Last week, I found myself sitting in a large concert hall awash with choral Christmas music and memory. One piece in particular began with a single young voice standing under a lone spot-light at the front. In the span of one breath, a melody that was strong and pure saturated the auditorium and held the attention of the room. All of us sat like ready sponges as delicate LED candles carried by singers young and old slowly trickled in from all sides. Each note shimmered and seemed to lift all our eyes upward—speckles of light accompanying breathtaking harmonic textures. Each dynamic shift drew us closer together in this shared moment in time. There was no extra instrumentation, every tone was expressed and carried by a human voice. It was glorious and moving and seemed to wrap around us in warm, woolen melodic threads. Have you ever experienced something similar? My youngest who was sitting next to me, far from being the only restless child in the audience, settled momentarily enraptured by the delicate orbs and rivulet of melody. There, under the dimmed lights, surrounded by a song that both unlocked and consoled my own pain, the tears flowed and flowed and flowed. Each year, there seems to be the verse of a traditional carol that I recall in a new way, it is almost like hearing it for the first time. In this moment, the words of a certain beloved refrain, came to mind and hovered over the auditorium blessing every weary and grieving head: "Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!"

This Sunday, we light the third candle of Advent, the Shepherd's Candle, which traditionally is the singular rose coloured taper in the wreath, representing joy. On a personal level, in ways that I could not have anticipated or planned for, I find myself standing among the bereaved and grieving this season. In these tender days, as we collectively move ever-closer to Christmas morning, I find myself holding two realities simultaneously:

1. Christ was born into a place and time that was ripe with loss, confusion, and devastation. Jesus, the Word of God made flesh, embodied a message of comfort and hope to a grieving world.
2. Our current cultural climate has a tendency to shy away from this puzzling paradox: grief and joy can exist together.

A few weeks ago, in the midst of a gentle conversation, a friend of mine drew a connection between Advent and Lent. In Advent we wait, and the waiting holds many aches, yearnings, and grave realities of our human experience—loss, suffering, conflict, turmoil, and fear. Lent holds a different kind of waiting, 40 days that begin with the ashes of grief (2) and culminate on the road of suffering our Saviour walked unto the cross and death. How ready are we to proclaim the hope of a risen, triumphant Lord that we can, at times, side-step the stunned and bewildered grief within Holy Saturday? (3) In a similar way, Advent holds the precarious tension of hope that has yet to arrive in fullness and hope that, in the midst of all of these painful realities, continues to press into our world.

The account of Christ's birth in Matthew begins with the announcement that Mary will give birth to a son, and will be given the name Jesus, "because he will save his people from their sins." (4) What comes next is the rearticulation of what has long been
prophesied and what echoes across time before immaculate conception, before embryo development, and before a babbling infant Christ. Before Jesus has uttered a single word of the Good News, Salvation is first expressed in name, an act of solidarity and a witness to humanity's deepest sorrows, Emmanuel. For all of us who grieve and mourn, this is the comfort and the joy of our Saviour's coming: God is with us.

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1. Taken from Every Moment Holy Vol. 2: A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy and Sorrow.
2. The season of Lent begins on Ash Wednesday.
3. Holy Saturday lands between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. It has traditionally been acknowledged and honoured as a day of "stunned bewilderment," when there was not even a whisper or inkling of Christ's oncoming resurrection.
4. Matthew 1:21, NIV.

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Erika Britt Kobewka is a writer, worship leader, spiritual director, and violinist in St Albert, Alberta. As a long-time creative contributor within the Vineyard Canada family, 'setting the table' for others to experience the love of God continues to be a profound joy and privilege. Erika is an avid reader, music-maker, hiker, and (amateur) flower gardener. She loves to be at home with her family or finding new trails in the Rocky Mountains. She and her family attend and serve at Avenue Vineyard in Edmonton. You can follow some of her written work at www.erikabritt.ca.