We light the candles on our Advent wreath every night after dinner. There are two burning this week, one shorter than its neighbor. We mark the passing of time, and the light grows brighter each week as Christ’s arrival comes closer.
I love these physical, tangible images of God who is light. I love that He came to redeem and restore and to affirm the value, the beauty, and the worth manifested in this earth and in its people at creation. And I love that again and again He gives us physical reminders of Himself. They are just shadows of His fulness, but He gives us tastes.
He gives Himself in fire and in storm, in sun and in clouds, and in the faces of the little children I greet everyday at my classroom door. He gives Himself to us in the physical, in the real, in the small details of life that seem overlooked and perhaps even untouched by the divine.
The dictionary defines “incarnation” as unity of divinity with humanity. In one little being who was born and who grew and walked this earth for just thirty years, incarnation. And now, in every inch of this earthly existence, incarnation. At our dinner table with just two of us and a pile of dishes in the sink, incarnation. In the striking beauty of the bare trees and the blue sky, incarnation. In the stranger walking down the street, incarnation. At the communion rail, incarnation. In the bread and the wine, incarnation. God with us. Christ infused into every inch and every corner.
Cosmos from chaos. (Madeleine L’Engle)