“Those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shined.”
Advent arrives with a reminder that there is a crucial reboot to our lives and world. The church calendar marks this beginning with expectant anticipation, believing that God‘s plan for creation is advanced with each small gesture of kindness. The First Sunday in Advent gives voice to a courageous hope that seems improbable at best when I listen to the evening news.
I continue to be grateful that I retired from parish ministry. My confession is that I would find it challenging to preach a weekly message of hope in a world that seems unwilling to respect divergent opinions and beliefs. Folks encamp with like-minded neighbors, clinging to a particular dogma which gives no room for any other approach to life. Our politics are laser focused on The Other, who is blasted as not just wrong but evil. A global epidemic added pressure to our already stressed world such that chasms of disagreement still shatter family gatherings. Though the dire threat of the COVID epidemic has largely lifted, we continue to slog through its aftermath. We lose our footing as fresh and ancient grudges pull against us, no matter our position or circumstance.
I watch the evening news and weep for our world. I avert my gaze when images flash across the screen of bitter tribalism brings carnage in the Middle East and Ukraine. We will never know the full cost of these wars in terms of human lives and ongoing history. But these battles will mark each nation. There are hostages in body and in spirit. What we witness now and in all wars is that a curse of hatred will be passed from generation to generation. How do we dare to preach Hope in the face of such individual smugness when self-vindication becomes our chief aim? How can we sit not only with our neighbors, but those who are stranger to us? Can we listen to who they really are and celebrate our differences?
My professional role with hospice work is not to guide people in their spiritual lives. I offer support to those who have lost loved ones. Grief is the great equalizer of all people. Bereavement often leads to a sense of isolation. No one can fully understand the shroud of grief that weighs us down. C. S. Lewis, in his devastation as a widower, spoke of feeling as if he were encased in ice that only he could feel. He was separated from those around him by a block of ice that others could not see. Over time, with community support and intentional work, the bereaved begin to feel that prison of ice melting. They become more free in their movement, once again interacting with their families and communities more readily.
In a small room I gather with a group who meet together to share their grief. Each person struggles uniquely. No one says, “I know exactly how you feel.” Their tears melt away the differences, binding their hearts together as individuals on a similar journey. There is a blessing to the with-ness they experience together. Sharing their love stories for those they have lost does not remove the sadness. Being together helps to soften the sense of isolation. This is the hope that comes with Jesus. In Him, we are assured that God is with us. We are not alone. We dare to hope for our world that groans in anguish knowing that we have each other: long-time acquaintances and strangers we meet in a intimate spaces where supportive listening and kind words are exchanged.
We often hear the voice of the prophet Isaiah in this holy commencement to the Church calendar. With shortening days and longer nights, I find hope in his promise in chapter nine: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.” This is my prayer in this first week of Advent when I’m exhorted by my forebears in the Christian Church to Hope. On my commute to work yesterday, I saw a cross in the sunrise. My drive begins in darkness and ends in light. I am thankful for the promise of a Savior who shows up in surprising moments, keeping me strong as I wait for the light.
Preaching Life 