It began some years before we had children, in a dark winding alley filled with bright color and exotic scents. My husband and I were given the gift of going to Jordan and Israel the winter after we married. We wandered the Old City in Jerusalem, sipping murky sweet demitasse of Turkish coffee and wondering at the rich cacophony of culture, history and life compressed together. Although we didn’t have much money for souvenirs, finely carved olivewood figures representing the nativity, arranged on dusty shop shelves, kept calling my name. This, we decided would be our remembrance- an olive wood manger scene to shape our family Christmas traditions for years to come.
We chose with care. Peering in shop after shop we found our favorite craftsmen and we compared quality and prices. Gentle Joseph leaning in to the baby, a graceful but tired looking mother Mary- donkeys that almost looked curious- they were practically perfect. Our dilemma came in finding a nativity with a baby Jesus who didn’t look like a miniature Elvis. Yes, that was a problem. Nearly every holy family we were drawn to, sported a suave little white Jesus with a full pompadore hairdo and a coy grin. When we finally found a sweet brown-faced olivewood Jesus with only a little hair we knew we’d found what we were seeking.
From that time on, as soon as our fresh evergreen tree went up each year, the olive wood figures were arranged front and center. Placed on a mantle, the piano or a prominent cabinet- where they could be touched and moved about and enjoyed- they were reminders of a real family with a real baby long ago.
By the time we had preschool children I knew that I wanted my girls to know this little Jesus not only as a real baby from long ago, but as a companion and a light today. Knowing God as the one who came as a real incarnate, flesh and blood, baby with a diaper to change and who, at the same time, embodies the mystery of the God of eternity here with us now, changes things.
When we are looking forward to meeting someone we get ready. We may or may not be patient when we wait, but wait we must. And preparing ourselves while we wait makes the waiting better in every way. Till that point in our house, Jesus in his manger always made his appearance along with the whole nativity entourage- no waiting. Here’s the Christmas tree, and, here’s Jesus and friends. The Advent season when our girls were three and seven we decided to slow down and prepare ourselves for Jesus to appear.
We talked about our plan and introduced it to our faith community at that time, a small non-denominational church with no liturgical or Advent practices. What might happen for each of us if we were to all focus on preparing to meet Jesus each day of Advent? We started with a bale of hay and an invitation to make a soft welcoming bed for Jesus in each of our homes. The first Sunday in Advent that bale of hay was situated at the front of the sanctuary. Each household (with children or no children) was given a brown bag to fill with hay to take home with this invitation:
Pay attention to your words and actions. Notice if you are expressing gratitude or kindness for others. When you do—add a piece of hay to make a manger bed for Jesus. If you notice someone else being kind or grateful, add hay for those expressions too. Before we knew it we had a veritable kindness fest going on, and a growing, welcoming manger bed for our olivewood Jesus boy to make his appearance in.
The hay was messy and the pile grew happily larger over the weeks of Advent…and anticipation for Jesus arrival grew daily—as did our awareness that we were changing our own habits and our treatment of each other as we prepared. The waiting became joyous rather than anxious. Our meaningful nativity scene had never seemed more special. On Christmas Eve we were ready. We lit our last Advent candle and brought that wooden baby out to his cushy bed. Eyes glowed and we all knew, something remarkable had taken place.
On Christmas morning, every household gathered their beds of hay and brought those straws of kindness, intention, preparation and gratitude—the symbols of our anticipation for meeting and welcoming the Christ-child — to the front of the sanctuary. We brought our stories of how we had not only made room for Jesus to arrive, but in the process, made more room inside ourselves, more room for each other, and more room for love. There was never a better-looking heap of hay on church carpet as there was that Christmas morning.
21 years later that messy pile of hay and the willing spirits of the small people who made it grow quickly can still instruct me. How will I create room inside myself this Christmas Season? Who can I make welcome at my table? Am I able to I slow down enough to notice my own words and actions? When do I stop and affirm an ordinary kindness in someone else? How often do I simply stop to breathe- and clear out internal space? Can I choose to quiet my own thoughts so that I really hear others, especially those who may think differently than I? Who do I make room for? How can I cultivate anticipation and joy instead of harried activity? What will I choose and what will I invite those around me to choose?
