The Survivor’s Guide to a New Year

Day 1 of 4: Hope

“This is how the birth of Jesus the Messiah came about: His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph her husband was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.
But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”
-Matthew 1:18-20 (NIV)

There’s this old story. No one knows exactly where it started, but like all ancient rumors, it has been whispered down through generations and occasionally finds itself at the center of scholarly debate. A girl, no more than 14, living in an occupied village. Roman soldiers patrol the streets with the law on their side, and if an act of sexual violence were to occur, the consequences would be devastating for the girl but nonexistent for the soldier.

So when young Miriam finds herself alone in her room, panicked and traumatized and watching her one chance at financial and social security crumble before her eyes, the last thing she expects is an angel of the Lord.

Of course, it is far from popular, but this is but one of many ways we can imagine the first chapters of Luke and Matthew; this imagining doesn’t have to challenge the existence of the virgin birth or any of the other rich, beautiful, strange stories that come when divinity and humanity gently collide. But on those nights when I lie awake reeling from the pain of violated boundaries and the trauma of a life irrevocably changed, I need to know that the God I pray to does not look away from human suffering. The sanitized story of Christ’s birth — of new beginnings shrouded in cheerful hymns and playful pageants — doesn’t have much to say to my own story.

What might those first chapters of Luke and Matthew, the start of our gospel story, have to offer to survivors of sexual violence? What does the Nativity say to those still picking up the pieces of fractured memories and shipwrecked hope?

As it turns out, quite a lot.

When I think about Mary alone in her room, not sure what to do next, I imagine it felt like her life was over. Surely, nothing good can happen after this. So God looks down, absolutely heart-broken, and sighs, “I can work with this. Mary, this is not where the story ends.” And God, the resourceful creator that She has always been, is born amidst the trauma. She gives Mary the agency to declare goodness into her life again through a holy plot twist: right as you think your story is ending, Christ is born. The Gospel story takes your ending and instead hands you back a new beginning.

This passage takes place just as we’ve finished climbing up the Jesus family tree, and on four of those branches we find women whose lives were rocked by sexual trauma, exploitation, and scandal. Matthew makes a point of reminding us that the savior of the world was born of Bathsheba, a rape victim; Rahab, a sex worker on the edge of town; Tamar, a disenfranchised widow who slept with her father-in-law to protect her future; and Ruth, a refugee who secured a home for herself and her aging mother-in-law by sleeping with a man she barely knew.

Their inclusion in the Gospel’s “once upon a time” tells us that their pain was not the end of their stories. What was done to them does not define them.

You, Bathsheba, are still part of the world’s salvation. You, Tamar, still have so much more story to tell. The hope from Advent is not delusionally ignorant of the horrors of trauma; the hope of this new year is the same hope we receive with each new day. There are still more pages to turn after the trauma. No matter what tragedy you go through, God tells us that your story does not end here. Not like this, child, not like this.

As we find ourselves in the early weeks of the new year, what hope do you have for your story? How might communion with the matron saints of Jesus’ lineage welcome you into the holy work of reclaiming your story?

Emma-Claire

Day 1 of 4: Hope

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