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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鈥溾�楧o You Hear What I Hear?鈥� was written by a married couple in October 1962, as a plea for peace during the Cuban Missile Crisis,鈥� says Brooke. 鈥淪o again today I sing it for our country. For we could all use a little peace, goodness, and light.鈥�

(Click below to see the full images.)

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鈥淢ary, Did You Know?鈥� is a song that will never end up on my list of favorite Christmas carols. When I was younger, I remember hearing people from my faith community rave about how the lyrical content held a spirit of anticipation for a Messiah who will come to save all creation. I, however, do not share in this same appreciation. As a songwriter, I listen to this song鈥攃omposed by a male Christian songwriter in Texas鈥攁nd all I hear is how it repetitively suggested that Mary 诲颈诲苍鈥檛 know who her son was, or that we, 21st century people, have better insight about the extent of his healing and grace.

A part of me is convinced that not only did Mary know鈥攕he was sure about what she had been invited into. Otherwise, she would not have gathered the receptivity and courage to respond: 鈥溾�業 am the Lord鈥檚 servant. May your word to me be fulfilled.鈥�

I have lately been talking with friends about the theme of suffering. A question that came up was, 鈥淲hen were the times we were open to suffering, instead of trying to avoid it?鈥�

My answer was immediate.

As an advocate and therapist-in-training for victims of racial trauma and marginalization, this type of work often leaves me susceptible to a wide variety of social shame and harm, especially with our currently aggravated political climate. I鈥檝e had experiences when people responded negatively to my work, claiming that racism ended after the Civil Rights act, or that there鈥檚 no such thing as white privilege. This cause has also cost me friendships, my sense of safety and belonging in many Christian communities, and vocational opportunities that guaranteed a more secure future. But I choose to persist, motivated by awareness of an enduring Jim Crow in the form of mass incarceration, or the news about a person of color experiencing post-traumatic stress symptoms even though she was not a direct victim of the generational harm her body is reacting to.

When I compare the dark state of our world today with an imagination for the full liberation and flourishing that every single person on this earth could be experiencing, I become undone. I persist because of the hope that we could be more鈥攎ore free, more dignified, and more loving towards one another. I hope for a time when the wide gap between who we are today and who we are meant to become finally closes. I say yes to a costly call only when I know its worth.

With Mary, I picture a teenager struggling to explain a supernatural conception to Joseph and her community. She was aware of the likelihood that no one would believe her right away, or that no one would believe her at all. This leaves her vulnerable to public shame and the accusation of living immorally. Yet her continual obedience was compelled not by fear, but by hope鈥攁 hope for the world to be so much more than it was, and that the Christ Child who resides temporarily in her young body will bring universal peace and rest after generations of chaos and despair.

鈥淗er continual obedience was compelled not by fear, but by hope鈥攁 hope for the world to be so much more than it was.鈥�

She might not have been fully aware of the detailed parts of her son鈥檚 coming miracles, nor the degree of his humility and obedience to God, but she said yes to a costly call of pain and peril ahead鈥攆or not only did Mary know, but she was sure of its worth.

In this time of hostility and collective unrest, may we reassess the health of our hope, and with this, I pray:

Holy Light,
Just as your mother, we ask that you renew our imagination of the immeasurable scope
and depth of your redemption.
May we live a life that not only embodies good news, but is also thrilled by it.
May you move our hearts to gaze at wonder with openness.
May you fortify our spirit to discern whether we walk in fear or in hope.
You are well aware of the darkness of our night,
The volume of our cries,
The constancy of our questions and doubts.
So may you give us a radiant assurance that we are favored and loved.
Our eternal belonging and rest are coming closer by the day.
Until then, may we ease in the mystery of your fierce and gentle ways,
You have always been with us.
Closer than breath, you are with us.

