A Korban Christmas: How to Draw Closer to Emmanuel Right Now

The pendant clinks as I shift in my seat, pausing midsentence for a deep inhale of madagascar vanilla, marshmallow, and nutmeg. The candle burns slow. A slowness my soul craves to re-find in the chapter of almost-Christmas we name December.

Korban.

It’s my word of the year pounded into a metal necklace pendant by a creative and generous friend. The pearl dangling at the center makes it sound like a soft bell when I move.

I’m often on the move, it seems. I’m the weird sort who likes Mondays and the pressure of deadlines and forgets to sit still for a spell. My bent to stay efficient and productive collides with my insecurity: I don’t want to be a disappointment, so I take on more. I am afraid of being wrong, so I triple-check everything.

Busyness provides temporary security. I can convince myself I’ve got it if I work just a little bit harder. If I pretend for a moment I’m not small and unsure inside.

Korban clinks again, a reminder to not miss the nearness of God in the rush to stay on top of my schedule, the struggle to keep up impressions, and the constant temptation to trust myself over God.

Ann Voskamp says korban boils down to closeness:

Sacrifice in Hebrew is korban, which literally means an approach, a moving closer. Sacrifice is not losing something but moving closer to Someone.

Sacred Prayer

Korban isn’t so much about loss as it is about proximity to Jesus. And to draw closer to Christ I must let rest all I try to do on my own strength.

Korban isn’t so much about loss as it is about proximity to Jesus. (Twyla Franz quote)

I’ve been wearing korban around my neck all year and am just now realizing the invitation embedded: to slow down so that I can come close.

A Korban Christmas

What would a korban Christmas look like? I ponder.

Perhaps a shredding of unrealistic expectations that keep us moving more monotonous than merry. Maybe fought-for moments of quiet awe and unrestrained praise. A release of what centers attention on self so the soul can savor the advent of God’s son.

A korban Christmas would be full of joy–joy that interlaces with the tensions. It would be light–lit with the undeniable presence of Christ. It would be full–not of the things tear and tangle, but with the fullness of Emmanuel-God in our midst.

There would be slowness and surrender, flickering candles and the listing of gifts, never-ceasing worship and God right here.

I think of the bent knees and heaven-turned ears that marked the first Christmas, and I don’t want to miss the paradox of korban.

Sacrifice threads through the Christmas story. Mary and Joseph risked reputation, perhaps their very lives, to carry this King. The shepherds left their livelihood unprotected in the fields and ran toward the One who left heaven to be near us. The magi committed to tiresome travel and outwitted a tyrant ruler, all for the chance to fall, low and humble, at Jesus’s feet. Jesus Himself chose us–though it cost His life.

And all this costliness narrowed the distance between God and humanity. It paved a way through the muck of our lives to the untainted light that emanates from Him.

A God Come Close

God with us. It’s God’s name, spelled as EMMANUEL.

His gift to Himself that first Christmas, and every Christmas after, is us. So God came close enough for us to notice. Close enough for us to hear the intonation of His voice and melt at the tenderness in His eyes.

I close my eyes and run my thumb over the indented word korban.

This God who chose closeness wants my genuine attention. Not my frazzled left-overs. Not my list of accomplishments. Not my stubborn perfectionism.

This God who chose closeness wants my genuine attention. (Twyla Franz)

He wants surrendered, imperfect me. He longs for my bent knee and exhales of adoration. He wants me to come close.

I’ve found korban to be true innumerable times this past year. Through the winding journey of re-routes and re-writes, not-quites that still sting like rejection, griefs kept quiet and repeated prayers, I learned that hard things make me all the more aware of God’s presence.

Trials keep the heart tender. And tenderness is the root of surrender. It’s key to more God-trust and less self-trust.

Tenderness invites God to come close and overwhelm with kindness. It opens our eyes to see God in our unfolding stories.

And tenderness runs counter to busyness. It doesn’t answer to the clock, nor can it be earned with efficiency.

So here, as Advent turns our attention to the manager, I’m choosing to breathe slow. To draw closer. To surrender my tendency to keep moving so I can move closer to Emmanual.

Drawing Closer to a With-Us God

What does this look like–practically–to approach God, to offer ourselves as a gift, to draw close to an already with-us God?

It’s the sacrifice of turned attention. Space for the heart to quicken and thanks to spill from our lips. Slowness chosen with intention and expectancy.

What God wants most is our undistracted, undivided hearts. Our unrushed, tender-towards Him souls. Our korban sacrifice that says God present is worth more than anything else.

So we light the Advent candles and stir the song in our hearts. We fight the urge to rush and look longer into eyes. We counter the callousness of our hearts with humbly bent knees. We lessen expectations for what we can finish this month and focus on making God feel welcome. We list gifts in a gratitude journal and give God the gift of our attention.

Let’s pray.

Lord, You are Emmanuel. God With Us. God Always Close.

May I never be so busy I miss You. Never take for granted the gift of Your with-ness.

Turn my attention toward You. Draw me closer. Come near as I press into korban sacrifice.

With all my love,

Yours truly.

Just a friend over here in your corner,