Of all the services for the Christmas season, this one has
become my favorite. It has seemed the
most genuine, not marked by the trappings of a more secularized Christmas. It highlights the harsh reality that Mary and
Joseph faced as Jesus was born among us
– difficult travel over rough terrain when 9
mos. Pregnant
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Under the control of the Roman gov’t that could
demand such a journey
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No place to rest after a weary journey except
amongst the orders of a stable
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No welcome or hospitality – could it have been
b/c of the questionable situation regarding Mary’s pregnancy
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But this year, while I knew that I needed this service, that
I need the grace of this service, I have been scared as well. Do it
want to face my own pain? How can I
pastor others in the midst of my own sorrow?
This service invites us, invites me to be vulnerable, to
touch those tender and hurting places that I have tried to keep busy and
ignore, push aside for another day or just take a deep breath and endure. It offers a place of rest and comfort away
from my own attempts to be strong and carry on
I looked through a variety of books and other resources so
that I could avoid my own sorrow and focus elsewhere. There is surely someone else’s words that
will suffice and will be acceptable under the circumstances. I have gotten fairly good at putting aside
my own emotions, for the most part, over the years.
Death and sorrow are no strangers. I have faced many deaths and leavings
throughout my life
-
From the time of my birth when my twin sister
died
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The death of my birth father before I was four
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While I was blessed to have five sets of
grandparents, all 10 of them have died – the last and most difficult one being
my Grandpa Berg to whom I felt the closest
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The death of my stepfather a year or two before
I met Michael
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Have presided over at least 100 or more funerals
in my years as serving as a pastor (with as many as 10 of them in the past few
months)
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I have experienced a kind of death when I
resigned from my last congregation and was on leave, from call, unemployed, for a year
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As well as the ending and changing of various
relationships over the years
Death is no stranger and I have even “prided” myself on
being a survivor amidst all these deaths; pulling myself up by those
“proverbial boot straps” and getting on with what needs to be done until my
grief catches me off guard and slides down my face
But this service, these words that I speak, that we share
together this night are calling me to face the pain, the sorrow, the grief – to
be honest with myself in the presence of God.
It brings us to the manger, along with Mary and Joseph in the harshness
of their own reality, in the dark nights of our own souls. And it is here that we meet Jesus.
God knows the pains and sorrows of our hearts better than we
ourselves. While we may not always be
able to name them – God knows them. When
we don’t even want to voice them, the Holy Spirit intercedes for us in sighs
too deep for words.
Christ was not born to brush away all the sorrows of this
world, to whisk them away on the wind so that we would live a kind of “don’t
worry, be happy” kind of life. We are
met by Christ at the place of our sorrow.
We are met by the One whose love is so powerful that it would face death
itself, showing us that love never does end, that love overcomes death and
sorrow, offering healing, hope and peace.
We come this evening to name our sorrows, our frustrations,
our pain. In the naming, we are offering
them to the Christ-child, not to “fix”, but to help us carry them. In the words of scripture, we hear the words
of hope spoken by those who have gone before us, those who have faced pain and
sorrow of their own. They share their
own journeys through the “valley of the shadow of death”, knowing that God
accompanied them in those times.
As we come to name before God our own sorrows on this
longest of nights, we come seeking the peace and comfort of Christ. We come, magnifying the name of God – for he
is the One from whom light shines in the darkness.
I end with a Blessing for the Longest Night written by Jan
Richardson, following the death of her own husband a few years ago. May her words shine Christ’s light on us as
well.