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When my soul is hurried.
Far from wonder, wandering far and far from home.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

When my soul is grasping.
Whitened knuckles, deathly grip, afraid of letting go.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

When my soul is groaning.
Ripe for harvest, yet left hanging and heavy and alone.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

When my soul is howling.
Rasping from strain and cries and woe.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

When my soul is longing.
Restless with waiting desire, palms extended and exposed.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

Over the past few months, I have journeyed through the beginning measures of a new melody here in the community of 天美视频. With each rise and fall (and there have been many), my soul has stumbled, struggling to muster the strength to keep holding the instruments, learning the notes, and playing to pace. Wayward and willful, my soul has fought against exposing truth, identifying longing, and receiving care. Waning and then daringly waxing, it has sighed, and cried, and dared to hope. It has been months of undoing and redoing, and then daring to try to do again, rhythms and stages hopefully portrayed in the lines above. As we, my soul and I, and this, our new community, approach the season of Advent, we carry these rhythms and measures of a new melody with pregnant expectation and fright. Yet, somehow, the cadence rings familiar. How often have I, have we, approached the truthful wonder of our Savior鈥檚 love with such patterns: our doubts and our cries and our hopes bearing a resemblance to years and fears past? For this soul, therein lies the beauty of Advent: a rhythm and a disruption far louder than mine. Yearly, Advent plays a remembrance tune, abounding with God鈥檚 devotion, and singing melodies of stillness and of faithfulness, of beauty, and of love.

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Most of us are creatures of habit. When we come into a classroom or a church service, we sit in the same place. Most of us have a morning routine that we follow, at least during the work-week. Life is simply more manageable if there are patterns.

We should therefore expect that some of the first words the angel says to Mary will be 鈥淒o not be afraid.鈥� An angel鈥檚 appearance is surprising, out of the ordinary, not at all routine. Luke tells us that Mary was much perplexed by the angel Gabriel鈥檚 greeting, and I can easily believe that; 鈥渕uch perplexed鈥� is probably an understatement. (Luke 1:30)

Often the phrase 鈥渄o not be afraid鈥� is spoken by a messenger from God when the people of God are in a difficult spot and a word comes to them that God is with them. This is the case when the LORD appears to Hagar, the Egyptian slave girl who had been cast into the desert with her son by a jealous Sarah. She thinks she and her child will die for lack of water. But the angel of God calls to her, 鈥淒o not be afraid; for God has heard the voice of the boy.鈥� (Genesis 21:17) Jacob, the father of the twelve tribes of Israel, hears these words in a vision when he is departing from the land given to his grandfather. He is going to Egypt because there is no food in the land of promise. (Genesis 46:3) These are also God鈥檚 reassuring words to Jeremiah and Ezekiel as the prophets anticipate push-back from a people who will not want to hear their words of judgement. (Jeremiah 1:8 and Ezekiel 2:6)

But occasionally the phrase comes when God announces that something out of the ordinary is about to happen. An angel of the LORD appears out of the blue (pardon the pun) and announces the unusual: 鈥淒o not be afraid, God is about to do something entirely unexpected.鈥� 鈥淒o not be afraid, Abram, old man with no child, you will have so many descendants that you will not be able to count them.鈥� (Genesis. 15:1) 鈥淒o not be afraid, my chosen people exiled to a foreign land, I will pour out my spirit on your descendants, and my blessing on your offspring.鈥� (Isaiah 44:1-8) 鈥淒o not be afraid, virgin, you will bear a son whose kingdom will not end.鈥� (Luke 1:30-33)

If we listen, scripture shapes our image of God. By these four words, we are taught to believe that God will come to us, to save us, when we are in a difficult spot. We need not fear because God cares for us. Our God is this sort of God鈥攁 God who saves. But we are also taught to understand that our salvation may not come in a way that we were anticipating. Our God is also this sort of God鈥攁 God of surprising actions.

鈥淚f we listen, scripture shapes our image of God. By these four words, we are taught to believe that God will come to us, to save us, when we are in a difficult spot.鈥�

And these two truths help us live with hope. With Hagar we hope for water in the desert. With Jacob we hope for a future in foreign territory. With Jeremiah and Ezekiel, we hope for defense when we stand for the truth God has made known to us. But we also need to hope remembering that God鈥檚 purposes might be fulfilled in an unexpected way. Old men are given descendants. Displaced people are given God鈥檚 Spirit. A virgin bears a child who saves the world. In this way, listening to the words of scripture also shapes us so that we are conformed to the image of God鈥檚 Son. We learn to hope for life, for life is also the desire of God, and we learn to be open to the appearance of life in surprising ways, sometimes with great personal cost. Who expected that a death on a Roman cross would enable life for the world?

