Ron Garvaise – Madonna with Child
She walks the dusty trails until her ankles swell and her back pulsates in pain. Her womb, distended in the eighth month of pregnancy, slows her down, yet also gives her an almost transcendent determination. With each step she is aware of her anxious thoughts, Will I be left in the middle of nowhere to give birth among the rocks and thorny bushes? Does anyone out there care to take me in, give me shelter? What will the future hold for this special baby boy that I carry?
Mary, the brave young woman who carried Jesus across borders trying to please the mandates of the Roman Empire most likely asked herself the same questions. Yet today “Mary” is not accompanied by a spouse and there definitely is no pleasing the empire. Instead of a donkey helping with her journey, she has a coyote, or people smuggler, who leaves her behind.
After two days of wandering alone in a strange desert land, desperately petitioning the Lord for help, someone does hear her cry, but instead of providing her with hospitality and protection, she is thrown into a cold detention center without medical attention, food, or water. She is told in no uncertain terms that at the United States border there is no room at the inn.
This “Mary” known as Maria pleads and cries as she is dumped back to the other side of a borderline, facing the violent and unknown streets in her vulnerable state. That’s where, as a No More Deaths humanitarian volunteer, our lives intersected and my season of Advent became one of the most meaningful of my life. Maria asks me how it is possible that there is no room on the other side, when in comparison to the increasingly violent and poor place she comes from the land to the north seems so prosperous and abundant. Even more, she wonders how it can be that there is no room at this time when she has previously spent years laboring in U.S. factories and chicken slaughterhouses. The situation is even more complex as Maria thinks about her other children, two little boys—American citizens, waiting for her with anticipation and grief to return to their home in a Midwest city.
With every day that passes, Maria is closer to her due date, which could possibly be Christmas. She has no other choice but to give birth in a humble apartment provided by nuns, far from all family and friends. More than likely, the poor shepherds and neighbors of our time who hear the news will visit her and the new baby. This stable sits juxtaposed just blocks from the greatest power and wealth this world has known, surrounded by heavily enforced walls.
There are record high numbers of women and children, as well as tens of thousands of unaccompanied minors, coming to the US-Mexico border from neighboring countries to the south. Our country’s leaders have called this situation a humanitarian crisis, but their response is to build more detention centers and implement more aggressive border enforcement to keep them out. But if Jesus lives among the orphan, widow and stranger, we very well may be keeping him out as well.
As we sing carols, look at lights and admire the miniature nativity scenes adorning our homes this holiday, let us not forget the most foundational elements of the Christmas story and how they come to life even today. All around us are strangers wandering the land looking for an open door and asking for compassion and justice—not detention, deportation and criminal status. May we not miss our chance to welcome and learn from them, as they have much to bring and to teach about the heart of our Lord. Indeed, they are the hope for our future that comes to us humble and expectant. Not unlike the baby Jesus.
today’s post is an excerpt from A Journey Toward Home: Soul Travel From Advent to Lent. It is adapted from a post originally published at Sojourners Magazine: www.sojo.net. and has also been published at Evangelicals for Social Action
Maryada Vallet, originally from Arizona, has kept busy as a border humanitarian, health professional, activist and evangelical agitator on the US-Mexico border since 2005. Most recently, Maryada has worked with World Vision International in humanitarian response projects, with her alma mater Azusa Pacific University as an adjunct professor, and as a consultant for international humanitarian organizations. For more on US-Mexico border humanitarian work and faith-based principles for immigration reform : www.nomoredeaths.org.
Today’s prayers come from John Birch’s new book The Act of Prayer
Scripture:
Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11; Psalm 126; Luke 1:46-55; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24;
Opening Prayer
At the rising of the dawn
and the setting of the sun,
we will rejoice in the Lord.
In the busyness of the day
and the quieter times within,
we will rejoice in the Lord.
In the joining of our lives
and the fellowship we enjoy,
we will rejoice in the Lord.
Adoration
You came to this world
for the poor in spirit,
the broken-hearted
those held captive,
those lost in sin.
You came to this world
to bring good news
and wholeness into lives,
to bring release
and to forgive.
You came to this world
to guide your people
from a desert place
to a kingdom of love and grace.
You came to this world
to show how far love
is prepared to go,
and, on a cross, showed heaven on earth.
Confession
When we trust the wisdom of this world,
straying from the pathway you would have us tread:
Lord, in your mercy
Forgive us.
When we fail to hear your gentle word,
choosing other voices to follow instead:
Lord, in your mercy
Forgive us.
