Chapter 51
Advent Reflections from Ukraine “Awaiting the Prince of Peace”
Taras, on behalf of the iROAD team: Roman, Olga, Ksenija and Katherina.
[Dedicated to all refugees that were rejected the shelter in the countries with “no war…” Including Ukraine, which rejected Palestinian, Lebanese and Syrian refugees before the “big war”… I pray that those refugees will forgive our “no room” and “no interest”…]
The Gospel of “No Room…”
As millions of Ukrainians seek shelter from Russian missiles and war, the ancient words “no room” echo with fresh pain. When bomb shelters fill beyond capacity, when refugee centers reach their limits, when European countries begin restricting their “possibilities” — we confront an age-old human paradox. While unprecedented numbers of Ukrainians have found welcome abroad (7.7 million scattered globally, almost 25% of our population, with 5.3 million in EU countries alone), this full-scale exposes deeper questions about human selectivity in compassion.
How do we process this complex reality? Societies that welcome Ukrainians often continue turning away those of different religions or skin colors in their hour of need… I must acknowledge our own history: before this “big war,” independent Ukraine since 1991 was not notably inclusive in refugee assistance. Now, with 3.7 million internally displaced people seeking shelter in safer regions within Ukraine, we face the profound irony of becoming a nation of refugees who once restricted refuge to others…
I pray this experience can transform us: having known both rejection and welcome, exclusion and embrace, might we emerge from this war with deeper understanding of human displacement? Can our suffering teach us not just to receive mercy but to extend it more broadly? The ancient words “no room” challenge us not only to find shelter but to become people who make room for others in need…
“She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.” (Luke 2:7)
Luke presents the “no room” problem with stark simplicity. Bethlehem, swollen with census travelers and “strangers,” couldn’t find space for a woman in labor. The inn’s closure wasn’t active hostility but passive indifference — that subtle evil that allows suffering while maintaining respectability. Perhaps the innkeeper even felt justified: rules are rules, capacity is capacity, what can one do?
This ancient story finds tragic echoes in our modern reality — which some delicately call a “crisis” or “situation,” avoiding the stark truth of Russia’s war against Ukraine… Like Mary and Joseph seeking shelter in Bethlehem, millions of Ukrainians navigate labyrinthine bureaucracies, knock on foreign doors, and face the cold mathematics of refugee quotas and capacity limits… Some find welcome, like Mary and Joseph found their stable; others hear those ancient words dressed in modern diplomatic language: “no further possibilities,” “quota limits reached,” “temporary suspension of applications…”
The stable that sheltered Jesus mirrors today’s improvised sanctuaries — overcrowded subway stations during air raids, basement bomb shelters converted from storage spaces, abandoned buildings transformed into temporary homes, and even cattle barns repurposed as refugee centers… These unlikely spaces, like Bethlehem’s manger, become holy ground not through architectural grandeur but through their life-preserving purpose…
Yet the theological implications run deeper. God chose to enter human history through double rejection — first by having “no room” in Bethlehem’s inn, then through ultimate rejection on Calvary’s cross… This wasn’t divine accommodation to human failure but part of God’s intentional identification with the excluded… Making “no room” part of salvation’s story reveals a profound truth: divine presence often manifests most powerfully in spaces of rejection and displacement…
The manger wasn’t Plan B but part of divine purpose — showing how God’s presence deliberately inhabits places where society has “no room” for “them,” and eventually, for “us…” This raises a profound question for Ukraine’s wartime reality: What constitutes our true place of worship — a shelter or a church? The answer emerges through experience: both become sacred when they serve divine purpose. A bomb shelter where people pray together during air raids becomes as holy as a cathedral… Do you hear? As holy as a cathedral… A church basement storing humanitarian aid becomes as sacred as its altar… Do you hear? As holy as an altar… The God who chose a stable for His entrance into human history continues to manifest presence in unexpected spaces of refuge and rejection…
Perhaps “no room” is never really about capacity but about priorities, echoing through history in various forms of denial: “no time” to help, “no resources” to share, “no strength” to care, “no interest” in others’ suffering. Like Bethlehem’s inn that had no room for its Savior, we craft sophisticated excuses for our exclusions — citing limited resources, emotional fatigue, compassion burnout, or simply the overwhelming scale of need…
Yet the stable teaches us a different response: it offered not what it lacked but what it had… what it had, not what it lacked… No bed? Here’s clean straw. No privacy? Here’s a quiet corner. No warmth? Here’s shelter from wind. No resources? Here’s simple space. This mirrors today’s wartime reality where the poorest communities often share the most generously, where those with “nothing to give” somehow find something to share, where “no room” becomes “enough room” through love’s creativity…
May we be found among those who, like the stable, offer whatever we have — whether space, time, resources, or simply presence — trusting that God often arrives through those for whom society claims to have “no room,” “no budget,” “no capacity.” For in God’s economy, it’s not the abundance of our resources but the readiness of our hearts that creates space for divine presence. Sometimes the fullest worship happens in the emptiest places, and the richest giving comes from the poorest hands…
Prince of Peace, who chose to enter human history through rejection and “no room,” transform our hearts’ closed doors into spaces of welcome. When we are tempted to say “no time,” “no strength,” “no resources,” remind us of Bethlehem’s stable that offered what little it had. When our churches and homes feel stretched beyond capacity, grant us creativity to make room anyway. When compassion fatigue tempts us to turn away, help us remember that in welcoming those for whom society has “no room,” we welcome You. Make us people who, like the stable, never say “nothing to offer” but always ask “what can we share?” For You still come to us through those whom society excludes, and Your presence still sanctifies the humblest spaces where love makes room. We pray in the precious name of Jesus Christ, Lord of “no room” people… Amen
Taras, on behalf of the iROAD, 13.12.2024