Photo by Nicole Louden, Sandhills Prairie Girl

For the past year, Nebraska photographer and writer Nicole Louden and I have been collaborating on a series of photos and poems, and this photo took my breath away. Each time I look at it, I think about how the light breaks into our winter days, and “a weary world rejoices.” For me, Nicole’s photo is a stunning reminder of how “The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” [John 1:5]

The world at the time of Christ’s birth was weary with oppression and hopelessness. Centuries later, the world is still weary. At Christmas, as many move joyfully through their days relishing the spirit of the season, others struggle in desolation as they grapple with grief, conflict, and pain.

So, here is my grownup Christmas wish: May you know the consolation of Christ’s light that overpowers the world’s weariness, today and always.

Hoarfrost

On this day in December, the kettle sings 
and I walk through the house in sock feet, 
the woodstove humming with heat.

I sit at the table with coffee, 
remnants of sleep still matting my eyes,
the house still bundled in the comfort of night. 

But outside, the day breaks 
like a geode, hoarfrost splintering 
the air into carats of delight.

Outside, cold is an aria that shatters
the ceiling of night,
each note sharper, each facet cut 
with the delicate, blue stone of dawn.

In the silence of the room,
I think of you—
gone two years now.

From the mantle of grief
my heart breaks 
in a jubilation of jewels,

the magma of love erupting,
astonishing each fence post, 
each strand of barbed wire,

and crowning a weary world
with light.

Wishing you Christmas blessings, Shannon

Carl Bloch, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” Luke 2: 8-12

To live in a field among sheep, to stay awake, alone and vigilant, to live in solitude through long days and longer nights. For some, this may sound like a peaceful refuge in the midst of a busy, noisy world; to many others, however, this sounds more like a prison sentence. Separated from family and creature comforts, these shepherds faced considerable physical and emotional trials. To face these trials knowing that others looked down upon you, that you occupied the very bottom of the social ladder, and that you were crude, dirty, and uneducated, this might transform the consolation of solitude into desolation. As this solitude flooded your mind and soul with a tsunami of doubt and fear, you might struggle to maintain any peace and joy you’d found. And in your separation from others, you might also feel separated from God.

In his 2008 article “Shepherd’s Status,” Christian author Randy Alcorn explains the status of shepherds at the time of Jesus’ birth: “[S]hepherds stood on the bottom rung of the Palestinian social ladder. They shared the same unenviable status as tax collectors and dung sweepers.” To share the same status as dung sweepers is to share no real status at all. Add to this the fact that because shepherds were perpetually dirty from living in fields among sheep, they would’ve been regarded as ceremonially unclean, unfit to be in the presence of God. We could argue the stable was already unclean and question whether a few unwashed shepherds could contaminate it further. Still, this was a holy place with a Savior King, and a group of lowly shepherds would’ve been customarily barred entry.

God had another plan, though, as He brought the good news first to shepherds, invited them to see the sign themselves, and to worship the Messiah, their Lord. On a Sunday 30 years ago, God had another plan for the church I was attending. After our contemporary service ended and as we were hauling off musical and sound equipment to prepare for the traditional service which would begin in a few minutes, a man quietly entered the back of our sanctuary. I saw him tentatively make his way down the aisle and went to greet him. I quickly discovered that he couldn’t speak English, and given that my Spanish was woefully limited to a few conversational phrases, I couldn’t really communicate with him. There was an urgency in his voice, though, and as I led him down the aisle towards the front of the sanctuary, I could see that our pastor was already coming to us.

I won’t forget this moment. My pastor stuck out his hand in greeting, but the man shook and lowered his head, ashamed to offer his own filthy hand. He’d obviously not washed for days. His clothing was soiled, his hair matted, and his skin blackened with dirt. But my pastor smiled, never breaking eye contact as he grabbed his hand and welcomed him. This man wasn’t a shepherd, but he was the equivalent. He’d hopped a train at the border and was making his way to his cousin in Kansas. And here he was in southern Iowa, having unknowingly overshot Kansas and traveled many rail miles beyond. As our group stood near the pulpit and parishioners were filing in for the next service, our pastor looked out into the pews and yelled, “Does anyone speak Spanish?” A timid hand went up in the balcony, and a small woman made her way down the stairs. Through her translation, we learned the man’s story and his need to unite with his Kansas cousin.