When we hesitate to speak your name,
fearful of our failings or of what might be said:
Lord, in your mercy
Forgive us.
Thanksgiving
We give thanks
that even within the bustle
of Christmas shopping and consumerism,
an echo of the truth
can be discerned in celebration,
carols being sung and the offering of gifts.
Thank you for opportunities
to point the way through shopping mall,
Christmas trees and sparkling lights,
to the shepherds, a stable,
and, in deep humility, a Saviour’s birth.
Be it Unto Me” by Liz Lemon Swindle
How do we give birth to things or people that we will have to let go of one day? How do we enter into that suffering, knowing our creations are born to die?
When I looked into both my son’s and daughter’s faces after each was born, I couldn’t fathom the reality that these little beings that I had prayed over and labored to bring into the world would one day leave me, would maybe even leave this world before me. When I read my poetry aloud for the first time in sixth grade, and again last week, now in my early 40s, I put my soul on the line, and knew that I had no control over my creation’s effect or destination.
What did Mary think when she gave birth to Jesus? No matter which version of the nativity we choose to envision, whether angels, cattle, or best friends and cousins witnessed the birth, the moment when Mary held her first-born and looked into his face and thought of the entire struggle that brought them to that moment, what was that like for her? Joseph had married her because of an angel’s persuasion. She and her new husband had traveled across the wilderness to a town that wasn’t her own, been denied a room at the inn, delivered the baby and placed him in the feeding trough for the livestock. Or, maybe Jesus was born back in Nazareth and family and friends were close by, and the writers of the Gospels construed the details of Jesus’ birth to make sense philosophically and politically to first century Christians. Either way, when Mary looked into her tiny son’s face, she knew that he was destined to die, and that no amount of mother-love could change that fact. How was she going to be mother to this son of God?
A few years ago, I attended a women’s retreat that focused on Mary, the mother of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. I had recently moved to Texas, and knew only one other woman at the event. At night, we slept in a cabin with no heat and shivered in our sleeping bags during an early and unexpected freeze. Between sessions, I walked on the frosty trails, watched armadillos scuttle through the fallen November leaves. I wondered about this Mary of Nazareth, and what she meant to this twenty-first century woman, one who was comparably affluent, attending a church retreat in central Texas, anxious about who to sit next to at lunch, someone with two children back at home and several journals full of unpublished, unseen-by-anyone, poetry. Mary seemed far away.
Then, near the end of the retreat, another woman, a musician also with two children at home, who was putting her heart on the line as she neared middle age and trying to break into the music scene in Austin and Nashville, picked up her guitar and sang to us. She sang Patty Griffin’s song “Mary.” We wept. Whether we had children or not, in those few moments, we understood Mary. We became her. We knew what it was like to offer ourselves, to give birth to our creations, whether books, ideas, our voices, our children, or our time. We understood how fragile it is, how vulnerable, to speak out, to love, to mother. We realized in hearing the song lyrics and watching the sun brush across guitar frets and long, agile fingers making music for us, how strong we all were, and how much we all risk and suffer for the things that we dare showing the world. Every time we look into the face of that newborn child and feel the pang in our heart that this gift, this creation isn’t meant for us, but for the good of the whole, and we faithfully release it, we are Mary. The world, “the good of the whole” that we sacrifice this precious, beautiful part of ourselves for, is not always kind and that hurts.
“You greet another son, you lose another one, [o]n some sunny day and always stay, Mary” (Patty Griffin, “Mary”). Mary looked into her son’s face and felt her strength and her worst fear all at once. Then, she hosted the shepherds and the wise men, as they came to gaze upon this miracle. She fled to Egypt and back and knew that other thousands of holy, innocent, other sons had died. She raised her son. She left him in the temple, and then went back to find him there, and felt pride and fear as she saw him teaching the rabbis. Then, he couldn’t stay at home any longer, and she watched him leave, and heard rumors of his struggles and successes. Mary asked Jesus to turn water to wine at the marriage they attended, because she knew him. For her, he was like the best wine at the wedding. She tried to take him back when she and the other sons found him teaching in the village, and when he said, “Who are my brothers? Who is my mother?” she understood, even though it hurt. She made no apologies for him, and when he was beaten and killed, she was there, too. Even when Jesus pushed back the stone and lived again, he wasn’t hers, and he didn’t stay, so she went to live with his best friend, John, to try and keep his memory alive, to keep telling his stories, her story.
