{In response to the shootings in Conneticut on 12/14}
12.16.12
Advent 3c
Zephaniah 3:14++
Like the
sermons that many churches will hear today, this is not the one I was planning
on preaching today. I was dutifully
slogging away with the name-calling John the Baptist and his good news that
didn’t feel like good news. When I woke
up in the wee hours of Friday morning, I had several things on my mind: finish a sermon, make our house spotless so
that you would think that’s how we keep our house, and prepare some dishes for
you to enjoy as you’re at our house this afternoon. But by 1 or 2, the whole world felt like a
different place. None of those things
that seemed so pressing mattered much in the wake of the news that came out of
Connecticut. 28 people lost their lives
in a massacre.
There just
aren’t words. There are no beautiful
words that can make any sense out of it, no words that can make it ok. There are only prayers, the kind that are
beyond words, the kind that comes in gasps and broken utterances. There are only tears that weep boldly for
those that have lost—that dare to express a hope that Christ reigns even in the
midst of all the things
Long
before the world woke up yesterday morning, I was sitting in front of the
fire—with its lights and two stockings.
The dogs were snoring beside me, and as I opened up my computer, trying
to figure out what to say, the Vienna Boys choir began singing Silent
Night. It was the perfect picture of a
quiet Advent morning. And it undid
me. Because juxtaposed with that was the
headline that showed up on my news feed:
Connecticut school shooting: Witness inside school: 'I've got bodies
here'. And juxtaposed with that was my virtual Advent candle that was waiting
to be lit. Yesterday’s candle still
heralding peace, today’s—the one that we haven’t lit yet here either: joy.
On Tuesdays during Advent, we’re praying through the Advent candles. I
shared with the people that were there last Tuesday as we were talking about
peace that in 2011, during the second week of Advent, several things happened
in the world and in my community. The 70th
anniversary of Pearl Harbor happened.
There was a bombing in Afghanistan that killed 56 people. And in Fayetteville, just a few weeks before,
there had been a shooting at our mall on Black Friday. How do you begin to talk about or pray for
peace when those things are happening around you?
How do you begin to talk about Joy, when the sound of mothers and fathers
and brothers and sisters and grandparents weeping can be heard all across our
country?
And even if that weren’t the case, how to you begin to go there with a
congregation who has lost so many of its loved ones within the last year? In the horrible words of the headlines, “We’ve
got bodies here”. The sense of loss in
this congregation is strong. The names you’ve named for me have become a litany
of grief—because those that you’ve lost haven’t just been people that you
casually worshipped with. They’ve been
dear friends. They are the people that
you still almost see when you take your regular pews—the ones who were such a
fixture of the church that you can’t imagine how life in the church can go on
without them. And not only is the
church in mourning, but many of you as individuals have faced great loss this
year. You’ve gotten devastating news
that has rattled everything you thought you knew. You’ve been touched by the very frailty of life.
How indeed do any of us begin to talk about joy when the grief is just so
great? Do you simply light a candle in
hopes that the sentiment given to that candle will one day be true? Do you read scriptures that feel just a little
bit too glib to be helpful right now? Or
do you sit with the things that break your heart? There’s a verse in the book Jeremiah, that’s
later quoted in Matthew, that says, “This is what the LORD says: "A voice
is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more." And maybe that’s where we are right now. I’ve never done this before, and I have no
idea how it will work or what will come of it.
But I’m going to stop preaching for a few minutes—and leave some
space. And maybe this is the time to
name some of those things that are just too heavy—whether you want to name them
outloud or silently. But maybe this is
the place to name the places where you are broken hearted, to name the ones
that you miss, to cry out to the Lord. So I invite you to do that, to shape a word or
two into a prayer—to lift it gently to this holy space.
We long for the Lord to redeem our broken places—to comfort us, to hold
us tight, to promise that we won’t be left alone to defend ourselves from the
world. And we admit that sometimes it’s
hard to hold on to our joy. Sometimes,
it feels like it’s gone from us all together.
I had an experience in my former church that I swore I’d write about
sometime. We had oil-filled advent
candles—which were great. They lit
without a problem. Except the pink joy
candle. Every year, for four years, we
had to fight with the pink candle to get it to light…the church folks laughed
and we had some good natured, but awkward moments trying to light the candle of
joy.
I’ve kind of begun to see that as a metaphor—sometimes Joy is the thing
that’s hardest to get started in us. We
can do love and peace, and on most days hope—but it feels like joy takes a bit
more work for us. It takes a lot of
work to ignite joy within ourselves.
But here’s the thing that I didn’t tell you. The pink joy candle was not only contrary at
the beginning of the service. It was
also contrary when we tried to put it out.
It was like one of those trick birthday candles that you thought was
out, but would slowly come back to life.
And maybe that’s as much a metaphor as the fact that it was hard to
light—it’s just as hard to make it go completely out, once you’ve gotten it
lit. Maybe that’s something
important. Because maybe we know that we
aren’t the ones who make joy. We don’t
make it at the holidays, or at the times when we need it most, or any other
time. But there is something that lives
deep in us that tells us that we bear witness to a joy that shall soothe all
the tears, that the Holy God of Israel is working to redeem all the broken
places.
Our weeping last for a night, but doesn’t joy come in the morning? It
comes, when we open our eyelashes that have become stuck together with tears—when
we peak out and see that the Lord isn’t finished. It comes, when we have wailed
to the Lord—and a voice whispers back to us from the silence “Do you know how
much I love you? Do you know that I
won’t leave you—not ever?” Joy comes
when we’ve been emptied out by the world, and our neighbor scoots a little
closer to give us a hug and make us smile.
Joy comes when all we’ve known is the night terrors—the silence that
last for hours, the questions that speak louder than anything—when we feel a
presence that will. Not. Let. Us. Go.
I wrote something
several years ago after I went to pray with a woman who was going into
surgery—a woman whose life was shattered by violence. But it seems to fit today—after the events of
the week—after what has surely been a hard year for this congregation.
It's darkest before the
dawn, or so they say.
Before even the surgical
waiting room has been opened, or anyone is ready to wait.
Before she has been taken
back.
Before the visitor's desk is
staffed, or the parking deck, for that matter.
Before the cafeteria has
opened.
Before the nurses are fully
awake.
Before the rules are
thoroughly enforced.
Before the sun (or son) has
started tinting the world a lovely shade of pink.
It's darkest then.
But it's there, in the before,
that God feels closest.
Because the light of love is
waiting to break in.
And for the ones, waiting
and watching,
the great divide between
heaven and earth seems a little thinner.
Because we need God just a
little more,
and we're a little less
guarded and a little more vulnerable.
It's darkest before the
dawn.
But not really.
Because in that great
darkness a voice gently whispers in my ear,
"I
am the light of the world. And the darkness has never, will never, put
the light out."
Weeping
lasts for a night, but Joy always comes in the morning. That is the very real presence of Christ in
our midst.
God
rest you, troubled gentle ones—let nothing you dismay.
For
I bring you tidings of comfort and joy.
