Tag Archives: grief

In it Together…

06 Friday May 2016

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Hands-together

Photo credit:  indianapublicmedia.org/harmonia/offering-hand/

This week I attended our Spring Clergy Day.  Our presenters for the day talked to us about addictions and their impact on families and communities.  As part of our work, we eventually began to talk about how we honor those in our midst who are struggling with the disease of addiction while staying true to ourselves.  One specific issue at hand was how to make room for alcoholics in a Church that serves wine as the blood of Christ.  Although our Bishop was pretty clear that he did not want us to step outside of the rubrics (i.e. using grape juice instead of wine/non-alcoholic wine), several clergy members shared practices they had adopted to make parishioners struggling with alcoholism feel incorporated into the community.  Ultimately, what we decided was that each parish was different, and the important point was that we talked about the issue, especially soliciting the opinions of those who suffer from the disease.

Meanwhile, this Sunday is Mother’s Day.  I have come to dread Mother’s Day because of the many pastoral implications (see my posts here and here).  However, I am in a new parish that longs to honor those mothers and mothering-types who have made a healthy impact in their lives.  I realized the dilemma of trying to honor mothers while honoring those for whom Mother’s Day is a hard day is not unlike the dilemma of trying to honor years of tradition in the Anglican Church and the pastoral sensitivities needed of a modern priest.

In both of these instances, I find myself mostly concerned about making room for both joy and compassion.  How do we honor the struggle of the alcoholic while also honoring the power the taste and tradition of wine has on our spirituality?  How do we honor the amazing mother we have in our lives while also honoring the fact that not everyone is so lucky?  How do we celebrate the pregnancy or birth of a child in our parish while also honoring how difficult hearing about pregnancy is for someone struggling with infertility?

I am hopeful that we can do both.  This Sunday, my parish is going to try to do just that.  We had several parishioners who really wanted to honor the mothers in our midst.  Holding on to that inner tension, we agreed that every female would be offered a flower and a poem that named the inherent challenge of honoring the amazing mothers in our lives and the ways that this day is hard for many of us.  Our hope is that by doing both, we have the opportunity to give thanks and rejoice while also leaving room for grief and intercession.  We know there is no perfect way to do both – but we also know that in doing nothing, we sever any opportunity for joy by simply attending to grief.  Instead, we are electing to go with the both-and instead of the either-or.  Prayers for all of you as you navigate the both-and of this world!

On hollowness and hallowedness…

02 Saturday Apr 2016

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Empty-Property

Photo credit:  https://www.nationalpropertytrade.co.uk/dealing-with-empty-property/

As I mentioned recently, I have moved a lot in my lifetime.  If my calculations are correct, I have moved about 15 times (and that’s only counting college once, despite the fact that I moved to a different dorm every year, and twice my junior year).  As you might imagine, the moves have occurred over a lifetime – from as young as one-year old to this move in my late thirties.

At some point over the years of moving I developed a tradition.  When the whole house is empty, the truck fully loaded, and the cars ready to pull out, I quietly slip back into the house and walk through every room.  There is something about the hollowness of an empty home that you have lived in:  the echo of your feet as you walk through the house, the lingering hints of artwork once hung, and even the scents of people or food.  There is an ache that the emptiness causes – a finality like none other.  But there is also the rush of memories:  the child you brought home from the hospital, the sleepless nights as the toddler transitioned to a “big girl bed,” the parties and family celebrations, and the countless visitors.  In the silence of the empty house you can hear the hint of years of laughter, remember the nights of tears shed, feel the warmth of a child rocked to sleep, and see the shadows left by the lamp as you wrote by night.  Though the house is empty, the house has been your home, steeped in love for however long you have been there.  The hollowness reveals the hallowedness of the space.

This week I continued the tradition.  Though I have given myself little time to grieve the phase of my life’s journey, tonight I realized how sad I am to close this chapter.  God has been so very good to us here – four years of marriage and children and work and play is a lot.  We have been blessed by new friends and experiences.  We have grown and changed for the better.  In the quiet of the house, I am deeply grateful for the abundance God has shown us.  God is good.  All the time.

Homily – John 11.21-27, Cemetery Memorial Service, March 19, 2016

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

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“Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  These are the words Martha says to Jesus in our gospel lesson today.  The weight of that phrase, “if only,” is heavy.  We all know that weight.  If only he hadn’t caught pneumonia.  If only she hadn’t taken the car out that day. If only we had known about the cancer earlier.  If only they were here now.  We know the sickening power of “if onlys.”

One of my favorite movies is a movie called Sliding Doors.  The movie follows a woman who is fired from her job.  As she makes her way home she has seconds to catch a train.  The movie divides into two at that point.  In one storyline she catches the train home only to find her boyfriend cheating on her at home.  In the other storyline she misses the train and is none the wiser about her boyfriend’s affair.  The two stories unfold in parallel, letting her life unfold from that one moment of a missed or caught train.  Her story is the ultimate “if only” story.