A period of silence ensued during which the organist didn’t begin the prelude and the church service was delayed. In a huddle near the pulpt, our pastor and several of us formulated a plan. My husband, who worked for the railroad, took him to our home to find him a winter coat and a few provisions for his trip. Then, at some risk to his employment, he drove him to the trainyard and helped him hop the right train, the one that would bring him to his Kansas family. On that Sunday morning, we were less concerned about doing church and more concerned with being the church.

For years, I’ve thought about the courage of this man who was as unclean and lowly as a shepherd. I’ve thought about how he humbly offered his hopes and needs before us–before God. And I’ve thought about this encounter as a powerful affirmation of how God uses the lowly, the sick and weak, the alien and estranged, to bring us back to the manger. At the manger, we are all ceremonially unclean, humbled in our shared humanness. At the manger, we are all shepherds, perplexed and amazed that God would bring the Good News to us. At the manger, we kneel before a baby who will one day sleep, unbathed, under the stars, who will work with his hands, fish for his supper, and ultimately save the world.

On that Sunday morning so many years ago, we were able to offer some consolation to a man in desolation. On that night in fields outside of Bethlehem, God offered great consolation to a group of shepherds who’d undoubtedly experienced the desolation of their position and status. As tinseled and bedazzled as our Christmas seasons often become, this splendor pales in comparison to what must’ve been an amazing sight: shepherds kneeling at the manger and taking their honored place as Jesus’s first visitors. This Christmas, may we take consolation in the assurance that the last will be first, the meek will inherit the earth, and the spirit and good fortune of these shepherds lives in us.

And she gave birth to her first-born son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. Luke 2:7

When one door closes, another door opens. We’ve all heard the saying. Undoubtedly, it’s been used by well-meaning folks to console us when doors are shut in our faces and the entry into places we’d intended to go is blocked. We may find these words cavalier, too dismissive of the disappointment we truly feel because a closed door is, first and foremost, a denial: no entry, no vacancy, no possibility.

Although the inkeeper in nativity plays is not mentioned in scripture, we faithfully cast him as an integral actor. He is the story’s foil, the gruff-speaking man at the door who barks, “No room!” As he shuts his door to a pregnant woman and her husband who’ve just made a 70-mile trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem, he becomes the reason for a king’s humble birth in a stable.

It takes little to imagine Mary and Joseph’s desolation as they stood before the closed door. Alone and facing an imminent birth, they were desperate to find an open door. In traditional crèches, we often find cozy, clean stables and sweet-smelling mangers, serene-looking parents and well-groomed barn animals. It’s as if our crèche makers are saying, “Look how beautifully another door opens!” The reality of Jesus’ birth–in a stable or cave, as some suggest–was cold, foul-smelling, and crude. If there were a hotel rating system at that time, Jesus’ birthplace wouldn’t have even earned 1-star; it would make economy lodging look luxurious.

Yet, the King of Kings, the Savior of the World was born into this desolate place. And herein lies one of the greatest consolations: that God sent His Son into this desolation to live among us, to celebrate and suffer with us. Jesus is no door-slamming innkeeper; rather, He is the hotel clerk who smiles, opens the door and says, “Come in! There is always room for you.” Even in times of greatest desolation, even when life’s doors shut in our faces, He stands on the other side of a door which is always open for the asking:

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened. Matthew 7: 7-8

And yet as St. Ignatius cautioned, even this consolation may fade into desolation as life throws down its gauntlet of trials. Decades ago, I suffered a period of infertility and miscarriage during which the door to motherhood was resoundingly slammed in my face time and again. I recall sitting in the waiting room of my gynecologist, a small room burgeoning with pregnant women. Burying my head in whatever magazines I could find (generally Parents and Mother and Baby), I plowed through holiday recipes and child-friendly vacation tips. When my name was finally called, I escaped to an examination room, grateful not to be reminded of my barrenness.

