Exactly Where We Are

What drew me to Advent as a child is not the same thing that draws me in as an adult. When I was little, it was the stories, the songs, the cookies, the decorated tree and the bright twinkle lights against the darkened room. These things all sit comfortably in my memory, but what makes me yearn for the Advent season each year is something seemingly opposite to Christmas cheer – the ability to dialogue with suffering, lament, and longing, and at the same time know with crystal-clear certainty that God sent His son to the bright Light against all the world’s pain.

In his article for Relevant Magazine entitled “Why We Should All be Observing Advent,” Andre Henry writes,

. . . the joy of Jesus’ birth emerges from the suffering and sadness of preceding centuries of longing.

Indeed, the entire Christian story is based on that kind of rhythm: from despair to hope, darkness to light, chaos to order, captivity to freedom, mourning to dancing. The entire Christian story begins with a progression from the chaotic waters of the formless Earth to God’s rejoicing on the first Sabbath day: when God does the cabbage patch at the sight of the newly formed earth and declares, “It is very good.”

Advent is the season where we pay attention to our sickness, sadness and suffering, remembering that God is also paying attention to the same. It is the time for acknowledging our deep longing for the world to be made right and the joy of Christmas emerges from that season of groaning—from the fact that God has met us exactly where we are, as we are.

Maybe you’ve never given yourself permission to weep over the broken things of this world, your life, or on the table in front of you. In Advent, we make a space to name our groanings and then by faith, proclaim with the prophet Isaiah:

There is One coming, and indeed, has already come, who says with great might:

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
   and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.

Isaiah 61:1-3

The hardest part of all this, is that the world’s pain has not yet been wiped way. The final day for that has not yet come. But if we let God lead us, the turbulent waters be as a gift. Out of darkness will come Light, and out of despair, great Hope. It’s like the passage from the twelfth chapter of C.S. Lewis’ The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They are passing along Dark Island, when the whole world seems to be plunged into utter darkness:

Lucy leant her head on the edge of the fighting top and whispered, “Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now.” The darkness did not grow any less, but she began to feel a little—a very, very little—better. “After all, nothing has really happened to us yet,” she thought.

“Look!” cried Rynelf's voice hoarsely from the bows. There was a tiny speck of light ahead, and while they watched a broad beam of light fell from it upon the ship. It did not alter the surrounding darkness, but the whole ship was lit up as if by searchlight. Caspian blinked, stared round, saw the faces of his companions all with wild, fixed expressions. Everyone was staring in the same direction: behind everyone lay his black, sharply-edged shadow.

Lucy looked along the beam and presently saw something in it. At first it looked like a cross, then it looked like an aeroplane, then it looked like a kite, and at last with a whirring of wings it was right overhead and was an albatross. It circled three times round the mast and then perched for an instant on the crest of the gilded dragon at the prow. It called out in a strong sweet voice what seemed to be words though no one understood them. After that it spread its wings, rose, and began to fly slowly ahead, bearing a little to starboard. Drinian steered after it not doubting that it offered good guidance. But no one except Lucy knew that as it circled the mast it had whispered to her, “Courage, dear heart,” and the voice, she felt sure, was Aslan's, and with the voice a delicious smell breathed in her face.

In Advent, embrace the hard things, and let God whisper, “Courage, dear heart.”

Blue Christmas

For those who have been diligent in these Advent readings, thank you for your patience these last few days. I have returned from my trip to Nashville and will be able to finish up the remaining days before Christmas.

Tonight is the longest night of the year, or the Winter Solstice. In the church year calendar some refer to tonight at Blue Christmas. It is a time to reflect and lament the hurt and brokenness that exists in the world, and acknowledge that our God hears and sees us calling out to Him in our deepest need. In one sense, it is the epitome of Advent.

This evening a group of friends from different churches across Chicago’s north side gathered to sing and pray and read scripture. At one point, we read the following liturgy that our hosts adapted from a Longest Night service at the University United Methodist Church of Las Cruces, New Mexico in 2013. The bold type indicates corporate reading.

When there was only chaos,

you whispered of your hopes,

God of every moment,

and light shattered the shadows,

water raced down the valleys,

creatures beyond imagination

grazed in the abundant fields.

You created all which is beautiful

for those shaped in your image,

but loneliness became our companion,

grief wrapped its arms around us,

fear sang its carols to us,

and our dreams turned to nightmares.

So that we would know you are with us

in these moments, these days, these lives,

you became one of us, Jesus walking among us,

reminding us of your promises to us,

not only in the songs of the angels,

but in the quiet whispers of hope

which are sung to us in the night.

You are not only holy, God of hope,

you know the pain we have felt,

you have mingled your tears with ours,

you have wept at the graveside of a loved One.

The angelic chorus told of your glory and wonder,

yet Jesus came to let us know of your compassion.

He could have remained safe in the cradle of grace,

but became as poor as we often feel.

He could have clothed himself in holiness,

but knew the humility of wondering

where his next meal might come from,

whether or not he had a place to sleep at night.

He could have trampled death and sin into the dust,

but let them have their way with him,

so that we might find the path

to life that is whole and complete,

where promises are fulfilled,

where hope is the bed

where we can rest our wearied souls.

We believe we will find acceptance,

because Jesus was rejected;

we trust we know new life,

because Jesus experienced our death;

we look to that day when all weeping is done,

when pain and loss is behind us and

we are welcomed into that kingdom called

eternity.

As your Spirit moved upon the waters of creation,

filling them with life beyond imagination,

may it move upon the gifts of this Table.

We hunger for hope in the midst of despair,

for life when grief seems to never leave our side,

for wonder where there are only shadows,

and you feed us with that Life which

will never depart from us, but be with us

on this night and in all the moments to come.

Our souls are parched from the deserts of our lives,

we thirst for joy in a world burdened with sorrow,

the deep pools of love have gone dry,

and you hand us that cup of grace

which will never run empty

but will continue to fill us

the waters of life forever.

On this night,
remind us that your morning of hope

will come; in our sorrow,
wrap us in the swaddling cloths of healing;

in our loneliness, help us to find you

as the Friend who never leaves us;

in our loss, whisper to us your promise

that we will be fulfilled in the future you hold

before us in the longest nights.

God in Community, Holy in One,

be with us now and forever.

Amen.

We finished the evening by singing Psalm 126 (All Those Who Are Weeping) by Molly Parden and Bifrost Arts. If you are experiencing any amount of suffering, sorrow, or lament, this song will put to words that which is hard to articulate.

Restore us, O Lord.