Martha knows the feeling of “if only.”  She knows that if only Jesus had been there, he would have healed Lazarus.  She also knows that if only Jesus had not taken so long, he probably could have made the trip in time.  That phrase, “if only,” hangs in the air for Martha.  But Jesus does not let Martha linger in the past, dreaming about what might have been.  Instead, he points Martha to the future – reminding her that her brother will rise again.  Martha already knows this.  Resurrection life was standard Jewish teaching in their day.  By Martha’s quick response to Jesus, we know that his reminding her about the future of resurrection doesn’t offer Martha much comfort.  But then Jesus does a funny thing.  He twists time all around, telling Martha that “the future is suddenly brought forwards into the present.”[i]

When Jesus says to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life,” he is not just talking about a doctrine.  He is not just talking about a future fact.  The resurrection is a person, standing here and now in front of Martha.  Jesus invites Martha to exchange her “if only,” for an “if Jesus…”  As one scholar explains, the “if” changes:  “If Jesus is who she is coming to believe he is…If Jesus is the Messiah, the one who was promised by the prophets, the one who was to come into the world…If [Jesus] is God’s own son, the one in whom the living God is strangely and newly present…if [Jesus] is resurrection-in-person, life-come-to-life…”[ii]  You see, when Jesus changes Martha’s mourning to a pondering about what resurrection means, Jesus pulls her out of the past, with an eye on the future, that bursts into the now.

The last time we gathered, we did so in the darkening days of winter.  We watched Christmas approach, and the grief of “if only,” was heavy upon us.  But today, out tone shifts.  Spring is trying to emerge, the days are gifting us with more light, and Easter is approaching.  We have journeyed through a season of darkness.  The Church now invites us to journey toward the light.  The way that we make that transition is not by mourning the “if onlys,” but cultivating the joy of the possibility of “if Jesus.”

Isn’t that how we ever truly face death, though?  That is the eternal gift of our faith in Jesus Christ.  We are promised eternal life through the Savior who came among us, who taught us, loved us, died for us, and rose again.  And through his existence, resurrection is no longer a future longing, but a promise for the here and now.  Our loved ones are celebrating in the resurrection life, because as Jesus says, everyone who believes in Jesus Christ, even though they die, will live and everyone who lives and believes in him will never die.[iii]

As we approach Holy Week and Easter next weekend, I invite you to journey with Christ through the last bits of darkness, holding fast to the promise of the light of Easter – when we shout our joy to the world for the Savior who makes resurrection life possible in the here and now.  The church will journey with us as we loosen our grips on the “if onlys” of life and we attempt to embrace the “if Jesus” ponderings of life.  Today we recognize the ways that the “if onlys” try to haunt us.  But today we also lean on the church for support to hold fast to the “if Jesus” part of our loved ones’ stories.  When we hold on to the power of the future made present, we are able to rejoice this Easter with fullness and joy.  Amen.

[i] N.T. Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 6.

[ii] Wright, 7.

[iii] John 11.25-26

Journeying in the darkness…

07 Wednesday Oct 2015

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October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month.  In some ways, it seems like a strange month to choose.  In October, we are often focused on the harvest.  We have harvest-themed door wreaths and table decorations.  We enjoy a taste of the harvest ourselves – picking apples and pumpkins.  This is a time we celebrate abundance, and yet this is also the month when we honor when abundance is taken away.

As a child, I knew very little about pregnancy loss.  I had an aunt who sometimes referred to infant she lost by name, but no one besides her talked about it much, and the subject was so hushed and confusing that I never asked many questions.  As a chaplain, I experienced my first pregnancy loss with a patient.  A whole new world of darkness invaded what had developed in my mind as a world of joy.  I was at the age that my friends were starting to have babies.  But no one had ever talked to me about the dark side of pregnancy.  The darkness still felt very “other.”

Finally, a dear friend – one with whom I had shared many confidences – lost her pregnancy.  We lived far away, but I had just seen her pregnant belly at a reunion of friends for the weekend.  We had laughed and shared dreams about the child.  It had been a weekend of light.  And suddenly, that weekend was washed away with darkness.  We all rallied, sending flowers, meals, and cards.  We prayed and we cried.  And we listened.  My friend was very good about being vocal and honest about her pain.  We journeyed with her through the darkness.

During our mourning period, I shared with a few coworkers about my grief.  Slowly, the stories poured out.  Of pregnancies lost, of an infant loss, and even of the grief of trying to get pregnant.  No longer could I go on pretended that the world of pregnancy and babies was all roses and sunshine.  There is a darkness, a fear, and an uncertainty that haunts every pregnancy.  Most of the time those fears are unrealized, but unfortunately, not always.  And sometimes that darkness crashes down on those who never even realized the darkness was lurking.