2018 was a hard year to be a Christian. People who claim Christian faith act for power rather than life. There are millions of people all over the world displaced by wars, famine, and natural disasters who have nowhere to go. Nations think that they have exhausted their capacity for hospitality to strangers. There is a heightened rhetoric of hate and intolerance. Long-standing, buried prejudices are openly displayed. Destruction because of the damage we have inflicted on the creation is obvious everywhere. Human life is unmanageable, out of control. We join Isaiah in lament and prayer: We have long been like those whom you do not rule, like those not called by your name. O that you would tear open the heavens and come down. (Isaiah 63:19-64:1) We can only hope for a different world in 2019鈥攈ope for the coming down of the LORD.

鈥淲e learn to hope for life, for life is also the desire of God, and we learn to be open to the appearance of life in surprising ways, sometimes with great personal cost.鈥�

Advent is a time of hope. It is a time when we remind ourselves of God鈥檚 eternal commitment to life and we open ourselves to new visions of the ways of God. It is a time when we are called to prepare to participate in God鈥檚 work, to make watching for God part of our habit.

But God does not always work in predictable ways. God will be God. Advent preparation also includes adjusting our expectations of how God will come because we remember the surprising way in which God did come: to a virgin, as a child. Advent is not for the faint of heart.

The call of Advent is to respond to God as Mary did: 鈥淗ere I am, a virgin and servant of the Lord. I can bear this child, let me be participate in your purposes, according to your word.鈥� It is to hear the voice of the angel, 鈥淒o not fear.鈥�

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The angels broke into the atmosphere, announcing good news that seemed too late. But, they broke in anyway:

Then his father, Zechariah, was filled with the Holy Spirit and gave this prophecy:
鈥淧raise the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has visited and redeemed his people.
He has sent us a mighty Savior from the royal line of his servant David,
just as he promised through his holy prophets long ago.
Luke 1:67-70

I woke up again last night to his rough inhales鈥攈e struggled to catch his rhythm, and then exhaled more quickly. I found myself lying still, listening to his changing rhythms at 3:00am, pondering how to talk to the kids about my work schedule over Christmas. It isn鈥檛 my biggest worry, but I feel I can conquer it more adeptly than the other concerns that loom in the middle of the night.

Hope had stirred. Our finances have been good for more moments than bad this year, and yet, Christmas has arrived and we feel the voids of community and connection. It wears on our relationship, thinning the fabric stretched between our lives more than we want to admit. I look into the blackness, undaunted. I am here. He is here. Hope doesn鈥檛 abandon faithful and loved.

Now we will be saved from our enemies and from all who hate us.
He has been merciful to our ancestors by remembering his sacred covenant鈥�
the covenant he swore with an oath to our ancestor Abraham.
We have been rescued from our enemies so we can serve God without fear,
in holiness and righteousness for as long as we live.
Luke 1:71-75

Hours earlier, we both woke to the droning television voices narrating news from the day. We had been arguing before bed again鈥攌ids, finances鈥攗ntil salted water finally leaked from both our eyes. Our argument had ended in zoning out in front of the TV; a truce of weariness, not of agreement. Both of us sat on different couches, stretched out, close to one another, but too far to touch. He 诲颈诲苍鈥檛 know I needed his touch in the heat of the battle. I wanted to rest my hand on his chest, even as he poured frustrations into the space between us.

His eyebrows had squished toward each other. His mouth open, his voice moved slow and low. He was telling me we needed to keep our cool, our heads, our awareness. The problems at his work were different players, same situation. Honestly, I 诲颈诲苍鈥檛 want to listen. I was tired. Tired of the same old story. It鈥檚 a story where he battles weariness in workspaces that tell him his accent trumps work ethic, efficiency, and integrity.

