No room at the inn; More than prayers for Gazan mothers
No room at the inn
More than prayers for Gazan mothers
It’s clearly the dark of winter here. In the early morning, my body is slow. The outside world not yet awake.
My dogs snuggle close in the wee hours of the morning.
It is time for me to wake up, move from deep slumber, rouse my bones from the darkest days of the year. Breakfast, lunches, and straightening the various untidy things around the house crowd my mind.
Faith is difficult. I have faith, and some question; “What do you believe?” I no longer say ‘I’m a Christian.’ Murder, racism, allegiance to systemic oppression, or gifting kids a world full of violence and hate don’t resonate with me or what I believe about Jesus.
The truce ended today. Bombing continues. Violent images flood my nervous system. I make a point to pray. Death is lurking.
Pensive, I splash water on my face.
December 1st is advent season. Pregnant Mary. Hesitant Joseph. Unborn child. As a child myself, I constructed pictures of these characters. Mary rode a donkey. Joseph walked in front of Mary, leading the donkey, approaching Bethlehem. Like many young kids, I pictured stars. No clouds, or rain, but I bundled up Mary and Joseph to protect them from the cold. The Bible doesn’t talk about the weather, but in this moment, it is cold.
A baby, inside a womb, waiting to be born. Two parents, unmarried, searching for somewhere, because Mary felt her body contracting. While the empire wasn’t dropping bombs on Mary, dangerous empire soldiers lurked, speaking to the urgency, and need for location, for herself and the baby.
Recently, there have been articles from Doctors Without Borders, CNN, and New York Times, which report about 150 pregnant women in Gaza give birth daily.
We’ve seen the NICU babies evacuated from Gaza to Egypt. Not all survived, but the ones who did cling to life. I credit their mothers, either dead, lost, or displaced, with giving those babes a strength we cannot fathom. I know what it’s like to have a NICU baby, the unknown ahead. However, my baby was not threatened with death, with each breath. I don’t know what it’s like to leave my baby in a hospital, knowing we are at the mercy of those who don’t believe in our humanity. Or, what it would feel like for my last breath on earth to be a prayer for the unknown fate of my baby.
But, Mary knew terror. Her body couldn’t wait for safety. And, no matter who promised her what, her body wasn’t pain-free, emotionless or fearless.
She traveled in her last trimester to fulfill the demands of empire. Advent isn’t about a bright star shining, shepherds, or inhospitable villagers. It isn’t about Joseph, who wanted to ditch his pregnant partner. Mary, pregnant with a child, in labor, terrified and strong, longed to give birth, love, live. She gave her baby a sense of the humanity denied her, with each step she took towards birth.
Mary and Joseph were to register their existence, in a census, with an empire who wanted their population managed. Gazan mothers know this. Giving birth is resistance to an empire longing for their limited existence, if at all.
I pray for mothers giving birth in Gaza, as I would pray for baby Jesus to be safe, and Mary preserved.
The history of violence, of why, and how Christianity moved from something about Jesus, and Mary, to a hyper-focus on war, fear, and terror inflicted on others is anti-Advent. I imagine Mary looking down in distress, wondering how we justify the birth of her child to dehumanize other mothers.
Something meant to save us, a tiny child, meant to bring hope, life, and love from an oppressed people, can never justify the perpetration of murder. From George Floyd, lynchings of Mexicans on the southern border, truckloads of migrants sent by Greg Abbott to Chicago, or the United States funding bombs across the world, advent’s meaning has been twisted to keep Jesus out.
A Western perspective on Advent focuses on individualism – reinforces existing structures; it ignores the reality of social structures, reducing structural problems to personal problems. Mary couldn’t find a place to give birth. Yes, the villagers were selfish, but the system also made it normal to perpetrate against an oppressed people, even a mother in active labor.
Like, Mary, Gazan mothers deserve room, safety, a place without bombs, place to give birth, and a physical location to love. Advent beckons us to resist individual and collective succumbing to a “normal” which should never be normalized. If normalized, we produce a counterfeit Advent hope -- and thwart the possibilities of experiencing trans-formative justice and radical systemic change.
Mary’s labor and birth call us to name a system who had no room for her, an empire who forced her to travel to be ‘counted’ while pregnant, to fulfill a systemic obligation. Her body, reduced to a number.
Luke 2:4-7; “So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. 5 He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. 6 While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, 7 and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.”
May we find that our Advent faith reaches deeper and stretches wider than embracing our historical patterns of violence, lynching, bombing, funding genocide, and searching to punish those in pursuit of safe haven for themselves and their babies. May Advent shift systems and barriers, which continue to shut their doors to Jesus’ birth. May it be so this Christmas.
Hola! Soy Daniela - Welcome - My name is Danielle S. Castillejo. My father is German and my mother is Mexican. I grew up in the swirl of a mixed identity. That said, I love the anticipation of Spring and Summer in the Northwest - the long days and sunlight we miss in the dark winters. You can easily find me out on a trail, or working in my yard. Over the course of my life I have lived in Morocco, Mexico and traveled extensively. During that time I found healing and restoration through therapy and happened on the book, “My Shining Affliction” by Annie Rogers.