How will we each create messy managers of welcome and love this Christmas? What kind of a manger can we create in this world together? And who will we invite to join in?
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Kelly Bean is a local and international leader and consultant as well as an author and activist for positive change in the community and around the world. From United Nations Commission on the Status of Women panels, to mud huts in Rwanda, to a variety of venues around the USA, to living rooms in her own city of Portland, Oregon, Kelly Bean encourages community building for the sake of a better world.
Community Cultivator http://www.kelly-bean.com/about/
Author http://www.kelly-bean.com/, http://www.kelly-bean.com/blog/
International Executive Director http://www.africanroad.org/
Co-founder http://womensconvergence.com/
Co-founder and Consultant http://greatergood.works/
Alleluia, the waiting is over, Jesus Christ has come,
The promised One of Christmas in now present in our midst.
May we let the chaos settle and turn from our distractions,
May we notice the places that shimmer with his presence.
Alleluia, love comes down at Christmas,
Beloved son of God, Saviour of the world we welcome your coming.
A child born as one of us to make all things new,
A Saviour birthed to bring righteousness and justice for all.
Watch for the signs and listen for the messengers,
Stand on tiptoe, shout for joy and trumpet the good news,
God’s miracle has come down from heaven,
Alleluia the Christ child has come.
May this child of Christmas come to us and give us hope,
May he grow in us and show us life, may he speak to us and teach us love,
Alleluia something new is emerging something new is being birthed,
Jesus has come and we open our hearts to be his home.
“I am the Lord’s servant…may it be to me as you have said.”-Luke 1:38
It’s Advent again. Which means that my thoughts are turning to Mary again.
Mary. A woman who was highly favored, who pondered things in her heart, who was responsive to the Divine invitation before her. A woman who was willing to open all of herself- even the very cells of her body, her most intimate parts- to God.
Whoa.
This kind of opening is radical. It is risky. This kind of opening risks it all- one’s life plans, one’s relationships, one’s reputation, one’s physical well-being, one’s very life- for God.
[I mean, seriously?! Opening the very cells of one’s body to receive the God-fetus? Talk about vulnerable!]
This kind of opening requires so much trust and faith that the God of Jesus is indeed the God of Love and Life, whose invitation leads to salvation and great joy.
Mary clearly thought that this opening, this Inbreaking reality, was deeply good news that led her to heart-expanding praise. Salvation has come! The hungry will be filled! There will be justice and peace on earth!
Mary’s Magnificat response reveals her entrance into this joy:
“My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me– holy is his name…” (Luke 1:46-49)
For Mary, opening herself to the Inbreaking reality led her to ecstatic, joy-filled worship as she encountered the salvation of God.
This opening to salvation, however, also led Mary into dark, difficult places. I think of the blessing and the prophetic word that Simeon spoke to Mary when he said of her boy, “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul, too” (Luke 2: 34-35).
Mary didn’t just open herself to receiving in her son the Savior of the World; she also opened herself to receiving the one who would become the Suffering Servant. And his suffering (all the way up to his murder) inevitably became her suffering. And the suffering of her neighbors- the mothers of innocent children who were slaughtered because her child posed a threat to the powers who felt threatened by Jesus- inevitably became her suffering, too. “A sword will pierce your own soul, too.”
Mary teaches me that opening oneself to God means opening oneself to all of it- to the deep, abiding, ecstastic joy and peace that comes through encounter with the liberating Word–the proclamation that salvation is coming to all people–and also to the soul-piercing pain that one feels when one encounters the depths of one’s own suffering and the sufferings of others. It means opening oneself to the Love that also reveals injustice and evil for what it is.
It hurts that in this time of Advent expectancy there are millions of black boys and men who are locked away for the entirety of their earthly lives with no hope of ever getting out. It hurts that there are millions of people in this country who will go to bed hungry tonight. It hurts that there are children in the Middle East who are being struck down with drones at the hands of the US military.
