Peace by Erika Kobewka
As we approach the Advent Sunday of Peace our reflection is by Erika Kobewka.
Erika Kobewka is a mom, violinist, songwriter, worship leader, and lover of spoken word. She lives with her family in Treaty 6 territory (St. Albert, Alberta) and is a part of Old Strathcona Vineyard in Edmonton.
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~ Painting: Henry Osawa Tanner "The Holy Family"
“The shipwrecked at the stable kneel in the presence of mystery. God entered into our world not with the crushing impact of unbearable glory, but in the way of weakness, vulnerability and need. On a wintry night in an obscure cave, the infant Jesus was a humble, naked, helpless God who allowed us to get close to him.” – Brennan Manning
As we all turn our calendars to December, we are collectively and individually stepping into the final month of the year 2020, a string of days that will crescendo and catapult us into Christmas.
Brennan Manning calls us, “the shipwrecked at the stable”(1), arriving dishevelled and in disarray and perhaps traumatized with seaweed in our hair. Maybe residual mess is dripping from our water-logged pores and we’re all smelling kinda fishy and kinda off but maybe we’re kinda used to it because we’ve been treading water for so long. What an accurate image of this past year.
If you follow along with the Christian liturgical year, you have probably noticed that in contrast to our calendar year, the season of Advent lies at the beginning, not the end. Also known as the Cycle of Light, the Christian year begins in darkness with a spiritual posture of waiting and longing for the coming Christ.
Then, moving gradually through the life of Jesus, it culminates in what we celebrate as Easter (Christ’s death, resurrection and ascension), which steps into Pentecost, and then finally ends with months of ‘Ordinary Time.’ (2)
Advent begins with a waiting and worn-out people wandering in deep darkness and longing for the arrival of a Saviour. For all of us in the Northern Hemisphere, here we are in the darkest days of the year. Propelling ourselves, as we do each and every December, with all the grit and resilience we can muster towards the longest night of the year, knowing that things will shift. It won’t be dark forever.
This is one of the gifts of Advent, a seasonal rhythm of remembering and turning ourselves towards the coming dawn and allowing glimpses and glimmers of relief and hope to wash over our lost and wandering hearts again. We are turning towards this Light.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” Isaiah 9:2 (NIV)
For most of us I think, we are regularly wading or being thrust into a current of anxiousness and fear that seems to be carving and winding through all of our lives and all around the world, on a macro and micro level. The toll of collective loss, grief, disappointments, unknowns, empty distractions, polarizing rhetoric, and hurts do not leave our personal lives untouched. We are a people wandering in the dark. Yet, at the heart of Advent lies the mystery of the incarnation: God is with us.
How appropriate that the good news of his coming is continually prefaced and announced with these three words, “Do not fear.” Incarnational spirituality points to the Advent of our Christ, who entered our world in the way of vulnerability and great need: a naked, crying, hungry, rooting-to-be-fed-and-kept-warm baby. To us, the body of Christ, this is not a call to fearlessness, or a communal ‘putting-on’ of brave faces. Neither is it purely sentimental or a heralding of peace where there is no peace. It is an announcement of Christ’s reign of peace and a call to peacemaking in our hearts and in our world.
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end.” Isaiah 9:6-7 (NIV)
This is the now-and-the-not-yet of Advent tucked within this wearying year and proclaimed to a wearied and shipwrecked people. In this tumultuous season where we feel capsized, adrift, and longing for a reprieve, we tether ourselves again to the hope of these three Advent’s:
Christ has come, Christ is coming, Christ will come again. “Of this peace there will be no end,” and oh, do we welcome it today.
(1) “The Shipwrecked at the Stable,” from Lion and Lamb: The Relentless Tenderness of Jesus.
(2) “Advent: A Time When God Breaks In on Us,” from Ancient-Future Time: Forming Spirituality through the Christian Year by Robert E. Webber.
A Litany for the Waiting
Erika Kobewka
Somewhere cramped and stale, in the thick of deep darkness, or perhaps under the suffocating heat of midday. Maybe in the first flickers of new-day light, or lost and silenced by the fervent scurry of a whirling and chaotic world on the move, a baby has been born.
This baby is for us, for all of us.
A woman’s cry, shifting livestock feet and swatting tails, an unsure father, the heaving waves of birthing pains, push now, blood, visceral mess, an infant’s first cry, relief, exhaustion. He is here, nose-to-nose and skin-to-skin with a mother and a waiting world.
This baby is for us, for all of us.
Into the dust and dirt of ordinary living, into the quivering hands of the meek, the rags of the humble, the sighs of the waiting, the groans of the labouring, and the outlying margins of the forgotten, our Saviour is born.
This baby is for us, for all of us.
Our longed for Christ,
Our Messiah,
Our Prince of Peace,
Our Emmanuel,
Our God who is near.
Wrapped in flesh, human flesh, our flesh, this Word has been breathing, whispering, and speaking into it all since the dawn of time, “I Am here. I Am close. You are not alone.”
Emmanuel.
Into all the cracks and the crevices of humanity, “the Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighbourhood.”* Our neighbourhood, right among the wounded and wound-ers alike.
Into the bitter pains and grievances of living. Into our deepest fears, sorrows, and very fragile existence this baby has been born. Into our broken and wayward up-close spaces. Into the vast and wide-open galactic spaces. Heaven and nature singing, groaning, resounding, reverberating with joy and longing.
Emmanuel.
A beating heart, filling lungs, neurons, synapses, bones, muscles, skin, treasured and mysterious new-born life bursting forth from a mother’s womb.
Our Messiah has come.
God is with us, embodied in an infant’s needy wail. Our Prince of Peace has come to rescue us, enrobed in swaddling clothes. Jesus, the Saviour of the world, has come to dwell among us, as one of us.
This baby is for us, for all of us.
Our longed for Christ,
Our Messiah,
Our Prince of Peace,
Our Emmanuel,
Our God who is near.
* John 1:14 (The Message by Eugene Peterson)
