent,” from the Latin word for “approach” or “arrival,” and it was a somber time, one for preparation and contemplation. In the sixth century, Pope Gregory composed many of the texts still associated with the advent, at least as it is practiced by Catholics. In the 19th, German Protestants turned the waiting into something more like counting, lighting candles to mark the days until Christmas. For millions of people, for more than 2,000 years, the advent has represented an opportunity to reflect, to anticipate—to make holiness out of the spiritual equivalent of standing in line, to sit in stillness during the year’s darkest time and know the light is coming.
In 2025, the advent seems, mostly, to represent an opportunity to pluck miniature diversions out of perforated-cardboard compartments. People with even a tenuous relationship to Jesus Christ are nonetheless spending their Decembers counting down the days until his birthday; they are doing this by opening paper doors, behind which they are finding just about anything a person can possibly buy—tea, designer lipstick, wine, weed, chili crisp, cheese, knives, crystals, smoked summer sausage, toys for children, toys for cats, toys for dogs, toys for sex. They are participating (possibly subconsciously) in an ancient, sacred ritual by unboxing their daily thong. They are counting down to Christmas without compromising their gains, as Jesus would have wanted. They’re celebrating the season the way it was meant to be: with Keurig cups.
The Macy’s website currently offers many dozens of advent calendars, ranging in price from just under $20 (chocolate) to $955 (an assortment of goodies from the Swedish luxury brand Byredo). Williams-Sonoma has more than 20, including two cross-branded with the Netflix show Bridgerton. Burger King and Kraft each do an advent calendar, as does Red Bull, though I gotta say, that one looks suspiciously like a normal 24-pack of cans. Sometimes, advent calendars cost as much as a small boat; sometimes they merely contain two dozen (very) small boats. Bonne Maman, the French jam company, has quadrupled production of its advent calendar since debuting it in 2017, and the calendar still sells out every year, a representative of the company told Modern Retail. Advent calendars have now gone so wide that they’re not just for Christmas anymore—Hanukkah and Valentine’s Day have both received the advent-calendar treatment, in a development that is wholly natural, if you think the point of advent calendars is to invent new categories of acquisition, or a bit goofy, if you think the point of advent calendars is to observe the advent.
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Advent calendars as mass-marketed products have been around since the early 20th century, when European companies began selling simple paper ones, mostly for children. Their slow march toward secular adult indulgence kicked into warp speed about a decade and a half ago, when beauty companies began putting sample-size products into glamorous boxes and marketing them under seasonal names. The idea presented two opportunities at once: Advent calendars were aimed at loyalists but also roped in new customers unwilling to spring for a full-size tube of goo who might be persuaded by what they saw as a good deal on two dozen petite ones. The calendars’ once-a-year nature also allowed companies to create artificial scarcity, drumming up excitement and demand. Most important, they provided nearly a full month of daily exposure to a company and its products—for the people who bought the calendars, and for whomever they were showing them to. Not insignificantly, this was shortly after YouTube was founded: Unboxing videos were one of that platform’s earliest native hits, and the only thing better than a single unboxing is 24 unboxings in a row.
The unboxing videos are now on TikTok, too, and they follow the same format and offer the same thrills: surprises, ribbons, novelties in tiny, adorable packages. Everyone loves a small treat, especially one that feels like a deal. More and more, giving gifts has also become something that people are doing for themselves—I think it’s notable that the very premise of an advent calendar, which one typically starts opening nearly a month before Christmas, means it’s probably not a gift. (“A little moment, just for you,” whispers the copy inside the cover of an advent calendar full of waterproof jewelry.) The season has morphed into a weeks-long festival of consumption, its own liturgical calendar’s worth of shopping holidays: Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Boxing Day. The advent calendar began as a form of religious expression. It still is—it’s just a different religion.
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