I used to strategize with him and thought better of the attempt. I saw the conflict. We weren鈥檛 really angry with one another. It鈥檚 the weariness of a daily grind that burns holes in our patience at home, and our ability to teach the kids grace. A faceless reality, shrouded in anger, hurt, and despair doesn鈥檛 offer either of us breathing room. Will we ever catch up on our bills? Will the kids feel loved with the Christmas gifts we can afford? Will our love survive the night? Our enemies are sitting right in front of us, but the enemy hasn鈥檛 won.

鈥淥ur enemies are sitting right in front of us, but the enemy hasn鈥檛 won.鈥�

鈥淎nd you, my little son, will be called the prophet of the Most High, because you will prepare the way for the Lord.
You will tell his people how to find salvation through forgiveness of their sins.
Because of God鈥檚 tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us…
Luke 1:76-78

My phone blinks, notifications flash: emails, texts, Facebook. I flip my phone face down. I don鈥檛 want to know what others want. The advertisements don鈥檛 tempt me. I鈥檓 tempted to skip the lights, tree, and stockings鈥攂ut it鈥檚 not just about 40-year-old adult me. And I haven鈥檛 cashed in hope for barrenness. Not yet. I turn on my side, facing his back, certain I feel extravagance in the after-fight; a calm that he 诲颈诲苍鈥檛 run鈥攁 peace that I 诲颈诲苍鈥檛 leave.

We are a family and I want it that way. The beats inside quicken, I feel certain I will wake up, not less weary, but with the rush that comes from love. It is thrilling. Blackness still engulfs us, and his sporadic inhales and exhales are ordinary. This is the kind of ordinary that gives me hope, inspires me to work hard, an uncanny peace. God鈥檚 tender mercies.

After all, what gives light? It comes as we wait together in the darkness, inviting the light to fan the flame of hope in both of us.

So, I rejoice in the ordinary, and I join my husband in the hard, yet thrilling work of loving well. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not too late,鈥� I whisper to the angels. 鈥淒on鈥檛 ever stop announcing.鈥�

…to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace.
Luke 1:79

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鈥� But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.鈥�
鈥揕uke 2:19

I am captivated by this window into Mary鈥檚 character鈥攖his girl woman who chose a holy pause in the midst of the chaotic birth of Jesus. We don鈥檛 know how long she labored but have viewed illustrations of her traveling atop a donkey. What if the contractions began hours, days before she actually began to push the God child from womb to Holy Night? What if pain and groans and rumbling body earthquakes began while journeying across that unforgiving desert? What if water broke before they reached the inn that was to offer no vacancy? Had she imagined that she would be surrounded by the likes of midwives, women to encourage, coach, and nurse? Did Joseph find assistance, or were they alone in the darkened, dirty, cold cave as she screamed and pushed God With Us out into the world?

鈥淲ere they alone in the darkened, dirty, cold cave as she screamed and pushed God With Us out into the world?鈥�

How many moments did the young couple have with this bloodied babe before the interruption of shepherds? Did it feel like an intrusion to this young mother, learning to nurse, exhausted? The lauded Virgin, likely soaked in sweat, maybe marveling at the 10 tiny fingers and 10 tiny toes, somehow welcomed these men into this sacred, intimate, private space and invited worship. And she pondered and kept it all close to her heart.

I held Mary, her pondering heart and receptive spirit, close during my own labor and delivery. I thought of Mary in my clean and well-situated delivery room, as I was offered a tub to soak in to ease the pain and discomfort. I thought of her as I was surrounded by nurses, monitoring my son鈥檚 heartbeat while still in utero. I thought of her as my doula and mother rubbed my lower back. In the most painful contractions, when I could barely catch my breath, I thought of Mary. I borrowed her strength, her willing 鈥測es,鈥� and allowed her to be my beacon.

In this season, as my son toddles around our Christmas tree, tearing low-hanging ornaments from their branches, I think of Mary. I think of how when Jesus was the same age as my son, the Holy Family fled from Bethlehem to Egypt. They were refugees, running from Herod鈥檚 dangerous threat. They were seeking asylum, much like the thousands currently biding their time in Tijuana.

