Sacred disruption



I don’t like the dark. If I can’t avoid walking into a dark room, I will use my phone’s glowing screen to break up the night until I reach the light switch.

What is it about darkness that I find so disconcerting? Perhaps it’s the uncertainty, the unknowability of what lies unseen. My brain tells me this is unreasonable; I am privileged to live in a part of the world where there are unlikely to be any hidden creature dangers in my kitchen.

But there is something deeper than fear of bite, sting or personal harm. In the darkness lives the unknown.

This became a visceral feeling after my dad passed away several years ago at the age of 67. My family was devastated by the rapidity of his diagnosis, illness and death. At the time, I did not understand why, but I had to keep a light on in order to sleep, for several months. I needed that light to tether me to that which I could understand, to keep the uncertainty of the darkness at bay.

I also don’t like waiting. It’s unsettling. I am quick to fill up a waiting period with distractions. I have no problem finding a book or a show or a puzzle, so I don’t have to sit in the discomfort of waiting.

At a few times in my life, this uncertainty has been particularly disquieting. There was a longer gap between my fourth and fifth children than there was with the others. When I was pregnant with our fifth child, I found myself asking myself whether I still knew how to care for a baby. What if I couldn’t get to know this baby enough to understand what it needed? This wasn’t debilitating, but it did shift my focus from excited anticipation to nervous preoccupation.

Darkness and waiting are not comfortable spaces, but I have learned that leaning in, instead of avoiding, grows peace and hope instead of fear.

This takes practice because it doesn’t feel natural to move toward discomfort and uncertainty. Yet I have found that when I allow myself to sit with these feelings and have them infuse my prayers and self-reflection, the Spirit inevitably shows up in a fresh way.

The season of Advent is about darkness and waiting. It is a darkness of unknowing, uncertainty and inability to control the outcomes.
It’s hard to imagine how profoundly distressing that could have been for Mary. Her life was uprooted in an unfathomable way, and yet her response was one of trust and acceptance.

Here on the other side of the birth of Jesus, this season of waiting for the fullness of shalom to be found in Jesus can still cause anxiety. There is more than enough uncertainty in my life and in the world to create discomfort. What would it look like for me to lean in and embrace it during this Advent season?

The unexpected has proved to be a sacred disruption so many times in my life. Can I walk in confidence of God’s faithfulness, while at the same time allowing myself to acknowledge the feelings of fear and uncertainty?

Despite my spirit’s pull toward resolution of this discomfort, Advent calls me to notice the unknowns and the “not-yets” that trouble my soul. My list could be long: insecurities, unrealized professional goals, troubled relationships, community conflicts, world events, climate concerns.

Perhaps the Magnificat can be the metaphorical light I leave on as I wait, tethering me to hope in a time of darkness and uncertainty. This song of response to a drastically changed and unfamiliar future identifies what Mary knew to be true about our Lord: our Saviour is mindful of us, shows mercy, cares for the humble, fills the hungry and cares for those who serve.

May that knowledge be enough to help me sit in the darkness to wait without despair.

Mary Barg is a spiritual care practitioner with the Fraser Health Authority. She lives in Chilliwack, B.C., attends Eden Mennonite Church and serves on the board of Canadian Mennonite Publishing Service.



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