We don’t talk about pregnancy loss much in church.  We have a liturgy for blessing a pregnancy.  We have a liturgy for giving thanks for a healthy birth.  And we have a liturgy for an infant baptism.  But the liturgies for infant loss are scattered and hard to find.  They are modified versions of other liturgies, often unauthorized by a liturgical committee.  They are like the darkened corner room of the maternity ward where they try to hide away the mom who has to deliver her stillborn.

Today, I want you to know that I am willing to talk about pregnancy and infant loss.  As a priest in the Church, I am willing to journey with you through the darkness – even if that darkness has been lingering for twenty years or more.  Or if you are trying to get pregnant, or even if you are pregnant and are afraid of the darkness – I am here.  You are not alone.  I will stand in the darkness with you – for however long you need.  And for those of you who are just now becoming aware of this issue and want to be supportive, I recommend this video.  You will find great resources on the website, as well as a link to an amazing book of devotions.  Join me in being the Church – a Church willing to sit in the darkness until we can find the light again together.

Sermon – 2 Samuel 6.1-5, 12b-19, P10, YB, July 12, 2015

17 Friday Jul 2015

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One of the side bonuses of being a parent of small children is that you have to step up your silliness game.  In general, I am not what most people would call being adept at being silly – I tend to err on the side of being serious and thoughtful.  I am not sure when the loss of silliness happened, but I imagine the loss began as I matured into adulthood.  Even scripture seems to condone this putting away of silliness.  First Corinthians says, “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.”[i]  Most of us embrace the mantra of putting aside childish ways when we mature – except perhaps when we are in the presence of a child.  I learned pretty quickly that harnessing silliness could garner me much parenting success.  Nothing deflates a temper tantrum like a silly face contest.  Nothing distracts a fussy baby like silly noises.  And nothing makes a car of children happier than a parent grooving out to a favorite song on the radio while driving.  Sure, the drivers on either side of the car will look at you like you are crazy – and if you think about them too much, you’ll become too self-conscious to keep up your silly dancing.  But if you can block them out, and dance with abandon, the joy in the car multiplies – and the whole car shakes as you and the children dance in your seats.

Restraint is a value for most of us.  Most of the time, dancing while driving is not really appropriate.  Instead we should be calmly and intently focused on driving.  Most of the time, we expect a certain amount of decorum while working.  The expectations around attire, behavior, and language are quite different at work than they are at home.  And most of the time, we expect a significant amount of restraint from those attending church, especially as Episcopalians.  Though we encourage people to come as they are, there are still certain garments that would raise eyebrows if you wore them to church.  Though we say “Amen,” throughout our services, we have designated times for those amens, and many of us tense up when someone says a spontaneous “Amen.”  Though we often sing songs of praise in church, many of us get uncomfortable if someone embodies that praise, either through clapping, raising their hands, or, heaven-forbid, dancing.

And yet, that is exactly where we find David today in our Old Testament lesson – exuberantly, and without many clothes, dancing before the ark of the Lord.  Before we can understand why David’s actions are so outlandish, we need to understand the fullness of this story.  If you recall, we have been tracking David’s story this summer.  We have seen him from his earliest days, when Samuel anoints him after calling him in from the shepherd’s fields; to his daring battle as a boy with the giant Goliath; to his tenuous relationship with Saul and Saul’s children – who seemed to both love David and fear the threat of David at the same time; to the ultimate demise and death of Saul and Jonathan; and to today’s reading, where David is establishing his rule of the people by bringing the ark of the Lord into the city of Jerusalem – the city of David.  If you remember, the ark of the Lord is known as the container of God’s presence among the people.  They built the ark back in Moses’ day, and most recently, the ark had been stolen by the Philistines.  David retrieves the ark so that the ark can be brought back in the center of the people, marking how David’s rule and God’s presence and favor are tied.[ii]  David’s favor with God leads David to begin his dancing journey of celebration to Jerusalem.

Now lest we think that dancing before the ark is totally normal in those days, we encounter a strange comment by David’s wife, Michal.  The text says, “As the ark of the LORD came into the city of David, Michal daughter of Saul looked out of the window, and saw King David leaping and dancing before the LORD; and she despised him in her heart.”[iii]  You almost miss the line in the long text, but that is partially because we do not get the rest of the story today.  In the verses following what we hear today, David and Michal have a heated conversation about the inappropriateness of a king dancing nearly naked before the common people.  In the end, the text says that Michal never bears a child to David, as if suggesting that she is in the wrong for judging David.