During this period, I remember the encouragement and advice from others: Don’t give up hope–you’ll get pregnant when you least expect it! Just relax–take a vacation! Go on a cruise! For them, it seemed the door to motherhood would open benevolently in its own time. But for me, the door felt hopelessly and permanently locked. Yet, even as this door closed–or seemed to close–I felt the stirrings of another door opening: the adoption of our first child, Megan.

In three days, we’ll celebrate Megan’s birth. Out of the despair of infertility and miscarriage, her birth ushered in a period of great consolation, a joy I’d previously not known. In the years to come, this joy grew exponentially with the births of my daughters, Collyn and Marinne, and the adoption of my son, Quinn. When one door closed, four doors swung wondrously open.

For centuries, we’ve portrayed Christ’s birth in a lowly manger. I’ve often wondered what it might’ve been like if the innkeeper had happily ushered Mary and Joseph into a room where Jesus could be born in a cleaner, more appropriate environment. But God had a better plan. The closed door, the crude stable and simple manger testify to a divine paradox: the Son of God, the King of Kings, born humbly as a baby to bring consolation to a desolate world.

As humans, we may be tempted to view our condition as a series of closed doors that prevent us from pursuing our hearts’ desires and fulfilling our best-laid plans. We may view our world as a dark and dangerous wilderness through which we must make our way, hoping for refuge at every door we encounter. One of Advent’s greatest consolations is that Christ lived 33 years as a man, so that He might know our human condition, so that He might feel its joys and sorrows. As we wander through our own wildernesses, He is with us. And when doors close before us–as they inevitably will–He waits to greet us, swinging His door open with merciful abandon.

painting by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrato

And Mary said, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” And the angel departed from her. Luke 1:38

A few weeks ago, I attended my annual silent retreat at the Cloisters on the Platte near Gretna, Nebraska. Seven years ago, I was fortunate enough to be moved quickly off the waiting list into a spot which I’ve held ever since. During my first retreat at the Cloisters, I was wholly unprepared for the beauty of the facility and grounds and for the power of three days of silence, prayer, and meditation. Since then, I’ve returned each November–blesssed.

During my last retreat, Fr. Paul Hoesig led us in a study of St. Ignatius’ Rules for the Discernment of Spirit. Ignatius contends that we all move between periods of spiritual consolation and spiritual desolation. He defines spiritual consolation as “when some interior movement in the soul is caused, through which  the soul comes to be inflamed with love of its Creator and Lord; and when it can, in consequence, love no created thing on the face of the earth in itself, but in the Creator of them all.” When we experience an increase in hope, faith, and charity as well as an “interior joy” from the Lord, this is spiritual consolation. And this, Ignatius explains, is much more than a feeling; it’s a state of being.

On the other hand, spiritual desolation is “the contrary of [spiritual consolation], such as darkness of soul, disturbance in it, movement to things low and earthly, the unquiet of different agitations and temptations, moving to want of confidence, without hope, without love, when one finds oneself all lazy, tepid, sad, and as if separated from his Creator and Lord.”

For most, the world at the time of Christ’s birth (between 6 and 4 B.C.) was oppressive. The Romans had ruled the world for half a century, and their republic had turned into a tyranny, with the emperor, Caesar Augustus, in charge of the empire. In most agrarian societies, 90% of the population worked the land as peasants, while 10% were born into nobility and, therefore, into power and wealth. It goes without saying that the world was a dark place for many who struggled to survive. And it doesn’t take much effort to imagine the spiritual desolation of the oppressed. Into this world, an angel of the Lord appeared to a teenage girl in a backwater town. We know the story well. Perhaps we know it too well, often joyfully skipping to the good part: the birth of a healthy, pink-cheeked baby boy destined to be the Savior of the world.