What are we asked to ponder during this Advent season? What am I asked to stay mindful and curious about as I wait and wait for light and rescue? To be honest, there is much I find myself weary of pondering. The holiday season for my clients, the women who have survived atrocious childhood sexual abuse, is often when they suffer some of their most difficult trauma memories. The time of Advent for them does not feel like a hopeful and serene waiting for the Prince of Peace. It is far more a time of bearing down, dissociation, coping. They seem to just want it to pass and to come out as unscathed as possible.

I desperately want to look away from the photograph of the 7-year-old Amal Hussain, the Yemeni girl who recently died of starvation. I avoid the detailed descriptions of caravanning families and what they fled from in Honduras and Guatemala. Trauma and abuse, the darkness of this world, is too much to bear. Then I鈥檓 invited back to ponder Mary.

She said 鈥測es,鈥� but she did not know all of what she said yes to. Her yes preluded a labor that could have taken her life, a birth where amenities were non-existent and her physical poverty and 鈥渓ow estate鈥� were accented. Her yes was before she knew she would become enemy of the state. But in the midst of chaos, she pondered and joined in worship. The first Christmas certainly did not imply a happily ever after. But the light pierces the darkness, interrupts the darkness, says that there will be a different story. I am invited to hold the disparity of light and dark and worship in the tension of the two. I will continue to borrow her strength, her willing 鈥測es,鈥� and allow her to be my beacon.

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Advent usually makes me think of Bethlehem, but this year, it is Shalom I long for.

I began this piece as a lament in response to the impotence I feel in the face of my own anxiety and grief. The composition is from a photo of Jerusalem that was mostly off-whites and beiges typical of the local stone buildings. Yet, the centuries of violence and bloodshed are almost palpable in every nook and cranny in this sacred place. This painting remains an unfinished work joining several other unfinished paintings in my studio. Normally there is a sense of gratification in getting to the place where I like every inch of a painting and can let it rest, or call it 鈥渄one.鈥� But it is this undone one that continues to arrest my attention.

Somehow its unfinished-ness mirrors for me the sense of already and not yet鈥攖hat place of acknowledging what has been while still longing for what is to come. So I offer this alternate rendering of the city of Shalom as a fitting Advent lament, both in celebration of God鈥檚 coming and awaiting God鈥檚 coming again, longing for peace in the midst of chaos and heartache.

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We originally shared this post as the first entry in our 2018 Advent email series. If you haven鈥檛 yet, you can sign up for that series here.

Incarnation as Mutuality

The incarnation was an act of mutuality. God became incarnate in order to deepen connection and relation with humanity. Such an act offered an opportunity for God and God鈥檚 people to come together in love and dignity, to work together for a better future for all of humanity. As participants in this sacred relationship, our work in the world must also begin with the notions of dignity and mutuality. Regardless of status, mental capacity, or moral failure, Jesus sought to be deeply present with all persons he encountered. He acted out of the compassionate nature within all of us. As man, and as divinity, he modeled a way of life that acted to remove the weight of shame, bringing peace and healing.

Only recently have I come to realize that we can embody the incarnation within ourselves. By seeking to listen beyond words and be present beyond the physical, we can begin to recognize unspoken cries and tend to unsurfaced wounds. When we begin to embody the incarnate divine in this way, we can then also acknowledge and empower the divine potential within others鈥攁n incarnational act in itself.

There is beauty and strength in the vulnerability of incarnational presence. We share the land, the experience of joy and suffering, and the capacity to hope for a future with color and meaning, and we can also share the divine power we hold within ourselves. After all, the divine incarnation was itself a gift of new hope and greater purpose.

“There is beauty and strength in the vulnerability of incarnational presence.”

Our work as Mental Health Chaplains begins with the notion of dignity and mutuality intact. Regardless of the situation, the mental capacity, or even the sense of moral failure, we are all of us sharing common space, our spirits incarnate with one another in this present moment, with the capacity to live and be in this world with hope for a meaningful existence.

Dignity in Advent

Alexa lived in the community center parking lot. She was a peaceful presence, but a hoarding one, and the people of the Temple next door, though kind, were running out of patience when the director of the center called for advice. Her belongings were beginning to spread along the path between the two buildings, and by the time I arrived there were carts heaped up and bags piled on benches, though not blocking the way.