But here this is where I am intrigued.  You see, Michal was the daughter of Saul and the sister of Jonathan, both of whom are now dead.  There is some debate about why Michal despises David,[iv] but I think we must remember that Michal is mourning.  In theory, this is a day for joy, since Michal’s husband is now king.  But Michal has every right to be mourning.  That line, “and she despised him in her heart,” though sharp and jarring, is not unfamiliar to me when I really think about her reaction.

One of the realities of the advent of social media is how quickly news travels.  If you follow social media, you are bombarded with news.  Normally, this is a good thing, because social media allows us to stay in touch with the highlights of friends’ lives from around the world.  Where social media becomes a challenge is when someone is struggling.  I have many friends who have struggled with infertility.  Nothing is worse for someone struggling with infertility than to watch a news feed of friend after friend getting pregnant.  They post the coveted ultrasound picture of a baby.  There are endless congratulations, and follow-up baby-bump pictures.  Everyone is full of joy, except for the person who wants that reality and cannot have it.  Every pregnancy announcement feels like another painful reminder of how you cannot seem to become pregnant.  The same is true about jobs or college acceptances.  The social media community seems adept at celebrating the good, but really struggles with recognizing those who mourn while we simultaneously rejoice.  We prefer to dance instead and forget the bad stuff.

We struggle with that reality in the context of church too.  On our healing prayer Sundays I am acutely aware of that reality.  Though each Sunday is meant to be an Easter celebration, once a month we try to remember how Sunday does not always feel like a celebration.  There are parts of our lives that are not whole or healed.  There are times when we still mourn or long for something else.  There are times when we are just not in the mood to dance, and would much rather have people sit with us in our discomfort than for them to be dancing around praising a God who quite frankly may seem absent, neglectful, or downright mean.[v]

I think that is why I love this story from Second Samuel so much.  When we read about David, we long to be like David – unfettered, totally unself-conscious, and full of joy.  We want to be a people of gratitude, celebration, and praise.  But sometimes, we are more like Michal.  We are not ready for joy, we are not ready for celebration, and we not ready to praise God yet.  And quite frankly, having someone in our face doing just that – or worse, telling us to get over ourselves and start dancing makes us despise them in our hearts too.  But that is what I love about this story.  Michal was not edited out of the story.  This is not a simple story about how we should always praise God.  This is a complex story about how freeing and life-giving praising God can be.  In fact, the joy we get from God can make us dance with abandon, totally liberated from what is socially acceptable.  But, there are also times when we are just not there – and the command to make a joyful noise makes us more angry than willing to yield.  And that’s okay.  Things may not turn out how we want them.  We may need to mourn that reality for a long time.  In this complex reality, the Church stands in solidarity with us all, celebrating what can be celebrated, giving space for hurt and mourning where needed.  We are a community of both Davids and Michals.  And sometimes we identify with one more than the other.  To us all, the Church offers a humble meal, reminding us that there is room for all at God’s table.  Amen.

[i] 1 Corinthians 13.11

[ii] Walter Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel: Interpretation, A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 250-251.

[iii] 2 Samuel 6.16

[iv] Brueggemann, 251.  Also, see other theories by J. Mary Luti, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, supplemental essays (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 2012), 6.

[v] David G. Forney, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, supplemental essays (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 2012), 3.

Sermon – 1 Samuel 15.34-16.13, P6, YB, June 14, 2015

17 Wednesday Jun 2015

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Talking about politics in the pulpit is always dangerous business.  I rarely do because I know that one mention of something political can be so distracting that I lose your attention for the rest of the sermon.  So I am going to ask you to hang in there with me because I think our secular world can teach us something about our sacred world today.  Back in 2008, a young man named Barack Obama was running for president.  Though many of us had no interest in his candidacy, some people saw a sense of hope and the possibility of a change that might bring about a new era of progress.  He even won a Nobel Peace Prize before completing one year in office.  But as time rolled on, many of his enthusiastic supporters began to be frustrated.  The hope they had seen seemed to fade away.  I remember I spoke with someone about this sense of lost hope, and the person confessed, “The problem is that people were treating Obama like he was the next Messiah.  He’s not.  No one is.  We have one Messiah, and we killed him on a cross many years ago.”

In our scripture lessons last week, God warned the people of Israel through Samuel that electing a king would involve such a challenge.  A human king could never give them all that they dreamed about having.  A human could never be God.  Having been fairly warned, the people insisted on having king anyway, and were given Saul.  For a while, things were okay.  Saul seemed to thrive and make progress for the people.  But Saul got cocky.  He overstepped his bounds, and he stopped following God’s instructions.  Finally, Saul made one fatal mistake that cost him his anointed kingship.  He had been instructed to completely destroy the Amalekites and all that they had.  But Saul saved some of the best of the spoils of war – animals, valuable trinkets, even the rival king.  This was the last straw for God, and Saul’s rule was over in God’s eyes.  In today’s lesson we find Samuel grieving over Saul and God being sorry that God had made Saul king of Israel.