Mary’s story is difficult, but it is our story every time we mother a relationship, or a project, a child. We look to Mary to learn how to better steward our gift, how to be brave, how to persevere even when the odds are dreadfully against us. “Mary she moves behind me. She leaves her fingerprints everywhere. Every time the snow drifts, every way the sand shifts. Even when the night lifts, she’s always there” (Patty Griffin, “Mary.”) Now, when I think of Mary, I marvel at her audacious but quiet bravery. I marvel at her trust that sharing the gift God had given her, even when everyone around her failed to notice her or even mocked her, was her calling. I am captivated by her faith and inspired to conceive and birth new ideas, to trust that the work I create has divinity woven throughout. So, I send my creation off into the world and pray that it will be treated with kindness, but release it fully knowing that it was never wholly mine.
Lyrics: Patty Griffin, “Mary” Flaming Red (A&M Records, 1998).
Kristin Carroccino is a writer, editor, and photographer who lives in Seattle with her husband and two children. She volunteers for Mustard Seed Associates and is doing her best to carve out more time to write poetry and fiction. She edited and contributed to A Journey toward Home: Soul Travel from Advent to Lent and A Journey into Wholeness: Soul Travel from Lent to Easter, both MSA publications. She is also the co-author of Boats without Oars: Ancient-Future Evangelism, An American Road Trip, and Collected Stories of the Episcopal Church. Visit www.carroccinocollective.com for more about her books and other creative pursuits.
Following yesterdays post of Advent music, I have been asking some of my friends: What appeals to the youth in your congregation. Here are some of the suggestions that have been given to me, songs that can be used to invite a response, to ask questions about peace and justice and the longing in our heart for something different. Or as in Mumford and Sons After the Storm, a great song for a Blue Christmas service. Some I mentioned yesterday but I still thought you would like to have them listed here too.
Pictured above: The author’s son engaging with a friendly beast.
Nativity scenes have always fascinated me. Even as a child, my mother had to protect the small baby Jesus in her nativity set from my chubby little hands. I was known to take Jesus from his manger and carry him about the house. I could sense that the baby was the star of the show. The angel above, his parents and visitors, and the animals all turned with adoration and awe towards the promised God Incarnate. My fascination continued into adulthood. I made it a practice to collect nativities from each country I visited and gift them to my mother. She has nativity sets from places like Tanzania, Argentina, and France. Every set has a unique cultural style of its own, yet all have almost the exact same pieces. If one of these famous pieces were missing, the Nativity narrative would not be the one we know today. Without Mary, where would be our Blessed Virgin? Without the star, who would guide the way? And without the animals, who would open their home to a baby king?
Nativities tell us a story. When we take them down from the attic and lift them from their boxes, we’re giving them a chance to breathe again. As we assemble their pieces in a familiar display, they begin to move. The figures show us life’s first meeting place. The heavens (the star and the angel) and the earth (humans and animals) convene and the kingdom of God is no longer distant. Even as a child, I knew the loving gaze of the ox and donkey was a living part of Christ’s birth story. The animals remind us of God’s creation, a “divine miracle…laid bare in each atom, each galaxy, each tree, bird, fish, dog, flower, star, rock, and human” (Rev. Matthew Fox).
The nativity animals are the teachers of our faith story. Nativities usually have sheep, which are noted throughout scripture (Christ the Lamb, Jesus our Shepard-to name a few). The camel symbolizes temperance and is a sign of royalty and dignity. John the Baptist was said to have dressed in a camel’s- hair garment (Matt. 3:4). The ox is a universally benevolent symbol of strength, patience, submissiveness, and steady toil. The donkey has largely been associated with humility and peace. Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the humble donkey, not a horse. While a horse is used in war, you can’t go to battle riding a donkey.
Not everyone is so smitten by the friendly beasts. Surprisingly, Pope Benedict XVI attributes the presence of the animals to symbol or myth. Because there aren’t scriptural references to the animals in the Gospels, Benedict claims they weren’t present. He also admits no one would do away with the animals; even the Vatican’s nativity will continue to display them. So what if the animals are just a myth? Does that discount their significance? For many, the term “myth” is a sort of make-believe play. To others, “myth” reminds them of deliberate deceit. But for some, including myself, myth is not merely a story, but a force at work across time. The story of the hospitable and awestruck animals still informs us today.
