Advent IV: Upside Down and Inside Out

on the baby’s head where the skull bones
still gap unfused sits an invisible crown
they speak in whispers of an upside down
kingdom, where the slimy and squalling
princeling will one day kiss lepers and addicts
I press a hand to my clavicle, the empty space 
between my heart-bones which holds nothing
that can save me, and I think that this kingdom
is both upside down and inside out, 
all space and time inverted by the force 
of insane love and a humility no one can bear— 
no one except this strange baby, spanked and wiped of mucus 
while the whole universe watches in awe

The thing that I haven’t been able to get over this Advent (not that I want to get over it) is the necessity of salvation coming from outside us. Once when I was working the self-checkout at a grocery store, my coworker and I were talking about our upbringings and faith and the world. She said her hope was in people, in humanity being basically good and eventually getting it mostly right in the end. And I said I get it, I do—honestly I’d prefer to believe that—but then I look at newspaper headlines and I just can’t. What do you do with the headlines? I asked her. And she turned her head away and said, I know, Aberdeen, I know.

I can still hear the pain in her voice.

It makes me think of this scene from Morgoth’s Ring, a collection of extra writings of J. R. R. Tolkien. It’s a conversation between the elf Finrod and wise woman Andreth about the relationship between Elves and Men (as in humanity) and the fate of Men. Andreth tells him of the pain humans feel at the inevitability of death and then mentions some “of the Old Hope” who think things can be fixed.

“What then was this hope, if you know?” Finrod asked.

“They say,” answered Andreth: “They say that the One will himself enter into Arda, and heal men and all the Marring from the beginning to the end….[But] how could Eru enter into the thing that He has made, and than which He is beyond measure greater? Can the singer enter into his tale or the designer into his picture?” 

And Finrod responds:

“Even if Melkor (or the Morgoth that he has become) could in any way be thrown down or thrust from Arda, still his Shadow would remain, and the evil that he has wrought and sown as a seed would wax and multiply. And if any remedy for this is to be found, or all is ended, any new light to oppose the Shadow, or any medicine for the wounds: then it must, I deem, come from without.”

If you’re not familiar with The Lord of the Rings universe, ignore all the weird words. The point is the last line: if there’s any hope for this mess, it must come from without. The Creator must enter his world, this thing that he holds in his metaphorical hand, that he breathed into being, he has to somehow fit himself into it, garb himself in atoms, take on a particular weight and height and lineage and timber of laughter.

I’m not here to go into the philosophy of how exactly this happened. The point today, for me, is comfort. Humanity isn’t my final hope. What I see with my eyes isn’t all there is. All the evil within and outside of me doesn’t have the final word. There is someone with the strength to save us and the desire to do so.

I know some people think this is escapist or delusional or wishful thinking. That’s okay. There are other times to debate the rationality of it all. Today, I’m celebrating the dawn that finally broke through our long night and I’m echoing that riotous prophet Isaiah:

Comfort, comfort my people, says your God.

Against all hope, as Tolkien might say, in an unlooked-for deliverance, our world got turned inside out and its Maker stepped in to be its Savior too. So be comforted. Merry Christmas, friends.

(Also next week is my most favorite post of the year, my top reads of 2023 so get hyped!!)

~ Aberdeen