We are no stranger to this sort of grieving in the church.  We have watched bishops leave the Episcopal Church in protest of decisions made at General Convention – taking many priests and parishioners with them.  We have watched priests who were seemingly amazing leaders ruin careers and parishes with romantic affairs or financial indiscretions.  Even in our own parish, less than ten years ago, we went through a period of grief when our relationship with our priest required us to dissolve the pastoral relationship, ending for some what had been a meaningful relationship, and for others had been a fraught relationship.  Like Samuel, we grieved that relationship – in fact, many of us still do.  I have heard story after story of grief and guilt about that time.  Some members of the Search Committee who helped select that priest feel as though they did a faithful job in selecting the priest for this parish; but in hindsight, they wonder.  Some leaders of our Vestry feel as though they bent over backwards to accommodate and help our priest thrive as much as possible, but they mourn the way history unfolded and they still feel the scars of that turbulent time.  And some leaders in our parish were so upset by the final decision that their grief drove them out of the church, never to return.

Although Samuel grieves Saul’s demise, God does not allow that grief to be the end of the story.[i]  God sees hope and promise in a way that Samuel cannot.  Seeing that Samuel is not going to be able to move on and do the work God needs Samuel to do, God steps in and guides Samuel into a new future.  Samuel struggles to take those first steps.  When God tells Samuel to get up and go to anoint another king, Samuel is terrified.  He knows that Saul is a vicious king, and will kill Samuel if he finds out.  But God makes a way, creating a “cover story” of sorts to encourage Samuel.  Later, when Samuel meets the eldest son of Jesse, Samuel is certain the eldest will be the next king.  But God has to keep guiding Samuel to the true king – the unexpected youngest son, David.  When Samuel is weak, God is strong – nudging and guiding Samuel into new life.

What I love about this part of Samuel’s story is the way that the story reminds us that God does not call people and merely wish them well and send them on their way.  God empowers those who are called to accomplish what they are called to do.  God walks with them, corrects them, forgives them, protects them, and keeps directing them to see what God sees.[ii]  God is not a passive god, but a “passionate, fully engaged deity, willing to take risks and even expose vulnerability in order to continue the relationship with the people.”[iii]  We see that reality with Samuel, and later we will see that reality with David – who, if you remember, is no saint himself.  Though David becomes the ancestor of the Messiah, David has his flaws that God will journey through as well.

God has been journeying with St. Margaret’s in a similar way.  In our grief from a troubled relationship with our priest, God stepped in and pushed us forward.  God sent us other priests, but more importantly, God sent us new life.  New parishioners joined us, new ministries unfolded, and new life emerged.  God did not allow grief to have the final word.  God knew that there was life beyond our grief – and that life has been born in each of us, and has been renewed by each new person who has joined us in our journey since then.

I have heard this story from First Samuel many times.  Every time I read verse 16, when God says, “How long will you grieve over Saul?” I thought God was scolding Samuel.  I could almost imagine God rolling God’s eyes at Samuel, God’s tone being one of annoyance and exhaustion from Samuel’s lingering grief.  But as I read God’s words this week, and I thought about St. Margaret’s, I heard them with a bit more tenderness.[iv]  I think of the young teen looking over love letters and trinkets, mourning the loss of a romantic relationship.  I think of the man who visits the grave of his wife every week, wondering what is left of life.  I think of the mom whose fingers still rub the ultrasound picture of the baby who did not survive.  God knows the depths of that grief and, even in our passage today, we see that God grieves too.  But, when the time is right, God also saddles in beside us, and whispers ever so gently and kindly, “How long will you grieve?”  The question is not one of rebuke, but one of encouragement.  The question is followed up with some sort of promise for tomorrow.  For Samuel, God promised a new leader and a plan for how to find that leader.  For us, God promises something new too.  God asks us too, “How long will you grieve?  Because when you are ready, I have something tremendous in store.”

Our invitation this week is to ponder anew what that promise is for us.  Grief always has a  place – whether grief over the failure of a leader in our lives or the loss of something or someone dearly loved.  But God will not let grief have the last word.  When we are ready, God stands waiting – not only with new direction, but with a plan to help us.  Our task is to listen.  Our task is to discern the movement of the Spirit already alive and active in us, gently pulling us from our grieving rooms.  Our task is to acknowledge our fear and resistance, and to allow God to guide us anyway.  Grief will not have the last word.  A new promise awaits.  Amen.

[i] Cynthia L. Rigby “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays, Yr. B, Proper 6 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 1.

[ii] Rigby, 5.