The community extended care through an emergency shelter at the Temple and a weekly meal, and Alexa had found safety there, but the weather was turning and it was having an impact on her health and mental stability. She was now unwilling to be in the shelter, feeling trapped, and the system was ineffective in offering permanent housing, though she was an older woman. In this situation there was little to do except be present to her in the here and now.

When I first arrived at the community center she moved toward me, eyeing me carefully. She knew the director had called the Chaplain. I said hello and offered her my hand and my name. She responded saying that she wanted to talk with me but had things she needed to take care of. Perhaps she would have more time later. The director greeted me, noting the exchange, and we talked about staff concerns, security issues, and most importantly, the community鈥檚 desire to help her. But regardless of their motivation and desire, she remained reticent about meeting with the social service agency.

When I returned at that 鈥榖etter time,鈥� Alexa and I sat across from each other in the corner cafe drinking coffee, and I wondered about the ways she needed help. I had learned she was beginning to decompensate with delusions and occasional aggressiveness, convinced the area was her home. She was unconcerned about material realities, and I was surprised when she told me she鈥檇 been thinking about this time together. This is what our conversation revealed:

I noticed first how fair and beautiful her skin was. There was a softness that belied the constant exposure to the weather. The pale color of her face encircled a clear, direct, and steady gaze. I was sitting with a beautiful, intelligent woman full of dignity. I came to realize that her resistance and belligerence with items on the bench and the widening of the boundary lines along the walkway was the claiming of personal space, and the scheduling of a private conversation with me on her own terms was about dignity. What I might consider a lack of social and personal awareness or appropriateness was her cry for legitimacy. At this moment in her life, she saw this space as her home, and I needed to respect that.

“What I might consider a lack of social and personal awareness or appropriateness was her cry for legitimacy.”

This value of legitimacy became increasingly apparent throughout the random monologue with its consistent return to a singular point. I had only to listen long enough. The facts of her history were linked to the cries of her soul, and they revealed a beauty of language that held poetic impact. She showed me her writings and collection of short stories. She shared concerns about a friend on the street. She revealed that she had been a youth minister in a church in Eastern Washington but never let anyone know that she had become homeless. It was a long conversation, and, in truth, after over an hour I was beginning to get distracted by my sense of her physical need and the fact that we were no closer to finding her material help.

Unperturbed, she continued to talk and after another 20 minutes I began to wonder: is she keeping me here for the sake of company, or have I missed something she is trying to communicate? I listened harder. It is often the case that the gem comes as you are about to go your separate ways.

Alexa brought up again her experience as a minister in the community in which she never revealed that she was homeless, and instead said she had moved to another city. What she needed to share with me was stated simply:

鈥淲hen you are a person without a home, people listen to you differently than if you were not homeless.鈥�

鈥淵es,鈥� I nodded. 鈥淎nd it鈥檚 wrong. Very wrong. And completely unfair.鈥�

And she wept.

In a moment I understood what her true need was鈥攖he recognition of her dignity in spite of her circumstances.

I think of how undignifying it was for Mary to find her way to a stable to birth her child. And I think of how dignifying the Act of Incarnation was, and is, for God to become physically present to us on our wandering, displaced, and painful journey.

The presence, life, and death of Jesus centered around uniting with humanity. Regardless of status, mental capacity, physical ability, or moral failure, Jesus sought genuine relationship with all those he encountered and even resisted those who attempted inauthentic relationship. In truth, he embodied the compassionate nature within each of us. As a man, and as the divine, Jesus acted in compassion to remove the weight of shame, bringing peace and healing to the humiliated and dehumanized.

May we find and share dignity throughout this time of Advent Waiting.

Authors

Kae Eaton is Chaplain and Executive Director of the Mental Health Chaplaincy, working with individuals and families experiencing mental illness or homelessness in Seattle and throughout the Northwest.

Kae holds a Masters in Theology, with emphasis in Counseling Psychology, and a Certificate in Spiritual Direction from 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology. She was 2018 Chaplain Fellow at the Center of Excellence in Substance Abuse Treatment and Education (CESATE), one of only two nationally, at the Veterans Administration, Puget Sound Healthcare System, and 2017 Chaplain Resident on the Acute Psychiatric Care Unit at the VA Hospital.