Animals were not “added” to the Nativity in the 21st century! The very first live nativity in 1223, put on by Saint Francis of Assisi, featured the ox and donkey pair. Nativity icons, dating back to the 4th century, always included the ox and donkey surrounding the newborn Christ. Some of the earliest nativity images do not even include Mary and Joseph. Isaiah 1:3,“The ox knows his master, and the donkey his owner’s manger,” probably served as inspiration for the reliable appearance of the two. Traditional Middle Eastern Christianity says Jesus’ birth took place in the “stable room” of a home built into a cave. The tradition describes Mary as alone during the birth, but as she lay Jesus in the manger with fresh hay, we know the animals must have been close by. The animal “myth” has saturated the nativity narrative for thousands of years!
This Advent, I choose to include all of creation. From the smallest crab to the greatest sky, the entire universe participates in the birth of its creator. Joseph Campbell, perhaps the greatest teacher of myth in our time, says the first function of myth is to instill wonder, an opening of mystery. As we eagerly await the birth of our creator during this expectant season, may we also share in the wonder and mystery the hospitable beasts surely felt as they gazed upon the sleeping baby Christ. May we see the “I am” in each of God’s creatures, celebrating how commonplace and omnipresent divinity can be!
References
Bailey, Kenneth E. Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes. pp. 33-34.
Campbell, Joseph. The Power of Myth. p. 38
Ferguson, George. Signs & Symbols in Christian Art. p.13
Fox, Matthew. The Coming of the Cosmic Christ: The Healing of Mother Earth and the Birth of a Global Renaissance. p. 154
Sarcofago di Stilicone, 4th century, Milan.
Werness, Hope B. The Continuum Encyclopedia of Animal Symbolism in Art. p. 21, 308.
http://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/nov/20/pope-nativity-animals.
http://www.cnn.com/2012/11/22/world/europe/vatican-pope-jesus-book/
Meredith Griffin writes from her home in Galveston Island, Texas. She enjoys spending time outdoors with her husband and two young children. She holds a Bachelors degree in English Literature and a Masters in Counseling from the Episcopal Seminary of the Southwest.
Christmas isn’t here yet and I love to listen to music that reminds me of that. Here are some of my favourites:
I chose this version because I love the lyrics and graphics.
I love the contemplative beat of this rendition of Come Thou Long Expected Jesus
A beautiful contemplative Latin chant
No list would be completed without at least one song from Handel’s Messiah.
I beautiful song that reminds us to slow down and take time for silence
No list would be complete without at least one song from Taize.
Another beautiful contemplative song
This is from one of my favourite choirs
I chose this version because it seemed that The world in silence waits the day needed to be sung without music.
And now for a couple of more upbeat songs that might be good for youth services: The first from Mumford and sons, the second from Pentatonix. Yes I know that makes 11 songs so you get a free bonus.
This changes the pace a little and you may like to leave it until just before Christmas to really get you in the mood.
The baby stirs,
Gently brushing the warming hay
From a face still crinkled by the passage of birth.
His tiny hands, clutching at invisible stars,
Already destined to be fastened in anger to wood.
.
This God-child,
His parents gazing in wordless wonder at their miracle,
Oblivious to the contract being signed on his life,
By an earthly king, frantically tightening his grip,
On a crown given by occupying forces.
.
His family unwelcome in the town,
Reluctantly given space in an external storage shed.
The birth of a saviour witnessed by cattle and vermin,
Who pause, blinking, at the invasion of their chambers,
Yet offer a welcome missing elsewhere.
.
The heavenly Father smiles,
His eternal excitement bubbling over into stars and comets,
That mark the skies with spectral light,
Footprints of the Creators delighted dance,
And offering a sign to those who watch in hope.
.
Visitors come – not family or friends,
But night workmen, dusty from fields littered with sheep.
Who tell of glory sung, and invitation given,
These shepherds, scorned by holy folk and ignore by others,
Are those with the honour of seeing his first hours fleshed out.
.
Welcomed by the exhausted parents,
Not clothed in earthly status themselves,
Who understand something of the story developing –
That the promised delivery of creation, long foretold,
Is somehow wrapped up in their tiny bundle of warm flash.
.
So many years later,
We still push through the crowds to secure our place,
Desperate for a sight of this rare and precious beauty.
But in our haste, in our eagerness to present our praise,
We risk blocking the path for others.
.
So, who will you invite to the manger?
The noble and the outcast have equal status here,
As the arms of the Creator stretch in welcome,
A proud father, delighted to share his joy,
And embrace all who can see the gift of the child.
Andy Campbell
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Andy is a Chaplain at Oasis Academy Enfield, North London, a father of 3 beautiful girls, and a traveller on the Way. He blogs at Post Ordinandy
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