[iii] Charles L. Aaron, Jr., “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays, Yr. B, Proper 6 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 2.

[iv] The various ways of hearing God’s words were introduced to me by Roger Nam, “Commentary on 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13,” June 14, 2015, found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2473 on June 11, 2015.

Homily – Isaiah 25.6-9, Cemetery Memorial Service, December 20, 2014

14 Wednesday Jan 2015

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Our Cemetery Memorial Service has become one of my favorite services of the year.  That may sound a little strange to you, but what I like about this service is the service’s honesty.  This time of year, there is a lot of dishonesty floating around:  the notion that buying things can make you happy, the assumption that everyone has abundant food this time of year, and even the idea that there is such a thing as the perfect family, the perfect Christmas, or the perfect life.  We see glossy ads, hear songs about loving, joyful Christmases, and watch movies that package Christmas with a pretty bow.  Though most of us know in the depths of our hearts that there is no such thing as a perfect Christmas experience, no one wants to talk about that reality.  We prefer that everyone stay in their lane, and put on a happy face.  Perhaps we have even convinced ourselves that we can “fake it ‘til we make it.”  In other words, if we say we are happy and that everything is perfect at Christmas, perhaps we and Christmas will become so.

But instead of buying into the Christmas hype, the Church tells another story today.  Simply by gathering us together as mourners, the Church acknowledges the pain and sadness that is often right below the surface at this time of year.  While others are decking the halls, rocking around the Christmas Tree, and having a holly, jolly Christmas, the Church invites us in, and encourages us to acknowledge the other part of Christmas – the part that is hard, sad, or empty.  We make space for grief, for honoring a loved one, and for acknowledging a sense of absence.  I have especially been grateful for that gift this year.  About a month ago, our family lost a grandfather.  He had lived a full, long life, and we know that he is at peace with the Lord.  But his absence is more obvious in the small parts of life.  Upon flying out for the funeral, my husband realized this would be the first time his grandfather would not meet him at the airport.  As we have prepared for holiday treats, we realized that our annual box of chocolates would not be arriving from him this year.  As we send out Christmas cards, I realized I would need one less card this year.  And those are just the things related to our family.  St. Margaret’s also lost a long-time parishioner this month – one who had been a major presence in our ministry here, whose bed I sat next to as we said prayers in his last days.  In addition to the grief of his family, our entire community is mourning the hole that he left.  Add into that grief the grief felt all over the world from violence, war, and hunger, and we come here today with much to offer up to God.

Of course, that is what I bring into this place today.  And each of you has your own story:  of wives, fathers, and daughters lost; of patriarchs in your family and of children whose lives were ended too soon; of lives well-lived and of lives barely lived at all.  To each of us, the Church says today that our mourning and our sadness are okay.  The Church creates this window of time where we can stop, be still, and know that God is with us.  The Church acknowledges the imperfect nature of this holiday, and celebrates anyway.

That is why I love the words we heard from the prophet Isaiah today.  The text says, “On this mountain the LORD of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.  And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever.  Then the Lord GOD will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the LORD has spoken.”  What is so inviting about the words from Isaiah today is that they put our experiences in perspective.  Yes, our Christmas meals may not be utter perfection.  But God is preparing a feast for us that is more perfect than anything we could ever prepare ourselves.  Any darkness we feel now will be swallowed up by God.  Any tears we shed will be wiped away by our Lord.  Any sadness we feel at the dinner table will be eclipsed by the pure and holy joy we will find at God’s feast of rich food and well-aged wines.  Our loved ones are already enjoying that feast ahead of us.  Our joy is that we too are promised the opportunity to join them at the heavenly banquet when our time comes.

So this Christmas, give yourself permission to experience Christmas imperfectly.  Give yourself permission to be both joyful and sad.  Give yourself permission to lean into God when you need the strength to carry on.  And know, that maybe, just maybe, if you allow yourself to focus on the much grander feast that is to come and that already is for our loved ones, maybe you will find smiling a little easier.  Maybe you will find moments of joy that shine light into the darkness.  Maybe you will even find the ability to let yourself laugh and sing and to celebrate this imperfect holiday.  That is my wish for each of you.  That the blessing of this night will create a small, steady flame that warms and encourages you in the days and weeks to come.  Amen.

An Advent Rollercoaster…

11 Thursday Dec 2014

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This Advent has been a both-and experience for me this year.  There have been some incredibly joyful moments:  watching my daughter’s excitement about picking a Christmas tree, reading devotionals from our Advent calendar and enjoying my daughter’s insightful comments, and anticipating some fun time with family over the holidays.  But there have also been some sobering moments:   grieving the loss of my husband’s grandfather, keeping vigil at the bedside of a longtime parishioner and then burying him this week, and listening to stories of neighboring families who are struggling to make ends meet and who are dreading the disappointment of their children when Christmas comes.  In some ways, the sobering moments have been hanging heavily for me.  That reality has felt normal because Advent is meant to be a quieter, penitential season of preparation.  But the lows have felt really low, and I have found myself longing for the highs – or at least some sense of joy.