It hurts that there is not peace on earth. (How can one even pretend to proclaim that, in light of Ferguson, of Marysville, of Syria…?)
It makes me wonder how God can bear it, how God can continue to keep God’s heart open to loving this world.
Because everything in me wants to close up, close off, protect myself from facing suffering because it hurts so much. And it hurts that I even have the privilege that affords me a choice about whether to engage the pain or not just because I have white skin and a support system with enough money that I don’t need to worry about where my next meal will come from.
I sometimes feel powerless against the onslaught of pain that comes when I keep my heart open to love.
So, why did Mary do it? Why did she open up the cells of her body for God to take up residence and then to come forth into this pain-full world to die? Why did she open up her heart to love and raise this child, knowing from the beginning that she couldn’t protect him from the powers that would speak against him, that would eventually shed his blood)?
“This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed.” Is this the purpose of the soul-piercing: that disorientation, disillusionment, and the realization that things are not as they should be are necessary so that the knowledge of salvation can be realized? Is this soul-piercing a prerequisite for liberation and deliverance? Is it necessary to be pierced so that we can be emptied in order to be filled? Does this soul-piercing serve to bring us the knowledge of salvation?
This soul-piercing reveals to me not only the immensity of pain, suffering, and sin in the world, but also my own pain, suffering, and sin. It reveals the ugliness and sin that prompts me to turn away from the pain of my brothers and sisters, grasping for things that would keep me “safe” and “comfortable” while leaving others to fend for themselves. It shows me that I am not only capable of inflicting suffering on myself and others, but that I do. And that I, along with this world, am in desperate need of a Savior.
It hurts to be pierced to the core. But the piercing is what enables me to experience the deep, abiding joy and peace that comes from encounter with God’s Love. And oh, how worth it the soul-piercing is for the experience of encountering the deep peace and joy of God that is born of Love!
Mary’s choice to receive her Savior-Son shows me that encounter with God necessarily means that one will experience the soul-piercing sorrow and the heart-burning joy, and that you can’t have one without the other. That to experience the heart-burning consolation of encounter with the Risen Christ, one must experience the soul-piercing pain of Golgotha. And perhaps the extent to which we enter into the joy that Love has made a home with us is what enables us to continue to enter into the pain.
I am comforted that the Living Word- the One Whose Spirit pierces my very heart–knows what it means to be pierced, too. And that he knows what it is to be raised. The fullness of sorrow and pain.
In both Jesus and Mary, I hear the invitation to open myself to Love and to receive and enter into experience the other. Like mother, like son. Like Son, like mother.
For me, opening myself to Love this Advent means entering into joy that salvation has come. It means proclaiming the coming of Immanuel, insisting that God is in fact with this world despite evidence to the contrary. It also means considering how I am being called to enter into true com-passion by being with my brothers and sisters in their joy and pain. It means asking God to fill me with God’s love, that I might live as an embodiment of that Love in this world.
What are you being invited to this Advent?
May we all, like Mary, ponder this question in our hearts and open ourselves to respond to the invitation God places before us.
Kari Rauh is a spiritual pilgrim on the journey with Jesus who lives and works as a massage and craniosacral practitioner in Seattle, WA. She encounters the Divine in authentic conversations around the dinner table, giving and receiving hugs, watching birds, and eating Thai food.”
Christmas is only a couple of days away. This week I am lighting the love candle to add to those of gratitude, peace, joy and hope that I have lit in past weeks. The light shines brightly in the early morning darkness, reminding me of how Christ’s light shines in some of the darkest parts of our world.
Sometimes we look around us in despair and long for the coming of Christ’s light in all his fullness. Then we catch glimpses of where that light has already entered our world and it dazzles us with its brightness filling our hearts with gratitude, hope, and joy.
We watch the unsung heroes whose lives make a difference in places of grief and despair. People like Sandra Lako, a physician who works in Sierra Leone. I first met Sandra when she was six years old, ministering with her family on board the mercy ship M/V Anastasis. Her whole life, like that of her parents Rene and Marianne who now work in Haiti, has been dedicated to those less fortunate than we are.