We may unthinkingly skip the almost certain fear, confusion, and inevitable shame that would accompany an apparently illegitmate pregnancy. And we shouldn’t. For into this desolate world, into these dark circumstances, Mary consented to bear God’s Son, opening her soul fully as she declared: Let it me unto me according to your word.

Although we know that spiritual consolation–our souls inflamed with love of our Creator and Lord–is grounded in this kind of open-hearted submission, sadly, we often turn to ourselves, resolved to create a kind of consolation of our own making and effort. We get about the business of doing–rather than being. We make plans and resolutions. We get to work on ourselves. I don’t know how many times in the past year I’ve heard, or read, about people “doing the work” on themselves. It’s not that we don’t bear some responsibility for our own wellbeing–or that we should ignore how God works through pastors, counselors, mentors, friends, and family members. It is, however, that too often we ignore the source of all consolation which Mary understood well.

Thirty-two years ago at this time, we were preparing to adopt our son, Quinn. I confess that there have only been a handful of times in my life when I was fully aware that I had no real control over my circumstances and stood, as Mary did, before God as a supplicant. On the day that we traveled to the Bethlehem Baptist Church in Minneapolis to meet our new son and take him home, we couldn’t have known that we’d be there for hours–first at the church and later in a congregant’s home–as we waited for confirmation from the State of Iowa that his official paperwork had arrived in Des Moines, granting us the legal right to bring him home. These were hours fraught with worry, frustration, and confusion as our caseworker repeatedly called to check whether the paperwork (on a FedEx truck during peak Christmas delivery hours) had arrived. At one point, perspiration running from her temples, she turned to us and asked–hopefully, desperately–if we knew anyone of political prominence in Iowa who might intervene on our behalf, so we could leave Minnesota and legally enter Iowa.

Of course, we didn’t, and the minutes that ticked by were fraught with tension. There was much hand wringing–for almost everyone but me. The Iowa official communicating with our caseworker had informed her that their offices would close promptly at 4:30 for Christmas that afternoon, and if they hadn’t received the official paperwork by then, she’d have to fly Quinn back to Georgia and try again after the holidays. Throughout all this, an uncharacteristic and miraculous sense of peace pervaded me. As I held my infant son, I sensed the concern and frenzied actions around me, but I felt warmed with the assurance that all would be well. And it was. With minutes to spare, we finally received word that we could take Quinn home.

Although I didn’t speak Mary’s words of submission, I can look back on this day and know, with certainty, that I felt them. Let it be unto me according to your word. I felt the peace that passes all understanding. I know the spiritual consolation that illuminates the darkness. And I know, with certainty, that this was not of my own making, not a result of my own effort nor any human effort.

A 16th century Carmelite monk, St. John of the Cross, understood the darkness of spiritual desolation. In his poem, Noche obscura del alma (translated “The Dark Night of the Soul” ), he writes of the worldly struggle to know and feel an “interior joy” from the Lord. Like St. Ignatius, he knew that we would move into and out of periods of spiritual consolation and desolation. One of the pillars of our Christian faith, Mother Teresa, experienced decades of this “dark night of the soul.” And yet, she continued to seek God, to do His will on earth, and to live with the hope that her soul would be once again ignited with this “interior joy.” Throughout her desolation, she kept her soul fixed on the consolation she’d once experienced and prayed to experience again.

Regardless of our circumstances and in spite of the desolation we often experience in this broken world, there is consolation. And this is the good news of Advent: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5) Mary understood this, both as a young mother and later as she knelt at the foot of her son’s cross. Before I celebrate the birth of Christ this year, I plan to spend some time with Mary. As I give thanks for my own son, I plan to remember how on that long, snowy day in Minneapolis, I, too, opened my soul before God in humble submission. And I plan to live fully and joyfully with this consolation, even as I prepare myself for the inevitable times when I struggle to feel God’s presence and peace.