That is why I am looking forward to two upcoming events at St. Margaret’s.  First is the third Sunday of Advent.  This Sunday is known as “Gaudete Sunday.”  Basically, Gaudete Sunday is meant to offer a break from the penitential themes of Advent, instead emphasizing the joy of the coming of the Lord.  For a full explanation about the name and origin, look here.  This year, I am finding myself longing for Gaudete Sunday, needing more of the joyful moments like I mentioned above and less of the hard moments that keep coming my way.  I am grateful for the Church’s gift of respite to us of this Sunday.

Oddly enough, I am also looking forward to our Blue Christmas service coming up in a little over a week.  The service is meant to be for those who find Christmas to be a difficult or challenging time.  Given that I was just saying I wanted a little more joy, it may sound funny that I am looking forward to this service.  But the truth is, I am looking forward to sharing some of my Advent grief and sadness with others.  Being able to acknowledge those feelings in the context of worship and have them affirmed seems like a tremendous gift.

I suppose that is both the nature of Advent and life – times of highs and lows, joys and grief, eager anticipation and dread.  My hope is that if your Advent is taking on that both-and shape, you might lean on the Church to help you navigate that experience, and to find companions on the journey.  Come join us for a holy Advent.

Homily – John 10.11-16, Cemetery Memorial Service, December 21, 2013

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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Last week I attended the funeral of a parishioner’s mother.  As I sat in a cold pew, on a messy, snowy day, I remember thinking how hard Christmas would be for the family this year.  When death is so fresh at your door, hearing songs that proclaim this to be the “most wonderful time of the year,” do not exactly ring true.  When the loss is so new, finding the energy to send cards or get presents sometimes feels half-hearted, if not impossible.  When the absence is so overwhelming, even preparing a favorite recipe of the lost loved one can feel like ripping open one’s heart as you measure, stir, bake, and taste the memories.

I would love to tell families that coping with the loss gets easier over time, but my experience is that no matter how long ago your loved one passed away, the loss still creates an ache in your heart that never really goes away – especially during Christmas time.  Society, and even the Church, tells us that the Christmas season is supposed to be filled with joy, light, and hope.  But for those with grief, Christmastime just reminds us of all the Christmases that we enjoyed with our loved ones – the memories we have, the traditions we enjoyed together; even the bickering and disagreements would seem preferable to not having our loved one at all.  As time goes on and the family grows, you mourn all the new life that they will never see.

Part of the reason we gather today is to honor the shadow side of Christmas.  We acknowledge the pain, suffering, and grief that Christmas can bring.  We acknowledge the incompleteness, however slight, of the joy of this season.  We acknowledge that we might relate more to the Jesus who is in the tomb this season than the happiness of the Jesus born in a manger.  Today, on this winter solstice – the one day of the year with the least amount of light – we honor the fact that there are times of darkness in our faith.  And the Church stands with us, giving us permission to claim the darkness because, ultimately, we know that the light and the darkness cannot be separated.

That is why I find the gospel lesson today so affirming.  In John’s gospel, Jesus tells the disciples, “I am the good shepherd.  I know my own and my own know me.”  This is the reason why the Church encourages us to acknowledge grief today:  because Jesus already knows the hurt is there.  That is what makes him such a good shepherd.  There is no need to hide the fullness of who we are.  There is no need to try to fake good cheer.  There is no need to pretend to be constantly festive if we are not.  All we have to do is look around this room to realize that not only is Jesus with us in our memories or grief, our brothers and sisters gathered here today are also struggling with the conflicting nature of this season.

Acknowledging that hurt, we come together today to shine a little bit of light into that shadow side of Christmas.  Though we name the shadow side of Christmas, we also reclaim the light we find in Christmas.  Both in our gospel lesson and in the 23rd Psalm we proclaim the Lord to be our Good Shepherd.  We remember that the Lord is with us, that God’s rod and God’s staff comfort us.  We remind one another that we are not alone.  And we light a candle as we leave this place.  In the midst of darkness, we cling to that light – even if only a small flicker from our one candle.  We take that candle to our loved one’s grave remembering all the light that they brought to us.  But that flame goes with us too.  Perhaps we will find that just naming our pain today allows that flame to shine slowly, but steadily, in us.  Perhaps as we see the candles flicker at Christmas services in a few days or in our homes over this next week, we will remember the light of Christ reaching out to us, inviting us to remember that the darkness will not overwhelm us.  Or perhaps that flame will remind us of a deeper joy – not the joy of presents, eggnog, and parties – but the joy of a Good Shepherd who knows us, who loves us, and who will continue to shine a light onto our path.