Sandra has lost several colleagues to Ebola, and lives and works under the constant threat of its deadly grip. Sierra Leone has banned Christmas and New Year gatherings this year and Sandra has cancelled her own personal celebrations with friends and family in the U.S. Yet Christ is being birthed in that country because of the commitment that she and her colleagues have made. Pray for them and light your own Christmas candle for them.
We watch those who struggle with their own heavy burdens of illness, death and injustice and still manage to shine like bright Christmas stars in our midst. Like my friend Niki Foster Hibbert, undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer. The doctors only expect her to live for around three years, from Niki’s perspective 1,000 days to share blessings. Sometimes these blessings are filled with joy, other times with heartache. I am following Niki’s daily journey on Facebook, laughing and crying with her and her family and friends. It is a beautiful though obviously painful journey which is touching the lives of many and filling all of us with Christ light.
So as you gather round the manger this week, whose light shines in the darkness for you? Who do you think of that has filled you and those around you with Christ light?
I wrote this prayer for Christmas last year and used it as the Christmas eve prayer in A Journey Toward Home. I found myself reflecting on it again this morning and thought that some of you might appreciate it too.
Today’s Advent post is written by Ryan Harrison. When Ryan isn’t dreaming up ways to reach out to her community and participate in Kingdom building, she’s working and writing (and writing when she should probably be working).
nativity – Andi Harisman Indonesia
I decided to brainstorm my guest list, the way one might brainstorm wedding or party guests.
Manger Guest List:
- People who don’t think like me (as long as they don’t crowd me)
- People who don’t act like me (people who act more hateful, more judgmental, more foolish, less empathetic, less kind than me)
- People who need the manger more than I do (those who need a reminder that Christmas isn’t about shopping or parties, but about worship)
- People who need to repent for their sinful ways more than I do
- People who don’t feel the weight of justice and mercy the way I do
What an incredibly insensitive (at the least) and hurtful guest list; I’m ashamed to admit it’s mine. But when challenged to think honestly about who we would invite to the manger, that’s the list that emerged. I thought of all the ways the manger could be kept neat and tidy, by keeping those who thought differently at arms’ length, over there by the stable. I thought of all the ways the manger represents the upside-down of the season, and all the people who needed a little bit more upheaval in their thinking about God, King and Country. I thought of all the people who just could not fathom the King of Israel, the Redeemer of Israel being laid to bed in the pungent smell that seeps into the skin and the dust that cakes on layers thick. I thought of all the people who held onto the shreds of power the way a baby twists his mom’s hair around his fingers and in between his knuckles, matting it in sticky drool. I thought of all those who ignore the rending hearts, the seam-ripping sorrow that fills the air in cities across the world. I thought that they could all crowd in close to the manger to see the newborn King.
But the person I didn’t think about, the person who most needs to be invited to the manger is me.
I need the manger.
I have a pit in my stomach and I don’t think it’s from too many Christmas cookies. My inability to admit that I am the one in need of a manger has crept up on me and it’s settled in, rooting itself into my stomach the way a hedgehog burrows deep into the dirt. I am the one who needs the upside-down Emmanuel. I need the upside-down of the King who welcomes sinners and tax collectors into his presence but also Pharisees in the dark crevices of the night. I need the upside-down King who isn’t afraid to tell his disciples that they have it all wrong, that their empty arguing about first and last isn’t the way of the kingdom—even after they’d known so long, seen and heard for so long that it wasn’t the way. I need the upside-down King who says, ‘just one more step’ to the man who really isn’t willing to follow Him so far, after all. I need the upside-down of the One who loves the deserter-denier, who calls out beloved instead of betrayer. I need the upside-down King who tells me I’m holding on to my life too much and the only way to keep it is to lose it: gradually, step-by-step for the sake of others and sometimes all at once for them, too.
I need the manger. I need to be invited to rejoice over the tightly swaddled baby, the light that destroys the darkness, all-creation-turned-upside-down Emmanuel. And then perhaps, my guest list will reflect God’s heart and not my own.
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