Manger | Presence
The manger is the incarnation—the God who takes on flesh, even to the point of being born in an animal feed box. The manger means that God is not distant, but near. It means that he comes to be with, so that you are not without him. It means that God dwells in the midst of messy human drama.
The gospel as the presence of God is thrilling news for those who are distant from God. This is gospel for those who feel lonely, alienated, and hurt. For those who feel inadequate. For those who feel that God could never love them, never come to them. For those who feel like the very lowest social caste. The manger: God’s presence with us.
Invocation
Make the sign of the cross and say,
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Invitation Prayer
“Remember that you were at one time separated from Christ, alienated…having no hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ” (Ephesians 2:13).
Word
“Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,
that the mountains might quake at your presence—
as when fire kindles brushwood
and the fire causes water to boil—
We all fade like a leaf,
and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.” (Isaiah 9:1-2a;6b)
Meditation
“Felix Culpa” by Megan Roegner
While St. Louis autumns are full of surprises, by early December, we are settled firmly into a season of darkness and cold. I love October in all of its brilliance, but the poet in me responds more powerfully to the bleakness of late fall. The bare branches of trees scrape the sky in shocking contrast to the lushness of summer; they are a powerful symbol of transformation, as powerful as the first brave blossoms of spring.
In chapter nine of Isaiah, the prophet is longing for the presence of God to change the world, like fire transforms wood and water into entirely different substances. In pondering the lonely trees and Isaiah’s words that “we all fade like a leaf, / and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away,” I am reminded of the Latin phrase felix culpa, which means “fortunate fall.”
Felix culpa is a paradox. A way for us to consider the fall of man and our broken, dying world as the means for God to demonstrate his perfect, undying love for us through Jesus’ incarnation, death, and resurrection. Our greatest tragedy transforms into our greatest joy.
Advent is the most deeply meaningful time of the church year for me. There is something about the encroaching darkness of winter that fills me with urgency and makes the promise of Light all the more thrilling.
Fortunate Fall
by Megan Roegner
God’s presence is fog in the morning
and a vast, orange moon. We find him
in the strange beauty of a dying world:
dry leaves beneath our feet,
bare branches reaching to the sky—
supplication
and contemplation,
everything falling and fallen.
Brilliant colors give way to gray,
the nights grow long,
the sun more distant.
We bow our heads
for the mist that will one day clear,
for the moon that promises change,
for starry brightness amid a cold, black night.
And for the last leaves, tragic and glorious,
returning to the earth and whispering,
death
is not
forever.
Closing Prayer
Gracious Lord, comfort the sick, injured, and dying. By your very presence, confront all pain of body and soul. Have compassion on those who mourn and grieve a loss. To a world of separation and division, bring your presence, O Lord. Amen.