She didn鈥檛 plan to build, there was the hope that maybe she could inherit the family home, the one that鈥檚 been passed down through generations.

But the thing is…the home is older and wearier and rotting out. There are deep cracks in the foundation, the kind that make the house lean into the dusty earth a little more each day. Really, it鈥檚 not even a house anymore, just some hollowed out and ancient ruins on a lonely ground.

There鈥檚 sorrow here. Hope feels it burning through her hands as she runs them along the battered stones. , too. Maybe you feel it. I do.

As we move into this new year and decade, your anger is welcome. These ruins are here but we can see them, glory to God. It鈥檚 okay to weep with Hope as we tear down something that might have been beautiful in its time. This is dangerous work, it鈥檚 gonna make our hands bleed and our feet ache. But it鈥檚 good work, the kind of work for the courageous and desperate ones. It鈥檚 work for those of us who are done with putting up with, those of us who are cold and wet from living in old homes where the rain gets in the cracks and the foundations tremble when the thunder comes. It鈥檚 for those of us who have a fire burning in our bones that no longer lets us remain silent or cry peace when there is none to be found. It鈥檚 for those of us who long to dance on the ancient ruins and play in the broken places because really, we鈥檙e just little ones looking for home.

Hope can remind us that within the grains of these old walls, there is the possibility for something new.

If within the broken places, then here is where we can make a home. We can plant a garden. We can root our bare toes into this soil, and tend to baby trees. We can join together with the friends of Hope to build communities where our children can play in the streets. We鈥檒l sit on our doorsteps with our lovers and wine and say this is home, this is home, this is home.

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Here, MA in Counseling Psychology student Rebekah Vickery writes about the tension between our hope for peace and our chaotic, divided world鈥攁nd about what the birth and life of Jesus reveals about holy anger, living amidst trauma, and hoping for a new world.

One of the core words of Advent, peace, feels like a jarring antithesis of this city鈥檚 transitional trauma. In the 15 months that I have lived in this place, I have seen buildings rise, streets become more crowded, and financial burdens grow greater. I am still in the liminal space of learning to call this place home, and yet I can feel the sorrow, panic, and angst at the ways in which neighborhoods are changing at a breathless pace. If I am affected by the chaos of the rapid transitions, then how much more are those individuals who have called this place home for years, decades, or generations? And then there is the ongoing grief of indigenous generations who called this ground home long before the city set its roots, forever changing the landscape. It seems that the words of the Hebrew prophet Jeremiah still resonate in these streets: 鈥淭hey have healed the wound of my people lightly, saying 鈥楶eace, peace,鈥� when there is no peace鈥� (Jer. 6:14, ESV). And so the prayer of Advent lingers with me still:

Oh come, oh come Emmanuel.

While I sense the chaos in this city and the ways that it is placated by those in power, I am also increasingly aware of the ways that I have spoken those words over myself: 鈥榩eace, peace.鈥� It is, in a way, similar to the false prophets who attempted to bind wounds lightly and minimize anger in the name of a dismissive peace. I have anger in the midst of the chaos, because my body instinctively knows that this is not how it was meant to be. City streets were meant to be paths leading home. Communities were meant to be rooted together. Growth is meant to happen slowly, in a nurturing and safe process. I was meant to live in peace. And yet, I am finding that anger is not the antithesis to peace. I have recently and surprisingly found comfort in Jesus鈥� fury as he throws tables in the temple. I am learning that His actions are not out of an uncontrolled rage, but instead are a way of proclaiming with just and holy anger that this is not how it is meant to be. The temple is not meant to be a place of commerce, but instead a place of prayer. Cities are not meant to be places of chaos, but instead places of refuge. Families are not meant to be places of harm, but instead places of nurture. My body is not meant to be a place of trauma, but instead a place that experiences the goodness of love.

鈥淚 have anger in the midst of the chaos, because my body instinctively knows that this is not how it was meant to be.鈥�

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.

I love C.S. Lewis鈥� depiction of the wild lion, Aslan.

鈥淭hen…after a pause..the deep voice said, 鈥楽usan.鈥� Susan made no answer but the others thought she was crying. 鈥淵ou have listened to fears, child,鈥� said Aslan. 鈥淐ome, let me breathe on you…Are you brave again?鈥�
鈥淎 little, Aslan,鈥� said Susan. (Prince Caspian, 1951, HarperCollins Publishers)

I find my own heart responding similarly when I encounter Jesus in the midst of the broken places. I find a little peace. It is not the violent attempt at peace that places a hand over the mouth of a crying child to stifle the cries, or the minimizing peace that says, 鈥淪top crying, you’re fine.鈥� The peace of Emmanuel is the peace of being held tightly by the person who is also crying. The suffering is not ended, but it is joined. And there is the hope that this God-with-us who rages and grieves on our behalf, has come once, is coming now, and will come again to make all things new.

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.

I breathe. I grieve. I rejoice in the disruption of God entering a world of trauma, becoming vulnerable to it in his humanity. And I also mourn the way that it seems to have only made it a little better. All things are not yet made new. I am living in the And Now and the Not Yet.

Emmanuel is here in the sorrow, and Emmanuel will come again with joy.

So we journey on, with tear-stained faces and hopeful hearts. Let us not grow weary, but instead continue hoping and moving toward the day when steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other (Psalm 85:10).

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote 鈥淚 Heard The Bells on Christmas Day,鈥� in 1863; a time in which his country was fragmented with violence. Over a century later, as I find myself in a city and country in which chaos seems to be the final word, and as I learn to listen to the chaos in my own body, I find comfort and resonance in the words.

And in despair I bowed my head;
鈥淭here is no peace on earth,鈥� I said; 鈥淔or hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men,鈥�
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: 鈥淕od is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!鈥�

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel.

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Each human soul, entering into the beat of the longing, joins the rhythm of expectation and waiting. We yearn. We wait. We weep.

How long, oh Lord?

Emmanuel waits in the space between the heartbeats. He is in the whisper. He is in the quiet. He is in the longing. We know this is not how it should be. We are meant to endure the glory in its fullness, but instead we experience a dim glimpse as it passes us by.

We are drawn to it, and we follow the glory. We stumble along a path that is narrow with demands and dark with sorrow. We place our feet in the dusty footprints of those who have walked before us.

We bleed from the swords that have not yet become plowshares, and we heave with the sickness of crushed hopes.

Emmanuel walks with us, but we remain in the shadow of the Presence. We cannot gaze on the face of Love, and we feel as though we cannot bear the unmet longing to do so.

We come limping and broken to the table of delight, bringing our vulnerable desire that we are not entirely certain will be fulfilled, and yet we hope that it will. We hope in the Man with the scars who sits at the head of the table, and yet also waits with us at the doorway. We wait for the meal to begin, filled with hunger for a food that we have not consumed yet, filled with a nostalgia for an experience that we have not lived yet.

And here we wait, drinking of the wine and milk without price, and allowing our eyes to slowly adjust to the light that is brighter than what our darkened lenses of sorrow and loss can yet comprehend.

We wait and long for the words of invitation.

Come. Come and eat.

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