Dec. 11, 2022
Blue Christmas
There are times in life when hope is hard to find. Perhaps this is one of those times for you, or for someone you love. If it is, my heart goes out to you. I am so sorry that you are having to deal with such pain and distress. Please know that you are not alone. For too many of us, this is the first Christmas after a major life event, such as the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship, the loss of a job or a home, a natural disaster, or the onset of a life-limiting physical or mental illness for ourselves or for a loved one. What’s different in 2022, as we continue to navigate a global pandemic that most of us thought would be behind us by now, is that so many of us are grieving so many losses at the same time. The relentless refrain that “It’s the most wonderful time of the year” just rings false. There is a disconnect between our actual feelings and what we imagine we should be feeling at this time of year. That’s why we call it a “Blue Christmas.”
In my own experience of trying to hold onto hope in the midst of darkness, I have found it helps to remember that hope is not the same as optimism. As David Steindl-Rast notes, “To have hope is to remain open to the possibility of surprise when everything turns out worse than we could ever imagine. Despair assigns reality a deadline, whereas hope knows that there are no deadlines.”[1]
Sometimes we need others to help us remain open to that possibility of surprise, to find the hope when we cannot find it ourselves. In her autobiography, Color is the Suffering of Light, poet Melissa Green offers a beautiful image of how we can help one in difficult times. Green invites us to imagine a shadow-woman sitting in a rowboat, gazing at the shore and watching the city in which she has lived collapse around her. The shadow-woman weeps to see the destruction of all she has known, though it has cost her dearly to live there. In that excruciating moment of pain, she becomes aware that someone else is in the boat with her, someone she calls “The Beloved Companion.” The Beloved Companion says, “I know you are in despair and cannot see where this journey will take you. I will hold the hope for you until you can hold it for yourself.“[2] “I will hold the hope for you until you can hold it for yourself”–what a powerful description of how we can be as Christ to each other in difficult times.
So what does holding the hope look like in practice? This year, I’d like to invite you to prayerfully consider three questions that can create a space for hope while acknowledging the reality and the pain of loss. You can use these questions for yourself, or you can share them with someone else. If you would like to try out this practice now for yourself, our ushers have post-its and pens available for you. If you are joining us on Zoom, take a moment to find a pen or pencil and a piece of paper while the ushers are handing things out here in the sanctuary. And don’t worry–this is just for you. We won’t be sharing them in the service. However, after the service, if you would like to offer something that you wrote as a prayer, you can transfer it onto one of the tags for the prayer trees in the narthex. If you are joining us from home via Zoom and would like something placed on the prayer tree, you can email or phone it in to the church office. We will make sure that it gets transcribed onto a tag and placed on one of the prayer trees.
One more thing. This is completely optional. If it is just too hard to think about right now or if this exercise just doesn’t speak to you, that’s fine. There are times in life when we just need to be, without any doing. Feel free to just rest quietly here. You are among friends. But if you’d like to try this way of holding the hope for yourself or for another, here are the 3 questions[3]:
What has been lost?
What remains?
What is still possible?
We’ll take them one at a time, and I will give you a minute or two to think and write before moving to the next one.
The power of this exercise is that it creates a space in which grief and hope can co-exist. It is important to be honest with ourselves and with God about what we have lost, and to grieve those losses. And it is equally important that we take time to consider what remains and what is still possible. It is a reminder that we do have some agency in how we respond to things that happen to us.
I imagine that Mary and Joseph had their moments of doubt, perhaps even despair–moments when hope was hard to find. But the Good News is that God is with us at all times, in all places, and in all experiences. We are never truly alone. We can bring our pain, our anger, our grief–all of our sorrows as well as all of our joys–to the God who loves us so much that He chose to dwell in a human body, experiencing all the joys and sorrows of earthly life. I find my hope in the faith of Mary and Joseph, who said “yes” to the unknown, who trusted that God would be with them in their darkest moments, who held the hope for each other. Jesus–Emmanuel, God with us—remains. As the Gospel According to John reminds us, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” The story of that first Christmas reminds us that even in the darkest night, there is light to be found. May we all share that light, holding the hope for each other, inviting one another to consider what remains and what is still possible.
AMEN.
[1] David Steindl-Rast, Common Sense Spirituality (New York, NY: The Crossroad Publishing Company, 2008), p. 108.
[2] Melissa Green, Color is the Suffering of Light (New York, NY: W.W. Norton & Co., 1995), p. xiii.
[3] Adapted from https://www.widowcare.org/post/what-is-lost-what-is-left-what-is-possible-becca-van-tassel
