My computer and desk area at work is scattered with post-it notes and little pieces of paper with insurance company phone numbers and abbreviations for medical billing codes. But there's also this little note on the bottom right corner of my computer screen, clipped ever so neatly by my grandmother (enclosed in one of her letters):
“Love is what we are born with. Fear is what we learn. The spiritual journey is the unlearning of fear and prejudices and the acceptance of love back in our hearts. Love is the essential reality and our purpose on earth." -- Marianne Williamson
I pondered that quote one morning as I was eating cereal, reading the book of Exodus. I was thinking about the fear the Israelites experienced as they left Egypt -- the fear of not knowing where they were going and how they were going to eat or drink...and then that lead me to thinking of the fear in the Christmas story. How many times do we hear an angel or someone say "Do not be afraid..."? I think about the fear that Mary felt when she found out she was going to be a mother, the fear the shepherds had when angels were singing in the sky, the fear Joseph had when he found out he was going to marry a pregnant virgin (say what?!), the fear Mary and Joseph experienced when they had to escape to Egypt to save Jesus from being killed by the king.
Emmanuel: God with us.
This is what Christmas is: the incarnation -- the holy God becoming human flesh, dwelling in our broken spaces, occupying the places where we hold onto fear.
I think about the stories of fear from the Israelites, all the way to Mary and Joseph and little baby Jesus, to Peter walking on water. Maybe you're reading this and are rolling your eyes at the Bible stories (I'll be honest: I do that too). Sometimes I just don't want to hear another mention of Mary or Joseph or Paul or Moses.
But I relate to their stories, and I relate to their fear.
I wonder where the manna is some days, I wonder where my guide is when trying to pursue cross-cultural relationships seems so much harder and more complicated than I had once thought. I wonder where the significant-other is, or if he exists. I wonder if I can be the kind of friend I want to be, I wonder if I can be confident enough to not worry so much about what other people think, to be satisfied with pursuing a path that is different from the rest of the crowd. I wonder about loneliness -- if there's a way to always avoid or circumvent it.
And in all of this, I know fear, and I know a deep desire to conquer it.
The thing is, this conqueror of fear, whom we call Jesus, decided to enter into our fear as a baby -- completely and utterly helpless. What I place my faith in, was once just an 8lb, squealing child, laying in a manger, completely reliant on his mother for everything.
You could look at the story and run away from it (let's be real: when you're choosing who's going to fight for you, I'd probably go for almost anyone other than a new born baby), but for some reason I'm drawn to it: drawn to this baby that casts out all fear and beckons me to come.
Maybe it's the paradox of his story: the helplessness who is the ultimate helper, the one who could conquer an empire but whose birth location was dictated by a census, a celebration crowd that could have been any kind of royalty but was instead the lowest of society, a stable instead of a palace to be welcomed into the earth he came to save.
None of it makes sense.
(and later, the paradox continues: a man whose feet were washed who ultimately washes over every part of me (and us), the one who had everything and decided to become nothing (to the point of death in the most brutal way), the one gave up comfort to become uncomfortable and do inconvenient things -- like receive the touch of a bleeding woman, heal a sick leper, teach annoying and close-minded disciples.)
The characters in the Christmas story knew fear in the deepest ways -- fear of the unkown, fear of rejection from family and society, fear of leaving their homes, fear for their very lives.
Emmanuel, God with us.
Little baby Jesus didn't parade onto earth and clear out the fear. Instead I think what he did was enter into the stories of fear and said "Look, I'm bigger than this. And with me, you too are bigger than this."
I want the unlearning of fear, to be brought back closer to what I was born with: love. At Christmastime, I'm reminded that the unlearning of fear starts in that stable, with a helpless baby, and people like Mary and Joseph who didn't let fear stop them from helping the savior come to the world.
I want that kind of fearlessness, I want to learn how to bring more of that into my life at Christmas, and into another year.
I'm thankful for short breaks...just a few days off work, time to enjoy my sisters being in the room next to mine, delicious food to be eaten together, time under the Christmas tree, laughing together over Brophy's shenanigans, playing cards, wrapping Christmas presents while watching Gilmore Girls and trying to keep the dog from getting into the gifts. (etc., etc., etc.)
