Today’s advent reflection is by Emily T. Wierenga, an award-winning journalist, blogger, commissioned artist and columnist, and the author of five books, including the memoir Atlas Girl: Finding Home in the Last Place I Thought to Look (Baker Books). All proceeds from Atlas Girl benefit Emily’s non-profit, The Lulu Tree. She lives in Alberta, Canada with her husband and two sons. You can find her on Twitter or Facebook.
We’re making cards from construction paper, gluing sparkly balls and pipe cleaner-bows, my hand cupping theirs as we trace out “Merry Christmas”—”Peace on Earth” playing over the speakers.
My sons are too little too know of Ferguson, of ISIS, of Ebola. They are three and five and their world consists of this oval kitchen table. It consists of mommy’s hands on theirs, strawberry milk in their sippy cups, and Christmas music and dancing in the living room. Their world smells like wood shavings from the logs daddy cuts to feed the stove; it smells like homemade bread and clean laundry.
But I know they see it all. They feel it all—a world waiting with bated breath for its Savior.
We feel it, don’t we? With every death. With every disappointment, every pink slip, every call from the hospital, every ache and every pain. This longing for home. For heaven. This need for a Savior.
And each year we put a word to it: Advent. But really, we’re waiting all year long, every day, for the return of a Christ whose birth we try to understand through crèches and candlelight services. For a Christ whose very life was a parable, whose Spirit dwells amongst us yet, do we know whom we wait for?
As my sons peer through the window, at the sunrise, at the sunset, I know their spirits are searching for the star: the one every wise man seeks, the one which leads us not 2,000 years into the past, but rather, into the now, into what it means to know the Christ child. This is eternal life, Scripture tells us—to know him. This, a life we can have right now. We wait for heaven, when in fact, heaven waits for us, here in this very moment, in the breath of Mary’s son.
The kingdom of heaven is here, in simple expressions of faith. In the grip of a small child’s hand. In the gasp of a beggar’s plea, in the prayer of a widow’s lips, in the tears of a lonely orphan. Oh, that we would see and respond, bringing God’s kingdom to earth.
The image of Christ, our creator, in each of us. In the Michael Browns. In the lost ISIS sons. In the faces wracked with Ebola. In those behind prison bars. The Christ who looks nothing like the shiny-haired figurine in the movies or the paintings, and everything like the stranger we ignore.
I was standing in church, one Sunday, my palm lifted, the other wrapped around my three-year-old who perched on my swollen five-month womb. I stood in worship, tears rolling down my cheeks and the song was, “I Surrender All.”
And in the excavation, I see him—my eyes still closed. Jesus. And he looks like a man without a home, dressed in rags, torn and dirty, his hair matted, his beard long and scraggly, his eyes—kind. The son of God, as a homeless man. “Would you worship me if I looked like this?” he said to me.
Whom do we wait for, friends? A babe wrapped in a fuzzy cloth, lying in a manger? Or the son of God—who takes every preconceived notion about the Savior and tosses it from the synagogue in righteous anger?
Father, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. This Advent season. Amen.
Today’s advent reflection is by Emily T. Wierenga, an award-winning journalist, blogger, commissioned artist and columnist, and the author of five books, including the memoir Atlas Girl: Finding Home in the Last Place I Thought to Look (Baker Books). All proceeds from Atlas Girl benefit Emily’s non-profit, The Lulu Tree. She lives in Alberta, Canada […]