Kae also serves as Consultant and Master Trainer for Pathways to Promise, a national cooperative of mental health organizations and faith groups working with those with mental and emotional illnesses and their families. Kae has years of experience on the streets of Seattle not only working directly with people living without homes and dealing with mental health issues, but also training others in the Practices of Companionship through outreach and ministries of hospitality. Kae鈥檚 work and trainings support both secular and faith-based communities locally and nationally. She practices her faith in the St. Paul鈥檚 Episcopal Parish in Seattle.

Jessica Dexter is Associate Chaplain and Administrative Assistant for the Mental Health Chaplaincy (MHC). Jessica鈥檚 administrative work helps to ensure the day-to-day operations of the MHC, and her chaplaincy work is directly with people facing issues of homelessness, mental illness, and isolation. She assists both the MHC and the various communities in partnership with the MHC. Jessica also works as Administrative Program Consultant for Pathways to Promise, managing the development and implementation of the Companionship program expansion nationwide.

Jessica holds an MA in Theology & Culture from 天美视频. She has lived in Rwanda, studying genocide and peacebuilding, which significantly impacts her academic and professional work. Through her work with perpetrators of the Rwandan Genocide of 1994, (formerly) incarcerated people, veterans, and people living in homelessness, Jessica has deepened her passion to serve her community. It is her belief that the divine exists within compassionate relationships and mutual human connection.

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This morning a friend posted a photo of a Christmas tree strapped to the roof of his car with his wife and children poking their gleeful faces out from the open windows. His caption read, the time of year when we all fall in love.

The next image on my feed was of a woman in anguish, cradling a baby as she ran from tear gas at the border. Tears filled my eyes as I allowed myself to begin to feel a mere ounce of her terror.

I can鈥檛 help but wrestle with the complexity of the season. It鈥檚 a time of anticipation, joy, and hope. Or so the songs go. Yes, and I believe there is more to the story.

I鈥檝e been slowly reading and rereading Matthew and Luke鈥檚 account of the birth of Christ, and I have been so struck by how close this 2,000-year-old narrative is to the questions and struggles I鈥檓 witnessing in the world around me.

As we prepare to enter Advent, a liturgical season of anticipating the arrival of Jesus鈥� coming鈥攚hat is there for us to receive, in this cultural moment?

Mary鈥檚 Receptivity

Gabriel was sent from God to a city in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, a descendant of the house of David; and the virgin鈥檚 name was Mary. And coming to her, the angel said, 鈥淕reetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.鈥�
She was greatly perplexed at what he said, and kept carefully considering what kind of greeting this was.

The angel said to her, 鈥淒o not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. Listen carefully: you will conceive in your womb and give birth to a son, and you shall name Him Jesus. He will be great and eminent and will be called the Son of the Most High; and the Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David; and He will reign over the house of Jacob (Israel) forever, and of His kingdom there shall be no end.鈥�

Mary said to the angel, 鈥淗ow will this be, since I am a virgin and have no intimacy with any man?鈥� Then the angel replied to her, 鈥淭he Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you [like a cloud]; for that reason the holy (pure, sinless) Child shall be called the Son of God.

And listen, even your relative Elizabeth has also conceived a son in her old age; and she who was called barren is now in her sixth month. For with God nothing [is or ever] shall be impossible.鈥� Then Mary said, 鈥淏ehold, I am the servant of the Lord; may it be done to me according to your word.鈥� And the angel left her.

Luke 1:26-38, AMP

How bizarre is this story? Mary, a teenage girl, a virgin, is asked to bear a child鈥擥od鈥檚 son. I鈥檓 struck by the boldness of this request. Luke says that Mary was 鈥減erplexed鈥� and 鈥渁fraid.鈥� I can only imagine!

I鈥檓 struck by Gabriel, sent by God to ask Mary to bear this Holy child. How do I hold this in my mind and body and spirit as I process our collective struggle with consent?

When I let myself draw near to Mary鈥檚 experience I feel such vulnerability in her consent鈥攕he made a choice to receive even though it might ruin her. She allows herself to be undone, for the sake of something beyond comprehension.

