Second Sunday of Advent

Scrooge, in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, truly finds the spirit of the season while standing over his own grave. Despite the reminder of the past and the reality of the present, he only feels the "comfort and joy" of the Yuletide when he is face to face with mortality. For me, it is mortality that is making this season so darn difficult.


This Advent will mark the first year since my father-in-law passed. Anyone I've ever talked to or any book I've read on the subject tells you that it's the second holiday that is the most difficult. This rings true for me. The relief and rejoicing that the suffering was over along with the shock of his passing made last Christmas easier than this one. And while Scrooge, after getting a healthy dose of mortality, woke the next morning to dance around the room and be very merry indeed, I'm struggling to hold on to a taste of that familiar feeling of Christmas.


I have been attempting for over a week to write about what I suppose is something I am not alone in struggling with during this time of year. But either the emotions are too close or I have been too intent on finding some comfort to share—comfort I struggle to find myself.


Last night, as I sat on the couch in a bad mood because one more draft had gone south, I thought about the line from "I Wonder as I Wander." Specifically, I thought about how Jesus "had come for to die." There was a time when I didn't care for that line. It sounded too much as if all Christ's earthly ministry was just extraneous material.


But then my wife reminded me that being born meant dying. There is no other way out of this side of reality (aside from the Parousia—the Return, which seems so very distant). And God knew that getting involved with mortal flesh meant dying in some form or fashion.


I suppose there was also the other side of that coin—experiencing the death of someone near and dear. It is, I believe, very different to encounter death on the Heaven-side of things than on the Earthly. I have to wonder if God-Enfleshed struggled to find joy or simply ached when those he'd come to love were no longer within reach of an embrace or able to sit across the table at dinner.


Somewhere within this, I must think there is comfort for those who are grieving. Perhaps it is in the knowledge that, in the Incarnation, we have been given the gift of a God that knows how difficult it is to face joyful times with a heart that is missing pieces. Maybe it is just that surely Jesus felt as we do and is forgiving when we must leave the room when the angels begin singing.


Or it could be simply a hope that, like Scrooge, our mourning will, eventually, be turned to dancing.


Comforter, comfort those who are missing someone.

Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Jeremiah 1:4-10, Luke 13:10-17


This week, we encounter the call story of the prophet Jeremiah. In one of those long, detailed conversations with the Divine that only the prophets of old seemed to have. God tells our young prophet-to-be that "Before I formed you in the belly, I knew you. Before you came forth from a womb, I consecrated you…." It's beautiful imagery and a powerful statement. And, if you're like me, someone has quoted a phrase like this to you in the difficult times of life.


"How's that," someone will say, "life seems to be a collection of missteps and mistakes? Why it's like God told Jeremiah, I knew you in the womb and had a plan for you even then."


"You say that you don't understand why bad luck seems to befall you at every turn?" someone else will respond. "All things work together for good, that's what Paul said."


Most of the time, I hope, those delivering this quoted comfort really are trying to help. They're trying to offer up some measure of understanding in a world that often doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But sometimes words like these are thrown up before suffering as a sort of defense of our own understanding of God and how God works in the world. Just think of the Pharisees and their scripture quoting in today's Gospel. "Hey," they said, "you're not supposed to do that. We, of course, saw that woman….but…but…but we couldn't help her. Not today. It's the Sabbath. God doesn't like us doing things like that today."


As easy as it can be to pick on the Pharisees for offering this woman dogma instead of comfort, I know that I often do the same. Sometimes it's easier to tell someone how the universe works—at least according to my theological understanding—than to struggle with the reality of their situation and the conflict it brings. In such times, at best, I leave another alone in their suffering. At worst, I make an already distant God seem farther away.


Even though the words we read in Jeremiah were meant for him, this doesn't mean we cannot take comfort in them. The God who knew the prophet when he was still in the womb also knew us before we were born. And we can find hope in the idea that our Redeemer is working behind the scenes in this hurting world.


But we must always be careful not to throw scripture up as a shield and attempt to hide ourselves from the difficulties raised by the world around us. Just as the Pharisees seemed to put words above people when their understanding of the Divine and how God works in the world was challenged, we too have to be careful to never offer the Jeremiah 1:2 band-aid to cover over someone's disturbing wound when all they really need is for us to allow our own hurts to show. And for us to bleed with them.


Comforter, help me to know when to bandage the wounds of those around me and when to bleed with them until healing comes.