the Third Saturday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
Gather us unto your Nourishing Breast
by Jenn Burnett
Growing up, Christmas was a relatively quiet experience. My mom often worked through the holidays, and living on a hobby farm meant we weren’t going far if we were to go anyway. The one day I’d look forward to was the one day my aunt, uncle and cousin would come to visit. I loved having extra people in the house! By the time I was a teen however, I began to sneak extra people into our quiet family celebrations. If a friend would otherwise be alone, I’d insist they come to my house. Once I had my own house, my instincts expanded to gathering people in. I love when there are too many people to have matching dishes and it seems just right when the people are different enough to keep it awkward. When I added little ones to the mix, I still had an eclectic collection of folks willing to step into the chaos to seek pastoral input or to simply join in for a celebration. It warmed my mother’s heart to watch friends from all walks of life play Lego on the floor or get sucked into the latest Mario video game alongside my kids. These are the moments I long for at Christmas.
Advent is a time of gathering from the darkness towards the light. Of aching and yearning for that slip of light to expand and fill me, pushing back the fear and isolation. The last two years have been overtaken with an expanding dark, like a tumour overtaking a body. Pressing more urgently on vital organs; cutting off life-sustaining arteries. The cancerous fear has disrupted relationships and gatherings, all the while decreasing the appeal of communal life—the usual veins where the Spirit might flow through.
In isolation, people have been reduced to dichotomous positions over so many issues that it is nearly impossible to find relationships to feel secure in. Fear of the other has been nurtured and perpetuated through news and social media. Complexity and nuance have been erased and with it, the texture, smell and taste of diversity. We have become a dispersed people.
The Pharisees knew how to scatter the people through fear tactics as well. They hoped it would work on Jesus. Herod will kill you, they warned. The government wants you to die. Stop what you are doing. Run away and scatter.
Instead Jesus insisted on gathering. Driving out demons and healing people. Casting out the principalities that promoted fear and replacing them with miracles that gestured to heavenly hope. The impossible made possible by divine presence. Light, expanding into the darkness. The scattered, drawn to the light.
In our Lukan passage, Jesus is rejecting intimidation strategies by persisting in caring for the vulnerable. It’s as if he says “No, I will undermine your tough-guy tactics by tending to the pain of those on the margins and releasing them from the torment of demon possession.” The Pharisees and demons are disarmed by Jesus gathering the burdened one-by-one.
But there is a tension when gathering the scattered, awkward, less socially-adept: they aren’t uniform. The thing about those on the margins is that, often, all we have in common is that we are not the centre. Around Jesus, some would have been ill, others people with disabilities. The demon-possessed may have been violent. Or perhaps attached to exploitative owners. Some might have been experiencing addiction as a balm for their pain. Others, experiencing mental illness and choosing isolation. In fact it is quite likely that this disparate group had often competed against one another for the leftovers from the majority; division due to trauma, disagreement, scattered by fear.
Jerusalem has treated the vulnerable with contempt, instilling fear. Yet Jesus’ nurturing heart longs to draw them back together. Is there a house to draw them back to? Has the church too become a place so filled with fear that we have lost the place to regather?
My mothering instincts are kicking in again. I long to gather all who are isolated into the fold, like a mother hen who gathers her chicks. But my family feels much more fragile than it did before: my husband is a front-line health worker and people have not always been kind. He continues to watch the most vulnerable suffer and die. My youngest is not yet able to be vaccinated. These are the ones that must first be nourished and cared for; this family is my first responsibility to nourish back to wholeness. But this year, I could bring one more home. Maybe two. Light slips back in. Even Jesus healed one at a time, and gathered one-by-one. One mismatched plate set. One more player for Super Mario something-or-other. One less left alone.
Nurturing Creator,
We confess we have allowed fear to scatter us.
We have sought scapegoats to blame for our hardship rather than taking collective responsibility.
We have allowed seeds of suspicion to grow into choking weeds of division,
And we have paid the price with ever-increasing anxiety and a toxic kind of individualism.
Have mercy on us and move us once more toward flourishing.
Draw us under your wing, and as you draw us, let us draw another.
Draw us to your nourishing breast, and as you draw us, let us draw another.
Draw us into your fold of misfits, and as you draw us, let us draw another.
And as we do, we celebrate the gift of awkward community.
We praise you Jesus, the one who gathers us unto life.
Amen
Thank you for reading the New Leaf Advent Reader, a collection of reflections from writers across Canada. If you are enjoying the reader, sign up to receive the readings in your inbox each day here: SIGN UP
And please share this reflection with your friends and family who might also enjoy it.