On this winter solstice, I invite you to remember that after today, our days start claiming more light.  No longer will our days keep getting shorter.  Our days will slowly start to lengthen.  The light will refuse to let the darkness take over.  That is the good news that we proclaim today as we remember our loved ones.  Though there may always be a part of us that hides in the shadows of Christmas, Christ still shines a bit of light in our lives too – sometimes only as little light as is found on the winter solstice – but sometimes as much light as we find in the summer solstice.  So hold fast to the Good Shepherd.  Hold fast to the light.  Hold fast to the promise of resurrection life that is for our loved ones and for us.  Those promises can make even the shadow side of Christmas a little brighter.  Amen.

Sermon – John 14.1-6, Cemetery Christmas Memorial Service, December 22, 2012

23 Sunday Dec 2012

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Less than two weeks ago, I would have told you that St. Margaret’s was progressing nicely toward Christmas, ready to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child.  We have had a blessed Advent, and have been looking forward to some wonderful liturgies, including this service.  But then tragedy struck Newtown, Connecticut, and since that time, many of our parishioners have been struggling not only to find their “Christmas Spirit” again, but have even been struggling with God in all this.  I have heard all sorts of questions from our parishioners.  “What kind of God allows this to happen?”  “Where was God when those poor children were being slaughtered?”  “How are we to trust God now?”

I imagine the emotional state of those who are active here at St. Margaret’s is a bit close to what many of you have already been struggling with for months or even years.  Christmas is one of the hardest holidays in the face of grief.  Parishes around the country celebrate “Blue Christmas” services because despite what all the media hype tells us, Christmas can be very hard for many of us.  All of the forced happiness and gift giving masks the pain, loneliness, and heartache that Christmas can bring.  When we are blessed to have our family around, we are reminded of the deep dysfunction and hurt that families sometimes create.  When we are away from family, we long for some idealized version of Christmas we have imagined in our heads.  And when we have lost someone to life beyond this life, we are reminded of all the Christmases we had with them, wishing we could have just a few more.  When faced with the kind of death we saw in Newtown, Christmas can be a time when we would rather rage at God than meekly sit at the Christ Child’s feet.

And so, today we gather.  We gather to lift up our “blue” feelings, our pain and our suffering, our anger and our sense of loss back to God.  We come today to lift that back to God, because we really do not know what else to do with all of that “stuff” inside of us.  Of course, we all experience death differently.  For some of us, the death of our loved one is recent, and the pain is as fresh as the day we lost them.  For others, our loved one has been gone for a while, but the hurt still lingers and catches us off guard at times.  And for others, our loved one has been gone for a long time, but the hollow in our heart will never fully close.

We come to God with all of our “stuff” because somewhere in the depths of our beings we know that God – and only God – can handle our “stuff.”  God can handle our anger, our pain, and our grief.  God can take our frustration, our fickleness, and our fears.  God can handle our lost hope, our distant hearts, and our distrust.  We know all of this because we see how Jesus treats Thomas in the gospel lesson we hear today.  Thomas is the one among the disciples who is always brutally honest, saying what no one else is willing to say, even if what he has to say does not portray himself in the best light.  This Thomas is the Thomas who refuses to believe in the risen Christ until he touches his wounds.  And today, in our gospel lesson, this Thomas is the panicked disciple who worries about how to find the way to this spacious dwelling place that Jesus has just described.  Jesus does not rebuke Thomas for his questions or even for his implicit doubts.  Instead, Jesus stays in relationship with Thomas, teaching him patiently what he needs to learn.

Jesus is patient with Thomas because the words that Jesus offers that day are critically important for Thomas to understand.  Jesus is explaining to Thomas and the other disciples gathered what they can now expect about the experience of death.  Through Jesus, they are promised resurrection life.  They are promised a dwelling place with abundant rooms – a place where Jesus will take them himself.  “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”  Jesus words are like the words of a soothing mother, teaching the disciples that the experience of death is changed through the life and death of our savior Jesus Christ.

In times of grief, whether grief over violence against children, or the grief over our own loved ones, Jesus words are what we cling to this holiday season.  If we can hear those words, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” we may use this as our mantra to get us through this challenging time.  Do not let your hearts be troubled.  But if we cannot hear those words today, then remember Jesus’ presence with Thomas, even in the midst of Thomas’ confusion and pain.  Jesus stays with Thomas, helping him through this news.  So even if we need to be angry with God or are not ready to let our hearts stop being troubled, Jesus will stay with us.  Jesus is infinitely patient, preparing the way for us.  May you find some peace this Christmas season from Christ’s presence with you.  Amen.