鈥淢ary allows herself to be undone, for the sake of something beyond comprehension.鈥�

Joseph鈥檚 Belief

Now the birth of Jesus Christ was as follows: when His mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child by [the power of] the Holy Spirit. And Joseph her [promised] husband, being a just and righteous man and not wanting to expose her publicly to shame, planned to send her away and divorce her quietly.

But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, 鈥淛oseph, descendant of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the Child who has been conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a Son, and you shall name Him Jesus (The Lord is salvation), for He will save His people from their sins.鈥� All this happened in order to fulfill what the Lord had spoken through the prophet [Isaiah]: 鈥淏ehold, the virgin shall be with child and give birth to a Son, and they shall call His name Immanuel鈥濃�攚hich, when translated, means, 鈥淕od with us.鈥�

Then Joseph awoke from his sleep and did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him, and he took Mary [to his home] as his wife, but he kept her a virgin until she had given birth to a Son [her firstborn child]; and he named Him Jesus (The Lord is salvation).

Matthew 1:18-25, AMP

Again, how bizarre is this story?! Two teenagers, yet to be married, navigating pregnancy. I can only imagine the whispers, questions, judgement, and shame. Do you think people believed Mary鈥檚 story? I am doubtful.

And yet, Joseph chose to believe Mary. He chose to receive Mary as his wife. He chose to honor her body. And he chose to adopt Jesus as his son. Let鈥檚 sit with this for a moment.

How do I hold this in my mind and body and spirit as I sit with women and men who have been assaulted or abused, yet not believed? As I witness protestors in our streets and at our nation鈥檚 Capitol shouting, 鈥淏elieve women鈥�?

What does God鈥檚 choice to enter the world in this way teach us about consent? About receptivity? About belief?

Seeking Asylum

Now when they had gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, 鈥淕et up! Take the Child and His mother and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod intends to search for the Child in order to destroy Him.鈥�

So Joseph got up and took the Child and His mother while it was still night, and left for Egypt. He remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet [Hosea]: 鈥淥ut of Egypt I called My Son.鈥�

Matthew 2:13-15

Jesus, son of God, was part of two caravans in his earliest days. The first in utero, when Mary was at full term in her pregnancy, to be counted in the census. The second, when Jesus was likely still a baby, as his parents fled a brutal ruler.

I have been following work over the past month. She has brought profoundly heart-breaking humanity to the stories of the thousands of women, men, and children walking in a caravan through Central America seeking asylum. As I鈥檝e witnessed their fierce determination and sheer desperation compelling them to walk thousands of miles, I can鈥檛 help but connect their experiences to that of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. These stories, these faces undo me.

I feel that we tend to focus on the 鈥渃uteness鈥� of Jesus鈥� birth in our Nativity scenes and Christmas pageants. Holding this ancient narrative with the present struggle of our southern neighbors, I鈥檓 reexperiencing the dark, desperate, terrifying reality of Jesus鈥� coming.

Allowing Myself to Be Undone

Jesus was born in a barn, to teenage parents experiencing displacement, in a country governed by a vengeful ruler, forced to flee for any hope of survival. This is the way God chose for his son to come into the world.

It鈥檚 scandalous.
It鈥檚 not safe.
It鈥檚 full of uncertainty and fear.
It鈥檚 life at the margins.

Advent invites us to radical hospitality鈥攖he son of God born to asylum seekers in a barn. How startling. How bizarre.

I believe the Advent narrative is an invitation to be undone by the broken world that God chose to break into and indwell. If we believe that Emmanuel is still God with us, if we believe each of us bear the image of God within us, will we receive the Christ child anew, embodied in the least of these today? Will we receive this invitation to consent, to believe, to receive, to protect, to honor鈥攅ven when the impulse is to deny, reject, defend, and kill?

May we hold the complexity of this season with integrity and courage. May we be reminded that God is with us and that we belong to each other. May we continue to welcome our incarnate God, even when it turns our world upside down. May we know love and may we resist evil.

All through Advent, we will continue exploring our individual and collective responses to the in-breaking of God in the midst of our traumatized world. You can sign up for our fifth annual Advent series, emailed every Sunday until Christmas, here.

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