First Monday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
Birds, Blurry Lines, and Becoming
by Matte Downey
Psalm 124:6-8
Blessed is the Lord,
Who did not make us prey for their teeth.
Our life is like a bird escaped
From the snare of the fowlers.
The snare was broken
And we escaped.
Our help is in the name of the Lord,
Maker of heaven and earth. [1]
One of the enduring mysteries, not only of Advent but of the entire premise that God is intimately invested in the wellbeing of the cosmos, is the blurring of lines between creator and creation, between sovereignty and submission, between strength and weakness, between inception and completion.
Over the past few years, I have been paying special attention to divine metaphors in the biblical texts that showcase this sacred interplay. The God who gets divine hands dirty as a gardener (Genesis 2). The God who is a gravedigger, honouring and caring for the dead (Deut. 34). The God who acts as a midwife, tenderly guarding and guiding new life (Psalm 22). The God who delights in being a hospitable chef, preparing feasts in unlikely and hostile places (Psalm 23).
I find biblical metaphors which invoke both security and vulnerability particularly instructive. In Psalm 91, the poet reassuringly says of the Lord, “with His pinion He shelters you, and beneath His wings you take refuge.” But in Psalm 124, cited above, the psalmist compares his community to a bird who has escaped a trap. In this case, the bird is viewed as endangered prey, not a protector.
The multivalency of the bird image reminds me of the precarious infancy of Jesus. We can imagine the nursing child as a tiny nestling bird, dependent on its mother for nourishment and protection. And we can also envision the Spirit swooping down to carry the child to safety on her strong wings, away from the deadly snare of that blood-thirsty predator, Herod. The metaphor invites us to consider a God who is equally at home nursing at a breast and commanding angel armies. A God whose presence appears as a blazing pillar of fire and a refugee infant crying out for comfort.
I must admit that sometimes I prefer the showy, obvious displays of divine glory. I get weary of the underwhelming incarnations that divine love insists on assuming, time and again. I long for obvious manifestations of God’s bright presence, not distressing disguises.
As I write this, I am in week three of a kitchen renovation. Dusty boxes, bags of mortar and cement, an assortment of tools, plastic drop cloths, step ladders, paint cans, and bits of trim and drywall litter my house. Some days the changes are readily apparent. Other days, the progress is barely perceptible. Productive workdays where numerous people are onsite are offset by quiet days spent waiting for paint to dry or the electrician to show up.
In general, I find the process of renovation invigorating, but the excitement starts to wear thin after a few weeks. At this point, I just want things to be finished. To have a working stove, oven, and dishwasher. To stop having to dig through boxes to find a clean plate or a can opener. To not have to wash my dishes in a tiny bathroom sink. I am ready to see and experience this new kitchen in all its shiny glory.
The limbo between deconstruction and rebuilding, when the old has been removed but the new is still not fully formed or functional, is disorienting. I struggle to see the glory or practical value in a not-yet kitchen, a kitchen that is still becoming.
I realize that there is a vast discrepancy between my disorientation (as a person who lives in relative comfort, has ready access to resources, and enjoys the benefits of citizenship in a democracy) and the disorientation experienced by those in the first century living under an oppressive regime, longing for a messiah, a rescuer, a protector, and paradigm-shifter. But I can imagine that hope, cautious optimism, doubt, and even cynicism mingled together as news of an extraordinary birth began to circulate.
Jesus was born in Bethlehem, with angels heralding his appearance, but what really changed? How was the world different after Mary’s water broke, after her illegitimate brown baby took his first breath? Were the oppressed and vulnerable suddenly safe? Were gross injustices finally made right? Did goodness and mercy abound in all the places they had been scarce? Not really.
For me, the blurring of lines is both the beauty and frustration of Advent. God has come and yet all is not well. The kingdom of heaven is here and still not fully functioning. A baby born in Bethlehem is heralded as Saviour but this Saviour doesn’t do much except eat and poop and sleep on repeat.
It is becoming more apparent to me that Advent is much longer than twenty-four days or four weeks. God is always on the way, it seems.
During this season, we are invited to hope for and enact goodwill and peace on earth, even while conflict and chaos are all around and everything tastes a little bit like dust.
We are invited to celebrate the birth of new things, even when they are bloody and fragile and oh so much more work than we ever thought they would be.
We are instructed in patience and perseverance as we dwell in the garden/wilderness located somewhere between conception and completion.
We are welcomed to imagine tasty meals prepared in a kitchen not yet finished. And in the meantime, to find glory in crackers and cheese served on a paper towel.
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