Welcome to The Table! I'm so glad you're here.
What is The Table? It's this community right here, one that we've been growing together over time and distance. Some of you have been here since before I got married or when I lived in Liberia. Some of you are newer; maybe we became friends on social media or you purchased a copy of my book. One thing is for certain, though: you belong here. There is space for you to bring your whole self to this table, space for you to dream and doubt and wonder. The welcome of God is wild and wide, and as someone who follows him – mine is, too. There's never not enough room. I'll keep pulling up another chair, setting more places, inviting one and all to this place where we can find glory in the midst of our everyday living.
Thank you for being here. xo
The moments just following my son’s birth four years ago were some of the most holy ground I have ever experienced. As his full-bodied screams pierced the room, the very space between heaven and earth felt thin, and hallowed, the lines between sacred and worldly bleeding into one another, much as the elation and the pain coursed simultaneously through my body.
Birth is an altogether spiritual experience, and so it seems fitting that one of the most holy days of my faith tradition is characterized by a baby–a baby who was covered in blood and fluid and vernix, a baby who cried and tore Mary’s flesh and suckled at her breast. A baby who had an umbilical cord, who soiled himself, who had wrinkly toes and patchy hair, a baby who was helpless and wholly dependent on his teenaged mother. The Greatest Mystery of our faith entered our broken world the way we all do, in a body, in flesh and bone and sweat and muscle and organs and pushing and pulsing and screaming.
And we sing come, let us adore him.
Christianity’s Advent is a season where we will wait, expectantly, much like a pregnant mother, for the miracle of Christmas Day. Christ-mas. Christ’s coming. A season where we ready ourselves and prepare him room, much like a pregnant mother who nests and washes tiny infant clothing in preparation and arranges a nursery.
And this Advent, I find myself coming back to the body. I need the body, the body who knows my limitations and expectations and fractures and failures and desire and disappointment and hunger and need because it has felt them, too. I don’t want impractical faith, faith that acts like God is some ethereal force somewhere out there, like God is there but not here. I don’t want a faith that’s too far removed to be attained, a faith that acts like it exists only in my head and my heart without paying any attention to the skin that inhabits them.
How could a faith like that speak to an epidemic that has claimed over a million lives?
How could a faith like that speak to the blood of black and brown bodies that soaks the earth?
How could a faith like that speak to children who feel the angry gnaw of hunger in their bellies?
How could a faith like that speak to inmates on death row?
How could a faith like that speak to refugees who traverse the deadly desert or the dangerous waves of the ocean in search of freedom?
How could a faith like that speak to the one who has cancer?
How could a faith like that speak to the AIDS patient?
How could a faith like that speak to the families in cages?
How could a faith like that speak to the woman who is starving herself to be thin?
How could a faith like that speak to the ones who accidentally overdose or the ones who die by suicide?
Humanity is embodied. Our pain is embodied, and so are our struggles. We don’t need a God who floats around in a far-off mansion in the sky; we need a God who feels the hurt, who knows the ache, who understands the weariness. We need a God who plugs the bullet holes and feels the bony ribs, who heals with mud and spit, who shields our bodies with his own, who weeps, whose body tore, who cooked his friends breakfast, who knows what it is to choke out the words, “I. Can’t. Breathe.”
We need an embodied God.
So as we trudge our way through the dark of Advent, I’m not looking for the sparkly lights and the shiny presents. I’m not looking for angels singing in the sky, the joyful carols, the sanitized and white-washed version with the cherub child and a glowing halo.
I’m looking for the dirty manger, the stench of the stable, the mother who is leaking milk, the baby slick with fluid. I’m looking for the tears, the screams, the flesh, the exhaustion, the thin and holy places. I’m looking for an embodied God.
O, come let us adore him.
xo,
I haven’t been doing much new writing these days, but you can always visit elenadelhagen.com to revisit old posts. You can read about how I opted to practice mindfulness this year, how our family follows a low-waste Advent calendar, what peacemaking can look like during Advent, and a blessing I wrote for all of us who sometimes have difficulty finding joy during this season.
If you've been around for a while, you know that food and the table are central to my theology. They represent the wide welcome of Christ to feed on God's feast of goodness, mercy, and love. They're also the great equalizer; no matter what divides us, we all come to the table as equals, as those who hunger and desire to be filled.
Each month I share a favorite recipe so you, too, can taste and see the welcome of God is for you. Check out a current favorite of mine: sheet pan jambalaya!
As always, I’m so grateful for your support and love having this opportunity to share good stuff for the soul to your inbox. It’s such a gift to have you at The Table with me, and I adore this community we are building together! Wishing each of you holiday joy this season, and I’ll “see” you next month!