The Nutcracker music is playing as
the day winds down. It is 7:42PM on the
first Sunday of Advent, December 3, 2017.
This morning in worship, we had our regular English congregation, many
Spanish-speakers from Iglesia del Amor de Dios, Karen-speakers (the Karen come
from a Burmese tribe), and many Chinese-speakers. In our Chapel Hill, NC, these worshipers from
all over the world came together in Jesus’ name. There were at 130 of praising the Lord
together.
Yesterday,
in Arlington, VA, I was in a gathering of more than 500, and just as ethnically
diverse. My good friend Kevin, a pastor
in Luray, VA, and someone I mentored 12 years ago when he was getting started,
died this past week. He has cardiac
arrest while weight-lifting, collapsed, and died. He was just 39. The mood at our worship service this morning
was joyful, festive, happy. We had a big
potluck after worship, with tables decorated for Christmas. The mood yesterday at Kevin’s funeral was
somber, heavy. So much sadness. Kevin’s
mother was disconsolate.
Now,
on whatever music loop that’s playing, it’s shifted from The Nutcracker to ‘Star of Wonder.’
It’s the typical background music of Christmastime. Our house has lights on the outside. Our tree is up. Our decorations are around. I sit and reflect upon conflicting moods: joy
from this morning’s worship, and sorrow from yesterday. The first Sunday of December is, along with
Easter, the highpoint of the year at our church and this morning was no
exception. Yesterday, grieving my young
friend and protégé, was one of the lowest lows I’ve had in a while. There’s a weight to grief and it has settled
on me even as feel the true of joy of Christ’s birth.
Facebook
has given me perspective. Memories popup
on Facebook. The memory to pop up just
now was from 2012, when I posted my sermon for the first Sunday of Advent that
year. The theme was the same as this
morning – our search for hope. The path
for that search was different then than today.
In 2012, I lamented the divisiveness of politics (Obama v. Romney), and
the specter of terrorism that hangs over us.
In spite of the negative waves emitted by politics and violence, I
promised our church that God is present and can be trusted.
This
morning, 2017, I took our church through Kevin’s story and his parents’ and
young wife’s sorrow at his death, and I invited the worshippers to contemplate
their own losses. Just as in 2012, I
promised that God is present. God is
with us and God’s promises can be trusted.
I stood before the congregation this morning and said that. I did the same in 2012 and many, many other occasions
throughout my 20+ years preaching the Gospel.
Am
I right? Is God’s here? Can God be trusted? I think the answer is ‘yes.’ I am sure it is. But tonight, I feel so tired. It’s more than fatigue. It’s not malaise, though it feels a bit like
that. What heaviness is wearying
me? Grief? Probably.
The lights in the house shine softly, warmly. Right now, my kitchen table feels like a
peaceful place. But my tiredness is not
a peaceful feeling. What is it?
Yes,
I am sure that God is present and God’s presence is a source of unfailing
hope. Yes, I am sure this is so. I don’t feel it at the moment, but feelings
can’t usually be trusted. At least mine
can’t. Yes, I will go on, year after
year, preaching that God is here and God can be trusted. I say it because it is true.
It
is true.
Right
now, I’m just tired. And that’s OK
too. I’m not necessarily OK. But it is OK that I am not OK. Because God is here.
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