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.

Ash Wednesday – A Party?

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
After the Ash Wednesday service one year I needed to make a stop at the grocery store. Despite having just heard Jesus' warning about practicing my piety in front of everyone, I decided to leave the ashen cross on my head as I walked out into the night. I proceeded to the market to pick up a couple of things and stood in line at the checkout counter. When it was my turn, the cashier looked at me and laughed slightly at the black mark on my head. She asked if I'd been to a party. I simply said no and went on with my night, chuckling slightly at the idea that the services this day would ever be considered a party.
I suppose I could have been ironic and replied that, "No, the party ended last night." This, I could have said pointing to my head, is the hangover—a day of kneeling, praying, fasting (though I've never been good at that), and remembering that we are only dust, and it is to dust that we'll return one day. Not exactly a party theme, is it? Reminding everyone that they are mortal and will one day cease to be is likely to bring the music to a stop and cause everyone to say goodnight from even the most lively of parties.
As the years have passed and I've wrestled with just what Lent and this day means to me, I find myself thinking more and more about the subject of mortality. Jesus talks in our Gospel reading today about the contrast between the mortal world—where moth and rust consume—and heaven—the immortal world where the breakdown of things does not occur. The idea that comes across is that of material goods. But it's not just toasters, TVs, and cell phones that wear out over time. People do the same. Sickness comes to many. Age comes to all. Those of us who have sat by bed-sides or tried to make a hospital room cheerful for the holidays know that the greatest gift God can grant to us sometimes is the fulfillment of that promise of mortality—death. While it brings sadness; it also brings joy. Joy because we know that the one we love no longer faces the decay of moth and rust. Joy because we know that we will one day be where our treasure—the ones we love—is also.
So, in a way, the answer to that cashier's question is "Yes, I have been to a party." Today we have been to a party for mortality. Today we celebrate that this—a world of sickness, sorrow, and pain—is not all there is.
Immortal One, you know what it means to be mortal like I am. Help me this day to celebrate the fact that I am only dust. Thank you that you know I am mortal.