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From December 17, 2006 Not long ago I heard this confession from a man of faith. During the months of December when he was a little boy, he said, he would often lock himself in the bathroom to practice smiling. Not that he didn't know how. It's just that he wanted to be sure that come Christmas morning he was prepared. When it came time to open his presents, his family needed him to be happy. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. This can be a season of secrets. And not the kind that are tucked inside bright packages, either. The secrets that attend this season aren't found under the tree: they're hidden inside. They take the form of uncomfortable feelings, unwelcome worries. They are old losses felt anew. They are circumstances that grip us and hold us hostage. If you have a secret to keep, especially one you're keeping during this holy season, it's hard work. It's hard on the spirit, too. Even for little boys grinning into bathroom mirrors. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. On Friday I had lunch with a kindergarten friend at Clark Elementary. As we waited in line, my little guy was positive three classmates had cut in front of us. "Teacher," he said in his big boy voice, "we were here first." Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was looked at me for confirmation. I honestly hadn't noticed, so shrugged. Immediately my guy's shoulders began shaking and a huge tear rolled down his chubby cheek. "Remember Santa," said teacher in her oh-so-cheery voice, "you better not pout, you better not cry. Santa wants us to be happy not sad." "Don't be..." fill in the blank. Whether it's someone else doing the talking or our own inner voice imploring us to turn a frown upside down, we can't always will ourselves into a brighter mood this month No matter how many times Nat King Cole sings, no matter what the apostle Paul says we should do. What are we to do with our Advent secrets? With our less-than-holiday selves? More than once I've wished we were Christians in a non-Christian nation. Then Advent would be quieter, more inward, more like the reflective and holy season of Lent. Sure, if we lived in a country like Somalia, we wouldn't hear "White Christmas" every time we pushed the shopping cart through the supermarket aisle. If we lived somewhere else, we couldn't drive around town at night to marvel at people's lit-up yards. If we lived in Sri Lanka or China we wouldn't have what we have here but I know we would be blessed in other ways. If we were Christians in Yemen or Indonesia, during this month we would have space in our lives to prepare the mangers of our hearts instead of circling the mall in search of a parking space. Rather than trying to find a smile to wear to the office party, we could come early to the manger and find in the wild tangle of straw there something that resembles our minds, our lives, our complicated and contradictory feelings. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. What do we do this holy season if we can't find the person inside who genuinely feels like rejoicing? Several weeks ago I talked with a man who lost the love of his life earlier this year. Thanksgiving was hard on him, he confessed, but December has been infinitely worse he said, choking back sobs. Already overtaken by grief, my friend refuses to put up a tree for fear it will deepen his sorrow. He shuns social invitations, afraid he will only dampen the bright spirits of his friends. Christian that he is, he tells himself he should be grateful for God's gift of his son. But the husband in him is simply too angry with God for that right now. Never mind Jesus' birth, he says spitting out the words, his ache is so all-consuming these days that he wishes he had never been born. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. But what if you can't find joy? What if you don't have a spirit inclined to rejoice? Ought you keep it a secret and feel guilty, too? Ought you keep your sadness or sorrow to yourself? Tuck your worries or fears far ought of sight? Ought you go through the motions, as hard as that may be, because everyone else is counting on you to make their season bright? Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Would it help any if I told you this: that when he penned these words the apostle Paul wasn't writing from the comfort of his easy chair but from the hard reality of a prison cell? Would it help any if I reminded you that those times when the prophets worked their hardest and spoke the loudest wasn't when God's people had it made but when their circumstances felt the bleakest, the most dire? When it comes to rejoicing, maybe what we need is a newer, broader definition. Religion scholars now assert that it is highly unlikely Jesus was born in December. After Emperor Constantine's conversion, after Christianity became the religion of the realm, experts tell us, Christian celebrations replaced pagan ones. Winter solstice "return of the light" rituals were supplanted by ones affirming the coming of the greatest of all light: the Light of the World, the Christ. History and calendars aside, I think something far greater is at work here. Both in terms of timing and in terms of setting. Consider the story of Christ's coming. He is born in an occupied nation. He is delivered in utter darkness and to the lowly, to peasant people. His birthing place couldn't be any more humble. Think of it! This is where God chooses to have our savior join us; this is where the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace, makes his regal entrance. Not where we are best, where life is best, where circumstances are best. Where does Christ enter in but right where nothing seems right. Think of your own life and tell me when you have needed Christ to be born anew. Was it when everything in your life was shiny and perfect and delightful? Was it when you were on top of the world, standing in the spotlight of achievement or held in high esteem? When everything and everyone in your life was lovely? Was this when you craved the birth of God's love in your life? When you wanted to feel God breathing softly against your tender skin? Or was it when, like Paul, you had the taste of prison on your tongue? And when do nations cry out for Christ's saving light? Is it when those who have been at odds with one another cross the street to shake hands and exchange pleasantries? Is it when those at the bottom are treated with the same respect and receive the same advantages as those at the top? Is it when every home on every street has sufficient heat and a fully-stocked fridge? Or it is when they feel exiled from hope, from love that nations have called out for Emmanuel, for God-with-us? We need another way, a richer, deeper, more life-giving way to think about what it means to rejoice. We need new perspective on what it means to journey faithfully through a season that leaves little room for the parts of us that feel in prison, that feel in exile. Listen now to "A First Coming," Madeleine L'Engle's Advent poem. See if you don't hear a new word about what how it is, and why it is, that God's people can be moved to rejoice.
Let us pray together: Loving God, you have no requirements for us this holy season. No expectations for us. You simply call us into the night, the dark places of our lives, so that we might see the great work you are doing. The great work you are doing for us. Hold us. Care for us. Comfort us. Guide us. Remind us that we are yours. Renew our hope, our trust in your promises. Find the darkness in us--in your time and in your perfect way, fill it with the warming, saving light of your Son. Let it be his presence, his with-us-ness, that stirs us to rejoice. Amen. © Rev. Karen Winkel |
"Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen
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